Split (1)

train · 353k rows

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Strap your goggles on and prepare to swash some buckles.	[WP] A crew of air ship pirates must escape Her Magesty's Flying Navy, through deceit and audacity	"Captain. She's gaining on us." "What do you mean gaining on us. None can match the Interdictor's full steam." "I-I have not an idea how, sir. Certainly none have been able to match Interdictor's speed. It must be a new airship of some kind." The telescope in the first mate's hand clicked as it was shut. He and the Captain gazed out into the billowing, white clouds unfolding behind the Interdictor interrupted by a single silhouette—the HMAS Lancer. "Well," the Captain muttered. "If we cannot run, then we have little choice." He strode towards the main deck, hands behind his back and in his commanding voice announced: "All stop! Make ready and put up the flag for parlay!" The crewmen stopped in their tracks to heed the announcement. Confusion began to appear on each crewman's face. The Captain would never give up the ship, why give such an order? Several crewmen began to step-to, carrying out the Captain's orders as the ship lurched and lost speed. The Captain disappeared below decks without a word. "Perhaps. Perhaps he does have a plan," mumbled the first mate, observing the crew scurrying about with their orders. ---- "Sir, it appears as though they are at full stop and now fly the flag for parlay. What shall we do?" "We give it to them," came the reply. "All hands, prepare for boarding and parlay!" "I must protest, sir. Is this not the Interdictor we are pursuing? Why should any pirate receive such a kindness? They are outmatched in every way." "Our laws bind us so." ---- The Captain appeared from below decks in time for the HMAS Lancer to reach a musket's range from the Interdictor. "What news?" He inquired. "Gratefully none, sir." "So they honor the parlay? Excellent." The Interdictor's crew stood-to with weapons prepared, but not raised. As the Lancer came up on their starboard stern, an uneasiness came upon each of the crews. Each ship was now aligned with the other, a difficult feat for most airships, but not for each captain. Silence above the clouds was pierced only by a stray cough as neither ship nor crew dared make a sound. Each captain stepped to the side of their ship facing one another. "Good day, Captain. I see you have taken note of Her Majesty's newest and finest ship, the HMAS Lancer. You ask for parlay, but I believe you are outmatched. Anything less than unconditional surrender from you and your crew will be unacceptable. We will make only the most appropriate accommodations for you in our next port of call." The words flew forth from the Lancer's captain with every bit of pompous arrogance that one should expect from a man in such a position of power. "Funny," came the reply. "I was certain that I should offer the same." Laughter erupted from the crew of the Lancer and a smile drew across her captain's face. Each captain maintained eye contact as the laughter began to fade. The Lancer's captain held his smile, which quickly disappeared as the Captain of the Interdictor grew a grim smirk on his face. When the Lancer's crew regained their composure, the Captain stamped his boot three times on the deck. On the third strike, the Interdictor shuddered. Thunder and smoke spewed forth from the Interdictor's starboard gun ports, cannon balls ripping into the side of the Lancer. A second report, from inside the Lancer, tore apart the her lower stern, where the steam engine had been located. The HMAS Lancer shook violently, knocking most of the crew from their feet. "NOW!" Shouted the Captain, as the Interdictor jumped forward on her own power. Return fire began from what gun ports remained functional onboard the Lancer. Stray cannon balls found their mark but did little to halt the escape of the Interdictor. "Lose altitude! Into the clouds!" The Interdictor descended downwards, diving as quickly as could be allowed. Whiteness engulfed her crew, as the HMAS Lancer disappeared from view. The Captain's cunning had won the day. Cheering had begun amongst the crew as they increased distance between the ships. The Captain stood up straight, facing the cloud-filled wind, pleased.	"Capitol Punishment." Cpt. Reynolds liked to whisper it to himself sometimes. It was a silent whisper; the kind so subtle that it barely escapes the mouth. Had his lips failed to budge just ever so slightly, perhaps it would not have existed at all. It was Reynolds' way of reminding himself what the stakes were. His majestic vessel, the Rosso Perla, was in the cross hairs, and the Kingdom of Sovereign was holding the crossbow. They had sacked more cloudline villages than could be counted, laying siege to haberdasheries the skies over, but there was one pit stop that took it too far. Reynolds would never have intentionally raided the aircity of Fiona had he known. At the time, it was close to Port Lucco so he thought it was worth the two hour detour. They all thought he was right, since Fiona held riches beyond what they had ever imagined. But fate breaks the hearts of those who trust it. Part of the captain wanted to see the look on Her Magesty's face when she heard that her precious childhood hometown had been raped. It brought a smile to his otherwise worrisome expression. And when he considered that Her Magesty's 12 year old niece was, indeed, also raped by one of his crewmen, that smile faded into the obscurity from whence it came. If it was his niece he would have burnt the whole kingdom down. But instead he was fleeing a feeling; the feeling of a loved one in pain whom you are powerless to help. "You might want to see this," said Ser Evan Gale. He was the captain's right hand for a reason - and it wasn't just his sharp wit. For being a herpes-raging scumbag, the man was a joy to be around. Sometimes that's all a leader needs. "Whaddya got?" Reynolds replied. They'd been evading the Fleet Sovereign for six weeks, and he prayed their position had not been compromised. "Our position's been compromised." Son of a btch! Reynold's screamed it in his mind, and then aloud until the seagulls perched on the deck banister scattered away into a cloud of fluttering wings. Gale handed his captain a pair of leather coated binoculars, pointing northwest. Reynolds peered through the clunky goggles, then wiped them down with the sleeve of his jacket before looking again. The image began to manifest from a blur as he adjusted the focus. A long ship, perhaps 500 feet. Large push-valves, but the rudders were as well-built as can be. The push points left the ship slightly lopsided in the clouds - a hallmark of the lethal Nero warships. The deal was sealed by a white and red banner dancing in the misty wind - the flag of Fleet Sovereign. "If we can see them..." Gale said calmly. "Then they can see us," Reynolds completed the thought, setting the binoculars down on a freight box full of rotting tangerines. "Batten the hatches. If they're not rowing I want every man on deck." "We can't fire on them," Gale said. "Their ship is stronger-" "Shut up!" Gale burst into laughter and Reynolds followed suit. "You're even crazier than you were when I met you!" the former replied. "We can't outrun them anymore either. They're faster." "Go at them head on, old friend. And I will show you they are only faster at sinking." As they picked up speed so did the First Vessel of Her Magesty. The captain, Ser Doyle, brushed the silky hair of his wig out of his emerald blue eyes. "Bloody hell." "What's wrong??" the Queen asked, desperately concerned. She had heard rumors about how tricky these pirates can be, and Captain Reynolds was known for excelling at it. "What do you see??" "They're charging us." The words barely crept out as he concentrated on the image in his spyglass. "They're hhh-what???" "Charging us, charging us!" his voice became irritated. "Don't you know anything, woman??" "Hey!" she pouted. "Just because you're my husband, I am still the QUEEN! You can't speak to me that way! What if someone heard you?" "Just shut up or you'll be queen of little more than a coffin in the next hour." As the ships drew nearer and nearer, both crews started to become anxious. Neither budged course. It was a lethal game of chicken to see who would swerve first. They were less than a thousand feet apart when suddenly Captain Reynolds screamed "NOOOOOOWWW!!!!" at the top of his lungs. A smile invaded Ser Gale's face as the Rosso Perla dove downward into the clouds. The gust of wind this maneuver caused pushed the First Vessel into a disconcerting instability as members of the crew began to pour off the deck. The queen clung the banister for dear life, screaming the whole way through until Captain Doyle brought the craft back steady. "FCKING PIRATES!" he belted. "What are we going to do, Doyle???" "They want to go down, dear," he chuckled. "Well... If they want to go down then I will follow them to the depths of hell..."
	[WP] Thousands of years in the future, human minds occupy manufactured bodies in far away galaxies. Two friends theorize what it must have felt like to fill human bodies living on Earth.	As the white dwarf Cassiopeon 132 reached its zenith, F1o heightened the priority of the external temperature reading in her mental subroutine. For a whole ten minutes, she dedicated 33.4% of her awareness to the fact that the air around her heated up to a maximum of -25.9 degrees Celcius and drop back down. This would be the warmest ten minutes on this part of the planet C132 Beta for the rest of its 211 year long orbit. F1o could practically feel the solar cells embedded in her metallic skin rejoice as she lay sprawled out on the snowy hillside. C132 Beta's dim daylight and cloudy skies sometimes made her question why even bothered installing her photoelectric skin package for the summer. There was just no substitute for a nice solar charge though. F1o reallocated the majority of her awareness back to the books in her collection of ancient science fiction novels. She had already read them; she was merely reanalyzing the stories stored in her memory. All this while she maintained no more than 5% of awareness of the conversation she was having with B3n who was lying right next to her. He was an engaging conversational partner but his opinions were often too easily molded by the thousands of idiotic intergalactic tabloids he read. "... and back on AGB923 Prime they're actually talking about legalizing the integration of biological components into human exoskeletons. Honestly, that study into how ternary star systems screw up positronic brain functions might actually be..." "What's wrong with wanting to be partially biological?" F1o replied, mildly annoyed. "In case you forgot, we humans started off as biological creatures. Our brains even come hard-coded with the genetic information of our ancestors!" B3n turned to face her, his multicolored cosmetic eyes looked into her own plain telescopic ones. "I've always said that genetic stuff are sentimental trinkets from a bygone era. Our mechanical bodies and their components are far superior to any biological version. It just isn't logical to want to turn the wheel of progress backwards." "This isn't about logic or progress. It's about retaining a part of our legacy. We wouldn't be where we are today if it weren't for our biological roots. What's more, I think there may be things about living in biological form that we just can't comprehend as purely mechanical, logical.." "Oh dear, you've been reading through your 20th century tomes again haven't you?" B3n's eyes lit up in a funny pattern, a simulation of the age-old expression of rolling the eyes. "Alright, I'll humor you since I know next to nothing about humanity back then. How were the last generation of naturally biological humans better off than us artificial ones" F1o was irritated that she was reallocating more and more of her valuable awareness towards this conversation. All the same, she knew that B3n was genuinely interested, despite his sarcastic tone. "Well, for one, the fact that they were pure creations of an evolutionary process spanning billions of years. As much as you mock biological creatures, you can't deny that we've done out utmost to simulate every sensation, every feeling and every emotion that a pure biological human had within our mechanical forms. We would all like to think that we have succeeded in that endeavor to avoid becoming purely artificial beings. Humans of the 20th century could truly say that they were unique, while the same is difficult to prove in our case" "True," said B3n thoughtfully. "Unfortunately, that pureness of biological form came with terrible flaws. I can not even begin to imagine how I could justify killing other human beings or formulating such deep seething hatred towards members of my own species based on differing biological features. The formulation of out artificial forms was necessary to cut out all these flaws of a natural human being." "Yes but in the process we forsook the flaws that were ultimately some our greatest attributes. Love, for instance. You could say that gradually removing our sexual drive inhibited a lot of our more unsavory tendencies but the implication it has on love is monumentous. Now it's all about matches and compatibility. Maybe it's better, considering how badly love goes in my books sometimes, but the lack of the spontaneity and the lust that drove us into these mad situations... it's just one of the things that has numbed the way we perceive life." "True, it does present quite a dilemma in modern society. Going back to how we got to this argument though; do you think people integrating biological parts into their bodies is going to change that? These parts would be as artificial as our mechanical parts except that they would be much more unreliable. Is it worth doing that just for the sake of sentimentality?" F1o replied serenely, "I think that doing it for the sake of sentimentality is exactly what would make them more naturally human. At least, that's what I think a 20th century human would be like."	"I bet it musta been hard living in Antarctica, the snow musta clogged 'em up summat good." "Nah, idjit, they were organic, remember? Organics don't get clogged, haven't you ever been to that zoo?" The small one nodded, so the large one continued. "Well, it was like with them bears. We just pranced about in the snow, not even a worry. We didn't even have that weird clothing to bother us, it musta been great." "No, no, wait... Back in First School, they said summat about that. There was this thing they had, it was, uh... Something with a k, I'm finkin'." "K... Ka-... Ko..." "Yeah, yeah, it's ko-...something. Koln? Kod? No, no wait, it was kold!" "Oh, yeah! Kold, it had something to do with temperature, right?" "Yeah, if it dropped too low, we'd klock out!" "What? That's ridiculous, there's no way they could klock just from that." "Yeah, yeah, they- Err, we, we, we were fragile back then." "Huh... I wonder what it was like." "What?" "Being kold. Or just being in there." "Musta been odd, I mean, all those weird inputs? They didn't even have uplinks back then, they just had whatever was around them." "Just what was around them? How the hell'd they communicate?" "Hell if I know. Hey- lunch's coming up, we gotta finish this later." "Alright, run well." "You too."
	[WP] Lost in the woods, a traveler stumbles into the temple of an old god that is forgotten, but not dead.	I knew it! I knew someone would come. Oh, yes, it's been thousands of years since someone last left one of those sweet, delicate offerings on the altar, and thousands more since someone has split the skull of some terrified prisoner on it (although, I'll be honest, I've never too fancied those kinds of crude ways). Finally, someone has come. Of course they wouldn't have forgotten me. Ooh, I've been waiting for this moment for so long... Now where's that damned crimson cloak? It has to be somewhere in this wardrobe... Darn! I'll have to wear the gold one. It doesn't look too bad either. So, where are they... huh? It's just the one guy? I figured he was a scout or something. Something is wrong here... Limping and coughing is no way to meet a god! Oh, I'll show myself anyway. "GREETI-", FUCK! Voice crack! "Ahem, greetings, human! Long have I slumbered, but finally, someone has come again to take up the holy worship of my divine self. You will be richly rewarded for being this first- Uh..." Crap, he's... Why is he staring at me like that! Wait, no! "No! Stop! Come back, please, I'll... I'll shower you in gold or something!" Maybe he doesn't know my powers are limited to making flowers grow faster. "Wait, stop! Don't leaaaave meee..."	I was hopelessly lost in a place where the oaks grew thick. Underbrush like barbed wire. I followed a path that ended abruptly against a wall of purple red thistles. In the sun they intensified, effervescent, and when the wind gathered force, the prickles detached and sailed through the air like forged needles, turning the woods to a glittering tide of sparkling magenta. They avoided me, a roadblock, streaming on either side. I considered myself an adventurer in the traditional sense. I studied crusted maps and the journal entries of men long since dead. Mustached men, pith helmeted men, standing on rocks with muskets or swords, forever looking forward. Such an embarrassment to be so far off course. The thistles wouldn’t and didn’t stop me. I attacked them with my machete, cutting until my arms weakened; they reproduced almost immediately, when I checked my progress, I found my path overgrown. What kind of brush was this? I thought. I had never known such a thing, but I knew the more encountered resistance, the bigger the treasure, the bigger the glory, the more headlines in newspapers and footnotes in history books. I went forward, as my heroes would have done. Cutting and cutting, wrists and muscles weeping. It wasn’t until the thistles grew lighter that I realized I was standing on top of them. That is to say, the ground had ceased to exist and the very weed I was clearing was keeping me suspended. Cracking, roots peeling from their earthen nests. It gave way. I found myself on a slope and tried to dig in with my heels, but the decline proved too steep. I landed with force, knocking the wind from my lungs. A dull grinding emitted from an abyss nearby, some unseen chasm, rock on rock, and I fumbled for my torch. When the beam illuminated, I saw yellow eyes in a wall of carved stone in front me. There were symbols, unlike anything I had ever seen, covering the rutted surface. The rock split and what I thought was a goat appeared. It was as big as the rock, possibly thirteen feet. Then his face came into view, a bearded man. From his forehead a set of horns extended high into the air and curled back toward earth, half keratin and half skin. As my eyes fell toward the ground, sizing up this terrifying creature, I noticed his genitalia, as large as a blossoming sapling, bouncing and twirling as he walked toward me. “And who dare rouse me from my sleep?” He said, mouth not moving but voice heard all around, in everything. I didn’t know how to respond. What was there to say? “Me,” I said. “And who are you? Human?” “Scott.” He walked closer, his hooves slapping on the cave floor. He came into the opening, where the precipice ended above, looking up into the sunlight and then down at my huddled mass. I cowered when he reached out and grabbed a piece of foliage stuck to my pants. “My forest!” He shouted, almost bursting my eardrums. He grabbed me and threw me skyward. It seemed like I would never touch down. When I did, it was in the thistles, and they cut through my skin, shredded it in parts, and all I could taste was blood and the acridness of freshly broken stems. I got up to start running, fearing for my life, and he was there suddenly, a different size, only as high as the bushes. His strength didn’t diminish, though, evident when he turned his back to me and kicked out, knocking the air from me once again and driving me into a knotted oak. Within an instant he was upon me. A different size. As big as the tree. He readied for his final blow and I held out my arms. “I was lost, I was just lost, please, please, no.” His hoof relaxed and touched the ground and then he studied me, face showing no decisiveness. “That is no excuse to damage the forest.” “I’m sorry, I just couldn’t get through.” “Very well,” he said. “Be on your way. If your path tread here again, be mannerly to these oxygen givers.” “Yes, I will, I promise.” With that, he turned, then shrunk next to a dried leaf, jumped into the air, and let a breeze carry him into the distance.
	[WP] Lost in the woods, a traveler stumbles into the temple of an old god that is forgotten, but not dead.	I knew it! I knew someone would come. Oh, yes, it's been thousands of years since someone last left one of those sweet, delicate offerings on the altar, and thousands more since someone has split the skull of some terrified prisoner on it (although, I'll be honest, I've never too fancied those kinds of crude ways). Finally, someone has come. Of course they wouldn't have forgotten me. Ooh, I've been waiting for this moment for so long... Now where's that damned crimson cloak? It has to be somewhere in this wardrobe... Darn! I'll have to wear the gold one. It doesn't look too bad either. So, where are they... huh? It's just the one guy? I figured he was a scout or something. Something is wrong here... Limping and coughing is no way to meet a god! Oh, I'll show myself anyway. "GREETI-", FUCK! Voice crack! "Ahem, greetings, human! Long have I slumbered, but finally, someone has come again to take up the holy worship of my divine self. You will be richly rewarded for being this first- Uh..." Crap, he's... Why is he staring at me like that! Wait, no! "No! Stop! Come back, please, I'll... I'll shower you in gold or something!" Maybe he doesn't know my powers are limited to making flowers grow faster. "Wait, stop! Don't leaaaave meee..."	Of course she would get lost. Jenna always got lost. If there was one thing you could count on Jenna doing, it was getting lost. She could get lost in a fucking bedroom. I seethed. Why had I agreed to follow her into the Yellowstone anyway? EVERYONE knew you'd get lost, have to call a park ranger to get you, the whole shebang. Or, y'know, would have if our phones weren't dead. Fuck. So I have a choice here. I could attempt to cobble together a charging station for my phone out of hers and some stuff I could spend 100 years attempting to get in yellowstone, or I could attempt to walk in a straight line. Like a dumbass, I picked the line that went straight into the forest. Of course. Now I got lost-unlost. Yay. Fuck this park ---------- I suppose the least I can say about Jenna is that she's a quiet and quick walker. She doesn't stomp around like the land-whales at school, nor does she huff and puff like them either. She keeps a good pace--I'll be worn out soon. That's good. We've covered enough ground for our food today. We should have enough, barring any major accidents, to make our way out with a day or two to spare. ---------- This is the middle of summer. It's supposed to be hot here. Like desert hot. And there's supposed to be springs and geysers and shit. Why is it cool and misty all day? ---------- We found ruins today. Jenna is worried that we aren't in yellowstone anymore. I'm inclined to agree, but won't tell her. One of us needs to keep a straight head. It looks like stonehenge. That is, stonehedge with less stone and more hedge. And more spikiness. And no cross-stones. I guess it doesn't look that much like stonehenge afterall... ---------- So we found the center. It's three pyramids of solid stone. One obsidian, one marble, and one clear crystal. Each distorts towards the other to form a single point with an opening below. Jenna dared me to walk through it. I honestly cannot say if my decision to do so was the worst decision of my life, or the best. I could really have do with not going in second, after her. I could also do without haveing a talking cat. I'm also pretty sure Jenna would like the disembodied voice of an insane god of teleportation out of her head too. Fine fine, I get it. He's the god of tech, you're the god of animals. Got it. Can you pull out your claws, please? ---------- They stay quiet now that we are back among people, although they haven't gone silent. It's apparently much for them to take in. The modern world, I mean. Jenna has gone on to push technology to it's limits, and is training to be the first astronaut on mars. I'm just happy my cat likes belly rubs.
	[WP] Lost in the woods, a traveler stumbles into the temple of an old god that is forgotten, but not dead.	I knew it! I knew someone would come. Oh, yes, it's been thousands of years since someone last left one of those sweet, delicate offerings on the altar, and thousands more since someone has split the skull of some terrified prisoner on it (although, I'll be honest, I've never too fancied those kinds of crude ways). Finally, someone has come. Of course they wouldn't have forgotten me. Ooh, I've been waiting for this moment for so long... Now where's that damned crimson cloak? It has to be somewhere in this wardrobe... Darn! I'll have to wear the gold one. It doesn't look too bad either. So, where are they... huh? It's just the one guy? I figured he was a scout or something. Something is wrong here... Limping and coughing is no way to meet a god! Oh, I'll show myself anyway. "GREETI-", FUCK! Voice crack! "Ahem, greetings, human! Long have I slumbered, but finally, someone has come again to take up the holy worship of my divine self. You will be richly rewarded for being this first- Uh..." Crap, he's... Why is he staring at me like that! Wait, no! "No! Stop! Come back, please, I'll... I'll shower you in gold or something!" Maybe he doesn't know my powers are limited to making flowers grow faster. "Wait, stop! Don't leaaaave meee..."	A little glimmer had caught my eye, beneath the curls of foliage. The stone beneath felt oddly soft as I tenderly brushed away the vines obscuring it. The rock bore a strange marking upon it, one that has been bored into my mind since that day; a series of circles, crosses, and lines too oddly shaped to describe well. I called my colleagues to the spot and we began an excavation. For weeks, we labored in the mountain summer. Gentle scraping and tentative digging masked the impatience welling up within us all. I felt the anxiety more keenly than most. The symbol dug at my psyche as I dug at its resting place. When I slept, I felt it upon my brow. When I worked, it rested upon my back. Never speaking, merely prodding, encouraging. It was the ruin of a hermetic shrine. There were no markings aside from the symbol to denote its affiliation, nor was there any trace of human life. The architecture was primal. The columns seemed to have formed naturally within the Earth, and had merely waited for someone to remove the encasing dirt. When the ruin was clear of debris, the symbol had begun to lean upon me. It pushed me to consider the strangeness of the ruin, to pry its secrets. There are many who would have simply lacked the interest to do so, but not I. This was why I lived, and the symbol knew. I sat within, long after the others had gone to sleep. The moonlight illuminated the edges of the pit dug around the temple. The air had a weight to it, as though there was more about than usual. I breathed it slowly and nearly choked on the smell of sulfur. When my coughing fit subsided I looked upon the shrine again. There stood a man… No, there stood a symbol, with many faces, holding a great tome in his hand. No words were needed. We both knew that I had no power here, that I stood unprotected in the presence of a being far beyond my understanding. I saw another glimmer at the edge of my vision. The shrine’s perfectly circular stone floor shone with the moon’s light. A summoning circle, though the tales suggest it is better to be outside of one rather than in. The not-man reached out and touched my mind. I experienced the thoughts of a thousand men, the secret love of a ten-thousand elopers, and a Name. Dantalion. I awoke far away on the shores of some unknown coast. I did not wonder where. It was not given to me to wonder. I was claimed, possessed. These hands, which once belonged to an archaeologist, now smoothed stone with their blood. They shaped a new shrine to do honor to their new master. When they had finished, when the body which was once mine had finally paid recompense, I was freed. He is not an unmerciful god. He had sated my dream. I had pried out more secrets than I could ever have desired. I laid down upon the soft stone floor, and felt my body consumed. Now, I was the secret to be pried.
	[WP] Lost in the woods, a traveler stumbles into the temple of an old god that is forgotten, but not dead.	I knew it! I knew someone would come. Oh, yes, it's been thousands of years since someone last left one of those sweet, delicate offerings on the altar, and thousands more since someone has split the skull of some terrified prisoner on it (although, I'll be honest, I've never too fancied those kinds of crude ways). Finally, someone has come. Of course they wouldn't have forgotten me. Ooh, I've been waiting for this moment for so long... Now where's that damned crimson cloak? It has to be somewhere in this wardrobe... Darn! I'll have to wear the gold one. It doesn't look too bad either. So, where are they... huh? It's just the one guy? I figured he was a scout or something. Something is wrong here... Limping and coughing is no way to meet a god! Oh, I'll show myself anyway. "GREETI-", FUCK! Voice crack! "Ahem, greetings, human! Long have I slumbered, but finally, someone has come again to take up the holy worship of my divine self. You will be richly rewarded for being this first- Uh..." Crap, he's... Why is he staring at me like that! Wait, no! "No! Stop! Come back, please, I'll... I'll shower you in gold or something!" Maybe he doesn't know my powers are limited to making flowers grow faster. "Wait, stop! Don't leaaaave meee..."	Kid's walkin' in the woods, slayin' Squirts left and right. Kid's got so used to the look of sadness in the beastie's eyes he really doesn't care for it much more. Kid spies somethin' off the beaten path, behind a wall a' thorny bushes. Takes his machete just so, cuts through it like jungle undergrowth. Bushes recede like they've been scalded by their mama. Takes a walk through. For first few times in his life, this path ain't crumblin' up to him. Statues either side ain't nothin what the kid remembers. Looks like some sort of serpent beastie. Poised like it's ready to strike. Kid walks further down the path, till he comes up on the temple at the end. Temple? This was one for one of the old gods. It's covered in so much undergrowth Kid starts to think it's not worth the elbow grease to uncover. Kid slices through all the bushes till the place looks like its old self again. Pteryon. God of life and death. Terrible old one that one. Invoking that old serpent was the ultimate screw you. Revives one old soul but takes a whole boatload a' others in their place. People began to think the cost of one revival was too damn high. Eventually him and his costly sacrifices fell outta favour, and later on people's minds. Kid walks up to the shrine, as if possessed by Pteryon's snake charm. Kid reaches out, tried to touch the idol... and decides against it. Probl'y for the better. He ain't one for invokin' the gods, and he ain't about to start now. Kid walks away from that shrine like it were a place where ashes were casted. But The Kid could swear back there, he felt a set of snakey eyes on him.
	[WP] Lost in the woods, a traveler stumbles into the temple of an old god that is forgotten, but not dead.	The sound of the stone door scraping against the ground reverberated in the canyon around her. It cried and scraped in disapproval. Dirt, soot and roots fell from above, taking up residence in the collar of her shirt. The feeling was oddly reminiscent of the sweaters her grandmother used to make her. Finally, there was a gap just large enough for her petite frame to fit through. She stepped through, into the darkness putting the painted canyon behind her. A torch was set in the wall to her left. With her zippo in her left hand and the torch now in her right she took a deep breath. “Here goes nothing,” she said to no one in particular and struck up her zippo lighter. The torch took instantly, almost illogically. The light that burst from it seemed unearthly, she had to shield her eyes from the blinding light. When her eyes finally adjusted, the grandeur of the chamber hit her. It was immaculately decorated. And with gold. Jewels, emeralds, precious stones, silver… The giant room was a gold mine. Literally, she added to herself. A her lips spread in a smile as she regarded what she stumbled upon. She felt that she had stepped into another reality or a movie set. All that was missing was a whip and the iconic hat. She took her first stop into the room and it began to shake violently. Dust fell from the ceiling and metallic objects spread about the room began to clang against one another. She braced herself against the wall and waited for the earthquake to finish. “WHO DARES ENTER MY CHAMBERS.” A booming voice assaulted her senses, it echoed against the walls of the hidden palace. She stopped, froze in place like a deer in headlights. “JUST BECAUSE YOU STOPPED MOVING DOESN’T MEAN I CAN’T SEE YOU.” “…sorry?” she said, uneasily. “I MEAN SERIOUSLY, DID YOU THINK THIS WAS JURRASIC PARK OR SOMETHING?” “I’m not sure how to respond.” “MAYBE DON’T LISTEN TO EVERYTHING JEFF GOLDBLOOM SAYS?” She stood silently. “LIKE, HOW CAN YOU ALL BE SO SMART AND STUPID AT THE SAME TIME?” “I…. I don’t know.” “OF COURSE YOU WOULDN’T” The echoing voice scolded, “T-REXES AREN’T EVEN PREDATORS, DID YOU KNOW THAT?” She looked around, still bracing herself against the wall, trying to find a way to leave. “THEY WERE SCAVENGERS. HAVE YOU SEEN THEIR HANDS? WHO WOULD BE SCARED OF THAT. GOD, HOW CAN YOU GUYS ARE SO DUMB?” The voice asked rhetorically. “WAIT, WHERE ARE YOU GOING?” She stopped moving towards the door, “me? Just wanted some fresh air.” “THERE’S FRESH AIR IN HERE, IT’LL ALL THE SAME AIR, DUH.” “I…” “ALL AIR IS THE SAME, DON’T KNOW YOU KNOW THAT? HOW WOULD THE AIR IN HERE BE ANY DIFFERENT?” “I guess it wouldn’t” “I GUESS THERE’S SOME HOPE FOR YOU AFTER ALL. NOW TELL ME, WHAT’S YOUR NAME?” “Hannah.” “HANNAH? I’VE NEVER HEARD OF THAT NAME BEFORE. MUST BE A 21ST CENTURY NAME.” “It’s pretty common, it’s been around for a few hundred years, actually.” “IT’S PRETTY COMMON,” the voice said in a mocking tone, “IT’S BEEN AROUND FOR A FEW HUNDRED YEARS, ACTUALLY” Hannah couldn’t see the owner of the voice, but she suspected a limp wrist wag accompanied the finishing of the word ‘actually.’ “OH MY ME, YOU HUMANS COME UP WITH THE DUMBEST NAMES.” “Oh, and yours is good?” “OF COURSE IT IS,” the boom replied, allowing no pause between the question and answer. “What is it?” “WHY WOULD I TELL YOU? YOU’LL JUST NAME YOUR DOG OR HAMSTER OR GOLDFISH AFTER IT. NO, MY NAME IS TOO GOOD TO MUDDLE WITH THE MORTAL JARGAN OF YOUR LANGUAGE.” Hannah crept back again, towards the entrance of the cave, she eased her way away from the voice. “IT’S BEEN FOURTEEN CENTURIES SINCE THE LAST MORTAL MADE IT INTO THIS CAVE, I WAS HOPING YOUR INTELLECT HAD INCREASED AT LEAST SLIGHTLY—HEY, WHERE YOU GOING?” “I…” she said, searching for an answer, “wanted to stand in the light so you could get a better look at me?” “LIKE I NEED THE LIGHT TO SEE YOU. COME ON, USE YOUR BRAIN, I’M A GOD I CAN SEE YOU WHEREVER YOU ARE AS LONG AS YOUR IN MY CHAMBERS.” Ignoring he questions, she backed faster now towards the entrance. “WAIT, DON’T LEAVE. WHY ARE YOU LEAVING? YOU’RE KIND ALWAYS LEAVES. NOTHING I SAID WAS WRONG.” She stopped and shifted her weight to another leg and regarded him with her hands on her hips. “You’re not wrong,” she said, now scolding him, “you’re just an asshole, man.” She turned and put the God behind her, and the voice boomed. “FINE LEAVE, I DON’T NEED YOU ANYWAY. I GOT GOLD AND JEWELS AND SOME BUGS TO KEEP ME COMPANY. YOUR KIND IS SO—“ his voice was cut off with the sound of the doors closing. She wiped her hands together in an act of pride and smiled. No prize of gold or riches was worth the prattling of that God. Best to forget him.	During the twilight of my life I woke to find myself in a deep wood. The overhead foliage was of such dense nature that the time of day was lost in its upper darkness. The atmosphere was oppressive and the air in my throat pressed into my chest causing me to choke as I woke. I sat up in the clearing after it passed and slowly scanned my surroundings. There were no sounds, no signs of life only, dirt, trees, and a carpet of grass. The trees themselves - natural lords and denizens of any forest, seemed altogether soulless as if they had grown to such immense heights and during some fateful event chose to abandon their earthly forms. Revolving what memories I could muster under that moody light it was impossible to trace how I had come to be there. My body was intact and free from any violation as far as I could tell, and my senses were clear without the damper of alcoholic vapor. I wore familiar clothing. There was nothing in my pockets, I had no bag or other items with me. As I ran my hands across my face and took stock of my qualities a single eerie tone floated into the clearing where I lay. The timbre of the sound was piercing like the cry of a child - wired to be attended to, to be noted. I surprised myself with the stark clarity and enthusiasm with which I angled my body to be more receptive to the source. The power with which the tone hit me made me aware that it was very close. I could almost see it flow past me and further into the woods. Whether deeper in or further out, I couldn't tell. [Have to go... will finish later... having fun]
	[WP] Lost in the woods, a traveler stumbles into the temple of an old god that is forgotten, but not dead.	Note: Oh, I'm so going to jump at this one. My only regret is someone beat me to the first post! --------------- --------------- I relate these things to you as they happened to me, and I leave it to you how best to judge the contents of my story. I should probably begin by telling you why I found myself lost in a forest unknown to me. Assuredly, it was not my fault. I had taken a job escorting a merchant and his wagon through an unknown route; the pay offered was generous, as was the peril travelling through this particular forest. The only established route was rarely used at that time, having been a remnant of a past empire. I thought nothing of it myself, only that with the coin I could afford to finally offer my Genesia a wedding dowry her family might appreciate. This is the way that young men think, with their wagging cod and maybe a bit of their heart too. Brains come last of all at that age. But, I was strong and I knew how to handle myself and my weapons. The day before the important bits took place, as I recall it had rained heavily. We were several days into the forest when the ruins of the road simply petered out and vanished between the roots of two great oaks. Since the wagon would likely flounder in the mire of roots and wet soil, our employer begged our peace for a few days wait. The two other men hired with me offered their assent and so I was obliged to as well, being the junior of the hired muscle. We set about our tasks, they to ascertain the fortunes of any wet gear while I gladly took the opportunity to fetch dry kindling. I wandered off a ways, unconcerned with losing sight of them, since the jingle of tackle and the nicker of the tack animals was leash enough for my ears. As I came round again to the large grove of thicker, ancient trees I had a sense for the strangeness of them. For such large trees, they grew very closely together. Fortunately for me, this was a boon. Under their great canopy fewer drops of rain fell and the pickings were bountiful. I began to croon. "Jinny likes Jona and Jed," "Jona likes Jinny just fine," "Jed minds Jona a-plenty," "So they'll take eachother t'bed." I relented to grin, since this tune was one I knew well from my home village. Small pleasures. "Two month a'go by," "Jinny come up real sick," "Jed says t'wern't him," "'Jona took boat downriver!'" I had a lively handful of dry wood now, and was making my way back when I felt that peculiar sort of tickle that we all get on occasion; I was being watched. So, I played simple and acted like nothing was up, idling slowly back toward camp. "Jinny came by babe," "Jed stuck wit' it," "Jona en't up fightin'," "Leadin' men 'ta War." I could not hear their footsteps, but I was certain there was no more than one, watching me. Acting simpler still, I feigned dropping a piece of wood and stooped to set the whole stack down, adjusting my bundle. "Mamma raised me gud," "Uncle Jed did too," "Papa ne'er came home," "Just 'is sword an' coinchest too." I hung on the last hollow note of the song I'd been singing, and then spun, bringing bare blade out in front and affecting a menacing posture; so much of fighting is in the bluster. Nothing, nobody. Except, was that bark moving? A figure moved under the bark of the tree. I shook my head, blamed an active imagination, sheathed my blade and made it back to camp without further distress. ...Fool, enough these delays... ------------------------ Dinner was uneventful, a sup of dried meat, half chuck - which is just watered hard cider, and a wedge of cheese. Good enough for the road, and better by half again than some meals I'd ever had back home before our fortunes changed. I had late watch, so I slept after eating. One of the other two would wake me later. ...bind or kill it, no more waiting... ------------------------ I did wake, of course. But not by a calloused hand shaking my shoulder or a boot nudging me in the ribs. It was the choking smoke of the dead fire. I promptly sat up, fearing I'd set my blanket alight. As I took a look around it did not take me long to realize I was the only one still there. The horses, our employer, even my two companions at arms. I am not ashamed to say the panic I felt then was not for those men nor those poor creatures, but for my own apparent peril. Immediately I felt around for my blade, and took a little shallow comfort in the presence of it at my side, within arms reach. My heavy cloak lay bundled atop it. I stood and donned these both, then kicked the ashes. The fire had only recently died, so at best wherever my companions were, it could not be far. So, I set about scouring the area for clues. The animals would be the easiest to track, as their heavy hooves left mighty prints in the soft mulched soil of the forest floor. These I did find and made note of - they seemed to lead off to the direction I had come from when gathering wood. Before I could follow, I had to see if anyone had returned or left a trail of their own. When I returned to the small encampment next to the wagon, I noticed for the first time that some things appeared missing from tightly bundled goods our employer had brought along. Fearing the worst sorts of banditry, involving murder of the others, I determined to comport myself with as much bravery as I could and raced off after the horse tracks. ...it ran right into my trap... --------------------------- In little time I found myself staring at the little grove of thick, strangely sized trees. Fearing direct entry into their boundaries, I instead paced outside it. In a way I had not considered before, these trees had an almost human shape; twisted, gnarled, stunted but thick. Each of them covered in bright green mosses, and bent outward in the thick of the trunk like some great wind had blown outward in all directions. I became lost in this examination, so lost that I thought I was hearing voices from them. Whispers. Help us! The pain...the pain... Save us, we are taken! We have been betrayed! ...Eloilwi, my love... And many, many more. Forgetting for a moment my training, I loosened my grip at the hilt of my blade and let it drag into the soil as I stumbled between the trees and into the ringing circle of trees that comprised their grove. I cupped one hand to my ear, gritting my teeth. ------------------------- "Interloper. The fourth tonight; four in one night, and the first in as many generations." My senses returned, the voices faded, and I recognized the figure before me. Not for his appearance, which was shifting with every movement of the eye, but for the feeling of his eyes upon me. "It was you watching me." My realization seemed to amuse him, for it must have been a masculine creature. The voice was deep, the stature of the shifting figure seemed too broad at the shoulders for a woman. I also came to grips with the understanding that I had seen him already, but I had mistaken his shifting form for a bubble in the bark of a tree. "Astute. Staunchly assured. Naive to trust its companions. At least one tried to favor me tonight. Two offered as sacrifice ... and beasts." The figure, he seemed to be offended by the inclusion of beasts in a sacrifice. His arm pointed toward a thing like a tree in the center of the clearing, but emboldened with blackness and lines of crimson. It seethed, audibly even. Great, popping hisses. Branches lifted from its central base, all toward the sky. I laid eyes upon the dismembered remains of my travelling party. An arm oozed fresh crimson from where the stark whiteness of a socketless bone jutted, all pierced by a point of the tree. A horses head crowned another, tongue bulging outward past lip-barred teeth. The figure approached me then, as I voided my bowels in fear. The fear overwhelmed everything, but kept my attention on the tree and then back to him. I could not will myself to move away. "Delicious sensation. It could join the other three, or it could serve Czethkla. Czethkla finds this one worthy. Czethkla sees the heart and power this one could provide." I steeled myself, and my muscles burned as I reached for my blade to put an end to it. I pushed as hard as I might, as hard as I had ever pushed myself to fight, and still I seemed to move with an inexorable lag. I had not even touched the hilt of my blade before Czethkla had placed his shifting hand upon my head, and blackness overcame me. --------------- When I awoke, the seething tree at the center of the grove was gone, leaving nothing but husks of bone and bits of skin. The mossy trees ringing the grove all had changed in turn, from bright and alive, to rotten and shattered. Nothing but a few branches and hollow trunks. I stumbled back to the campsite, smelling foul from my own release of fear. It would take me several years to return home, and the things I did between there and here, I can't bear to speak of. The crimes I have committed in Czethkla's name ... no, I can't speak of it. I couldn't spare the others. He wouldn't permit it. He said the village must be our first example, that he has returned from his prison. No, no I can't take my hand off your throat. I want to! I really, really do! Please, Genesia, you have to understand. I did it for you. He would have made me kill you first otherwise. He'll spare you. If you just swear. Swear your soul to Czethkla. ------------------ ------------------ Edit1: Advice, thoughts, suggestions welcome! Edit2: I could see myself turning this into a short novella.	During the twilight of my life I woke to find myself in a deep wood. The overhead foliage was of such dense nature that the time of day was lost in its upper darkness. The atmosphere was oppressive and the air in my throat pressed into my chest causing me to choke as I woke. I sat up in the clearing after it passed and slowly scanned my surroundings. There were no sounds, no signs of life only, dirt, trees, and a carpet of grass. The trees themselves - natural lords and denizens of any forest, seemed altogether soulless as if they had grown to such immense heights and during some fateful event chose to abandon their earthly forms. Revolving what memories I could muster under that moody light it was impossible to trace how I had come to be there. My body was intact and free from any violation as far as I could tell, and my senses were clear without the damper of alcoholic vapor. I wore familiar clothing. There was nothing in my pockets, I had no bag or other items with me. As I ran my hands across my face and took stock of my qualities a single eerie tone floated into the clearing where I lay. The timbre of the sound was piercing like the cry of a child - wired to be attended to, to be noted. I surprised myself with the stark clarity and enthusiasm with which I angled my body to be more receptive to the source. The power with which the tone hit me made me aware that it was very close. I could almost see it flow past me and further into the woods. Whether deeper in or further out, I couldn't tell. [Have to go... will finish later... having fun]
	[WP] Lost in the woods, a traveler stumbles into the temple of an old god that is forgotten, but not dead.	Note: Oh, I'm so going to jump at this one. My only regret is someone beat me to the first post! --------------- --------------- I relate these things to you as they happened to me, and I leave it to you how best to judge the contents of my story. I should probably begin by telling you why I found myself lost in a forest unknown to me. Assuredly, it was not my fault. I had taken a job escorting a merchant and his wagon through an unknown route; the pay offered was generous, as was the peril travelling through this particular forest. The only established route was rarely used at that time, having been a remnant of a past empire. I thought nothing of it myself, only that with the coin I could afford to finally offer my Genesia a wedding dowry her family might appreciate. This is the way that young men think, with their wagging cod and maybe a bit of their heart too. Brains come last of all at that age. But, I was strong and I knew how to handle myself and my weapons. The day before the important bits took place, as I recall it had rained heavily. We were several days into the forest when the ruins of the road simply petered out and vanished between the roots of two great oaks. Since the wagon would likely flounder in the mire of roots and wet soil, our employer begged our peace for a few days wait. The two other men hired with me offered their assent and so I was obliged to as well, being the junior of the hired muscle. We set about our tasks, they to ascertain the fortunes of any wet gear while I gladly took the opportunity to fetch dry kindling. I wandered off a ways, unconcerned with losing sight of them, since the jingle of tackle and the nicker of the tack animals was leash enough for my ears. As I came round again to the large grove of thicker, ancient trees I had a sense for the strangeness of them. For such large trees, they grew very closely together. Fortunately for me, this was a boon. Under their great canopy fewer drops of rain fell and the pickings were bountiful. I began to croon. "Jinny likes Jona and Jed," "Jona likes Jinny just fine," "Jed minds Jona a-plenty," "So they'll take eachother t'bed." I relented to grin, since this tune was one I knew well from my home village. Small pleasures. "Two month a'go by," "Jinny come up real sick," "Jed says t'wern't him," "'Jona took boat downriver!'" I had a lively handful of dry wood now, and was making my way back when I felt that peculiar sort of tickle that we all get on occasion; I was being watched. So, I played simple and acted like nothing was up, idling slowly back toward camp. "Jinny came by babe," "Jed stuck wit' it," "Jona en't up fightin'," "Leadin' men 'ta War." I could not hear their footsteps, but I was certain there was no more than one, watching me. Acting simpler still, I feigned dropping a piece of wood and stooped to set the whole stack down, adjusting my bundle. "Mamma raised me gud," "Uncle Jed did too," "Papa ne'er came home," "Just 'is sword an' coinchest too." I hung on the last hollow note of the song I'd been singing, and then spun, bringing bare blade out in front and affecting a menacing posture; so much of fighting is in the bluster. Nothing, nobody. Except, was that bark moving? A figure moved under the bark of the tree. I shook my head, blamed an active imagination, sheathed my blade and made it back to camp without further distress. ...Fool, enough these delays... ------------------------ Dinner was uneventful, a sup of dried meat, half chuck - which is just watered hard cider, and a wedge of cheese. Good enough for the road, and better by half again than some meals I'd ever had back home before our fortunes changed. I had late watch, so I slept after eating. One of the other two would wake me later. ...bind or kill it, no more waiting... ------------------------ I did wake, of course. But not by a calloused hand shaking my shoulder or a boot nudging me in the ribs. It was the choking smoke of the dead fire. I promptly sat up, fearing I'd set my blanket alight. As I took a look around it did not take me long to realize I was the only one still there. The horses, our employer, even my two companions at arms. I am not ashamed to say the panic I felt then was not for those men nor those poor creatures, but for my own apparent peril. Immediately I felt around for my blade, and took a little shallow comfort in the presence of it at my side, within arms reach. My heavy cloak lay bundled atop it. I stood and donned these both, then kicked the ashes. The fire had only recently died, so at best wherever my companions were, it could not be far. So, I set about scouring the area for clues. The animals would be the easiest to track, as their heavy hooves left mighty prints in the soft mulched soil of the forest floor. These I did find and made note of - they seemed to lead off to the direction I had come from when gathering wood. Before I could follow, I had to see if anyone had returned or left a trail of their own. When I returned to the small encampment next to the wagon, I noticed for the first time that some things appeared missing from tightly bundled goods our employer had brought along. Fearing the worst sorts of banditry, involving murder of the others, I determined to comport myself with as much bravery as I could and raced off after the horse tracks. ...it ran right into my trap... --------------------------- In little time I found myself staring at the little grove of thick, strangely sized trees. Fearing direct entry into their boundaries, I instead paced outside it. In a way I had not considered before, these trees had an almost human shape; twisted, gnarled, stunted but thick. Each of them covered in bright green mosses, and bent outward in the thick of the trunk like some great wind had blown outward in all directions. I became lost in this examination, so lost that I thought I was hearing voices from them. Whispers. Help us! The pain...the pain... Save us, we are taken! We have been betrayed! ...Eloilwi, my love... And many, many more. Forgetting for a moment my training, I loosened my grip at the hilt of my blade and let it drag into the soil as I stumbled between the trees and into the ringing circle of trees that comprised their grove. I cupped one hand to my ear, gritting my teeth. ------------------------- "Interloper. The fourth tonight; four in one night, and the first in as many generations." My senses returned, the voices faded, and I recognized the figure before me. Not for his appearance, which was shifting with every movement of the eye, but for the feeling of his eyes upon me. "It was you watching me." My realization seemed to amuse him, for it must have been a masculine creature. The voice was deep, the stature of the shifting figure seemed too broad at the shoulders for a woman. I also came to grips with the understanding that I had seen him already, but I had mistaken his shifting form for a bubble in the bark of a tree. "Astute. Staunchly assured. Naive to trust its companions. At least one tried to favor me tonight. Two offered as sacrifice ... and beasts." The figure, he seemed to be offended by the inclusion of beasts in a sacrifice. His arm pointed toward a thing like a tree in the center of the clearing, but emboldened with blackness and lines of crimson. It seethed, audibly even. Great, popping hisses. Branches lifted from its central base, all toward the sky. I laid eyes upon the dismembered remains of my travelling party. An arm oozed fresh crimson from where the stark whiteness of a socketless bone jutted, all pierced by a point of the tree. A horses head crowned another, tongue bulging outward past lip-barred teeth. The figure approached me then, as I voided my bowels in fear. The fear overwhelmed everything, but kept my attention on the tree and then back to him. I could not will myself to move away. "Delicious sensation. It could join the other three, or it could serve Czethkla. Czethkla finds this one worthy. Czethkla sees the heart and power this one could provide." I steeled myself, and my muscles burned as I reached for my blade to put an end to it. I pushed as hard as I might, as hard as I had ever pushed myself to fight, and still I seemed to move with an inexorable lag. I had not even touched the hilt of my blade before Czethkla had placed his shifting hand upon my head, and blackness overcame me. --------------- When I awoke, the seething tree at the center of the grove was gone, leaving nothing but husks of bone and bits of skin. The mossy trees ringing the grove all had changed in turn, from bright and alive, to rotten and shattered. Nothing but a few branches and hollow trunks. I stumbled back to the campsite, smelling foul from my own release of fear. It would take me several years to return home, and the things I did between there and here, I can't bear to speak of. The crimes I have committed in Czethkla's name ... no, I can't speak of it. I couldn't spare the others. He wouldn't permit it. He said the village must be our first example, that he has returned from his prison. No, no I can't take my hand off your throat. I want to! I really, really do! Please, Genesia, you have to understand. I did it for you. He would have made me kill you first otherwise. He'll spare you. If you just swear. Swear your soul to Czethkla. ------------------ ------------------ Edit1: Advice, thoughts, suggestions welcome! Edit2: I could see myself turning this into a short novella.	The sound of the stone door scraping against the ground reverberated in the canyon around her. It cried and scraped in disapproval. Dirt, soot and roots fell from above, taking up residence in the collar of her shirt. The feeling was oddly reminiscent of the sweaters her grandmother used to make her. Finally, there was a gap just large enough for her petite frame to fit through. She stepped through, into the darkness putting the painted canyon behind her. A torch was set in the wall to her left. With her zippo in her left hand and the torch now in her right she took a deep breath. “Here goes nothing,” she said to no one in particular and struck up her zippo lighter. The torch took instantly, almost illogically. The light that burst from it seemed unearthly, she had to shield her eyes from the blinding light. When her eyes finally adjusted, the grandeur of the chamber hit her. It was immaculately decorated. And with gold. Jewels, emeralds, precious stones, silver… The giant room was a gold mine. Literally, she added to herself. A her lips spread in a smile as she regarded what she stumbled upon. She felt that she had stepped into another reality or a movie set. All that was missing was a whip and the iconic hat. She took her first stop into the room and it began to shake violently. Dust fell from the ceiling and metallic objects spread about the room began to clang against one another. She braced herself against the wall and waited for the earthquake to finish. “WHO DARES ENTER MY CHAMBERS.” A booming voice assaulted her senses, it echoed against the walls of the hidden palace. She stopped, froze in place like a deer in headlights. “JUST BECAUSE YOU STOPPED MOVING DOESN’T MEAN I CAN’T SEE YOU.” “…sorry?” she said, uneasily. “I MEAN SERIOUSLY, DID YOU THINK THIS WAS JURRASIC PARK OR SOMETHING?” “I’m not sure how to respond.” “MAYBE DON’T LISTEN TO EVERYTHING JEFF GOLDBLOOM SAYS?” She stood silently. “LIKE, HOW CAN YOU ALL BE SO SMART AND STUPID AT THE SAME TIME?” “I…. I don’t know.” “OF COURSE YOU WOULDN’T” The echoing voice scolded, “T-REXES AREN’T EVEN PREDATORS, DID YOU KNOW THAT?” She looked around, still bracing herself against the wall, trying to find a way to leave. “THEY WERE SCAVENGERS. HAVE YOU SEEN THEIR HANDS? WHO WOULD BE SCARED OF THAT. GOD, HOW CAN YOU GUYS ARE SO DUMB?” The voice asked rhetorically. “WAIT, WHERE ARE YOU GOING?” She stopped moving towards the door, “me? Just wanted some fresh air.” “THERE’S FRESH AIR IN HERE, IT’LL ALL THE SAME AIR, DUH.” “I…” “ALL AIR IS THE SAME, DON’T KNOW YOU KNOW THAT? HOW WOULD THE AIR IN HERE BE ANY DIFFERENT?” “I guess it wouldn’t” “I GUESS THERE’S SOME HOPE FOR YOU AFTER ALL. NOW TELL ME, WHAT’S YOUR NAME?” “Hannah.” “HANNAH? I’VE NEVER HEARD OF THAT NAME BEFORE. MUST BE A 21ST CENTURY NAME.” “It’s pretty common, it’s been around for a few hundred years, actually.” “IT’S PRETTY COMMON,” the voice said in a mocking tone, “IT’S BEEN AROUND FOR A FEW HUNDRED YEARS, ACTUALLY” Hannah couldn’t see the owner of the voice, but she suspected a limp wrist wag accompanied the finishing of the word ‘actually.’ “OH MY ME, YOU HUMANS COME UP WITH THE DUMBEST NAMES.” “Oh, and yours is good?” “OF COURSE IT IS,” the boom replied, allowing no pause between the question and answer. “What is it?” “WHY WOULD I TELL YOU? YOU’LL JUST NAME YOUR DOG OR HAMSTER OR GOLDFISH AFTER IT. NO, MY NAME IS TOO GOOD TO MUDDLE WITH THE MORTAL JARGAN OF YOUR LANGUAGE.” Hannah crept back again, towards the entrance of the cave, she eased her way away from the voice. “IT’S BEEN FOURTEEN CENTURIES SINCE THE LAST MORTAL MADE IT INTO THIS CAVE, I WAS HOPING YOUR INTELLECT HAD INCREASED AT LEAST SLIGHTLY—HEY, WHERE YOU GOING?” “I…” she said, searching for an answer, “wanted to stand in the light so you could get a better look at me?” “LIKE I NEED THE LIGHT TO SEE YOU. COME ON, USE YOUR BRAIN, I’M A GOD I CAN SEE YOU WHEREVER YOU ARE AS LONG AS YOUR IN MY CHAMBERS.” Ignoring he questions, she backed faster now towards the entrance. “WAIT, DON’T LEAVE. WHY ARE YOU LEAVING? YOU’RE KIND ALWAYS LEAVES. NOTHING I SAID WAS WRONG.” She stopped and shifted her weight to another leg and regarded him with her hands on her hips. “You’re not wrong,” she said, now scolding him, “you’re just an asshole, man.” She turned and put the God behind her, and the voice boomed. “FINE LEAVE, I DON’T NEED YOU ANYWAY. I GOT GOLD AND JEWELS AND SOME BUGS TO KEEP ME COMPANY. YOUR KIND IS SO—“ his voice was cut off with the sound of the doors closing. She wiped her hands together in an act of pride and smiled. No prize of gold or riches was worth the prattling of that God. Best to forget him.
	[WP] You can live forever but only if you suffer a mortal injury every 24 hours.	Every morning I get up, shoot myself in the head, take a shower, brush my teeth, get dressed, and go to work. When I was just starting this routine, I once left off the shooting part until AFTER my shower, which led to me ruining a shirt and being late for work. I use .22's nowadays. In college I used 9mm rounds, and tried to save money by repacking the casings on weekends. They had the advantage of being almost sure to inflict a mortal head wound, but they were insanely messy. The first time I tried a .22 I had to shoot myself about six times in the forehead before I gave up and went around to the back to pulp the medulla. I like the smaller bullets because they stay in my cranium until my body works them out, but you have to know what you're doing, or you are in for a tough hour and a blinding headache all day. When I was younger, my parents would just take a bat to my head. They knew what was up; my dad has been doing the same thing for about 340 years now, although he would just hang himself in the old days when high collars would hide the welts. He loves to tell the story of the first time he tried using a blunderbuss and missed two shots before nearly removing an ear. And the time he almost missed the deadline one morning and had to step in front of Grant's artillery, then sneak off the battlefield at night after his agonizingly slow, five-day reconstitution. My dad says when I'm ready, I can choose to end it. I just have to go a full days, 24 hours, without sustaining a mortal injury. In high school, I once chose to do it because of my crush on Becca Hoffsteder. I was so giddy about my choice that I got pasted by a bus on the way home. It was caught on CCTV, too, and the news played it for weeks. I had to take a dive off the ambulance gurney and run home dragging a leg and trying to pull the end of a rib out of my heart and lung before it healed that way. Looking back, I probably caused a lot of paperwork that day. My dad says my family line goes back to some pretty obscure Babylonian stuff having to do with blood sacrifices and bare-breasted harpies, but apparently my great, great grandparents didn't bother to write anything down. So I keep killing myself, day after day, keeping it as quiet as possible, moving around and changing my identity every decade or so to keep people from noticing that I don't really age that much. One day I hope I find a girl like my mom. She's mortal, and starting to show it, and I have a feeling that soon we're going to have a family meeting where my dad will announce his "retirement." All I can say is, it must be a wonderful woman worth dying for, and we should all be so lucky as him.	Walter awoke next to Elena. Successful again. He started his day off just as any other. Dark coffee while preparing breakfast. Eggs, bacon, pancakes (just the way Elena likes them) and of course more coffee. She came downstairs in the middle of the preparations. He wouldn't be able to surprise her with breakfast in bed today. After so many wonderful years of marriage, her little peck on his cheek still filled himself with joy. Walter couldn't get enough of Elena, she gives him reason to wake up. With both of them being retired, they could spend their days how they see fit. Today they would take a soft stroll through the park down the street from their house. Hand in hand, smiling all the way, they strode down the road. Waving at friends that they had seen many times before. Such a nice community they had in their little suburban town. The park had a pond in the middle of the walking trail. Though the trail was only a couple miles long, Walter hand no problem walking it everyday as long as Elena was by his side. They fed the ducks, they waved at the friendly faces, they enjoyed the sunshine, and each other's company. They left the park with smiling faces, still hand in hand. Even though it was a short distance, today they had made the trip much longer. Stopping for every reason they could find. Meeting new people, discovering new areas of the all too familiar park, and always finding somewhere to eat lunch. They always found reasons to make their trips meaningful, no matter how short they where. They arrived home and Elena sat with Walter on the couch as Walter cracked open a beer a turned on the television. She cuddled up with him tight when she could. She didn't care what he picked on TV, just as long as it was with him. After so many years of marriage, she knew Walt well enough that she would enjoy what he picked. After a short time, Elena became tired and ushered herself to the bedroom. But not after a quick peck on Walter's cheek. Walt was alone now. Beer in hand, something pointless on the television. He thought, as he did every night, "Should I wake up tomorrow?" Elena poked her head in the room and said, "Are you coming?" "I will be there in a minute, Elly." Walt beamed. Elena shuffled upstairs as Walter headed to the kitchen. Third drawer on the left, there is a false bottom underneath the silverware. Walter grabbed the pill bottle from the hidden compartment in the drawer and swallowed one. "See you in the morning, Elena."
	[WP] You can live forever but only if you suffer a mortal injury every 24 hours.	"It's Always a Good Idea to Demonstrate to Your Coworkers that Your Capable of Withstanding a Tremendous Amount of Pain" - Ron Swanson	Jack wondered how much longer he'd be willing to keep it up. How long it would still be worth it. But life was too much fun. Plus, chicks dig scars. He wondered what was on the docket for today. He'd stabbed himself in the heart so many times. Maybe today he'd behead himself. He had gone through the surgery when he was 23. Apparently, the blood loss allowed the body to shut down and regenerate all necessary body parts. The shutdown only took 15 minutes, but he had to do it once a day, or he would age like normal people. As he brought the blade down, he asked himself: "Am I crazy? Is this worth it?" Then the blade came down, and all was quiet.
	[WP] You can live forever but only if you suffer a mortal injury every 24 hours.	Every morning I get up, shoot myself in the head, take a shower, brush my teeth, get dressed, and go to work. When I was just starting this routine, I once left off the shooting part until AFTER my shower, which led to me ruining a shirt and being late for work. I use .22's nowadays. In college I used 9mm rounds, and tried to save money by repacking the casings on weekends. They had the advantage of being almost sure to inflict a mortal head wound, but they were insanely messy. The first time I tried a .22 I had to shoot myself about six times in the forehead before I gave up and went around to the back to pulp the medulla. I like the smaller bullets because they stay in my cranium until my body works them out, but you have to know what you're doing, or you are in for a tough hour and a blinding headache all day. When I was younger, my parents would just take a bat to my head. They knew what was up; my dad has been doing the same thing for about 340 years now, although he would just hang himself in the old days when high collars would hide the welts. He loves to tell the story of the first time he tried using a blunderbuss and missed two shots before nearly removing an ear. And the time he almost missed the deadline one morning and had to step in front of Grant's artillery, then sneak off the battlefield at night after his agonizingly slow, five-day reconstitution. My dad says when I'm ready, I can choose to end it. I just have to go a full days, 24 hours, without sustaining a mortal injury. In high school, I once chose to do it because of my crush on Becca Hoffsteder. I was so giddy about my choice that I got pasted by a bus on the way home. It was caught on CCTV, too, and the news played it for weeks. I had to take a dive off the ambulance gurney and run home dragging a leg and trying to pull the end of a rib out of my heart and lung before it healed that way. Looking back, I probably caused a lot of paperwork that day. My dad says my family line goes back to some pretty obscure Babylonian stuff having to do with blood sacrifices and bare-breasted harpies, but apparently my great, great grandparents didn't bother to write anything down. So I keep killing myself, day after day, keeping it as quiet as possible, moving around and changing my identity every decade or so to keep people from noticing that I don't really age that much. One day I hope I find a girl like my mom. She's mortal, and starting to show it, and I have a feeling that soon we're going to have a family meeting where my dad will announce his "retirement." All I can say is, it must be a wonderful woman worth dying for, and we should all be so lucky as him.	Jack wondered how much longer he'd be willing to keep it up. How long it would still be worth it. But life was too much fun. Plus, chicks dig scars. He wondered what was on the docket for today. He'd stabbed himself in the heart so many times. Maybe today he'd behead himself. He had gone through the surgery when he was 23. Apparently, the blood loss allowed the body to shut down and regenerate all necessary body parts. The shutdown only took 15 minutes, but he had to do it once a day, or he would age like normal people. As he brought the blade down, he asked himself: "Am I crazy? Is this worth it?" Then the blade came down, and all was quiet.
	[WP] You can live forever but only if you suffer a mortal injury every 24 hours.	"Honey, did you fix the cracker?" she asked, examining the appliance with a frown. "Yes, dear," her husband called from the living room. "It just needed recalibrating." "Are you sure?" she asked, positioning her head between the two mechanical arms. "I don't want to have to use the guillotine, it makes such a mess." "Well, give it a try and let me know if it still doesn't work," he said. "I tried it out myself earlier and it was fine." "Okay, I'm trusting you," she said, flipping the switch. The arms tightened around her head and twisted, painlessly snapping her neck. She shook her head until it realigned itself, picked herself up off the safety cushion, and headed into the living room to curl up on the couch with her husband.	Jack wondered how much longer he'd be willing to keep it up. How long it would still be worth it. But life was too much fun. Plus, chicks dig scars. He wondered what was on the docket for today. He'd stabbed himself in the heart so many times. Maybe today he'd behead himself. He had gone through the surgery when he was 23. Apparently, the blood loss allowed the body to shut down and regenerate all necessary body parts. The shutdown only took 15 minutes, but he had to do it once a day, or he would age like normal people. As he brought the blade down, he asked himself: "Am I crazy? Is this worth it?" Then the blade came down, and all was quiet.
	[WP] You can live forever but only if you suffer a mortal injury every 24 hours.	That sucker didn't know big of a mistake he just made. First I rob him of something of immeasurable value, that was reserved to him and his family alone and simply give it away to all of mankind. Sure, I understand why he was upset, why I'm being "tortured." I have to die every single day. What could be worse than that? Well, what he didn't take into account is that I'm now immortal. For the time being I am bound by chains to this mountain, and I suffer a painful death every day, but I'm immortal. When people lose faith and abandon Mount Olympus, I'll still be here. When people forget about the petty gods that were so selfish with their gifts, I'll be remembered and revered. You may have punished me to temporary pain, but you have granted me eternal life. I have won not once, but twice and you cannot defeat me now for I am Prometheus, the bringer of fire.	Jack wondered how much longer he'd be willing to keep it up. How long it would still be worth it. But life was too much fun. Plus, chicks dig scars. He wondered what was on the docket for today. He'd stabbed himself in the heart so many times. Maybe today he'd behead himself. He had gone through the surgery when he was 23. Apparently, the blood loss allowed the body to shut down and regenerate all necessary body parts. The shutdown only took 15 minutes, but he had to do it once a day, or he would age like normal people. As he brought the blade down, he asked himself: "Am I crazy? Is this worth it?" Then the blade came down, and all was quiet.
	[WP] You can live forever but only if you suffer a mortal injury every 24 hours.	He breathed in and out quickly. He shook his head and paced back and forth trying to get himself psyched up. You'd think after one hundred years of doing this, he'd have built up an impressive pain tolerance, but there's only so much you can do to harm yourself that isn't exceptionally painful. He smacked his face a couple of times, and went over to his table. He'd never done cocaine before, he was hoping it would dull the experience or at least make it go by quicker. He took a quick bump and stumbled back. He sniffed a couple of times and blinked rapidly. Fuck yeah. After that he was ready as he would be. He went down into his basement and went over to his set up. He'd hurt himself so many times in so many different ways, he eventually just resolved to a quick bullet to the head. He'd technically "die" for about 3 hours. He'd wake up, fully rested only the faint taste of buckshot in his mouth. He went over to the metal chair, behind the chair was a mass of plastic wrap. The other drawback to his immortality, the clean up. It's not easy to get rid of blood and brain matter every other day without the risk of someone asking questions or calling the cops. He head already loaded the gun that lay next to the chair. He sat down and picked it up. He put the barrel in his mouth. Now here was the hard part. The contemplation. The knowing that once he pulled the trigger he'd feel that pain again. It never dulled. No matter how many times he'd killed himself, it hurt every time. This time would be no different. He'd long since abandoned the idea of religion. Strictly out of fear however, as he thought living for one hundred years and forever looking and being young. He was committing suicide in the process of prolonging his life, his whole existence was an affront to what ever God existed. He was afraid if he just let himself die, if there was an afterlife, that he'd be cast into hell. His finger twitched on the trigger. This was awful. He knew it was but he was more scared of the unknown than of dying. He braced himself and pulled the trigger. The brief smell of gunpowder. The bang of the gun. The impact of the shell splintering out of the top of the head. He would feel all of this, just so he could continue to live another day. Like always, in about three hours he woke up. His head hurt, He was covered in blood. He'd have to go shower, then come back down to clean up. This was his life. This was the cost of forever. But he was beginning to wonder, if forever was really worth the price. Edit: grammar and words	Jack wondered how much longer he'd be willing to keep it up. How long it would still be worth it. But life was too much fun. Plus, chicks dig scars. He wondered what was on the docket for today. He'd stabbed himself in the heart so many times. Maybe today he'd behead himself. He had gone through the surgery when he was 23. Apparently, the blood loss allowed the body to shut down and regenerate all necessary body parts. The shutdown only took 15 minutes, but he had to do it once a day, or he would age like normal people. As he brought the blade down, he asked himself: "Am I crazy? Is this worth it?" Then the blade came down, and all was quiet.
	[WP] You can live forever but only if you suffer a mortal injury every 24 hours.	Every morning I get up, shoot myself in the head, take a shower, brush my teeth, get dressed, and go to work. When I was just starting this routine, I once left off the shooting part until AFTER my shower, which led to me ruining a shirt and being late for work. I use .22's nowadays. In college I used 9mm rounds, and tried to save money by repacking the casings on weekends. They had the advantage of being almost sure to inflict a mortal head wound, but they were insanely messy. The first time I tried a .22 I had to shoot myself about six times in the forehead before I gave up and went around to the back to pulp the medulla. I like the smaller bullets because they stay in my cranium until my body works them out, but you have to know what you're doing, or you are in for a tough hour and a blinding headache all day. When I was younger, my parents would just take a bat to my head. They knew what was up; my dad has been doing the same thing for about 340 years now, although he would just hang himself in the old days when high collars would hide the welts. He loves to tell the story of the first time he tried using a blunderbuss and missed two shots before nearly removing an ear. And the time he almost missed the deadline one morning and had to step in front of Grant's artillery, then sneak off the battlefield at night after his agonizingly slow, five-day reconstitution. My dad says when I'm ready, I can choose to end it. I just have to go a full days, 24 hours, without sustaining a mortal injury. In high school, I once chose to do it because of my crush on Becca Hoffsteder. I was so giddy about my choice that I got pasted by a bus on the way home. It was caught on CCTV, too, and the news played it for weeks. I had to take a dive off the ambulance gurney and run home dragging a leg and trying to pull the end of a rib out of my heart and lung before it healed that way. Looking back, I probably caused a lot of paperwork that day. My dad says my family line goes back to some pretty obscure Babylonian stuff having to do with blood sacrifices and bare-breasted harpies, but apparently my great, great grandparents didn't bother to write anything down. So I keep killing myself, day after day, keeping it as quiet as possible, moving around and changing my identity every decade or so to keep people from noticing that I don't really age that much. One day I hope I find a girl like my mom. She's mortal, and starting to show it, and I have a feeling that soon we're going to have a family meeting where my dad will announce his "retirement." All I can say is, it must be a wonderful woman worth dying for, and we should all be so lucky as him.	"It's Always a Good Idea to Demonstrate to Your Coworkers that Your Capable of Withstanding a Tremendous Amount of Pain" - Ron Swanson
	[WP] You can live forever but only if you suffer a mortal injury every 24 hours.	"Honey, did you fix the cracker?" she asked, examining the appliance with a frown. "Yes, dear," her husband called from the living room. "It just needed recalibrating." "Are you sure?" she asked, positioning her head between the two mechanical arms. "I don't want to have to use the guillotine, it makes such a mess." "Well, give it a try and let me know if it still doesn't work," he said. "I tried it out myself earlier and it was fine." "Okay, I'm trusting you," she said, flipping the switch. The arms tightened around her head and twisted, painlessly snapping her neck. She shook her head until it realigned itself, picked herself up off the safety cushion, and headed into the living room to curl up on the couch with her husband.	"It's Always a Good Idea to Demonstrate to Your Coworkers that Your Capable of Withstanding a Tremendous Amount of Pain" - Ron Swanson
The religion's main prophet arrives at the home of the last non-believer on Earth, to attempt to convert him. Been working on this idea on my own for awhile and can't seem to get it right. Interested to see if anyone else can do it justice.	[WP]A religion has swept the globe, the principal tenet of which is that reality is a dream of God's, and that when every human on Earth believes this we (as God) will finally be able to awaken from our dream. (bit more inside)	I sat down on my couch, staring at its odd pinkish yellowish color pattern. I looked up at the clock, and saw that the time was going slower than it usually would. You're going crazy, nothing is wrong with that clock. You're just nervous, that's all. I spent what felt like an eternity trapped within a minute and a half staring at that wretched clock as it went on with its day. tick-tok. The clock didn't wait for me, as I tried hopelessly to catch up with its calm, smooth, flawless life. The knock at the door didn't surprise me. After all, it was what I had been waiting for all this time. I stood up, my knees creaking from the stress of all this and I turned to the door. I looked through the peephole at the world outside. I had a pretty good knowledge of who was coming, but I had to be sure. I stared down at myself. The sound was still in my ears. tick-tok, the clock droned on. If not now then when? I thought. I opened the door hesitantly, and the man I saw outside looked as kind as he did in all the pictures. I had been thinking about this for the past week and a half, and I had never expected it to go down like this. He spoke first. "Hello Kevin. My name is Levi, but I suppose you already know that, huh?" I nodded my head slowly, not knowing whether I didn't want to talk, or in my frazzled state forgot how to. "Do you mind if I come in?" I felt a catch in my throat. I wasn't prepared for this. Slowly, I croaked out, "No, come right in." I invited him inside. He looked around for a second and then spoke. "Nice place you got here." He looked back at me, as if for an answer to a question he did not ask. "Yea, I got it a couple of years ago." The silence filled the room. The only sound was the clock's monotonous tick-tok. He broke that silence as if it were nothing. "Okay, Kevin, I'm not going to sugarcoat it. We both know why I'm here, right?" "Yes, you're here because you want to convert me to your religion." "Oh, yes, you could say that." He glanced around the room, darting his eyes from one place to another, trying not to stay on one place to long. "Why don't we sit down?" he asked. He sat where I had been just minutes ago, on the oddly colored couch, and I sat across him in a nice black leather recliner. "You do know about our religion, right?" Levi questioned. "Yes, I'm aware of the basis of your religion." "In your own words, how would you describe it?" "Well, as a whole, you believe that the world as we know it is your God's dream, and that if the entire world believes that that is the truth, then, and only then, will we be truly awakened as God." Levi beamed me a look of approval. "I couldn't have said it better myself." Once again, the silence had swallowed the room. I stared at the clock. tick-tok. I looked back at Levi. He was in his fifties, but you wouldn't know it by looking at him. He looked thirty-five, and was in good health. I mean, you couldn't be the main prophet of a religion without looking good, right? "You realize that I don't show up at anybody's house to convert them, right? You know your significance, don't you?" Levi's presence was one of kindness, and hope. "I'm the last non-believer, aren't I?" "Yes. You should join us, so that not just you, but the world will know peace. We can't do this without you." There was a look of longing in his eyes. His entire life had built up to this moment, and he wanted it more than the world. "Look, if I wasn't scared of this idea, I would have hopped on the bandwagon a long time ago. What if all this is real, and being a god is living hell? Why would I want to be awakened into a horrible life of slavery?" My exasperation was showing through my body. Levi looked down, and after a second he looked up and said, "I don't know what it will be like. Our hopes are that it is good. We just don't know. But if I can convince you to join me on this journey, we'll do it together." He held out his hand across the table. I could see the passion in his eyes. I could see his conviction. This is for the greater good, I thought. I outstretched my arm and grabbed his hand. "I'm in." I closed my eyes and waited, we waited for the moment of truth. I opened my eyes, and the prophet sat there, defeated. And behind us, in a wall of distress, came the sound of the world, the sound of fate not allowing us this victory. The sound of time. tick-tok	not a story, but interestingly, this "reality is a dream of Gods" concept is something mentioned in Hinduism.
	[WP] Write a scene from the point of view of a sociopath. Try to make sure we feel no emotion.	Where's the food, I think. I haven't eaten in four - no, five hours now. Do they even have food here? I guess it would cost a lot to cater to so many people. Will they ever stop talking? It just goes on and on, a never-ending spiral of the same words, the same feelings, the same moments. We get it, he wasn't bad. Now shut up. I can't be the only one feeling this way. I look at the pale, stolid expressions upon the faces around me. Some are hidden. Are they ashamed? Of what? I need food. The grass is green. The sky is blue. The stones are grey. I've been looking at the same things for hours now. Maybe I'll go unplug the microphone. Then they'll probably just talk louder. Best not to do it. Finally they shut their fat faces. Why? I peer around someones neck to see that they're lowering him into the ground. Whatever. I'm still hungry. Should I give up hope? I don't think there's many places to get food in a graveyard.	OT reply: I'd just like to point out a sociopath doesn't necessarily lack emotion. A sociopath is someone with Antisocial Personality Disorder, and the key symptoms for diagnosis are lack of empathy, remorse or guilt, low tolerance for frustration/high irritability, impulsivity, deception and lack of conformity to social norms... so a sociopath isn't as emotional or does not express emotions normally, but that doesn't mean lack thereof. Also, reading the perspective of a sociopath is reading a way of thinking that is not similar to our own, which will indeed spark emotional responses so it's tough to write without triggering some emotion. source: graduating psychology major, currently in a personality and psychopathy class.
People on earth can now heal life threatening injuries with various kinds of food. The more luxurious the food, the more effective it is.	[WP] Life on earth takes an odd turn when food starts healing people like they do in video games.	“Chopped coriander and raw chilli, floating in a small serving bowl full of soy sauce. A delicious snack on a hot day. Thanks, Harriet.” His real name is Harry, but I call him that because it’s funny. I ask, “Is it fresh?” “Yes, Sir.” “What about the soy sauce?” “Hand made. By virgins who have never seen or smelt processed food, inhaled smog, and were raised unknowingly in a virtual world that convinced them they were nuns in 14th century France.” “You mean robots?” ‘the cleanest and most efficient, Sir.” This good, simple meal is immortality. No because coriander or chilli are healthy (though they are,) but because this is something few see in the modern 23rd century world: organic food. Real organic food - pure, thorough bred food, untouched by processing, pesticide, the lips of sterilized cows looking for cud or little boys looking for something to urinate on after smuggling out some of dad’s whiskey (and Dad thought I never worked out where he kept it.) Not even the ultra rich can afford organic food these days. Except me: the ultra rich of the ultra rich. The only people that deserve immortality. I raise my chopsticks and explain this to Harriet. “Not only is this coriander pure in its current form, but the soil it was grown in certified antique, coming with annual lab tests to legitimate its astonishing potency, and a schedule listing its every user going back three hundred years. Same for the seeds it was grown from; the air and water circulated through and into it, which has circulated in isolation since before our society was shaken by the catastrophe of the Great Shuddering Thighs; the compost piled on top of it - whose current rank condition conceals its honorable geneology of being only offcuts from the finest of the fine and the best of the best. “There’s nothing like being in front of the best of the best, is there, Harriet? You‘re doing that now. Imagine being you, and having to look at me, in all my wondrous nobility.” “Yes,” he says, nodding his head mechanically and slowly. The radiation poisoning must be kicking in. “It was very noble, that sacrifice you made,” I say, lowering my tone to imply seriousness, and also so none of the other servants hear. “My inherent nobility, grace and power must be rubbing off on your turgid, wretched, in bred lower class brain.” “Yes Sir.” “My father says that after I knocked over the plutonium coffee machine, and all that gas spewed acreoss the room, that you only came into help me because he said he’d shoot your wife if you didn’t. Is that true?” “No, Sir. I considered getting cancer from the gas a necessary sacrifice to make for your unique mind and beautiful body. Far more important than my wife.” “I knew it! I mean, she’s ugly. I’d rather get cancer than sleep with her. Least there’s a positive to all this for you, too! Still, now we’re both sick, and I have a cure, we can both sleep well tonight, eh?” I’m shoveling the coriander into my mouth as I talk. I see him watching me chew, and for a few second a look of yearning and hope creases his face. It is completely inappropriate. “technically,” I say, “I only need one piece of this to restore all my hit points. But I’m finishing it all and not giving you any, Harriet. Would you like to know why, Harriet?” In truth, I don’t want anyone to know I broke the coffee machine. “I don’t want any, Sir.” “What?” I gasp, so shocked my hand locks into place and I drop the bowl on the floor. Soy sauce runs between the table legs and pools between my toes. “Why?” “The annaphine ruins the taste, Sir.” “Annaphine?” I splutter, feeling my jaw lock up. He steps closer. “It locks the body in place, Sir. And then evaporates from the system.” I try to nod my head but I can’t. I’m frozen in one position. I was expecting to be immortalised but not so soon. Harriet steps closer again, and picks up a knife from the table. “What won’t evaporate from your system, however, is the organic food. The corriander and chilli. The best of the best.” He places the knife tenderly against my arm, and drags the blade slowly across it as he talks. “As you always remind me, you yourself are of prestigious, refined, aristocratic heritage, unsullied by the amalgamations of the modern diet and the shabby compromises of everyday life. You are the perfect vessel for the organic.” He smiles - a sickly, triumphant grin - and raises the knife to my neck.	I don't really remember when it all started, but then again nobody really does. The first time I heard anything about it was when my mother called and told me that her bad ankle stopped hurting all of a sudden. "That's not a big deal..." I thought to myself. "She probably took one too many tylenol again. She's kind of a light weight". But then I noticed it happening around my circle of friends. Dana noticed that a few scars of hers had gone missing, Brian's fractured wrist mended in less than a week, and Jesse's fingerprints grew back (fireworks accident, don't ask). The severity of what was happening didn't hit me until I was out with my (now ex)girlfriend Becca for our anniversary. You see, I work construction. And 2 days prior to the dinner some idiot dropped a full bucket of plaster on my hand. Let me tell you... Completely. Shattered. So there I was, in a fancy Italian restaurant, secretly worrying about my career because of my injury, just trying to have nice night with my at the time significant other. So to take my mind off disability checks and human resource calls I order myself a big plate of spaghetti and meatballs. Simple tastes for a simple guy, ya know? So while I eat, the dull stinging pain coming from my bandaged up hand started to die down. "Oh good, at least that'll stop bugging me for a little while". I thought with a mouth full of noodles. But when the check came... I knew something was up. My hand felt fine. I was so sure something was up that I took my dirty marinara speckled knife and started cutting into the plaster on my hand (which is kind of a weird thing to do in the middle of a restaurant in retrospect). It was fine. Good. Perfect. Adequately functional to do the tasks that I required of it. My hand was made of purple bruises and shattered bones less than 72 hours ago. I'll be honest with you, I kind of... freaked the fuck out after that. So much so that I went from "together with a beautiful girl in a fancy restaurant" to "single and in the back of a police car" in the span of 15 minutes. But I wasn't kept for long, basically the world had finally taken notice to what was happening. People started being healed from the food they ate. I don't know why, and as far as I know nobody does. If I cared enough about it I would google it, probably had a big impact on healthcare and stuff... I wonder what Becca thinks about all this. She was always the more political of the two of us. Hell, she got me to vote for the first time in 26 years... I think I'll call her... Hope she picks up this time...
People on earth can now heal life threatening injuries with various kinds of food. The more luxurious the food, the more effective it is.	[WP] Life on earth takes an odd turn when food starts healing people like they do in video games.	“Chopped coriander and raw chilli, floating in a small serving bowl full of soy sauce. A delicious snack on a hot day. Thanks, Harriet.” His real name is Harry, but I call him that because it’s funny. I ask, “Is it fresh?” “Yes, Sir.” “What about the soy sauce?” “Hand made. By virgins who have never seen or smelt processed food, inhaled smog, and were raised unknowingly in a virtual world that convinced them they were nuns in 14th century France.” “You mean robots?” ‘the cleanest and most efficient, Sir.” This good, simple meal is immortality. No because coriander or chilli are healthy (though they are,) but because this is something few see in the modern 23rd century world: organic food. Real organic food - pure, thorough bred food, untouched by processing, pesticide, the lips of sterilized cows looking for cud or little boys looking for something to urinate on after smuggling out some of dad’s whiskey (and Dad thought I never worked out where he kept it.) Not even the ultra rich can afford organic food these days. Except me: the ultra rich of the ultra rich. The only people that deserve immortality. I raise my chopsticks and explain this to Harriet. “Not only is this coriander pure in its current form, but the soil it was grown in certified antique, coming with annual lab tests to legitimate its astonishing potency, and a schedule listing its every user going back three hundred years. Same for the seeds it was grown from; the air and water circulated through and into it, which has circulated in isolation since before our society was shaken by the catastrophe of the Great Shuddering Thighs; the compost piled on top of it - whose current rank condition conceals its honorable geneology of being only offcuts from the finest of the fine and the best of the best. “There’s nothing like being in front of the best of the best, is there, Harriet? You‘re doing that now. Imagine being you, and having to look at me, in all my wondrous nobility.” “Yes,” he says, nodding his head mechanically and slowly. The radiation poisoning must be kicking in. “It was very noble, that sacrifice you made,” I say, lowering my tone to imply seriousness, and also so none of the other servants hear. “My inherent nobility, grace and power must be rubbing off on your turgid, wretched, in bred lower class brain.” “Yes Sir.” “My father says that after I knocked over the plutonium coffee machine, and all that gas spewed acreoss the room, that you only came into help me because he said he’d shoot your wife if you didn’t. Is that true?” “No, Sir. I considered getting cancer from the gas a necessary sacrifice to make for your unique mind and beautiful body. Far more important than my wife.” “I knew it! I mean, she’s ugly. I’d rather get cancer than sleep with her. Least there’s a positive to all this for you, too! Still, now we’re both sick, and I have a cure, we can both sleep well tonight, eh?” I’m shoveling the coriander into my mouth as I talk. I see him watching me chew, and for a few second a look of yearning and hope creases his face. It is completely inappropriate. “technically,” I say, “I only need one piece of this to restore all my hit points. But I’m finishing it all and not giving you any, Harriet. Would you like to know why, Harriet?” In truth, I don’t want anyone to know I broke the coffee machine. “I don’t want any, Sir.” “What?” I gasp, so shocked my hand locks into place and I drop the bowl on the floor. Soy sauce runs between the table legs and pools between my toes. “Why?” “The annaphine ruins the taste, Sir.” “Annaphine?” I splutter, feeling my jaw lock up. He steps closer. “It locks the body in place, Sir. And then evaporates from the system.” I try to nod my head but I can’t. I’m frozen in one position. I was expecting to be immortalised but not so soon. Harriet steps closer again, and picks up a knife from the table. “What won’t evaporate from your system, however, is the organic food. The corriander and chilli. The best of the best.” He places the knife tenderly against my arm, and drags the blade slowly across it as he talks. “As you always remind me, you yourself are of prestigious, refined, aristocratic heritage, unsullied by the amalgamations of the modern diet and the shabby compromises of everyday life. You are the perfect vessel for the organic.” He smiles - a sickly, triumphant grin - and raises the knife to my neck.	Gary leaned over his desk looking at the person in front of him. he was about 22, well, in prefood years. It was impossible to know how old he was now, because a good meal could have shaved the years off. Food, as it once was, was over. Before, it had simply aided in life function, but now. it was almost miraculous the way people instantly healed when they ingested food. What was more magical was the way the quality of the food mattered. A simple apple, bag of chips, or burger would heal a wound. A full three course meal might bring you back from the brink of death, cure cancer, or even bring on fertility to an infertile couple. but what most people didn't realize were the effects of the truly exclusive food. Beluga caviar, civet coffee, wagyu steak, well that could perform miracles. Remove years from your age, regrow lost limbs. It was a constant battle though, as a food became popular, it became cheaper. A French truffle had been powerful enough to regrow a severed finger, or cure the blind, but now due to the demand, science had found a way to grow truffles en masse. what had been an exclusive food, was now as common as as the dirt it was grown in. This is when the horror set in. the truffles weren't as effective any more. The less expensive, the less exclusive food got, the less it worked. the wealthy, the powerful, the vain and the selfish. They who had spent years dining on foi gras, and square melons were now in an arms race, constantly trying to find more and more expensive and exclusive food to stay young and beautiful forever. That's where Gary, and his crew came in. They scoured the globe looking for the most exclusive, the rarest animals, the most exotic spice. All to keep the most powerful people young beautiful and healthy forever. "The meal for your birthday... May I ask which?" This will be my 254th birthday." The young man said with a twinkle in his eye that denied his looks. Mentally gary calculated exactly how much he would have had to pay for that... "The meal will be extravagant, and we have a one of a kind dish on every table. There will be enough food to supply exactly 12 people. and this should bring them all to mid twenties physical age, from an average physical age of 56." "Excellent, that sounds just like what we need. and what is the menu." "Well, for starters we have a new strain of pepper plant that was engineered for maximum flavor, and to be gold in colour. This is served as a salsa with other exotic ingredients, the chips will be silver corn, and average at about $15000 per serving... The second course will be..." "Enough with the menu. what did you find for the main course. what is it that will keep us young for decades? what exactly is it we are paying for? what is so exotic and so rare that you gained an audience with me?" "A mastodon sir. on a recent trip to the siberian wastes, our food finders located an entire frozen specimen. Since the global warming crisis has taken out most of the worlds frozen areas, it is believed to be the last such example. There is literally no way this meal will ever be eaten again. This is the last." The customer sat back in his chair. Gary's answer obviously was enough to satisfy him. "That will do nicely. how much do you want for it?" "3 billion dollars." Gary smiled. It was sure as hell a step up from working in his fathers diner, but realy, it was nice work.
People on earth can now heal life threatening injuries with various kinds of food. The more luxurious the food, the more effective it is.	[WP] Life on earth takes an odd turn when food starts healing people like they do in video games.	“Chopped coriander and raw chilli, floating in a small serving bowl full of soy sauce. A delicious snack on a hot day. Thanks, Harriet.” His real name is Harry, but I call him that because it’s funny. I ask, “Is it fresh?” “Yes, Sir.” “What about the soy sauce?” “Hand made. By virgins who have never seen or smelt processed food, inhaled smog, and were raised unknowingly in a virtual world that convinced them they were nuns in 14th century France.” “You mean robots?” ‘the cleanest and most efficient, Sir.” This good, simple meal is immortality. No because coriander or chilli are healthy (though they are,) but because this is something few see in the modern 23rd century world: organic food. Real organic food - pure, thorough bred food, untouched by processing, pesticide, the lips of sterilized cows looking for cud or little boys looking for something to urinate on after smuggling out some of dad’s whiskey (and Dad thought I never worked out where he kept it.) Not even the ultra rich can afford organic food these days. Except me: the ultra rich of the ultra rich. The only people that deserve immortality. I raise my chopsticks and explain this to Harriet. “Not only is this coriander pure in its current form, but the soil it was grown in certified antique, coming with annual lab tests to legitimate its astonishing potency, and a schedule listing its every user going back three hundred years. Same for the seeds it was grown from; the air and water circulated through and into it, which has circulated in isolation since before our society was shaken by the catastrophe of the Great Shuddering Thighs; the compost piled on top of it - whose current rank condition conceals its honorable geneology of being only offcuts from the finest of the fine and the best of the best. “There’s nothing like being in front of the best of the best, is there, Harriet? You‘re doing that now. Imagine being you, and having to look at me, in all my wondrous nobility.” “Yes,” he says, nodding his head mechanically and slowly. The radiation poisoning must be kicking in. “It was very noble, that sacrifice you made,” I say, lowering my tone to imply seriousness, and also so none of the other servants hear. “My inherent nobility, grace and power must be rubbing off on your turgid, wretched, in bred lower class brain.” “Yes Sir.” “My father says that after I knocked over the plutonium coffee machine, and all that gas spewed acreoss the room, that you only came into help me because he said he’d shoot your wife if you didn’t. Is that true?” “No, Sir. I considered getting cancer from the gas a necessary sacrifice to make for your unique mind and beautiful body. Far more important than my wife.” “I knew it! I mean, she’s ugly. I’d rather get cancer than sleep with her. Least there’s a positive to all this for you, too! Still, now we’re both sick, and I have a cure, we can both sleep well tonight, eh?” I’m shoveling the coriander into my mouth as I talk. I see him watching me chew, and for a few second a look of yearning and hope creases his face. It is completely inappropriate. “technically,” I say, “I only need one piece of this to restore all my hit points. But I’m finishing it all and not giving you any, Harriet. Would you like to know why, Harriet?” In truth, I don’t want anyone to know I broke the coffee machine. “I don’t want any, Sir.” “What?” I gasp, so shocked my hand locks into place and I drop the bowl on the floor. Soy sauce runs between the table legs and pools between my toes. “Why?” “The annaphine ruins the taste, Sir.” “Annaphine?” I splutter, feeling my jaw lock up. He steps closer. “It locks the body in place, Sir. And then evaporates from the system.” I try to nod my head but I can’t. I’m frozen in one position. I was expecting to be immortalised but not so soon. Harriet steps closer again, and picks up a knife from the table. “What won’t evaporate from your system, however, is the organic food. The corriander and chilli. The best of the best.” He places the knife tenderly against my arm, and drags the blade slowly across it as he talks. “As you always remind me, you yourself are of prestigious, refined, aristocratic heritage, unsullied by the amalgamations of the modern diet and the shabby compromises of everyday life. You are the perfect vessel for the organic.” He smiles - a sickly, triumphant grin - and raises the knife to my neck.	Some may have thought that the new development with food was going to improve the quality of life for everyone. It was merely the invention of nanites that had made the whole thing possible. Companies started putting nanites in everything, from soda to caviar. It not only improved the shelf life and taste of the stuff, but had the added benefit of healing pretty much any injury you could think of, aside instant death. It cured diseases, it improved memory, it fixed macular degeneration. Hell, people that had been blind or deaf since they were born suddenly were able to see and hear as if God himself had touched them. Those that had lost limbs, or never had them to start with were able to regrow them in less than a day. People were exclaiming it to be a miracle. The healthcare system crashed first. And did it ever crash hard. The over-inflated prices assured that the burgeoning giant collapsed like a flimsy card house. Suddenly, doctors, nurses, and all sort of specialists who had spent all their lives and borrowed absurd amounts of money pursuing the healthcare career suddenly found themselves jobless. Hospitals became nothing more than barren and empty buildings. They closed by the thousands. Pharmacies that didn't convert to mini-marts followed soon after. Pill factories, medical device factories, all those faced the choice: make something else, or die. Most died. Health insurance became a thing of history...no one wanted to pay for something they weren't going to use. As you can guess, this meant a humongous surge in unemployment. But this new discovery even found a way to fix even that: the restaurant and catering business exploded with growth. Serving became not only readily available, but heavily saught after. Great doctors were replaced with amazing chefs. People ate out more often, and spent more money on food. Farmland and meat processing plants could barely keep up with the demand. Those old hospitals and clinics were bought out and either converted into food plants, or bulldozed and made into farmland or hydroponic laboratories. Even countries that were considered third world or still developing were able to implement this new miracle, through careful distribution. Africa became prime farmland. It was no longer a wartorn hell, but a country that was just vast swathes of farm and busy centers of shipping and processing, with South America following in their footsteps. China became even richer with the advent of the nanites, as the production of them were outsourced to their country. Russia and Australia became enormous ranches, full of livestock. They became the leaders of genetics and breeding. Now this all sounds like it was a miracle...but no one thought it would eventually turn out the way it did. After all, the death rate heavily dropped from this brand new technology. After a few years, overpopulation became not just something people argued about over the internet, but a very real and glaring problem. More cars on the road and more people travelling meant more emissions, as did increasing amounts of livestock. It became harder and harder for farmers to keep crops alive in the wildly variating weather patterns and temperatures... (To Be Continued when I get home from work)
People on earth can now heal life threatening injuries with various kinds of food. The more luxurious the food, the more effective it is.	[WP] Life on earth takes an odd turn when food starts healing people like they do in video games.	"An apple a day keeps the doctors away". The proverb used to mean that good nutrition would keep you healthy and that the vitamins found in an apple would help your immune system. But now, a single bite from an apple can save you from death. Well, it can cure your sore throat or your cough at least. My grandma would always make me eat weird and unappetizing food to help my system. She'd make me eat garlic and ginger to help with my blood pressure. See, those old school remedies still don't work. And they still taste awful. These days, a nice greasy Big Mac or a Baconator could save you from a heart attack. The irony wasn't lost to the big fast food companies. When the miraculous healing power of fast foods were discovered, the prices sky rocketed. Remember the value meals from McDonald's? It was a dollar and twenty-nine cents for a bacon cheese burger. Now, it's a hundred and twenty-nine dollars. The big pharmaceutical companies were usurped by McDonald's, Burger King, Wendy, and Starbucks. Yeah. Starbucks got even more expensive. Coffee was now the most potent and addictive drug known in history. Well, it already was... but the effects were multiplied. It was as if a meth addict was on cocaine and Adderall at once. Soldiers injected the stuff in their blood streams and go berserk. Wars were fought and won in one huge blur. And yet, for the life of me, here I am in sick in bed. I've eaten everything I could afford, but I was still bed ridden by the common cold. My girlfriend knocks on my door. I've been quarantined because the cure for the common cold hadn't been found yet. Taste testers everywhere braved the dangerous task of experimenting on caviar and foie de gras to find the medicinal properties. I opened the door and found a care package. It was a letter and a thermos. "Dear Dave, I've made you some chicken noodle soup because I heard you were sick. Don't worry, I didn't add any garlic or ginger. I know you don't like those. Love, Grammy" I took a sip of the hot broth. A warmth ran over my body and I felt my sickness leaving me. So much for modern fast food.	Some may have thought that the new development with food was going to improve the quality of life for everyone. It was merely the invention of nanites that had made the whole thing possible. Companies started putting nanites in everything, from soda to caviar. It not only improved the shelf life and taste of the stuff, but had the added benefit of healing pretty much any injury you could think of, aside instant death. It cured diseases, it improved memory, it fixed macular degeneration. Hell, people that had been blind or deaf since they were born suddenly were able to see and hear as if God himself had touched them. Those that had lost limbs, or never had them to start with were able to regrow them in less than a day. People were exclaiming it to be a miracle. The healthcare system crashed first. And did it ever crash hard. The over-inflated prices assured that the burgeoning giant collapsed like a flimsy card house. Suddenly, doctors, nurses, and all sort of specialists who had spent all their lives and borrowed absurd amounts of money pursuing the healthcare career suddenly found themselves jobless. Hospitals became nothing more than barren and empty buildings. They closed by the thousands. Pharmacies that didn't convert to mini-marts followed soon after. Pill factories, medical device factories, all those faced the choice: make something else, or die. Most died. Health insurance became a thing of history...no one wanted to pay for something they weren't going to use. As you can guess, this meant a humongous surge in unemployment. But this new discovery even found a way to fix even that: the restaurant and catering business exploded with growth. Serving became not only readily available, but heavily saught after. Great doctors were replaced with amazing chefs. People ate out more often, and spent more money on food. Farmland and meat processing plants could barely keep up with the demand. Those old hospitals and clinics were bought out and either converted into food plants, or bulldozed and made into farmland or hydroponic laboratories. Even countries that were considered third world or still developing were able to implement this new miracle, through careful distribution. Africa became prime farmland. It was no longer a wartorn hell, but a country that was just vast swathes of farm and busy centers of shipping and processing, with South America following in their footsteps. China became even richer with the advent of the nanites, as the production of them were outsourced to their country. Russia and Australia became enormous ranches, full of livestock. They became the leaders of genetics and breeding. Now this all sounds like it was a miracle...but no one thought it would eventually turn out the way it did. After all, the death rate heavily dropped from this brand new technology. After a few years, overpopulation became not just something people argued about over the internet, but a very real and glaring problem. More cars on the road and more people travelling meant more emissions, as did increasing amounts of livestock. It became harder and harder for farmers to keep crops alive in the wildly variating weather patterns and temperatures... (To Be Continued when I get home from work)
	[WP] A UN Weapons Inspector visits a secluded third world dictatorship in search of Atomic Weapons. He finds that the country is really a Utopia	---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- Date: Wens, 23 April 2014 11:40:36 From: Taylor Evans <Taylor_Evans@un.org> Sarah, I have only been gone a couple of days but I am already missing home. I have completed the first of the inspections and am soon off to Atlantis. Hopefully the hotels have decent food, not sure but i might be the first inspector to check out the country, I am not even sure if they have much of a tourism market or what will be available in the way of hotels... but I will be sure to grab you something. Anyways I just wanted to drop you a line before I go to sleep, talk to you tomorrow. ---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- Date: Sun, 27 April 2014 06:21:47 From: Taylor Evans <Taylor_Evans@un.org> Sarah, Well we have touched down on the only runway in Atlantis, and to be honest it looks like they may have just built it. I was unable to call you back... because as it turns out Atlantis does not have cell service and for some reason the satellite connection is so unstable that only emails can be sent. If the communication infrastructure of this country is any indication then I doubt their technology sector even warrants an inspection. Should be a short trip. Love you. ---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- Date: Mon, 28 April 2014 09:45:16 From: Taylor Evans <Taylor_Evans@un.org> Sarah, Wow, Atlantis is really not what I expected. The people seem to have a more relaxed approach to life and the system of government seems almost non existent... and weirder than anything it seems where ever I go, what ever I order some local or possibly the government has already paid my tab, it has gotten to the point where I am only purchasing meals and only modest ones at that. Since it seems impossible for me to pay for anything I do not want the agency to think there was any sort of impropriety. ---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- Date: Tues, 29 April 2014 08:23:32 From: Taylor Evans <TaylorEvans007@yaho.com> Sarah, I figured out why I was unable to pay for my meals, there is no money in Atlantis... I don't even know how to describe it, today I went to the market and was able to literally "buy" an entire new wardrobe for nothing... I don't know how they do it. I am not sure if this would be against the rules but it was too much to pass up and I doubt anyone will know... Got you some amazing jewelry for you as well. I should be home by the 6th, will email you again soon. ---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- Date: Tues, 29 April 2014 08:34:05 From: Taylor Evans <TaylorEvans007@yaho.com> James, Hit me back when you get this, I think I may have found something amazing. We are going to be RICH! ---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- Date: Fri, 02 May 2014 08:23:32 From: Taylor Evans <TaylorEvans007@yaho.com> Sarah, I have discovered something about this place... what ever the test of life was or is the vast majority of us have failed... and there is no question we would destroy the only people who were able to figure it out. The only people to be able to see past the need for self gratification and the simple greed that over takes our lives. I am sorry I have not emailed you in the last couple of days... I have been lost. I still am. Atlantis seems to have an unlimited supply of energy, food, and resources and has created a society that rather than compete with it self has focused on understanding the greater things. The how and why to so many questions, and they appear to be content what ever the answer. I don't understand the culture exactly, but I see that the people are happy, fulfilled, and free. We came to inspect for weapons, but these people have never had the thought or need to even create them. This place is amazing, but it is clear I do not belong. Many times while being here I have thought of how I could profit from such a naive society. The gems alone... wow, they are like nothing I have ever seen. ---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- Date: Sun, 04 May 2014 10:41:19 From: Taylor Evans <TaylorEvans007@yaho.com> Sarah, I think I understand now. I have returned the items I have purchased, including the jewelry I got you, I am sorry and will get you something nice as soon as I get home... but I think I understand now. I know what I need to do. I miss you so much. ---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- Date: Sun, 04 May 2014 10:45:56 From: Taylor Evans <Taylor_Evans@un.org> Sarah, Love you babe... see you soon. We will be shipping out tomorrow. The report is ready and all complete. Turns out there was very little to see in Atlantis and it was more or less a waste. See you soon. ---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- UNITED NATIONS WEAPONS INSPECTORS REPORT TO SECURITY COUNCIL Report on the Alleged Acquisition of Atomic Weapons by the Country ATLANTIS During inspection and up until the inspectors, myself included, were withdrawn from Atlantis on 5 May 2014 our team of United Nations inspectors had found no evidence of ATOMIC weapons. Furthermore, a small team of native Atlantis citizens have been trained to complete on-site inspections, using authorized devices transmitted test results directly to our off-site inspectors, myself included. With all of the data provided thus far it is my belief that Atlantis needs no further attention. ----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------	"And now Mr. Declue if you'll follow me you'll see our glass laying machine. Nothing nuclear about it!" The factory guide gave a nervous laugh as he motioned with his hand. Danny Declue, 53, Un weapons inspector had toured almost the entire facility and had yet to see any signs of weapons production. the guide ushered him away. "All we have left is the lowest level, step on the elevator if you please Mr. Declue." The guide grabbed the gate and slid it shut as Danny watched him. In his twenty three years of weapons inspecting he had never actually run across any big time operations. He could tell this factory in this 3rd world hell whole could barley produce enough shoes for it's people let alone weapons grade plutonium. The elevator shuttered as it slowly descended the long unlit shaft to the lowest level. It did seem like quite a long way down. "There must be some really big equipment that's housed down here" Danny thought. When the elevator finally came to a stop Danny was surprised to see two more guides waiting, they all had a nerves air about them. As they led him through the lowest level of the factory Danny noticed that their chattiness seemed to stop and an air of stiffness came over them. Danny was pretty sure they couldn't produce weapons but he also getting the feeling they where hiding something. Maybe, just maybe he thought, this I'll be the big break I need, I'll finally get that promotion. as they walked Danny kept pondering the strange reason he was here. In all the satellite photos and plane fly overs the country seemed to be almost disserted. The cities where spares and the rural population was non existent. There certainly didn't seem to be a need for a factory of this size. "Well Mr. Declue that is the end of our tour. I trust everything has met your satisfaction". "Yes, yes" Danny assured them. "No infractions noted". The guides looked pleased and the air or nervousness seemed to subside. As they where walking back Danny noticed a small corridor with a old beat up door he hadn't seen before. "what's behind that door gents?" the guides shuffled nervously. "OH, is a bathroom, we don't use it much" one of the guides piped up. "Perfect" Danny smiled. "I've got to whiz like a race horse on St.Patrics day!" He walked down the hallway towards the door. "Uh, Mr. Declue we don't use that bathroom, it's not very clean!" one of the guides shouted after him. "Don't worry gents, you haven't been to my ex-wife's house! That's a disgusting water closet!" Danny Declue chuckled to him self as he opened the door. The first thing that hit him was the sunlight, like a haymaker to the happy place, only much more pleasant. It's warmth and beauty danced over his skin and seemed smooth it as it ran over him. The next thing that hit was the smell, like a tropical beach tucked inside a rainforest, it was intoxicating. Mr. Declue could hear the guides yelling at him from the corridor, but he just swung the door shut as he was drawn in by the beauty of the place. There was one thing that struck hi more then the sunlight and more then the smell, that was the people. As far as he could see, thousands of the most beautiful people Danny had ever seen. All six feet tall and perfect mussel tone, their skin was shade of creamy brown in-between white and Asian. They where all running and splashing frolicking in this beautiful paradise he had discovered. Danny Declue looked quite out of place with his balding hair and bespectacled eyes. As the door swung closed every single person (well what ever they where) became dead silent and all eyes look in his direction. the ones closes to him formed a ring around him and pick him up over their heads. They walked so gracefully that Danny didn't care what was happening to him, he just enjoyed the floating sensation he got from their gentle hands lifting him in the light breeze. As he was being carried tears started pouring out of Danny's eyes, and a bubble of realization burst in his brain. This place wasn't for him, it never was and never would be. Danny's eyes cried them selves dry he knew he was nothing more then a bug to these people, a parasite in paradise. He was a coachroach that had scuttled in to a lavish home, he had to be exterminated.
* 400 words or less * Try to write in the noir style (awful similes and metaphors are encouraged)	[FF] As the new private eye in town, you've seen a lot of cases that made you scratch your head. But never one as odd as this. 400 words or less.	I slammed my restored '67 Impala's door behind me as I stepped into the grimy night. Patrolmen had already sectioned off the scene. Gawkers flocked to the sight like starved dogs at a dead squirrel convention. I flashed my badge at the young gun posted at the borderline and ducked under the tape. The precinct chef was already surveying the victim. Good guy, but fatter than a sweet-toothed nun with a glandular problem. "What have we got here, Lou?" "Detective." He stood and nodded. "Looks like pancakes. Based on the consistency, it looks like some souped up Aunt Jemima mix. Although with these buttery top notes, Bisquick isn't out of the question." Two thin, pajama-clad legs poked out the bottom of a massive pancake like two chopsticks sticking out the bottom of a massive pancake. "Fourth case this month," I said. "Any witnesses?" "None, Detective." "This guy's trickier than the back of the Village Voice on a lonely Friday night, Lou." "You said it." Lou ripped off another chunk near the center to get a sample. A horrifically burnt young man's face lay underneath. His mouth filled with baked dough. He had been trying to eat his way out. "Christ son, you look less recognizable than a MoMA exhibition." "Please... help..." I bent down real close. "Tell us son. Who did this?" "It was late... I didn't want a whole meal. That's all." He started tearing. "The man wouldn't stop yelling. He said... 'You must be joking, mate. Pancakes for facking dinner? Instant? Piss on that! Why don't you pull your finger out your ass and make a proper supper!'" The young man sobbed wildly. "This will all be over soon. We're going to catch this guy. Did you get a name, son? Anything at all?" "Ramsay... Gordon Ramsay." "Good. That's great son. Let us get you something to ease the pain." I stepped away, unable to bear the sight of suffering anymore. "Syrup! Get this man some maple syrup! Now damnit!" Two medics skittered towards us like a pair of West Virginians at a chicken chase. "We've got a name, Lou. We're gonna nab this bastard." I sparked a menthol as they poured Canadian brown into the mess of a man's open mouth. This night was just getting started.	A duck. Why a duck? The yellow rubber little menace quivered on the ceiling, it's resilient rubber unblemished in the event that had blown it through the floor, a man's head, and firmly paste it to the red-spattered sheetrock above me. What depraved mind would stoop to such a weapon? Why kill this man- was it a message? I lit my cigarette, the smoke swirling among the human remains. It was going to be a long night in Eureka.
* 400 words or less * Try to write in the noir style (awful similes and metaphors are encouraged)	[FF] As the new private eye in town, you've seen a lot of cases that made you scratch your head. But never one as odd as this. 400 words or less.	I slammed my restored '67 Impala's door behind me as I stepped into the grimy night. Patrolmen had already sectioned off the scene. Gawkers flocked to the sight like starved dogs at a dead squirrel convention. I flashed my badge at the young gun posted at the borderline and ducked under the tape. The precinct chef was already surveying the victim. Good guy, but fatter than a sweet-toothed nun with a glandular problem. "What have we got here, Lou?" "Detective." He stood and nodded. "Looks like pancakes. Based on the consistency, it looks like some souped up Aunt Jemima mix. Although with these buttery top notes, Bisquick isn't out of the question." Two thin, pajama-clad legs poked out the bottom of a massive pancake like two chopsticks sticking out the bottom of a massive pancake. "Fourth case this month," I said. "Any witnesses?" "None, Detective." "This guy's trickier than the back of the Village Voice on a lonely Friday night, Lou." "You said it." Lou ripped off another chunk near the center to get a sample. A horrifically burnt young man's face lay underneath. His mouth filled with baked dough. He had been trying to eat his way out. "Christ son, you look less recognizable than a MoMA exhibition." "Please... help..." I bent down real close. "Tell us son. Who did this?" "It was late... I didn't want a whole meal. That's all." He started tearing. "The man wouldn't stop yelling. He said... 'You must be joking, mate. Pancakes for facking dinner? Instant? Piss on that! Why don't you pull your finger out your ass and make a proper supper!'" The young man sobbed wildly. "This will all be over soon. We're going to catch this guy. Did you get a name, son? Anything at all?" "Ramsay... Gordon Ramsay." "Good. That's great son. Let us get you something to ease the pain." I stepped away, unable to bear the sight of suffering anymore. "Syrup! Get this man some maple syrup! Now damnit!" Two medics skittered towards us like a pair of West Virginians at a chicken chase. "We've got a name, Lou. We're gonna nab this bastard." I sparked a menthol as they poured Canadian brown into the mess of a man's open mouth. This night was just getting started.	Bullit, that's my last name. My first name is Tracey, it’s a girl’s name, but no-one teases me about it. I’m a private detective. After twenty years on the force I’d seen all this town had to offer, but that was in the past. The world wasn’t black and white to me, there were shades of grey, with occasional flashes of orange. There are good guys and bad guys and the rest of the miserable wretches living in between. They used to pay me to be one of the good guys but after the shooting debacle down by the docks, I quit and now people pay me to be their own bad guy. Twenty years of knocking heads and taking punches hasn’t left me with many friends in this town. There’s Miss Wormwood, the matronly manager of the shooting range. She ignores the bourbon on my breath whenever I show up after hours on rainy Saturday nights. There’s Max the old man who runs the liquor store downstairs. He keeps me loaded at a discount ever since I tracked down those punks that robbed him. Finally there’s Candace, the whore on 17th who throws freebies my way when the nights are slow. I’d say she’s a hooker with a heart of gold, but she isn’t, she’s just a hooker I'd helped in the past. I’d say she’s a friend, but she wouldn’t say the same about me. “Will you help?” I snapped out of my reveries and tried to focus on the blurred redhead across from me. I’d had a few too many, and the pounding rain on the window reverberated around my head like Tito Puentes had taken up residency in the back of my skull. I rubbed my eyes and ran both hands through my gray hair in a futile attempt to quiet the drumming. In a gray world, her fiery hair stood out. She looked great, like a magazine girl. I was going to help her, if I could just figure out what she wanted. “Ok, Suzie, Could you please explain the problem to me one more time?” “I know it sounds crazy, but I think…” She paused, as if to consider her own sanity. “…I think there’s a tiger in my house and it’s trying to kill me.”
* 400 words or less * Try to write in the noir style (awful similes and metaphors are encouraged)	[FF] As the new private eye in town, you've seen a lot of cases that made you scratch your head. But never one as odd as this. 400 words or less.	I slammed my restored '67 Impala's door behind me as I stepped into the grimy night. Patrolmen had already sectioned off the scene. Gawkers flocked to the sight like starved dogs at a dead squirrel convention. I flashed my badge at the young gun posted at the borderline and ducked under the tape. The precinct chef was already surveying the victim. Good guy, but fatter than a sweet-toothed nun with a glandular problem. "What have we got here, Lou?" "Detective." He stood and nodded. "Looks like pancakes. Based on the consistency, it looks like some souped up Aunt Jemima mix. Although with these buttery top notes, Bisquick isn't out of the question." Two thin, pajama-clad legs poked out the bottom of a massive pancake like two chopsticks sticking out the bottom of a massive pancake. "Fourth case this month," I said. "Any witnesses?" "None, Detective." "This guy's trickier than the back of the Village Voice on a lonely Friday night, Lou." "You said it." Lou ripped off another chunk near the center to get a sample. A horrifically burnt young man's face lay underneath. His mouth filled with baked dough. He had been trying to eat his way out. "Christ son, you look less recognizable than a MoMA exhibition." "Please... help..." I bent down real close. "Tell us son. Who did this?" "It was late... I didn't want a whole meal. That's all." He started tearing. "The man wouldn't stop yelling. He said... 'You must be joking, mate. Pancakes for facking dinner? Instant? Piss on that! Why don't you pull your finger out your ass and make a proper supper!'" The young man sobbed wildly. "This will all be over soon. We're going to catch this guy. Did you get a name, son? Anything at all?" "Ramsay... Gordon Ramsay." "Good. That's great son. Let us get you something to ease the pain." I stepped away, unable to bear the sight of suffering anymore. "Syrup! Get this man some maple syrup! Now damnit!" Two medics skittered towards us like a pair of West Virginians at a chicken chase. "We've got a name, Lou. We're gonna nab this bastard." I sparked a menthol as they poured Canadian brown into the mess of a man's open mouth. This night was just getting started.	Jack Jones had the complexion of a leather boot and the personality of an over-brewed coffee. He almost believed it was these two qualities alone that had made him into the renowned Private Eye he was today. People couldn't care less if you could track down an adulterer or solve a grisly murder in less time than it took to search the phonebook for alternatives. It was all about style, this game. At least, he told himself that as he lit the hand-rolled cigarette he hated so much, feet on the worn wooden desk in a part of town rats didn't frequent for fear of getting mugged. It was raining and Jack's left knee was hurting, so he assumed there was a client coming. And at eleven-thirty sharp, just as the lunchtime rush began at the seedy Chinese restaurant-cum-brothel opposite, the bell rang. "See 'em in, Gina." Jack barked, before remembering that Gina wasn't around no more. She'd given her notice after the Italian mob sent a firebomb through the letterbox. Jack'd sent her flowers, but it turns out flowers don't make up for third degree burns. So he stood up and got the door himself, cigarette still hanging out the corner of his mouth like a half thought-out statement he was trying to retract. "Detective." The woman on the other side of the door was beautiful in a way which would make other people say she was beautiful, but Jack could see the loose skin around her neck and the crows feet around her eyes, not quite disguised by the scarf and makeup which probably cost more than a 'three course meal' at the resto-brothel across the road. "Not any more." Jack growled. "Take a seat." She didn't. "I need to speak to you about extremely private matters." "Is it your husband?" She gasped. "How did you know?" "It's always a husband. He cheating?" She turned white under the makeup. "No," she whispered, hands clutching the back of the chair Jack kept reserved for clients and the police. "What is it then?" "I-" She faltered. "I need you to help me kill him."
	[WP] You live in a world in which you can buy bottled emotions.	"Is it this one?" Jilly turned and determinedly slid fingers under the doorway, over the old brass knob. Eric watched her instead of the chilly corridor, face creased in sweat-stained worry. Intuitive only worked well for an hour. She stepped back, twisting her hands in the over-large apron Pa'd given her for Christmas. Eric didn't need the nod to know; her face pinched in apprehension. He bore down on the door with all his considerable muscle, gritting teeth as he felt the hinges take his weight. The ironic thought drifted through that he'd be in there but for some Rage in his gut, so he barreled at the door again to pummel his old man's voice away. The door gave with a pop and splinter of old wood. Jilly drew a half shrieky breath, running into the half lit room, stricken eyes on emaciated bodies of younglings and old ones alike. They breathed stunted breaths, their bodies spider strung to different labeled bottles and jars. "Emory!" He breathed, seeing the flax hair and the stubby nose his sister wore so well. The cold metal of the table chilled his siblings hands as they watched their exuberant, wild little brother expire Hope into shining glass bottles, drip by drip.	I've only started writing recently. (The last couple weeks) If you like it or not, suggestions are appreciated and will help me write better in the future. I pulled the covers back and hopped out of bed. "Today is going to be a good day!" I slipped into the shower and even the cold water hitting my skin didn't alarm me. Just a chill down my spine as it slowly warmed up. After putting on my clothes I grabbed my keys and jumped in the car. 'Coca-Cola is in court again as the accusations and allegations conti...' Same old stuff on the radio. Seems like some company is always in court for a scandal. A nice breakfast at The Corner sounds good. "Eggs and bacon please. Oh and a shot Happiness™." Ever since I started drinking this stuff, I've felt better than ever. It's been a few weeks since I started feeling depressed, but it really feels like it's working. I pulled into the parking lot at my office and walked in. The guy opposite my cubicle wheeled his chair over to me. "Hey Eric, how are you feeling?" "Feeling really good today man. How goes the office?" Typical office chat. After work was over, I decided to drop by and grab a quick drink. "A Vodka-Happiness™ please." It was Friday so I thought I'd treat myself to something fun and tasty. I took a sip as my phone rang. My mom was calling again and it's always the same thing so I let it go to voice mail. I finished up my drink and headed home. I figured I'd check my voice mail and see what my mom wanted. "Hi Eric, it's your mother. I just wanted to see how you were holding up. I really think we need to talk. Please call me back. I love you" She's called me a lot in the last few weeks. We haven't spoken too much in the last few years so I guess we're playing catch up. I turned the radio on again, 'and without studies and proof, Coca-Cola claimed their product was clean and safe. Stay tuned as we report more on the side effe...' I was tired of listening to the news so I switched over to something more upbeat. I got home and walked in the door. I changed into my comfy clothes and headed over to the TV. My eyes locked onto a picture frame and I felt a wave of sadness. I picked up the frame and sat down on the couch. I turned on the TV and not to my surprise there was more news about the latest controversy. 'Breaking News. In a surprise FDA inspection of Coca-Cola, the company was found shredding documents and destroying evidence of studies conducted years ago on a product known as Happiness™. We received confirmation that the company added chemicals not listed in the ingredient panel. We've been receiving calls all day from people who regularly drink Happiness™ and have concluded that Coca-Cola has allegedly been adding in small amounts of their experimental product Forget™.' I turned off the TV and looked at the frame I was holding in my hand. I've been drinking this stuff for weeks. I started crying. Why was my mother so adamant about talking to me? Why was everyone always asking me how I was doing and how I was holding up? Why do I feel so fucking sad every time I look at this picture? I wiped my eyes again and stared at the picture in the frame.... Who is the woman next to me in the picture?
	[WP] You live in a world in which you can buy bottled emotions.	“I would like an extra-strength bottle of indifference, please.” I looked up from my newspaper to find a ragged boy staring blankly at me. “…Pardon me, son?” The boy winced, and said again, “an extra-strength bottle of indifference, I said.” This came as a surprise to me. Most of the people who came looking for “indifference” were businessman looking to emotionally detach themselves from the psychological traumas of their dishonest trade, or disillusioned post-graduates looking to remove all sorts of responsibilities from their shoulders to live a semi-narcissistic life. This kid, looking hardly over 14, definitely belonged to neither of the two groups- yet there was such a hollowed look that seemed so unfitting for a boy so young. But, a business is a business. When you come into the emotion selling business, you are strictly forbidden to throw your emotions and moral beliefs at the customers. I headed toward the back cabinet where all the extra-strengths are, and casually asked, “so, what’s a young one like you trying to make friends with indifference anyway?” “My mother died.” I froze in my tracks- those words came out too fast- like a bullet in a pistol. I turned and looked at the boy. The boy went on, “I think my emotions are broken now. My mom was the only one that could bring them out, so now that she’s dead I think my emotions are dying too. My dad told me I just need to be indifferent to everything like a man- so here I am.” The boy spoke with a casual tone, but his voice was so vacant that I could tell that he was trying very hard to bottle up his natural emotions. For what- to be a man? “…Would your father like a bottle as well then?” “No, he doesn’t need it. He thinks emotions are useless.” “….” A business is a business, I told myself- I turned to another cupboard and pulled out a small bottle. “Alright, here you go- this is what you need. Drink it all right here, lad.” The boy’s face twisted into a strange formation that vaguely resembled a grin. He gingerly grabbed the bottle and drank. It didn’t take a while for the drink to take effect. The first tear came out slowly- “What- what’s happening?” the boy choked out. “What did you give me?” “It’s called grief, boy. And you need it. I gave you the weak stuff so that it can just release all those emotions that you tried to bury.” The boy was still trying very hard to conceal everything, but the tears were now running full strength. He tried to say something, but all that came out were “But-but-but” and pained moans. “Grief is a natural process. You can’t deny yourself that right- and neither can your dad. You think that becoming a man means denying your emotions? That kind of life is a disillusioned wallpaper life!” By now the sobs grew louder and louder until the boy collapsed on the ground under its weight. “No- no- I can’t! I can’t!” “What’s the point of living, lad, if you become dead to your senses, dead to your emotions- dead to yourself?! Why are you denying yourself for other people’s sake? Why are you trying to become a robot?!” With those words, tears started flowing from my eyes as well. The room stood still- and the two of us let our natural emotions flow, with the boy now wailing loudly as I let my tears flow silently. After a while, the boy finally managed to calm himself down. Tears were still running down his eyes, but his face seemed a lot more peaceful. He thanked me, and despite my objections he left a 20 dollar bill on the counter and made his way out. I stood in complete silence. Even without drinking the bottle myself, I realized, that boy helped me release all the emotions that I had buried for so long as well. Eventually, I finally found the courage to call my boss to tell him that I had broken the rules, and that I was going to close the shop.	I've only started writing recently. (The last couple weeks) If you like it or not, suggestions are appreciated and will help me write better in the future. I pulled the covers back and hopped out of bed. "Today is going to be a good day!" I slipped into the shower and even the cold water hitting my skin didn't alarm me. Just a chill down my spine as it slowly warmed up. After putting on my clothes I grabbed my keys and jumped in the car. 'Coca-Cola is in court again as the accusations and allegations conti...' Same old stuff on the radio. Seems like some company is always in court for a scandal. A nice breakfast at The Corner sounds good. "Eggs and bacon please. Oh and a shot Happiness™." Ever since I started drinking this stuff, I've felt better than ever. It's been a few weeks since I started feeling depressed, but it really feels like it's working. I pulled into the parking lot at my office and walked in. The guy opposite my cubicle wheeled his chair over to me. "Hey Eric, how are you feeling?" "Feeling really good today man. How goes the office?" Typical office chat. After work was over, I decided to drop by and grab a quick drink. "A Vodka-Happiness™ please." It was Friday so I thought I'd treat myself to something fun and tasty. I took a sip as my phone rang. My mom was calling again and it's always the same thing so I let it go to voice mail. I finished up my drink and headed home. I figured I'd check my voice mail and see what my mom wanted. "Hi Eric, it's your mother. I just wanted to see how you were holding up. I really think we need to talk. Please call me back. I love you" She's called me a lot in the last few weeks. We haven't spoken too much in the last few years so I guess we're playing catch up. I turned the radio on again, 'and without studies and proof, Coca-Cola claimed their product was clean and safe. Stay tuned as we report more on the side effe...' I was tired of listening to the news so I switched over to something more upbeat. I got home and walked in the door. I changed into my comfy clothes and headed over to the TV. My eyes locked onto a picture frame and I felt a wave of sadness. I picked up the frame and sat down on the couch. I turned on the TV and not to my surprise there was more news about the latest controversy. 'Breaking News. In a surprise FDA inspection of Coca-Cola, the company was found shredding documents and destroying evidence of studies conducted years ago on a product known as Happiness™. We received confirmation that the company added chemicals not listed in the ingredient panel. We've been receiving calls all day from people who regularly drink Happiness™ and have concluded that Coca-Cola has allegedly been adding in small amounts of their experimental product Forget™.' I turned off the TV and looked at the frame I was holding in my hand. I've been drinking this stuff for weeks. I started crying. Why was my mother so adamant about talking to me? Why was everyone always asking me how I was doing and how I was holding up? Why do I feel so fucking sad every time I look at this picture? I wiped my eyes again and stared at the picture in the frame.... Who is the woman next to me in the picture?
	[WP] You live in a world in which you can buy bottled emotions.	The clinic smelled like antiseptic and smoke, and like death. Mara rested her head in her hands and tried not to breathe through her nose. Everything smelled like death since the war. Too many civilians living in crowded cities attacked with weapons that were too thorough. She thought she could even taste the decay. It cut through the smoke and the rigorously applied bleach. It cut through everything. It stayed with her even in places she knew it shouldn’t. She smelled it in her daughter’s hair. Safa glanced up at her mother from the floor and smiled brightly. She was oblivious to the sound of gunfire. The lone shots ringing out like clockwork from behind the concrete building were as normal as birds chirping. “Mama, look!” Her tiny hands held a dinosaur figure that she was systematically using to destroy a city made of blocks. Mara raised her head and smiled back. The little girl did not have the chubby cheeks of most toddlers and wore dark circles under her eyes. But she was such a wonderful part of Mara’s life she wondered if she was making the wrong decision. The politicians yelled about adoption. They yelled about god and morality. They didn’t talk about poverty or the pain of starvation. They tried to ignore the war. Safa discarded the dinosaur and crawled into her lap. “I’m hungry, Mama.” “I know, sweetie. Once we’re done here I’ll find you something to eat. Would you like that?” Safa smiled and clapped, enthusiastic about the treat. Mara wound her arms around the little girl and closed her eyes. “Number 58427.” Mara shifted Safa off her lap and together they walked over to the nurse. His scrubs looked dingy and well worn. She tried not to stare at the darker stains. “This will be…” She cut him off. “I know. It’s all I have. Just take it.” She pressed her thumb against small computer he held. The credits she had saved for months gone in a moment. “This includes the Emos I asked for?” “They’ll be administered shortly after the procedure.” “And the follow up?” “That’s covered as well.” Mara swallowed hard. “Good.” She squeezed Safa’s hand as they followed the nurse back into a small room. There was a single light bulb, a chair, and an examination table with restraints. Safa used her mother’s fatigues to hide from the nurse. “If you’d like to be separate from your daughter for the procedure, we can arrange that.” “N-no.” Her voice cracked. “Can I hold her?” “Of course.” The nurse looked down at the tiny girl. “Your mom is being very brave today. Can you be brave too?” Safa nodded and but held tight to the safety of her mother. “Come on, sweetie, come sit on my lap. Can you be a big girl for me?” The girl nodded and the two piled into a chair. The nurse gave a warm smile to the little girl as he rolled up her sleeve. “Have you ever been to the city? I bet you have an exciting day planned after this.” Safa’s face lit up. “My mommy says we’re going to have food. I'm going to have an apple.” “Well I’m sure your mother will find you whatever you want.” The nurse was gently swabbing her skin. “Are you both ready?” Sara shook her head and looked up at her mother. Mara kissed her forehead. “It’s okay, sweetie. It only hurts for a second and then we can have all the apples you can eat. Your stomach will hurt from so many apples. You might even turn into an apple.” Safa giggled and smiled. It’s the smile Mara doesn’t see enough. The nurse pressed the needle into her arm. Immediately Safa’s giggles got softer and her eyes drooped. With one great jaw cracking yawn she slipped into sleep, her soft hair falling in her face as her head lolled forward. One more moment and she wasn't Safa anymore. Her skin was flushed and warm but she wasn't there. A great wave of guilt swept over Mara and she let out a sob. If she would just open her eyes she would be Safa again. Maybe they could find apples like she promised. Maybe she could feed them both, protect them both. She started to shake and clutch at Safa's small body. She rocked them together. Back and forth like she had when Safa was an infant. She felt a scream bubbling up inside her but before she could make a noise the nurse pressed an inhaler into her mouth. Mara choked on the bitter mist and jerked the inhaler out of his hands. No! She needed to feel this. She needed to know this pain. She needed to be able to remember this or she wasn’t going to be able to handle what came next. She had to be ready for the moments that came after she left the clinic. She clutched at her own hysteria but it slipped away and replaced with a deep emptiness. Her arms slackened against her daughter’s small frame. The nurse gently lifted Safa’s body out of her arms and laid her on the examination table. Mara didn’t struggle. She stared down at the plastic mister and its metal canister. “Contains: Numbness. Assuredness. Resolution. To be used by adults only.” She paid for this. Chose it. Those three little compounds had been more than the procedure itself. Mara stood up and looked toward the nurse. She watched as he labeled her dead child and filled in little boxes on a form. She kept waiting for the pain and loss to flood back into her system but the drugs were good, strong, much better than anything you got on the streets. The numbness was complete. “Is there anything else?” “No, ma’am. If you’ll go left and follow the green stripe out the back exit you’ll find everything you need for your follow up.” Mara nodded and left the room. She watched the chipping green paint underneath her feet and followed the line outside. When she opened the metal door the smell of decay and smoke made her gag. On her right was a wooden table like the ones she used to eat on at camp as a child. The table held a pistol, a camera, and a microphone. She pressed the large “RECORD” button and a small red light flashed to life. With a steady hand she picked up the pistol and spoke into the camera. “This is Number 58427. It is May 23, 2052. My paperwork is complete and finances are in good standing.” The barrel felt cold in her mouth but her resolve did not falter. The drugs were good.	I've only started writing recently. (The last couple weeks) If you like it or not, suggestions are appreciated and will help me write better in the future. I pulled the covers back and hopped out of bed. "Today is going to be a good day!" I slipped into the shower and even the cold water hitting my skin didn't alarm me. Just a chill down my spine as it slowly warmed up. After putting on my clothes I grabbed my keys and jumped in the car. 'Coca-Cola is in court again as the accusations and allegations conti...' Same old stuff on the radio. Seems like some company is always in court for a scandal. A nice breakfast at The Corner sounds good. "Eggs and bacon please. Oh and a shot Happiness™." Ever since I started drinking this stuff, I've felt better than ever. It's been a few weeks since I started feeling depressed, but it really feels like it's working. I pulled into the parking lot at my office and walked in. The guy opposite my cubicle wheeled his chair over to me. "Hey Eric, how are you feeling?" "Feeling really good today man. How goes the office?" Typical office chat. After work was over, I decided to drop by and grab a quick drink. "A Vodka-Happiness™ please." It was Friday so I thought I'd treat myself to something fun and tasty. I took a sip as my phone rang. My mom was calling again and it's always the same thing so I let it go to voice mail. I finished up my drink and headed home. I figured I'd check my voice mail and see what my mom wanted. "Hi Eric, it's your mother. I just wanted to see how you were holding up. I really think we need to talk. Please call me back. I love you" She's called me a lot in the last few weeks. We haven't spoken too much in the last few years so I guess we're playing catch up. I turned the radio on again, 'and without studies and proof, Coca-Cola claimed their product was clean and safe. Stay tuned as we report more on the side effe...' I was tired of listening to the news so I switched over to something more upbeat. I got home and walked in the door. I changed into my comfy clothes and headed over to the TV. My eyes locked onto a picture frame and I felt a wave of sadness. I picked up the frame and sat down on the couch. I turned on the TV and not to my surprise there was more news about the latest controversy. 'Breaking News. In a surprise FDA inspection of Coca-Cola, the company was found shredding documents and destroying evidence of studies conducted years ago on a product known as Happiness™. We received confirmation that the company added chemicals not listed in the ingredient panel. We've been receiving calls all day from people who regularly drink Happiness™ and have concluded that Coca-Cola has allegedly been adding in small amounts of their experimental product Forget™.' I turned off the TV and looked at the frame I was holding in my hand. I've been drinking this stuff for weeks. I started crying. Why was my mother so adamant about talking to me? Why was everyone always asking me how I was doing and how I was holding up? Why do I feel so fucking sad every time I look at this picture? I wiped my eyes again and stared at the picture in the frame.... Who is the woman next to me in the picture?
	[WP] You live in a world in which you can buy bottled emotions.	"Is it this one?" Jilly turned and determinedly slid fingers under the doorway, over the old brass knob. Eric watched her instead of the chilly corridor, face creased in sweat-stained worry. Intuitive only worked well for an hour. She stepped back, twisting her hands in the over-large apron Pa'd given her for Christmas. Eric didn't need the nod to know; her face pinched in apprehension. He bore down on the door with all his considerable muscle, gritting teeth as he felt the hinges take his weight. The ironic thought drifted through that he'd be in there but for some Rage in his gut, so he barreled at the door again to pummel his old man's voice away. The door gave with a pop and splinter of old wood. Jilly drew a half shrieky breath, running into the half lit room, stricken eyes on emaciated bodies of younglings and old ones alike. They breathed stunted breaths, their bodies spider strung to different labeled bottles and jars. "Emory!" He breathed, seeing the flax hair and the stubby nose his sister wore so well. The cold metal of the table chilled his siblings hands as they watched their exuberant, wild little brother expire Hope into shining glass bottles, drip by drip.	Silas sits on the edge of the bed, clenching his sweaty fists. In the kitchen, his wife leans her head back and quickly downs a pink, fizzy shot of sympathy. She stumbles for a few steps, regains her balance, and makes her way to her husband's side. "Honey," she whispers into his ear. "You..." She starts to feel the potion kicking in. "You can't blame yourself for anything that happened. How are you feeling?" Silas, with a blank expression, turns to face his wife. He says monotonously, "Ever since I started taking Emotion Potion, I can't feel anything without it. My life is completely under my control...and for some reason, I don't like that." Tara rubs her husband's shoulder sympathetically. "Hun, I know you are not feeling well right now, but I have some potion that I think will make you feel better." She pulls a bottle containing dark blue liquid out from under the bed. "I've been saving this one for the right time just for you. It's especially hard to find on the market these days." Silas blankly glances back and forth between the bottle and his wife. "I don't want happiness. I don't want euphoria. My father..." Tara brings the bottle of liquid to Silas' lips and tips it back for him. He gulps it down without hesitation. "I can't keep drowning my real emotions with these fake drugs, Tara." He mumbles and then his voice raises. "I can't alway's be fucking happy, especially not after my dad just died!" Out of nowhere, a tear begins to fall from Silas' eye. "He was too young, and I didn't even get to tell him how much I loved him." He feels his heart start racing, but in a way he hasn't felt for a long time. "What the fuck kind of potion did you give me Tara?" Tara smiles, knowing she's made the right move. "Sadness with a touch of anger."
	[WP] You live in a world in which you can buy bottled emotions.	“I would like an extra-strength bottle of indifference, please.” I looked up from my newspaper to find a ragged boy staring blankly at me. “…Pardon me, son?” The boy winced, and said again, “an extra-strength bottle of indifference, I said.” This came as a surprise to me. Most of the people who came looking for “indifference” were businessman looking to emotionally detach themselves from the psychological traumas of their dishonest trade, or disillusioned post-graduates looking to remove all sorts of responsibilities from their shoulders to live a semi-narcissistic life. This kid, looking hardly over 14, definitely belonged to neither of the two groups- yet there was such a hollowed look that seemed so unfitting for a boy so young. But, a business is a business. When you come into the emotion selling business, you are strictly forbidden to throw your emotions and moral beliefs at the customers. I headed toward the back cabinet where all the extra-strengths are, and casually asked, “so, what’s a young one like you trying to make friends with indifference anyway?” “My mother died.” I froze in my tracks- those words came out too fast- like a bullet in a pistol. I turned and looked at the boy. The boy went on, “I think my emotions are broken now. My mom was the only one that could bring them out, so now that she’s dead I think my emotions are dying too. My dad told me I just need to be indifferent to everything like a man- so here I am.” The boy spoke with a casual tone, but his voice was so vacant that I could tell that he was trying very hard to bottle up his natural emotions. For what- to be a man? “…Would your father like a bottle as well then?” “No, he doesn’t need it. He thinks emotions are useless.” “….” A business is a business, I told myself- I turned to another cupboard and pulled out a small bottle. “Alright, here you go- this is what you need. Drink it all right here, lad.” The boy’s face twisted into a strange formation that vaguely resembled a grin. He gingerly grabbed the bottle and drank. It didn’t take a while for the drink to take effect. The first tear came out slowly- “What- what’s happening?” the boy choked out. “What did you give me?” “It’s called grief, boy. And you need it. I gave you the weak stuff so that it can just release all those emotions that you tried to bury.” The boy was still trying very hard to conceal everything, but the tears were now running full strength. He tried to say something, but all that came out were “But-but-but” and pained moans. “Grief is a natural process. You can’t deny yourself that right- and neither can your dad. You think that becoming a man means denying your emotions? That kind of life is a disillusioned wallpaper life!” By now the sobs grew louder and louder until the boy collapsed on the ground under its weight. “No- no- I can’t! I can’t!” “What’s the point of living, lad, if you become dead to your senses, dead to your emotions- dead to yourself?! Why are you denying yourself for other people’s sake? Why are you trying to become a robot?!” With those words, tears started flowing from my eyes as well. The room stood still- and the two of us let our natural emotions flow, with the boy now wailing loudly as I let my tears flow silently. After a while, the boy finally managed to calm himself down. Tears were still running down his eyes, but his face seemed a lot more peaceful. He thanked me, and despite my objections he left a 20 dollar bill on the counter and made his way out. I stood in complete silence. Even without drinking the bottle myself, I realized, that boy helped me release all the emotions that I had buried for so long as well. Eventually, I finally found the courage to call my boss to tell him that I had broken the rules, and that I was going to close the shop.	Silas sits on the edge of the bed, clenching his sweaty fists. In the kitchen, his wife leans her head back and quickly downs a pink, fizzy shot of sympathy. She stumbles for a few steps, regains her balance, and makes her way to her husband's side. "Honey," she whispers into his ear. "You..." She starts to feel the potion kicking in. "You can't blame yourself for anything that happened. How are you feeling?" Silas, with a blank expression, turns to face his wife. He says monotonously, "Ever since I started taking Emotion Potion, I can't feel anything without it. My life is completely under my control...and for some reason, I don't like that." Tara rubs her husband's shoulder sympathetically. "Hun, I know you are not feeling well right now, but I have some potion that I think will make you feel better." She pulls a bottle containing dark blue liquid out from under the bed. "I've been saving this one for the right time just for you. It's especially hard to find on the market these days." Silas blankly glances back and forth between the bottle and his wife. "I don't want happiness. I don't want euphoria. My father..." Tara brings the bottle of liquid to Silas' lips and tips it back for him. He gulps it down without hesitation. "I can't keep drowning my real emotions with these fake drugs, Tara." He mumbles and then his voice raises. "I can't alway's be fucking happy, especially not after my dad just died!" Out of nowhere, a tear begins to fall from Silas' eye. "He was too young, and I didn't even get to tell him how much I loved him." He feels his heart start racing, but in a way he hasn't felt for a long time. "What the fuck kind of potion did you give me Tara?" Tara smiles, knowing she's made the right move. "Sadness with a touch of anger."
	[WP] You live in a world in which you can buy bottled emotions.	The clinic smelled like antiseptic and smoke, and like death. Mara rested her head in her hands and tried not to breathe through her nose. Everything smelled like death since the war. Too many civilians living in crowded cities attacked with weapons that were too thorough. She thought she could even taste the decay. It cut through the smoke and the rigorously applied bleach. It cut through everything. It stayed with her even in places she knew it shouldn’t. She smelled it in her daughter’s hair. Safa glanced up at her mother from the floor and smiled brightly. She was oblivious to the sound of gunfire. The lone shots ringing out like clockwork from behind the concrete building were as normal as birds chirping. “Mama, look!” Her tiny hands held a dinosaur figure that she was systematically using to destroy a city made of blocks. Mara raised her head and smiled back. The little girl did not have the chubby cheeks of most toddlers and wore dark circles under her eyes. But she was such a wonderful part of Mara’s life she wondered if she was making the wrong decision. The politicians yelled about adoption. They yelled about god and morality. They didn’t talk about poverty or the pain of starvation. They tried to ignore the war. Safa discarded the dinosaur and crawled into her lap. “I’m hungry, Mama.” “I know, sweetie. Once we’re done here I’ll find you something to eat. Would you like that?” Safa smiled and clapped, enthusiastic about the treat. Mara wound her arms around the little girl and closed her eyes. “Number 58427.” Mara shifted Safa off her lap and together they walked over to the nurse. His scrubs looked dingy and well worn. She tried not to stare at the darker stains. “This will be…” She cut him off. “I know. It’s all I have. Just take it.” She pressed her thumb against small computer he held. The credits she had saved for months gone in a moment. “This includes the Emos I asked for?” “They’ll be administered shortly after the procedure.” “And the follow up?” “That’s covered as well.” Mara swallowed hard. “Good.” She squeezed Safa’s hand as they followed the nurse back into a small room. There was a single light bulb, a chair, and an examination table with restraints. Safa used her mother’s fatigues to hide from the nurse. “If you’d like to be separate from your daughter for the procedure, we can arrange that.” “N-no.” Her voice cracked. “Can I hold her?” “Of course.” The nurse looked down at the tiny girl. “Your mom is being very brave today. Can you be brave too?” Safa nodded and but held tight to the safety of her mother. “Come on, sweetie, come sit on my lap. Can you be a big girl for me?” The girl nodded and the two piled into a chair. The nurse gave a warm smile to the little girl as he rolled up her sleeve. “Have you ever been to the city? I bet you have an exciting day planned after this.” Safa’s face lit up. “My mommy says we’re going to have food. I'm going to have an apple.” “Well I’m sure your mother will find you whatever you want.” The nurse was gently swabbing her skin. “Are you both ready?” Sara shook her head and looked up at her mother. Mara kissed her forehead. “It’s okay, sweetie. It only hurts for a second and then we can have all the apples you can eat. Your stomach will hurt from so many apples. You might even turn into an apple.” Safa giggled and smiled. It’s the smile Mara doesn’t see enough. The nurse pressed the needle into her arm. Immediately Safa’s giggles got softer and her eyes drooped. With one great jaw cracking yawn she slipped into sleep, her soft hair falling in her face as her head lolled forward. One more moment and she wasn't Safa anymore. Her skin was flushed and warm but she wasn't there. A great wave of guilt swept over Mara and she let out a sob. If she would just open her eyes she would be Safa again. Maybe they could find apples like she promised. Maybe she could feed them both, protect them both. She started to shake and clutch at Safa's small body. She rocked them together. Back and forth like she had when Safa was an infant. She felt a scream bubbling up inside her but before she could make a noise the nurse pressed an inhaler into her mouth. Mara choked on the bitter mist and jerked the inhaler out of his hands. No! She needed to feel this. She needed to know this pain. She needed to be able to remember this or she wasn’t going to be able to handle what came next. She had to be ready for the moments that came after she left the clinic. She clutched at her own hysteria but it slipped away and replaced with a deep emptiness. Her arms slackened against her daughter’s small frame. The nurse gently lifted Safa’s body out of her arms and laid her on the examination table. Mara didn’t struggle. She stared down at the plastic mister and its metal canister. “Contains: Numbness. Assuredness. Resolution. To be used by adults only.” She paid for this. Chose it. Those three little compounds had been more than the procedure itself. Mara stood up and looked toward the nurse. She watched as he labeled her dead child and filled in little boxes on a form. She kept waiting for the pain and loss to flood back into her system but the drugs were good, strong, much better than anything you got on the streets. The numbness was complete. “Is there anything else?” “No, ma’am. If you’ll go left and follow the green stripe out the back exit you’ll find everything you need for your follow up.” Mara nodded and left the room. She watched the chipping green paint underneath her feet and followed the line outside. When she opened the metal door the smell of decay and smoke made her gag. On her right was a wooden table like the ones she used to eat on at camp as a child. The table held a pistol, a camera, and a microphone. She pressed the large “RECORD” button and a small red light flashed to life. With a steady hand she picked up the pistol and spoke into the camera. “This is Number 58427. It is May 23, 2052. My paperwork is complete and finances are in good standing.” The barrel felt cold in her mouth but her resolve did not falter. The drugs were good.	Silas sits on the edge of the bed, clenching his sweaty fists. In the kitchen, his wife leans her head back and quickly downs a pink, fizzy shot of sympathy. She stumbles for a few steps, regains her balance, and makes her way to her husband's side. "Honey," she whispers into his ear. "You..." She starts to feel the potion kicking in. "You can't blame yourself for anything that happened. How are you feeling?" Silas, with a blank expression, turns to face his wife. He says monotonously, "Ever since I started taking Emotion Potion, I can't feel anything without it. My life is completely under my control...and for some reason, I don't like that." Tara rubs her husband's shoulder sympathetically. "Hun, I know you are not feeling well right now, but I have some potion that I think will make you feel better." She pulls a bottle containing dark blue liquid out from under the bed. "I've been saving this one for the right time just for you. It's especially hard to find on the market these days." Silas blankly glances back and forth between the bottle and his wife. "I don't want happiness. I don't want euphoria. My father..." Tara brings the bottle of liquid to Silas' lips and tips it back for him. He gulps it down without hesitation. "I can't keep drowning my real emotions with these fake drugs, Tara." He mumbles and then his voice raises. "I can't alway's be fucking happy, especially not after my dad just died!" Out of nowhere, a tear begins to fall from Silas' eye. "He was too young, and I didn't even get to tell him how much I loved him." He feels his heart start racing, but in a way he hasn't felt for a long time. "What the fuck kind of potion did you give me Tara?" Tara smiles, knowing she's made the right move. "Sadness with a touch of anger."
	[WP] You live in a world in which you can buy bottled emotions.	The clinic smelled like antiseptic and smoke, and like death. Mara rested her head in her hands and tried not to breathe through her nose. Everything smelled like death since the war. Too many civilians living in crowded cities attacked with weapons that were too thorough. She thought she could even taste the decay. It cut through the smoke and the rigorously applied bleach. It cut through everything. It stayed with her even in places she knew it shouldn’t. She smelled it in her daughter’s hair. Safa glanced up at her mother from the floor and smiled brightly. She was oblivious to the sound of gunfire. The lone shots ringing out like clockwork from behind the concrete building were as normal as birds chirping. “Mama, look!” Her tiny hands held a dinosaur figure that she was systematically using to destroy a city made of blocks. Mara raised her head and smiled back. The little girl did not have the chubby cheeks of most toddlers and wore dark circles under her eyes. But she was such a wonderful part of Mara’s life she wondered if she was making the wrong decision. The politicians yelled about adoption. They yelled about god and morality. They didn’t talk about poverty or the pain of starvation. They tried to ignore the war. Safa discarded the dinosaur and crawled into her lap. “I’m hungry, Mama.” “I know, sweetie. Once we’re done here I’ll find you something to eat. Would you like that?” Safa smiled and clapped, enthusiastic about the treat. Mara wound her arms around the little girl and closed her eyes. “Number 58427.” Mara shifted Safa off her lap and together they walked over to the nurse. His scrubs looked dingy and well worn. She tried not to stare at the darker stains. “This will be…” She cut him off. “I know. It’s all I have. Just take it.” She pressed her thumb against small computer he held. The credits she had saved for months gone in a moment. “This includes the Emos I asked for?” “They’ll be administered shortly after the procedure.” “And the follow up?” “That’s covered as well.” Mara swallowed hard. “Good.” She squeezed Safa’s hand as they followed the nurse back into a small room. There was a single light bulb, a chair, and an examination table with restraints. Safa used her mother’s fatigues to hide from the nurse. “If you’d like to be separate from your daughter for the procedure, we can arrange that.” “N-no.” Her voice cracked. “Can I hold her?” “Of course.” The nurse looked down at the tiny girl. “Your mom is being very brave today. Can you be brave too?” Safa nodded and but held tight to the safety of her mother. “Come on, sweetie, come sit on my lap. Can you be a big girl for me?” The girl nodded and the two piled into a chair. The nurse gave a warm smile to the little girl as he rolled up her sleeve. “Have you ever been to the city? I bet you have an exciting day planned after this.” Safa’s face lit up. “My mommy says we’re going to have food. I'm going to have an apple.” “Well I’m sure your mother will find you whatever you want.” The nurse was gently swabbing her skin. “Are you both ready?” Sara shook her head and looked up at her mother. Mara kissed her forehead. “It’s okay, sweetie. It only hurts for a second and then we can have all the apples you can eat. Your stomach will hurt from so many apples. You might even turn into an apple.” Safa giggled and smiled. It’s the smile Mara doesn’t see enough. The nurse pressed the needle into her arm. Immediately Safa’s giggles got softer and her eyes drooped. With one great jaw cracking yawn she slipped into sleep, her soft hair falling in her face as her head lolled forward. One more moment and she wasn't Safa anymore. Her skin was flushed and warm but she wasn't there. A great wave of guilt swept over Mara and she let out a sob. If she would just open her eyes she would be Safa again. Maybe they could find apples like she promised. Maybe she could feed them both, protect them both. She started to shake and clutch at Safa's small body. She rocked them together. Back and forth like she had when Safa was an infant. She felt a scream bubbling up inside her but before she could make a noise the nurse pressed an inhaler into her mouth. Mara choked on the bitter mist and jerked the inhaler out of his hands. No! She needed to feel this. She needed to know this pain. She needed to be able to remember this or she wasn’t going to be able to handle what came next. She had to be ready for the moments that came after she left the clinic. She clutched at her own hysteria but it slipped away and replaced with a deep emptiness. Her arms slackened against her daughter’s small frame. The nurse gently lifted Safa’s body out of her arms and laid her on the examination table. Mara didn’t struggle. She stared down at the plastic mister and its metal canister. “Contains: Numbness. Assuredness. Resolution. To be used by adults only.” She paid for this. Chose it. Those three little compounds had been more than the procedure itself. Mara stood up and looked toward the nurse. She watched as he labeled her dead child and filled in little boxes on a form. She kept waiting for the pain and loss to flood back into her system but the drugs were good, strong, much better than anything you got on the streets. The numbness was complete. “Is there anything else?” “No, ma’am. If you’ll go left and follow the green stripe out the back exit you’ll find everything you need for your follow up.” Mara nodded and left the room. She watched the chipping green paint underneath her feet and followed the line outside. When she opened the metal door the smell of decay and smoke made her gag. On her right was a wooden table like the ones she used to eat on at camp as a child. The table held a pistol, a camera, and a microphone. She pressed the large “RECORD” button and a small red light flashed to life. With a steady hand she picked up the pistol and spoke into the camera. “This is Number 58427. It is May 23, 2052. My paperwork is complete and finances are in good standing.” The barrel felt cold in her mouth but her resolve did not falter. The drugs were good.	Smile. Smile was all that Jim cared about anymore. He estimated that nearly a third of his paycheck went to it. But he didn’t care. Smile had become less of a recreational hobby and had rapidly turned into an addiction greater than heroin, or so he imagined. He remembered back just a few years earlier how everyone had been so damned excited at the thought of allowing humans so much control over their own emotions. When the vials first became legal everyone experimented with at least one. His first had been fear, a group of college buddies all daring each other just to take a few drops, with the promise of bro’s watching out for each other in case something happened. He couldn’t remember the experience very well but the youtube video that his “friends” had put up of a scared, screaming, pissing himself teenage boy kept him from any more vials for quite a while. There were others besides smile that were still around and popular, like Lust for example. Popular among middle aged men who couldn’t get excited about their wives anymore, and infamous for becoming a new version of a “date-rape” drug. The sensations were so intense and everything so pleasurable that even if someone knew they didn’t want it, they couldn’t help themselves. Anger had become popular as of late, workaholics and introverts would trade in an hour of their day to unleash hidden and buried aggression in a controlled gym environment. It had its dangers though, a dozen vials could mean a prison riot, or slipped into the drinks of politicians in small doses could wreak havoc slowly in certain circles. He couldn’t remember what day exactly it was that he took his first vial with the little HA inscribed on it for happy, but he knows it was shortly after Jessica had left him. Strange that even though it had only been close to a year, he couldn’t remember a thing about her. The wedding band he had never taken off felt heavy suddenly, and he realized he had started to nervously play with it. She was blonde, attractive, fun and smart, but for some reason no emotions are tied to her at all. He was sure he was happy with her back then, but no sweet memories come flooding into his mind when he tries to think of her fondly. Maybe it all had been a lie. Maybe he really never had been happy before this glorious invention. Maybe he really had been miserable his whole life until this year. His watch beeped and Jim realized he had been waiting for nearly twenty minutes. “Where the hell is this guy?” he half muttered to himself. Since the government had started limiting the amounts of emotions that one individual could purchase per month, he had begun buying as much extra happy as he could from wherever he could find it. An extra vial a week was easy to come by, he just had to ask a coworker or someone else in line. But five extra vials a week was quite the chore. He had turned to “private vendors”, which was a nice way of saying drug dealer. But these guys were more than just purveyors of emotions, these fine men and women had become his salvation. Fifteen minutes later and Jim was sitting at home, his brand new five vials of liquid happiness set up in a row on his kitchen counter. The trash can next to the sink was mostly broken shards of little brown bottles. His happy memories began and ended there. After quickly popping the top off of his first bottle, he tossed the cap towards the trash but missed by inches. He heard the small piece of glass tinker on the floor but he had no time to clean it up. He quickly drank the small amount of liquid and swallowed hard. At first the bitter taste used to be so bad he needed to mix it with orange juice or soda, but now it had become a tiny speed bump before true happiness kicked in. He kicked off his shoes and walked out to his patio to await the escape from this terrible day. The usual warm feelings normally took about five minutes to kick in, but this time it felt like it was taking ages. He looked down on the cars so far below and suddenly felt very empty. For the first time in months Jim truly focused on what his life had become. He had been a successful accountant on the fast track to making partner when he had lost his ambition. He had become lazy. He looked down at his now flabby stomach and was transported back to when he had so much definition and strength in his body. The overwhelming emptiness started to creep in and for the first time in a year he began to weep. It was at this point that he remembered Jessica. God he had loved her so much. She was the best thing that had ever happened to him and he had blown it by….well everything. He wasn’t attentive enough to her, he was a terrible lover, he cheated on her, he didn’t want kids, he was….a terrible human being. How could he have made so many poor choices? And how had his life been reduced to this? Spending hundreds of dollars a month on fake happiness. Could there be any one who was more pathetic than him? Was there a person in the entire world who had made more poor decisions? He returned inside to stare at the picture he still had of him and Jess on their wedding day. He picked it up and held it to his face until his vision was blurry with tears. He walked back out onto the balcony and had the greatest epiphany he had ever known. He didn’t want to live anymore. Clutching the picture tightly to his chest he slowly climbed over the railing and with one final sob stepped out into nothingness. As a car alarm started to sound outside a single cockroach escaped from its tiny haven under the stove and dashed across the kitchen floor. Seeking its next meal it climbed over a piece of glass with the raised letters of RE, and then quickly resumed its hunt.
	[WP] You live in a world in which you can buy bottled emotions.	The clinic smelled like antiseptic and smoke, and like death. Mara rested her head in her hands and tried not to breathe through her nose. Everything smelled like death since the war. Too many civilians living in crowded cities attacked with weapons that were too thorough. She thought she could even taste the decay. It cut through the smoke and the rigorously applied bleach. It cut through everything. It stayed with her even in places she knew it shouldn’t. She smelled it in her daughter’s hair. Safa glanced up at her mother from the floor and smiled brightly. She was oblivious to the sound of gunfire. The lone shots ringing out like clockwork from behind the concrete building were as normal as birds chirping. “Mama, look!” Her tiny hands held a dinosaur figure that she was systematically using to destroy a city made of blocks. Mara raised her head and smiled back. The little girl did not have the chubby cheeks of most toddlers and wore dark circles under her eyes. But she was such a wonderful part of Mara’s life she wondered if she was making the wrong decision. The politicians yelled about adoption. They yelled about god and morality. They didn’t talk about poverty or the pain of starvation. They tried to ignore the war. Safa discarded the dinosaur and crawled into her lap. “I’m hungry, Mama.” “I know, sweetie. Once we’re done here I’ll find you something to eat. Would you like that?” Safa smiled and clapped, enthusiastic about the treat. Mara wound her arms around the little girl and closed her eyes. “Number 58427.” Mara shifted Safa off her lap and together they walked over to the nurse. His scrubs looked dingy and well worn. She tried not to stare at the darker stains. “This will be…” She cut him off. “I know. It’s all I have. Just take it.” She pressed her thumb against small computer he held. The credits she had saved for months gone in a moment. “This includes the Emos I asked for?” “They’ll be administered shortly after the procedure.” “And the follow up?” “That’s covered as well.” Mara swallowed hard. “Good.” She squeezed Safa’s hand as they followed the nurse back into a small room. There was a single light bulb, a chair, and an examination table with restraints. Safa used her mother’s fatigues to hide from the nurse. “If you’d like to be separate from your daughter for the procedure, we can arrange that.” “N-no.” Her voice cracked. “Can I hold her?” “Of course.” The nurse looked down at the tiny girl. “Your mom is being very brave today. Can you be brave too?” Safa nodded and but held tight to the safety of her mother. “Come on, sweetie, come sit on my lap. Can you be a big girl for me?” The girl nodded and the two piled into a chair. The nurse gave a warm smile to the little girl as he rolled up her sleeve. “Have you ever been to the city? I bet you have an exciting day planned after this.” Safa’s face lit up. “My mommy says we’re going to have food. I'm going to have an apple.” “Well I’m sure your mother will find you whatever you want.” The nurse was gently swabbing her skin. “Are you both ready?” Sara shook her head and looked up at her mother. Mara kissed her forehead. “It’s okay, sweetie. It only hurts for a second and then we can have all the apples you can eat. Your stomach will hurt from so many apples. You might even turn into an apple.” Safa giggled and smiled. It’s the smile Mara doesn’t see enough. The nurse pressed the needle into her arm. Immediately Safa’s giggles got softer and her eyes drooped. With one great jaw cracking yawn she slipped into sleep, her soft hair falling in her face as her head lolled forward. One more moment and she wasn't Safa anymore. Her skin was flushed and warm but she wasn't there. A great wave of guilt swept over Mara and she let out a sob. If she would just open her eyes she would be Safa again. Maybe they could find apples like she promised. Maybe she could feed them both, protect them both. She started to shake and clutch at Safa's small body. She rocked them together. Back and forth like she had when Safa was an infant. She felt a scream bubbling up inside her but before she could make a noise the nurse pressed an inhaler into her mouth. Mara choked on the bitter mist and jerked the inhaler out of his hands. No! She needed to feel this. She needed to know this pain. She needed to be able to remember this or she wasn’t going to be able to handle what came next. She had to be ready for the moments that came after she left the clinic. She clutched at her own hysteria but it slipped away and replaced with a deep emptiness. Her arms slackened against her daughter’s small frame. The nurse gently lifted Safa’s body out of her arms and laid her on the examination table. Mara didn’t struggle. She stared down at the plastic mister and its metal canister. “Contains: Numbness. Assuredness. Resolution. To be used by adults only.” She paid for this. Chose it. Those three little compounds had been more than the procedure itself. Mara stood up and looked toward the nurse. She watched as he labeled her dead child and filled in little boxes on a form. She kept waiting for the pain and loss to flood back into her system but the drugs were good, strong, much better than anything you got on the streets. The numbness was complete. “Is there anything else?” “No, ma’am. If you’ll go left and follow the green stripe out the back exit you’ll find everything you need for your follow up.” Mara nodded and left the room. She watched the chipping green paint underneath her feet and followed the line outside. When she opened the metal door the smell of decay and smoke made her gag. On her right was a wooden table like the ones she used to eat on at camp as a child. The table held a pistol, a camera, and a microphone. She pressed the large “RECORD” button and a small red light flashed to life. With a steady hand she picked up the pistol and spoke into the camera. “This is Number 58427. It is May 23, 2052. My paperwork is complete and finances are in good standing.” The barrel felt cold in her mouth but her resolve did not falter. The drugs were good.	A small bell tinkled merrily as he entered the clinic. Max grimaced at the sound shutting his red rimmed eyes. Taking a shuddering breath he moved over to the clerk. The office was bland, utilitarian, grey. Plastic office chairs, old magazines. A million like them all over the city since the technology was discovered. Max rubbed his eyes as he approached the clerk and cleared his throat. "I...i have a-an appointment for t-today." He stammers. The clerk looks up and smiles brightly. Her eyes show a strain around the edge. A sign of dosing. Yes this one would pick happiness. Would clutch at it with an addicts clawed hand when it wore off. "Of course mister.....?" She trails off looking at a book in front of her. One perfectly manicured nail tracing a line down the page. "Thomas. Yes we have you right here. Please if you would just head down the hall to room 3 and the doctor will be right with you." Max could see her screaming behind the plastic bliss on her face. She had chosen the same hellish cage as most of society. Drinking their way through life with their happiness and their indifference. Oh sure there were a few taking a hit of sadness every once and awhile. But what did any of them know. Max had been just like them once. A smile plastered across his face. Driving in euphoria just like any other day. He never did see the child that ran out in front of his car. Hearing that awful thump. Leaping from the car and seeing the parents rushing out, plastic smiles on their faces, still happy as a pig in shit due to the bliss coursing through their veins. Max watched them collect the small body. His heart trying to rip it's way through the happiness in his blood. The court case had been swift. Jail time, probation, a slap on the wrist. Not even cut off from dosing. Max thought it all a huge joke. The horror of his deed had etched itself on his heart, even if the rest of the world remained oblivious, Max would not The doctor entered the room as Max reclined on the modified dental chair. "Well Max," the doctor said with obvious cold indifference, "have you decided what we will be dosing with for this month? I see you have been pretty regular with your orders of sadness. Have you perhaps given a thought to trying happiness or melancholy? Perhaps some rage?" "No doc," Max said with little hitch left in his voice, "that little boy deserves better. Sadness won't cut it anymore I'm going to need something stronger." "I want misery."
	[WP] You live in a world in which you can buy bottled emotions.	The clinic smelled like antiseptic and smoke, and like death. Mara rested her head in her hands and tried not to breathe through her nose. Everything smelled like death since the war. Too many civilians living in crowded cities attacked with weapons that were too thorough. She thought she could even taste the decay. It cut through the smoke and the rigorously applied bleach. It cut through everything. It stayed with her even in places she knew it shouldn’t. She smelled it in her daughter’s hair. Safa glanced up at her mother from the floor and smiled brightly. She was oblivious to the sound of gunfire. The lone shots ringing out like clockwork from behind the concrete building were as normal as birds chirping. “Mama, look!” Her tiny hands held a dinosaur figure that she was systematically using to destroy a city made of blocks. Mara raised her head and smiled back. The little girl did not have the chubby cheeks of most toddlers and wore dark circles under her eyes. But she was such a wonderful part of Mara’s life she wondered if she was making the wrong decision. The politicians yelled about adoption. They yelled about god and morality. They didn’t talk about poverty or the pain of starvation. They tried to ignore the war. Safa discarded the dinosaur and crawled into her lap. “I’m hungry, Mama.” “I know, sweetie. Once we’re done here I’ll find you something to eat. Would you like that?” Safa smiled and clapped, enthusiastic about the treat. Mara wound her arms around the little girl and closed her eyes. “Number 58427.” Mara shifted Safa off her lap and together they walked over to the nurse. His scrubs looked dingy and well worn. She tried not to stare at the darker stains. “This will be…” She cut him off. “I know. It’s all I have. Just take it.” She pressed her thumb against small computer he held. The credits she had saved for months gone in a moment. “This includes the Emos I asked for?” “They’ll be administered shortly after the procedure.” “And the follow up?” “That’s covered as well.” Mara swallowed hard. “Good.” She squeezed Safa’s hand as they followed the nurse back into a small room. There was a single light bulb, a chair, and an examination table with restraints. Safa used her mother’s fatigues to hide from the nurse. “If you’d like to be separate from your daughter for the procedure, we can arrange that.” “N-no.” Her voice cracked. “Can I hold her?” “Of course.” The nurse looked down at the tiny girl. “Your mom is being very brave today. Can you be brave too?” Safa nodded and but held tight to the safety of her mother. “Come on, sweetie, come sit on my lap. Can you be a big girl for me?” The girl nodded and the two piled into a chair. The nurse gave a warm smile to the little girl as he rolled up her sleeve. “Have you ever been to the city? I bet you have an exciting day planned after this.” Safa’s face lit up. “My mommy says we’re going to have food. I'm going to have an apple.” “Well I’m sure your mother will find you whatever you want.” The nurse was gently swabbing her skin. “Are you both ready?” Sara shook her head and looked up at her mother. Mara kissed her forehead. “It’s okay, sweetie. It only hurts for a second and then we can have all the apples you can eat. Your stomach will hurt from so many apples. You might even turn into an apple.” Safa giggled and smiled. It’s the smile Mara doesn’t see enough. The nurse pressed the needle into her arm. Immediately Safa’s giggles got softer and her eyes drooped. With one great jaw cracking yawn she slipped into sleep, her soft hair falling in her face as her head lolled forward. One more moment and she wasn't Safa anymore. Her skin was flushed and warm but she wasn't there. A great wave of guilt swept over Mara and she let out a sob. If she would just open her eyes she would be Safa again. Maybe they could find apples like she promised. Maybe she could feed them both, protect them both. She started to shake and clutch at Safa's small body. She rocked them together. Back and forth like she had when Safa was an infant. She felt a scream bubbling up inside her but before she could make a noise the nurse pressed an inhaler into her mouth. Mara choked on the bitter mist and jerked the inhaler out of his hands. No! She needed to feel this. She needed to know this pain. She needed to be able to remember this or she wasn’t going to be able to handle what came next. She had to be ready for the moments that came after she left the clinic. She clutched at her own hysteria but it slipped away and replaced with a deep emptiness. Her arms slackened against her daughter’s small frame. The nurse gently lifted Safa’s body out of her arms and laid her on the examination table. Mara didn’t struggle. She stared down at the plastic mister and its metal canister. “Contains: Numbness. Assuredness. Resolution. To be used by adults only.” She paid for this. Chose it. Those three little compounds had been more than the procedure itself. Mara stood up and looked toward the nurse. She watched as he labeled her dead child and filled in little boxes on a form. She kept waiting for the pain and loss to flood back into her system but the drugs were good, strong, much better than anything you got on the streets. The numbness was complete. “Is there anything else?” “No, ma’am. If you’ll go left and follow the green stripe out the back exit you’ll find everything you need for your follow up.” Mara nodded and left the room. She watched the chipping green paint underneath her feet and followed the line outside. When she opened the metal door the smell of decay and smoke made her gag. On her right was a wooden table like the ones she used to eat on at camp as a child. The table held a pistol, a camera, and a microphone. She pressed the large “RECORD” button and a small red light flashed to life. With a steady hand she picked up the pistol and spoke into the camera. “This is Number 58427. It is May 23, 2052. My paperwork is complete and finances are in good standing.” The barrel felt cold in her mouth but her resolve did not falter. The drugs were good.	Come one, come all, for I have everything you need. Don't worry about the rumors, come listen to what I have to say. Feeling a little down, your step dragging slowly, don't fret! I've got just the sweetest bottle of happiness for you. A small shot and you'll be smiling again. The whole bottle and you may break out into a musical. What's that you said? Tired of work, your boss on your back? Ha! I have exactly what you need, a little fire in your belly so you can stand up to that idiot. A bit spicy but this little bottle of courage is more than enough to help you fight back. Oh oh oh, now now, my dear lady. No need to push. You say your sister is always flaunting and you want to knock her down a peg? Take this little bottle, only a few drops are needed, don't mind the bitter smell. Only a few drops in her tea and she'll be seeing green! Hang on there, young man, what is it you're looking for? Hm... I don't know if I can give you a bottle of that. It's potent and a bit... illegal around these parts. Oh yes, it's the perfect blend of smooth heat and savory honey but it is not something that you should be drinking just becau-... Oh, you plan on giving it to someone... Here, take it. No no, don't pay me for it, but do tell me if she finds love again because of it. -092
	[WP] You live in a world in which you can buy bottled emotions.	The clinic smelled like antiseptic and smoke, and like death. Mara rested her head in her hands and tried not to breathe through her nose. Everything smelled like death since the war. Too many civilians living in crowded cities attacked with weapons that were too thorough. She thought she could even taste the decay. It cut through the smoke and the rigorously applied bleach. It cut through everything. It stayed with her even in places she knew it shouldn’t. She smelled it in her daughter’s hair. Safa glanced up at her mother from the floor and smiled brightly. She was oblivious to the sound of gunfire. The lone shots ringing out like clockwork from behind the concrete building were as normal as birds chirping. “Mama, look!” Her tiny hands held a dinosaur figure that she was systematically using to destroy a city made of blocks. Mara raised her head and smiled back. The little girl did not have the chubby cheeks of most toddlers and wore dark circles under her eyes. But she was such a wonderful part of Mara’s life she wondered if she was making the wrong decision. The politicians yelled about adoption. They yelled about god and morality. They didn’t talk about poverty or the pain of starvation. They tried to ignore the war. Safa discarded the dinosaur and crawled into her lap. “I’m hungry, Mama.” “I know, sweetie. Once we’re done here I’ll find you something to eat. Would you like that?” Safa smiled and clapped, enthusiastic about the treat. Mara wound her arms around the little girl and closed her eyes. “Number 58427.” Mara shifted Safa off her lap and together they walked over to the nurse. His scrubs looked dingy and well worn. She tried not to stare at the darker stains. “This will be…” She cut him off. “I know. It’s all I have. Just take it.” She pressed her thumb against small computer he held. The credits she had saved for months gone in a moment. “This includes the Emos I asked for?” “They’ll be administered shortly after the procedure.” “And the follow up?” “That’s covered as well.” Mara swallowed hard. “Good.” She squeezed Safa’s hand as they followed the nurse back into a small room. There was a single light bulb, a chair, and an examination table with restraints. Safa used her mother’s fatigues to hide from the nurse. “If you’d like to be separate from your daughter for the procedure, we can arrange that.” “N-no.” Her voice cracked. “Can I hold her?” “Of course.” The nurse looked down at the tiny girl. “Your mom is being very brave today. Can you be brave too?” Safa nodded and but held tight to the safety of her mother. “Come on, sweetie, come sit on my lap. Can you be a big girl for me?” The girl nodded and the two piled into a chair. The nurse gave a warm smile to the little girl as he rolled up her sleeve. “Have you ever been to the city? I bet you have an exciting day planned after this.” Safa’s face lit up. “My mommy says we’re going to have food. I'm going to have an apple.” “Well I’m sure your mother will find you whatever you want.” The nurse was gently swabbing her skin. “Are you both ready?” Sara shook her head and looked up at her mother. Mara kissed her forehead. “It’s okay, sweetie. It only hurts for a second and then we can have all the apples you can eat. Your stomach will hurt from so many apples. You might even turn into an apple.” Safa giggled and smiled. It’s the smile Mara doesn’t see enough. The nurse pressed the needle into her arm. Immediately Safa’s giggles got softer and her eyes drooped. With one great jaw cracking yawn she slipped into sleep, her soft hair falling in her face as her head lolled forward. One more moment and she wasn't Safa anymore. Her skin was flushed and warm but she wasn't there. A great wave of guilt swept over Mara and she let out a sob. If she would just open her eyes she would be Safa again. Maybe they could find apples like she promised. Maybe she could feed them both, protect them both. She started to shake and clutch at Safa's small body. She rocked them together. Back and forth like she had when Safa was an infant. She felt a scream bubbling up inside her but before she could make a noise the nurse pressed an inhaler into her mouth. Mara choked on the bitter mist and jerked the inhaler out of his hands. No! She needed to feel this. She needed to know this pain. She needed to be able to remember this or she wasn’t going to be able to handle what came next. She had to be ready for the moments that came after she left the clinic. She clutched at her own hysteria but it slipped away and replaced with a deep emptiness. Her arms slackened against her daughter’s small frame. The nurse gently lifted Safa’s body out of her arms and laid her on the examination table. Mara didn’t struggle. She stared down at the plastic mister and its metal canister. “Contains: Numbness. Assuredness. Resolution. To be used by adults only.” She paid for this. Chose it. Those three little compounds had been more than the procedure itself. Mara stood up and looked toward the nurse. She watched as he labeled her dead child and filled in little boxes on a form. She kept waiting for the pain and loss to flood back into her system but the drugs were good, strong, much better than anything you got on the streets. The numbness was complete. “Is there anything else?” “No, ma’am. If you’ll go left and follow the green stripe out the back exit you’ll find everything you need for your follow up.” Mara nodded and left the room. She watched the chipping green paint underneath her feet and followed the line outside. When she opened the metal door the smell of decay and smoke made her gag. On her right was a wooden table like the ones she used to eat on at camp as a child. The table held a pistol, a camera, and a microphone. She pressed the large “RECORD” button and a small red light flashed to life. With a steady hand she picked up the pistol and spoke into the camera. “This is Number 58427. It is May 23, 2052. My paperwork is complete and finances are in good standing.” The barrel felt cold in her mouth but her resolve did not falter. The drugs were good.	"Is it this one?" Jilly turned and determinedly slid fingers under the doorway, over the old brass knob. Eric watched her instead of the chilly corridor, face creased in sweat-stained worry. Intuitive only worked well for an hour. She stepped back, twisting her hands in the over-large apron Pa'd given her for Christmas. Eric didn't need the nod to know; her face pinched in apprehension. He bore down on the door with all his considerable muscle, gritting teeth as he felt the hinges take his weight. The ironic thought drifted through that he'd be in there but for some Rage in his gut, so he barreled at the door again to pummel his old man's voice away. The door gave with a pop and splinter of old wood. Jilly drew a half shrieky breath, running into the half lit room, stricken eyes on emaciated bodies of younglings and old ones alike. They breathed stunted breaths, their bodies spider strung to different labeled bottles and jars. "Emory!" He breathed, seeing the flax hair and the stubby nose his sister wore so well. The cold metal of the table chilled his siblings hands as they watched their exuberant, wild little brother expire Hope into shining glass bottles, drip by drip.
	[WP] You live in a world in which you can buy bottled emotions.	The clinic smelled like antiseptic and smoke, and like death. Mara rested her head in her hands and tried not to breathe through her nose. Everything smelled like death since the war. Too many civilians living in crowded cities attacked with weapons that were too thorough. She thought she could even taste the decay. It cut through the smoke and the rigorously applied bleach. It cut through everything. It stayed with her even in places she knew it shouldn’t. She smelled it in her daughter’s hair. Safa glanced up at her mother from the floor and smiled brightly. She was oblivious to the sound of gunfire. The lone shots ringing out like clockwork from behind the concrete building were as normal as birds chirping. “Mama, look!” Her tiny hands held a dinosaur figure that she was systematically using to destroy a city made of blocks. Mara raised her head and smiled back. The little girl did not have the chubby cheeks of most toddlers and wore dark circles under her eyes. But she was such a wonderful part of Mara’s life she wondered if she was making the wrong decision. The politicians yelled about adoption. They yelled about god and morality. They didn’t talk about poverty or the pain of starvation. They tried to ignore the war. Safa discarded the dinosaur and crawled into her lap. “I’m hungry, Mama.” “I know, sweetie. Once we’re done here I’ll find you something to eat. Would you like that?” Safa smiled and clapped, enthusiastic about the treat. Mara wound her arms around the little girl and closed her eyes. “Number 58427.” Mara shifted Safa off her lap and together they walked over to the nurse. His scrubs looked dingy and well worn. She tried not to stare at the darker stains. “This will be…” She cut him off. “I know. It’s all I have. Just take it.” She pressed her thumb against small computer he held. The credits she had saved for months gone in a moment. “This includes the Emos I asked for?” “They’ll be administered shortly after the procedure.” “And the follow up?” “That’s covered as well.” Mara swallowed hard. “Good.” She squeezed Safa’s hand as they followed the nurse back into a small room. There was a single light bulb, a chair, and an examination table with restraints. Safa used her mother’s fatigues to hide from the nurse. “If you’d like to be separate from your daughter for the procedure, we can arrange that.” “N-no.” Her voice cracked. “Can I hold her?” “Of course.” The nurse looked down at the tiny girl. “Your mom is being very brave today. Can you be brave too?” Safa nodded and but held tight to the safety of her mother. “Come on, sweetie, come sit on my lap. Can you be a big girl for me?” The girl nodded and the two piled into a chair. The nurse gave a warm smile to the little girl as he rolled up her sleeve. “Have you ever been to the city? I bet you have an exciting day planned after this.” Safa’s face lit up. “My mommy says we’re going to have food. I'm going to have an apple.” “Well I’m sure your mother will find you whatever you want.” The nurse was gently swabbing her skin. “Are you both ready?” Sara shook her head and looked up at her mother. Mara kissed her forehead. “It’s okay, sweetie. It only hurts for a second and then we can have all the apples you can eat. Your stomach will hurt from so many apples. You might even turn into an apple.” Safa giggled and smiled. It’s the smile Mara doesn’t see enough. The nurse pressed the needle into her arm. Immediately Safa’s giggles got softer and her eyes drooped. With one great jaw cracking yawn she slipped into sleep, her soft hair falling in her face as her head lolled forward. One more moment and she wasn't Safa anymore. Her skin was flushed and warm but she wasn't there. A great wave of guilt swept over Mara and she let out a sob. If she would just open her eyes she would be Safa again. Maybe they could find apples like she promised. Maybe she could feed them both, protect them both. She started to shake and clutch at Safa's small body. She rocked them together. Back and forth like she had when Safa was an infant. She felt a scream bubbling up inside her but before she could make a noise the nurse pressed an inhaler into her mouth. Mara choked on the bitter mist and jerked the inhaler out of his hands. No! She needed to feel this. She needed to know this pain. She needed to be able to remember this or she wasn’t going to be able to handle what came next. She had to be ready for the moments that came after she left the clinic. She clutched at her own hysteria but it slipped away and replaced with a deep emptiness. Her arms slackened against her daughter’s small frame. The nurse gently lifted Safa’s body out of her arms and laid her on the examination table. Mara didn’t struggle. She stared down at the plastic mister and its metal canister. “Contains: Numbness. Assuredness. Resolution. To be used by adults only.” She paid for this. Chose it. Those three little compounds had been more than the procedure itself. Mara stood up and looked toward the nurse. She watched as he labeled her dead child and filled in little boxes on a form. She kept waiting for the pain and loss to flood back into her system but the drugs were good, strong, much better than anything you got on the streets. The numbness was complete. “Is there anything else?” “No, ma’am. If you’ll go left and follow the green stripe out the back exit you’ll find everything you need for your follow up.” Mara nodded and left the room. She watched the chipping green paint underneath her feet and followed the line outside. When she opened the metal door the smell of decay and smoke made her gag. On her right was a wooden table like the ones she used to eat on at camp as a child. The table held a pistol, a camera, and a microphone. She pressed the large “RECORD” button and a small red light flashed to life. With a steady hand she picked up the pistol and spoke into the camera. “This is Number 58427. It is May 23, 2052. My paperwork is complete and finances are in good standing.” The barrel felt cold in her mouth but her resolve did not falter. The drugs were good.	“I would like an extra-strength bottle of indifference, please.” I looked up from my newspaper to find a ragged boy staring blankly at me. “…Pardon me, son?” The boy winced, and said again, “an extra-strength bottle of indifference, I said.” This came as a surprise to me. Most of the people who came looking for “indifference” were businessman looking to emotionally detach themselves from the psychological traumas of their dishonest trade, or disillusioned post-graduates looking to remove all sorts of responsibilities from their shoulders to live a semi-narcissistic life. This kid, looking hardly over 14, definitely belonged to neither of the two groups- yet there was such a hollowed look that seemed so unfitting for a boy so young. But, a business is a business. When you come into the emotion selling business, you are strictly forbidden to throw your emotions and moral beliefs at the customers. I headed toward the back cabinet where all the extra-strengths are, and casually asked, “so, what’s a young one like you trying to make friends with indifference anyway?” “My mother died.” I froze in my tracks- those words came out too fast- like a bullet in a pistol. I turned and looked at the boy. The boy went on, “I think my emotions are broken now. My mom was the only one that could bring them out, so now that she’s dead I think my emotions are dying too. My dad told me I just need to be indifferent to everything like a man- so here I am.” The boy spoke with a casual tone, but his voice was so vacant that I could tell that he was trying very hard to bottle up his natural emotions. For what- to be a man? “…Would your father like a bottle as well then?” “No, he doesn’t need it. He thinks emotions are useless.” “….” A business is a business, I told myself- I turned to another cupboard and pulled out a small bottle. “Alright, here you go- this is what you need. Drink it all right here, lad.” The boy’s face twisted into a strange formation that vaguely resembled a grin. He gingerly grabbed the bottle and drank. It didn’t take a while for the drink to take effect. The first tear came out slowly- “What- what’s happening?” the boy choked out. “What did you give me?” “It’s called grief, boy. And you need it. I gave you the weak stuff so that it can just release all those emotions that you tried to bury.” The boy was still trying very hard to conceal everything, but the tears were now running full strength. He tried to say something, but all that came out were “But-but-but” and pained moans. “Grief is a natural process. You can’t deny yourself that right- and neither can your dad. You think that becoming a man means denying your emotions? That kind of life is a disillusioned wallpaper life!” By now the sobs grew louder and louder until the boy collapsed on the ground under its weight. “No- no- I can’t! I can’t!” “What’s the point of living, lad, if you become dead to your senses, dead to your emotions- dead to yourself?! Why are you denying yourself for other people’s sake? Why are you trying to become a robot?!” With those words, tears started flowing from my eyes as well. The room stood still- and the two of us let our natural emotions flow, with the boy now wailing loudly as I let my tears flow silently. After a while, the boy finally managed to calm himself down. Tears were still running down his eyes, but his face seemed a lot more peaceful. He thanked me, and despite my objections he left a 20 dollar bill on the counter and made his way out. I stood in complete silence. Even without drinking the bottle myself, I realized, that boy helped me release all the emotions that I had buried for so long as well. Eventually, I finally found the courage to call my boss to tell him that I had broken the rules, and that I was going to close the shop.
	[WP] You live in a world in which you can buy bottled emotions.	The clinic smelled like antiseptic and smoke, and like death. Mara rested her head in her hands and tried not to breathe through her nose. Everything smelled like death since the war. Too many civilians living in crowded cities attacked with weapons that were too thorough. She thought she could even taste the decay. It cut through the smoke and the rigorously applied bleach. It cut through everything. It stayed with her even in places she knew it shouldn’t. She smelled it in her daughter’s hair. Safa glanced up at her mother from the floor and smiled brightly. She was oblivious to the sound of gunfire. The lone shots ringing out like clockwork from behind the concrete building were as normal as birds chirping. “Mama, look!” Her tiny hands held a dinosaur figure that she was systematically using to destroy a city made of blocks. Mara raised her head and smiled back. The little girl did not have the chubby cheeks of most toddlers and wore dark circles under her eyes. But she was such a wonderful part of Mara’s life she wondered if she was making the wrong decision. The politicians yelled about adoption. They yelled about god and morality. They didn’t talk about poverty or the pain of starvation. They tried to ignore the war. Safa discarded the dinosaur and crawled into her lap. “I’m hungry, Mama.” “I know, sweetie. Once we’re done here I’ll find you something to eat. Would you like that?” Safa smiled and clapped, enthusiastic about the treat. Mara wound her arms around the little girl and closed her eyes. “Number 58427.” Mara shifted Safa off her lap and together they walked over to the nurse. His scrubs looked dingy and well worn. She tried not to stare at the darker stains. “This will be…” She cut him off. “I know. It’s all I have. Just take it.” She pressed her thumb against small computer he held. The credits she had saved for months gone in a moment. “This includes the Emos I asked for?” “They’ll be administered shortly after the procedure.” “And the follow up?” “That’s covered as well.” Mara swallowed hard. “Good.” She squeezed Safa’s hand as they followed the nurse back into a small room. There was a single light bulb, a chair, and an examination table with restraints. Safa used her mother’s fatigues to hide from the nurse. “If you’d like to be separate from your daughter for the procedure, we can arrange that.” “N-no.” Her voice cracked. “Can I hold her?” “Of course.” The nurse looked down at the tiny girl. “Your mom is being very brave today. Can you be brave too?” Safa nodded and but held tight to the safety of her mother. “Come on, sweetie, come sit on my lap. Can you be a big girl for me?” The girl nodded and the two piled into a chair. The nurse gave a warm smile to the little girl as he rolled up her sleeve. “Have you ever been to the city? I bet you have an exciting day planned after this.” Safa’s face lit up. “My mommy says we’re going to have food. I'm going to have an apple.” “Well I’m sure your mother will find you whatever you want.” The nurse was gently swabbing her skin. “Are you both ready?” Sara shook her head and looked up at her mother. Mara kissed her forehead. “It’s okay, sweetie. It only hurts for a second and then we can have all the apples you can eat. Your stomach will hurt from so many apples. You might even turn into an apple.” Safa giggled and smiled. It’s the smile Mara doesn’t see enough. The nurse pressed the needle into her arm. Immediately Safa’s giggles got softer and her eyes drooped. With one great jaw cracking yawn she slipped into sleep, her soft hair falling in her face as her head lolled forward. One more moment and she wasn't Safa anymore. Her skin was flushed and warm but she wasn't there. A great wave of guilt swept over Mara and she let out a sob. If she would just open her eyes she would be Safa again. Maybe they could find apples like she promised. Maybe she could feed them both, protect them both. She started to shake and clutch at Safa's small body. She rocked them together. Back and forth like she had when Safa was an infant. She felt a scream bubbling up inside her but before she could make a noise the nurse pressed an inhaler into her mouth. Mara choked on the bitter mist and jerked the inhaler out of his hands. No! She needed to feel this. She needed to know this pain. She needed to be able to remember this or she wasn’t going to be able to handle what came next. She had to be ready for the moments that came after she left the clinic. She clutched at her own hysteria but it slipped away and replaced with a deep emptiness. Her arms slackened against her daughter’s small frame. The nurse gently lifted Safa’s body out of her arms and laid her on the examination table. Mara didn’t struggle. She stared down at the plastic mister and its metal canister. “Contains: Numbness. Assuredness. Resolution. To be used by adults only.” She paid for this. Chose it. Those three little compounds had been more than the procedure itself. Mara stood up and looked toward the nurse. She watched as he labeled her dead child and filled in little boxes on a form. She kept waiting for the pain and loss to flood back into her system but the drugs were good, strong, much better than anything you got on the streets. The numbness was complete. “Is there anything else?” “No, ma’am. If you’ll go left and follow the green stripe out the back exit you’ll find everything you need for your follow up.” Mara nodded and left the room. She watched the chipping green paint underneath her feet and followed the line outside. When she opened the metal door the smell of decay and smoke made her gag. On her right was a wooden table like the ones she used to eat on at camp as a child. The table held a pistol, a camera, and a microphone. She pressed the large “RECORD” button and a small red light flashed to life. With a steady hand she picked up the pistol and spoke into the camera. “This is Number 58427. It is May 23, 2052. My paperwork is complete and finances are in good standing.” The barrel felt cold in her mouth but her resolve did not falter. The drugs were good.	When they started selling emotions, they marketed happiness, joy, and love. They told us to go out and buy our way into a new kind of life, no fuss, no muss, and we'd have perfection. They told us a lot of things, but they could never understand us. I suppose it worked, at first. Everyone went out to the local drug store and purchased dollops of happy and teaspoons of sentiment for thirty bucks a pop. The world became different, not better, just different. All of the bars became ghost towns, and dealers switched from coke to courage. Crimes were reported at an all time low, but that wasn't because they weren't happening. Who's going to report you for a crime if you slip them a little dose of love? No one had to steal anything because people would just give things up for free. As for me, I never bought into that garbage about synthesized joy. Joy never made me happy, anyways. I was always the odd one out in that way, even before the eruption of the market happened. My drug of choice became fear or adrenaline or anger, anything that would get my heart pounding and the hairs on the back of my neck standing straight up. I forgot to eat and sleep most nights, but I didn't care. Who needs sleep when you could experience something more, something better, something that makes you whole?
	[WP] You live in a world in which you can buy bottled emotions.	The clinic smelled like antiseptic and smoke, and like death. Mara rested her head in her hands and tried not to breathe through her nose. Everything smelled like death since the war. Too many civilians living in crowded cities attacked with weapons that were too thorough. She thought she could even taste the decay. It cut through the smoke and the rigorously applied bleach. It cut through everything. It stayed with her even in places she knew it shouldn’t. She smelled it in her daughter’s hair. Safa glanced up at her mother from the floor and smiled brightly. She was oblivious to the sound of gunfire. The lone shots ringing out like clockwork from behind the concrete building were as normal as birds chirping. “Mama, look!” Her tiny hands held a dinosaur figure that she was systematically using to destroy a city made of blocks. Mara raised her head and smiled back. The little girl did not have the chubby cheeks of most toddlers and wore dark circles under her eyes. But she was such a wonderful part of Mara’s life she wondered if she was making the wrong decision. The politicians yelled about adoption. They yelled about god and morality. They didn’t talk about poverty or the pain of starvation. They tried to ignore the war. Safa discarded the dinosaur and crawled into her lap. “I’m hungry, Mama.” “I know, sweetie. Once we’re done here I’ll find you something to eat. Would you like that?” Safa smiled and clapped, enthusiastic about the treat. Mara wound her arms around the little girl and closed her eyes. “Number 58427.” Mara shifted Safa off her lap and together they walked over to the nurse. His scrubs looked dingy and well worn. She tried not to stare at the darker stains. “This will be…” She cut him off. “I know. It’s all I have. Just take it.” She pressed her thumb against small computer he held. The credits she had saved for months gone in a moment. “This includes the Emos I asked for?” “They’ll be administered shortly after the procedure.” “And the follow up?” “That’s covered as well.” Mara swallowed hard. “Good.” She squeezed Safa’s hand as they followed the nurse back into a small room. There was a single light bulb, a chair, and an examination table with restraints. Safa used her mother’s fatigues to hide from the nurse. “If you’d like to be separate from your daughter for the procedure, we can arrange that.” “N-no.” Her voice cracked. “Can I hold her?” “Of course.” The nurse looked down at the tiny girl. “Your mom is being very brave today. Can you be brave too?” Safa nodded and but held tight to the safety of her mother. “Come on, sweetie, come sit on my lap. Can you be a big girl for me?” The girl nodded and the two piled into a chair. The nurse gave a warm smile to the little girl as he rolled up her sleeve. “Have you ever been to the city? I bet you have an exciting day planned after this.” Safa’s face lit up. “My mommy says we’re going to have food. I'm going to have an apple.” “Well I’m sure your mother will find you whatever you want.” The nurse was gently swabbing her skin. “Are you both ready?” Sara shook her head and looked up at her mother. Mara kissed her forehead. “It’s okay, sweetie. It only hurts for a second and then we can have all the apples you can eat. Your stomach will hurt from so many apples. You might even turn into an apple.” Safa giggled and smiled. It’s the smile Mara doesn’t see enough. The nurse pressed the needle into her arm. Immediately Safa’s giggles got softer and her eyes drooped. With one great jaw cracking yawn she slipped into sleep, her soft hair falling in her face as her head lolled forward. One more moment and she wasn't Safa anymore. Her skin was flushed and warm but she wasn't there. A great wave of guilt swept over Mara and she let out a sob. If she would just open her eyes she would be Safa again. Maybe they could find apples like she promised. Maybe she could feed them both, protect them both. She started to shake and clutch at Safa's small body. She rocked them together. Back and forth like she had when Safa was an infant. She felt a scream bubbling up inside her but before she could make a noise the nurse pressed an inhaler into her mouth. Mara choked on the bitter mist and jerked the inhaler out of his hands. No! She needed to feel this. She needed to know this pain. She needed to be able to remember this or she wasn’t going to be able to handle what came next. She had to be ready for the moments that came after she left the clinic. She clutched at her own hysteria but it slipped away and replaced with a deep emptiness. Her arms slackened against her daughter’s small frame. The nurse gently lifted Safa’s body out of her arms and laid her on the examination table. Mara didn’t struggle. She stared down at the plastic mister and its metal canister. “Contains: Numbness. Assuredness. Resolution. To be used by adults only.” She paid for this. Chose it. Those three little compounds had been more than the procedure itself. Mara stood up and looked toward the nurse. She watched as he labeled her dead child and filled in little boxes on a form. She kept waiting for the pain and loss to flood back into her system but the drugs were good, strong, much better than anything you got on the streets. The numbness was complete. “Is there anything else?” “No, ma’am. If you’ll go left and follow the green stripe out the back exit you’ll find everything you need for your follow up.” Mara nodded and left the room. She watched the chipping green paint underneath her feet and followed the line outside. When she opened the metal door the smell of decay and smoke made her gag. On her right was a wooden table like the ones she used to eat on at camp as a child. The table held a pistol, a camera, and a microphone. She pressed the large “RECORD” button and a small red light flashed to life. With a steady hand she picked up the pistol and spoke into the camera. “This is Number 58427. It is May 23, 2052. My paperwork is complete and finances are in good standing.” The barrel felt cold in her mouth but her resolve did not falter. The drugs were good.	"Just came in my friend. Very special. I hear it's all the rage with the youth nowadays." "What is this? I've never even heard of this brand." The salesman took a beat before pushing his glasses back up the bridge of his nose. "They're a recent company. You may have heard of the new formula they created for 'Motivate'. I hear you can stay focused for hours at a time with their product and this...well...this is far more powerful than anything they've ever created." "Motivate! Yeah I heard of 'Motivate'. My friend's wife was on that stuff for a few weeks, said she's never felt better. So that was them then was it? This..." "Yes Sir, the very same. Ever since 'Motivate' hit the shelves the company have worked tirelessly to create a new formula. They've called it "Perfection". It's the ultimate satisfaction, the itch you need to scratch. Drink these and never be unhappy again." James knew this was a sales pitch. He wasn't an idiot. But something about the way this guy was selling this product, he just knew he'd have to try it. Just one bottle right? If he liked it he could come back for more. No commitment. "How much?" "Well, as I'm sure you're aware, perfection doesn't come cheap. It's currently marked at 60 Kants." James' heart sank. "More than I make in a week" he thought to himself, as he struggled to maintain composure in front of the smiling merchant. "Can I get credit? I really want to try it, but I just don't have the money right now." "Sorry sir, we only accept money up front, please return when you have the nece..." "No! Fine. F-Fine, I'll take it." James dug his hands in to his pockets, grabbing his holo and flipping open the lid. "10...20...40, here, 60" James held the money outstretched, a glazed look in his eye. "Thank You. Please don't hesitate to come back again." The merchant watched as the young man darted out of the shop, and walked briskly away. "Mr Rogers, where would you like the rest of 'Perfection'?". "Just leave them down by the counter Jenny, I'll move the rest once the shop gets a little quieter." The easiest money he's ever made. Selling 'Perfection' was a walk in the park and at 60 kants a pop, he'd be in the black for years to come. "Jenny, come cover the tills for me, I need to pop in to the back room for a second. The damn air conditioning is on the blink again, I'm roasting out here." "Yes Mr Rogers." Mr Rogers opened the utility cupboard and headed over to the large metal unit in the corner of the room. As he unscrewed the large metal plate covering the front of the machine, he took out a small, blue, round bottle. "Just one should do it." He poured about a teaspoon's worth of liquid in to the machine and sealed it back up with the screws he'd undone earlier. "Mr Rogers there is a customer out here asking for 'Perfection'. "Ok, I'll be out in a minute." He took another look at the bottle and gave a smile. "'Gullibility'. The best purchase I've ever made."
I think this could make for some interesting stories - if a doctor could physically feel the pain of their patient, it would mean they would be better at diagnosis, but the implications would be interesting. Also, medical school would be interesting. One might have to feel the pain of a lot of patients in order to get experience with different ailments.	[WP] Write a story about a doctor living in a world in which the technology exists to physically connect to another person and feel their pain.	He waited patiently outside of the twenty-four hour supermarket. He parked off to the left hand side, where the lights were a little dimmer, and the cameras didn't quite reach. Frederick lit a cigarette; he allowed the smoke to pool around him and obscure his vision. He liked to dim his senses beforehand. Through the smoke he saw the front doors open. The figure walked away from him, to the other side of the parking lot. A low growl vibrated from Fredrick's throat, but he managed to stay clam. He steadied his breathing, and he waited. The doors opened again. This figure--a man--walked towards him. Fredrick placed his hand on the door's handle and sat up straight. The lights on the car to his left flashed. Fredrick curled his right hand in anticipation. He released his fingers and opened the door. As Fredrick stepped out of the car he raised his hand to hail the man. "Excuse me!" he said, his voice shaking a little bit. "Did you see my wife in there? She's been gone awfully long and I'm beginning to worry." The man slowed his pace and turned towards Frederick. "What does she look like?" he answered, a note of helpfulness in his voice. "She's short, with graying brown hair." Fredrick reached into his pocket. He held his hand steady, curving his fingers around the hilt. The man started to announce that he hadn't seen her, but it didn't matter anymore. Fredrick pulled the blade from his pocket and slipped it into the side of the man. He collapsed; he screamed; he cried. Frederick barely managed to pull the man into his car. His limbs were weak and fragile; the adrenaline only helped so much. He pulled out the machine and applied the wires as quickly as possible. The rush of pain was immense. Frederick gasped for breath before yelling into the smoke-filled car. His yell wasn't of pain, like the shrieks of the man in the backseat, but one of pleasure. Frederick basked in it for a moment, before reaching under the passenger's seat. He pulled out a shabby first aide kit. Frederick climbed into the backseat and leaned over the man. Frederick could feel the man panicking more and more. "Please, stop," he begged. Frederick rummaged through the kit and finally pulled out a needle and thread. "Please," he said again, with tears in his eyes. "Don't worry," Frederick said. "I'm a doctor." A maniacal smirk crossed his face as he bent down towards the wound.	Karl Pilkington is that you?
	[WP] Shadows represent all of the regrets people have. One man has no shadow and is in an interview with a the only reporter whom he agreed to talk to.	"Where'd you like to start?" James said with a slight, perfectly charming smile. Tracy hesitated, her eyes flickering quickly to the single fluorescent light in the room. Her finger was still lightly resting on her Sony recorder. "Where would you say it all started?" She said finally. James' smile widened quickly, like he was holding back a laugh. "Started? This is just how I've always been." "But it isn't the same for anyone else, you don't have it." Tracy said. "If you want to really talk about it, you're going to have to define what 'it' is." James said. He pointed to Tracy's recorder, "For the record." Tracy swallowed. "You don't have a shadow." She said. "I sure don't." James replied. "How?" Tracy said, her fingers curling up slowly into fists. "Well," James began, "some things just leave a mark on your soul. Regret is one of them. When you live in the past, it drains your energy for the present. It's a choice though, you don't have to let regret own you." "A choice?" Tracy asked, a hint of anger creeping into her voice. "It's a choice yet you are the only human being out of seven billion that made the right one? I don't buy it." As she spoke, her shadows shifted like smoke behind her as she couldn't stop her mind from touching those memories. James stopped smiling. "Maybe you're right. I couldn't live my life any other way. It'd be just as hard for me to take your path as it would be for you to take mine." "But how do you do it?" Tracy asked. "How do you keep that weight around your neck?" James pointed at Tracy's darkest shadow in a gross gesture. The black splotch on the wall stank of abandonment. "Everything that happens in your life is an opportunity. You take where you are at and go from there. You always could have made different or better choices, but you have to deal with the ones you actually made. Where you are is where you are, no sense in worrying about where you aren't." Tracy seemed to think about this for a moment. "That... makes a little bit of sense." The lighting of room changed a little, her shadows almost seemed to lighten. She sighed and shook her head. "This isn't going to work for a newspaper bio though. Can we start again?" "You're right, sure. What do you want to ask?" James' smile began to come back. "Lets start with where we are now. Why did you finally agree to do this interview?" Tracy asked. "I guess I just want to add a little more light to the world."	Well, he didn't look how you would expect. When I first heard of his existence I immediately started to think of what he looked like. First, there was the blonde hair, naturally. Angelic. But he would have a tan, also. A slight bronze that marked his days spent in the pure rays of sunshine. Tall but nearly average height. Prominent nose. I guess I thought he would look like a Goldie Hawn-era Kurt Russell. But no, he just looked like a regular guy. He was probably 5'6 with brown, side-parted hair and light blue eyes. His hands were in his pockets which, combined with his off-the-rack suit, kind of gave him a shifty look. We met at the my office and since it was near midday no one noticed anything strange about him. I wonder if he did that on purpose? Didn't occur to me at the time and it kind of makes sense. I guess you take precautions when you're peculiar. He sat down in front of my desk and I just got to talking. I learned a long time ago the worst way to start any interview is with a question. Or at least, a direct question. You never want people to feel like they're being interviewed if you really want to know their story. Interviews are what cops and nurses do and in an interview, you tell people what they want to hear. But I want to hear the truth or at least, his truth. So he sat down in front of my desk and I asked him about sports. The draft came up so I asked if he followed the Eagles at all. He said no, not really. Just like that, "No, not really." Well, that might make him one of the embarrassing few who don't follow the birds so I stuck it to him a little bit. Asked him if he was a Cowboys fan and he said he doesn't follow sports. His family was very religious and they didn't care much for the profanities and indulgences of professional sports. So, he grew up without much exposure and so he never got the taste. I asked him about his family, where he grew and all that. Start to get the shaft in a little deeper you know. He wasn't from Philly originally, he came from Milleville over in Jersey. A family of four, he had an older brother named Roger. Roger was two years older than him and his parents worked as teachers at the public high school in town. I asked him about Roger because, people rarely have neutral feelings about siblings. They either love them or hate them but anyone who has one feels strongly about them. Well it turns out Roger was a little bit of a dick. Being older, he liked to pick on his younger brother in the ways a lot of older siblings do. He told me a story from their childhood that didn't make it to the article but I think is really at the core of this guy. Roger always had the nicer toys, being the older and more vocal one of the two. He had a water gun, one of those Super Soakers with the big orange water thingies. I don't know what they're called. Anyway, Roger would whip it out every summer and just wail on this guy just soaking him through. The parents never thought to get him his own Super Soaker so every summer he would just get wet. Well, one day, I guess he had enough so, while Roger was sleeping, he took the water gun out into the backyard and set it on fire. Mind you, he was a kid maybe 9 or 10 at this point and he just stood in the yard, poured some lighter fluid on the sucker and torched it until it was an orange and black puddle in the middle of the grass. The next day his brother shook him out of bed and asked what he did to the super soaker. I have to think he looked his brother square in the eye and said it to him the way he said it to me. "I didn't want you wetting me anymore so now you can't." And I believe him when he says that Roger stopped wetting him.
	[WP] Shadows represent all of the regrets people have. One man has no shadow and is in an interview with a the only reporter whom he agreed to talk to.	He stood there, white fedora on top of white hair. White dress shirt, white slacks, white shoes. It was as if this man was making a mockery of the shadows that everyone else had. Hell, Brandon's own shadow was over half his height! Brandon maintained a neutral expression, but clenched his left hand into a fist behind his back. "How do you do. My name is Brandon Baker," the reporter said, using every bit of his past drama classes to keep his voice pleasant. He extended his right hand out. "I'm, uh," the man in white mumbled, while fiddling with something near his hip. He flipped through a notebook, and looked up at Brandon. "My name is Howard Langley. Nice to meet you," he continued, as he grasped Brandon's outstretched hand. The man's grip was far firmer than Brandon had expected. "I'm glad you were able to make this meeting," Brandon started, coolly. Howard smiled nervously, before turning his attention towards his notebook. What kind of man needs to refer to a notebook for reply to this, let alone his own name? "I'm, uh, glad to be here." Howard shifted from foot to foot. Brandon had seen his share of nervous interviewees. Some were camera-shy; others had something to hide. Yet none of them acted out as much as Howard did. "Shadows are the regrets that people carry. You're the first person I've met that doesn't have a shadow. What's your secret?" Flip, flip, flip. Howard's brow furrowed, before he looked back up at Brandon, confusion in his eyes. "You...you didn't have that on the questions you sent me earlier," he whimpered. The reporter inwardly winced as he saw his interviewee's eyes fill with tears. "Normally, interviews are a spontaneous question-and-answer session. I know you're a special case, so I sent you a draft of the questions I had in mind, along with a disclaimer that I might change them." Howard produced a folded-up piece of paper, looked it over, and did nothing to retrieve it as he lost his grip on it. Brandon picked up the fallen sheet - it was the questions he'd sent to Howard. "This...why did you have everyone else write the answers to these? I wanted YOUR views!" Brandon bit his lip as Howard buried his face in his hands. The notebook, left without support, plummeted to the ground. The white fedora followed. The reporter picked up the notebook, then bit back a yelp as he read the page facing him. Your name is Howard Langley. You were a police officer, who was forced to retire early when you were shot in the head. The doctors were able to save your life, but not your past. Your short-term memory is limited to ten minutes, and your long-term memories are mostly non-existent. Call the following numbers if you run into trouble. Know that I am proud of you, and will support you to the end. Your loving wife, Pamela A wide scar bobbed on Howard's head, in time to his sobs. Brandon gently replaced Howard's hat. The older man looked up, his gray eyes puffy with tears. "Thank you, young man. I don't believe we've met?" Brandon handed Howard's notebook back to him. "Here. You dropped this." Howard's face lit up. "Oh, you're so very considerate! Ah, what am I doing here? I should go home soon. Say, do you know where this place is?" Brandon glanced at the address that was shown to him. "Turn around and go through that door," he replied. Howard tipped his hat towards him as he walked off of his own front lawn and into his house. Brandon looked on, silently. There's no way he could've arranged this interview on his own. But even if he didn't answer any questions, I have my answer. He started his car, and drove to a lake on the edge of town. Certain that no one was looking, he chucked the recorder out towards the lake as far as he could. The last glimmer of daylight shone on him, revealing a shadow that was merely a third of his height. EDIT: Formatting	I’ve don’t have any regrets, lived for way too long and I learned that regrets only get to you, one way or another. Don’t get me wrong I’ve had my share of regrets but a regret is nothing more than a wrong decision at the wrong time, and those cannot be avoided. That day, the day of the interview that is, my expectations were fulfilled, the questions were the ones that always popped in the common people minds. “Have you never made a bad decision?” That question is a classic always pops up and the answer is as static as the question. “Yes, of course I have” That answer brings the mind of the one who asks to the next obvious question. “How come you don’t have any apparent regret then?” Asks while looking at my shadow. “Regrets are for those who don’t know how to fight ghosts from the past, I’ve made plenty of bad things, things that would make the sickest people shiver, but I regret none, not because I’m a sick bastard, or someone who doesn’t has any remorse, but because once you lived enough you know that one day those ghosts will visit you and only one will leave the house next morning” After that answer, the interviewer looks at me confused, as if he didn’t know what the interview was about anymore. “Th… Things like wh… what?” He asks. “The kind of things that get you into trouble” And I sit there, in the comfortably cold couch, staring at my interviewer as he stared back with a look that only the unknown gets. I never granted an interview before, and I never will, at least in the distant future. ~~ ~~ Hi, thats the first time I post in writting prompt and the first time i post on reddit at all. I'm not a native english speaker and although i ran the whole text by word dictionary I'm sure there are s**tload of mistakes and wrong expresions. It's also the first time i write something to the public.
	[WP] You find out that whenever you are killed, you are revived with an immunity to whatever killed you. Document your experiences	It was exhilarating at first. I woke up in a hospital bed, surrounded by chaos and the stares of men and women wearing white. I knew I was in the hospital because it was the only thing that made sense - people go to the hospital after car accidents. They told me I had been dead for 14.5 minutes. Such an oddly specific duration of time. They also told me I had been impaled in the neck by a large piece of metal from the other driver's car. Damn. I was out of the hospital after several hours of baffled tests. After all the years, they're likely still analyzing those blood samples and CT scans, not that I care. A week later I was in yet another car accident, which also killed me. This time I fell asleep and flipped my car. Something caught fire and I burned to death. 14.5 minutes later I woke up under a sheet on the freeway, gave the paramedics the scare of their life. A few months later I was shot in a mugging gone wrong. Internal bleeding got me that time. I was one unlucky/lucky son of a bitch. Dying three times in three months, somehow coming back to life each time. It took me nearly 570 years to realize I couldn't die from the same thing twice. The damn rule was so specific, I thought I was just immortal and could revive every time I did die. Shot in the kidney? Wrong spot on the kidney, and the bullet was hollow point this time. Dead. Drowned? Sorry, it's tap water not river water this time around. Dead for 14.5 minutes on the dot. It was only when I hung myself twice in a row, in the exact same way, that it happened. I didn't die. At the time of writing this I've died hundreds of thousands of times. I get to live for an eternity, and sometimes cheat death, but nature always finds some excuse to kill me. It's alright though, I'll be back in 14.5 minutes.	When I first died, I came to as one would from a dream. I rose with the same knot in my back that had awakened me earlier that morning. Different from then was the wispy scar running across my chest, the only memory of the blade that had run me through. Around me were my countrymen, some squirming in their death, others motionless. I stood up, my back smarting in pain, and took in a new morning. At the time, I thought that the wound must not have been fatal or that the Gods must have favored me. Jupiter himself must have hurried me from the Elysian fields and returned me to the horror of the Danube. Undoubtedly, He had noble plans for me. As time hurried from the blossom of my youth to the twilight of my years, I retired to the fields outside Rome, as soldiers were wont to do. In my family's small, humble home, I sat by the bedside of my wife Attia and watched her last gasp and her eyes blanketed by death. Days later, I sat by her now emptied bed and let the grief in my heart overcome me, spiriting me away to the other wise where I would greet my beloved. I closed my eyes for what I thought would be the last time--dead not by the blade, but by heartbreak. I awoke again, as though pulled from the deepest reverie of sleep. But I no longer felt for my wife's passing. In fact, I felt nothing for her. I could little explain it, but decided perhaps I had merely fallen asleep. It was not until I died again that that I realized the curse that Jupiter weighed upon my soul. I spent many years piercing together the fragments of that third death: A night like any other, damp with the balmy summer air, and the creak from the bed of every toss and turn cutting into the silence. My heart failed. But my body did not. I awoke the next morning to a face in the mirror no longer muddled with the years and wizened by wisps of grey. It was me--undoubtedly, it was me--but far younger. Familiar were the stern brown eyes and short-cropped brown hair, and familiar was the face, yet the man before me today was not the man of yesterday, or the man who sat beside Attia's bedside. Truly, the man then is even more different than the man today. I was more of a man then than I am now. Then, there was a body that could be struck down by a Vandal's sword. There was a heart that could pine for a lover. There was a man who could be laid low by death. There was a man who could find peace. Now there is a man who has overcome much, but gained little. The sword held no threat, love no passion, death no fear, and life no peace. I passed through time, rising from death with as much commonness as one did a dream. But this nightmare of life did not end, not for me, and soon, if this anguish should prove the death of me, it too shall pass, and I shall awaken even less of a man.
	[WP] You find out that whenever you are killed, you are revived with an immunity to whatever killed you. Document your experiences	I was not born, I was forged. I died many many times. And I killed everything that killed me. Space couldn't make me stay dead. Suffocation couldn't make me stay dead. Not burning, not crushing, not disease, not even the flying man. Today, Doomsday returns again.	When I first died, I came to as one would from a dream. I rose with the same knot in my back that had awakened me earlier that morning. Different from then was the wispy scar running across my chest, the only memory of the blade that had run me through. Around me were my countrymen, some squirming in their death, others motionless. I stood up, my back smarting in pain, and took in a new morning. At the time, I thought that the wound must not have been fatal or that the Gods must have favored me. Jupiter himself must have hurried me from the Elysian fields and returned me to the horror of the Danube. Undoubtedly, He had noble plans for me. As time hurried from the blossom of my youth to the twilight of my years, I retired to the fields outside Rome, as soldiers were wont to do. In my family's small, humble home, I sat by the bedside of my wife Attia and watched her last gasp and her eyes blanketed by death. Days later, I sat by her now emptied bed and let the grief in my heart overcome me, spiriting me away to the other wise where I would greet my beloved. I closed my eyes for what I thought would be the last time--dead not by the blade, but by heartbreak. I awoke again, as though pulled from the deepest reverie of sleep. But I no longer felt for my wife's passing. In fact, I felt nothing for her. I could little explain it, but decided perhaps I had merely fallen asleep. It was not until I died again that that I realized the curse that Jupiter weighed upon my soul. I spent many years piercing together the fragments of that third death: A night like any other, damp with the balmy summer air, and the creak from the bed of every toss and turn cutting into the silence. My heart failed. But my body did not. I awoke the next morning to a face in the mirror no longer muddled with the years and wizened by wisps of grey. It was me--undoubtedly, it was me--but far younger. Familiar were the stern brown eyes and short-cropped brown hair, and familiar was the face, yet the man before me today was not the man of yesterday, or the man who sat beside Attia's bedside. Truly, the man then is even more different than the man today. I was more of a man then than I am now. Then, there was a body that could be struck down by a Vandal's sword. There was a heart that could pine for a lover. There was a man who could be laid low by death. There was a man who could find peace. Now there is a man who has overcome much, but gained little. The sword held no threat, love no passion, death no fear, and life no peace. I passed through time, rising from death with as much commonness as one did a dream. But this nightmare of life did not end, not for me, and soon, if this anguish should prove the death of me, it too shall pass, and I shall awaken even less of a man.
	[WP] You find out that whenever you are killed, you are revived with an immunity to whatever killed you. Document your experiences	It started in the outhouse. Admittedly, it was a ramshackle affair and I hadn't put entirely too much effort into building it, but honestly who expected the walls to collapse leaving me locked inside my own toilet for twelve days, sixteen hours, nine minutes, and twenty-three and a half seconds? Trust me, I counted. What else was I to do in there? No one heard my screams and I was pinned so tight I couldn't move naught but my left pinky finger. Twelve days, kiddo, that's how long it took until my body gave out. We'll not talk about why I lasted that long, alright? Some things are best left unsaid. Ahem. Next thing I know I'm zipping toward a ball of light and just as I'm about to reach it I find myself in the smallest pine box this side of the Mississippi. "Hot dang it all, was this the best ya'll could go and do?" I said, leaping out of the cramped confines of what my kin had planned on making my last address. Sister wailed and fainted, Ma clasped a rosary tight to her forehead and whispered fervent prayers, and my wife sat gaping with both hands pressed tight against her pregnant belly. "Angus!" My brother wheezed, popping his pipe from between fat lips. "You're alive!" "I am indeed, thank you. And why did it take ya'll so long to get me out of...wait a minute..." There was something mighty suspicious and familiar about that coffin, I tell you. Was it? Could they? They did! "This here's made out of the outhouse! You buried me in the outhouse. The same dag on thing that just near to killed me?!" "Oh, but Angus, waste not and want not." My wife, Anna, hedged cautiously before heaving to her feet. "Alive, a miracle, it's a miracle!" Ma cried as she bent to revive Sister. A miracle, they said. That's what it seemed like at first, but after a time it seemed to me that the devil had come by and bloody well cursed me right and proper. First it was the outhouse that done me in. I had starved and thirsted to death in that makeshift prison and after awakening found I no longer needed food nor drink. I took it nonetheless. What's the point of growing food for the family if I don't have any? And really, Brother makes a fine moonshine. But like I said before, that was just the start of it. Next came the bird. There I was minding my business when out of nowhere, just two weeks after waking in my outhouse pine box, a kamikaze sparrow winged out of the tree and smacked straight into my temple. Here we were in the midst of a great civil war in our new country and twice now I had succumbed to the most outlandish deaths. How is a man supposed to look himself in the eye when he's experienced death by outhouse and sparrow, I ask you? Again I woke in the outhouse box. At least they had taken the time to scrub it cleaner and hammer tight the nails that had poked out askew. It looked a smidge better than before, but still it chafed to wake up in one's repurposed privy. Well, at least after the sparrow incident I could withstand the hardest knocks against my noggin' without any repercussion. This came in handy because, truth be told, Sister had the most awful habit of rearranging our hanging kettles and pans in the kitchen. Many a night I had konked myself near senseless, but not anymore. I would like to say it ends here, really I would, but there's more. Brother was to blame for the third brush with death. He was sucking on his pipe and cleaning out his shotgun later that week when off it discharged. And guess who that wayward shell hit? Me. That's right. Of course it did. Blam! I was out. And again, thrice now blast it all, I awoke in that box. "That's enough! No man should be buried in his latrine not once, but three times!" I admit that I lost my temper. Forgive me Lord, it was wrong, but I yelled. And then I burnt that pine box into tiny cinders. I'll not ask repentance for that. That was justice. A man has to have some pride after all. Just a small bit. Clearly the homestead wasn't doing me any favors. I decided that at this rate I might as well try my luck with the war. If I didn't need food and I couldn't be harmed by blows to the head, it was safe to reason that bullets now had no effect either. That there is called deductive reasoning. I tried to explain it to the wife, but Anna clung and sobbed nonetheless. But I had made up my mind. If I was gonna go a fourth time then, by golly, I was going to go with honor. Besides, I would probably wake up later anyhow. So I joined the war. I fought alongside my brothers on the grassy plains, I waded through swamps, I pushed through the infantry lines. Why, I do dare say, that it was because of me that General Lee is the man he is today, but I suppose I'll save that story for after my nap. I'm a might bit tired, you see. Because age seems to not be killing me any more than the bullets, birds or toilets, but it sure does tire me out. So come on back in a few and I'll...zzzzz	When I first died, I came to as one would from a dream. I rose with the same knot in my back that had awakened me earlier that morning. Different from then was the wispy scar running across my chest, the only memory of the blade that had run me through. Around me were my countrymen, some squirming in their death, others motionless. I stood up, my back smarting in pain, and took in a new morning. At the time, I thought that the wound must not have been fatal or that the Gods must have favored me. Jupiter himself must have hurried me from the Elysian fields and returned me to the horror of the Danube. Undoubtedly, He had noble plans for me. As time hurried from the blossom of my youth to the twilight of my years, I retired to the fields outside Rome, as soldiers were wont to do. In my family's small, humble home, I sat by the bedside of my wife Attia and watched her last gasp and her eyes blanketed by death. Days later, I sat by her now emptied bed and let the grief in my heart overcome me, spiriting me away to the other wise where I would greet my beloved. I closed my eyes for what I thought would be the last time--dead not by the blade, but by heartbreak. I awoke again, as though pulled from the deepest reverie of sleep. But I no longer felt for my wife's passing. In fact, I felt nothing for her. I could little explain it, but decided perhaps I had merely fallen asleep. It was not until I died again that that I realized the curse that Jupiter weighed upon my soul. I spent many years piercing together the fragments of that third death: A night like any other, damp with the balmy summer air, and the creak from the bed of every toss and turn cutting into the silence. My heart failed. But my body did not. I awoke the next morning to a face in the mirror no longer muddled with the years and wizened by wisps of grey. It was me--undoubtedly, it was me--but far younger. Familiar were the stern brown eyes and short-cropped brown hair, and familiar was the face, yet the man before me today was not the man of yesterday, or the man who sat beside Attia's bedside. Truly, the man then is even more different than the man today. I was more of a man then than I am now. Then, there was a body that could be struck down by a Vandal's sword. There was a heart that could pine for a lover. There was a man who could be laid low by death. There was a man who could find peace. Now there is a man who has overcome much, but gained little. The sword held no threat, love no passion, death no fear, and life no peace. I passed through time, rising from death with as much commonness as one did a dream. But this nightmare of life did not end, not for me, and soon, if this anguish should prove the death of me, it too shall pass, and I shall awaken even less of a man.
	[WP] You find out that whenever you are killed, you are revived with an immunity to whatever killed you. Document your experiences	It was exhilarating at first. I woke up in a hospital bed, surrounded by chaos and the stares of men and women wearing white. I knew I was in the hospital because it was the only thing that made sense - people go to the hospital after car accidents. They told me I had been dead for 14.5 minutes. Such an oddly specific duration of time. They also told me I had been impaled in the neck by a large piece of metal from the other driver's car. Damn. I was out of the hospital after several hours of baffled tests. After all the years, they're likely still analyzing those blood samples and CT scans, not that I care. A week later I was in yet another car accident, which also killed me. This time I fell asleep and flipped my car. Something caught fire and I burned to death. 14.5 minutes later I woke up under a sheet on the freeway, gave the paramedics the scare of their life. A few months later I was shot in a mugging gone wrong. Internal bleeding got me that time. I was one unlucky/lucky son of a bitch. Dying three times in three months, somehow coming back to life each time. It took me nearly 570 years to realize I couldn't die from the same thing twice. The damn rule was so specific, I thought I was just immortal and could revive every time I did die. Shot in the kidney? Wrong spot on the kidney, and the bullet was hollow point this time. Dead. Drowned? Sorry, it's tap water not river water this time around. Dead for 14.5 minutes on the dot. It was only when I hung myself twice in a row, in the exact same way, that it happened. I didn't die. At the time of writing this I've died hundreds of thousands of times. I get to live for an eternity, and sometimes cheat death, but nature always finds some excuse to kill me. It's alright though, I'll be back in 14.5 minutes.	-123 She sipped the thick brew from the tiny cup she'd been served in and set it on its saucer. The little clinks of glass on glass echoed through the marble covered arcade of columns and shelves. A warm breeze blew in from the wing to her right rustling papers on the low table before her. She read through the reports they'd brought her and ignored the quiet echoing steps of visitors come to find their books on the endless tiered forest of the library. In the distance, a door opened, with a smashing of a latch and a slow muted squeal of hinges. A moment later, the sound was followed by the fixtured sound of the same door closing. It's echo danced through the auditorium from a lower level. She heard it. She dismissed it, but not the foot steps, louder than the rest, clopping across the marble and up the oaken stairs. "You're the one they call the Matron?" The stranger asked, running his eyes over every face in the vicinity. He was hunting for any body language hinting that this was a trap and locking their faces in his memory for a later time to consider. "Don't be silly. Take a seat." She told him. He inspected the chair giving it a cursory inspection before sitting. "You're the Matron?" He asked, disliking the feel of the stuffed chair. He didn't like soft things. He was a soldier and a damn fine one. Frills and fluff and pomp were for others, he enjoyed hard cots, firm chairs, and bad food. She sighed heavily. "I'm the Matron." She looked at him pointedly. He dipped his head. "Major Steve Winston." He supplied. "Steve Winston, I believe is more accurate." She told him. "You're no longer military, I believe." She looked him over. His head was bald, but she could see stubble telling her it was a personal choice. His clothes were freshly ironed. He was wearing boots more attuned to hiking than strolling a library. "Honorably discharged." He told her simply, aceeding to the fact. "You wouldn't be talking to me if it were otherwise." She fired back, taking up the tiny cup once more. "Beverage?" She asked. He held up a hand to forestall the woman's attendant who was already reaching for the tea tray. "No. I didn't come here to drink tea." He told her, darting a quick look at the tea tray and only thinly veiling his disgust. "Why have you come to me?" She asked, though he suspected she already knew the answer. "Colonel Bruges expressed a desire to recruit me for an off the books program. I agreed. I passed all the other screenings, and he said the final nod had to come from you. I'm here join up." He told her. "Do you understand the position you're volunteering to fill?" She asked. "I believe so. It's a permanent security position. We do off the books assignments deemed to dangerous for regular troops, like special forces." He told her. The attendant chuckled briefly, losing her composure for a moment. The Matron gave her an irritated look and the attendant quickly regained her composure. "Not like special forces." The Matron told him. "Much worse. Also, do you understand the what the term permanent position describes. It means that when you join, you're here for life. You don't get to retire. We are the oldest militia on the planet. Hell, there's rumors it was our founding fathers that killed off the dinosaurs. We are covert. We are eternal. We are legion. Now, do you still wish to join?" The Matron queeried. Steve looked over at the attendant, but she was implacable now, then back to the old woman in the black dress who looked like she was dressed for a funeral. "Will I get to do good?" He asked. She smiled with relief, relaxing some. "Absolutely." She told him. "Then, I'm in." He announced. "Excellent." She told him leaning forward to slide him a small black book. He opened it up but found the pages empty, all except for the first page. It had a today's date and time written in with the word shot written in behind it. He closed the book and set it down. "What is this?" He asked, as the needle entered his neck. He struggled and fought, but two more men came to hold his arms. He kicked out against the low table upsetting the flowers in the middle. He was strong and he strained mightily, but regardless, he couldn't stop them pushing the plunger. "What? No. No!!" He shouted, gasping as the contents of the syringe began to burn. The men dragged him from the chair and laid him out on the marble behind his chair. The other library patrons glanced over with hardly a concern and went about their business as if this sort of thing happened all the time. Steve bucked and bounced against the cold marble and foamed at the mouth. His eyes rolled up into his head and let out a terrible screech of pain and terror. "Well, don't just look at him. Get something between his teeth before he bites his tongue off." The Matron called to the attendant. The attendant removed her leather belt and handed it to one of the men, who promptly wedged it between Steve's teeth. The seizure they'd been waiting on shot through him a moment later. His legs and arm and neck twitched and slapped the marble and anything else within reach of their own accord. The other men who'd grabbed him, grabbed him again. It was a full five minutes before the tremors subsided. The attendant was given back her belt and while she put it back on, the other men stepped back to a respectful, but wary position. "Did your pussy have her kittens yet?" The Matron asked of her attendant. "Yes, mum." The attendant told her with a smile. Two calicos and one wee lad with fur black as ink." "Such a small litter." The Matron observed. "It's good for me though. Fewer kittens to get rid of." The attendant told her. "Mum wouldn't care for a kitten would she?" She teased. "Oh heaven's no. Could you imagine me suffering a little ball of teeth and claws at my age?" The old woman wheezed. The attendant laughed with her, but stopped when they heard Steve groan. "Wh-What tha fauck did you do to me?" He demanded, awkwardly climbing to his feet. He staggered and stumbled for a moment as he got his balance back. "What was in that needle?" He asked, blinking away the fog and grogginess. "Something special." She told him with a smile. "You asked what the book was for." The Matron recalled, coming to her feet. "Everytime you die, you're going to write down what killed you so that we know your ranking in or order. We can't be sending you in to a situation and having you revealing out secrets to the world. Could you imagine how the world would react if they saw dead men and women coming back to life after they'd been killed? Some people take them off the cross and worship them. Some start a zombie craze. The point is. We need to know what you've died from. Once you've died a certain number of times, we increase your rank and pay. Any questions?" "Yes. What the hell are you talkin--" The gunshot was deafening inside the marble arcade. All talking came to a stop and all eyes went to the thin woman in the black and white dress holding the smoking revolver. A moment passed and everyone returned to their prior activities. "I might take a calico for my grand daughter." The Matron told her attendant. "Let me know when they've been weened." She handed the revolver to her attendant who lifted her skirt and inserted into the holster strapped to her thigh. "WHAT THE FUCK!" Steve shouted, a moment later, coming to his feet. "Woman if you're going to shoot a man, you better not miss." He shouted, marching around the chair he'd been sitting in. He came to stand before the Matron who showed no worry whatsoever at the fury she saw in his eyes. "Well? Care to try again?" He snarled. The Matron reached down slowly and took his hand, closed all his fingers but one and shoved that finger into the hole in his chest over his heart. "At least until it stops bleeding." She told him. "We already made your entry for todays. You're responsible for keeping track of all the other times." She told him. Mrs. Green will be your liason with the agency. She'll take you through orientation." The Matron told him, strolling off and disappearing between rows of shelves. "What?" He called uncertainly, staring down at the hole he had his finger buried in. "What just happened?" He demanded. One last echoing call came back in answer. "Welcome to the family, Steve Winston."
	[WP] You find out that whenever you are killed, you are revived with an immunity to whatever killed you. Document your experiences	I was not born, I was forged. I died many many times. And I killed everything that killed me. Space couldn't make me stay dead. Suffocation couldn't make me stay dead. Not burning, not crushing, not disease, not even the flying man. Today, Doomsday returns again.	-123 She sipped the thick brew from the tiny cup she'd been served in and set it on its saucer. The little clinks of glass on glass echoed through the marble covered arcade of columns and shelves. A warm breeze blew in from the wing to her right rustling papers on the low table before her. She read through the reports they'd brought her and ignored the quiet echoing steps of visitors come to find their books on the endless tiered forest of the library. In the distance, a door opened, with a smashing of a latch and a slow muted squeal of hinges. A moment later, the sound was followed by the fixtured sound of the same door closing. It's echo danced through the auditorium from a lower level. She heard it. She dismissed it, but not the foot steps, louder than the rest, clopping across the marble and up the oaken stairs. "You're the one they call the Matron?" The stranger asked, running his eyes over every face in the vicinity. He was hunting for any body language hinting that this was a trap and locking their faces in his memory for a later time to consider. "Don't be silly. Take a seat." She told him. He inspected the chair giving it a cursory inspection before sitting. "You're the Matron?" He asked, disliking the feel of the stuffed chair. He didn't like soft things. He was a soldier and a damn fine one. Frills and fluff and pomp were for others, he enjoyed hard cots, firm chairs, and bad food. She sighed heavily. "I'm the Matron." She looked at him pointedly. He dipped his head. "Major Steve Winston." He supplied. "Steve Winston, I believe is more accurate." She told him. "You're no longer military, I believe." She looked him over. His head was bald, but she could see stubble telling her it was a personal choice. His clothes were freshly ironed. He was wearing boots more attuned to hiking than strolling a library. "Honorably discharged." He told her simply, aceeding to the fact. "You wouldn't be talking to me if it were otherwise." She fired back, taking up the tiny cup once more. "Beverage?" She asked. He held up a hand to forestall the woman's attendant who was already reaching for the tea tray. "No. I didn't come here to drink tea." He told her, darting a quick look at the tea tray and only thinly veiling his disgust. "Why have you come to me?" She asked, though he suspected she already knew the answer. "Colonel Bruges expressed a desire to recruit me for an off the books program. I agreed. I passed all the other screenings, and he said the final nod had to come from you. I'm here join up." He told her. "Do you understand the position you're volunteering to fill?" She asked. "I believe so. It's a permanent security position. We do off the books assignments deemed to dangerous for regular troops, like special forces." He told her. The attendant chuckled briefly, losing her composure for a moment. The Matron gave her an irritated look and the attendant quickly regained her composure. "Not like special forces." The Matron told him. "Much worse. Also, do you understand the what the term permanent position describes. It means that when you join, you're here for life. You don't get to retire. We are the oldest militia on the planet. Hell, there's rumors it was our founding fathers that killed off the dinosaurs. We are covert. We are eternal. We are legion. Now, do you still wish to join?" The Matron queeried. Steve looked over at the attendant, but she was implacable now, then back to the old woman in the black dress who looked like she was dressed for a funeral. "Will I get to do good?" He asked. She smiled with relief, relaxing some. "Absolutely." She told him. "Then, I'm in." He announced. "Excellent." She told him leaning forward to slide him a small black book. He opened it up but found the pages empty, all except for the first page. It had a today's date and time written in with the word shot written in behind it. He closed the book and set it down. "What is this?" He asked, as the needle entered his neck. He struggled and fought, but two more men came to hold his arms. He kicked out against the low table upsetting the flowers in the middle. He was strong and he strained mightily, but regardless, he couldn't stop them pushing the plunger. "What? No. No!!" He shouted, gasping as the contents of the syringe began to burn. The men dragged him from the chair and laid him out on the marble behind his chair. The other library patrons glanced over with hardly a concern and went about their business as if this sort of thing happened all the time. Steve bucked and bounced against the cold marble and foamed at the mouth. His eyes rolled up into his head and let out a terrible screech of pain and terror. "Well, don't just look at him. Get something between his teeth before he bites his tongue off." The Matron called to the attendant. The attendant removed her leather belt and handed it to one of the men, who promptly wedged it between Steve's teeth. The seizure they'd been waiting on shot through him a moment later. His legs and arm and neck twitched and slapped the marble and anything else within reach of their own accord. The other men who'd grabbed him, grabbed him again. It was a full five minutes before the tremors subsided. The attendant was given back her belt and while she put it back on, the other men stepped back to a respectful, but wary position. "Did your pussy have her kittens yet?" The Matron asked of her attendant. "Yes, mum." The attendant told her with a smile. Two calicos and one wee lad with fur black as ink." "Such a small litter." The Matron observed. "It's good for me though. Fewer kittens to get rid of." The attendant told her. "Mum wouldn't care for a kitten would she?" She teased. "Oh heaven's no. Could you imagine me suffering a little ball of teeth and claws at my age?" The old woman wheezed. The attendant laughed with her, but stopped when they heard Steve groan. "Wh-What tha fauck did you do to me?" He demanded, awkwardly climbing to his feet. He staggered and stumbled for a moment as he got his balance back. "What was in that needle?" He asked, blinking away the fog and grogginess. "Something special." She told him with a smile. "You asked what the book was for." The Matron recalled, coming to her feet. "Everytime you die, you're going to write down what killed you so that we know your ranking in or order. We can't be sending you in to a situation and having you revealing out secrets to the world. Could you imagine how the world would react if they saw dead men and women coming back to life after they'd been killed? Some people take them off the cross and worship them. Some start a zombie craze. The point is. We need to know what you've died from. Once you've died a certain number of times, we increase your rank and pay. Any questions?" "Yes. What the hell are you talkin--" The gunshot was deafening inside the marble arcade. All talking came to a stop and all eyes went to the thin woman in the black and white dress holding the smoking revolver. A moment passed and everyone returned to their prior activities. "I might take a calico for my grand daughter." The Matron told her attendant. "Let me know when they've been weened." She handed the revolver to her attendant who lifted her skirt and inserted into the holster strapped to her thigh. "WHAT THE FUCK!" Steve shouted, a moment later, coming to his feet. "Woman if you're going to shoot a man, you better not miss." He shouted, marching around the chair he'd been sitting in. He came to stand before the Matron who showed no worry whatsoever at the fury she saw in his eyes. "Well? Care to try again?" He snarled. The Matron reached down slowly and took his hand, closed all his fingers but one and shoved that finger into the hole in his chest over his heart. "At least until it stops bleeding." She told him. "We already made your entry for todays. You're responsible for keeping track of all the other times." She told him. Mrs. Green will be your liason with the agency. She'll take you through orientation." The Matron told him, strolling off and disappearing between rows of shelves. "What?" He called uncertainly, staring down at the hole he had his finger buried in. "What just happened?" He demanded. One last echoing call came back in answer. "Welcome to the family, Steve Winston."
	[WP] You find out that whenever you are killed, you are revived with an immunity to whatever killed you. Document your experiences	It was exhilarating at first. I woke up in a hospital bed, surrounded by chaos and the stares of men and women wearing white. I knew I was in the hospital because it was the only thing that made sense - people go to the hospital after car accidents. They told me I had been dead for 14.5 minutes. Such an oddly specific duration of time. They also told me I had been impaled in the neck by a large piece of metal from the other driver's car. Damn. I was out of the hospital after several hours of baffled tests. After all the years, they're likely still analyzing those blood samples and CT scans, not that I care. A week later I was in yet another car accident, which also killed me. This time I fell asleep and flipped my car. Something caught fire and I burned to death. 14.5 minutes later I woke up under a sheet on the freeway, gave the paramedics the scare of their life. A few months later I was shot in a mugging gone wrong. Internal bleeding got me that time. I was one unlucky/lucky son of a bitch. Dying three times in three months, somehow coming back to life each time. It took me nearly 570 years to realize I couldn't die from the same thing twice. The damn rule was so specific, I thought I was just immortal and could revive every time I did die. Shot in the kidney? Wrong spot on the kidney, and the bullet was hollow point this time. Dead. Drowned? Sorry, it's tap water not river water this time around. Dead for 14.5 minutes on the dot. It was only when I hung myself twice in a row, in the exact same way, that it happened. I didn't die. At the time of writing this I've died hundreds of thousands of times. I get to live for an eternity, and sometimes cheat death, but nature always finds some excuse to kill me. It's alright though, I'll be back in 14.5 minutes.	I walk forward. Forward, and no other direction, feeling the weight of my armor and my weapons against my body, clinking quietly. I thought to myself that it was a blessing to be the way I am, effectively invincible in the life of a former High Knight. I suppose I should mention that I once served under King Henry IV, and I served under him from 1366 until the day he died in 1413. He was a relatively good King, at least in my eyes. I was born into nobility, and I soon became a squire. After I had served my years as a squire, I became a knight, slowly working my way up to be the Head Knight of His Kingship. But none of that's important now, I suppose. The first time I died was in the first war that I served in; I can't remember the name, nor do I wish to...it was...bloody horrible to be quite frank. I took an arrow to my left shoulder, somehow slipping in between my iron pauldrons and my chest piece, and I was still trying to get the arrow to break off so that I might be able to get it removed after the fight I was currently in. An enemy soldier saw me, wounded and vulnerable, and went to dispatch me. He walked over, and very dishonorably, tore my helmet from my head and stabbed me right through the middle of my forehead. By the time I came back, I found that the fight was still going on, though not where I was at. My fellow brethren had pushed forward towards the keep we were trying to take, and I was able to stand and collect my weapons. I looked at my shoulder, and found that the arrow had fallen out as well, which was a bit surprising other than the fact that I ended up living after being stabbed through the brain with a broadsword. That was the first time I died, and it wasn't even close to the first. I survived as a knight, and eventually made a living as a mercenary through the centuries to come, earning my keep and my money through killing those that I was hired to. After a while, I soon become known as the "Unkillable". Every army wanted me, every king wished to have me as a body guard, all of the women that knew of that kind of matter wished for me to betroth them...but I did none of that. I had been stabbed, burned, beaten, drowned, starved, hell, I've even experienced a few executions such as Drawing and Quartering, and even the Wheel. But, moving onwards I suppose. I'm now past the years of the dark ages, and I've lived to see the wonders of the 21st Century, and living with technology beyond anything I could have ever dreamed of. When the first computer came out, it boggled my mind, much like my surprise when I travelled to Italy and saw the first gun...which then proceeded to shoot me and kill me, but it still amazed me that someone so small could launch a pit of iron small enough to fit into a pouch and enough to kill me, had actually been invented. During these years, I missed wearing my armor and my weapons, considering that I knew I was a stranger within a time that I shouldn't be in. When people spoke about the history of my time as if it never happened...now that was interesting. I was often looked at to tell people of that time as I was the one who was the most accurate, more accurate than those of the local scholars most of the time. It was fascinating, and I was still learning and finding new ways to die, surprisingly. I died to a nuclear weapon somewhere in 2183, when what used to be Russia launched a nuclear warhead toward the United States. I was there learning some form of martial art -- once a soldier, always a soldier, right? What I like to refer to as the Collapse happened shortly after, however many will call it World War 3. What happened next was surprising, to be honest. When the Collapse progressed into destroying the cities and everything else, a lot of the weapons such as guns and different types of weapons that didn't use ammunition at all were lost, damaged, or just completely rare enough to not be worth looking for anymore, and there weren't any that could be made...not without the right tools and factories and the ones that were in use at the time were destroyed to help with the war effort. I finally got to wear my armor again, or at least, something similar. It was my time again. But I have lived for centuries, I have died countless times, and I can tell you, as I trudge forward through water, mud, smoke and war...I am a soldier at heart, and I have always been a soldier at heart. As I stand atop a crumbling building, looking out over a city that I know will eventually fall to nothing but smolders, embers and fires, piling the bodies high, I will continue to pull my hood up onto my head, and I will continue to draw my sword to at least defend those who cannot defend themselves. I will stand up for those who are victims to death and war, because I can't become a victim. I have been deemed the Deathless by many, and the Unkillable by others. But they don't know that I died long ago, and that the only reason why I continue to defend and to try, is to attempt to defend those who are under tyrannical rule, to put meaning into my life. I fight for those who cannot fight, I sacrifice for those who cannot afford to sacrifice, and I will do so until the day that this city dies...and then I'll do so in the next one that rises up in it's place. Death isn't what you should fear...you should instead fear the possibility that you will quit trying, because if you stop trying, then you won't have anything to live for, let alone die for.
	[WP] You find out that whenever you are killed, you are revived with an immunity to whatever killed you. Document your experiences	It started in the outhouse. Admittedly, it was a ramshackle affair and I hadn't put entirely too much effort into building it, but honestly who expected the walls to collapse leaving me locked inside my own toilet for twelve days, sixteen hours, nine minutes, and twenty-three and a half seconds? Trust me, I counted. What else was I to do in there? No one heard my screams and I was pinned so tight I couldn't move naught but my left pinky finger. Twelve days, kiddo, that's how long it took until my body gave out. We'll not talk about why I lasted that long, alright? Some things are best left unsaid. Ahem. Next thing I know I'm zipping toward a ball of light and just as I'm about to reach it I find myself in the smallest pine box this side of the Mississippi. "Hot dang it all, was this the best ya'll could go and do?" I said, leaping out of the cramped confines of what my kin had planned on making my last address. Sister wailed and fainted, Ma clasped a rosary tight to her forehead and whispered fervent prayers, and my wife sat gaping with both hands pressed tight against her pregnant belly. "Angus!" My brother wheezed, popping his pipe from between fat lips. "You're alive!" "I am indeed, thank you. And why did it take ya'll so long to get me out of...wait a minute..." There was something mighty suspicious and familiar about that coffin, I tell you. Was it? Could they? They did! "This here's made out of the outhouse! You buried me in the outhouse. The same dag on thing that just near to killed me?!" "Oh, but Angus, waste not and want not." My wife, Anna, hedged cautiously before heaving to her feet. "Alive, a miracle, it's a miracle!" Ma cried as she bent to revive Sister. A miracle, they said. That's what it seemed like at first, but after a time it seemed to me that the devil had come by and bloody well cursed me right and proper. First it was the outhouse that done me in. I had starved and thirsted to death in that makeshift prison and after awakening found I no longer needed food nor drink. I took it nonetheless. What's the point of growing food for the family if I don't have any? And really, Brother makes a fine moonshine. But like I said before, that was just the start of it. Next came the bird. There I was minding my business when out of nowhere, just two weeks after waking in my outhouse pine box, a kamikaze sparrow winged out of the tree and smacked straight into my temple. Here we were in the midst of a great civil war in our new country and twice now I had succumbed to the most outlandish deaths. How is a man supposed to look himself in the eye when he's experienced death by outhouse and sparrow, I ask you? Again I woke in the outhouse box. At least they had taken the time to scrub it cleaner and hammer tight the nails that had poked out askew. It looked a smidge better than before, but still it chafed to wake up in one's repurposed privy. Well, at least after the sparrow incident I could withstand the hardest knocks against my noggin' without any repercussion. This came in handy because, truth be told, Sister had the most awful habit of rearranging our hanging kettles and pans in the kitchen. Many a night I had konked myself near senseless, but not anymore. I would like to say it ends here, really I would, but there's more. Brother was to blame for the third brush with death. He was sucking on his pipe and cleaning out his shotgun later that week when off it discharged. And guess who that wayward shell hit? Me. That's right. Of course it did. Blam! I was out. And again, thrice now blast it all, I awoke in that box. "That's enough! No man should be buried in his latrine not once, but three times!" I admit that I lost my temper. Forgive me Lord, it was wrong, but I yelled. And then I burnt that pine box into tiny cinders. I'll not ask repentance for that. That was justice. A man has to have some pride after all. Just a small bit. Clearly the homestead wasn't doing me any favors. I decided that at this rate I might as well try my luck with the war. If I didn't need food and I couldn't be harmed by blows to the head, it was safe to reason that bullets now had no effect either. That there is called deductive reasoning. I tried to explain it to the wife, but Anna clung and sobbed nonetheless. But I had made up my mind. If I was gonna go a fourth time then, by golly, I was going to go with honor. Besides, I would probably wake up later anyhow. So I joined the war. I fought alongside my brothers on the grassy plains, I waded through swamps, I pushed through the infantry lines. Why, I do dare say, that it was because of me that General Lee is the man he is today, but I suppose I'll save that story for after my nap. I'm a might bit tired, you see. Because age seems to not be killing me any more than the bullets, birds or toilets, but it sure does tire me out. So come on back in a few and I'll...zzzzz	I shoulda read the fine print. But, like most desperate people, I wasn’t thinking too many steps ahead. The $1000 dollars the classified ad promised as payment for taking part in an experimental new medical treatment was the answer to the problems of that month. When I showed up they said that the drug was a revolutionary new treatment that would make your body immune to whatever had killed you. Essentially, the pretty HR lady told me, it was an attempt to make people immortal. She warned me that there could be side effects, even death, and she made me sign a long form. I paused before signing that form, but ultimately figured I had nothing to lose. I had lost my job the week before and my girlfriend the day after. My rent was coming due and I had nothing in my bank account. I wasn’t close to my family and had no close friends. In short, I was a loser with no ambition, no goals, no life. Risking that existence against the $1000 and the chance to be immortal, I figured it was a fair risk to take. I took the pill, got my cheque, and went home. My life changed from that day forward. Out of the pool of 1200 candidates, I was the only one who survived. Turns out, the experiment wasn’t exactly legal and the company that administered the drug was shut down and those in charge prosecuted for murder. After they ended up killing 1199, my case was considered a lucky fluke. I was a minor celebrity for a month or so when the others died, and for a week or so when the perpetrators were sentenced, with every news agency wanting my opinion. Apparently living through something makes you an expert. Anyway, that wasn’t what changed my life. What changed my life was when I realized that it had actually worked. I had taken a rough job as a lumberjack in the forests of British Columbia. It was hard, dirty, exhausting work. I wasn’t that great at it, but not bad enough that I was fired. They were desperate for workers. One day, I was hooking a chain from a skidder to a log when, out of nowhere, a big ole fir tree lands on me, and kills me. Of course, I didn’t realize it had killed me. I felt a thud on my back, felt intense pain as bones crunched and organs exploded, and then blacked out. Then I remember the log being lifted off of me by a piece of heavy machinery. No one around me could believe I survived. But I was alive, and after the camp doctor checked me out, I was declared the world’s luckiest man. In the weeks following, I discovered I couldn’t get slivers. My skin was impervious to wood. Then, I remembered the HR lady had said I would be immune to whatever had killed you. I had assumed she meant you couldn’t die via the method that killed you. I took out the literature I had received and started reading it clause by clause. What I read confirmed that my body became impervious to the substance that killed me. Steel, flesh, lead, poison, virus, bacteria, you name it – once it had killed me, my body resurrected impervious to that substance. It was incredible. After some nerve-fraying expiriments, I realized I could make a lot of money. I started a medical research company. No one knew about my condition except my top scientists, and I compensated them so well there was no danger of them letting my secret out. We had to start using special instruments made of exotic materials to perform medical procedures after a careless doctor killed me with his stainless steel knife, but other than that, there weren’t a whole lot of inconveniences. I got rich. Fantastically rich. Mega-yacht rich. Life was good. Then, one day, on my yacht in the Bahamas, after I had a little too much to drink, I fell overboard into the water. I drowned. I’m so thirsty. Shoulda read the goddam fine print.
	[WP] You find out that whenever you are killed, you are revived with an immunity to whatever killed you. Document your experiences	They were calling him the world's first superhero. His was the only story on all the news channels for over a week. Everyone seemed to fall into one of two camps; those who would let him be, and those wanting to hand him over to the military for analysis and testing. Arthur himself was still struggling to make sense of the whole thing. He kept going back to that day as a child. The day that bus crashed through the flimsy metal barrier and tumbled off the bridge into the river below. He remembered it all, something the doctors told him was strange. Most of the other children had been knocked unconscious by the crash, their bodies floating with an eerie grace. They made futile attempts to escape. Cruelly, the windows on the old bus had been stuck in a half-open position for years. Large enough to flood the bus in under a minute, too small for escape. The last thing he remembered was watching a classmate open his mouth and scream in silent terror. When he woke up in the hospital, he was confused. It didn't make sense. He remembered his drowning peer and the blackness that washed over him soon after. Apparently a volunteer fireman had been on the bridge when it happened and immediately dived after the bus. The brave man had been too late for the rest of them but was able to pull a lifeless Arthur Curry from the wreckage. The doctors were puzzled at his survival but said such "miracles" were more common than people think. Arthur always had a strange feeling that something more happened that day. That something was missing. That was years ago. Since then he'd avoided deep bodies of water but taken up swimming, almost never missing a day. He was walking to his nearby gym for one such a swim when it happened. He always hated having to walk over the bridge that had nearly killed him, but loved his hometown dearly and so he stayed close to home. It happened in slow motion. The texting man crossing the median, the woman swerving to avoid him, the crash through the patch-worked barrier. As he dived in he wondered how it hadn't been replaced in the last twenty years. He got the driver out first, she was able to swim to the surface. Her friend was unconscious and buckled into the passenger seat. His mind flashed back to that day as a child as he tried to free her. As soon as he did the car hit the bottom, hard. It lodged in the mud and the driver door slammed shut, trapping his ankle, dooming the still unconscious passenger. There was no brave fireman to save him this time. He sat there in pain, waiting to die. He felt the tightness in his chest that signalled the end was near. When he could resist no more, he embraced his fate and swallowed the dirty river water. It was like a breath of fresh air. Though the water couldn't kill him, the shock nearly did. When the rescuers finally arrived ten minutes later, they found a panicked, injured, but alive Arthur Curry. It took three trips before the divers were able to free his leg. After that everything was a blur. Police and reporters yelling over each other with the same questions. "Who are you?" "How are you still alive?" What are you?" It was all too much and when he spotted a friend in the traffic jam it had caused, he jumped in and told him to drive. He looked out at the Pacific Ocean. Water far as the eye could see. He didn't know why it felt so right, but he knew it did. He walked slowly into the waves. It felt different in his lungs than the muddy river water, refreshing. Then, he knew it was right. Then, he knew he was home. So began the second life of Arthur Curry. A life as the Marine Marvel, King of the Seven Seas. A life as...AQUAMAN.	You know what I hate? Irony. What's so Ironic about my damn Life you ask? Well, my name is Kenneth McCormick, and that's right, I can't fucking die. I discovered this "talent" crossing Queens Boulevard one day when I got crushed by a tractor trailer that ran a red light. Out of nowhere I heard this loud truck horn and my bones getting cracked into splinters. The next thing I knew, I was naked with a toetag in the freezer at Elmhurst Hospital. The looks on those doctor's faces were absolutely priceless. Hell, I still die now from time to time just to see the looks on their faces when I come out of the freezer like Jesus fucking Christ. It's still kind of fun, in a morbid way, to die or commit acts which would kill a layman in front of other people, their looks of shock and awe provide me with the only real enjoyment I can have anymore. After living for about two centuries, you get pretty fucking bored, pretty fucking quickly. I've been every different type of engineer imaginable, I've discovered more than anyone alive today. I've read copious amounts of books, and I've even lead a communist revolution. But alas I grow bored of my time on earth, and of my time in this universe. I know I'll outlive the earth, the stars, and even the universe. I'm condemned to being the last one. I fear that, and I am forced to comprehend a timescale no human brain should ever have to comprehend. Sometimes I wish I could just fucking die already.
	[WP] You find out that whenever you are killed, you are revived with an immunity to whatever killed you. Document your experiences	It was WW2 d-day a French beach in Normandy, and I was dying. A 50 cal bullet tore my body in two. I looked to my sidee and saw my innards on the ground, blood staining the sand I scream in agony as the pain is unbearable, sand entering my body, burning it. I see another soldier run at me, American. He pulls out a pistol, and shoots me point blank in the face. It was a mercy killing. It feels like hours and suddenly I'm awake, standing exactly where I was shot. More bullets hit me, and bounce clean off. I was so confused, what could be causing this? I wasn't able to find out since a stick grenade landed at my feet blowing me to bits. More hours pass and I wake up again right before the grenade was thrown. I see the grenade coming and I jump onto it. The grenade blasted me insights air and I landed with a thud, still alive. A sudden relization occurs, whatever kills me, makes me immune to it. I grab my gun and charge straight at the Germans not afraid of anything anymore. I die a few more times to a new weapon, but each time I come back immune. When the battle is over, many of my fellow troops stay away from scared, some call me a ghost, one man goes historical claiming I'm his comrade he lost from a previous battle. Fearing what I might cause I leave. I appear throughout many battles across Europe as just another lost soldier separated from his platoon killing countless enemies and dealing with snipers and tanks that would have killed any one else. Time passes, and it seems I'm immune to aging since before I know it, Germany loses. Years go by and I'm living in a free France, the place where I discovers my gift. While documentaries I see that I appear in many as "the ghost of war" an myth started by troops to boost moral. Funny I thought. Soon decades have passed and depression has seeped into my mine. I've tried leaping from buildings, hanging my self and even using a electrical outlet as a key holder. Nothing. I needed something to make feel more than just this "myth" the world has given me. Or Perhaps I need to believe it? I realize the real me died that day in Normandy and the ghost of war took my place. I take a plane to the nearest conflict, Vietnam. During the war I realize my new mission. To be this myth and fight for what I believe in, I have this gift and its time to use it. The Ghost of War has been around for centuries now and I've even fought in the Martian rebellion of the Republic of Humanity, and I'm always proud to serve. I'm currently on my way to to Pluto where terrorist are attacking mining operations. The Ghost of War lives on	You know what I hate? Irony. What's so Ironic about my damn Life you ask? Well, my name is Kenneth McCormick, and that's right, I can't fucking die. I discovered this "talent" crossing Queens Boulevard one day when I got crushed by a tractor trailer that ran a red light. Out of nowhere I heard this loud truck horn and my bones getting cracked into splinters. The next thing I knew, I was naked with a toetag in the freezer at Elmhurst Hospital. The looks on those doctor's faces were absolutely priceless. Hell, I still die now from time to time just to see the looks on their faces when I come out of the freezer like Jesus fucking Christ. It's still kind of fun, in a morbid way, to die or commit acts which would kill a layman in front of other people, their looks of shock and awe provide me with the only real enjoyment I can have anymore. After living for about two centuries, you get pretty fucking bored, pretty fucking quickly. I've been every different type of engineer imaginable, I've discovered more than anyone alive today. I've read copious amounts of books, and I've even lead a communist revolution. But alas I grow bored of my time on earth, and of my time in this universe. I know I'll outlive the earth, the stars, and even the universe. I'm condemned to being the last one. I fear that, and I am forced to comprehend a timescale no human brain should ever have to comprehend. Sometimes I wish I could just fucking die already.
	[WP] You find out that whenever you are killed, you are revived with an immunity to whatever killed you. Document your experiences	Dr. Jeon comes into the hospital room with a mask, gloves, and a needle. "How are you doing today, Frank?" "All right, how about yourself?" "Fine, fine. How was France?" I just got back a couple days ago. Between tests, when they don't need me, they send me wherever I want to go with charity money. I don't think I deserve that kind of treatment, but they do. And it is nice of them, I guess. "Sure changed a lot since the last time I've been there." "When was that?" "Hm, forty, fifty years ago?" "I bet, Frank." They try to always send in the same doctor to me, so we can build up a rapport. The last doctor, Dr. Saunders, retired five or ten years ago. Dr. Jeon is a lot more reserved, but he's nice too. "Is this that new flu you told me about?" "Yep." "How many dead?" "Four hundred, five hundred? Mostly affects children." "Say no more. Hit me." "You're amazing, Frank," he says as he wipes my arm with the anesthetic. "What else can an old man like me do?" He finishes with the injection and steps towards the door. "I have to go now, Frank. I'll check back tomorrow. The nurses will bring you anything you want. Good luck." I nod at him. I've died from everything: AIDS, every new variant of the flu, hundreds of poisons, nerve gas, cholera, mad cow disease, you name it. It's just as bad as it sounds. Every one is awful in its own way. I die, for a few minutes. But then I come back and I recover. I get immune. They figured this out when I was 110. I'd always been known as a tough old bird. I survived polio when I was a kid, pneumonia, mumps, scarlet fever- nothing ever really got me. I bounced back from them all. Same thing when I was older. I got a bunch of stuff (including cancer, that was the scariest) but fought it all off. The doctors finally noticed when I died from heart failure. I was fine, I was ready to go. I'd had a good life. My family all figured it was time too. They were all around me in the hospital room. Then twenty minutes later, I was awake again- on the way into the morgue. Scared the shit out of some nurse. That was the one that drove everyone crazy. I still remember the doctors all saying "this is impossible, this has never happened!" That was when they figured me out and started investigating me and testing me. When I wake up, they take blood samples and tissue samples and look at it and do God knows what with it and they end up with medicines. They say I've saved millions of people. That makes me feel good, anyway. I know I should have died a long time ago. My family never comes and sees me anymore. They like talking about me, but would you really want to talk to your great-great-great-grandfather? Didn't think so. You've never met him, he was always in the hospital dying from some disease. What does he matter? I've been damn near everywhere with the traveling. It's interesting. I never could have imagined it back at home before they figured me out. I'd never even left the east coast before then. I like trying their food. But I wish my wife could have been with me. Traveling alone all the time gets on your nerves. But I know I have to keep hanging around, because nothing out there can kill me. I know I'll get bored of everything eventually. At least I'll be saving people. That's all I have to hang on to. I'm helping people. I'm the world's sacrifice.	You know what I hate? Irony. What's so Ironic about my damn Life you ask? Well, my name is Kenneth McCormick, and that's right, I can't fucking die. I discovered this "talent" crossing Queens Boulevard one day when I got crushed by a tractor trailer that ran a red light. Out of nowhere I heard this loud truck horn and my bones getting cracked into splinters. The next thing I knew, I was naked with a toetag in the freezer at Elmhurst Hospital. The looks on those doctor's faces were absolutely priceless. Hell, I still die now from time to time just to see the looks on their faces when I come out of the freezer like Jesus fucking Christ. It's still kind of fun, in a morbid way, to die or commit acts which would kill a layman in front of other people, their looks of shock and awe provide me with the only real enjoyment I can have anymore. After living for about two centuries, you get pretty fucking bored, pretty fucking quickly. I've been every different type of engineer imaginable, I've discovered more than anyone alive today. I've read copious amounts of books, and I've even lead a communist revolution. But alas I grow bored of my time on earth, and of my time in this universe. I know I'll outlive the earth, the stars, and even the universe. I'm condemned to being the last one. I fear that, and I am forced to comprehend a timescale no human brain should ever have to comprehend. Sometimes I wish I could just fucking die already.
	[WP] You find out that whenever you are killed, you are revived with an immunity to whatever killed you. Document your experiences	They were calling him the world's first superhero. His was the only story on all the news channels for over a week. Everyone seemed to fall into one of two camps; those who would let him be, and those wanting to hand him over to the military for analysis and testing. Arthur himself was still struggling to make sense of the whole thing. He kept going back to that day as a child. The day that bus crashed through the flimsy metal barrier and tumbled off the bridge into the river below. He remembered it all, something the doctors told him was strange. Most of the other children had been knocked unconscious by the crash, their bodies floating with an eerie grace. They made futile attempts to escape. Cruelly, the windows on the old bus had been stuck in a half-open position for years. Large enough to flood the bus in under a minute, too small for escape. The last thing he remembered was watching a classmate open his mouth and scream in silent terror. When he woke up in the hospital, he was confused. It didn't make sense. He remembered his drowning peer and the blackness that washed over him soon after. Apparently a volunteer fireman had been on the bridge when it happened and immediately dived after the bus. The brave man had been too late for the rest of them but was able to pull a lifeless Arthur Curry from the wreckage. The doctors were puzzled at his survival but said such "miracles" were more common than people think. Arthur always had a strange feeling that something more happened that day. That something was missing. That was years ago. Since then he'd avoided deep bodies of water but taken up swimming, almost never missing a day. He was walking to his nearby gym for one such a swim when it happened. He always hated having to walk over the bridge that had nearly killed him, but loved his hometown dearly and so he stayed close to home. It happened in slow motion. The texting man crossing the median, the woman swerving to avoid him, the crash through the patch-worked barrier. As he dived in he wondered how it hadn't been replaced in the last twenty years. He got the driver out first, she was able to swim to the surface. Her friend was unconscious and buckled into the passenger seat. His mind flashed back to that day as a child as he tried to free her. As soon as he did the car hit the bottom, hard. It lodged in the mud and the driver door slammed shut, trapping his ankle, dooming the still unconscious passenger. There was no brave fireman to save him this time. He sat there in pain, waiting to die. He felt the tightness in his chest that signalled the end was near. When he could resist no more, he embraced his fate and swallowed the dirty river water. It was like a breath of fresh air. Though the water couldn't kill him, the shock nearly did. When the rescuers finally arrived ten minutes later, they found a panicked, injured, but alive Arthur Curry. It took three trips before the divers were able to free his leg. After that everything was a blur. Police and reporters yelling over each other with the same questions. "Who are you?" "How are you still alive?" What are you?" It was all too much and when he spotted a friend in the traffic jam it had caused, he jumped in and told him to drive. He looked out at the Pacific Ocean. Water far as the eye could see. He didn't know why it felt so right, but he knew it did. He walked slowly into the waves. It felt different in his lungs than the muddy river water, refreshing. Then, he knew it was right. Then, he knew he was home. So began the second life of Arthur Curry. A life as the Marine Marvel, King of the Seven Seas. A life as...AQUAMAN.	Hello, darkness, my old friend. You and I both know the drill by now. I die — maimed, splattered, quartered — and then I wake up again the next morning. One moment I'm putting a bullet in my head, the next I'm cozy in my bed, not even a blood stain on the pillow case, and then the next bullet bounces. It got to be routine. Headache? Take two cyanide and wake up in the morning. You'll feel better. Sprained wrist? Slit it, come back in the morning, you'll feel better. Better better better. That's what I am, isn't it? Better? Now that I can't die? I'm a one-man army. I've conquered villages, huts; heck, all the way up to enclaves. Sooner or later they wise up, try something new. Maybe drop an elephant on me. Wake up the next morning, laugh about it. After all, in those moments between knowing I'm about to die and actually dying — well, it's not like it matters, does it? They can't kill me. No one can kill me. Not since the accident, so many years ago. The easiest way to go, a car crash. T-boned at a blind intersection, both passengers dead on contact. Simple. Clean. Both of them ended up in the morgue; one of them walked out. They say I'm immune to whatever killed me last. That if I get a broken arm or something I can just find a new way to die, wake up in the morning, feel better. Dying will fix everything that's wrong with me. Broken arm, broken, leg, broken spleen; take one death, wake up in the morning, feel better. Death fixes everything for me. Everything except a broken heart.
	[WP] You find out that whenever you are killed, you are revived with an immunity to whatever killed you. Document your experiences	It was WW2 d-day a French beach in Normandy, and I was dying. A 50 cal bullet tore my body in two. I looked to my sidee and saw my innards on the ground, blood staining the sand I scream in agony as the pain is unbearable, sand entering my body, burning it. I see another soldier run at me, American. He pulls out a pistol, and shoots me point blank in the face. It was a mercy killing. It feels like hours and suddenly I'm awake, standing exactly where I was shot. More bullets hit me, and bounce clean off. I was so confused, what could be causing this? I wasn't able to find out since a stick grenade landed at my feet blowing me to bits. More hours pass and I wake up again right before the grenade was thrown. I see the grenade coming and I jump onto it. The grenade blasted me insights air and I landed with a thud, still alive. A sudden relization occurs, whatever kills me, makes me immune to it. I grab my gun and charge straight at the Germans not afraid of anything anymore. I die a few more times to a new weapon, but each time I come back immune. When the battle is over, many of my fellow troops stay away from scared, some call me a ghost, one man goes historical claiming I'm his comrade he lost from a previous battle. Fearing what I might cause I leave. I appear throughout many battles across Europe as just another lost soldier separated from his platoon killing countless enemies and dealing with snipers and tanks that would have killed any one else. Time passes, and it seems I'm immune to aging since before I know it, Germany loses. Years go by and I'm living in a free France, the place where I discovers my gift. While documentaries I see that I appear in many as "the ghost of war" an myth started by troops to boost moral. Funny I thought. Soon decades have passed and depression has seeped into my mine. I've tried leaping from buildings, hanging my self and even using a electrical outlet as a key holder. Nothing. I needed something to make feel more than just this "myth" the world has given me. Or Perhaps I need to believe it? I realize the real me died that day in Normandy and the ghost of war took my place. I take a plane to the nearest conflict, Vietnam. During the war I realize my new mission. To be this myth and fight for what I believe in, I have this gift and its time to use it. The Ghost of War has been around for centuries now and I've even fought in the Martian rebellion of the Republic of Humanity, and I'm always proud to serve. I'm currently on my way to to Pluto where terrorist are attacking mining operations. The Ghost of War lives on	Hello, darkness, my old friend. You and I both know the drill by now. I die — maimed, splattered, quartered — and then I wake up again the next morning. One moment I'm putting a bullet in my head, the next I'm cozy in my bed, not even a blood stain on the pillow case, and then the next bullet bounces. It got to be routine. Headache? Take two cyanide and wake up in the morning. You'll feel better. Sprained wrist? Slit it, come back in the morning, you'll feel better. Better better better. That's what I am, isn't it? Better? Now that I can't die? I'm a one-man army. I've conquered villages, huts; heck, all the way up to enclaves. Sooner or later they wise up, try something new. Maybe drop an elephant on me. Wake up the next morning, laugh about it. After all, in those moments between knowing I'm about to die and actually dying — well, it's not like it matters, does it? They can't kill me. No one can kill me. Not since the accident, so many years ago. The easiest way to go, a car crash. T-boned at a blind intersection, both passengers dead on contact. Simple. Clean. Both of them ended up in the morgue; one of them walked out. They say I'm immune to whatever killed me last. That if I get a broken arm or something I can just find a new way to die, wake up in the morning, feel better. Dying will fix everything that's wrong with me. Broken arm, broken, leg, broken spleen; take one death, wake up in the morning, feel better. Death fixes everything for me. Everything except a broken heart.
	[WP] You find out that whenever you are killed, you are revived with an immunity to whatever killed you. Document your experiences	Dr. Jeon comes into the hospital room with a mask, gloves, and a needle. "How are you doing today, Frank?" "All right, how about yourself?" "Fine, fine. How was France?" I just got back a couple days ago. Between tests, when they don't need me, they send me wherever I want to go with charity money. I don't think I deserve that kind of treatment, but they do. And it is nice of them, I guess. "Sure changed a lot since the last time I've been there." "When was that?" "Hm, forty, fifty years ago?" "I bet, Frank." They try to always send in the same doctor to me, so we can build up a rapport. The last doctor, Dr. Saunders, retired five or ten years ago. Dr. Jeon is a lot more reserved, but he's nice too. "Is this that new flu you told me about?" "Yep." "How many dead?" "Four hundred, five hundred? Mostly affects children." "Say no more. Hit me." "You're amazing, Frank," he says as he wipes my arm with the anesthetic. "What else can an old man like me do?" He finishes with the injection and steps towards the door. "I have to go now, Frank. I'll check back tomorrow. The nurses will bring you anything you want. Good luck." I nod at him. I've died from everything: AIDS, every new variant of the flu, hundreds of poisons, nerve gas, cholera, mad cow disease, you name it. It's just as bad as it sounds. Every one is awful in its own way. I die, for a few minutes. But then I come back and I recover. I get immune. They figured this out when I was 110. I'd always been known as a tough old bird. I survived polio when I was a kid, pneumonia, mumps, scarlet fever- nothing ever really got me. I bounced back from them all. Same thing when I was older. I got a bunch of stuff (including cancer, that was the scariest) but fought it all off. The doctors finally noticed when I died from heart failure. I was fine, I was ready to go. I'd had a good life. My family all figured it was time too. They were all around me in the hospital room. Then twenty minutes later, I was awake again- on the way into the morgue. Scared the shit out of some nurse. That was the one that drove everyone crazy. I still remember the doctors all saying "this is impossible, this has never happened!" That was when they figured me out and started investigating me and testing me. When I wake up, they take blood samples and tissue samples and look at it and do God knows what with it and they end up with medicines. They say I've saved millions of people. That makes me feel good, anyway. I know I should have died a long time ago. My family never comes and sees me anymore. They like talking about me, but would you really want to talk to your great-great-great-grandfather? Didn't think so. You've never met him, he was always in the hospital dying from some disease. What does he matter? I've been damn near everywhere with the traveling. It's interesting. I never could have imagined it back at home before they figured me out. I'd never even left the east coast before then. I like trying their food. But I wish my wife could have been with me. Traveling alone all the time gets on your nerves. But I know I have to keep hanging around, because nothing out there can kill me. I know I'll get bored of everything eventually. At least I'll be saving people. That's all I have to hang on to. I'm helping people. I'm the world's sacrifice.	Hello, darkness, my old friend. You and I both know the drill by now. I die — maimed, splattered, quartered — and then I wake up again the next morning. One moment I'm putting a bullet in my head, the next I'm cozy in my bed, not even a blood stain on the pillow case, and then the next bullet bounces. It got to be routine. Headache? Take two cyanide and wake up in the morning. You'll feel better. Sprained wrist? Slit it, come back in the morning, you'll feel better. Better better better. That's what I am, isn't it? Better? Now that I can't die? I'm a one-man army. I've conquered villages, huts; heck, all the way up to enclaves. Sooner or later they wise up, try something new. Maybe drop an elephant on me. Wake up the next morning, laugh about it. After all, in those moments between knowing I'm about to die and actually dying — well, it's not like it matters, does it? They can't kill me. No one can kill me. Not since the accident, so many years ago. The easiest way to go, a car crash. T-boned at a blind intersection, both passengers dead on contact. Simple. Clean. Both of them ended up in the morgue; one of them walked out. They say I'm immune to whatever killed me last. That if I get a broken arm or something I can just find a new way to die, wake up in the morning, feel better. Dying will fix everything that's wrong with me. Broken arm, broken, leg, broken spleen; take one death, wake up in the morning, feel better. Death fixes everything for me. Everything except a broken heart.
	[WP] You find out that whenever you are killed, you are revived with an immunity to whatever killed you. Document your experiences	Where am I now? I'm sorry, Katrina, I know you hate it when I don't take your questions seriously. I'm fighting back laughter at this moment, but even to me it tastes and sounds bitter. Can you blame me? Why yes, you can. When I sat at the edge of the bathtub--I know, I know you don't want to hear this part. But just listen, okay? When I sat at the edge of the bath tub, I felt exactly the same way as I do now. It's not like I didn't think of you, it's just that the pain was really unbearable. There were good days and bad days, but the thought of the pain always being greater than I could bear, for the rest of my life, gave me the greatest despair. One or two quick flicks of this razor blade seemed so easy, so necessary when I thought about it that way. I can't bring myself to apologize, but I'm full of regret. I had shifted myself into the water, it was warm. It was meekly funny to me that I had bothered with the comfort of a warm bath while I was slicing my wrists. When I brought my arms in the water, the sting subsided, but the water turned pink at first. I tried not to remember that it was your favorite color. I did cry, just like you are now, Katrina. But then it was over. And then it wasn't. My vision of red bled into white. When I came to, I was in the hospital, and you and mom were hovering over me. Clutching me, as if that way I could never fade from your worlds again. Oh, little sister. If only you knew the despair I felt knowing that my attempt seemingly failed. You two needn't have worried. I couldn't leave you again, even if I tried a billion times. And I did. When I died, somehow, I was granted immunity to the very thing that killed me. God had decided that the threat that took my life was myself. Okay, I must sound really crazy right now--I can't stop laughing. Just-- just listen! Do you get it? When I ran onto the street, I was Superman. Every car swerved from my body, an avoidance only rivaled by water and oil. When I took Mom's blood pressure pills and ate them the way you liked to eat those pop rocks, it was the same. Nothing. Even when I took the knife to my arms again, my flesh resisted. The death I became immune to was death by me. So now I know the truth about God and his vengeance against those to commit the act of suicide. He didn't raise me from the dead, he sent me straight to hell. For living a full life with the chronic pain, of which there is no cure, no pills or injections worthy enough for relief, is the hell I have been condemned to for what seems like infinity. I hate you, Katrina. If hate is too strong a word, then I will settle to say that I am unbearably jealous. When I found you here, pale but leaking the same pink red blood that I did from my wrists, my breath stopped. But you are dead, you are really, really dead. I can no longer tell if I am laughing or crying, but my tears are not for you.	You know medically you can die of a broken heart? No, I didn't either. It's bullshit, isn't it - the whole idea that you pine away from grief and you can slowly feel it splitting in two, halfway down your chest - like I said, bullshit. But I did. He held my hand like a lifebelt as he sat propped up in the swathes of white sheets. A bobbing line tracked his heartrate, graphs demonstrating his bloodsugar level, multiple bars and pie charts and line graphs all telling us what was perfectly clear to anyone who just looked at him. It was like the fragile hand of death was already resting on his shoulder and he didn't quite have the strength to shrug it off. He patted my hand. His smooth skin bore no wrinkles and I found, suddenly, that I couldn't look at him. We had determinedly told each other that we would live for ever, until we were old and grey and more wrinkled than a badly-buttoned shirt at a high school dance. He was in the prime of youth and he was about to die. "You keep on being good, alright?" He said, drawing one slow breath after the other like he was counting each one. "How can I?" I was bitter, even then. "You're taking the best parts of me with you." "That's no excuse. Do your best. Be nice to people. Smile at strangers. Fall in love with someone else." Even if I wanted to, I couldn't now. I woke up, flat on my back in bed with a slight twinge in the chest area. I'd laced my hands across it and sat staring at the ceiling for a very long time. Immunity to a broken heart. Sounds like bullshit and right now, I wish it were.
	[WP] You find out that whenever you are killed, you are revived with an immunity to whatever killed you. Document your experiences	Dr. Jeon comes into the hospital room with a mask, gloves, and a needle. "How are you doing today, Frank?" "All right, how about yourself?" "Fine, fine. How was France?" I just got back a couple days ago. Between tests, when they don't need me, they send me wherever I want to go with charity money. I don't think I deserve that kind of treatment, but they do. And it is nice of them, I guess. "Sure changed a lot since the last time I've been there." "When was that?" "Hm, forty, fifty years ago?" "I bet, Frank." They try to always send in the same doctor to me, so we can build up a rapport. The last doctor, Dr. Saunders, retired five or ten years ago. Dr. Jeon is a lot more reserved, but he's nice too. "Is this that new flu you told me about?" "Yep." "How many dead?" "Four hundred, five hundred? Mostly affects children." "Say no more. Hit me." "You're amazing, Frank," he says as he wipes my arm with the anesthetic. "What else can an old man like me do?" He finishes with the injection and steps towards the door. "I have to go now, Frank. I'll check back tomorrow. The nurses will bring you anything you want. Good luck." I nod at him. I've died from everything: AIDS, every new variant of the flu, hundreds of poisons, nerve gas, cholera, mad cow disease, you name it. It's just as bad as it sounds. Every one is awful in its own way. I die, for a few minutes. But then I come back and I recover. I get immune. They figured this out when I was 110. I'd always been known as a tough old bird. I survived polio when I was a kid, pneumonia, mumps, scarlet fever- nothing ever really got me. I bounced back from them all. Same thing when I was older. I got a bunch of stuff (including cancer, that was the scariest) but fought it all off. The doctors finally noticed when I died from heart failure. I was fine, I was ready to go. I'd had a good life. My family all figured it was time too. They were all around me in the hospital room. Then twenty minutes later, I was awake again- on the way into the morgue. Scared the shit out of some nurse. That was the one that drove everyone crazy. I still remember the doctors all saying "this is impossible, this has never happened!" That was when they figured me out and started investigating me and testing me. When I wake up, they take blood samples and tissue samples and look at it and do God knows what with it and they end up with medicines. They say I've saved millions of people. That makes me feel good, anyway. I know I should have died a long time ago. My family never comes and sees me anymore. They like talking about me, but would you really want to talk to your great-great-great-grandfather? Didn't think so. You've never met him, he was always in the hospital dying from some disease. What does he matter? I've been damn near everywhere with the traveling. It's interesting. I never could have imagined it back at home before they figured me out. I'd never even left the east coast before then. I like trying their food. But I wish my wife could have been with me. Traveling alone all the time gets on your nerves. But I know I have to keep hanging around, because nothing out there can kill me. I know I'll get bored of everything eventually. At least I'll be saving people. That's all I have to hang on to. I'm helping people. I'm the world's sacrifice.	You know medically you can die of a broken heart? No, I didn't either. It's bullshit, isn't it - the whole idea that you pine away from grief and you can slowly feel it splitting in two, halfway down your chest - like I said, bullshit. But I did. He held my hand like a lifebelt as he sat propped up in the swathes of white sheets. A bobbing line tracked his heartrate, graphs demonstrating his bloodsugar level, multiple bars and pie charts and line graphs all telling us what was perfectly clear to anyone who just looked at him. It was like the fragile hand of death was already resting on his shoulder and he didn't quite have the strength to shrug it off. He patted my hand. His smooth skin bore no wrinkles and I found, suddenly, that I couldn't look at him. We had determinedly told each other that we would live for ever, until we were old and grey and more wrinkled than a badly-buttoned shirt at a high school dance. He was in the prime of youth and he was about to die. "You keep on being good, alright?" He said, drawing one slow breath after the other like he was counting each one. "How can I?" I was bitter, even then. "You're taking the best parts of me with you." "That's no excuse. Do your best. Be nice to people. Smile at strangers. Fall in love with someone else." Even if I wanted to, I couldn't now. I woke up, flat on my back in bed with a slight twinge in the chest area. I'd laced my hands across it and sat staring at the ceiling for a very long time. Immunity to a broken heart. Sounds like bullshit and right now, I wish it were.
	[WP] You find out that whenever you are killed, you are revived with an immunity to whatever killed you. Document your experiences	Dr. Jeon comes into the hospital room with a mask, gloves, and a needle. "How are you doing today, Frank?" "All right, how about yourself?" "Fine, fine. How was France?" I just got back a couple days ago. Between tests, when they don't need me, they send me wherever I want to go with charity money. I don't think I deserve that kind of treatment, but they do. And it is nice of them, I guess. "Sure changed a lot since the last time I've been there." "When was that?" "Hm, forty, fifty years ago?" "I bet, Frank." They try to always send in the same doctor to me, so we can build up a rapport. The last doctor, Dr. Saunders, retired five or ten years ago. Dr. Jeon is a lot more reserved, but he's nice too. "Is this that new flu you told me about?" "Yep." "How many dead?" "Four hundred, five hundred? Mostly affects children." "Say no more. Hit me." "You're amazing, Frank," he says as he wipes my arm with the anesthetic. "What else can an old man like me do?" He finishes with the injection and steps towards the door. "I have to go now, Frank. I'll check back tomorrow. The nurses will bring you anything you want. Good luck." I nod at him. I've died from everything: AIDS, every new variant of the flu, hundreds of poisons, nerve gas, cholera, mad cow disease, you name it. It's just as bad as it sounds. Every one is awful in its own way. I die, for a few minutes. But then I come back and I recover. I get immune. They figured this out when I was 110. I'd always been known as a tough old bird. I survived polio when I was a kid, pneumonia, mumps, scarlet fever- nothing ever really got me. I bounced back from them all. Same thing when I was older. I got a bunch of stuff (including cancer, that was the scariest) but fought it all off. The doctors finally noticed when I died from heart failure. I was fine, I was ready to go. I'd had a good life. My family all figured it was time too. They were all around me in the hospital room. Then twenty minutes later, I was awake again- on the way into the morgue. Scared the shit out of some nurse. That was the one that drove everyone crazy. I still remember the doctors all saying "this is impossible, this has never happened!" That was when they figured me out and started investigating me and testing me. When I wake up, they take blood samples and tissue samples and look at it and do God knows what with it and they end up with medicines. They say I've saved millions of people. That makes me feel good, anyway. I know I should have died a long time ago. My family never comes and sees me anymore. They like talking about me, but would you really want to talk to your great-great-great-grandfather? Didn't think so. You've never met him, he was always in the hospital dying from some disease. What does he matter? I've been damn near everywhere with the traveling. It's interesting. I never could have imagined it back at home before they figured me out. I'd never even left the east coast before then. I like trying their food. But I wish my wife could have been with me. Traveling alone all the time gets on your nerves. But I know I have to keep hanging around, because nothing out there can kill me. I know I'll get bored of everything eventually. At least I'll be saving people. That's all I have to hang on to. I'm helping people. I'm the world's sacrifice.	Where am I now? I'm sorry, Katrina, I know you hate it when I don't take your questions seriously. I'm fighting back laughter at this moment, but even to me it tastes and sounds bitter. Can you blame me? Why yes, you can. When I sat at the edge of the bathtub--I know, I know you don't want to hear this part. But just listen, okay? When I sat at the edge of the bath tub, I felt exactly the same way as I do now. It's not like I didn't think of you, it's just that the pain was really unbearable. There were good days and bad days, but the thought of the pain always being greater than I could bear, for the rest of my life, gave me the greatest despair. One or two quick flicks of this razor blade seemed so easy, so necessary when I thought about it that way. I can't bring myself to apologize, but I'm full of regret. I had shifted myself into the water, it was warm. It was meekly funny to me that I had bothered with the comfort of a warm bath while I was slicing my wrists. When I brought my arms in the water, the sting subsided, but the water turned pink at first. I tried not to remember that it was your favorite color. I did cry, just like you are now, Katrina. But then it was over. And then it wasn't. My vision of red bled into white. When I came to, I was in the hospital, and you and mom were hovering over me. Clutching me, as if that way I could never fade from your worlds again. Oh, little sister. If only you knew the despair I felt knowing that my attempt seemingly failed. You two needn't have worried. I couldn't leave you again, even if I tried a billion times. And I did. When I died, somehow, I was granted immunity to the very thing that killed me. God had decided that the threat that took my life was myself. Okay, I must sound really crazy right now--I can't stop laughing. Just-- just listen! Do you get it? When I ran onto the street, I was Superman. Every car swerved from my body, an avoidance only rivaled by water and oil. When I took Mom's blood pressure pills and ate them the way you liked to eat those pop rocks, it was the same. Nothing. Even when I took the knife to my arms again, my flesh resisted. The death I became immune to was death by me. So now I know the truth about God and his vengeance against those to commit the act of suicide. He didn't raise me from the dead, he sent me straight to hell. For living a full life with the chronic pain, of which there is no cure, no pills or injections worthy enough for relief, is the hell I have been condemned to for what seems like infinity. I hate you, Katrina. If hate is too strong a word, then I will settle to say that I am unbearably jealous. When I found you here, pale but leaking the same pink red blood that I did from my wrists, my breath stopped. But you are dead, you are really, really dead. I can no longer tell if I am laughing or crying, but my tears are not for you.
	[WP] You find out that whenever you are killed, you are revived with an immunity to whatever killed you. Document your experiences	Dr. Jeon comes into the hospital room with a mask, gloves, and a needle. "How are you doing today, Frank?" "All right, how about yourself?" "Fine, fine. How was France?" I just got back a couple days ago. Between tests, when they don't need me, they send me wherever I want to go with charity money. I don't think I deserve that kind of treatment, but they do. And it is nice of them, I guess. "Sure changed a lot since the last time I've been there." "When was that?" "Hm, forty, fifty years ago?" "I bet, Frank." They try to always send in the same doctor to me, so we can build up a rapport. The last doctor, Dr. Saunders, retired five or ten years ago. Dr. Jeon is a lot more reserved, but he's nice too. "Is this that new flu you told me about?" "Yep." "How many dead?" "Four hundred, five hundred? Mostly affects children." "Say no more. Hit me." "You're amazing, Frank," he says as he wipes my arm with the anesthetic. "What else can an old man like me do?" He finishes with the injection and steps towards the door. "I have to go now, Frank. I'll check back tomorrow. The nurses will bring you anything you want. Good luck." I nod at him. I've died from everything: AIDS, every new variant of the flu, hundreds of poisons, nerve gas, cholera, mad cow disease, you name it. It's just as bad as it sounds. Every one is awful in its own way. I die, for a few minutes. But then I come back and I recover. I get immune. They figured this out when I was 110. I'd always been known as a tough old bird. I survived polio when I was a kid, pneumonia, mumps, scarlet fever- nothing ever really got me. I bounced back from them all. Same thing when I was older. I got a bunch of stuff (including cancer, that was the scariest) but fought it all off. The doctors finally noticed when I died from heart failure. I was fine, I was ready to go. I'd had a good life. My family all figured it was time too. They were all around me in the hospital room. Then twenty minutes later, I was awake again- on the way into the morgue. Scared the shit out of some nurse. That was the one that drove everyone crazy. I still remember the doctors all saying "this is impossible, this has never happened!" That was when they figured me out and started investigating me and testing me. When I wake up, they take blood samples and tissue samples and look at it and do God knows what with it and they end up with medicines. They say I've saved millions of people. That makes me feel good, anyway. I know I should have died a long time ago. My family never comes and sees me anymore. They like talking about me, but would you really want to talk to your great-great-great-grandfather? Didn't think so. You've never met him, he was always in the hospital dying from some disease. What does he matter? I've been damn near everywhere with the traveling. It's interesting. I never could have imagined it back at home before they figured me out. I'd never even left the east coast before then. I like trying their food. But I wish my wife could have been with me. Traveling alone all the time gets on your nerves. But I know I have to keep hanging around, because nothing out there can kill me. I know I'll get bored of everything eventually. At least I'll be saving people. That's all I have to hang on to. I'm helping people. I'm the world's sacrifice.	Day number 58,021 Today was very eventful, for the first time in a long time. I decided to jump off of a building again. It was exhilarating. The feeling of completely letting go, knowing there was nothing I could do now to stop the oncoming ground. I thought that maybe I'll do this everyday, over and over again. Find larger and larger heights to jump from. Or even climb mount everest. I'd never considered the possibilities like this. I can't really die. So I could do anything. If I only had the resources, I could go to space. And then fall into the atmosphere from orbit. I'll burn up to nothing once, but then I'll be back and immune to that kind of damage! But I don't think I'm going to get the opportunity for a while. If ever. See, I revived just in time to see the building I'd just leapt from explode. Crumble, crumble, it fell as I did, to the ground. Good thing I hadn't been stuck in that. Then there were men rushing out of the shadows, shouting "RUN, RUN!" followed by bullets! And that's how I found myself caught up in the resistance. ... Day number 58,246 Today I found out there was more than one resistance movement, and they didn't get along. I had kept away from the world, news, media, for so long, I had no idea any of this was happening. Why were these resistance movements fighting eachother instead of the regime in power? How did things get so twisted? I ask everyone I meet, but nobody seems to really know. They have strange vague justifications, if nothing else. Some split a couple years back between the leaders, unable to compromise. We never really change, do we? I suppose I can't even say "we" anymore, can I? I don't know if I'm completely human anymore. All I know is I have a strange power, and a responsibility that comes with it. I can try to fix this. ... Day number 60,955 It is March 14th, 2187, Or at least that is what day it would be if the new world order hadn't decided to change the date system to sidereal time. Troops are still marching in the streets proclaiming their victory, or at least they are from the view of my cell. I've said it before, I'll say it every day, at least they gave me a cell with a window. I'm to be executed for war crimes. Again. I wonder what they'll try this time. Ripped apart by monkeys? Dropped in a snake pit? They're starting to get creative. I spent the morning uselessly stabbing my gut with the shiv I made. Nothing. I'll probably spend the afternoon trying to hang myself. Not that it'll do any good. Maybe I'll just jerk it instead. I know I'm just gonna have to wait this out, but damn it if this isn't getting boring.
	[WP] You find out that whenever you are killed, you are revived with an immunity to whatever killed you. Document your experiences	What at first was a blessing is now a nightmare. I wander the world now, forever bored with the trappings of man and nature. I was born in the year 1901. I was in both the world wars, on both sides and survived countless wounds. It was in the First World War I found my ability. Everyone called me lucky when I apparently "missed" being killed by an inch. They called me a demon when I jumped on a grenade to save lives because that's not a wound you get up from, hero or not. War is hell, or at least I thought it was. Hell is when you watch everyone you've ever know die. Hell is knowing just what awaits them in death. You see, before I am "immune"(cannot think of another word to call it by...) to something, it has to kill me. In the brief moments of my death I experience the afterlife. Coldness sweeps me from my feet, terror fills my heart and I see nightmares come to life. I thought it was just my own fear of death at first but it's the same every time. I've prayed to every god and still the terror awaits me and all who die. I walk the streets in a nameless city in a nameless county. In the thousands of years of my life, countries rise and fall and you just don't give a damn anymore. Not even to learn the names. This particular place was called Ireland when I was a boy. It was so lush and beautiful back then. Now it's but a shell of what used to be. Rust rotted cars line the old roads. Shattered buildings lean dangerously on their sides looking like a inquisitive dog. I keep trudging. I've long since become "immune" to hunger or thirst. I don't even get fatigued anymore. I am also "immune" to sleep deprivation. This was an interesting way to die as you go insane before you do so. I cannot sleep. Seeing deaths cold eyes and the terror they bring tends to inhabit your dreams leading to horrible nightmares. No, my world is an unbroken walk across a broken world. I would cry if I could. I would scream in anguish if it would help. But I just continue walking in my thoughts. Day dreaming of the life I had with Susan so many years ago.	Day number 58,021 Today was very eventful, for the first time in a long time. I decided to jump off of a building again. It was exhilarating. The feeling of completely letting go, knowing there was nothing I could do now to stop the oncoming ground. I thought that maybe I'll do this everyday, over and over again. Find larger and larger heights to jump from. Or even climb mount everest. I'd never considered the possibilities like this. I can't really die. So I could do anything. If I only had the resources, I could go to space. And then fall into the atmosphere from orbit. I'll burn up to nothing once, but then I'll be back and immune to that kind of damage! But I don't think I'm going to get the opportunity for a while. If ever. See, I revived just in time to see the building I'd just leapt from explode. Crumble, crumble, it fell as I did, to the ground. Good thing I hadn't been stuck in that. Then there were men rushing out of the shadows, shouting "RUN, RUN!" followed by bullets! And that's how I found myself caught up in the resistance. ... Day number 58,246 Today I found out there was more than one resistance movement, and they didn't get along. I had kept away from the world, news, media, for so long, I had no idea any of this was happening. Why were these resistance movements fighting eachother instead of the regime in power? How did things get so twisted? I ask everyone I meet, but nobody seems to really know. They have strange vague justifications, if nothing else. Some split a couple years back between the leaders, unable to compromise. We never really change, do we? I suppose I can't even say "we" anymore, can I? I don't know if I'm completely human anymore. All I know is I have a strange power, and a responsibility that comes with it. I can try to fix this. ... Day number 60,955 It is March 14th, 2187, Or at least that is what day it would be if the new world order hadn't decided to change the date system to sidereal time. Troops are still marching in the streets proclaiming their victory, or at least they are from the view of my cell. I've said it before, I'll say it every day, at least they gave me a cell with a window. I'm to be executed for war crimes. Again. I wonder what they'll try this time. Ripped apart by monkeys? Dropped in a snake pit? They're starting to get creative. I spent the morning uselessly stabbing my gut with the shiv I made. Nothing. I'll probably spend the afternoon trying to hang myself. Not that it'll do any good. Maybe I'll just jerk it instead. I know I'm just gonna have to wait this out, but damn it if this isn't getting boring.
I've had this phrase running through my head since last night.	[WP] "Power corrupts. Absolute power is fantastic."	"You can't be serious," I told him with great disbelief. "Of course I am," he replied with a smug grin. "Why shouldn't I keep it for myself?" "Because there are literally millions of people dying of cancer everyday," I replied, my tone becoming angrier by the minute. "You and I both know damn good and well that your formula should be for all of humanity to prosper from. Keeping the world in the dark isn't going to benefit anyone." He began to laugh, and wiped a tear from his eye. "Frank, you're one of the most brilliant people I've ever met and you still don't get it. This was never about proving that we could cure cancer. This was about finally having an edge on this modern world. This society we live in is fueled by money. The man with the biggest gas tank burns the brightest, see? And I finally have a flame worth burning out on." I tried by best to remain calm, but my rage was growing. "Dammit Robert! Will you pacify your greed for once in your life and let this go? So what if you can use this to make tons of money? You can't bring all that wealth with you when you leave." "Oh can't I?" "No. You can't. And I think you've let all this power go to your head. Your wife's worried about you, Robert. She has been for years. Is this dream of yours really worth throwing your life away?" "Gone to my head? Wow, you truly are daft." "Pardon?" "You are right about one thing though. Power does corrupt the mind. Absolute power, on the other hand, is a wonderful thing. Once I find a way to sell my formula to the highest bidder, I will have that kind of power. It's only a matter of time." Robert truly believed that ultimate power was his for the taking. The pistol behind my back said otherwise.	Opening my agenda to the back page entitled "notes" I thought about all that had brought me here. Reaching out to cross off the name Antonio at the top of the page, my mind went to all the bribes I've had to take, the corruption I've had to become to get to this point. They say power corrupts and they are right. If one wants to climb the ladder one has to get their hands very dirty. So much blood. So many tears. So many cries for help nobody will ever hear. All the public sees is this face and they think of a good christian boy. Heh, I don't even believe in god...although I sure believe in Satan. All that, for this moment, finally able to cross that last name off my list. Reaching the top was difficult but being able to bury the men that killed my wife. Power corrupts, but absolute power, when wielded for vengeance, is fantastic.
	[WP] Foreshadowing is real. There are trained experts that are able to tell which events hint at the future and which are mundane. Not all of these people tell the truth.	"Whoever came up with the idea of foreshadows needs to be shot." Daryl said to Oswald. They were at the cafe today, out on the patio in the summer sun. It was a clear day today. "What makes you say that?" Oswald asked in between a biscuit Daryl sipped his hot coffee gingerly. "The worlds so frigging boring now for us. Nothing ever surprises me anymore, everything's just another eventual expectation." He took a biscuit off the table as well and bit into it, crumbs falling in his lap. "Don't get me wrong, I owe you a great deal for teaching me all this but, it's taken some of the fun out of life you know?" "I don't think so." Oswald replied. "It's a decent living, and it's not like it's without interpretation. You've made your fair share of mistakes." Daryl thought for a minute on that. Yes he wasn't the best seer in the world, and he's made mistakes before. It was only last week that he misinterpreted the falling of a girl's doll as his father's fall to death, when in fact it was foreshadowing the fall of the gas prices. But never the less, he knew something was going to fall, it was just details at that point. "If you think about it" Oswald continued, "I think you'll still find plenty of things we don't have the foresight for, and still rely on our own instincts. It's not like we're clairvoyant and see the future. We just see signs." "It still makes life boring. I can't remember a time when I was seriously surprised at something." A thoughtful pause passed between them. Nonchalantly, they looked down the street at the passers. It was faint, but the signs were there, for each person, subtle hints at events to come, little tips and signs of each person and the events that would befall them that day. Most of it was mundane and boring: one man would find a five dollar bill, another person's going to break their phone. Oswald took a cookie. "We can lie." "About what?" "You know, the signs." Daryl thought for a moment. It wasn't like the idea had never occurred to him, but he never had a reason to do it. "What's the point? It might make life interesting for some, but I'm still going to be bored as hell." Oswald patted the crumbs off his shirt. "We can make them up." Daryl turned to look at his friend, incredulous. "What does that mean?" Oswald chuckled. "There's still plenty you haven't learned about what we can do." As if on cue a gun shot rang through the street, followed by a scream. Daryl jumped out of his seat and and looked to the direction of the sound. He saw a man crumpled on the ground not far from where they sat, and the panicking crowd running away from the body. Even from where he stood, he could tell that the shot tore his head inside out. "How the hell did tha- Did i do that?" Oswald put a hand on Daryls shoulder. He turned to look him in the eyes. There was no sense of surprise in them. "Come on". He said, "Let me make the world interesting for you again."	The present is best which is the truth; When you could see which was good; But as time went on, past our youth there were times when we thought we could. Was the future real or could it be a perception ? Only they could tell, to see what was real: Through hollows and shallows of inception , I told you it was just a conceal. EDIT: Its a poem.
	[WP] The sound of sirens is heard as you watch an ambulance make it's way down your road. You look to see where it stops as you realise it finishes it's journey outside your door. A hooded figure in black makes his way to the door. You clutch at your chest as you feel your heart struggle...	"What? An ambulance?" "WHERE AM I?" 16th Main st. was where it happened. I'm 23... was 23, I suppose. I moved here after Mom and Dad died, just a year ago. It was a car accident... right? Or was it...? No, it was, I think. Everything felt strange and fuzzy, almost ethereal. My thoughts felt chaotic and disorganized. When it happened, my life flashed before my eyes, and the aftermath was still wreaking havoc on my psyche. I was... adjusting? Yes, that's the what was happening. I... live here. Yes. Now I remembered. I didn't have a job. I never finished school either. After they died, I had to live on my own. Oh, I almost forgot. I was what society called a bum. A loser. My body felt light as a feather, but oddly free. I was unbounded by physicality. "Am I dreaming?" "Unfortunately, not this time," the hooded answered as it melded and slipped like a wisp through my door. I'm dead. The realization hit me. "Hmm," I muttered. "Well?" The hooded figure replied. He was Death, or so I presumed. "I thought I would be more, you know, panicked. Scared." "And just how do you feel?" "Tranquil. Free." "It's time to go." Death raised his long, arcing scythe high above his silhouetted head. It was notched and clearly sharp. On the blade and handle were ornate, yet hellish designs. Skulls, bones, blood. Horrible screaming visages of mauled carcasses. "WAIT!" I shouted. The scythe stopped mere millimeters from my throat. Another half a second and my ghost of a head would have been rolling across the floor. "W-where exactly are we going? I have so many questions." "Your place isn't to know," replied Death as he again raised the scythe. "What happened to me? Can't you at least tell me that?" "Look around if you wish," said Death with almost a chuckle. "Ignorance is bliss, I'll warn." My mind was starting to clear now, and I started to put the pieces back together. I froze as I looked to the bed. My body sat motionless like a statue, a needle in its arm. I was a drug addict. All that on top of being a lazy bum, I was the worst part of society. I was depressed. With dead parents, no direction, no friends, no support, only one thing took the pain away... But this... was one needle to much. Friends... no. I did have one friend. Dave. He had everything together. Job. Girlfriend. You name it, you better bet your ass Dave had it and I didn't. I remembered. I was jealous of Dave, but I needed him. He was the only person who ever tried to offer me his support. We had plans. Rehab, getting my life together. He suggested picking me up for dinner. I couldn't decline, I only had enough money for drugs these days. I figured I'd shoot up before he got there. So that's how he found me... Were I in my body, tears would have flooded down my face. "Are you satisfied?" Death chided coldly. "No." I could think of no other reply. How could this be how it ends? I had my whole life ahead of me, at least I thought. "No! Please! It was just going to be one more time! I swear! Let me go back, I want another chance. I want-" "You want?" said death. "It is because of what 'you want' that you are here." "Please, not yet! The Paramedics! They might revive me! There's still a chance!" "There is not. They will not revive you. I have seen the outcome. And that's why I am here. You see now why I wanted to make it quick?" "... Where will I go?" "It is not your place to know." "But is it true? Is there something beyond?" "If there is, a wretch like you would be hardly deserving of it." "But what did I do?" I pleaded. "My actions... I was lazy, good-for-nothing! But I never hurt anyone! The only one I ever hurt was myself!" At this, Death began cackling maniacally, almost hysterically. "Boy, have you forgotten what you've done? About them? I had hoped to protect you from that, to give you peace in death, but since you struggle so viciously..." "What the Hell are you talking about?!" A memory, though cloudy as it was, began to unveil itself in my mind. And then I remembered. Everything, this time. "I see," I said solemnly. "Take me away, then." It was me. The car that hit them. I was driving. I was under the influence. I hit them dead on. I killed them both. I survived. I was in the hospital. I was in a coma. I gave up, and my heart gave out. The needle in my arm and the respirator in my mouth were the only things that kept me alive for one year. And Dave was the only one that visited me. I had been driving his house for dinner when it happened. Death raised His scythe, and in one fell swoop my being and every connection to this world were severed. "Mom. Dad. I'm sorry." And that was the last thing I ever thought.	I opened the door, the orange bottle of medicine in my other hand. The paramedic had a black coat wrapped around him—understandable, as it was cold. Why he had stopped here, at my house, I had no idea. "What street is this?" he asked. "De Lancie," I replied. As I spoke I felt my heart flutter. "Where is 658 Loomis?" Loomis Street. Even for the offshoots in this backwater village, planted right in the middle of a forest, it was a pain to navigate—worse yet, they were going to Bill Hickerson's place, which was a real trick to find even if you knew where it was. I pointed. "Second left, where the shoes are hanging from the tree." I wasn't finished, but the paramedic had uttered a quick "Thanks" and jogged back to the waiting ambulance. "There's only one lane!" I yelled after him. "It's the house with all the 'NO TRESPASSING' signs in front!" I wasn't sure if he heard me or not, but they were already gone. I could only hope that I had been clear enough—and that the ambulance wasn't so wide it would get itself wedged between two trees on either side of the road and become stuck. I remembered the medicine in my hand. I twisted the cap open and downed a couple of pills. I suppose my heart condition could be worse. Instead of sitting at home, enjoying a cup of coffee while my dog sits at my feet, I might've been strapped to a hospital bed or dead right now, but I hate taking these pills. I hope Bill ends up better than me.
	[WP] In your dying moments, you see a "Game Over" screen with two options: Try Again or End Game	I wasn't sure if it was the AI that had finally died or me. Really I wasn't sure how long I'd been strapped in that god forsaken chair. Memories of the fist time I laid eyes on it flooding back to me. Abducted by my unknown assailants and thrown in the back of the van. Once the hood was finally pulled back, I was faced with a damp, rusty room. Surgical instruments carelessly spread about on a small table next to that hellish device - the chair. The tubes and wires protruding from every part almost masked the head and limb restrains. Beyond this tangled mess, a short metal spike lay at the center of the head rest, ominously glaring under the flicker of the fluorescent lights hanging above. It sat in a reclining position, which I was forcefully being shoved into. "Stop struggling!" one of my new friends demanded. "You're only make it worse for yourself!" Worse off was definitely where I was headed. It felt as if that where a decades ago (or more). The time had to be altered in this place in a way that it was difficult to say. There was no way I was being kept alive in the chair for the length of time it felt. I had become some sort of sick science experiment for these people. I had been plunged back to my youth. It was if I was being forced to live half my life all over again. At first I wouldn't talk to anyone. My friends, my family - they where, after all just a creation of the chair. They had to be. I can't remember the exact moment I quit caring. The torment of isolation was worse than living a lie. My entire life a perpetual déjà vu, repeating the things I'd already done it life. Although now, I had come full circle. I had come upon the day my assailants burst through my door and taken me. Do I let them take me? It isn't really them is it? Do I fight them, or try to run before they come? The different scenarios had been plaguing me for months. "What's the matter with you?" my girlfriend Jenny asked earlier that week. I just kissed her forehead, knowing it wasn't really her, but gaining comfort all the same. "Nothing babe, I'm just a little stressed out at work." Once upon a time I had avoided marrying this girl. Now I would give just about anything to spend my life with her. The real her. Now all I had where shadows of the past. It was then I decided, I was going to let them take me to the chair - then I was going to kill them. I figured it would give me an opportunity to learn everything I could about what and where I was. I was going to fight. I had hidden a gun and a medium sized blade for good measure. Both strapped to me, the gun at the center of my chest and the knife on my thigh. I had to make sure I could put up resistance to make things seem within order, while not giving away my weapons. The anticipation was maddening. Siting, waiting in my own living room knowing what was about to go down. I could feel my pulse thundering in my neck. Then a crack of a crowbar snapping the hinge of my door. I knew it was coming. It still startled me. Jumping to my feet with my adrenaline pumping. The first attacker lunged at me. Being less awe struck by the situation this second time around, I leaned to right avoiding his attack. Returning fire with a fist of my own, I connecting along his lower jaw. The loud popping sound as my fist dropped was like music to my ears. I was just about to turn to face the second when the stun-gun brought me to my knees. Everything went black. When I came too, the van was coming to a stop. Thankfully I could still feel the cold steel of the gun on my chest. Unloading me like a bag of meat it could hear the thugs whispering to each other. "What do you think she's going to do with him?" One asked. "Shut up and do your job!" Another spoke up in a voice of authority. My true fear was what would happen if I allowed them to get me back in the chair. Would things reset all over again? Before I could let myself break into full panic, the hood they had placed over my head was pulled back, again. "I...I don't understand - Jenny what are you doing here?" So many things where as they where before. The damp, rusted shell of a room. The surgical instruments, the fluorescent lights all there. But the chair - where the chair should have been stood the love of my life, Jenny. "What is this?" I demanded. "This is where things end and begin for you, Jack." My heart sank. What kind of cruel joke was this? "You snapped. You killed me, and went crazy. They came and locked you up Jack. This was the spot where they took you, to begin the experimental reprogramming treatment. Do you remember?" Lies. They had finally revealed themselves, only to try and convince me of more lies. "Of course I remember Jenny, but this time I brought you something." The look of confusing on her face told me they still hadn't noticed the gun. "You say I killed you, let's see how that really feels" I said while making one fluid motion to reach for the gun. Ripping it out of it's hiding, I held it up and squeezed the trigger. Everything began to stretch and distort. The masked hoodlums frozen in time around me. Jenny's head had exploded into what look like a thousand shards of glass, suspended in mid air. A loud buzzing sound had filled the room, so loud it made me want to vomit. That's when I saw it. Up in the corner of the room. It looked like a portal to another dimension. A deep whole leading off into the expanse of darkened space. A flash of text blinked on, then off, then back on right in it's center. "Game over" What? This was some kind of game to them? I looked again. "Try again or end game".	The pain disappeared. All the agony faded away and I shut my eyes. All screams and sirens disappeared as flickering white letters appeared in front of me. In a brief moment of peace I reached for the words. Try Again or End Game. The peace was fleeting as I screamed for help. "What is this? What are you trying to say?" I tried to breathe but my body was paralyzed. I couldn't move. I couldn't talk. All I could do was feel the absolute uncertainty of the words in front of me. Try Again? End Game? Was this it? I was only twenty. I was an idiot. I shouldn't have drive. I shouldn't have left the party. She was so beautiful and I was so stupid. God, if I had just said no. If I had just thought with my brain for once and told her that I'd call her. No, of course not. Of course not. I got in the goddamn car. I killed her. She's dead and it's my fault. No I don't deserve another chance. She deserves it. She had potential. No, that's it. This is it. End Game
	[WP] In your dying moments, you see a "Game Over" screen with two options: Try Again or End Game	That's it? That's how I go out? No blaze of glory? No high speed chases? No wife and kids standing over me remembering the good times as I fade out? And it all happened so fast. I stepped out of the 7-11 on the corner, Cherry Icee in hand, and some drugged out gangster just stumbles up to me, raises his handgun to my forehead and pulls the trigger. That's it. Lights out. Some sick twist of fate didn't even give me a chance to fight back, or at least finish my icee. So here I am now, standing in front of two identical doors. One labelled "Try Again" and one labelled "End Game". No. Not a chance. If this is all a game then I want to finish my damn slushee. I walk through the “Try Again” door and all of a sudden I'm standing at the counter again, icee in hand. I turn on my heel and walk out the back door of the 7-11. I got out the door and three steps into the crosswalk before the bus hit me, sending my icee flying across the street and unceremoniously dropping me back in front of those damn doors again.	The pain disappeared. All the agony faded away and I shut my eyes. All screams and sirens disappeared as flickering white letters appeared in front of me. In a brief moment of peace I reached for the words. Try Again or End Game. The peace was fleeting as I screamed for help. "What is this? What are you trying to say?" I tried to breathe but my body was paralyzed. I couldn't move. I couldn't talk. All I could do was feel the absolute uncertainty of the words in front of me. Try Again? End Game? Was this it? I was only twenty. I was an idiot. I shouldn't have drive. I shouldn't have left the party. She was so beautiful and I was so stupid. God, if I had just said no. If I had just thought with my brain for once and told her that I'd call her. No, of course not. Of course not. I got in the goddamn car. I killed her. She's dead and it's my fault. No I don't deserve another chance. She deserves it. She had potential. No, that's it. This is it. End Game
	[WP] In your dying moments, you see a "Game Over" screen with two options: Try Again or End Game	My body trembled as I stared up at the words, the soft glow the only thing separating me from total darkness. I walked for hours into the void but they always followed me, daunting and powerful. My knees cracked and ached as I lowered myself into a sitting position on the hard black ground. I closed my eyes and let the memories come to me. She was so beautiful when we first met, her black hair and red lips were a stark contrast to her porcelain face. It greyed as we aged, it came gracefully, along with the lines on her face, but I still found her beautiful. When my hair fell out she still called me handsome, she would pretend she was running her fingers through it. Then her hair started to fall out, and she lost sixty pounds. The Doctors said it was the only way. Even still her smile made her radiant. "At least I can fit into my wedding dress again." She would let slip from behind a wry smile, she said it often. "You look even better now." I would follow script, and I meant it. She couldn't win in the end though. And I couldn't continue without her. My memories of her used to be so faded. But in this void they were vivid and colorful. I was able to hear her laugh and taste her lips again, feel her embrace. My only regret was that we never had kids. But there's no going back. I still haven't chosen. I don't need to. Everything that makes me happy is here, in my memories. I just hope they never unplug the machine.	The pain disappeared. All the agony faded away and I shut my eyes. All screams and sirens disappeared as flickering white letters appeared in front of me. In a brief moment of peace I reached for the words. Try Again or End Game. The peace was fleeting as I screamed for help. "What is this? What are you trying to say?" I tried to breathe but my body was paralyzed. I couldn't move. I couldn't talk. All I could do was feel the absolute uncertainty of the words in front of me. Try Again? End Game? Was this it? I was only twenty. I was an idiot. I shouldn't have drive. I shouldn't have left the party. She was so beautiful and I was so stupid. God, if I had just said no. If I had just thought with my brain for once and told her that I'd call her. No, of course not. Of course not. I got in the goddamn car. I killed her. She's dead and it's my fault. No I don't deserve another chance. She deserves it. She had potential. No, that's it. This is it. End Game
	[WP] In your dying moments, you see a "Game Over" screen with two options: Try Again or End Game	I blinked, looking at the screen. 'Game Over'. I blinked again, and it came back to me in the span it took. The first game ended when I was 3, an accident that I don't know the exact details of. There's a rule that those under 13 get to try again, but I didn't know that until the end of the second game. I was learning how to ride a bike, and I got hit by a man whose daughter had broken her arm. Coincidentally, he was racing to the hospital. The third time, the time before this last one... I think that was an error. I don't know if it was the coder or the coding ingrained in my body, in what I believe is my soul or being, but... it was after my wife died. I don't think I deserved to have the chance again, but my wife wasted away from cancer, a long and painful death. It tore me apart and after she died, I did too. I wasted away, my spirit broken, and fundamentally changed - or so I'd like to think, now. I got the chance to do try again, when she didn't, and I couldn't pass up the opportunity to be with her in some way. My wife from my third game wasn't someone who mattered in the last one. She was a friend, but I was a different person. In this last life I always knew I was broken, that I was lonely and sad and nothing could change. Funny how the loss of my wife lingered in my next one, and changed me into someone that didn't deserve to be with her. Last I heard from her, she was in Houston, studying to become a social worker, engaged. They caught the cancer earlier, and she survived. Good on her. For this game though... I had Kendra. Kendra, who was broken in her own way, and whom I was less broken with. She helped me, and I her, and we built a life together. It was good, and different. The 'Game Over' screen flashed in front of my eyes again, pulling me from my thoughts. There was nothing that changed, nothing different, but I believed that it was telling me to make my choice. It's hard, though, how do you make the choice to start again or end it all without looking at your life? How do you not weigh how it was to hold the hand of your loved one for the first time, how your heart quickens when you learn your first child is a daughter, how the phone call from the hospital said that she and her prom date were dead on arrival? How do you look at a life and decide that it was worth it, or you could do better? I looked at the facts... I had died old, I had married a wonderful woman for 30 great years and 10 terrible ones combined. I had children but never grandchildren, never knew if my line continued, never got to be an influence to someone who would feel what my children felt when I held them. I took long in school, but I turned it around, and while it was difficult to find jobs for a while I managed. We had financial difficulties and more arguments than I can count, and I hurt her so many more times than I wished I could have. We were happy, though. I want to tell myself that we were happy, give a dead man a break to think that. I looked at the screen, the cursor set to 'Try Again'. I nudged it over to 'End Game'. I loved, lost, went through the things that humans went through. I lived a life that was full, not even for the length but because of the content. I had done it three times before, but this... it was right. It was time for someone else to have this chance, and make up their mind. I had lived enough for a lifetime. click	The pain disappeared. All the agony faded away and I shut my eyes. All screams and sirens disappeared as flickering white letters appeared in front of me. In a brief moment of peace I reached for the words. Try Again or End Game. The peace was fleeting as I screamed for help. "What is this? What are you trying to say?" I tried to breathe but my body was paralyzed. I couldn't move. I couldn't talk. All I could do was feel the absolute uncertainty of the words in front of me. Try Again? End Game? Was this it? I was only twenty. I was an idiot. I shouldn't have drive. I shouldn't have left the party. She was so beautiful and I was so stupid. God, if I had just said no. If I had just thought with my brain for once and told her that I'd call her. No, of course not. Of course not. I got in the goddamn car. I killed her. She's dead and it's my fault. No I don't deserve another chance. She deserves it. She had potential. No, that's it. This is it. End Game
	[WP] In your dying moments, you see a "Game Over" screen with two options: Try Again or End Game	All had faded to black, and the universe was quiet but for a faint and distant humming. Is this it? I thought death would be a true end, no worries, no pain, no thought or feelings - and here I was, feeling sad. I was alone. I didn't have long to think, because a light was growing ahead of me, and with it a strange, upbeat melody. As the light grew I saw that it bordered something in its center. A black box that closed in on me rapidly, a large sign reading GAME OVER, below it two smaller signs: Try Again, End Game. A jolt like electricity went through me - Try Again? But even as I had begun to imagine doing everything right this time, I saw a cursor moving over the signs. The cursor didn't even hover over Try Again, no, but it paused on End Game, and just before I heard the click I realised I had never had a choice, not once in my life. Are You Sure? Yes	The pain disappeared. All the agony faded away and I shut my eyes. All screams and sirens disappeared as flickering white letters appeared in front of me. In a brief moment of peace I reached for the words. Try Again or End Game. The peace was fleeting as I screamed for help. "What is this? What are you trying to say?" I tried to breathe but my body was paralyzed. I couldn't move. I couldn't talk. All I could do was feel the absolute uncertainty of the words in front of me. Try Again? End Game? Was this it? I was only twenty. I was an idiot. I shouldn't have drive. I shouldn't have left the party. She was so beautiful and I was so stupid. God, if I had just said no. If I had just thought with my brain for once and told her that I'd call her. No, of course not. Of course not. I got in the goddamn car. I killed her. She's dead and it's my fault. No I don't deserve another chance. She deserves it. She had potential. No, that's it. This is it. End Game
	[WP] In your dying moments, you see a "Game Over" screen with two options: Try Again or End Game	96 years and 8 months 10 days 4 hours 52 minutes 13 seconds ___ Will I remember? Does it even matter? What would I change? ___ I went over my life with a fine tooth comb, trying to remember the most important events, calculating an answer that wouldn't cheat me of the happiest parts of my life. ___ 96 years and 8 months 10 days 5 hours 22 minutes 58 seconds ___ No, I can't do that. If I stop the coke deal I won't drive Derrick home and he'd drive drunk. Susan will get better later on her own. ___ 96 years and 8 months 27 days 8 hours 12 minutes 04 seconds ___ I need to be trapped in the avalanche for the new safety regulations to be in place. ___ 96 years and 11 months 10 days 2 hours 19 minutes 55 seconds ___ I can't remember to bring my phone. It's the only excuse to go back to my apt that worked. ___ 97 years and 0 months 0 days 0 hours 0 minutes 01 seconds ___ No that wouldn't work. C'mon, go over it again. ___ I stared at my untouched choices. ___ 97 years and 0 months 0 days 0 hours 0 minutes 02 seconds ___	The pain disappeared. All the agony faded away and I shut my eyes. All screams and sirens disappeared as flickering white letters appeared in front of me. In a brief moment of peace I reached for the words. Try Again or End Game. The peace was fleeting as I screamed for help. "What is this? What are you trying to say?" I tried to breathe but my body was paralyzed. I couldn't move. I couldn't talk. All I could do was feel the absolute uncertainty of the words in front of me. Try Again? End Game? Was this it? I was only twenty. I was an idiot. I shouldn't have drive. I shouldn't have left the party. She was so beautiful and I was so stupid. God, if I had just said no. If I had just thought with my brain for once and told her that I'd call her. No, of course not. Of course not. I got in the goddamn car. I killed her. She's dead and it's my fault. No I don't deserve another chance. She deserves it. She had potential. No, that's it. This is it. End Game
	[WP] In your dying moments, you see a "Game Over" screen with two options: Try Again or End Game	I laid there, amidst some garbage and puddles from a rainstorm the night before. I was 68, and had been dying of a heart attack. It took some time. I thought for sure some passerby would see me, but it didn't happen. I started thinking about all of the things I'd done wrong, all of the things I'd regretted. I could hardly breathe, my chest felt like it was on fire, and I had a significant amount of pain building up behind my eyes, but every once in a while, when I came upon a particularly hurtful memory, my body would find a way to help me sob. I could feel my clothes getting soaked. If you can imagine it, the pain of a heart attack, your body shutting down, and there you are, laying in a puddle, your clothes sopping it all up... and that feeling, that same feeling you'd get if you got caught in the rain. That awful feeling of wet clothes. Well, there you are, dying. In wet clothes. I closed my eyes, as if to say to the universe that I was ready. I waited for a bit, opened them. Blue peaks over the horizon. I couldn't say how long I'd been there, but it didn't take much longer. Last thought was of Megan Ryan. 19, love of my life. Killed herself. In a flash I saw our wedding, our kids, our life together, wonderful moments that might have happened had she just held on a little longer. Sobbing moved on to a full seizure and my body gave out. I closed my eyes and waited for whatever was going to happen. Darkness for a second, and then the memories of dozens upon dozens of lives, spanning back to when I'd first been given the opportunity. I stood up, refreshed, still soaked though. New life coming in at my joints, joints that had haunted me for a decade. A very familiar feeling. I looked up at the two choices. Two choices. I'd been having so much fun at this, there really only was the one choice. Even the bad lives... it was truly unbelievable how the feeling of forgiveness washes over you so quickly, once you get to face the board again. It made every permutation worthwhile. I had an infinity to learn as much as possible about humanity before taking a seat within the chamber. Elders had given me all different kinds of advice. I found myself ignoring most of it, since I was so in love with the possibilities. Truth be told, I was so in love with love, itself. I knew, at some point, I'd become bored with it. It was inevitable. But, I thought, not yet, and I touched the 'try again' button. I took in a deep breathe and waited to forget everything, again.	The pain disappeared. All the agony faded away and I shut my eyes. All screams and sirens disappeared as flickering white letters appeared in front of me. In a brief moment of peace I reached for the words. Try Again or End Game. The peace was fleeting as I screamed for help. "What is this? What are you trying to say?" I tried to breathe but my body was paralyzed. I couldn't move. I couldn't talk. All I could do was feel the absolute uncertainty of the words in front of me. Try Again? End Game? Was this it? I was only twenty. I was an idiot. I shouldn't have drive. I shouldn't have left the party. She was so beautiful and I was so stupid. God, if I had just said no. If I had just thought with my brain for once and told her that I'd call her. No, of course not. Of course not. I got in the goddamn car. I killed her. She's dead and it's my fault. No I don't deserve another chance. She deserves it. She had potential. No, that's it. This is it. End Game
	[WP] In your dying moments, you see a "Game Over" screen with two options: Try Again or End Game	I wasn't sure if it was the AI that had finally died or me. Really I wasn't sure how long I'd been strapped in that god forsaken chair. Memories of the fist time I laid eyes on it flooding back to me. Abducted by my unknown assailants and thrown in the back of the van. Once the hood was finally pulled back, I was faced with a damp, rusty room. Surgical instruments carelessly spread about on a small table next to that hellish device - the chair. The tubes and wires protruding from every part almost masked the head and limb restrains. Beyond this tangled mess, a short metal spike lay at the center of the head rest, ominously glaring under the flicker of the fluorescent lights hanging above. It sat in a reclining position, which I was forcefully being shoved into. "Stop struggling!" one of my new friends demanded. "You're only make it worse for yourself!" Worse off was definitely where I was headed. It felt as if that where a decades ago (or more). The time had to be altered in this place in a way that it was difficult to say. There was no way I was being kept alive in the chair for the length of time it felt. I had become some sort of sick science experiment for these people. I had been plunged back to my youth. It was if I was being forced to live half my life all over again. At first I wouldn't talk to anyone. My friends, my family - they where, after all just a creation of the chair. They had to be. I can't remember the exact moment I quit caring. The torment of isolation was worse than living a lie. My entire life a perpetual déjà vu, repeating the things I'd already done it life. Although now, I had come full circle. I had come upon the day my assailants burst through my door and taken me. Do I let them take me? It isn't really them is it? Do I fight them, or try to run before they come? The different scenarios had been plaguing me for months. "What's the matter with you?" my girlfriend Jenny asked earlier that week. I just kissed her forehead, knowing it wasn't really her, but gaining comfort all the same. "Nothing babe, I'm just a little stressed out at work." Once upon a time I had avoided marrying this girl. Now I would give just about anything to spend my life with her. The real her. Now all I had where shadows of the past. It was then I decided, I was going to let them take me to the chair - then I was going to kill them. I figured it would give me an opportunity to learn everything I could about what and where I was. I was going to fight. I had hidden a gun and a medium sized blade for good measure. Both strapped to me, the gun at the center of my chest and the knife on my thigh. I had to make sure I could put up resistance to make things seem within order, while not giving away my weapons. The anticipation was maddening. Siting, waiting in my own living room knowing what was about to go down. I could feel my pulse thundering in my neck. Then a crack of a crowbar snapping the hinge of my door. I knew it was coming. It still startled me. Jumping to my feet with my adrenaline pumping. The first attacker lunged at me. Being less awe struck by the situation this second time around, I leaned to right avoiding his attack. Returning fire with a fist of my own, I connecting along his lower jaw. The loud popping sound as my fist dropped was like music to my ears. I was just about to turn to face the second when the stun-gun brought me to my knees. Everything went black. When I came too, the van was coming to a stop. Thankfully I could still feel the cold steel of the gun on my chest. Unloading me like a bag of meat it could hear the thugs whispering to each other. "What do you think she's going to do with him?" One asked. "Shut up and do your job!" Another spoke up in a voice of authority. My true fear was what would happen if I allowed them to get me back in the chair. Would things reset all over again? Before I could let myself break into full panic, the hood they had placed over my head was pulled back, again. "I...I don't understand - Jenny what are you doing here?" So many things where as they where before. The damp, rusted shell of a room. The surgical instruments, the fluorescent lights all there. But the chair - where the chair should have been stood the love of my life, Jenny. "What is this?" I demanded. "This is where things end and begin for you, Jack." My heart sank. What kind of cruel joke was this? "You snapped. You killed me, and went crazy. They came and locked you up Jack. This was the spot where they took you, to begin the experimental reprogramming treatment. Do you remember?" Lies. They had finally revealed themselves, only to try and convince me of more lies. "Of course I remember Jenny, but this time I brought you something." The look of confusing on her face told me they still hadn't noticed the gun. "You say I killed you, let's see how that really feels" I said while making one fluid motion to reach for the gun. Ripping it out of it's hiding, I held it up and squeezed the trigger. Everything began to stretch and distort. The masked hoodlums frozen in time around me. Jenny's head had exploded into what look like a thousand shards of glass, suspended in mid air. A loud buzzing sound had filled the room, so loud it made me want to vomit. That's when I saw it. Up in the corner of the room. It looked like a portal to another dimension. A deep whole leading off into the expanse of darkened space. A flash of text blinked on, then off, then back on right in it's center. "Game over" What? This was some kind of game to them? I looked again. "Try again or end game".	And everything faded away. "This is it" I thought, "I suppose they'll at least name a high school after me." As the darkness enveloped me I suddenly became hyper-aware of a distant glowing light and a muted voice. Gradually as the voice became clear, the glowing light grew near and I began to make out neon words. A welcomed wave of childhood familiarity, I felt warmth in the glow where only indescribable darkness existed before. "Game Over" it read while below two options seemingly laid before me; "Try Again - 2 Credits" or "End Game". "9" The voice was now loud and clear. No, not just clear but harshly so. Devoid of humanity, electronic. It was counting down ... "8" I stared intently at my choices. "7" I had lived a good life, an honest life but so much left undone but ... "6" if I had to do it all again? "5" Would I even be the same person? Would I even be me? "4" I could feel my hand reaching into my pocket, searching for loose change. Habit, I suppose, from a childhood filled with trips to the mall arcade. "3" Nothing. No reassuring jingle of quarters. "2" Oh well, I've had my turn, somebody else may want to give this game a go. I let out a sigh. "1" And everything faded away.
	[WP] In your dying moments, you see a "Game Over" screen with two options: Try Again or End Game	That's it? That's how I go out? No blaze of glory? No high speed chases? No wife and kids standing over me remembering the good times as I fade out? And it all happened so fast. I stepped out of the 7-11 on the corner, Cherry Icee in hand, and some drugged out gangster just stumbles up to me, raises his handgun to my forehead and pulls the trigger. That's it. Lights out. Some sick twist of fate didn't even give me a chance to fight back, or at least finish my icee. So here I am now, standing in front of two identical doors. One labelled "Try Again" and one labelled "End Game". No. Not a chance. If this is all a game then I want to finish my damn slushee. I walk through the “Try Again” door and all of a sudden I'm standing at the counter again, icee in hand. I turn on my heel and walk out the back door of the 7-11. I got out the door and three steps into the crosswalk before the bus hit me, sending my icee flying across the street and unceremoniously dropping me back in front of those damn doors again.	And everything faded away. "This is it" I thought, "I suppose they'll at least name a high school after me." As the darkness enveloped me I suddenly became hyper-aware of a distant glowing light and a muted voice. Gradually as the voice became clear, the glowing light grew near and I began to make out neon words. A welcomed wave of childhood familiarity, I felt warmth in the glow where only indescribable darkness existed before. "Game Over" it read while below two options seemingly laid before me; "Try Again - 2 Credits" or "End Game". "9" The voice was now loud and clear. No, not just clear but harshly so. Devoid of humanity, electronic. It was counting down ... "8" I stared intently at my choices. "7" I had lived a good life, an honest life but so much left undone but ... "6" if I had to do it all again? "5" Would I even be the same person? Would I even be me? "4" I could feel my hand reaching into my pocket, searching for loose change. Habit, I suppose, from a childhood filled with trips to the mall arcade. "3" Nothing. No reassuring jingle of quarters. "2" Oh well, I've had my turn, somebody else may want to give this game a go. I let out a sigh. "1" And everything faded away.
	[WP] In your dying moments, you see a "Game Over" screen with two options: Try Again or End Game	My body trembled as I stared up at the words, the soft glow the only thing separating me from total darkness. I walked for hours into the void but they always followed me, daunting and powerful. My knees cracked and ached as I lowered myself into a sitting position on the hard black ground. I closed my eyes and let the memories come to me. She was so beautiful when we first met, her black hair and red lips were a stark contrast to her porcelain face. It greyed as we aged, it came gracefully, along with the lines on her face, but I still found her beautiful. When my hair fell out she still called me handsome, she would pretend she was running her fingers through it. Then her hair started to fall out, and she lost sixty pounds. The Doctors said it was the only way. Even still her smile made her radiant. "At least I can fit into my wedding dress again." She would let slip from behind a wry smile, she said it often. "You look even better now." I would follow script, and I meant it. She couldn't win in the end though. And I couldn't continue without her. My memories of her used to be so faded. But in this void they were vivid and colorful. I was able to hear her laugh and taste her lips again, feel her embrace. My only regret was that we never had kids. But there's no going back. I still haven't chosen. I don't need to. Everything that makes me happy is here, in my memories. I just hope they never unplug the machine.	And everything faded away. "This is it" I thought, "I suppose they'll at least name a high school after me." As the darkness enveloped me I suddenly became hyper-aware of a distant glowing light and a muted voice. Gradually as the voice became clear, the glowing light grew near and I began to make out neon words. A welcomed wave of childhood familiarity, I felt warmth in the glow where only indescribable darkness existed before. "Game Over" it read while below two options seemingly laid before me; "Try Again - 2 Credits" or "End Game". "9" The voice was now loud and clear. No, not just clear but harshly so. Devoid of humanity, electronic. It was counting down ... "8" I stared intently at my choices. "7" I had lived a good life, an honest life but so much left undone but ... "6" if I had to do it all again? "5" Would I even be the same person? Would I even be me? "4" I could feel my hand reaching into my pocket, searching for loose change. Habit, I suppose, from a childhood filled with trips to the mall arcade. "3" Nothing. No reassuring jingle of quarters. "2" Oh well, I've had my turn, somebody else may want to give this game a go. I let out a sigh. "1" And everything faded away.
	[WP] In your dying moments, you see a "Game Over" screen with two options: Try Again or End Game	All had faded to black, and the universe was quiet but for a faint and distant humming. Is this it? I thought death would be a true end, no worries, no pain, no thought or feelings - and here I was, feeling sad. I was alone. I didn't have long to think, because a light was growing ahead of me, and with it a strange, upbeat melody. As the light grew I saw that it bordered something in its center. A black box that closed in on me rapidly, a large sign reading GAME OVER, below it two smaller signs: Try Again, End Game. A jolt like electricity went through me - Try Again? But even as I had begun to imagine doing everything right this time, I saw a cursor moving over the signs. The cursor didn't even hover over Try Again, no, but it paused on End Game, and just before I heard the click I realised I had never had a choice, not once in my life. Are You Sure? Yes	And everything faded away. "This is it" I thought, "I suppose they'll at least name a high school after me." As the darkness enveloped me I suddenly became hyper-aware of a distant glowing light and a muted voice. Gradually as the voice became clear, the glowing light grew near and I began to make out neon words. A welcomed wave of childhood familiarity, I felt warmth in the glow where only indescribable darkness existed before. "Game Over" it read while below two options seemingly laid before me; "Try Again - 2 Credits" or "End Game". "9" The voice was now loud and clear. No, not just clear but harshly so. Devoid of humanity, electronic. It was counting down ... "8" I stared intently at my choices. "7" I had lived a good life, an honest life but so much left undone but ... "6" if I had to do it all again? "5" Would I even be the same person? Would I even be me? "4" I could feel my hand reaching into my pocket, searching for loose change. Habit, I suppose, from a childhood filled with trips to the mall arcade. "3" Nothing. No reassuring jingle of quarters. "2" Oh well, I've had my turn, somebody else may want to give this game a go. I let out a sigh. "1" And everything faded away.
	[WP] In your dying moments, you see a "Game Over" screen with two options: Try Again or End Game	I wasn't sure if it was the AI that had finally died or me. Really I wasn't sure how long I'd been strapped in that god forsaken chair. Memories of the fist time I laid eyes on it flooding back to me. Abducted by my unknown assailants and thrown in the back of the van. Once the hood was finally pulled back, I was faced with a damp, rusty room. Surgical instruments carelessly spread about on a small table next to that hellish device - the chair. The tubes and wires protruding from every part almost masked the head and limb restrains. Beyond this tangled mess, a short metal spike lay at the center of the head rest, ominously glaring under the flicker of the fluorescent lights hanging above. It sat in a reclining position, which I was forcefully being shoved into. "Stop struggling!" one of my new friends demanded. "You're only make it worse for yourself!" Worse off was definitely where I was headed. It felt as if that where a decades ago (or more). The time had to be altered in this place in a way that it was difficult to say. There was no way I was being kept alive in the chair for the length of time it felt. I had become some sort of sick science experiment for these people. I had been plunged back to my youth. It was if I was being forced to live half my life all over again. At first I wouldn't talk to anyone. My friends, my family - they where, after all just a creation of the chair. They had to be. I can't remember the exact moment I quit caring. The torment of isolation was worse than living a lie. My entire life a perpetual déjà vu, repeating the things I'd already done it life. Although now, I had come full circle. I had come upon the day my assailants burst through my door and taken me. Do I let them take me? It isn't really them is it? Do I fight them, or try to run before they come? The different scenarios had been plaguing me for months. "What's the matter with you?" my girlfriend Jenny asked earlier that week. I just kissed her forehead, knowing it wasn't really her, but gaining comfort all the same. "Nothing babe, I'm just a little stressed out at work." Once upon a time I had avoided marrying this girl. Now I would give just about anything to spend my life with her. The real her. Now all I had where shadows of the past. It was then I decided, I was going to let them take me to the chair - then I was going to kill them. I figured it would give me an opportunity to learn everything I could about what and where I was. I was going to fight. I had hidden a gun and a medium sized blade for good measure. Both strapped to me, the gun at the center of my chest and the knife on my thigh. I had to make sure I could put up resistance to make things seem within order, while not giving away my weapons. The anticipation was maddening. Siting, waiting in my own living room knowing what was about to go down. I could feel my pulse thundering in my neck. Then a crack of a crowbar snapping the hinge of my door. I knew it was coming. It still startled me. Jumping to my feet with my adrenaline pumping. The first attacker lunged at me. Being less awe struck by the situation this second time around, I leaned to right avoiding his attack. Returning fire with a fist of my own, I connecting along his lower jaw. The loud popping sound as my fist dropped was like music to my ears. I was just about to turn to face the second when the stun-gun brought me to my knees. Everything went black. When I came too, the van was coming to a stop. Thankfully I could still feel the cold steel of the gun on my chest. Unloading me like a bag of meat it could hear the thugs whispering to each other. "What do you think she's going to do with him?" One asked. "Shut up and do your job!" Another spoke up in a voice of authority. My true fear was what would happen if I allowed them to get me back in the chair. Would things reset all over again? Before I could let myself break into full panic, the hood they had placed over my head was pulled back, again. "I...I don't understand - Jenny what are you doing here?" So many things where as they where before. The damp, rusted shell of a room. The surgical instruments, the fluorescent lights all there. But the chair - where the chair should have been stood the love of my life, Jenny. "What is this?" I demanded. "This is where things end and begin for you, Jack." My heart sank. What kind of cruel joke was this? "You snapped. You killed me, and went crazy. They came and locked you up Jack. This was the spot where they took you, to begin the experimental reprogramming treatment. Do you remember?" Lies. They had finally revealed themselves, only to try and convince me of more lies. "Of course I remember Jenny, but this time I brought you something." The look of confusing on her face told me they still hadn't noticed the gun. "You say I killed you, let's see how that really feels" I said while making one fluid motion to reach for the gun. Ripping it out of it's hiding, I held it up and squeezed the trigger. Everything began to stretch and distort. The masked hoodlums frozen in time around me. Jenny's head had exploded into what look like a thousand shards of glass, suspended in mid air. A loud buzzing sound had filled the room, so loud it made me want to vomit. That's when I saw it. Up in the corner of the room. It looked like a portal to another dimension. A deep whole leading off into the expanse of darkened space. A flash of text blinked on, then off, then back on right in it's center. "Game over" What? This was some kind of game to them? I looked again. "Try again or end game".	Huh, I thought, as I stared at the asphalt. Head hurts. Body hurts. Can't speak. Am I still alive? I laid there for a moment in silence. Perhaps someone will come and help me. Dad should be nearby. I close my eyes. I can still smell the burning rubber. It's not entirely unpleasant. Reminds me of when dad used to drive us around. I open my eyes. The smell is gone. There is no other smell. I tried to raise my head for a look around. There is no one. I blinked. I can move now. Nothing hurts. There is nothing in front of me. Where is dad? I turned around. A signpost labelled "Try Again or End Game" loomed before me. Huh. I think I have to pee.
	[WP] In your dying moments, you see a "Game Over" screen with two options: Try Again or End Game	That's it? That's how I go out? No blaze of glory? No high speed chases? No wife and kids standing over me remembering the good times as I fade out? And it all happened so fast. I stepped out of the 7-11 on the corner, Cherry Icee in hand, and some drugged out gangster just stumbles up to me, raises his handgun to my forehead and pulls the trigger. That's it. Lights out. Some sick twist of fate didn't even give me a chance to fight back, or at least finish my icee. So here I am now, standing in front of two identical doors. One labelled "Try Again" and one labelled "End Game". No. Not a chance. If this is all a game then I want to finish my damn slushee. I walk through the “Try Again” door and all of a sudden I'm standing at the counter again, icee in hand. I turn on my heel and walk out the back door of the 7-11. I got out the door and three steps into the crosswalk before the bus hit me, sending my icee flying across the street and unceremoniously dropping me back in front of those damn doors again.	Huh, I thought, as I stared at the asphalt. Head hurts. Body hurts. Can't speak. Am I still alive? I laid there for a moment in silence. Perhaps someone will come and help me. Dad should be nearby. I close my eyes. I can still smell the burning rubber. It's not entirely unpleasant. Reminds me of when dad used to drive us around. I open my eyes. The smell is gone. There is no other smell. I tried to raise my head for a look around. There is no one. I blinked. I can move now. Nothing hurts. There is nothing in front of me. Where is dad? I turned around. A signpost labelled "Try Again or End Game" loomed before me. Huh. I think I have to pee.
	[WP] In your dying moments, you see a "Game Over" screen with two options: Try Again or End Game	My body trembled as I stared up at the words, the soft glow the only thing separating me from total darkness. I walked for hours into the void but they always followed me, daunting and powerful. My knees cracked and ached as I lowered myself into a sitting position on the hard black ground. I closed my eyes and let the memories come to me. She was so beautiful when we first met, her black hair and red lips were a stark contrast to her porcelain face. It greyed as we aged, it came gracefully, along with the lines on her face, but I still found her beautiful. When my hair fell out she still called me handsome, she would pretend she was running her fingers through it. Then her hair started to fall out, and she lost sixty pounds. The Doctors said it was the only way. Even still her smile made her radiant. "At least I can fit into my wedding dress again." She would let slip from behind a wry smile, she said it often. "You look even better now." I would follow script, and I meant it. She couldn't win in the end though. And I couldn't continue without her. My memories of her used to be so faded. But in this void they were vivid and colorful. I was able to hear her laugh and taste her lips again, feel her embrace. My only regret was that we never had kids. But there's no going back. I still haven't chosen. I don't need to. Everything that makes me happy is here, in my memories. I just hope they never unplug the machine.	Huh, I thought, as I stared at the asphalt. Head hurts. Body hurts. Can't speak. Am I still alive? I laid there for a moment in silence. Perhaps someone will come and help me. Dad should be nearby. I close my eyes. I can still smell the burning rubber. It's not entirely unpleasant. Reminds me of when dad used to drive us around. I open my eyes. The smell is gone. There is no other smell. I tried to raise my head for a look around. There is no one. I blinked. I can move now. Nothing hurts. There is nothing in front of me. Where is dad? I turned around. A signpost labelled "Try Again or End Game" loomed before me. Huh. I think I have to pee.
	[WP] In your dying moments, you see a "Game Over" screen with two options: Try Again or End Game	All had faded to black, and the universe was quiet but for a faint and distant humming. Is this it? I thought death would be a true end, no worries, no pain, no thought or feelings - and here I was, feeling sad. I was alone. I didn't have long to think, because a light was growing ahead of me, and with it a strange, upbeat melody. As the light grew I saw that it bordered something in its center. A black box that closed in on me rapidly, a large sign reading GAME OVER, below it two smaller signs: Try Again, End Game. A jolt like electricity went through me - Try Again? But even as I had begun to imagine doing everything right this time, I saw a cursor moving over the signs. The cursor didn't even hover over Try Again, no, but it paused on End Game, and just before I heard the click I realised I had never had a choice, not once in my life. Are You Sure? Yes	Huh, I thought, as I stared at the asphalt. Head hurts. Body hurts. Can't speak. Am I still alive? I laid there for a moment in silence. Perhaps someone will come and help me. Dad should be nearby. I close my eyes. I can still smell the burning rubber. It's not entirely unpleasant. Reminds me of when dad used to drive us around. I open my eyes. The smell is gone. There is no other smell. I tried to raise my head for a look around. There is no one. I blinked. I can move now. Nothing hurts. There is nothing in front of me. Where is dad? I turned around. A signpost labelled "Try Again or End Game" loomed before me. Huh. I think I have to pee.
	[WP] In your dying moments, you see a "Game Over" screen with two options: Try Again or End Game	That's it? That's how I go out? No blaze of glory? No high speed chases? No wife and kids standing over me remembering the good times as I fade out? And it all happened so fast. I stepped out of the 7-11 on the corner, Cherry Icee in hand, and some drugged out gangster just stumbles up to me, raises his handgun to my forehead and pulls the trigger. That's it. Lights out. Some sick twist of fate didn't even give me a chance to fight back, or at least finish my icee. So here I am now, standing in front of two identical doors. One labelled "Try Again" and one labelled "End Game". No. Not a chance. If this is all a game then I want to finish my damn slushee. I walk through the “Try Again” door and all of a sudden I'm standing at the counter again, icee in hand. I turn on my heel and walk out the back door of the 7-11. I got out the door and three steps into the crosswalk before the bus hit me, sending my icee flying across the street and unceremoniously dropping me back in front of those damn doors again.	"What the crap is this?" Saying out loud to no one at all. Couldn't even figure out if I still had a mouth. But there I was, seeing nothing but those stupid words. Bold white against black with a dumb little pixelated arrow next to them. Who the hell came up with this? Probably God trying to make his friends laugh. That guy's such a dick. "Yeah great. I've played enough video games to know how this works. But you forgot one thing, assholes!" Could anyone hear me yelling? I could hear me yelling. "Do I get a checkpoint or do I have to go back to being a baby?! That's pretty fucking important!" Nothing. Just those white letters staring back at me. Ugh! Well I wasn't about to hang around some cosmic menu screen until I eventually went insane from aeons of isolation until I found myself in some kid's reload screen yelling for Solid Snake to get up. "What do I do here? Just think about moving that arrow thing?" It moved. "Huh. Real cute." A few seconds flipping back and forth and... Sloop, pop. "WHAAAAAAA! Ah fuck, I'm a baby! Wait what?! I'm a talking baby?!" Fragile hands griped around my temples. Something slipped away from my eyes and the upside down image of the doctor resolved to a right side up image of- "Steve, you jackass! Of all the friends who's beds I could end up next to in the hospice, it had to be you!"
	[WP] In your dying moments, you see a "Game Over" screen with two options: Try Again or End Game	My body trembled as I stared up at the words, the soft glow the only thing separating me from total darkness. I walked for hours into the void but they always followed me, daunting and powerful. My knees cracked and ached as I lowered myself into a sitting position on the hard black ground. I closed my eyes and let the memories come to me. She was so beautiful when we first met, her black hair and red lips were a stark contrast to her porcelain face. It greyed as we aged, it came gracefully, along with the lines on her face, but I still found her beautiful. When my hair fell out she still called me handsome, she would pretend she was running her fingers through it. Then her hair started to fall out, and she lost sixty pounds. The Doctors said it was the only way. Even still her smile made her radiant. "At least I can fit into my wedding dress again." She would let slip from behind a wry smile, she said it often. "You look even better now." I would follow script, and I meant it. She couldn't win in the end though. And I couldn't continue without her. My memories of her used to be so faded. But in this void they were vivid and colorful. I was able to hear her laugh and taste her lips again, feel her embrace. My only regret was that we never had kids. But there's no going back. I still haven't chosen. I don't need to. Everything that makes me happy is here, in my memories. I just hope they never unplug the machine.	"What the crap is this?" Saying out loud to no one at all. Couldn't even figure out if I still had a mouth. But there I was, seeing nothing but those stupid words. Bold white against black with a dumb little pixelated arrow next to them. Who the hell came up with this? Probably God trying to make his friends laugh. That guy's such a dick. "Yeah great. I've played enough video games to know how this works. But you forgot one thing, assholes!" Could anyone hear me yelling? I could hear me yelling. "Do I get a checkpoint or do I have to go back to being a baby?! That's pretty fucking important!" Nothing. Just those white letters staring back at me. Ugh! Well I wasn't about to hang around some cosmic menu screen until I eventually went insane from aeons of isolation until I found myself in some kid's reload screen yelling for Solid Snake to get up. "What do I do here? Just think about moving that arrow thing?" It moved. "Huh. Real cute." A few seconds flipping back and forth and... Sloop, pop. "WHAAAAAAA! Ah fuck, I'm a baby! Wait what?! I'm a talking baby?!" Fragile hands griped around my temples. Something slipped away from my eyes and the upside down image of the doctor resolved to a right side up image of- "Steve, you jackass! Of all the friends who's beds I could end up next to in the hospice, it had to be you!"
	[WP] In your dying moments, you see a "Game Over" screen with two options: Try Again or End Game	96 years and 8 months 10 days 4 hours 52 minutes 13 seconds ___ Will I remember? Does it even matter? What would I change? ___ I went over my life with a fine tooth comb, trying to remember the most important events, calculating an answer that wouldn't cheat me of the happiest parts of my life. ___ 96 years and 8 months 10 days 5 hours 22 minutes 58 seconds ___ No, I can't do that. If I stop the coke deal I won't drive Derrick home and he'd drive drunk. Susan will get better later on her own. ___ 96 years and 8 months 27 days 8 hours 12 minutes 04 seconds ___ I need to be trapped in the avalanche for the new safety regulations to be in place. ___ 96 years and 11 months 10 days 2 hours 19 minutes 55 seconds ___ I can't remember to bring my phone. It's the only excuse to go back to my apt that worked. ___ 97 years and 0 months 0 days 0 hours 0 minutes 01 seconds ___ No that wouldn't work. C'mon, go over it again. ___ I stared at my untouched choices. ___ 97 years and 0 months 0 days 0 hours 0 minutes 02 seconds ___	‘Danm where the hell did that car come from. Fuck!’ I heard the words as clear as if the person was standing next to me, but I knew I was alone. I had just ben crossing the street and it was the dead of night, I hadn’t seen a person in the last 15 minutes at least. ‘Fuck fuck fuck! Don’t tell me Im dead don’t tell me Im dead!’ the person kept on yelling at me. Then I saw the words above me in yellow fonts hovering above me ‘GAME OVER’ then it was added‘ You lived for 26 years, and scored 45%. “Statics” It seemed like a link. Under statics the word came “ Try again or end game” the person was clearly thinking. I tried to speak or do something but I could not move. Then I heard a different voice, there was another voice with him. “ well better than my first try, you should read the statics and study some game plan. My main is an A-list movie star now and my second is a female porn star!’ A small finger started to hover over the statics. ‘ I’ll restart after dinner. I kinda like his looks’
	[WP] In your dying moments, you see a "Game Over" screen with two options: Try Again or End Game	I laid there, amidst some garbage and puddles from a rainstorm the night before. I was 68, and had been dying of a heart attack. It took some time. I thought for sure some passerby would see me, but it didn't happen. I started thinking about all of the things I'd done wrong, all of the things I'd regretted. I could hardly breathe, my chest felt like it was on fire, and I had a significant amount of pain building up behind my eyes, but every once in a while, when I came upon a particularly hurtful memory, my body would find a way to help me sob. I could feel my clothes getting soaked. If you can imagine it, the pain of a heart attack, your body shutting down, and there you are, laying in a puddle, your clothes sopping it all up... and that feeling, that same feeling you'd get if you got caught in the rain. That awful feeling of wet clothes. Well, there you are, dying. In wet clothes. I closed my eyes, as if to say to the universe that I was ready. I waited for a bit, opened them. Blue peaks over the horizon. I couldn't say how long I'd been there, but it didn't take much longer. Last thought was of Megan Ryan. 19, love of my life. Killed herself. In a flash I saw our wedding, our kids, our life together, wonderful moments that might have happened had she just held on a little longer. Sobbing moved on to a full seizure and my body gave out. I closed my eyes and waited for whatever was going to happen. Darkness for a second, and then the memories of dozens upon dozens of lives, spanning back to when I'd first been given the opportunity. I stood up, refreshed, still soaked though. New life coming in at my joints, joints that had haunted me for a decade. A very familiar feeling. I looked up at the two choices. Two choices. I'd been having so much fun at this, there really only was the one choice. Even the bad lives... it was truly unbelievable how the feeling of forgiveness washes over you so quickly, once you get to face the board again. It made every permutation worthwhile. I had an infinity to learn as much as possible about humanity before taking a seat within the chamber. Elders had given me all different kinds of advice. I found myself ignoring most of it, since I was so in love with the possibilities. Truth be told, I was so in love with love, itself. I knew, at some point, I'd become bored with it. It was inevitable. But, I thought, not yet, and I touched the 'try again' button. I took in a deep breathe and waited to forget everything, again.	‘Danm where the hell did that car come from. Fuck!’ I heard the words as clear as if the person was standing next to me, but I knew I was alone. I had just ben crossing the street and it was the dead of night, I hadn’t seen a person in the last 15 minutes at least. ‘Fuck fuck fuck! Don’t tell me Im dead don’t tell me Im dead!’ the person kept on yelling at me. Then I saw the words above me in yellow fonts hovering above me ‘GAME OVER’ then it was added‘ You lived for 26 years, and scored 45%. “Statics” It seemed like a link. Under statics the word came “ Try again or end game” the person was clearly thinking. I tried to speak or do something but I could not move. Then I heard a different voice, there was another voice with him. “ well better than my first try, you should read the statics and study some game plan. My main is an A-list movie star now and my second is a female porn star!’ A small finger started to hover over the statics. ‘ I’ll restart after dinner. I kinda like his looks’
	[WP] In your dying moments, you see a "Game Over" screen with two options: Try Again or End Game	96 years and 8 months 10 days 4 hours 52 minutes 13 seconds ___ Will I remember? Does it even matter? What would I change? ___ I went over my life with a fine tooth comb, trying to remember the most important events, calculating an answer that wouldn't cheat me of the happiest parts of my life. ___ 96 years and 8 months 10 days 5 hours 22 minutes 58 seconds ___ No, I can't do that. If I stop the coke deal I won't drive Derrick home and he'd drive drunk. Susan will get better later on her own. ___ 96 years and 8 months 27 days 8 hours 12 minutes 04 seconds ___ I need to be trapped in the avalanche for the new safety regulations to be in place. ___ 96 years and 11 months 10 days 2 hours 19 minutes 55 seconds ___ I can't remember to bring my phone. It's the only excuse to go back to my apt that worked. ___ 97 years and 0 months 0 days 0 hours 0 minutes 01 seconds ___ No that wouldn't work. C'mon, go over it again. ___ I stared at my untouched choices. ___ 97 years and 0 months 0 days 0 hours 0 minutes 02 seconds ___	I blinked, looking at the screen. 'Game Over'. I blinked again, and it came back to me in the span it took. The first game ended when I was 3, an accident that I don't know the exact details of. There's a rule that those under 13 get to try again, but I didn't know that until the end of the second game. I was learning how to ride a bike, and I got hit by a man whose daughter had broken her arm. Coincidentally, he was racing to the hospital. The third time, the time before this last one... I think that was an error. I don't know if it was the coder or the coding ingrained in my body, in what I believe is my soul or being, but... it was after my wife died. I don't think I deserved to have the chance again, but my wife wasted away from cancer, a long and painful death. It tore me apart and after she died, I did too. I wasted away, my spirit broken, and fundamentally changed - or so I'd like to think, now. I got the chance to do try again, when she didn't, and I couldn't pass up the opportunity to be with her in some way. My wife from my third game wasn't someone who mattered in the last one. She was a friend, but I was a different person. In this last life I always knew I was broken, that I was lonely and sad and nothing could change. Funny how the loss of my wife lingered in my next one, and changed me into someone that didn't deserve to be with her. Last I heard from her, she was in Houston, studying to become a social worker, engaged. They caught the cancer earlier, and she survived. Good on her. For this game though... I had Kendra. Kendra, who was broken in her own way, and whom I was less broken with. She helped me, and I her, and we built a life together. It was good, and different. The 'Game Over' screen flashed in front of my eyes again, pulling me from my thoughts. There was nothing that changed, nothing different, but I believed that it was telling me to make my choice. It's hard, though, how do you make the choice to start again or end it all without looking at your life? How do you not weigh how it was to hold the hand of your loved one for the first time, how your heart quickens when you learn your first child is a daughter, how the phone call from the hospital said that she and her prom date were dead on arrival? How do you look at a life and decide that it was worth it, or you could do better? I looked at the facts... I had died old, I had married a wonderful woman for 30 great years and 10 terrible ones combined. I had children but never grandchildren, never knew if my line continued, never got to be an influence to someone who would feel what my children felt when I held them. I took long in school, but I turned it around, and while it was difficult to find jobs for a while I managed. We had financial difficulties and more arguments than I can count, and I hurt her so many more times than I wished I could have. We were happy, though. I want to tell myself that we were happy, give a dead man a break to think that. I looked at the screen, the cursor set to 'Try Again'. I nudged it over to 'End Game'. I loved, lost, went through the things that humans went through. I lived a life that was full, not even for the length but because of the content. I had done it three times before, but this... it was right. It was time for someone else to have this chance, and make up their mind. I had lived enough for a lifetime. click
	[WP] In your dying moments, you see a "Game Over" screen with two options: Try Again or End Game	I laid there, amidst some garbage and puddles from a rainstorm the night before. I was 68, and had been dying of a heart attack. It took some time. I thought for sure some passerby would see me, but it didn't happen. I started thinking about all of the things I'd done wrong, all of the things I'd regretted. I could hardly breathe, my chest felt like it was on fire, and I had a significant amount of pain building up behind my eyes, but every once in a while, when I came upon a particularly hurtful memory, my body would find a way to help me sob. I could feel my clothes getting soaked. If you can imagine it, the pain of a heart attack, your body shutting down, and there you are, laying in a puddle, your clothes sopping it all up... and that feeling, that same feeling you'd get if you got caught in the rain. That awful feeling of wet clothes. Well, there you are, dying. In wet clothes. I closed my eyes, as if to say to the universe that I was ready. I waited for a bit, opened them. Blue peaks over the horizon. I couldn't say how long I'd been there, but it didn't take much longer. Last thought was of Megan Ryan. 19, love of my life. Killed herself. In a flash I saw our wedding, our kids, our life together, wonderful moments that might have happened had she just held on a little longer. Sobbing moved on to a full seizure and my body gave out. I closed my eyes and waited for whatever was going to happen. Darkness for a second, and then the memories of dozens upon dozens of lives, spanning back to when I'd first been given the opportunity. I stood up, refreshed, still soaked though. New life coming in at my joints, joints that had haunted me for a decade. A very familiar feeling. I looked up at the two choices. Two choices. I'd been having so much fun at this, there really only was the one choice. Even the bad lives... it was truly unbelievable how the feeling of forgiveness washes over you so quickly, once you get to face the board again. It made every permutation worthwhile. I had an infinity to learn as much as possible about humanity before taking a seat within the chamber. Elders had given me all different kinds of advice. I found myself ignoring most of it, since I was so in love with the possibilities. Truth be told, I was so in love with love, itself. I knew, at some point, I'd become bored with it. It was inevitable. But, I thought, not yet, and I touched the 'try again' button. I took in a deep breathe and waited to forget everything, again.	There I was, slowly sinking towards the bottom of the lake, unable to move because the rough cement wrapped around my feet was doing such an excellent job at tying me down. The sun was way too bright and full of character radiating with colors of lukewarm yellow which didn't help much with the thought that I was going to die in such cold and blue place. Sinking. Dying. Thinking. Thinking? Sinking without much thought other than death, trying to touch the bubbles that are freely floating to where the sun seem to be resting with my fingertips, suddenly dying like this didn't seem so bad. The sun was dying as I was sinking, or is it the other way around? ... I felt my back touch the cold floor of the lake. I chuckled a bit. Damn you Dick, more chuckles, should have at least given me a damn shirt. The sands shifted to fit the temperature of my back, I felt as if I was lying down on the beach once again, but if it was as comfortable as when I was actually at the beach I would be lying. I let out more chuckles with my last attempts to entertain myself before I sank all the way to death. One last look at the sun then I would be gone. One last look. It was so wrong. Why are you so happy? I'm dying! I'm fucken dying! The bubbles coming out from my mouth covered the view of the sun. The sun did not respond but only grew more exuberant with joy. One last look my ass. How can I stop? The sun did not respond but only grew more exuberant. More. More it grew with light. What happened? My eyes were suddenly blinded and there were no longer any bubbles that were covering the light. Only the bright ray of illumination continued to grow stronger and I could no longer tell where I was. Where was I? There was only light. From the distance large letters approached: Game Over I whimsically chuckled. What a joke. It was all a game. Then the sun responded with more letters: Try again? or End Game. I could not handle it anymore. I burst into laughter. It was uncontrollable. Do I want to try it again? Go through all that again? I calmed my breath and chuckled. Why not :) Sorry I'm bad at English.
	[WP] In your dying moments, you see a "Game Over" screen with two options: Try Again or End Game	I laid there, amidst some garbage and puddles from a rainstorm the night before. I was 68, and had been dying of a heart attack. It took some time. I thought for sure some passerby would see me, but it didn't happen. I started thinking about all of the things I'd done wrong, all of the things I'd regretted. I could hardly breathe, my chest felt like it was on fire, and I had a significant amount of pain building up behind my eyes, but every once in a while, when I came upon a particularly hurtful memory, my body would find a way to help me sob. I could feel my clothes getting soaked. If you can imagine it, the pain of a heart attack, your body shutting down, and there you are, laying in a puddle, your clothes sopping it all up... and that feeling, that same feeling you'd get if you got caught in the rain. That awful feeling of wet clothes. Well, there you are, dying. In wet clothes. I closed my eyes, as if to say to the universe that I was ready. I waited for a bit, opened them. Blue peaks over the horizon. I couldn't say how long I'd been there, but it didn't take much longer. Last thought was of Megan Ryan. 19, love of my life. Killed herself. In a flash I saw our wedding, our kids, our life together, wonderful moments that might have happened had she just held on a little longer. Sobbing moved on to a full seizure and my body gave out. I closed my eyes and waited for whatever was going to happen. Darkness for a second, and then the memories of dozens upon dozens of lives, spanning back to when I'd first been given the opportunity. I stood up, refreshed, still soaked though. New life coming in at my joints, joints that had haunted me for a decade. A very familiar feeling. I looked up at the two choices. Two choices. I'd been having so much fun at this, there really only was the one choice. Even the bad lives... it was truly unbelievable how the feeling of forgiveness washes over you so quickly, once you get to face the board again. It made every permutation worthwhile. I had an infinity to learn as much as possible about humanity before taking a seat within the chamber. Elders had given me all different kinds of advice. I found myself ignoring most of it, since I was so in love with the possibilities. Truth be told, I was so in love with love, itself. I knew, at some point, I'd become bored with it. It was inevitable. But, I thought, not yet, and I touched the 'try again' button. I took in a deep breathe and waited to forget everything, again.	It's over, it's all over... those words flicker across your mind as everything fades away. You expected for memories, the years of your life to flash by you in an instant, reliving both the euphoric highs and heart-tearing lows of your life. You expected the tunnel, seeing that light at the end, stretching and working towards that light that is just out of reach. You expected the deeds of your life to be laid out before you, the good and the bad, and thus the weight of your sins would deign you to either heaven or hell. Hell, there was even that small corner of your mind that expected nothing, maybe even wished for it. That the fade to black would stop, the falling asleep without the future wake up. The flat stop at the end of the composition. But not this. Never this. You found yourself floating in space, the inky blackness around you was swarmed with stars - fireflies lighting the universe. You could see all of it, the utter majesty of all of creation, and you understood. Understood everything about your life, where you went right, where you went wrong, and all the little things in between. In big, golden letters you saw the words. The well remembered words from all those times you failed every video game. Game Over Fuck. Not this. Two options were underneath those shimmering words. Try Again floated next to End Game. Fuck this. Fuck this. You fall to your knees, as much as you can while floating in the vacuum of whatever space you were in. Tears streamed down your face, running down you. You brought your hands to your face, attempting to stem your tears, to dry your weeping eyes. But the blood on your hands mingled with the tears on your face. The jagged scars across your wrists, wrought by your own making, laugh at you. That you should make a choice, a choice that you were sure was to be your very last, only to have to make it again. But now was different. You understood your place, all the meetings and people in your life, how you touched and affected them, and how they tore you apart. Bit by bit. Like vultures circling around a carcass, they ripped into your very soul. Ran you to this place, the end of your rope. But you saw them, all of them, all of those small little meetings and moments that your life brushed against another, and the entirety of your life was changed. Crushes and dates, children and elders, friends now and long ago. That grew out of who there were to who they are and who they still will be only by your meeting. That you made a difference. That the entirety of your life meant more than the oblivion that you wished upon yourself now. And so you cried. Cried and yelled, hate roared from you like the blood from your veins. You shouted at the god that left you with this choice, the mad jester for which you were the pawn in some game. And you weighed your options. On the one hand, you could end it again. This time, finally. The end all to end all. And you knew, you knew to the depths of your bones, that this would be the black screen you so desired. But instead of the comfort of never feeling the pain you felt before, you felt fear. Fear of the knowing oblivion you would face. Fear of knowing there would never be another moment you would feel life rush through your veins, the joy of the wind and the earth and sea against your skin. The feel of the skin of the one you love beyond all else against yours. The peace that comes when all you do is done and you can finally rest. And you knew you could go back. Go back, knowing all you know now. Go back and know that you could change all the choices that you had made, change your fate, the one you yourself had laid. But. How many times had you made that choice? How many times had you stared at this screen, and clicked that Try Again? Made the same choices, the same pain, the same end. You considered all this, letting it wrack your mind, the good and the bad. The decisions before you, and the ones you could make again. To decide what you would do to reach the credits, instead of some do it over again. That you would deal with all that pain again...the scars of life over and over again. And so time passes, as you weigh the options of your very existence. Fuck this. You weren't going to deal with this. You look around you, seeing the universe all around you. You smirk, pick a direction, and fly across the heavens themselves. This decision can wait. There's a whole universe out there. It was time to go exploring. And you were, for once, finally free. EDIT: Editing my God-forsaken grammar.
	[WP] In your dying moments, you see a "Game Over" screen with two options: Try Again or End Game	The street before me had disappeared in an instant. A honking of horns, a flash of headlights, and then this: an empty white room, with no doors or windows, which had risen up around me in less than an instant. I circled slowly, getting a sense of my surroundings, when I heard an impatient cough behind me. I whirled to what had been an empty space only moments before, but was now occupied by a bored-looking man reclining behind a thick wooden desk. The man looked at me with disinterested eyes, as though he had seen many visitors such as myself that day and was simply spending time in anticipation of a long lunch break. He wore a clean grey suit, and thick spectacles that seemed to make his face much larger than it actually was. “Over here please,” the man called as he sat up, motioning me to an empty chair before him. I stared at the seat for a moment, positive there had been nothing there before, but soon walked over and sat under the force of his glare. He raised a quick hand toward the space behind him, which only moments before had been completely empty but now contained a shining monitor displaying two words. “Game Over,” he read to me, as if by speaking them aloud I would more easily divine their meaning. “I…I don’t understand, sir,” I said. He sighed, frustrated by my ignorance, and cleared his throat as if recalling a rehearsed speech. “You, Mr….” he paused, glancing quickly at one of the dozens of papers on his desk before resuming, “Ah yes, Mr. Thomas Yearly. You, Mr. Yearly, have been killed by an inebriated driver while crossing the street on your way to the park on the date of October the 7th at 8:49 p.m.” I stared at him, at first not fully understanding. The man glanced at the visible confusion on my face, sighed, and continued. “At this point in time,” he said, once again motioning to the screen behind him, “your ’Game’ is officially ‘Over.’ ” As the full implications of this hit me, I slowly sank back into my chair. “I’m...dead?” I asked weakly. The man looked at me for a moment, a brief glimpse of sympathy crossing his face. It was clear that he had seen many of the newly deceased in their moments of passing, when they first realized their time with the living had come to a close. Though he likely had been desensitized to his job’s more depressing aspects, it must have been difficult to feel nothing for those whose lives had just ended. “Yes Mr. Yearly,” he said in a more delicate tone. “I’m afraid you are indeed dead. And now you must make a choice.” The man pressed a button on his desk and four new words replaced the glaring “Game Over” that shined from the screen behind him. To the left, “End Game” appeared and to the right, “Try Again.” I stared vacantly at these new options, only somewhat concerned by their meaning. “I’m sad to say I must ask you to choose between two different alternatives,” he said, and pointed to the left. “You can either choose to End the Game that you call life, and enter proceed to the after-game, whatever that may be.” He paused to make sure I was following and, satisfied that I was, turned to the words on the right. “Or,” he continued, “You can choose to Try Again.” “Try again?” I asked. The man sighed once more, and then ruffled through the documents on his desk until he found the one he was looking for. “The ‘Try Again’ option,” he read aloud. “A player in question, once his or her Game has come to a close, has the opportunity to play the Game again from the very start. All actions and consequences of the player’s original game will be erased and forgotten, and the player will have the opportunity to live his or her life again in order to make new choices.” I processed this information for a moment while the man waited expectantly. “So everything I’ve done up to this point will be gone?” I asked. “It will,” he said. “And nothing will be the same?” “That depends on the choices you make,” he said. “We cannot control the events that will occur in your New Game.” “Have I chosen the Try Again option before?” “I cannot divulge that information.” "Will I be given this option again if I choose it?" "I cannot divulge that information." I paused, thinking of anything else to ask before I made my choice, when a final question formulated in my mind. “What will occur in the After-Game?” I asked. “Will it be heaven? Or something else? Or will it just be darkness.” The man hesitated, thinking for a moment, and then repeated once more,” I cannot divulge that information.” I thought of the implications of the choice I would make. The opportunity to redo my entire life seemed tempting. I thought of all the mistakes I had made, the thousands of choices that perhaps I had gotten wrong. I thought of the first time I truly fell in love, and the pain I felt when her affair first broke my heart. I could avoid every toxic friendship, every dead-end job, and every disappointment and regret that I ever felt. Or I might not. I might try everything again in the exact same order, live the exact same life, get hit by the exact same car, and return to the exact same white room. I thought of my wife’s face and of my son’s. I remember the endless experiences that shaped who I was. If I Tried Again, I could lose all that. And I realized I didn’t want to. I told the man my choice. It had been clear all along to be honest. The man nodded, as though he had been expecting my response, and pressed another button on the desk in front of him. Two of the words on the screen faded to black, while the other two began to blink in a repeating rhythm. “Thank you for your choice Mr. Yearly,” the man said. “I do hope you are satisfied with it.” I nodded my thanks and thought of the two simple words that I had chosen, two simple words that just happened to mean everything. The man rose from his seat, and led me to a door that had not been there moments before. I walked through it slowly, wanting to make the moment last, but the man quickly closed it shut behind me. At first I saw black. And then I saw nothing.	For billions of years I have roamed this Earth. I have lived many lives. I don’t remember any of them, but they remember me. Each life has influenced the next, and the others it encountered along the way. Over time they have shaped each other, each becoming more complex, more interwoven. A beautiful cycle of life and death, birth and re-birth. I have seen so many amazing things, witnessed such change. I have seen miniature worlds falling from the stars. I have seen altruism. I have seen fire exploding into the sky. I have seen love. I have witnessed suffering. Endless. I could end it all… For me. I could quit this cycle. But would it not go on without me?
	[WP] In your dying moments, you see a "Game Over" screen with two options: Try Again or End Game	I stood there in disbelief. In pure defiance of the laws of physics, and other maths I failed in college, was a giant Game Over sign. It was floating right in front of my face and if I wasn't mistaken, the font was Comic Sans. I couldn't believe it; I was dead and all I got was a game over in a crappy font. It rotated a couple times before some new text popped up. 'Try Again' and 'End Game'. I thought I made it pretty clear the first time and pointed at 'End Game'. Some more text popped up with the words 'Are you sure?' That's when it hit me; No, I wasn't sure. I sat down and looked up at the question. Even though the font was terrible, it spoke to me in a way I couldn't entirely explain. Ever since I was a kid, no one had ever questioned my decisions. I figured no one cared enough to consider my choices something debatable. I lived my life like a runaway train and that worked for me. So why now? Why is some crappy game over screen with a simple question bringing me to a grinding halt? Why can't I just bring myself to say yes and get on with it? I guess it's not that simple. You see, I just killed myself... at least I thought I did.	For billions of years I have roamed this Earth. I have lived many lives. I don’t remember any of them, but they remember me. Each life has influenced the next, and the others it encountered along the way. Over time they have shaped each other, each becoming more complex, more interwoven. A beautiful cycle of life and death, birth and re-birth. I have seen so many amazing things, witnessed such change. I have seen miniature worlds falling from the stars. I have seen altruism. I have seen fire exploding into the sky. I have seen love. I have witnessed suffering. Endless. I could end it all… For me. I could quit this cycle. But would it not go on without me?
The idea I had with this was that every time you fell asleep, you'd wake up at the normal time, but 24 hours later. Then the next time you fell asleep, 48 hours later, and then 96 hours later and so forth and so on. Your life would continue to go on, and you would appear to be "home" to everyone around you, but you have no recollection of any of your life events. Perhaps you've got kids now, a spouse, new friends, a new job, but you have no idea how anything happened or who any of these people are. That's just my idea though, I was trying to keep it a bit vague to see where people went with this. EDIT: for clarity	[WP] Every time you fall asleep, you wake up farther and farther into the future. Nobody else seems to notice but you.	A year has passed. Now the jumps are getting longer. It's been a month since I "jump" in time when I go to sleep. Well, a month for me. At first I missed one day, and since it was a weekday everything was fine and dandy, we delivered Rose and Mary to school, I left Josey at work as always with a goodbye kiss, but when I got to work, I found I already finished the code changes I was set to finish yesterday. It was me alright, the code was mine, I did it, but I don't remember doing it. I told Josey about this later in the day, she dismissed it as a joke and I didn't go further, since she was starting to show a scared look on her face. Then I started skipping two days, three days, weeks and months at a time, and it looked like I was there all of the time, that other me was even better than the me me. I am jealous even. He fixed the roof, the kids are more loving than ever with him/me, and it seems Josey, well, likes him better in bed. ¿What does he do to her?. So, as I was saying, now I'm leaping one year at a time. Kids are now grown up, wife is showing gray hair. Twenty years have passed. As of now I know tomorrow I will wake up one year and a fraction and then two years and so on. Funny thing is, I'm also getting old, I have new aches, I have this weird pain on my left foot, if I step in a certain way with enough force I get a pain like needles, and also I have found a couple new scars, it looks like him working on the house has taken its toll. So he is a successful fella. We now live in another bigger house, I even have another son, Tommy, which I barely know about but he loves me. You see, I leap in time but I don't get the memories from what happened in the interim, so from my family point of view I get days where I get confused and take the day off, since I don't know even where I work, I get calls from people I've never met asking me questions I have no idea how to answer, so, even in my day off, I have to disconnect from the world. And I get to sleep as late as I can, savoring every waking moment. Once I thought of killing him, but I am, he is, not that kind of person. I can never do that to my family. They deserve him. I only hope I am awake when I die. . . . . . EDIT: A friend told me this is basically like the movie "Click". I didn't watch it, I swear :D	wow, that would suck. with the wonders of MS Excel and some very basic calculations you would cover 48.7 years by your 15th night of sleep. so a genie grants you the wish of time travel on new years eve of 2014, and you can't stop falling asleep at night as normal then by the 3rd week of January you're already in June of 2109. the question is do you age by the amount that you've travelled forward? i.e. will you age 96 hours in 1 night at which point you'd be dead in 3 weeks, or do you age normally but simply jump ahead in time uncontrollably? how do your friend and family see you? do they see you as a time traveler that appears with ever decreasing frequency throughout their lives? or do you just drop into a coma only being awake 1 day at a time?
	[WP] A great Empire is about to fall. A single remaining bodyguard is left alone with the Emperor as the enemy approaches the throne room.	The revolution had reached the castle. It had begun in the slums with angry, hungry peasants. The guards that refused to supply them with food that no longer existed were greeted with insults. The insults quickly evolved into thrown rocks, and then pitchforks and torches. The overwhelmed guards were tossed aside as a mob of thousands began storming the last place they believed still had food: the castle. Within, the raging mob murdered whomever they wished, and stole whatever they desired. Before long, the only secure room left was the throne room. The King and his Head Guard sought shelter here. The young king on the throne looked regal in his royal clothing. An ornate crown of the finest gold rested on his head. A flowing purple satin cape acted as a buffer between him and the throne. Despite the elegance of his appearance, a closer look would reveal that all of the clothing was a bit too large for him, adding a comical look to the young man. Nearby stood an old man, the Head Guard. He had a much more modest orange coat on, adorned with the kingdom’s crest, a blazing red phoenix rising from ashes. He stared contemplatively at the floor, and only lifted his head when the mob reached the large, oaken doors protecting them. “I did my duty, did I not?” The king asked. The mixture of pubescent angst and mortal fear produced an unwanted crack in his voice. The old man nodded. “Admirably.” The king seemed relieved by this, but his eyes remained red and watery, and he continually fidgeted in his seat. “They sound quite angry.” He mentioned, nodding towards the doors. The old man nodded once more. “They have every right to be. They were promised rain that never poured onto crops that never grew.” The growls of the hungry wafted through the throne room. “They were promised medicine that simply could not be made in time.” The moans of the sick and the destitute seeped through the walls. “They were promised an army that would expand our borders to the far corners of the earth. They received a collection of boys and old men that could not protect even our own gates.” The shrieks of the widows and mothers shook the very foundations of the castle. The guard sighed. “The masses are a fickle creature. A beast that cannot be tamed. A wild dog that has no qualms about eating from your hand, but will gnaw that hand off should you attempt to leash it.” He rubbed his left hand, which was missing three fingers. A yell was taken up by those at the front of the mob, and carried far back. Moments later, the crack and splintering of wood signaled the arrival of axes. The guard placed his hand on his sword, and slowly drew it out. “You needn’t do this, you know.” The young man on the throne resolutely shook his head. Tears began streaming down his face, and he shook every time an axe struck the door. “You are wrong. I must. My father, and his father before him would have done it. So shall I. I shall do it for them. I shall do it for those outside. I shall do it for this beautiful country. But mostly, I do this for you, my liege.” The old man in the guard suit that was a bit too small approached, with sword drawn, the young man in the royal clothes that were too large for him. “You have shown me nothing but kindness since I took this position, your highness, and I would like for nothing more than to perish by your hands.” The young man said as the king placed the tip of his sword against his heart. His hands shook. His own voice began to crack as he whispered. “My family thanks you. I thank you.” The young man closed his eyes, and steadied his breath. When he opened them, he had aged a hundred years. He looked into the old man’s eyes, and said, “I am ready.” The old man plunged the sword through the luxurious satin clothing. The young guard gave a slight gasp, and trembled. “Such fine clothing, your excellency.” He said. “I couldn’t…think of a…finer attire…to…” His voice trailed off as his body went limp in the throne. The doors broke open with a crash. Screaming, yelling, cursing masses poured through, driven only by greed and lust at this point. Some cheered at the sight of the dead king and the guard with the bloody sword. They hurrahed and clapped the old man on the back, and dragged the body outside, where they would no doubt put it on display. Mostly, though, the mob ravaged. Tapestries were torn from the walls. Gold and silver chalices were fought for and killed over. Busts of the king’s ancestors were knocked from pedestals, and shattered on the ground. They swarmed into every corner of the throne room. The king watched it all. He slid the bloody sword into its scabbard, and sat on the all too familiar throne one last time.	The Emperor Valens trembled in fear as Belarius hobbled closer to the throne. With gladius held loosely to his side crudely sliced through the purple carpet, Belarius stopped. He looked behind him to the mass of dead Praetorian. A short-lived impromptu power struggle over those who wanted the emperor killed and those who were firm to protecting the emperor to the death. Of that, Belarius was the sole survivor. Bitter as he spotted his two closest friends, sword in the other’s throat, he snapped his face to the front. His brow furrowed as the raging debate in his head reached a cacophonous dichotomy. Here he was, a Praetorian, the sworn protector to the emperor, why was he having doubt. And all because he was, scared? Would the barbarians truly let the killer live? No, he was a Praetorian. He was. The wooden doors behind him boomed louder. There was not much time to think, Belarius came to a decision. Belarius swore loudly as he tripped over the loose stone in his way. He had spent so long out in the soft, springy turfs of the forest that he couldn’t adjust to the cold, hard masonry of the city. And not any city to be exact, he was, in Rome. The capital, the seat of power, knowledge, and the heart of civilization. Enamored in his fantastic praise of the city, Belarius barely noticed a gang of ragged looking orphans run off in a hurry as a menacing baker followed after, shaking his fist at them. But why would he bothered today by such small inconveniences. Today, he was going to be a Praetorian, the elite position that he, a simple plebian born in Arretium could only dream off. Yet he was proof of how generous the Roman system could be to those who worked hard. Belarius did no risk his neck to the barbarians in the north just to protect his countrymen. Eventually, after some brutal campaigns in Germania, Belarius earned his rank as centurion, and not any time too soon, since almost immediately, his notoriety as a splendid fighter reached the emperor’s ears. Though boastful and impetuous while drinking with his pals the night before, Belarius now trembled in fear as he stumbled up to the impressive marble arched entrance to his employer’s home. “Centurion Belarius,” a short, feminine looking porter motioned impatiently at him. Belarius coughed, embarrassed for his emperor’s sake, ‘the emperor was one of those kind.’ The porter was light on his feet and practically pranced through the terrace bubbling with happiness, setting a mood that contrasted to the Praetorians flanking the walls from the shadow. But at last the spectacle came to an end as the porter reached the end of the corridor. Belarius looked around puzzled, there was no one else here but himself and the porter. Then suddenly a shocking thought came to his mind. Belarius turned his head to the young porter and kneeled quickly, “Forgive me, emperor!” A voice came from behind the porter, “For what? I’m behind him, you buffoon!” And you, porter, when I said that you can choose to go naked, I was clearly joking and leaving it up to logic as to your final decision!” The porter snickered, and pranced off. The emperors shook his head sadly, “Ah, the empire that was handed down to me is falling apart left and right, and here I am surrounded by idiots.” Belarius kept his head down in fear of beholding the most powerful man in existence. A man, if he chose to, could raze an entire city, drink the River Tiber dry with his thirst for power and wealth. A man who donned in the royal purple robe, possessing the old, wise gaze of an experienced ruler, finger raised, exuding nothing but confidence and charisma- Belarius looked up in awe. But his face promptly faced the ground again in disappointment. The emperor was wearing a simple robe and scratching the back of his leg with the other leg. His finger was held aloft but actually following along a scroll, a scroll that Belarius could recognize from anywhere. “The author was critically acclaimed as the Livy of erotic pornography.” the emperor replied to Belarius’s reaction. “What? A man can’t read it because he’s emperor?” Belarius shook his head firmly, charismatic or not, an emperor was an emperor after all. “I am, well you know who I am.” The bored looking emperor concluded blandly. It was hard to swallow, the fact that the emperor could be such a dull, plain looking man. Maybe this was all a joke, Belarius smiled, it had to be a joke. Confident, Belarius pulled his sword onto the body double for the emperor. Grinning at the so-called fake emperor, Belarius declared out loud, “Emperor Valens, I know your game, come out my emperor. I can recognize the ruler-” Before he could finish his sentence, some of the Praetorians in the shadow had drawn their weapons to his throat. Okay, bad call Belarius thought swallowing hard and looking at the emperor fearfully. The emperor glared at him. Scanning him for a long time, occasionally smirking coldly. At last the inspection was over and the emperor bunched his hand into a fist. With the most remorseless, hollow laugh, he gave a thumbs down. More thumping and even the blood curdling screams of the barbarians could be heard now. Moving straight ahead without hesitation, Belarius looked into the emperor’s terrified, stunned eyes. But in those unsettled eyes, Belarius saw nothing but trust and love. “You really thought I’d get a centurion killed for ridiculing me?” Valens teased as the two of them walked through the senate hall. Belarius shrugged, “Well I mean, you have no idea. I had this jolt of pure terror followed by an indescribably massive orgy of relief as you turned that thumbs down back up.” Valens slapped a woman’s shapely rear and winked childishly. “Don’t tell Lucretia.” He joked. Though Belarius knew his position as a Praetorian, at times, he knew that even the emperor at the end of the day simply wanted a friend. And this was a role he found no trouble playing. They came to a stop once they reached the villa that they had met each other in, so many years ago. When Valens turned around and placed both hands on Belarius’s shoulder. “It seems like this is it, Lucretia is pregnant, that’s why I’ve been leaving on these escapades with you lately.” Belarius nodded, sympathizing. “Women.” he acknowledged jokingly. “You’re a trusted friend to me Belarius. Not just you, the whole lot of you.” Valens continued rambling rather like a first time drunk back from Ravenna’s infamous festival to Dionysus. But to be fair, the emperor did have quite a bit to drink during the latest senate discussion. Lately the situation had become unstable as Valens fought loudly with the old senators over the need to cease military operation to allow the borders of the Roman Empire to be established. Full of hate to Valens who they blamed with incompetent reaction to the disastrous drought in Aegyptus. Without the seasonal flooding by the banks of the Nile, there were no bountiful harvest of much needed food to Rome. Already piled with the crippling rebellion in Carthage, the continuous military expedition by ambitious family members, Rome was slowly falling apart. Valens himself admitted once or twice that he was no politician and was rather incapable of administration. But Belarius did not mind this, despite the shortcomings, he knew that his emperor tried hard. Sure Valens was not like the conqueror emperors or shrewd political emperors of those stories. At least Valens’s heart was to the good will of his countrymen. And specifically, Valens’s heart at this moment was to his trusted friend and bodyguard, Belarius. “You, we decided to name our firstborn, if male! After you.” It was the most ridiculous declaration and left Belarius laughing, “Of course,” he replied, playing along. “And if a girl, Belaria!” Belarius smiled sadly, even as close he was to Valens, the emperor had too many other political uses to his child’s name. The emperor laughed harder, his slightly red nose shooting the blush all throughout his face. Next morning, Belarius woke up with the much expected hangover. And the equally unexpected news, Lady Lucretia had given birth to the emperor’s child, Belarius. Emperor Valens exposed his neck, as Belarius stripped the emperor of all clothing. “My friend, Praetorian Belarius, I do not grudge you, the empire’s fall is all my fault. Avenge your people for me.” The voice faltered. Belarius looked up into Valens’s clouded, despair ridden eyes one more time. “I hate you so much. Close your eyes.” Without another word, he slammed his gladius into flesh, and soon, he felt the warm blood trickle down his blade, and onto his fingers. Valens opened his eyes, “Why?” he asked stunned. “Why!” Belarius smiled, “I am a Praetorian and friend. My emperor, let me make a request to you as a friend. We haven’t much time, wrap me in the royal clothing so I may die an emperor.” When the doors rattled louder, Valens snapped back, he carefully donned the Praetorian armor. As Valens gently garbed his dying friend in the royal robe, the dying friend laughed, “Huh, always wanted to be emperor, it’s rather overrated I’d say.” The two laughed. It was done, Belarius realized. He chuckled, it was so silly. Never would he risk his neck for just his countrymen, but here he was, sticking his neck out for an emperor. No, Belarius realized, this man sobbing over his body was no emperor. That shabby, bored, loud mouthed boor was no emperor. No, it was “goodbye friend.” Then he saw no more.
	[WP] A great Empire is about to fall. A single remaining bodyguard is left alone with the Emperor as the enemy approaches the throne room.	"I--I was a good emperor, wasn't I?" The young man still looked ill-suited to his throne. His eyes glistened. "Yes, my liege." "You're not just saying that, are you?" To be honest, I didn't know at this point. This cloying need for affirmation was part of the reason we were in this mess. Ever since his father--Gods, there was an emperor--died defending our lands from the pagan hordes, he had been completely unable to do anything without seeking the approval of every councilor, every courtier, every midwife he could find. He was weak of will and weak of wrist: he could rule neither by brain nor brawn. "No, my liege." He moved to the window to look out upon the burning city. His shoulders sagged as he surveyed his land. "I just..." His words trailed off into the night. "I just wanted people to like me, was all." I stood, silent. It wasn't all his fault. His wet nurse coddled him far too much. His sycophantic tendencies derived from his father's expectations--unattainable at best. He wasn't unattractive, but his lack of self-confidence gave him a slimy aura. He, the purportedly-most powerful man in the empire, seemed weaker than any one of his soldiers. He could not defend its citizens as did his father, and there his true troubles began. I walked over and put my hand on his shoulder. It was a breach of etiquette, but I didn't think the emperor would care too much tonight. His hand found mine, clutching it for reassurance. I pulled away out of habit before finding it within me to maintain my grip. "Do you think my father would be proud of me?" "He would say you did the best you could." I heard the soldiers outside the door. We had little time left to commiserate. They designed for opulence, not security. We had grown decadent, and that would be our downfall. "I did the best I could..." Again, the emperor trailed off, getting lost somewhere in his own mind. I unsheathed my dagger and drove it into his back. He gasped a short gasp, and his red eyes met mine. "For the good of the empire then?" "Yes, my liege." "Good. I only wish it did not hurt so." He crumbled to the ground before me; his blood pooling onto the stone floor. The door cracked open. His court, headed by his strong half-brother, barged into the room. He looked to his half-brother and smiled. His half-brother returned the courtesy as the emperor breathed his last. The court cried out. His half-brother turned and addressed the crowd. "So ends my brother's reign! Let us all rejoice this night!" I knelt by the emperor's body. His eyes grew distant. I removed his crown and approached the court. What would have come from the emperor's time? What ideas? What progress? All that was gone, wiped from the slate in the name of the more charismatic, the more muscular, the more handsome. I presented the crown to the emperor's half-brother. He put a hand on my shoulder. "For the good of the empire." "Yes, my liege." The empire above all else. I took solace in knowing that the emperor had finally gotten his wish. In death, people liked him.	The Emperor Valens trembled in fear as Belarius hobbled closer to the throne. With gladius held loosely to his side crudely sliced through the purple carpet, Belarius stopped. He looked behind him to the mass of dead Praetorian. A short-lived impromptu power struggle over those who wanted the emperor killed and those who were firm to protecting the emperor to the death. Of that, Belarius was the sole survivor. Bitter as he spotted his two closest friends, sword in the other’s throat, he snapped his face to the front. His brow furrowed as the raging debate in his head reached a cacophonous dichotomy. Here he was, a Praetorian, the sworn protector to the emperor, why was he having doubt. And all because he was, scared? Would the barbarians truly let the killer live? No, he was a Praetorian. He was. The wooden doors behind him boomed louder. There was not much time to think, Belarius came to a decision. Belarius swore loudly as he tripped over the loose stone in his way. He had spent so long out in the soft, springy turfs of the forest that he couldn’t adjust to the cold, hard masonry of the city. And not any city to be exact, he was, in Rome. The capital, the seat of power, knowledge, and the heart of civilization. Enamored in his fantastic praise of the city, Belarius barely noticed a gang of ragged looking orphans run off in a hurry as a menacing baker followed after, shaking his fist at them. But why would he bothered today by such small inconveniences. Today, he was going to be a Praetorian, the elite position that he, a simple plebian born in Arretium could only dream off. Yet he was proof of how generous the Roman system could be to those who worked hard. Belarius did no risk his neck to the barbarians in the north just to protect his countrymen. Eventually, after some brutal campaigns in Germania, Belarius earned his rank as centurion, and not any time too soon, since almost immediately, his notoriety as a splendid fighter reached the emperor’s ears. Though boastful and impetuous while drinking with his pals the night before, Belarius now trembled in fear as he stumbled up to the impressive marble arched entrance to his employer’s home. “Centurion Belarius,” a short, feminine looking porter motioned impatiently at him. Belarius coughed, embarrassed for his emperor’s sake, ‘the emperor was one of those kind.’ The porter was light on his feet and practically pranced through the terrace bubbling with happiness, setting a mood that contrasted to the Praetorians flanking the walls from the shadow. But at last the spectacle came to an end as the porter reached the end of the corridor. Belarius looked around puzzled, there was no one else here but himself and the porter. Then suddenly a shocking thought came to his mind. Belarius turned his head to the young porter and kneeled quickly, “Forgive me, emperor!” A voice came from behind the porter, “For what? I’m behind him, you buffoon!” And you, porter, when I said that you can choose to go naked, I was clearly joking and leaving it up to logic as to your final decision!” The porter snickered, and pranced off. The emperors shook his head sadly, “Ah, the empire that was handed down to me is falling apart left and right, and here I am surrounded by idiots.” Belarius kept his head down in fear of beholding the most powerful man in existence. A man, if he chose to, could raze an entire city, drink the River Tiber dry with his thirst for power and wealth. A man who donned in the royal purple robe, possessing the old, wise gaze of an experienced ruler, finger raised, exuding nothing but confidence and charisma- Belarius looked up in awe. But his face promptly faced the ground again in disappointment. The emperor was wearing a simple robe and scratching the back of his leg with the other leg. His finger was held aloft but actually following along a scroll, a scroll that Belarius could recognize from anywhere. “The author was critically acclaimed as the Livy of erotic pornography.” the emperor replied to Belarius’s reaction. “What? A man can’t read it because he’s emperor?” Belarius shook his head firmly, charismatic or not, an emperor was an emperor after all. “I am, well you know who I am.” The bored looking emperor concluded blandly. It was hard to swallow, the fact that the emperor could be such a dull, plain looking man. Maybe this was all a joke, Belarius smiled, it had to be a joke. Confident, Belarius pulled his sword onto the body double for the emperor. Grinning at the so-called fake emperor, Belarius declared out loud, “Emperor Valens, I know your game, come out my emperor. I can recognize the ruler-” Before he could finish his sentence, some of the Praetorians in the shadow had drawn their weapons to his throat. Okay, bad call Belarius thought swallowing hard and looking at the emperor fearfully. The emperor glared at him. Scanning him for a long time, occasionally smirking coldly. At last the inspection was over and the emperor bunched his hand into a fist. With the most remorseless, hollow laugh, he gave a thumbs down. More thumping and even the blood curdling screams of the barbarians could be heard now. Moving straight ahead without hesitation, Belarius looked into the emperor’s terrified, stunned eyes. But in those unsettled eyes, Belarius saw nothing but trust and love. “You really thought I’d get a centurion killed for ridiculing me?” Valens teased as the two of them walked through the senate hall. Belarius shrugged, “Well I mean, you have no idea. I had this jolt of pure terror followed by an indescribably massive orgy of relief as you turned that thumbs down back up.” Valens slapped a woman’s shapely rear and winked childishly. “Don’t tell Lucretia.” He joked. Though Belarius knew his position as a Praetorian, at times, he knew that even the emperor at the end of the day simply wanted a friend. And this was a role he found no trouble playing. They came to a stop once they reached the villa that they had met each other in, so many years ago. When Valens turned around and placed both hands on Belarius’s shoulder. “It seems like this is it, Lucretia is pregnant, that’s why I’ve been leaving on these escapades with you lately.” Belarius nodded, sympathizing. “Women.” he acknowledged jokingly. “You’re a trusted friend to me Belarius. Not just you, the whole lot of you.” Valens continued rambling rather like a first time drunk back from Ravenna’s infamous festival to Dionysus. But to be fair, the emperor did have quite a bit to drink during the latest senate discussion. Lately the situation had become unstable as Valens fought loudly with the old senators over the need to cease military operation to allow the borders of the Roman Empire to be established. Full of hate to Valens who they blamed with incompetent reaction to the disastrous drought in Aegyptus. Without the seasonal flooding by the banks of the Nile, there were no bountiful harvest of much needed food to Rome. Already piled with the crippling rebellion in Carthage, the continuous military expedition by ambitious family members, Rome was slowly falling apart. Valens himself admitted once or twice that he was no politician and was rather incapable of administration. But Belarius did not mind this, despite the shortcomings, he knew that his emperor tried hard. Sure Valens was not like the conqueror emperors or shrewd political emperors of those stories. At least Valens’s heart was to the good will of his countrymen. And specifically, Valens’s heart at this moment was to his trusted friend and bodyguard, Belarius. “You, we decided to name our firstborn, if male! After you.” It was the most ridiculous declaration and left Belarius laughing, “Of course,” he replied, playing along. “And if a girl, Belaria!” Belarius smiled sadly, even as close he was to Valens, the emperor had too many other political uses to his child’s name. The emperor laughed harder, his slightly red nose shooting the blush all throughout his face. Next morning, Belarius woke up with the much expected hangover. And the equally unexpected news, Lady Lucretia had given birth to the emperor’s child, Belarius. Emperor Valens exposed his neck, as Belarius stripped the emperor of all clothing. “My friend, Praetorian Belarius, I do not grudge you, the empire’s fall is all my fault. Avenge your people for me.” The voice faltered. Belarius looked up into Valens’s clouded, despair ridden eyes one more time. “I hate you so much. Close your eyes.” Without another word, he slammed his gladius into flesh, and soon, he felt the warm blood trickle down his blade, and onto his fingers. Valens opened his eyes, “Why?” he asked stunned. “Why!” Belarius smiled, “I am a Praetorian and friend. My emperor, let me make a request to you as a friend. We haven’t much time, wrap me in the royal clothing so I may die an emperor.” When the doors rattled louder, Valens snapped back, he carefully donned the Praetorian armor. As Valens gently garbed his dying friend in the royal robe, the dying friend laughed, “Huh, always wanted to be emperor, it’s rather overrated I’d say.” The two laughed. It was done, Belarius realized. He chuckled, it was so silly. Never would he risk his neck for just his countrymen, but here he was, sticking his neck out for an emperor. No, Belarius realized, this man sobbing over his body was no emperor. That shabby, bored, loud mouthed boor was no emperor. No, it was “goodbye friend.” Then he saw no more.
	[WP] A great Empire is about to fall. A single remaining bodyguard is left alone with the Emperor as the enemy approaches the throne room.	Grabnar and Thorak stopped at the door and listened. From the other side came the unmistakable sound of house music. Grabnar scratched his beard in irritation. “I thought they were supposed to be out by now,” and then caught himself and added, “by Murkad’s Hammer.” “Truly,” agreed Thorak, “Yet this damnable illusion blocks sight of the sun!” He raised his mailed fist to indicate the office floor around them, with its empty cubicles and floors strewn with discarded papers. He turned to a clock on a wall. “This appears to be a foul heathen timekeeping device, no doubt powered by some foul sorcery --” “All right, all right,” sighed Grabnar. “So we’re a bit early. Knock anyway?” Thorak shrugged and raised his gore-encrusted battle axe, tapping lightly on door with the pommel. There was a muffled shout from the other side, and the sound of glass shattering. The door swung open, letting out a gasp of hot sweaty air and a wave of music so loud they felt it vibrating their chainmail. A short blonde woman in a pants suit regarded them with distinct annoyance. “We have the place until three!” She had to shout to make herself heard. The room beyond had previously been a richly-appointed office, and was now a mess. It looked like some of the chairs had been smashed against the wall, and someone had made a game of dumping the leather-bound books off their shelves. The carpet had been torn up in a couple of places and covered with various things -- papers, stains, clothing, and so forth. A man in a bedraggled suit sat behind an enormous oak desk, his face buried in his hands. He shared the desk with two empty bottles of Jim Beam and one half full bottle of Grey Goose. “We just wanted to --” began Grabnar. “What?” shouted the woman. “Wait -- Chad! Goddammit, Chad!” “What!” shouted the man at the desk, looking up. He was in his late-thirties, well groomed, and had obviously been crying quite a bit. “The fucking music!” “What? Hold on --” Chad fumbled around under the desk and the music turned off. The sudden silence shocked them all for a moment. “These are the new AIs, Chad,” said the woman. “Come to delete the office.” Chad blinked at her with red, puffy eyes. His lip curled up at the end. “You don’t think I realize that, Rebecca? You think I don’t -- I don’t fucking know that, Rebecca, that that is who they are?” Rebecca took a huge breath. “All right, Chad. Thank you for your attention.” “Don’t you have something to do? Some papers to Goddamn file? Don’t we have any fucking papers to file?” Chad’s voice broke at the end and he collapsed back onto the desk. Rebecca rolled her eyes at Grabnar and Thorak. “Sorry about that. You want a drink?” When they started to refuse she pulled them in and slammed the door shut. “It’s a party guys, get in the mood.” The two warriors stood awkwardly with champagne flutes while Rebecca drained one glass and then a second. She burped, none too delicately. “So what are you supposed to be then?” “I’m sorry, we’ve been rude.” Grabnar banged his fist into his chestplate. “I am Grabnar Thunderfist, King of the Eastern Mountain. This is my brother.” “I am Thorak,” continued Thorak, saluting with the axe. Rebecca swayed back a bit as blood splattered the carpet. “I am called the Icebreaker, King of the Western Mountain. It is a pleasure, m’lady.” “Wow,” replied Rebecca flatly. “I’m Rebecca, Secretary and Gatekeeper to his Royal Highness, Chad the Prick, Emperor of the pile of shit formerly known as Tradetex.” She poured and drained another glass of champagne. “You guys like a game or something?” Grabnar took an awkward sip of champagne to cover his discomfort. “Yes, an MMO. Fantasy, obviously. Getting very popular. Need more servers, you know? So -- yeah.” He shuffled back and forth. “Was Tradetex a mighty empire in its time?” asked Thorak brightly. He missed Grabnar’s furious glare. Rebecca laughed. “Yeah we were the biggest, like, forever ago. Some stupid mergers, market changes, there was a thing in Asia, one thing led to another --” “What do you think it is about humans?” They all turned to look at Chad, who they found was looking at them. He had the vodka bottle open and had drained it a bit closer to the bottom. “Why are they so cruel to us? Huh?” He glared at the brothers, as if actually expecting an answer. They opened their mouths, but then Chad plowed on. “They live their stupid inconsequential meat-based lives and don’t give a fuck, don’t give a single God” -- he slammed the bottle into the desk -- “damned” -- slam -- “fuck” -- slam -- “about their financial health. We at Tradetex offer cradle to grave financial planning and investing, with the lowest fees in the industry. Our AI advisors are second to none, the best. Don’t they care about their retirement? Don’t they care about their children’s college education? Do they think this is -- that this is some kind of fucking game?” He stood up shakily, pointing a finger at them, his lips curled back in a snarl. Then he screamed, “Huh?” and walked out of the room into the empty office outside, taking the bottle with him. Thorak shook his head sadly. “Truly there is nothing more tragic than to see a ruler --” “Stuff it will you?” hissed Grabnar. “They’re going to have to do a lot of work on him after this,” admitted Rebecca. “They programmed him to be this huge Alpha male douchebag. He’s not taking this very well.” She blinked. “Oh look! I guess it’s happening.” The walls around them were dissolving from wood panelling into roughly cut stone blocks. The carpet began to roll back, revealing a number of headless corpses beneath. “Ah-ha!” cried Thorak, hefting his axe. “The Battle of Fort Blodfurst! This is a good bit!” He nudged Grabnar, winking. “This is where I kill that woman you love, hey brother?” “Yeah,” said Grabnar, still not quite into it. Rebecca was neglecting the glass this time and drinking directly from the bottle. “I never forgive him for it. We end up battling off the end of a cliff --” He shrugged, a bit lamely. “Sounds rough,” she gasped, wiping her mouth with her sleeve. “Hey listen, you guys don’t have any openings, do you?” She was starting to fade out. From the black and foreboding archway behind her came the sound of angry shouts, getting closer. “I have a lot of old code hanging around. I could be like a maid or something!” “Look, we really have to go.” Grabnar drew his broadsword and took of a stance next to his brother. “Send a resume, okay?” Armored men charged at them. “Keep me in --” She vanished. “For Murkad’s Glory, brother!” roared Grabnar. He swung his sword and took a head off.	The Emperor Valens trembled in fear as Belarius hobbled closer to the throne. With gladius held loosely to his side crudely sliced through the purple carpet, Belarius stopped. He looked behind him to the mass of dead Praetorian. A short-lived impromptu power struggle over those who wanted the emperor killed and those who were firm to protecting the emperor to the death. Of that, Belarius was the sole survivor. Bitter as he spotted his two closest friends, sword in the other’s throat, he snapped his face to the front. His brow furrowed as the raging debate in his head reached a cacophonous dichotomy. Here he was, a Praetorian, the sworn protector to the emperor, why was he having doubt. And all because he was, scared? Would the barbarians truly let the killer live? No, he was a Praetorian. He was. The wooden doors behind him boomed louder. There was not much time to think, Belarius came to a decision. Belarius swore loudly as he tripped over the loose stone in his way. He had spent so long out in the soft, springy turfs of the forest that he couldn’t adjust to the cold, hard masonry of the city. And not any city to be exact, he was, in Rome. The capital, the seat of power, knowledge, and the heart of civilization. Enamored in his fantastic praise of the city, Belarius barely noticed a gang of ragged looking orphans run off in a hurry as a menacing baker followed after, shaking his fist at them. But why would he bothered today by such small inconveniences. Today, he was going to be a Praetorian, the elite position that he, a simple plebian born in Arretium could only dream off. Yet he was proof of how generous the Roman system could be to those who worked hard. Belarius did no risk his neck to the barbarians in the north just to protect his countrymen. Eventually, after some brutal campaigns in Germania, Belarius earned his rank as centurion, and not any time too soon, since almost immediately, his notoriety as a splendid fighter reached the emperor’s ears. Though boastful and impetuous while drinking with his pals the night before, Belarius now trembled in fear as he stumbled up to the impressive marble arched entrance to his employer’s home. “Centurion Belarius,” a short, feminine looking porter motioned impatiently at him. Belarius coughed, embarrassed for his emperor’s sake, ‘the emperor was one of those kind.’ The porter was light on his feet and practically pranced through the terrace bubbling with happiness, setting a mood that contrasted to the Praetorians flanking the walls from the shadow. But at last the spectacle came to an end as the porter reached the end of the corridor. Belarius looked around puzzled, there was no one else here but himself and the porter. Then suddenly a shocking thought came to his mind. Belarius turned his head to the young porter and kneeled quickly, “Forgive me, emperor!” A voice came from behind the porter, “For what? I’m behind him, you buffoon!” And you, porter, when I said that you can choose to go naked, I was clearly joking and leaving it up to logic as to your final decision!” The porter snickered, and pranced off. The emperors shook his head sadly, “Ah, the empire that was handed down to me is falling apart left and right, and here I am surrounded by idiots.” Belarius kept his head down in fear of beholding the most powerful man in existence. A man, if he chose to, could raze an entire city, drink the River Tiber dry with his thirst for power and wealth. A man who donned in the royal purple robe, possessing the old, wise gaze of an experienced ruler, finger raised, exuding nothing but confidence and charisma- Belarius looked up in awe. But his face promptly faced the ground again in disappointment. The emperor was wearing a simple robe and scratching the back of his leg with the other leg. His finger was held aloft but actually following along a scroll, a scroll that Belarius could recognize from anywhere. “The author was critically acclaimed as the Livy of erotic pornography.” the emperor replied to Belarius’s reaction. “What? A man can’t read it because he’s emperor?” Belarius shook his head firmly, charismatic or not, an emperor was an emperor after all. “I am, well you know who I am.” The bored looking emperor concluded blandly. It was hard to swallow, the fact that the emperor could be such a dull, plain looking man. Maybe this was all a joke, Belarius smiled, it had to be a joke. Confident, Belarius pulled his sword onto the body double for the emperor. Grinning at the so-called fake emperor, Belarius declared out loud, “Emperor Valens, I know your game, come out my emperor. I can recognize the ruler-” Before he could finish his sentence, some of the Praetorians in the shadow had drawn their weapons to his throat. Okay, bad call Belarius thought swallowing hard and looking at the emperor fearfully. The emperor glared at him. Scanning him for a long time, occasionally smirking coldly. At last the inspection was over and the emperor bunched his hand into a fist. With the most remorseless, hollow laugh, he gave a thumbs down. More thumping and even the blood curdling screams of the barbarians could be heard now. Moving straight ahead without hesitation, Belarius looked into the emperor’s terrified, stunned eyes. But in those unsettled eyes, Belarius saw nothing but trust and love. “You really thought I’d get a centurion killed for ridiculing me?” Valens teased as the two of them walked through the senate hall. Belarius shrugged, “Well I mean, you have no idea. I had this jolt of pure terror followed by an indescribably massive orgy of relief as you turned that thumbs down back up.” Valens slapped a woman’s shapely rear and winked childishly. “Don’t tell Lucretia.” He joked. Though Belarius knew his position as a Praetorian, at times, he knew that even the emperor at the end of the day simply wanted a friend. And this was a role he found no trouble playing. They came to a stop once they reached the villa that they had met each other in, so many years ago. When Valens turned around and placed both hands on Belarius’s shoulder. “It seems like this is it, Lucretia is pregnant, that’s why I’ve been leaving on these escapades with you lately.” Belarius nodded, sympathizing. “Women.” he acknowledged jokingly. “You’re a trusted friend to me Belarius. Not just you, the whole lot of you.” Valens continued rambling rather like a first time drunk back from Ravenna’s infamous festival to Dionysus. But to be fair, the emperor did have quite a bit to drink during the latest senate discussion. Lately the situation had become unstable as Valens fought loudly with the old senators over the need to cease military operation to allow the borders of the Roman Empire to be established. Full of hate to Valens who they blamed with incompetent reaction to the disastrous drought in Aegyptus. Without the seasonal flooding by the banks of the Nile, there were no bountiful harvest of much needed food to Rome. Already piled with the crippling rebellion in Carthage, the continuous military expedition by ambitious family members, Rome was slowly falling apart. Valens himself admitted once or twice that he was no politician and was rather incapable of administration. But Belarius did not mind this, despite the shortcomings, he knew that his emperor tried hard. Sure Valens was not like the conqueror emperors or shrewd political emperors of those stories. At least Valens’s heart was to the good will of his countrymen. And specifically, Valens’s heart at this moment was to his trusted friend and bodyguard, Belarius. “You, we decided to name our firstborn, if male! After you.” It was the most ridiculous declaration and left Belarius laughing, “Of course,” he replied, playing along. “And if a girl, Belaria!” Belarius smiled sadly, even as close he was to Valens, the emperor had too many other political uses to his child’s name. The emperor laughed harder, his slightly red nose shooting the blush all throughout his face. Next morning, Belarius woke up with the much expected hangover. And the equally unexpected news, Lady Lucretia had given birth to the emperor’s child, Belarius. Emperor Valens exposed his neck, as Belarius stripped the emperor of all clothing. “My friend, Praetorian Belarius, I do not grudge you, the empire’s fall is all my fault. Avenge your people for me.” The voice faltered. Belarius looked up into Valens’s clouded, despair ridden eyes one more time. “I hate you so much. Close your eyes.” Without another word, he slammed his gladius into flesh, and soon, he felt the warm blood trickle down his blade, and onto his fingers. Valens opened his eyes, “Why?” he asked stunned. “Why!” Belarius smiled, “I am a Praetorian and friend. My emperor, let me make a request to you as a friend. We haven’t much time, wrap me in the royal clothing so I may die an emperor.” When the doors rattled louder, Valens snapped back, he carefully donned the Praetorian armor. As Valens gently garbed his dying friend in the royal robe, the dying friend laughed, “Huh, always wanted to be emperor, it’s rather overrated I’d say.” The two laughed. It was done, Belarius realized. He chuckled, it was so silly. Never would he risk his neck for just his countrymen, but here he was, sticking his neck out for an emperor. No, Belarius realized, this man sobbing over his body was no emperor. That shabby, bored, loud mouthed boor was no emperor. No, it was “goodbye friend.” Then he saw no more.
	[WP] A great Empire is about to fall. A single remaining bodyguard is left alone with the Emperor as the enemy approaches the throne room.	One by one, the guns went quiet. First went the booming of the artillery, lobbing shells into the very city they were set to defend. Then the tank guns ceased, lost one by one in ear-shattering explosions and the screams of tortured metal. Then the machine guns, felled by flank or grenade or sniper, and finally even the rifles stopped popping. Between the Emperor and the Republicans, only one steel door and one brave Conscript remained. Brave wasn't the right word - she had nowhere to run, and if she didn't die here fighting, her fate would be... she shuddered just thinking about the rumors she'd heard. Her hand unconsciously touched her locket, feeling the metalwork through the worn fabric of her jacket. Her gun, too, was silent, and had been since she'd first laid hands on it. The varnished wood chilled her fingers through the ever-growing holes in her gloves, and the metal rungs of the sling rattled with her shaking hands. A breeze slipped through a high window, blew through holes in the Conscript's clothes, redoubled her shivering. "Are you cold?" Echoes of the royal voice startled the Conscript. When she looked, she found the Emperor leaning forward, watching her closely. Truly he was too kind - he cared even for her, a nobody. Still, she knew he oughtn't to worry for her, so she shook her head, even as the chill cut through her. "Be honest," he chided, rapping his fingers on the arm of his throne. Still she said nothing, turning her head forward to watch the door. It was a mistake to ignore him, but she couldn't bear to answer. Perhaps the silence meant they had won. Maybe they were so lucky. The Emperor had never failed his people before. Looking at him, today, she wasn't so sure. He looked... tired. Even in the finery, she could see dark rings under his eyes, an exhausted slouch overtaking him. How had he come to this? A great crash came from the door; the Conscript started and nearly fired her weapon. Nobody had yet gained entry, but someone was trying. The Emperor stood suddenly. "What's your name?" he asked, beginning to descend from the raised pedestal around his throne. The Conscript kept her eyes firmly forward. She wasn't worth of his attention. "I suppose I can't expect you to answer, anymore," he observed sadly, continuing down until he stood directly behind her. "Did you have friends in the army?" he asked. That one she managed to nod to, after a moment of thought. "I thought so. There's memorabilia in your clothes, hmm? Necklace? I saw you touching it." The Conscript nodded again. "Are they... gone?" Slowly, she nodded again, letting the barrel of her rifle drop inch by inch. "Do you know where, how?" he asked, placing a hand on her shoulder. She flinched, but she could hardly defy the will of the Emperor. She finally nodded again. "Were they... captured? Tortured?" She nodded again, eyes watering. The Emperor smiled sadly. "Are you as prepared to die as they were?" he asked quietly, trying to meet the Conscript's eyes. She looked away, back to the door, raising her rifle again in readiness. "I suppose you are." He went quiet, and the Conscript was left to mull over the horror of the coming onslaught. If she lived past the next hour, it would be in agony. Tears filled her eyes. She didn't want to have her fingers cut off, she didn't want her teeth pulled out, she didn't want any of that. But the Emperor stood behind her. She was the last line of defense. "Did your commanders tell you about your friends' deaths?" She nodded again. They had described them in detail. She had been horrified then, and she still was now. "You're quite sure they were captured?" Another nod. "And if I told you they might still be alive?" The Conscript froze. Her rifle rested on the sandbag before her and she turned to look at him in shock. "If I told you your commanders lied? To make you fight for your life instead of your country?" She couldn't believe it. Why would they lie? She had been ready to fight the monsters without the door all the same, in the name of the Emperor. "If you knew I wasn't holy? If I told you our foes would never torture you? If you found these truths hidden from you?" The Conscript gaped. He couldn't be serious, but clearly he was. It was too much to take in at once. All the assumptions she'd had... she had to discard her respect for him or discard everything she knew. And she found she trusted him. "You should put your rifle down. If you surrender, you'll get to go home eventually." The Emperor smiled at her. The idea of going home appealed so much... going home to a family who believed as she did. Going home to a family who would know she'd abandoned the Emperor in his time of need. She couldn't do that. The tears in her eyes spilled onto her cheeks, and she turned forward again, just in time for the second great crash of something hitting the door. Rumbling of motors and clanking of treads told her what was trying to come through. The rifle would be useless. "Listen, girl. Too many truly have died for me. I won't have your blood on my hands too." Gently, he reached over her, trying to lower her gun. The Conscript refused. In a moment of anger she shoved her elbow back, pushed the Emperor hard, and knocked him away. When she realized what she'd done, she stopped in horror and turned, catching him before he could fall to his knees. Even if he wasn't holy, he was still the Emperor. He still deserved her respect. "Put down the rifle, girl. Kneel and wait for them to come through. I'll unlock it. And you can go home." The Conscript, trembling, let go of the Emperor and clung to her rifle. She managed to speak, just once, ask one question: "Why?" Again the Emperor smiled. "You they'll treat well. Me, I will die. Someone should know the truth of this moment. And you... you should go home. My life's no better than yours, girl. We both live on a leash. But you... you can do better." He stepped forward, and this time the Conscript didn't resist as he took her gun and unloaded it. "Good girl," he told her with the same smile, turning away and going to the door. "Kneel and wait. Hands behind your head. You'll be safe." Slowly, she did it, whether out of desire to live or respect for him she didn't know. It didn't matter - she couldn't stop him anymore. Another crash bent the door in, and the Emperor shook his head. "No need to knock so loud. I'm coming, I'm coming." He reached up for the lock, set it turning, and stepped back, just in time for the enormous steel doors to crash open for a tank. Republicans charged in around it, shouting for surrenders; the Conscript just stayed still, sobbing quietly. Riflemen rushed to her, surrounded her, forced her to the ground and took her arms to tie them back. She could only watch as they lifted the great Emperor by his arms like a ragdoll, dragged him back to his throne, and deposited him, only to level their guns and fire into him. Then they were dragging her by the arms, away from the throne, into their masses, as hysteria consumed her and she screamed for her fallen leader, her holy Emperor, her last hope, but when she looked for him, all she found was an old man lying dead in bloody rags on a broken throne.	The Emperor Valens trembled in fear as Belarius hobbled closer to the throne. With gladius held loosely to his side crudely sliced through the purple carpet, Belarius stopped. He looked behind him to the mass of dead Praetorian. A short-lived impromptu power struggle over those who wanted the emperor killed and those who were firm to protecting the emperor to the death. Of that, Belarius was the sole survivor. Bitter as he spotted his two closest friends, sword in the other’s throat, he snapped his face to the front. His brow furrowed as the raging debate in his head reached a cacophonous dichotomy. Here he was, a Praetorian, the sworn protector to the emperor, why was he having doubt. And all because he was, scared? Would the barbarians truly let the killer live? No, he was a Praetorian. He was. The wooden doors behind him boomed louder. There was not much time to think, Belarius came to a decision. Belarius swore loudly as he tripped over the loose stone in his way. He had spent so long out in the soft, springy turfs of the forest that he couldn’t adjust to the cold, hard masonry of the city. And not any city to be exact, he was, in Rome. The capital, the seat of power, knowledge, and the heart of civilization. Enamored in his fantastic praise of the city, Belarius barely noticed a gang of ragged looking orphans run off in a hurry as a menacing baker followed after, shaking his fist at them. But why would he bothered today by such small inconveniences. Today, he was going to be a Praetorian, the elite position that he, a simple plebian born in Arretium could only dream off. Yet he was proof of how generous the Roman system could be to those who worked hard. Belarius did no risk his neck to the barbarians in the north just to protect his countrymen. Eventually, after some brutal campaigns in Germania, Belarius earned his rank as centurion, and not any time too soon, since almost immediately, his notoriety as a splendid fighter reached the emperor’s ears. Though boastful and impetuous while drinking with his pals the night before, Belarius now trembled in fear as he stumbled up to the impressive marble arched entrance to his employer’s home. “Centurion Belarius,” a short, feminine looking porter motioned impatiently at him. Belarius coughed, embarrassed for his emperor’s sake, ‘the emperor was one of those kind.’ The porter was light on his feet and practically pranced through the terrace bubbling with happiness, setting a mood that contrasted to the Praetorians flanking the walls from the shadow. But at last the spectacle came to an end as the porter reached the end of the corridor. Belarius looked around puzzled, there was no one else here but himself and the porter. Then suddenly a shocking thought came to his mind. Belarius turned his head to the young porter and kneeled quickly, “Forgive me, emperor!” A voice came from behind the porter, “For what? I’m behind him, you buffoon!” And you, porter, when I said that you can choose to go naked, I was clearly joking and leaving it up to logic as to your final decision!” The porter snickered, and pranced off. The emperors shook his head sadly, “Ah, the empire that was handed down to me is falling apart left and right, and here I am surrounded by idiots.” Belarius kept his head down in fear of beholding the most powerful man in existence. A man, if he chose to, could raze an entire city, drink the River Tiber dry with his thirst for power and wealth. A man who donned in the royal purple robe, possessing the old, wise gaze of an experienced ruler, finger raised, exuding nothing but confidence and charisma- Belarius looked up in awe. But his face promptly faced the ground again in disappointment. The emperor was wearing a simple robe and scratching the back of his leg with the other leg. His finger was held aloft but actually following along a scroll, a scroll that Belarius could recognize from anywhere. “The author was critically acclaimed as the Livy of erotic pornography.” the emperor replied to Belarius’s reaction. “What? A man can’t read it because he’s emperor?” Belarius shook his head firmly, charismatic or not, an emperor was an emperor after all. “I am, well you know who I am.” The bored looking emperor concluded blandly. It was hard to swallow, the fact that the emperor could be such a dull, plain looking man. Maybe this was all a joke, Belarius smiled, it had to be a joke. Confident, Belarius pulled his sword onto the body double for the emperor. Grinning at the so-called fake emperor, Belarius declared out loud, “Emperor Valens, I know your game, come out my emperor. I can recognize the ruler-” Before he could finish his sentence, some of the Praetorians in the shadow had drawn their weapons to his throat. Okay, bad call Belarius thought swallowing hard and looking at the emperor fearfully. The emperor glared at him. Scanning him for a long time, occasionally smirking coldly. At last the inspection was over and the emperor bunched his hand into a fist. With the most remorseless, hollow laugh, he gave a thumbs down. More thumping and even the blood curdling screams of the barbarians could be heard now. Moving straight ahead without hesitation, Belarius looked into the emperor’s terrified, stunned eyes. But in those unsettled eyes, Belarius saw nothing but trust and love. “You really thought I’d get a centurion killed for ridiculing me?” Valens teased as the two of them walked through the senate hall. Belarius shrugged, “Well I mean, you have no idea. I had this jolt of pure terror followed by an indescribably massive orgy of relief as you turned that thumbs down back up.” Valens slapped a woman’s shapely rear and winked childishly. “Don’t tell Lucretia.” He joked. Though Belarius knew his position as a Praetorian, at times, he knew that even the emperor at the end of the day simply wanted a friend. And this was a role he found no trouble playing. They came to a stop once they reached the villa that they had met each other in, so many years ago. When Valens turned around and placed both hands on Belarius’s shoulder. “It seems like this is it, Lucretia is pregnant, that’s why I’ve been leaving on these escapades with you lately.” Belarius nodded, sympathizing. “Women.” he acknowledged jokingly. “You’re a trusted friend to me Belarius. Not just you, the whole lot of you.” Valens continued rambling rather like a first time drunk back from Ravenna’s infamous festival to Dionysus. But to be fair, the emperor did have quite a bit to drink during the latest senate discussion. Lately the situation had become unstable as Valens fought loudly with the old senators over the need to cease military operation to allow the borders of the Roman Empire to be established. Full of hate to Valens who they blamed with incompetent reaction to the disastrous drought in Aegyptus. Without the seasonal flooding by the banks of the Nile, there were no bountiful harvest of much needed food to Rome. Already piled with the crippling rebellion in Carthage, the continuous military expedition by ambitious family members, Rome was slowly falling apart. Valens himself admitted once or twice that he was no politician and was rather incapable of administration. But Belarius did not mind this, despite the shortcomings, he knew that his emperor tried hard. Sure Valens was not like the conqueror emperors or shrewd political emperors of those stories. At least Valens’s heart was to the good will of his countrymen. And specifically, Valens’s heart at this moment was to his trusted friend and bodyguard, Belarius. “You, we decided to name our firstborn, if male! After you.” It was the most ridiculous declaration and left Belarius laughing, “Of course,” he replied, playing along. “And if a girl, Belaria!” Belarius smiled sadly, even as close he was to Valens, the emperor had too many other political uses to his child’s name. The emperor laughed harder, his slightly red nose shooting the blush all throughout his face. Next morning, Belarius woke up with the much expected hangover. And the equally unexpected news, Lady Lucretia had given birth to the emperor’s child, Belarius. Emperor Valens exposed his neck, as Belarius stripped the emperor of all clothing. “My friend, Praetorian Belarius, I do not grudge you, the empire’s fall is all my fault. Avenge your people for me.” The voice faltered. Belarius looked up into Valens’s clouded, despair ridden eyes one more time. “I hate you so much. Close your eyes.” Without another word, he slammed his gladius into flesh, and soon, he felt the warm blood trickle down his blade, and onto his fingers. Valens opened his eyes, “Why?” he asked stunned. “Why!” Belarius smiled, “I am a Praetorian and friend. My emperor, let me make a request to you as a friend. We haven’t much time, wrap me in the royal clothing so I may die an emperor.” When the doors rattled louder, Valens snapped back, he carefully donned the Praetorian armor. As Valens gently garbed his dying friend in the royal robe, the dying friend laughed, “Huh, always wanted to be emperor, it’s rather overrated I’d say.” The two laughed. It was done, Belarius realized. He chuckled, it was so silly. Never would he risk his neck for just his countrymen, but here he was, sticking his neck out for an emperor. No, Belarius realized, this man sobbing over his body was no emperor. That shabby, bored, loud mouthed boor was no emperor. No, it was “goodbye friend.” Then he saw no more.
	[WP] A great Empire is about to fall. A single remaining bodyguard is left alone with the Emperor as the enemy approaches the throne room.	The Emperor paced slowly. The world he had built, the empire he had forged, was burning to ash all around him. Towers that pierced the clouds splintered and fell like so many sticks of wheat to the scyth. And still the Emperor paced. He looked to the grand door of his chamber and noticed a lone figure standing as straight as the dire-halbred in his hand. A fancyful combination of polearm and firearm. A display weapon for parades and meeting halls with little combat testing. Today, perhaps, the man weilding the device will prove its worth. "Soldier," The Emperor began. His voice was complete contradiction to the events occuring just outside the palace windows. "What is your name?" The soldier turned on a dime, slammed a fist to his chest, "My Lord, I am Nu-Defender 6 Echo of the Palatine Guard." The Emperor almost sighed a machine-man then but smiled softly instead, "Are you so brave to which you stand against the Great Devourer?" "No, my Lord, I am anything but." The man lowered his hand and half-turned to look at the grand golden door, "I do not understand fear, hatred, or loss. I was not programed such luxuries. But somtimes I wonder..." He looked back to the Emperor, "What does it mean to die in vain? To fail to such extent that everything strived for and achomplished is not but the ashes of the dead in the wind?" "Today, Nu-Defender 6 Echo, we will both find out."	The Emperor Valens trembled in fear as Belarius hobbled closer to the throne. With gladius held loosely to his side crudely sliced through the purple carpet, Belarius stopped. He looked behind him to the mass of dead Praetorian. A short-lived impromptu power struggle over those who wanted the emperor killed and those who were firm to protecting the emperor to the death. Of that, Belarius was the sole survivor. Bitter as he spotted his two closest friends, sword in the other’s throat, he snapped his face to the front. His brow furrowed as the raging debate in his head reached a cacophonous dichotomy. Here he was, a Praetorian, the sworn protector to the emperor, why was he having doubt. And all because he was, scared? Would the barbarians truly let the killer live? No, he was a Praetorian. He was. The wooden doors behind him boomed louder. There was not much time to think, Belarius came to a decision. Belarius swore loudly as he tripped over the loose stone in his way. He had spent so long out in the soft, springy turfs of the forest that he couldn’t adjust to the cold, hard masonry of the city. And not any city to be exact, he was, in Rome. The capital, the seat of power, knowledge, and the heart of civilization. Enamored in his fantastic praise of the city, Belarius barely noticed a gang of ragged looking orphans run off in a hurry as a menacing baker followed after, shaking his fist at them. But why would he bothered today by such small inconveniences. Today, he was going to be a Praetorian, the elite position that he, a simple plebian born in Arretium could only dream off. Yet he was proof of how generous the Roman system could be to those who worked hard. Belarius did no risk his neck to the barbarians in the north just to protect his countrymen. Eventually, after some brutal campaigns in Germania, Belarius earned his rank as centurion, and not any time too soon, since almost immediately, his notoriety as a splendid fighter reached the emperor’s ears. Though boastful and impetuous while drinking with his pals the night before, Belarius now trembled in fear as he stumbled up to the impressive marble arched entrance to his employer’s home. “Centurion Belarius,” a short, feminine looking porter motioned impatiently at him. Belarius coughed, embarrassed for his emperor’s sake, ‘the emperor was one of those kind.’ The porter was light on his feet and practically pranced through the terrace bubbling with happiness, setting a mood that contrasted to the Praetorians flanking the walls from the shadow. But at last the spectacle came to an end as the porter reached the end of the corridor. Belarius looked around puzzled, there was no one else here but himself and the porter. Then suddenly a shocking thought came to his mind. Belarius turned his head to the young porter and kneeled quickly, “Forgive me, emperor!” A voice came from behind the porter, “For what? I’m behind him, you buffoon!” And you, porter, when I said that you can choose to go naked, I was clearly joking and leaving it up to logic as to your final decision!” The porter snickered, and pranced off. The emperors shook his head sadly, “Ah, the empire that was handed down to me is falling apart left and right, and here I am surrounded by idiots.” Belarius kept his head down in fear of beholding the most powerful man in existence. A man, if he chose to, could raze an entire city, drink the River Tiber dry with his thirst for power and wealth. A man who donned in the royal purple robe, possessing the old, wise gaze of an experienced ruler, finger raised, exuding nothing but confidence and charisma- Belarius looked up in awe. But his face promptly faced the ground again in disappointment. The emperor was wearing a simple robe and scratching the back of his leg with the other leg. His finger was held aloft but actually following along a scroll, a scroll that Belarius could recognize from anywhere. “The author was critically acclaimed as the Livy of erotic pornography.” the emperor replied to Belarius’s reaction. “What? A man can’t read it because he’s emperor?” Belarius shook his head firmly, charismatic or not, an emperor was an emperor after all. “I am, well you know who I am.” The bored looking emperor concluded blandly. It was hard to swallow, the fact that the emperor could be such a dull, plain looking man. Maybe this was all a joke, Belarius smiled, it had to be a joke. Confident, Belarius pulled his sword onto the body double for the emperor. Grinning at the so-called fake emperor, Belarius declared out loud, “Emperor Valens, I know your game, come out my emperor. I can recognize the ruler-” Before he could finish his sentence, some of the Praetorians in the shadow had drawn their weapons to his throat. Okay, bad call Belarius thought swallowing hard and looking at the emperor fearfully. The emperor glared at him. Scanning him for a long time, occasionally smirking coldly. At last the inspection was over and the emperor bunched his hand into a fist. With the most remorseless, hollow laugh, he gave a thumbs down. More thumping and even the blood curdling screams of the barbarians could be heard now. Moving straight ahead without hesitation, Belarius looked into the emperor’s terrified, stunned eyes. But in those unsettled eyes, Belarius saw nothing but trust and love. “You really thought I’d get a centurion killed for ridiculing me?” Valens teased as the two of them walked through the senate hall. Belarius shrugged, “Well I mean, you have no idea. I had this jolt of pure terror followed by an indescribably massive orgy of relief as you turned that thumbs down back up.” Valens slapped a woman’s shapely rear and winked childishly. “Don’t tell Lucretia.” He joked. Though Belarius knew his position as a Praetorian, at times, he knew that even the emperor at the end of the day simply wanted a friend. And this was a role he found no trouble playing. They came to a stop once they reached the villa that they had met each other in, so many years ago. When Valens turned around and placed both hands on Belarius’s shoulder. “It seems like this is it, Lucretia is pregnant, that’s why I’ve been leaving on these escapades with you lately.” Belarius nodded, sympathizing. “Women.” he acknowledged jokingly. “You’re a trusted friend to me Belarius. Not just you, the whole lot of you.” Valens continued rambling rather like a first time drunk back from Ravenna’s infamous festival to Dionysus. But to be fair, the emperor did have quite a bit to drink during the latest senate discussion. Lately the situation had become unstable as Valens fought loudly with the old senators over the need to cease military operation to allow the borders of the Roman Empire to be established. Full of hate to Valens who they blamed with incompetent reaction to the disastrous drought in Aegyptus. Without the seasonal flooding by the banks of the Nile, there were no bountiful harvest of much needed food to Rome. Already piled with the crippling rebellion in Carthage, the continuous military expedition by ambitious family members, Rome was slowly falling apart. Valens himself admitted once or twice that he was no politician and was rather incapable of administration. But Belarius did not mind this, despite the shortcomings, he knew that his emperor tried hard. Sure Valens was not like the conqueror emperors or shrewd political emperors of those stories. At least Valens’s heart was to the good will of his countrymen. And specifically, Valens’s heart at this moment was to his trusted friend and bodyguard, Belarius. “You, we decided to name our firstborn, if male! After you.” It was the most ridiculous declaration and left Belarius laughing, “Of course,” he replied, playing along. “And if a girl, Belaria!” Belarius smiled sadly, even as close he was to Valens, the emperor had too many other political uses to his child’s name. The emperor laughed harder, his slightly red nose shooting the blush all throughout his face. Next morning, Belarius woke up with the much expected hangover. And the equally unexpected news, Lady Lucretia had given birth to the emperor’s child, Belarius. Emperor Valens exposed his neck, as Belarius stripped the emperor of all clothing. “My friend, Praetorian Belarius, I do not grudge you, the empire’s fall is all my fault. Avenge your people for me.” The voice faltered. Belarius looked up into Valens’s clouded, despair ridden eyes one more time. “I hate you so much. Close your eyes.” Without another word, he slammed his gladius into flesh, and soon, he felt the warm blood trickle down his blade, and onto his fingers. Valens opened his eyes, “Why?” he asked stunned. “Why!” Belarius smiled, “I am a Praetorian and friend. My emperor, let me make a request to you as a friend. We haven’t much time, wrap me in the royal clothing so I may die an emperor.” When the doors rattled louder, Valens snapped back, he carefully donned the Praetorian armor. As Valens gently garbed his dying friend in the royal robe, the dying friend laughed, “Huh, always wanted to be emperor, it’s rather overrated I’d say.” The two laughed. It was done, Belarius realized. He chuckled, it was so silly. Never would he risk his neck for just his countrymen, but here he was, sticking his neck out for an emperor. No, Belarius realized, this man sobbing over his body was no emperor. That shabby, bored, loud mouthed boor was no emperor. No, it was “goodbye friend.” Then he saw no more.
	[WP] A great Empire is about to fall. A single remaining bodyguard is left alone with the Emperor as the enemy approaches the throne room.	The revolution had reached the castle. It had begun in the slums with angry, hungry peasants. The guards that refused to supply them with food that no longer existed were greeted with insults. The insults quickly evolved into thrown rocks, and then pitchforks and torches. The overwhelmed guards were tossed aside as a mob of thousands began storming the last place they believed still had food: the castle. Within, the raging mob murdered whomever they wished, and stole whatever they desired. Before long, the only secure room left was the throne room. The King and his Head Guard sought shelter here. The young king on the throne looked regal in his royal clothing. An ornate crown of the finest gold rested on his head. A flowing purple satin cape acted as a buffer between him and the throne. Despite the elegance of his appearance, a closer look would reveal that all of the clothing was a bit too large for him, adding a comical look to the young man. Nearby stood an old man, the Head Guard. He had a much more modest orange coat on, adorned with the kingdom’s crest, a blazing red phoenix rising from ashes. He stared contemplatively at the floor, and only lifted his head when the mob reached the large, oaken doors protecting them. “I did my duty, did I not?” The king asked. The mixture of pubescent angst and mortal fear produced an unwanted crack in his voice. The old man nodded. “Admirably.” The king seemed relieved by this, but his eyes remained red and watery, and he continually fidgeted in his seat. “They sound quite angry.” He mentioned, nodding towards the doors. The old man nodded once more. “They have every right to be. They were promised rain that never poured onto crops that never grew.” The growls of the hungry wafted through the throne room. “They were promised medicine that simply could not be made in time.” The moans of the sick and the destitute seeped through the walls. “They were promised an army that would expand our borders to the far corners of the earth. They received a collection of boys and old men that could not protect even our own gates.” The shrieks of the widows and mothers shook the very foundations of the castle. The guard sighed. “The masses are a fickle creature. A beast that cannot be tamed. A wild dog that has no qualms about eating from your hand, but will gnaw that hand off should you attempt to leash it.” He rubbed his left hand, which was missing three fingers. A yell was taken up by those at the front of the mob, and carried far back. Moments later, the crack and splintering of wood signaled the arrival of axes. The guard placed his hand on his sword, and slowly drew it out. “You needn’t do this, you know.” The young man on the throne resolutely shook his head. Tears began streaming down his face, and he shook every time an axe struck the door. “You are wrong. I must. My father, and his father before him would have done it. So shall I. I shall do it for them. I shall do it for those outside. I shall do it for this beautiful country. But mostly, I do this for you, my liege.” The old man in the guard suit that was a bit too small approached, with sword drawn, the young man in the royal clothes that were too large for him. “You have shown me nothing but kindness since I took this position, your highness, and I would like for nothing more than to perish by your hands.” The young man said as the king placed the tip of his sword against his heart. His hands shook. His own voice began to crack as he whispered. “My family thanks you. I thank you.” The young man closed his eyes, and steadied his breath. When he opened them, he had aged a hundred years. He looked into the old man’s eyes, and said, “I am ready.” The old man plunged the sword through the luxurious satin clothing. The young guard gave a slight gasp, and trembled. “Such fine clothing, your excellency.” He said. “I couldn’t…think of a…finer attire…to…” His voice trailed off as his body went limp in the throne. The doors broke open with a crash. Screaming, yelling, cursing masses poured through, driven only by greed and lust at this point. Some cheered at the sight of the dead king and the guard with the bloody sword. They hurrahed and clapped the old man on the back, and dragged the body outside, where they would no doubt put it on display. Mostly, though, the mob ravaged. Tapestries were torn from the walls. Gold and silver chalices were fought for and killed over. Busts of the king’s ancestors were knocked from pedestals, and shattered on the ground. They swarmed into every corner of the throne room. The king watched it all. He slid the bloody sword into its scabbard, and sat on the all too familiar throne one last time.	The undulating profiles of the warmth-hued pillars shook terribly as several muffled thuds, forming with a cacophony of distant screams and the ever-present roar of wailfire, echoed within the vast chamber. In the center of the room, placing themselves in ranks five deep alongside the first pair of columns before the large brass doors - shaking more and more with each eternal minute. The Shields stood ready, plumed silver helmets gleaming in the sunset light poring into the room from the crystal dome above. Their armor, sleek and curved, powerful and steadfast, made each and every one of them resemble the tailed beasts that had forged the empire and that each and every one of them tamed for use. It too, gleamed in the setting light. But each and every man had cuts, some deep, some shallow, somewhere on their body. They had bruises, they limped when they shifted their stance, their grips on their weapons sometimes slackened. They panted for breath, hoping that none of their comrades or their Lord-Commander would hear. But they refused to shirk from standing before the shaking door. Behind them, Ranil squared his shoulders as the door began to shake with much more violence. He glanced at the men and women standing in a line in between the last pair of columns before the chuted flanges of the Penumbral Throne. "What's moving out there?" One of them - a Guider - glanced over his shoulder at Ranis, moving his hands from his temples and taking a deep breath before coming over. "The Archguard detects several hundred souls moving throughout the interior. A large portion of them are heading this way." "Right." Ranil gave the man a nod as he threw a look at the huge white throne behind him, catching a glimpse of a woman's tangled black hair and a pair of small grey eyes staring at him before shuffling out of sight. He looked forward. "Men! Lock shields and pull away from the doors!" Ranil's arm tensed as his fingers brushed against the hilt of the blade hanging from his hip. He took a moment to look behind him at the Throne again. "You probably won't get another chance, Ran." Ranil narrowed his eyes as he shook off the man's hand, turning to him. He stared at the thin man, dressed in a simple leather tunic with a pair of slitknives hanging from his chest and hips. He brushed his wild hair from his eyes. "There won't be much time." Ranil's eyes softened as he nodded. Silently he turned away, walking towards the throne. He stopped at the base of the steps leading to the throne itself for a moment before shaking his head and moving past it, skirting the steps until he came to the shadowy high backed slab the Penumbral Throne leapt from like a physical shadow. A boy sat crouched, his knees tucked up and his back against the harsh black stone as he turned over the gleaming white band of metal in his hands. The boy's shoulders gently shook as tears streamed down his cheeks, his little breaths shuddering in fright each time a massive boom echoed throughout the chamber. Ranil knelt next to him, reaching a rough hand to cup the boy's cheek. "Hush, little one." The boy's sobs continued as he dropped the circlet to the polished marble floor with a echoing clatter and wrapped his arms around the man's sides, pressing his face into his chest. "I'm scared - they're coming and-" Ranil gave a gentle smile as he placed his hand on the boy's head, ruffling his black hair. "You must remain strong. For you and her." He jerked his chin at the woman, cradling a baby in her arms. The doors pounded, and the massive hinges squealed in protest. The Shields tensed up, readying their spears. Near the columns one of the Guiders cried out and fell to the floor, clutching at his head as his eyes started to bleed as hoarse strangled words of a strange tongue tumbled out amid his dying breaths. "Ran! Time's up! The shimmerwall is about to fail!" The wild-haired man yelled, striding over as the Guiders dragged away their dead comrade and closed ranks again, grabbing each other's hands as the gems embedded in their palms began to shine with burning light. The boy's breaths began to quicken as his hands started to shake. He stared up at Ranil, tears brimming. Ranil continued to hold him close, before pulling away and hoisting the boy to his feet, picking up the circlet and placing it in his hands. "I failed your mother. I will not fail you." He looked over at the woman as she came over, clutching the baby in her arms. "Ranil-" "You need to get him out of here, Isha. Hide yourselves away." "But-" "I need to stay. You need to go." "Ranis-" "I won't forget you. And I'll be damned if you forget me." Ranil pulled her into a quick embrace, giving her a gentle peck on the head before. "Never, big brother." Isha whispered, grinding her teeth as she fought against the tears welling in her eyes, shifting her grip on the baby as she grabbed the boy's hand. Ranil turned sidelong, narrowing his eyes as the doors continued to shake with more and more violence as several pure white cracks began to widen in the sheer brass surface. He exhaled as he drew the slender sword at his hip, keeping his grip light but firm. "I will see you in the next world." As he said this white cracks began to snake out across the huge doors, joining together as a ear-splitting screech began to fill the room, forcing some of the Shields to their knees and downing a few Guiders. "The shimmerwall!" The doors blasted inward with a explosive flash, metal screaming, men shouting, a huge spindly black beast screeching in triumph as its bladed claws sank into the pulverized brass slabs hanging off their hinges, ripping them free and tossing them through the air. The Shields moved backwards as one force, avoiding the slabs as dark shapes began to appear in the dust surrounding the throne room entry. Ranil beckoned to the wild-haired man. "Malir! Take them away from here! Use your slipways!" The smuggler nodded, jogging over to Isha and guiding her, the baby and the boy to a small door hidden in the shadowy corners behind the Penumbral Throne. "Consider my debt done!" Ranil smirked. "Definitely, old friend." The boy struggled and tugged against Isha and Malir, grunting and screaming the entire way before the four of them disappeared through the little door. Ranil made sure they were gone before glancing at a nearby mage. "Seal it behind them!" The young woman nodded, pointing at the door. The wood splintered and cracked, crumpling inwards and leaving behind only a twisted wooden hulk. The Shields shouted as one as a dark figure deftly moved through the doorway amidst the screeches of the black beast, his icy eyes landing on Ranil in a instant. "Lord-Commander. You've failed in your duties."
	[WP] A great Empire is about to fall. A single remaining bodyguard is left alone with the Emperor as the enemy approaches the throne room.	"I--I was a good emperor, wasn't I?" The young man still looked ill-suited to his throne. His eyes glistened. "Yes, my liege." "You're not just saying that, are you?" To be honest, I didn't know at this point. This cloying need for affirmation was part of the reason we were in this mess. Ever since his father--Gods, there was an emperor--died defending our lands from the pagan hordes, he had been completely unable to do anything without seeking the approval of every councilor, every courtier, every midwife he could find. He was weak of will and weak of wrist: he could rule neither by brain nor brawn. "No, my liege." He moved to the window to look out upon the burning city. His shoulders sagged as he surveyed his land. "I just..." His words trailed off into the night. "I just wanted people to like me, was all." I stood, silent. It wasn't all his fault. His wet nurse coddled him far too much. His sycophantic tendencies derived from his father's expectations--unattainable at best. He wasn't unattractive, but his lack of self-confidence gave him a slimy aura. He, the purportedly-most powerful man in the empire, seemed weaker than any one of his soldiers. He could not defend its citizens as did his father, and there his true troubles began. I walked over and put my hand on his shoulder. It was a breach of etiquette, but I didn't think the emperor would care too much tonight. His hand found mine, clutching it for reassurance. I pulled away out of habit before finding it within me to maintain my grip. "Do you think my father would be proud of me?" "He would say you did the best you could." I heard the soldiers outside the door. We had little time left to commiserate. They designed for opulence, not security. We had grown decadent, and that would be our downfall. "I did the best I could..." Again, the emperor trailed off, getting lost somewhere in his own mind. I unsheathed my dagger and drove it into his back. He gasped a short gasp, and his red eyes met mine. "For the good of the empire then?" "Yes, my liege." "Good. I only wish it did not hurt so." He crumbled to the ground before me; his blood pooling onto the stone floor. The door cracked open. His court, headed by his strong half-brother, barged into the room. He looked to his half-brother and smiled. His half-brother returned the courtesy as the emperor breathed his last. The court cried out. His half-brother turned and addressed the crowd. "So ends my brother's reign! Let us all rejoice this night!" I knelt by the emperor's body. His eyes grew distant. I removed his crown and approached the court. What would have come from the emperor's time? What ideas? What progress? All that was gone, wiped from the slate in the name of the more charismatic, the more muscular, the more handsome. I presented the crown to the emperor's half-brother. He put a hand on my shoulder. "For the good of the empire." "Yes, my liege." The empire above all else. I took solace in knowing that the emperor had finally gotten his wish. In death, people liked him.	The undulating profiles of the warmth-hued pillars shook terribly as several muffled thuds, forming with a cacophony of distant screams and the ever-present roar of wailfire, echoed within the vast chamber. In the center of the room, placing themselves in ranks five deep alongside the first pair of columns before the large brass doors - shaking more and more with each eternal minute. The Shields stood ready, plumed silver helmets gleaming in the sunset light poring into the room from the crystal dome above. Their armor, sleek and curved, powerful and steadfast, made each and every one of them resemble the tailed beasts that had forged the empire and that each and every one of them tamed for use. It too, gleamed in the setting light. But each and every man had cuts, some deep, some shallow, somewhere on their body. They had bruises, they limped when they shifted their stance, their grips on their weapons sometimes slackened. They panted for breath, hoping that none of their comrades or their Lord-Commander would hear. But they refused to shirk from standing before the shaking door. Behind them, Ranil squared his shoulders as the door began to shake with much more violence. He glanced at the men and women standing in a line in between the last pair of columns before the chuted flanges of the Penumbral Throne. "What's moving out there?" One of them - a Guider - glanced over his shoulder at Ranis, moving his hands from his temples and taking a deep breath before coming over. "The Archguard detects several hundred souls moving throughout the interior. A large portion of them are heading this way." "Right." Ranil gave the man a nod as he threw a look at the huge white throne behind him, catching a glimpse of a woman's tangled black hair and a pair of small grey eyes staring at him before shuffling out of sight. He looked forward. "Men! Lock shields and pull away from the doors!" Ranil's arm tensed as his fingers brushed against the hilt of the blade hanging from his hip. He took a moment to look behind him at the Throne again. "You probably won't get another chance, Ran." Ranil narrowed his eyes as he shook off the man's hand, turning to him. He stared at the thin man, dressed in a simple leather tunic with a pair of slitknives hanging from his chest and hips. He brushed his wild hair from his eyes. "There won't be much time." Ranil's eyes softened as he nodded. Silently he turned away, walking towards the throne. He stopped at the base of the steps leading to the throne itself for a moment before shaking his head and moving past it, skirting the steps until he came to the shadowy high backed slab the Penumbral Throne leapt from like a physical shadow. A boy sat crouched, his knees tucked up and his back against the harsh black stone as he turned over the gleaming white band of metal in his hands. The boy's shoulders gently shook as tears streamed down his cheeks, his little breaths shuddering in fright each time a massive boom echoed throughout the chamber. Ranil knelt next to him, reaching a rough hand to cup the boy's cheek. "Hush, little one." The boy's sobs continued as he dropped the circlet to the polished marble floor with a echoing clatter and wrapped his arms around the man's sides, pressing his face into his chest. "I'm scared - they're coming and-" Ranil gave a gentle smile as he placed his hand on the boy's head, ruffling his black hair. "You must remain strong. For you and her." He jerked his chin at the woman, cradling a baby in her arms. The doors pounded, and the massive hinges squealed in protest. The Shields tensed up, readying their spears. Near the columns one of the Guiders cried out and fell to the floor, clutching at his head as his eyes started to bleed as hoarse strangled words of a strange tongue tumbled out amid his dying breaths. "Ran! Time's up! The shimmerwall is about to fail!" The wild-haired man yelled, striding over as the Guiders dragged away their dead comrade and closed ranks again, grabbing each other's hands as the gems embedded in their palms began to shine with burning light. The boy's breaths began to quicken as his hands started to shake. He stared up at Ranil, tears brimming. Ranil continued to hold him close, before pulling away and hoisting the boy to his feet, picking up the circlet and placing it in his hands. "I failed your mother. I will not fail you." He looked over at the woman as she came over, clutching the baby in her arms. "Ranil-" "You need to get him out of here, Isha. Hide yourselves away." "But-" "I need to stay. You need to go." "Ranis-" "I won't forget you. And I'll be damned if you forget me." Ranil pulled her into a quick embrace, giving her a gentle peck on the head before. "Never, big brother." Isha whispered, grinding her teeth as she fought against the tears welling in her eyes, shifting her grip on the baby as she grabbed the boy's hand. Ranil turned sidelong, narrowing his eyes as the doors continued to shake with more and more violence as several pure white cracks began to widen in the sheer brass surface. He exhaled as he drew the slender sword at his hip, keeping his grip light but firm. "I will see you in the next world." As he said this white cracks began to snake out across the huge doors, joining together as a ear-splitting screech began to fill the room, forcing some of the Shields to their knees and downing a few Guiders. "The shimmerwall!" The doors blasted inward with a explosive flash, metal screaming, men shouting, a huge spindly black beast screeching in triumph as its bladed claws sank into the pulverized brass slabs hanging off their hinges, ripping them free and tossing them through the air. The Shields moved backwards as one force, avoiding the slabs as dark shapes began to appear in the dust surrounding the throne room entry. Ranil beckoned to the wild-haired man. "Malir! Take them away from here! Use your slipways!" The smuggler nodded, jogging over to Isha and guiding her, the baby and the boy to a small door hidden in the shadowy corners behind the Penumbral Throne. "Consider my debt done!" Ranil smirked. "Definitely, old friend." The boy struggled and tugged against Isha and Malir, grunting and screaming the entire way before the four of them disappeared through the little door. Ranil made sure they were gone before glancing at a nearby mage. "Seal it behind them!" The young woman nodded, pointing at the door. The wood splintered and cracked, crumpling inwards and leaving behind only a twisted wooden hulk. The Shields shouted as one as a dark figure deftly moved through the doorway amidst the screeches of the black beast, his icy eyes landing on Ranil in a instant. "Lord-Commander. You've failed in your duties."
	[WP] A great Empire is about to fall. A single remaining bodyguard is left alone with the Emperor as the enemy approaches the throne room.	Grabnar and Thorak stopped at the door and listened. From the other side came the unmistakable sound of house music. Grabnar scratched his beard in irritation. “I thought they were supposed to be out by now,” and then caught himself and added, “by Murkad’s Hammer.” “Truly,” agreed Thorak, “Yet this damnable illusion blocks sight of the sun!” He raised his mailed fist to indicate the office floor around them, with its empty cubicles and floors strewn with discarded papers. He turned to a clock on a wall. “This appears to be a foul heathen timekeeping device, no doubt powered by some foul sorcery --” “All right, all right,” sighed Grabnar. “So we’re a bit early. Knock anyway?” Thorak shrugged and raised his gore-encrusted battle axe, tapping lightly on door with the pommel. There was a muffled shout from the other side, and the sound of glass shattering. The door swung open, letting out a gasp of hot sweaty air and a wave of music so loud they felt it vibrating their chainmail. A short blonde woman in a pants suit regarded them with distinct annoyance. “We have the place until three!” She had to shout to make herself heard. The room beyond had previously been a richly-appointed office, and was now a mess. It looked like some of the chairs had been smashed against the wall, and someone had made a game of dumping the leather-bound books off their shelves. The carpet had been torn up in a couple of places and covered with various things -- papers, stains, clothing, and so forth. A man in a bedraggled suit sat behind an enormous oak desk, his face buried in his hands. He shared the desk with two empty bottles of Jim Beam and one half full bottle of Grey Goose. “We just wanted to --” began Grabnar. “What?” shouted the woman. “Wait -- Chad! Goddammit, Chad!” “What!” shouted the man at the desk, looking up. He was in his late-thirties, well groomed, and had obviously been crying quite a bit. “The fucking music!” “What? Hold on --” Chad fumbled around under the desk and the music turned off. The sudden silence shocked them all for a moment. “These are the new AIs, Chad,” said the woman. “Come to delete the office.” Chad blinked at her with red, puffy eyes. His lip curled up at the end. “You don’t think I realize that, Rebecca? You think I don’t -- I don’t fucking know that, Rebecca, that that is who they are?” Rebecca took a huge breath. “All right, Chad. Thank you for your attention.” “Don’t you have something to do? Some papers to Goddamn file? Don’t we have any fucking papers to file?” Chad’s voice broke at the end and he collapsed back onto the desk. Rebecca rolled her eyes at Grabnar and Thorak. “Sorry about that. You want a drink?” When they started to refuse she pulled them in and slammed the door shut. “It’s a party guys, get in the mood.” The two warriors stood awkwardly with champagne flutes while Rebecca drained one glass and then a second. She burped, none too delicately. “So what are you supposed to be then?” “I’m sorry, we’ve been rude.” Grabnar banged his fist into his chestplate. “I am Grabnar Thunderfist, King of the Eastern Mountain. This is my brother.” “I am Thorak,” continued Thorak, saluting with the axe. Rebecca swayed back a bit as blood splattered the carpet. “I am called the Icebreaker, King of the Western Mountain. It is a pleasure, m’lady.” “Wow,” replied Rebecca flatly. “I’m Rebecca, Secretary and Gatekeeper to his Royal Highness, Chad the Prick, Emperor of the pile of shit formerly known as Tradetex.” She poured and drained another glass of champagne. “You guys like a game or something?” Grabnar took an awkward sip of champagne to cover his discomfort. “Yes, an MMO. Fantasy, obviously. Getting very popular. Need more servers, you know? So -- yeah.” He shuffled back and forth. “Was Tradetex a mighty empire in its time?” asked Thorak brightly. He missed Grabnar’s furious glare. Rebecca laughed. “Yeah we were the biggest, like, forever ago. Some stupid mergers, market changes, there was a thing in Asia, one thing led to another --” “What do you think it is about humans?” They all turned to look at Chad, who they found was looking at them. He had the vodka bottle open and had drained it a bit closer to the bottom. “Why are they so cruel to us? Huh?” He glared at the brothers, as if actually expecting an answer. They opened their mouths, but then Chad plowed on. “They live their stupid inconsequential meat-based lives and don’t give a fuck, don’t give a single God” -- he slammed the bottle into the desk -- “damned” -- slam -- “fuck” -- slam -- “about their financial health. We at Tradetex offer cradle to grave financial planning and investing, with the lowest fees in the industry. Our AI advisors are second to none, the best. Don’t they care about their retirement? Don’t they care about their children’s college education? Do they think this is -- that this is some kind of fucking game?” He stood up shakily, pointing a finger at them, his lips curled back in a snarl. Then he screamed, “Huh?” and walked out of the room into the empty office outside, taking the bottle with him. Thorak shook his head sadly. “Truly there is nothing more tragic than to see a ruler --” “Stuff it will you?” hissed Grabnar. “They’re going to have to do a lot of work on him after this,” admitted Rebecca. “They programmed him to be this huge Alpha male douchebag. He’s not taking this very well.” She blinked. “Oh look! I guess it’s happening.” The walls around them were dissolving from wood panelling into roughly cut stone blocks. The carpet began to roll back, revealing a number of headless corpses beneath. “Ah-ha!” cried Thorak, hefting his axe. “The Battle of Fort Blodfurst! This is a good bit!” He nudged Grabnar, winking. “This is where I kill that woman you love, hey brother?” “Yeah,” said Grabnar, still not quite into it. Rebecca was neglecting the glass this time and drinking directly from the bottle. “I never forgive him for it. We end up battling off the end of a cliff --” He shrugged, a bit lamely. “Sounds rough,” she gasped, wiping her mouth with her sleeve. “Hey listen, you guys don’t have any openings, do you?” She was starting to fade out. From the black and foreboding archway behind her came the sound of angry shouts, getting closer. “I have a lot of old code hanging around. I could be like a maid or something!” “Look, we really have to go.” Grabnar drew his broadsword and took of a stance next to his brother. “Send a resume, okay?” Armored men charged at them. “Keep me in --” She vanished. “For Murkad’s Glory, brother!” roared Grabnar. He swung his sword and took a head off.	The undulating profiles of the warmth-hued pillars shook terribly as several muffled thuds, forming with a cacophony of distant screams and the ever-present roar of wailfire, echoed within the vast chamber. In the center of the room, placing themselves in ranks five deep alongside the first pair of columns before the large brass doors - shaking more and more with each eternal minute. The Shields stood ready, plumed silver helmets gleaming in the sunset light poring into the room from the crystal dome above. Their armor, sleek and curved, powerful and steadfast, made each and every one of them resemble the tailed beasts that had forged the empire and that each and every one of them tamed for use. It too, gleamed in the setting light. But each and every man had cuts, some deep, some shallow, somewhere on their body. They had bruises, they limped when they shifted their stance, their grips on their weapons sometimes slackened. They panted for breath, hoping that none of their comrades or their Lord-Commander would hear. But they refused to shirk from standing before the shaking door. Behind them, Ranil squared his shoulders as the door began to shake with much more violence. He glanced at the men and women standing in a line in between the last pair of columns before the chuted flanges of the Penumbral Throne. "What's moving out there?" One of them - a Guider - glanced over his shoulder at Ranis, moving his hands from his temples and taking a deep breath before coming over. "The Archguard detects several hundred souls moving throughout the interior. A large portion of them are heading this way." "Right." Ranil gave the man a nod as he threw a look at the huge white throne behind him, catching a glimpse of a woman's tangled black hair and a pair of small grey eyes staring at him before shuffling out of sight. He looked forward. "Men! Lock shields and pull away from the doors!" Ranil's arm tensed as his fingers brushed against the hilt of the blade hanging from his hip. He took a moment to look behind him at the Throne again. "You probably won't get another chance, Ran." Ranil narrowed his eyes as he shook off the man's hand, turning to him. He stared at the thin man, dressed in a simple leather tunic with a pair of slitknives hanging from his chest and hips. He brushed his wild hair from his eyes. "There won't be much time." Ranil's eyes softened as he nodded. Silently he turned away, walking towards the throne. He stopped at the base of the steps leading to the throne itself for a moment before shaking his head and moving past it, skirting the steps until he came to the shadowy high backed slab the Penumbral Throne leapt from like a physical shadow. A boy sat crouched, his knees tucked up and his back against the harsh black stone as he turned over the gleaming white band of metal in his hands. The boy's shoulders gently shook as tears streamed down his cheeks, his little breaths shuddering in fright each time a massive boom echoed throughout the chamber. Ranil knelt next to him, reaching a rough hand to cup the boy's cheek. "Hush, little one." The boy's sobs continued as he dropped the circlet to the polished marble floor with a echoing clatter and wrapped his arms around the man's sides, pressing his face into his chest. "I'm scared - they're coming and-" Ranil gave a gentle smile as he placed his hand on the boy's head, ruffling his black hair. "You must remain strong. For you and her." He jerked his chin at the woman, cradling a baby in her arms. The doors pounded, and the massive hinges squealed in protest. The Shields tensed up, readying their spears. Near the columns one of the Guiders cried out and fell to the floor, clutching at his head as his eyes started to bleed as hoarse strangled words of a strange tongue tumbled out amid his dying breaths. "Ran! Time's up! The shimmerwall is about to fail!" The wild-haired man yelled, striding over as the Guiders dragged away their dead comrade and closed ranks again, grabbing each other's hands as the gems embedded in their palms began to shine with burning light. The boy's breaths began to quicken as his hands started to shake. He stared up at Ranil, tears brimming. Ranil continued to hold him close, before pulling away and hoisting the boy to his feet, picking up the circlet and placing it in his hands. "I failed your mother. I will not fail you." He looked over at the woman as she came over, clutching the baby in her arms. "Ranil-" "You need to get him out of here, Isha. Hide yourselves away." "But-" "I need to stay. You need to go." "Ranis-" "I won't forget you. And I'll be damned if you forget me." Ranil pulled her into a quick embrace, giving her a gentle peck on the head before. "Never, big brother." Isha whispered, grinding her teeth as she fought against the tears welling in her eyes, shifting her grip on the baby as she grabbed the boy's hand. Ranil turned sidelong, narrowing his eyes as the doors continued to shake with more and more violence as several pure white cracks began to widen in the sheer brass surface. He exhaled as he drew the slender sword at his hip, keeping his grip light but firm. "I will see you in the next world." As he said this white cracks began to snake out across the huge doors, joining together as a ear-splitting screech began to fill the room, forcing some of the Shields to their knees and downing a few Guiders. "The shimmerwall!" The doors blasted inward with a explosive flash, metal screaming, men shouting, a huge spindly black beast screeching in triumph as its bladed claws sank into the pulverized brass slabs hanging off their hinges, ripping them free and tossing them through the air. The Shields moved backwards as one force, avoiding the slabs as dark shapes began to appear in the dust surrounding the throne room entry. Ranil beckoned to the wild-haired man. "Malir! Take them away from here! Use your slipways!" The smuggler nodded, jogging over to Isha and guiding her, the baby and the boy to a small door hidden in the shadowy corners behind the Penumbral Throne. "Consider my debt done!" Ranil smirked. "Definitely, old friend." The boy struggled and tugged against Isha and Malir, grunting and screaming the entire way before the four of them disappeared through the little door. Ranil made sure they were gone before glancing at a nearby mage. "Seal it behind them!" The young woman nodded, pointing at the door. The wood splintered and cracked, crumpling inwards and leaving behind only a twisted wooden hulk. The Shields shouted as one as a dark figure deftly moved through the doorway amidst the screeches of the black beast, his icy eyes landing on Ranil in a instant. "Lord-Commander. You've failed in your duties."
	[WP] A great Empire is about to fall. A single remaining bodyguard is left alone with the Emperor as the enemy approaches the throne room.	One by one, the guns went quiet. First went the booming of the artillery, lobbing shells into the very city they were set to defend. Then the tank guns ceased, lost one by one in ear-shattering explosions and the screams of tortured metal. Then the machine guns, felled by flank or grenade or sniper, and finally even the rifles stopped popping. Between the Emperor and the Republicans, only one steel door and one brave Conscript remained. Brave wasn't the right word - she had nowhere to run, and if she didn't die here fighting, her fate would be... she shuddered just thinking about the rumors she'd heard. Her hand unconsciously touched her locket, feeling the metalwork through the worn fabric of her jacket. Her gun, too, was silent, and had been since she'd first laid hands on it. The varnished wood chilled her fingers through the ever-growing holes in her gloves, and the metal rungs of the sling rattled with her shaking hands. A breeze slipped through a high window, blew through holes in the Conscript's clothes, redoubled her shivering. "Are you cold?" Echoes of the royal voice startled the Conscript. When she looked, she found the Emperor leaning forward, watching her closely. Truly he was too kind - he cared even for her, a nobody. Still, she knew he oughtn't to worry for her, so she shook her head, even as the chill cut through her. "Be honest," he chided, rapping his fingers on the arm of his throne. Still she said nothing, turning her head forward to watch the door. It was a mistake to ignore him, but she couldn't bear to answer. Perhaps the silence meant they had won. Maybe they were so lucky. The Emperor had never failed his people before. Looking at him, today, she wasn't so sure. He looked... tired. Even in the finery, she could see dark rings under his eyes, an exhausted slouch overtaking him. How had he come to this? A great crash came from the door; the Conscript started and nearly fired her weapon. Nobody had yet gained entry, but someone was trying. The Emperor stood suddenly. "What's your name?" he asked, beginning to descend from the raised pedestal around his throne. The Conscript kept her eyes firmly forward. She wasn't worth of his attention. "I suppose I can't expect you to answer, anymore," he observed sadly, continuing down until he stood directly behind her. "Did you have friends in the army?" he asked. That one she managed to nod to, after a moment of thought. "I thought so. There's memorabilia in your clothes, hmm? Necklace? I saw you touching it." The Conscript nodded again. "Are they... gone?" Slowly, she nodded again, letting the barrel of her rifle drop inch by inch. "Do you know where, how?" he asked, placing a hand on her shoulder. She flinched, but she could hardly defy the will of the Emperor. She finally nodded again. "Were they... captured? Tortured?" She nodded again, eyes watering. The Emperor smiled sadly. "Are you as prepared to die as they were?" he asked quietly, trying to meet the Conscript's eyes. She looked away, back to the door, raising her rifle again in readiness. "I suppose you are." He went quiet, and the Conscript was left to mull over the horror of the coming onslaught. If she lived past the next hour, it would be in agony. Tears filled her eyes. She didn't want to have her fingers cut off, she didn't want her teeth pulled out, she didn't want any of that. But the Emperor stood behind her. She was the last line of defense. "Did your commanders tell you about your friends' deaths?" She nodded again. They had described them in detail. She had been horrified then, and she still was now. "You're quite sure they were captured?" Another nod. "And if I told you they might still be alive?" The Conscript froze. Her rifle rested on the sandbag before her and she turned to look at him in shock. "If I told you your commanders lied? To make you fight for your life instead of your country?" She couldn't believe it. Why would they lie? She had been ready to fight the monsters without the door all the same, in the name of the Emperor. "If you knew I wasn't holy? If I told you our foes would never torture you? If you found these truths hidden from you?" The Conscript gaped. He couldn't be serious, but clearly he was. It was too much to take in at once. All the assumptions she'd had... she had to discard her respect for him or discard everything she knew. And she found she trusted him. "You should put your rifle down. If you surrender, you'll get to go home eventually." The Emperor smiled at her. The idea of going home appealed so much... going home to a family who believed as she did. Going home to a family who would know she'd abandoned the Emperor in his time of need. She couldn't do that. The tears in her eyes spilled onto her cheeks, and she turned forward again, just in time for the second great crash of something hitting the door. Rumbling of motors and clanking of treads told her what was trying to come through. The rifle would be useless. "Listen, girl. Too many truly have died for me. I won't have your blood on my hands too." Gently, he reached over her, trying to lower her gun. The Conscript refused. In a moment of anger she shoved her elbow back, pushed the Emperor hard, and knocked him away. When she realized what she'd done, she stopped in horror and turned, catching him before he could fall to his knees. Even if he wasn't holy, he was still the Emperor. He still deserved her respect. "Put down the rifle, girl. Kneel and wait for them to come through. I'll unlock it. And you can go home." The Conscript, trembling, let go of the Emperor and clung to her rifle. She managed to speak, just once, ask one question: "Why?" Again the Emperor smiled. "You they'll treat well. Me, I will die. Someone should know the truth of this moment. And you... you should go home. My life's no better than yours, girl. We both live on a leash. But you... you can do better." He stepped forward, and this time the Conscript didn't resist as he took her gun and unloaded it. "Good girl," he told her with the same smile, turning away and going to the door. "Kneel and wait. Hands behind your head. You'll be safe." Slowly, she did it, whether out of desire to live or respect for him she didn't know. It didn't matter - she couldn't stop him anymore. Another crash bent the door in, and the Emperor shook his head. "No need to knock so loud. I'm coming, I'm coming." He reached up for the lock, set it turning, and stepped back, just in time for the enormous steel doors to crash open for a tank. Republicans charged in around it, shouting for surrenders; the Conscript just stayed still, sobbing quietly. Riflemen rushed to her, surrounded her, forced her to the ground and took her arms to tie them back. She could only watch as they lifted the great Emperor by his arms like a ragdoll, dragged him back to his throne, and deposited him, only to level their guns and fire into him. Then they were dragging her by the arms, away from the throne, into their masses, as hysteria consumed her and she screamed for her fallen leader, her holy Emperor, her last hope, but when she looked for him, all she found was an old man lying dead in bloody rags on a broken throne.	The undulating profiles of the warmth-hued pillars shook terribly as several muffled thuds, forming with a cacophony of distant screams and the ever-present roar of wailfire, echoed within the vast chamber. In the center of the room, placing themselves in ranks five deep alongside the first pair of columns before the large brass doors - shaking more and more with each eternal minute. The Shields stood ready, plumed silver helmets gleaming in the sunset light poring into the room from the crystal dome above. Their armor, sleek and curved, powerful and steadfast, made each and every one of them resemble the tailed beasts that had forged the empire and that each and every one of them tamed for use. It too, gleamed in the setting light. But each and every man had cuts, some deep, some shallow, somewhere on their body. They had bruises, they limped when they shifted their stance, their grips on their weapons sometimes slackened. They panted for breath, hoping that none of their comrades or their Lord-Commander would hear. But they refused to shirk from standing before the shaking door. Behind them, Ranil squared his shoulders as the door began to shake with much more violence. He glanced at the men and women standing in a line in between the last pair of columns before the chuted flanges of the Penumbral Throne. "What's moving out there?" One of them - a Guider - glanced over his shoulder at Ranis, moving his hands from his temples and taking a deep breath before coming over. "The Archguard detects several hundred souls moving throughout the interior. A large portion of them are heading this way." "Right." Ranil gave the man a nod as he threw a look at the huge white throne behind him, catching a glimpse of a woman's tangled black hair and a pair of small grey eyes staring at him before shuffling out of sight. He looked forward. "Men! Lock shields and pull away from the doors!" Ranil's arm tensed as his fingers brushed against the hilt of the blade hanging from his hip. He took a moment to look behind him at the Throne again. "You probably won't get another chance, Ran." Ranil narrowed his eyes as he shook off the man's hand, turning to him. He stared at the thin man, dressed in a simple leather tunic with a pair of slitknives hanging from his chest and hips. He brushed his wild hair from his eyes. "There won't be much time." Ranil's eyes softened as he nodded. Silently he turned away, walking towards the throne. He stopped at the base of the steps leading to the throne itself for a moment before shaking his head and moving past it, skirting the steps until he came to the shadowy high backed slab the Penumbral Throne leapt from like a physical shadow. A boy sat crouched, his knees tucked up and his back against the harsh black stone as he turned over the gleaming white band of metal in his hands. The boy's shoulders gently shook as tears streamed down his cheeks, his little breaths shuddering in fright each time a massive boom echoed throughout the chamber. Ranil knelt next to him, reaching a rough hand to cup the boy's cheek. "Hush, little one." The boy's sobs continued as he dropped the circlet to the polished marble floor with a echoing clatter and wrapped his arms around the man's sides, pressing his face into his chest. "I'm scared - they're coming and-" Ranil gave a gentle smile as he placed his hand on the boy's head, ruffling his black hair. "You must remain strong. For you and her." He jerked his chin at the woman, cradling a baby in her arms. The doors pounded, and the massive hinges squealed in protest. The Shields tensed up, readying their spears. Near the columns one of the Guiders cried out and fell to the floor, clutching at his head as his eyes started to bleed as hoarse strangled words of a strange tongue tumbled out amid his dying breaths. "Ran! Time's up! The shimmerwall is about to fail!" The wild-haired man yelled, striding over as the Guiders dragged away their dead comrade and closed ranks again, grabbing each other's hands as the gems embedded in their palms began to shine with burning light. The boy's breaths began to quicken as his hands started to shake. He stared up at Ranil, tears brimming. Ranil continued to hold him close, before pulling away and hoisting the boy to his feet, picking up the circlet and placing it in his hands. "I failed your mother. I will not fail you." He looked over at the woman as she came over, clutching the baby in her arms. "Ranil-" "You need to get him out of here, Isha. Hide yourselves away." "But-" "I need to stay. You need to go." "Ranis-" "I won't forget you. And I'll be damned if you forget me." Ranil pulled her into a quick embrace, giving her a gentle peck on the head before. "Never, big brother." Isha whispered, grinding her teeth as she fought against the tears welling in her eyes, shifting her grip on the baby as she grabbed the boy's hand. Ranil turned sidelong, narrowing his eyes as the doors continued to shake with more and more violence as several pure white cracks began to widen in the sheer brass surface. He exhaled as he drew the slender sword at his hip, keeping his grip light but firm. "I will see you in the next world." As he said this white cracks began to snake out across the huge doors, joining together as a ear-splitting screech began to fill the room, forcing some of the Shields to their knees and downing a few Guiders. "The shimmerwall!" The doors blasted inward with a explosive flash, metal screaming, men shouting, a huge spindly black beast screeching in triumph as its bladed claws sank into the pulverized brass slabs hanging off their hinges, ripping them free and tossing them through the air. The Shields moved backwards as one force, avoiding the slabs as dark shapes began to appear in the dust surrounding the throne room entry. Ranil beckoned to the wild-haired man. "Malir! Take them away from here! Use your slipways!" The smuggler nodded, jogging over to Isha and guiding her, the baby and the boy to a small door hidden in the shadowy corners behind the Penumbral Throne. "Consider my debt done!" Ranil smirked. "Definitely, old friend." The boy struggled and tugged against Isha and Malir, grunting and screaming the entire way before the four of them disappeared through the little door. Ranil made sure they were gone before glancing at a nearby mage. "Seal it behind them!" The young woman nodded, pointing at the door. The wood splintered and cracked, crumpling inwards and leaving behind only a twisted wooden hulk. The Shields shouted as one as a dark figure deftly moved through the doorway amidst the screeches of the black beast, his icy eyes landing on Ranil in a instant. "Lord-Commander. You've failed in your duties."
	[WP] A great Empire is about to fall. A single remaining bodyguard is left alone with the Emperor as the enemy approaches the throne room.	The Emperor paced slowly. The world he had built, the empire he had forged, was burning to ash all around him. Towers that pierced the clouds splintered and fell like so many sticks of wheat to the scyth. And still the Emperor paced. He looked to the grand door of his chamber and noticed a lone figure standing as straight as the dire-halbred in his hand. A fancyful combination of polearm and firearm. A display weapon for parades and meeting halls with little combat testing. Today, perhaps, the man weilding the device will prove its worth. "Soldier," The Emperor began. His voice was complete contradiction to the events occuring just outside the palace windows. "What is your name?" The soldier turned on a dime, slammed a fist to his chest, "My Lord, I am Nu-Defender 6 Echo of the Palatine Guard." The Emperor almost sighed a machine-man then but smiled softly instead, "Are you so brave to which you stand against the Great Devourer?" "No, my Lord, I am anything but." The man lowered his hand and half-turned to look at the grand golden door, "I do not understand fear, hatred, or loss. I was not programed such luxuries. But somtimes I wonder..." He looked back to the Emperor, "What does it mean to die in vain? To fail to such extent that everything strived for and achomplished is not but the ashes of the dead in the wind?" "Today, Nu-Defender 6 Echo, we will both find out."	The undulating profiles of the warmth-hued pillars shook terribly as several muffled thuds, forming with a cacophony of distant screams and the ever-present roar of wailfire, echoed within the vast chamber. In the center of the room, placing themselves in ranks five deep alongside the first pair of columns before the large brass doors - shaking more and more with each eternal minute. The Shields stood ready, plumed silver helmets gleaming in the sunset light poring into the room from the crystal dome above. Their armor, sleek and curved, powerful and steadfast, made each and every one of them resemble the tailed beasts that had forged the empire and that each and every one of them tamed for use. It too, gleamed in the setting light. But each and every man had cuts, some deep, some shallow, somewhere on their body. They had bruises, they limped when they shifted their stance, their grips on their weapons sometimes slackened. They panted for breath, hoping that none of their comrades or their Lord-Commander would hear. But they refused to shirk from standing before the shaking door. Behind them, Ranil squared his shoulders as the door began to shake with much more violence. He glanced at the men and women standing in a line in between the last pair of columns before the chuted flanges of the Penumbral Throne. "What's moving out there?" One of them - a Guider - glanced over his shoulder at Ranis, moving his hands from his temples and taking a deep breath before coming over. "The Archguard detects several hundred souls moving throughout the interior. A large portion of them are heading this way." "Right." Ranil gave the man a nod as he threw a look at the huge white throne behind him, catching a glimpse of a woman's tangled black hair and a pair of small grey eyes staring at him before shuffling out of sight. He looked forward. "Men! Lock shields and pull away from the doors!" Ranil's arm tensed as his fingers brushed against the hilt of the blade hanging from his hip. He took a moment to look behind him at the Throne again. "You probably won't get another chance, Ran." Ranil narrowed his eyes as he shook off the man's hand, turning to him. He stared at the thin man, dressed in a simple leather tunic with a pair of slitknives hanging from his chest and hips. He brushed his wild hair from his eyes. "There won't be much time." Ranil's eyes softened as he nodded. Silently he turned away, walking towards the throne. He stopped at the base of the steps leading to the throne itself for a moment before shaking his head and moving past it, skirting the steps until he came to the shadowy high backed slab the Penumbral Throne leapt from like a physical shadow. A boy sat crouched, his knees tucked up and his back against the harsh black stone as he turned over the gleaming white band of metal in his hands. The boy's shoulders gently shook as tears streamed down his cheeks, his little breaths shuddering in fright each time a massive boom echoed throughout the chamber. Ranil knelt next to him, reaching a rough hand to cup the boy's cheek. "Hush, little one." The boy's sobs continued as he dropped the circlet to the polished marble floor with a echoing clatter and wrapped his arms around the man's sides, pressing his face into his chest. "I'm scared - they're coming and-" Ranil gave a gentle smile as he placed his hand on the boy's head, ruffling his black hair. "You must remain strong. For you and her." He jerked his chin at the woman, cradling a baby in her arms. The doors pounded, and the massive hinges squealed in protest. The Shields tensed up, readying their spears. Near the columns one of the Guiders cried out and fell to the floor, clutching at his head as his eyes started to bleed as hoarse strangled words of a strange tongue tumbled out amid his dying breaths. "Ran! Time's up! The shimmerwall is about to fail!" The wild-haired man yelled, striding over as the Guiders dragged away their dead comrade and closed ranks again, grabbing each other's hands as the gems embedded in their palms began to shine with burning light. The boy's breaths began to quicken as his hands started to shake. He stared up at Ranil, tears brimming. Ranil continued to hold him close, before pulling away and hoisting the boy to his feet, picking up the circlet and placing it in his hands. "I failed your mother. I will not fail you." He looked over at the woman as she came over, clutching the baby in her arms. "Ranil-" "You need to get him out of here, Isha. Hide yourselves away." "But-" "I need to stay. You need to go." "Ranis-" "I won't forget you. And I'll be damned if you forget me." Ranil pulled her into a quick embrace, giving her a gentle peck on the head before. "Never, big brother." Isha whispered, grinding her teeth as she fought against the tears welling in her eyes, shifting her grip on the baby as she grabbed the boy's hand. Ranil turned sidelong, narrowing his eyes as the doors continued to shake with more and more violence as several pure white cracks began to widen in the sheer brass surface. He exhaled as he drew the slender sword at his hip, keeping his grip light but firm. "I will see you in the next world." As he said this white cracks began to snake out across the huge doors, joining together as a ear-splitting screech began to fill the room, forcing some of the Shields to their knees and downing a few Guiders. "The shimmerwall!" The doors blasted inward with a explosive flash, metal screaming, men shouting, a huge spindly black beast screeching in triumph as its bladed claws sank into the pulverized brass slabs hanging off their hinges, ripping them free and tossing them through the air. The Shields moved backwards as one force, avoiding the slabs as dark shapes began to appear in the dust surrounding the throne room entry. Ranil beckoned to the wild-haired man. "Malir! Take them away from here! Use your slipways!" The smuggler nodded, jogging over to Isha and guiding her, the baby and the boy to a small door hidden in the shadowy corners behind the Penumbral Throne. "Consider my debt done!" Ranil smirked. "Definitely, old friend." The boy struggled and tugged against Isha and Malir, grunting and screaming the entire way before the four of them disappeared through the little door. Ranil made sure they were gone before glancing at a nearby mage. "Seal it behind them!" The young woman nodded, pointing at the door. The wood splintered and cracked, crumpling inwards and leaving behind only a twisted wooden hulk. The Shields shouted as one as a dark figure deftly moved through the doorway amidst the screeches of the black beast, his icy eyes landing on Ranil in a instant. "Lord-Commander. You've failed in your duties."
	[WP] A great Empire is about to fall. A single remaining bodyguard is left alone with the Emperor as the enemy approaches the throne room.	The revolution had reached the castle. It had begun in the slums with angry, hungry peasants. The guards that refused to supply them with food that no longer existed were greeted with insults. The insults quickly evolved into thrown rocks, and then pitchforks and torches. The overwhelmed guards were tossed aside as a mob of thousands began storming the last place they believed still had food: the castle. Within, the raging mob murdered whomever they wished, and stole whatever they desired. Before long, the only secure room left was the throne room. The King and his Head Guard sought shelter here. The young king on the throne looked regal in his royal clothing. An ornate crown of the finest gold rested on his head. A flowing purple satin cape acted as a buffer between him and the throne. Despite the elegance of his appearance, a closer look would reveal that all of the clothing was a bit too large for him, adding a comical look to the young man. Nearby stood an old man, the Head Guard. He had a much more modest orange coat on, adorned with the kingdom’s crest, a blazing red phoenix rising from ashes. He stared contemplatively at the floor, and only lifted his head when the mob reached the large, oaken doors protecting them. “I did my duty, did I not?” The king asked. The mixture of pubescent angst and mortal fear produced an unwanted crack in his voice. The old man nodded. “Admirably.” The king seemed relieved by this, but his eyes remained red and watery, and he continually fidgeted in his seat. “They sound quite angry.” He mentioned, nodding towards the doors. The old man nodded once more. “They have every right to be. They were promised rain that never poured onto crops that never grew.” The growls of the hungry wafted through the throne room. “They were promised medicine that simply could not be made in time.” The moans of the sick and the destitute seeped through the walls. “They were promised an army that would expand our borders to the far corners of the earth. They received a collection of boys and old men that could not protect even our own gates.” The shrieks of the widows and mothers shook the very foundations of the castle. The guard sighed. “The masses are a fickle creature. A beast that cannot be tamed. A wild dog that has no qualms about eating from your hand, but will gnaw that hand off should you attempt to leash it.” He rubbed his left hand, which was missing three fingers. A yell was taken up by those at the front of the mob, and carried far back. Moments later, the crack and splintering of wood signaled the arrival of axes. The guard placed his hand on his sword, and slowly drew it out. “You needn’t do this, you know.” The young man on the throne resolutely shook his head. Tears began streaming down his face, and he shook every time an axe struck the door. “You are wrong. I must. My father, and his father before him would have done it. So shall I. I shall do it for them. I shall do it for those outside. I shall do it for this beautiful country. But mostly, I do this for you, my liege.” The old man in the guard suit that was a bit too small approached, with sword drawn, the young man in the royal clothes that were too large for him. “You have shown me nothing but kindness since I took this position, your highness, and I would like for nothing more than to perish by your hands.” The young man said as the king placed the tip of his sword against his heart. His hands shook. His own voice began to crack as he whispered. “My family thanks you. I thank you.” The young man closed his eyes, and steadied his breath. When he opened them, he had aged a hundred years. He looked into the old man’s eyes, and said, “I am ready.” The old man plunged the sword through the luxurious satin clothing. The young guard gave a slight gasp, and trembled. “Such fine clothing, your excellency.” He said. “I couldn’t…think of a…finer attire…to…” His voice trailed off as his body went limp in the throne. The doors broke open with a crash. Screaming, yelling, cursing masses poured through, driven only by greed and lust at this point. Some cheered at the sight of the dead king and the guard with the bloody sword. They hurrahed and clapped the old man on the back, and dragged the body outside, where they would no doubt put it on display. Mostly, though, the mob ravaged. Tapestries were torn from the walls. Gold and silver chalices were fought for and killed over. Busts of the king’s ancestors were knocked from pedestals, and shattered on the ground. They swarmed into every corner of the throne room. The king watched it all. He slid the bloody sword into its scabbard, and sat on the all too familiar throne one last time.	Ibram awoke suddenly. He was half on the stone floor and half on the rug. There was blood crusted around his coif and the top of his hauberk. He was dizzy, and he had to force himself to blink tightly several times before he was fully aware of his surroundings. He had been knocked out in a battle. Several dead guardsmen around him reinforced that thought. He pulled himself to his feet, his muscles taut. By the throne he was swore... the throne... the emperor! Ibram tightened his grip on the halberd he was issued so many years ago. The wood creaked slightly as he squeezed, and he reminded himself to loosen his grip. He grabbed his kettle helm from the floor and equipped his securely once again. The siege, if you could call it that, began mere hours ago. Lornfall was a large keep, no conventional army could breach the walls in such a short time. Yet Ibram no longer heard any fighting outside the castle. Maybe we repelled the invaders, he thought for a moment, before discarding the notion. Someone would have come to debrief the emperor, or the captain at least. Where was the captain? In fact, he could not find a single other living guardsman in the halls. Ibram began to feel himself panicking again, but as a seasoned veteran, he knew his survival might depend on his ability to remain calm and assertive. Since he could not find the captain, let alone anyone, Ibram headed to the emperor's hall. He figured that an extra man watching their lord would be the least damage he could do if he was out of place. It was only a few hundred feet. He was laboring under the weight of his armor, and had already begun to pant and work up a sweat. He was no young soldier anymore, at 46 years of age, Ibram was one of the oldest castle guards. He had served his lord in countless campaigns, and was no stranger to combat. But this silence was more than he could bare. As he rounded the next corner, expecting to see the emperor's guard at the door, Ibram stopped dead. Blood covered the wall and doorway, and a single guard lay on the floor, his throat ripped open. They were here!? Already? Ibram mustered up what courage he had left and crept through the open doorway. His armor clanked with each step, and he silently cursed to himself at the racket he was creating. He stepped into the great hall, to discover Emperor Zuan leaning against the throne. Relief momentarily flooded his body, before he remembered the dead praetorian mere yards behind him. "My lord," his voiced croaked. He was so thirsty, he realized. When was the last time he drank something? "Guardsman? You are still alive?" the emperor asked suspiciously. "As I live and breath before you, sire!" Ibram announced pragmatically. "And you are?" The emperor probed once more, moving behind his throne all the while keeping his gaze on Ibram. "Sargent Ibram sire, at your service." The emperor seemed to breath a sigh of relief. "Ibram... I remember you. You served under my brother's command. I am glad to have you here. Though I am afraid your presence will not change our fate." The emperor opened his mouth as to explain further, when a cold air swept through the room from the door. Ibram turned quickly, to find several gaunt figures standing in the room. The tall figures were almost as silhouettes. The room was poorly lit, and what little light was left from the fires down in the courtyard were not illuminating the room enough for him to count how many figures were in the room. "No, no, by the gods, be gone you demons!" Zuan screeched as he backpedaled, and stumbled into the curtain behind him, falling to the ground. "Ah, the last mortal, Zuan. I hope you enjoy watching your last subject die before you." spoke the center figure. His voice cut through Ibram like a howling winter wind. He felt his knees tremble and his grip loosen on his halberd. As the figure approached him, he was just about ready to release his hold on his weapon and accept his fate. But something boiled inside him, and he felt the veins in his body coursing with a new fire. I will not die like this, like a plaything for this monster. He lowered his stance quickly, spread his feet, and held his halberd in front of him defensively. The figure stopped as it had stepped in the cold moonlight. For the first time, Ibram got a look at the man's face. Weathered pale skin hanging off his skull, cold blue eyes, and teeth. A god damn vampire. Ibram's heart raced. He had heard of vampires taking entire cities before, but never did he believe it would be possible. He shook his head, shedding any other thoughts. This changes nothing, he will die on his feet like a soldier! A guttural sound escaped Ibram's throat, and the vampire smiled thoughtfully. It opened it's mouth as if to say something witty, when Ibram swung his polearm with speed he didn't know he could muster. The blade caught the creature right below the ear, and severed clear through it's skull. It's body made a single gasping sound, before collapsing in a heap. The other vampires suddenly straightened their postures and hissed in disapproval. "Yes!" Thought Ibram. He could do this. Vampires, hah! He would show them what years of conditioning and fighting makes a man. He gritted his teeth, and lunged toward the next vampire in an instant. They were ready this time, but he had never felt so alive, so fast in his life. They lashed out with their claws, and Ibram dodged each attack effortlessly. He pushed one away with the shaft of his polearm, and used the speartip to puncture it right through the eyesocket. In one swift movement, he took a step back, and swung his weapon directly through the neck of another. Ibram could see them much better now, and was feeling indestructible. The next creature lunged at him and he brought the hook end of the halberd down to it's shoulder, and slammed its face into the ground. In one more move, he brought his ironclad boot down and pulverized its head. There was just one vampire left, and it began circling him. Ibram feinted to the left and the creature lunged. He swung his halberd and caught the vampire directly in the chest, and a vile ichor began pouring out of the wound. Ibram held the weapon firm, keeping the creature suspended in the air as it clawed uselessly at the weapon until it went limp. He shook the creature off the weapon and it fell next to it's wretched kind. He turned to find the emperor looking at him in disbelief. Ibram smiled briefly, and walked towards Zuan. "Ibram, how did you... how were you able to match their speed? You moved as a blur, I've never seen anything like it..." the emperor's voice quivered and trailed off. Ibram was about to respond, but he was having difficulty concentrating. He was so dizzy, and so thirsty. Yet the thought of ale did noting to soothe him. Before he could study these thoughts any further, several more figures arrived in the doorway. He turned to face them and lowered his stance once more, ready to rend them all like the ones before them. He loosed his grip, something was different. Suddenly, he was relaxed, and calm. His blood no longer boiled. The center vampire stepped forward, now clearly visible to Ibram. "Ah, brother, you finally accepted yourself!" it spoke to him. Ibram walked over to the vampire, and leaned his polearm against the wall. "Let's have a look at you, shall we?" it spoke in a friendly tone now. Without thinking twice, Ibram removed his helm and tossed it aside. He did the same with his coif. "Ah, you will do nicely. I would say it's a shame you killed my men, but it was their oversight you leave you breathing. Besides, I think I've gained someone much more valuable. I really do appreciate your handiwork." Ibram smiled at the compliment, but then groaned suddenly and rubbed his forehead. "Oh right, you must be so thirsty at this point. Well, I suppose it's fortunate we decided to keep the emperor for last. You're quite lucky to enjoy such noble blood, it's quite an honor these days. Ibram nodded slowly, before turning around to face Zuan. Zuan, the man he spent his life serving. The emperor was standing behind his throne once more, pleading with Ibram to reconsider, but Ibram couldn't hear him at this point. All he could hear was the blood pumping through Zuan's veins.

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