Split (1)

train · 353k rows

post_title stringlengths 8 313	chosen stringlengths 1 39.5k	rejected stringlengths 1 13.8k
[WP] A phenomena begins to occur where newborn babies are found amidst the aftermath of natural disasters. Tsunamis, avalanches, wild fires, destructive lightning storms, etc. These 'Storm-Born' humans grow up with powers based on the disasters that birthed them.	I never joined the Storm-Born, I was working for the other side. Who knows what would have happened if the "Men in Black" didn't find me in that crater 30 years ago. They trained me since a child to be their worst nightmare, to use my abilities to take out the things they couldn't control. They did have others but, I was never allowed to interact with them. I have the control over minor planets that orbit our system and occasionally hit our Earth. Asteroids, meteors, then meteorites. A natural disaster we sometimes forget. The crater they found me out was large but very small compared to others they have found, considering how few actually manage to hit our planet before burning up in the atmosphere. I can feel them, even though they're so far away, almost like a pulling. In a way they helped me get where I am today. The training went all towards my powers and being able to select which Asteroid to have the biggest pull. The more I concentrated on the big hunks of rock, I could feel the dimensions and size of it. They then helped me determine how long it would take as I pull it towards my direction. After that we would figure out how little would be left as it entered the atmosphere, a lot became very small. It didn't matter how many floods, or tornadoes, or earthquakes you could control. A hunk of rock traveling 17km/s through your skull is going to do a lot of damage. If it wasn't enough, they had other ways. The favorite method was leading the target somewhere where collateral damage wasn't an issue. I just sent larger rocks. That's all I did, that's all I was used for. At first, it was hard. My training became very demanding and grueling but, it came with the gift of being able to get the Asteroids here fast. The harder I concentrated the faster it pulled them. I could pull larger one aswell. I haven't told anyone this, I've been doing things they would kill me for. I've called for the largest one I could feel, one to hopefully end this world of the awful species that has risen upon it. One to hopefully change the tables.	"So when can I go home?" Jose asked. The lady in front of him simply sent him a smile before turning to her tablet. Jose turned a disgruntled gaze to the door behind him, looking like the greatest temptation in the world. She typed in something, tutted, and typed some more. She had her hair down in loose waves, a pair of thick glasses on hair eyes. She wore a suit that was a dark grey with accents of lighter grey. Her nails weren't polished, and she wore little make up. And the reason Jose even bothered with these details was because he had been stuck in this god forsaken room for 3 FUCKING HOURS. "Can I please go home now? I have a pair of twins to look after." Jose sighed. "Look, I didn't do it ok? I was just going to the store to buy some baby formula? I had nothing to do with the car crash okay?" The woman said nothing and kept on typing. Jose wanted to tear his hair out in frustration. But of course, he couldn't do that. If his Mexican looking ass showed any aggression, well he might just make things worse. So he took in deep breaths, and tried not to think of the injustice of racism, faulty justice systems, and his accursed luck. But finally, the woman turned away from the tablet, and gave him a smile. It was a teeth, pearly whites that looked deceptively calm. Like how those asshole social workers usually looked. "Sorry for that Mr. De Guzman, we ran into some problems. But rest assured, we will be done soon and you can go on home." Jose stifled his relieved sigh, trying to keep his guard up no matter how desperate he was to go home. He wasn't stupid, this could still turn side ways. The door opened, and a man in another gray suit entered. He was carrying his own tablet, and Jose finally let out a sigh, of disappointment though. Because of course it wasn't over. "Thank you for your patience," he said. Jose barely kept the scoff at bah, not wanting to offend and get himself in deeper. The man turned his tablet own, fiddled a bit, before looking at Jose with the same smile the woman had. He could feel his hackles rise. "So, Jose De Guzman." His voice was a smooth and calm baritone that reminded him of a therapist. Oh no, definitely not good. "We just wanted to ask some questions." "Of course you do," he finally let out, patience worn thin. So he want getting out of this anytime soon? Fantastic. "Don't worry, they had nothing to do with the incident from hours earlier," said the woman. The man nodded and showed Jose his tablet. On the screen was a picture of Jose. On the side was list of details. Jose was left confused. "Okay? Why am I here then?" He did not like the vibe he was getting. The woman saw him tense, because she smiled wider and spoke with a soothing voice. "Relax kid, we're not gonna bite." Jose did not believe them for a second. "We just wanted to know about some details about you." "I have rights you know," Jose asked, trying to keep the tremors of nervousness down. "You can't keep me detained this long." "But Mr. De Guzman, we aren't detaining you," the man said. "We're here to request your help." Okay what? "What?" Jose asked. "You came at me with guns ready just to ask for my help?" "Of course," they both replied, like it was normal to kidnap people when they buy their groceries at 1 am. Jose wanted to punch something so bad right now. "And you couldn't have come to my office, or maybe during the day, because?" "Because we have no time." All pretense of cheer was gone, and what was left was a deathly seriousness. He felt himself tense further, his emotions turning into a storm. And his inner light was starting to pulse in accordance to his fear. He desperately tried to keep a grip as he spoke as calmly as possible. "I have no interest to what this is about. And I'm not the guy you need" He slowly but calmly rose from his seat, palms up, as he slowly walked backwards to the door. Except another guy in a suit walked out, effectively blocking his escape. He let out a curse and tried to be nonchalant. "So if you could just please let me go so I can go back to my mids before my husband gets home, that would be really ni-" "We can't let you leave Apollo." Jose froze, body unmoving as the old words resonated through his brain. He stood silently, his inner light getting hotter and hotter, ready to be let out. "No one calls me that anymore." His voice sounded dull and old, ancient and tired. This was not his voice. Who was speaking? "That's because the world thought they didn't need you anymore." The woman spoke with no humor nor ill intent. Yet it still stung him deeply as she said it. Yet he fought that old buzz and tried to pull himself from the hole, from the tumbling dark oblivion of his buried secrets "That's the name of the old me, the name of an agent. Of a killer. Not me." It was still the voice that was his but also not. A voice from a distant past that he had almost forgotten. "We apologize, truly we do," the man had a soft voice filled with regret. He was truly sorry for this. Jose couldn't say he felt the same. "If we had any other choice," he continued, "then we wouldn't have gotten you. But the agency has fallen on hard times and we need every agent back on the field." "I was free from my obligation. Meaning you had no right to bring me back." "Not unless the Storm-born have returned." Jose tensed at the word, heart beating faster. He turned slowly to the two, both wearing matching frowns. "Did you say the Storm-born?" They nodded. Jose just stared. His inner light flared brighter and brighter, threatening to escape his tenuous control. Deep breaths deep breaths. "How many?" he finally asked when he felt less likely to snap. "Six have already been sighted." "Six?!" So many! That had never happened before! But the woman nodded, almost regretfully, and turned her tablet to him. He grabbed it and read the words on the screen. 6 kids. Each from different parts of the world. A baby from the Philippines, the survivor of a volcanic eruption that buried a city. One from Saudi Arabia after a sandstorm buried an entire village, the only one that was found. A baby from Kashmir found in the remnants of a blizzard. A baby rescued from a forest fire in California. One who was found in the floating remains of a cargo ship after a hurricane in the North Atlantic. And a baby found in on a roof top after a tornado. Each survived a natural disaster. All were found as vulnerable newborns, small and weak, left alone to die. "Or to thrive, as nature wanted them," he whispered under his breath, as he read more about them. The familiar story, lost, abandoned, fighters, survivors. Something he knew truly. He gave the tablet back to the woman, letting out a resigned sigh. He knew he could still walk away. They knew that too but gave him his space. He didn't need it though. He knew what he had to do. "Where do I suit up?" he said, Jose De Guzman melting away as Agent Apollo returned. The two smiled, relief in their eyes but well hidden from their expressions. "Good to have you back Agent." Jose said nothing, smiling grimly as his inner light grew treacherously brighter, light and heat and gamma radiation threatening to spill from his palms.
[WP] A phenomena begins to occur where newborn babies are found amidst the aftermath of natural disasters. Tsunamis, avalanches, wild fires, destructive lightning storms, etc. These 'Storm-Born' humans grow up with powers based on the disasters that birthed them.	I glanced down at the city below me. The shadow-covered city, Karmov, was where I had lived my whole strange life. But it was now in ruins. The crumbled remains of the big warehouses, the small suburban streets and the city square were all in sight from where I stood. All of this destruction had been caused by a tornado. A single tornado that rushed through the town, killing and destroying everything in its path. I tried to save this beautiful town, of course I did, but the powers of a Stormborn like me weren't enough. I waited for another Stormborn to appear before me, to do what had to be done. To protect this horrible land. My birth in this world is unknown; all that is known is that I appeared after a hurricane in the remains of a grocery store. So did my sister, Cora, who sat beside me. She wasn't really my sister - we didn't have the same parents, nor any parents in the first place - but we were raised like brother and sister. Her long, flowing brown hair fluttered in the heavy wind as her blue eyes gazed down below. "Will we have to wait longer?" she asked as she stood up. "No, I don't think so. The tornado has passed." The only sounds around me were those of what remained of the birdlife here and the roaring of the wind. It was serene, though horrific in nature. I thankfully didn't have to wait much longer as the blinding light shone before me. It was a dazzling beam which came from the sky; I had to turn away even though I had extreme endurance, a result of my Stormborn nature. I turned to Cora and nodded. We both knew what had to be done. The wind hurt against my pale skin and my black hair almost felt like it would fall off as I fell in mid-air. I corrected my direction and flew magnificently down from the mountain, nothing aiding me besides my Stormborn abilities. The stretching land of grass hills and giant mountains surrounded the city in front of me. I landed with a smash; some of the cement under me cracked from the force. I walked casually to the origin of the beam, desperate to find the Stormborn. I could see the giant circle of destruction that was not caused by the tornado, but of the Stormborn beam. It was in the middle of the city square. Strange, I said to myself. They usually didn't appear in such odd places. I emerged from another large hole in the city and stood before where the beam had fallen. I towered over the place and my cape fluttered behind me. I looked to my side where Cora proudly stood. "Shall we proceed?" I asked, knowing her answer. "Yes." We walked peacefully downward, not wanting to disturb the tranquil silence around us. The destroyed cement and wood crumbled under my feet. Everything around where the newborn had appeared smelt of smoke. I reached the bottom of the giant hole and crouched, regarding the crying newborn infront of me. It has to be done, I told myself in an attempt to justify what I would do. Cora crouched beside me, looking sorrowfully at the newborn. I pulled out the knife. Hesitation came over me for a moment, every sound and smell in the street seeming a hundred times clearer. I closed my eyes and did it. The shrieking of the baby stopped, silence ensuing around me. It had to be done, I told myself, The Stormborn are a curse.	"So when can I go home?" Jose asked. The lady in front of him simply sent him a smile before turning to her tablet. Jose turned a disgruntled gaze to the door behind him, looking like the greatest temptation in the world. She typed in something, tutted, and typed some more. She had her hair down in loose waves, a pair of thick glasses on hair eyes. She wore a suit that was a dark grey with accents of lighter grey. Her nails weren't polished, and she wore little make up. And the reason Jose even bothered with these details was because he had been stuck in this god forsaken room for 3 FUCKING HOURS. "Can I please go home now? I have a pair of twins to look after." Jose sighed. "Look, I didn't do it ok? I was just going to the store to buy some baby formula? I had nothing to do with the car crash okay?" The woman said nothing and kept on typing. Jose wanted to tear his hair out in frustration. But of course, he couldn't do that. If his Mexican looking ass showed any aggression, well he might just make things worse. So he took in deep breaths, and tried not to think of the injustice of racism, faulty justice systems, and his accursed luck. But finally, the woman turned away from the tablet, and gave him a smile. It was a teeth, pearly whites that looked deceptively calm. Like how those asshole social workers usually looked. "Sorry for that Mr. De Guzman, we ran into some problems. But rest assured, we will be done soon and you can go on home." Jose stifled his relieved sigh, trying to keep his guard up no matter how desperate he was to go home. He wasn't stupid, this could still turn side ways. The door opened, and a man in another gray suit entered. He was carrying his own tablet, and Jose finally let out a sigh, of disappointment though. Because of course it wasn't over. "Thank you for your patience," he said. Jose barely kept the scoff at bah, not wanting to offend and get himself in deeper. The man turned his tablet own, fiddled a bit, before looking at Jose with the same smile the woman had. He could feel his hackles rise. "So, Jose De Guzman." His voice was a smooth and calm baritone that reminded him of a therapist. Oh no, definitely not good. "We just wanted to ask some questions." "Of course you do," he finally let out, patience worn thin. So he want getting out of this anytime soon? Fantastic. "Don't worry, they had nothing to do with the incident from hours earlier," said the woman. The man nodded and showed Jose his tablet. On the screen was a picture of Jose. On the side was list of details. Jose was left confused. "Okay? Why am I here then?" He did not like the vibe he was getting. The woman saw him tense, because she smiled wider and spoke with a soothing voice. "Relax kid, we're not gonna bite." Jose did not believe them for a second. "We just wanted to know about some details about you." "I have rights you know," Jose asked, trying to keep the tremors of nervousness down. "You can't keep me detained this long." "But Mr. De Guzman, we aren't detaining you," the man said. "We're here to request your help." Okay what? "What?" Jose asked. "You came at me with guns ready just to ask for my help?" "Of course," they both replied, like it was normal to kidnap people when they buy their groceries at 1 am. Jose wanted to punch something so bad right now. "And you couldn't have come to my office, or maybe during the day, because?" "Because we have no time." All pretense of cheer was gone, and what was left was a deathly seriousness. He felt himself tense further, his emotions turning into a storm. And his inner light was starting to pulse in accordance to his fear. He desperately tried to keep a grip as he spoke as calmly as possible. "I have no interest to what this is about. And I'm not the guy you need" He slowly but calmly rose from his seat, palms up, as he slowly walked backwards to the door. Except another guy in a suit walked out, effectively blocking his escape. He let out a curse and tried to be nonchalant. "So if you could just please let me go so I can go back to my mids before my husband gets home, that would be really ni-" "We can't let you leave Apollo." Jose froze, body unmoving as the old words resonated through his brain. He stood silently, his inner light getting hotter and hotter, ready to be let out. "No one calls me that anymore." His voice sounded dull and old, ancient and tired. This was not his voice. Who was speaking? "That's because the world thought they didn't need you anymore." The woman spoke with no humor nor ill intent. Yet it still stung him deeply as she said it. Yet he fought that old buzz and tried to pull himself from the hole, from the tumbling dark oblivion of his buried secrets "That's the name of the old me, the name of an agent. Of a killer. Not me." It was still the voice that was his but also not. A voice from a distant past that he had almost forgotten. "We apologize, truly we do," the man had a soft voice filled with regret. He was truly sorry for this. Jose couldn't say he felt the same. "If we had any other choice," he continued, "then we wouldn't have gotten you. But the agency has fallen on hard times and we need every agent back on the field." "I was free from my obligation. Meaning you had no right to bring me back." "Not unless the Storm-born have returned." Jose tensed at the word, heart beating faster. He turned slowly to the two, both wearing matching frowns. "Did you say the Storm-born?" They nodded. Jose just stared. His inner light flared brighter and brighter, threatening to escape his tenuous control. Deep breaths deep breaths. "How many?" he finally asked when he felt less likely to snap. "Six have already been sighted." "Six?!" So many! That had never happened before! But the woman nodded, almost regretfully, and turned her tablet to him. He grabbed it and read the words on the screen. 6 kids. Each from different parts of the world. A baby from the Philippines, the survivor of a volcanic eruption that buried a city. One from Saudi Arabia after a sandstorm buried an entire village, the only one that was found. A baby from Kashmir found in the remnants of a blizzard. A baby rescued from a forest fire in California. One who was found in the floating remains of a cargo ship after a hurricane in the North Atlantic. And a baby found in on a roof top after a tornado. Each survived a natural disaster. All were found as vulnerable newborns, small and weak, left alone to die. "Or to thrive, as nature wanted them," he whispered under his breath, as he read more about them. The familiar story, lost, abandoned, fighters, survivors. Something he knew truly. He gave the tablet back to the woman, letting out a resigned sigh. He knew he could still walk away. They knew that too but gave him his space. He didn't need it though. He knew what he had to do. "Where do I suit up?" he said, Jose De Guzman melting away as Agent Apollo returned. The two smiled, relief in their eyes but well hidden from their expressions. "Good to have you back Agent." Jose said nothing, smiling grimly as his inner light grew treacherously brighter, light and heat and gamma radiation threatening to spill from his palms.
[WP] A phenomena begins to occur where newborn babies are found amidst the aftermath of natural disasters. Tsunamis, avalanches, wild fires, destructive lightning storms, etc. These 'Storm-Born' humans grow up with powers based on the disasters that birthed them.	Storm-Born. They’re all you ever hear about anymore, like regular people couldn’t be annoying enough. I remember a time when my jealousy was limited to the guy at the office who got a raise before I did, or the man whose car was somehow always spotless and shiny. But now, we have these people showing up as babies whenever a disaster strikes, and showing people up is practically written into their DNA; and of all the places, I had to live in California. Drought, then wildfire, then earthquake. We have no shortage of these... things, I’ll call them; and it’s my job to figure them out. It’s my job to study these creatures. Everybody thinks that they’re fantastic, like a gift from God; but do you think God would need or want to use a disaster, killing hundreds, just to give us one of these things? They’re barely human, and I stick by that. Fantastic. As if! A couple hundred years ago, they’d be burned at the stake, and who’s to say they shouldn’t be this time? But no matter, it isn’t up to me. What’s up to me is finding out when, how, and why these monsters ever appeared. “Good morning, Dr. Butler,” said a colleague. “Good morning, Mr. Ferris,” I replied. “Any news? I’ll take good or bad at this point.” My eyes moved from the man at my side to the young boy behind the glass in front of me. We had found him smuggled into the country a month ago, in June, 2025. We don’t know where exactly he’s from, or what disaster gave him these abilities, but he’s what we do know: he speaks no English, only Russian from the sounds of it, but I’m no linguist. The second thing we know is that when he gets scared, he flies forward at incredible speed, releasing shockwave after shockwave as he moves. It’s the only power like it that we’ve seen, but we don’t know why it’s unique. “Well, the translator tried questioning him,” answered Ferris. “But the only thing she could get him to tell us about his powers was... what was it exactly?” “Quite wasting time and paraphrase if you have to!” I ordered. “What did the boy have to say?” “Well, the approximate version, like you requested, sir, is “Large stone, and larger crash.”” “Ugh! Why are they always so cryptic!?” “Yes, he was cryptic, but he clearly doesn’t understand the resources we have, namely the internet. I searched for any event matching his description that happened the year he was born; about twelve years ago in 2013. So remember anything... interesting, that happened in Russia that year?” I took a moment and pondered the question. I was a scientist, not a international reporter, nor had I ever been one. But... there was something... no. That was hardly a disaster, it couldn’t be the source for one of them, could it? “You don’t mean-“ “Yeah, I do. The meteor. Remember all of those videos online of windows shattering miles away? That thing collided with Russia hard enough to make a miniature earthquake, and the sound was loud enough to shatter windows on entire buildings. Obviously, it had gravity’s help, but that force is part of what made it so powerful.” “You’re saying that this thing has these powers just because of how fast the meteor was going when it hit the Earth?” “Oh yeah, and that’s not all-” He stopped, his face changing to some wicked expression. Ferris stood up, putting a hand on the one-way glass, and looked at the young boy on the other side with a smile. “At last, I’ve found it!” he said. “Ferris, what are you saying? What else have you figured out? What is it?!” He looked at me with this face... I don’t think I’ll ever forget it. His smile, his crazed eyes... they’re burned into my mind forever now. It was like the man had changed, he was different now. “Ferris!?” “No, not Ferris.” “What do you mean not Ferris!? I’ve known you for years! What, are you some sort of spy or something?” “Oh, no. What I am, you could never comprehend, Rick Butler; and you can’t stop me, either.” This... whatever he was, opened the door to the cell and walked over to the boy. We were all required to carry a firearm while working, so naturally, I grabbed mine off of my hip and pointed it at Ferris. The lights started to flicker, and he turned around and looked at me, his eyes devoid of fear. The words he spoke echoed through my mind, coursing through brain. I could almost feel them becoming my thoughts, and soon, my actions. “You can’t pull the trigger” “Can’t pull the trigger...” “Can’t pull...” I muttered. I held the gun in my hands, but the trigger would budge. No, wait! My finger wouldn’t budge! I couldn’t pull the trigger, and I couldn’t stop him. He waved his hand, and I flew to into the glass, cracking it, but not shattering, and fell onto the floor. “What... are... y-you!?” I said, my muscles aching as I fought for consciousness. “Oh, Mr. Butler, isn’t it obvious?” Ferris replied. “I’m the first of us! The first ever Storm-Born!” He put an arm on the child’s shoulder, and whispered something to him. It may have been that he was being quiet, or that he was actually speaking Russian, but I can’t remember. I just remember the child nodding and walking out of the door; and I remember what Ferris said next. “The first!?!” I yelled. “You... you’ve been lying to me! All of this time!” “Not exactly. Ferris isn’t actually doing any of this, I’m just using his body for the time being. I must say, though, it is quite exquisite. Perhaps I’ll keep it for a while.” “You rotten-“ my mouth was forced close, but this... First, didn’t do anything to make it happen. “Sorry, but that’s a no no. You shouldn’t disrespect your gods, Butler.” He released my mouth, and I could talk again. “How are you doing this?!” I cried. “What disaster could have ever given you these abilities!?” “Why, nature’s worst disaster of course! It’s the one that steals more life than any other, the one that you still haven’t found a way to protect yourselves against, and the one that I seek to destroy in order to protect this planet, and all of her living creatures; and you know what, a meteor might just be the thing to do that.” “What are talking about?” The First made his way to the door, but I was still unable to move. “Plagues, famine, hurricanes, they pale in comparison to the terror that gave me my abilities. The one that sparks wars and extinction, destroys cities and nations, and tears apart the forests and the beautiful oceans of this world.” He put a hand on the doorknob, and started pulling the door shut behind him. “Nature’s greatest disaster, Butler... is humanity.” He closed the door, and everything went black; but even while I was unconscious, those words echoed in my mind. Humanity... humanity... was I wrong about the Storm-Born? Were they maybe sent by God as a means to cleanse the Earth of us? Were we the disaster the whole time? Did we... deserve this?	"So when can I go home?" Jose asked. The lady in front of him simply sent him a smile before turning to her tablet. Jose turned a disgruntled gaze to the door behind him, looking like the greatest temptation in the world. She typed in something, tutted, and typed some more. She had her hair down in loose waves, a pair of thick glasses on hair eyes. She wore a suit that was a dark grey with accents of lighter grey. Her nails weren't polished, and she wore little make up. And the reason Jose even bothered with these details was because he had been stuck in this god forsaken room for 3 FUCKING HOURS. "Can I please go home now? I have a pair of twins to look after." Jose sighed. "Look, I didn't do it ok? I was just going to the store to buy some baby formula? I had nothing to do with the car crash okay?" The woman said nothing and kept on typing. Jose wanted to tear his hair out in frustration. But of course, he couldn't do that. If his Mexican looking ass showed any aggression, well he might just make things worse. So he took in deep breaths, and tried not to think of the injustice of racism, faulty justice systems, and his accursed luck. But finally, the woman turned away from the tablet, and gave him a smile. It was a teeth, pearly whites that looked deceptively calm. Like how those asshole social workers usually looked. "Sorry for that Mr. De Guzman, we ran into some problems. But rest assured, we will be done soon and you can go on home." Jose stifled his relieved sigh, trying to keep his guard up no matter how desperate he was to go home. He wasn't stupid, this could still turn side ways. The door opened, and a man in another gray suit entered. He was carrying his own tablet, and Jose finally let out a sigh, of disappointment though. Because of course it wasn't over. "Thank you for your patience," he said. Jose barely kept the scoff at bah, not wanting to offend and get himself in deeper. The man turned his tablet own, fiddled a bit, before looking at Jose with the same smile the woman had. He could feel his hackles rise. "So, Jose De Guzman." His voice was a smooth and calm baritone that reminded him of a therapist. Oh no, definitely not good. "We just wanted to ask some questions." "Of course you do," he finally let out, patience worn thin. So he want getting out of this anytime soon? Fantastic. "Don't worry, they had nothing to do with the incident from hours earlier," said the woman. The man nodded and showed Jose his tablet. On the screen was a picture of Jose. On the side was list of details. Jose was left confused. "Okay? Why am I here then?" He did not like the vibe he was getting. The woman saw him tense, because she smiled wider and spoke with a soothing voice. "Relax kid, we're not gonna bite." Jose did not believe them for a second. "We just wanted to know about some details about you." "I have rights you know," Jose asked, trying to keep the tremors of nervousness down. "You can't keep me detained this long." "But Mr. De Guzman, we aren't detaining you," the man said. "We're here to request your help." Okay what? "What?" Jose asked. "You came at me with guns ready just to ask for my help?" "Of course," they both replied, like it was normal to kidnap people when they buy their groceries at 1 am. Jose wanted to punch something so bad right now. "And you couldn't have come to my office, or maybe during the day, because?" "Because we have no time." All pretense of cheer was gone, and what was left was a deathly seriousness. He felt himself tense further, his emotions turning into a storm. And his inner light was starting to pulse in accordance to his fear. He desperately tried to keep a grip as he spoke as calmly as possible. "I have no interest to what this is about. And I'm not the guy you need" He slowly but calmly rose from his seat, palms up, as he slowly walked backwards to the door. Except another guy in a suit walked out, effectively blocking his escape. He let out a curse and tried to be nonchalant. "So if you could just please let me go so I can go back to my mids before my husband gets home, that would be really ni-" "We can't let you leave Apollo." Jose froze, body unmoving as the old words resonated through his brain. He stood silently, his inner light getting hotter and hotter, ready to be let out. "No one calls me that anymore." His voice sounded dull and old, ancient and tired. This was not his voice. Who was speaking? "That's because the world thought they didn't need you anymore." The woman spoke with no humor nor ill intent. Yet it still stung him deeply as she said it. Yet he fought that old buzz and tried to pull himself from the hole, from the tumbling dark oblivion of his buried secrets "That's the name of the old me, the name of an agent. Of a killer. Not me." It was still the voice that was his but also not. A voice from a distant past that he had almost forgotten. "We apologize, truly we do," the man had a soft voice filled with regret. He was truly sorry for this. Jose couldn't say he felt the same. "If we had any other choice," he continued, "then we wouldn't have gotten you. But the agency has fallen on hard times and we need every agent back on the field." "I was free from my obligation. Meaning you had no right to bring me back." "Not unless the Storm-born have returned." Jose tensed at the word, heart beating faster. He turned slowly to the two, both wearing matching frowns. "Did you say the Storm-born?" They nodded. Jose just stared. His inner light flared brighter and brighter, threatening to escape his tenuous control. Deep breaths deep breaths. "How many?" he finally asked when he felt less likely to snap. "Six have already been sighted." "Six?!" So many! That had never happened before! But the woman nodded, almost regretfully, and turned her tablet to him. He grabbed it and read the words on the screen. 6 kids. Each from different parts of the world. A baby from the Philippines, the survivor of a volcanic eruption that buried a city. One from Saudi Arabia after a sandstorm buried an entire village, the only one that was found. A baby from Kashmir found in the remnants of a blizzard. A baby rescued from a forest fire in California. One who was found in the floating remains of a cargo ship after a hurricane in the North Atlantic. And a baby found in on a roof top after a tornado. Each survived a natural disaster. All were found as vulnerable newborns, small and weak, left alone to die. "Or to thrive, as nature wanted them," he whispered under his breath, as he read more about them. The familiar story, lost, abandoned, fighters, survivors. Something he knew truly. He gave the tablet back to the woman, letting out a resigned sigh. He knew he could still walk away. They knew that too but gave him his space. He didn't need it though. He knew what he had to do. "Where do I suit up?" he said, Jose De Guzman melting away as Agent Apollo returned. The two smiled, relief in their eyes but well hidden from their expressions. "Good to have you back Agent." Jose said nothing, smiling grimly as his inner light grew treacherously brighter, light and heat and gamma radiation threatening to spill from his palms.
[WP] A phenomena begins to occur where newborn babies are found amidst the aftermath of natural disasters. Tsunamis, avalanches, wild fires, destructive lightning storms, etc. These 'Storm-Born' humans grow up with powers based on the disasters that birthed them.	"Technically speaking I'm a Storm-born" I said to the cute cashier at the grocery store. "Aren't you a little young to be a hero ?" She asked. "Well yes but after I go to SBHS and get my diploma I'll be a full fleged hero." "Can I help who's next." She said "Seriously I'm a Storm-Born!" "Good bye Cronus" She said with an annoyed tone. As I turned to leave I thought why me? One thing about being an SB is that you're treated differently. Yes you are a human but in a different class. A super class. It's been 14 years since I was found in the largest natural disaster ever recorded. The Yellowstone super volcano finally erupted during the worst winter ever recorded. It caused flooding, tornadoes, acid rain, wildfires and lightning storms that covered half the planet. The whole nine yards. All in the matter of a week. When the smoke settled there I was naked as well a new born baby . The rescuers that found me named me Cronus. Son of heaven and earth. You'd think I'd have some amazing world bending powers. But no all I'm able to do is hear the thoughts of animals. Yup I'm a glorified Snow White. As I made my way through the parking lot of the Quickmart I thought to my self how great my freshman year of SBHS was going to be. Not just anyone was accepted into Storm-Born Hero School . It was a school specifically for SBs. It was a new chapter for me. Maybe just maybe I'd finally get answers. I could find out where I came from. Where all the SBs came from. One thing that no one could answer is how we came to be. Yeah we were born from natural disasters but modern science couldnt explain how. When I got home my mom had lunch already made. Ham and pickles on white. "Oh yes" I said. "Where's my change!?" she asked as I ran up to my room. My mom is one of a kind. She adopted me shortly after I was found. With out any questions or second thoughts she took me in and raised me as her own. My moms name is Bestla she is also an SB . She was found in Greenland after a record breaking blizzard. She opted out of SB Hero School because she felt it wasnt her place. Now she works at a freezer warehouse keeping food frozen before its shipped. Its honest work and she does her best. Shes a really good mom. "Knock knock" she said as she opened my bedroom door. "Come in" "Everything alright" she asked. "Yeah I guess" "Talk to me. What's wrong?" "Nothing" I said "Is it about your powers again?" "You have the ability to control snow and temperature and that's awesome. Other people like us have all these amazing powers way before they're 14 and all I could do is hear what animals have to say. Its ridiculous. You really think I want to start Hero School next month and tell everyone I could talk to bambi?" "Honey everyone is different its ok. You'll realize your powers soon I prom" "I'm already different. You're different. Don't you think that's enough I dont want to be anymore different than I am already. Just go please. " I could tell she was upset from the look on her face. "Go!" As I pointed to the door. "Cronus you know I love you with all my heart. I know things are difficult for you now. You are a young man growing up in a strange world. Everything and everyone has a reason and you'll find yours. I promise. I'll call you down for dinner when it's ready." Before I could turn to say I was sorry she had already left the room. My eyes were misty from tears. She was right I'd eventually figure everything out. As my thoughts slipped away I fell asleep. "Cronus..Cronus CRONUS!" "Who's there. ?" "I am Gaea" "Who?" "Mother earth" "What do you want with me ?" "My powers Back!" I sat up drenched in sweat gasping for air. What does it mean I asked myself why do I feel different today. All I knew is that it was 8 am and I had overslept . And I had my paper route to run. Before I could get up my mom ran into the room "Cronus come quick something terrible happened another disaster in China but no new Storm-Born" We both ran down stairs and the news anchor on tv was saying there were thousands dead. And then the door bell rang.	"So when can I go home?" Jose asked. The lady in front of him simply sent him a smile before turning to her tablet. Jose turned a disgruntled gaze to the door behind him, looking like the greatest temptation in the world. She typed in something, tutted, and typed some more. She had her hair down in loose waves, a pair of thick glasses on hair eyes. She wore a suit that was a dark grey with accents of lighter grey. Her nails weren't polished, and she wore little make up. And the reason Jose even bothered with these details was because he had been stuck in this god forsaken room for 3 FUCKING HOURS. "Can I please go home now? I have a pair of twins to look after." Jose sighed. "Look, I didn't do it ok? I was just going to the store to buy some baby formula? I had nothing to do with the car crash okay?" The woman said nothing and kept on typing. Jose wanted to tear his hair out in frustration. But of course, he couldn't do that. If his Mexican looking ass showed any aggression, well he might just make things worse. So he took in deep breaths, and tried not to think of the injustice of racism, faulty justice systems, and his accursed luck. But finally, the woman turned away from the tablet, and gave him a smile. It was a teeth, pearly whites that looked deceptively calm. Like how those asshole social workers usually looked. "Sorry for that Mr. De Guzman, we ran into some problems. But rest assured, we will be done soon and you can go on home." Jose stifled his relieved sigh, trying to keep his guard up no matter how desperate he was to go home. He wasn't stupid, this could still turn side ways. The door opened, and a man in another gray suit entered. He was carrying his own tablet, and Jose finally let out a sigh, of disappointment though. Because of course it wasn't over. "Thank you for your patience," he said. Jose barely kept the scoff at bah, not wanting to offend and get himself in deeper. The man turned his tablet own, fiddled a bit, before looking at Jose with the same smile the woman had. He could feel his hackles rise. "So, Jose De Guzman." His voice was a smooth and calm baritone that reminded him of a therapist. Oh no, definitely not good. "We just wanted to ask some questions." "Of course you do," he finally let out, patience worn thin. So he want getting out of this anytime soon? Fantastic. "Don't worry, they had nothing to do with the incident from hours earlier," said the woman. The man nodded and showed Jose his tablet. On the screen was a picture of Jose. On the side was list of details. Jose was left confused. "Okay? Why am I here then?" He did not like the vibe he was getting. The woman saw him tense, because she smiled wider and spoke with a soothing voice. "Relax kid, we're not gonna bite." Jose did not believe them for a second. "We just wanted to know about some details about you." "I have rights you know," Jose asked, trying to keep the tremors of nervousness down. "You can't keep me detained this long." "But Mr. De Guzman, we aren't detaining you," the man said. "We're here to request your help." Okay what? "What?" Jose asked. "You came at me with guns ready just to ask for my help?" "Of course," they both replied, like it was normal to kidnap people when they buy their groceries at 1 am. Jose wanted to punch something so bad right now. "And you couldn't have come to my office, or maybe during the day, because?" "Because we have no time." All pretense of cheer was gone, and what was left was a deathly seriousness. He felt himself tense further, his emotions turning into a storm. And his inner light was starting to pulse in accordance to his fear. He desperately tried to keep a grip as he spoke as calmly as possible. "I have no interest to what this is about. And I'm not the guy you need" He slowly but calmly rose from his seat, palms up, as he slowly walked backwards to the door. Except another guy in a suit walked out, effectively blocking his escape. He let out a curse and tried to be nonchalant. "So if you could just please let me go so I can go back to my mids before my husband gets home, that would be really ni-" "We can't let you leave Apollo." Jose froze, body unmoving as the old words resonated through his brain. He stood silently, his inner light getting hotter and hotter, ready to be let out. "No one calls me that anymore." His voice sounded dull and old, ancient and tired. This was not his voice. Who was speaking? "That's because the world thought they didn't need you anymore." The woman spoke with no humor nor ill intent. Yet it still stung him deeply as she said it. Yet he fought that old buzz and tried to pull himself from the hole, from the tumbling dark oblivion of his buried secrets "That's the name of the old me, the name of an agent. Of a killer. Not me." It was still the voice that was his but also not. A voice from a distant past that he had almost forgotten. "We apologize, truly we do," the man had a soft voice filled with regret. He was truly sorry for this. Jose couldn't say he felt the same. "If we had any other choice," he continued, "then we wouldn't have gotten you. But the agency has fallen on hard times and we need every agent back on the field." "I was free from my obligation. Meaning you had no right to bring me back." "Not unless the Storm-born have returned." Jose tensed at the word, heart beating faster. He turned slowly to the two, both wearing matching frowns. "Did you say the Storm-born?" They nodded. Jose just stared. His inner light flared brighter and brighter, threatening to escape his tenuous control. Deep breaths deep breaths. "How many?" he finally asked when he felt less likely to snap. "Six have already been sighted." "Six?!" So many! That had never happened before! But the woman nodded, almost regretfully, and turned her tablet to him. He grabbed it and read the words on the screen. 6 kids. Each from different parts of the world. A baby from the Philippines, the survivor of a volcanic eruption that buried a city. One from Saudi Arabia after a sandstorm buried an entire village, the only one that was found. A baby from Kashmir found in the remnants of a blizzard. A baby rescued from a forest fire in California. One who was found in the floating remains of a cargo ship after a hurricane in the North Atlantic. And a baby found in on a roof top after a tornado. Each survived a natural disaster. All were found as vulnerable newborns, small and weak, left alone to die. "Or to thrive, as nature wanted them," he whispered under his breath, as he read more about them. The familiar story, lost, abandoned, fighters, survivors. Something he knew truly. He gave the tablet back to the woman, letting out a resigned sigh. He knew he could still walk away. They knew that too but gave him his space. He didn't need it though. He knew what he had to do. "Where do I suit up?" he said, Jose De Guzman melting away as Agent Apollo returned. The two smiled, relief in their eyes but well hidden from their expressions. "Good to have you back Agent." Jose said nothing, smiling grimly as his inner light grew treacherously brighter, light and heat and gamma radiation threatening to spill from his palms.
[WP] A phenomena begins to occur where newborn babies are found amidst the aftermath of natural disasters. Tsunamis, avalanches, wild fires, destructive lightning storms, etc. These 'Storm-Born' humans grow up with powers based on the disasters that birthed them.	[Poem] The laugh of a newborn brings instant joy To all nearby the new girl or new boy But for some who were born from the ashes and soot From the fire and floods, the muck and mook These stormborns laughs hold a different power And to many who are around find it grim or sour For their laughs bring disaster, the humor is cold To raise such a danger you have to be bold To care for and live with one's walking a very fine line Because the laughs are not the only land mine The tears, the anger and even the smiles Can send doom and destruction to all within miles So a warning to all who find a baby at your door Keep it as calm as can be or the chaos be more	How about this: Twenty five years ago, the first Super Disaster occurred when a hurricane devastated Washington D.C and a baby was found without any injury. She grew up like any other kid, but then she was almost kidnapped and saved herself by electrocuting her captors and caused a blackout throughout the city. This was the beginning, as with other Super Disasters, more babies were found and as they grew up, strange powers were awaken like creating storms, burning things with their hands and calling upon huge waves. The media dubbed these children with many names such as Elemental Humans, Spawns of Calamity and New Titans. People had different opinions on them, some thought they were the next step in human evolution, others were scared of their enormous power and then a group decided to study them and see their value, the military. The first Elemental Soldier, Ifrit, was a young boy who raised by his military father, became a war machine that used his volcano-related powers to incinerate entire troops and erase entire towns in a matter of hours. Fearing this new type of ''weapon'', more countries wanted to have Elemental Soldiers on their ranks and thanks to the government approval, this form of war wasn't banned, instead it was celebrated. Over the course of two years, the First Elemental War put the planet on the verge of disaster, having people using natural disasters as weapons of mass destructions, turning events like tornadoes and tsunamis into regular occurrences. However, thanks to a special collar, the Elemental Soldiers were unable to harm their superiors and only could obey their orders or die, leading to a growing fear of someone deactivating these collars and starting the end of all things. This eventually happened, when a mysterious hacker managed to deactivate half of all the collars in the Elementals of the Chinese military and starting a huge chaos. The hacking continued across other countries like USA, England and India, releasing hundreds of Elemental Soldiers from their positions, either escaping into the unknown or killing their superiors to get revenge. It's been five years since the ''Day of Near Freedom'' and I've told you all of this to understand everything that has happened. We will continue that hacker's job and stop the use of our remaining brethren as living weapons, becoming masters of our own lives. We are the future, we are the change, we are the Children of Disaster.
[WP] A phenomena begins to occur where newborn babies are found amidst the aftermath of natural disasters. Tsunamis, avalanches, wild fires, destructive lightning storms, etc. These 'Storm-Born' humans grow up with powers based on the disasters that birthed them.	'Whilst I wasn't the first Storm-born, no I am far from the first, I sure am the oldest one still alive. 200 years I have walked this torn world, leaving a blazing trail wherever I go. The first Storm-born were treated as heroes, sometimes even revered as gifts from the gods. They helped humanity with a lot of problems, for they contained the powers of natural disasters. But of course these beings were a two sided sword, whereas there were those that did good there were also those that used it to sow destruction. I mean they were born from natural disasters, so why don't we continue the disasters devastation. Because of the growing danger these Storm-born became humans began to despise them, or rather us. Yet the humans didn't take drastic measures, no they slowly killed only the "evil" Storm-born. They feared the Storm-born would band together and destroy humanity. So a balance came to be, a really delicate balance. But there was one disaster that became the tipping point, the final push to let humanity rage against the Storm-born. The disaster decimated a fourth of the world, the Storm-born had nothing to do with it. Everyone knew that, the humans just blamed it on the Storm-born saying it created by them, an excuse to wage a war. I was born from that disaster, 200 years ago. Everyone is scared of me, afraid I will come and destroy their homes. And I understand them, everywhere I go destruction ensues. Yet the crucial point is that it's their own fault, if they don't bother me, I don't bother them. With my hate for the world I would sometimes let myself drown in the exhilarating feeling that causing destruction brought to me. But those times are long past me. I can't control my power, it's a lose cannon. I don't even exactly know what my power is, I just decimate everything around me. That's it. Nothing more nothing less, the strength is based upon my velocity but the base strength is somewhere around the destruction of a whole city weaker than that isn't possible. That's because my power isn't based upon a tsunami or volcano, neither is it from a tornado no that's far from it. My power comes from the M-...' 'Pa you have told this story a thousand times. I am sure the children are bored from it.' My daughter Sasha said whilst smiling. My grandkids look annoyed at her and the oldest says: 'No it's really cool, to hear about grandpa's live, considering you never tell us about the old world.' 'And grandpa is a great story teller. I especially like hearing about his power!' The youngest chime in. The oldest looks up to the night sky in wonder. 'A Storm-born from outer space, a meteor 'Storm born'! How big are the chances for a meteor to strike the Earth and for a Storm-born to be born from that.' I smile whilst looking at the family I build. I must admit that I used to lament my existence a lot, for I brought only disaster. But it is when I am near my grandkids that I realise that I shouldn't despise the whole world for something that happened around me. This is my first time doing something like this so please be gentle. :)	"My name is Adam Vander Welt. I was conceived and discovered eighty years ago after The Great American Drift. I am Earth-Rise, I am Storm-Born. The phenomenon started around fourteen years before my birth, there was precedent for greatness for Storm-Born well before my brother and I arrived. I'm sure the people who have picked this book off the shelves already know much of the history of the Storm-Born, who know about 'The world's worst Storm-Born,' the first-hand experiences and stories within this book are for them, and anyone else who may have stumbled across these pages. The Great American Drift is to this day, the greatest loss of human life known to man behind the bubonic plague. A tectonic shift that ripped apart not only the United States but a large portion of Central and South America as well. As it has been recorded a loss of nearly twenty-one million human lives. There were dozens Storm-Born conceived that day all over the world as a result of smaller quakes and tsunamis, but only two of us born to the aftermath of the Drift. . . . My brother an I often disagreed, but I know that we shared a bond of understanding and admiration for one another that ran deeper than our petty arguing. We were maternal twins, born of the same mother earth, we shared a same fate, but performed at different levels. Aidan Vanderwelt was heralded as hero to mankind, 'Rage-Queller,' the man who could stop the plates. For as long as he lived there was never again a catastrophic, life erasing earthquake. There are statues erected of him all over the world. I miss him every day. I am not the hero my brother was. As long as he and I have stood shoulder to shoulder, he was in the lime light, and I was the eternal disappointment. I am Earth-Rise, I float, I 'drift the magnetic fields of the planet to float above the ground,' according to a none too flattering New York Times article written in my mid-twenties. When he would be asked 'what it was like to be the most powerful Storm-Born on the planet,' he would respond 'he didn't know," and folks would be pleased at how humble he was. It was hard life living in my brothers long shadow, but despite all the bad press, he was always there for me, because he was the only one who knew. . . . When a major earthquake occurs, there are two changes people don't consider, because the changes are not an immediate problem, or they are too big to consider. When fault lines press against one another an cause a quake, the very shape of our planet changes, and I don't just mean new mountains or islands, I mean our beautiful sphere get a little less round in some places. After the Great American Drift, the earth is more egg shaped than it once was, but for the most part this change hasn't affected humanities survival so people pay it no mind. The other thing that happens when a major quake happens, is that our planet changes it's place in the solar system. Some quakes have moved our world's orbit by as much as a few centimeters, the Great American Drift shifted our world by as much as fifty-four centimeters. I know these fact because I have to. My brother prevented the shaking, was a hero to the people, and received all the glory of saving the people from the immediate danger of earthquakes. I did the rest of the work behind the scenes. Before this publication there were only twelve people in the world who knew my power. Myself, my brother, and ten esteemed scientists who monitor the movements of tectonic plates, or the distance of the earth's orbit, or the shape or our planet. My power is not floating around the magnet fields of the planet. My power is shifting the planet's movements to my will. My brother would save Malaysia from a Six point Seven earthquake, receive their love and adoration, then I would step in, and push the planet to where the quake would have moved it. I spun it to how fast or slow the quake would have spun it. I slide the plates in ways to relieve the some pressure. I did it all with the confidence of those intelligent men and women doing all the measuring. The day I outlived them all, is the day I retired from the hero business. . . . I don't know what will happen to our beautiful planet when I'm gone. It already seems like a bleaker place without Aidan in it. I hope this book inspires somebody someday. A little boy or girl born out of tragedy to rise up to be a hero. A survivor who dedicates their life to learn about prevention or monitor the holistic effects of natural disasters. I hope that when I go the Times will write a more flattering piece on my life, something half as good as my brother's obituary. Mostly I hope the world never again has to face the massive loss of human life necessary to conceive children like my brother and I. -Adam Vander Welt Earth-Rise."
[WP] A phenomena begins to occur where newborn babies are found amidst the aftermath of natural disasters. Tsunamis, avalanches, wild fires, destructive lightning storms, etc. These 'Storm-Born' humans grow up with powers based on the disasters that birthed them.	"The ultimate natural disaster is human intelligence gone wrong." - An unknown philosopher. Everybody these days knows about the Storm-Born. Most people want to be one, whether or not they are vocal about it. I get it. It'd be pretty cool to have superpowers like that. It IS pretty cool to have superpowers like that. Most people only think about the surface of it though: fire-born have fire powers, flood-born have water powers...but they never consider the bigger pictures of it all. Yes, I did mean pictures. There is more than one side to it all. First we have compound disasters. These can result in exceptionally powerful storm-born. Such are rare, but society is still in a debate over whether or not such powerful children should be allowed to live. After all...what if they become villainous? It could take an army just to handle one if that were to occur. Unfortunately, this environment of distrust and debate can cause that very result. Second, we have the negative effects. Storm-born usually do not have living family members, so they are almost always orphans for much of their childhood lives. This makes it more difficult for them to identify with much of society. Not only that, but not all storm-born have positive abilities. Fire-born may be unable to put themselves out. Plague-born may be highly contagious, requiring quarantine or even death to avoid wiping out humanity. Lastly, we have simple cause and effect. Sure, a superhuman was born from disaster, but many lives were likely lost in the disaster that birthed them. It is not uncommon for the bullies of the world to refer to storm-born as murderers and death-born because of this. This is an effect, but it brings us to the matters of the cause: there may actually be real murderers involved. As is almost always the case, the government got involved with storm-born as soon as they began popping up, for better or for worse. They didn't stop, though. More storm-born requires more storms, and storms definitely started occurring more frequently. Some religions believe the storm-born were gifts from god to combat these storms. Many others believe the government is creating natural disasters to produce more storm-born as a sick experiment on humanity. My name, or rather, the name I have chosen for myself, is Winter Holly. I am a storm-born, born of a compound disaster. Many years ago, a sudden avalanche tumbled into a lake. On the way, an alpine glacier broke loose, and when that struck the lake, it caused the water to overflow. The water led to a flood that displaced hundreds if not thousands of people in a nearby city, and those trapped within were either drowned or frozen to death. The end result was a small city half-frozen in a brand new lake, which has remained as a landmark ever since...and me. Nobody truly knows what caused the avalanche. It was reported to be a bunch of snowboarders and skiers that ignored warnings and chose to have their fun on a restricted slope. Despite the numerous people these days that would do that without question, I do not believe that to be the case. There are too many factors that would have to go wrong for such a large incident to occur without warning. I believe the event was orchestrated, an experiment by the government to create a private super soldier, with the city below seen as a necessary risk. Unfortunately, they failed to bring me into their clutches before I was found by a desperate, unsuspecting local...and now, with powers often described as a combination of Jack Frost and Poseidon, I intend to find those responsible...and give them a taste of disaster.	"My name is Adam Vander Welt. I was conceived and discovered eighty years ago after The Great American Drift. I am Earth-Rise, I am Storm-Born. The phenomenon started around fourteen years before my birth, there was precedent for greatness for Storm-Born well before my brother and I arrived. I'm sure the people who have picked this book off the shelves already know much of the history of the Storm-Born, who know about 'The world's worst Storm-Born,' the first-hand experiences and stories within this book are for them, and anyone else who may have stumbled across these pages. The Great American Drift is to this day, the greatest loss of human life known to man behind the bubonic plague. A tectonic shift that ripped apart not only the United States but a large portion of Central and South America as well. As it has been recorded a loss of nearly twenty-one million human lives. There were dozens Storm-Born conceived that day all over the world as a result of smaller quakes and tsunamis, but only two of us born to the aftermath of the Drift. . . . My brother an I often disagreed, but I know that we shared a bond of understanding and admiration for one another that ran deeper than our petty arguing. We were maternal twins, born of the same mother earth, we shared a same fate, but performed at different levels. Aidan Vanderwelt was heralded as hero to mankind, 'Rage-Queller,' the man who could stop the plates. For as long as he lived there was never again a catastrophic, life erasing earthquake. There are statues erected of him all over the world. I miss him every day. I am not the hero my brother was. As long as he and I have stood shoulder to shoulder, he was in the lime light, and I was the eternal disappointment. I am Earth-Rise, I float, I 'drift the magnetic fields of the planet to float above the ground,' according to a none too flattering New York Times article written in my mid-twenties. When he would be asked 'what it was like to be the most powerful Storm-Born on the planet,' he would respond 'he didn't know," and folks would be pleased at how humble he was. It was hard life living in my brothers long shadow, but despite all the bad press, he was always there for me, because he was the only one who knew. . . . When a major earthquake occurs, there are two changes people don't consider, because the changes are not an immediate problem, or they are too big to consider. When fault lines press against one another an cause a quake, the very shape of our planet changes, and I don't just mean new mountains or islands, I mean our beautiful sphere get a little less round in some places. After the Great American Drift, the earth is more egg shaped than it once was, but for the most part this change hasn't affected humanities survival so people pay it no mind. The other thing that happens when a major quake happens, is that our planet changes it's place in the solar system. Some quakes have moved our world's orbit by as much as a few centimeters, the Great American Drift shifted our world by as much as fifty-four centimeters. I know these fact because I have to. My brother prevented the shaking, was a hero to the people, and received all the glory of saving the people from the immediate danger of earthquakes. I did the rest of the work behind the scenes. Before this publication there were only twelve people in the world who knew my power. Myself, my brother, and ten esteemed scientists who monitor the movements of tectonic plates, or the distance of the earth's orbit, or the shape or our planet. My power is not floating around the magnet fields of the planet. My power is shifting the planet's movements to my will. My brother would save Malaysia from a Six point Seven earthquake, receive their love and adoration, then I would step in, and push the planet to where the quake would have moved it. I spun it to how fast or slow the quake would have spun it. I slide the plates in ways to relieve the some pressure. I did it all with the confidence of those intelligent men and women doing all the measuring. The day I outlived them all, is the day I retired from the hero business. . . . I don't know what will happen to our beautiful planet when I'm gone. It already seems like a bleaker place without Aidan in it. I hope this book inspires somebody someday. A little boy or girl born out of tragedy to rise up to be a hero. A survivor who dedicates their life to learn about prevention or monitor the holistic effects of natural disasters. I hope that when I go the Times will write a more flattering piece on my life, something half as good as my brother's obituary. Mostly I hope the world never again has to face the massive loss of human life necessary to conceive children like my brother and I. -Adam Vander Welt Earth-Rise."
[WP] A phenomena begins to occur where newborn babies are found amidst the aftermath of natural disasters. Tsunamis, avalanches, wild fires, destructive lightning storms, etc. These 'Storm-Born' humans grow up with powers based on the disasters that birthed them.	[Poem] The laugh of a newborn brings instant joy To all nearby the new girl or new boy But for some who were born from the ashes and soot From the fire and floods, the muck and mook These stormborns laughs hold a different power And to many who are around find it grim or sour For their laughs bring disaster, the humor is cold To raise such a danger you have to be bold To care for and live with one's walking a very fine line Because the laughs are not the only land mine The tears, the anger and even the smiles Can send doom and destruction to all within miles So a warning to all who find a baby at your door Keep it as calm as can be or the chaos be more	"My name is Adam Vander Welt. I was conceived and discovered eighty years ago after The Great American Drift. I am Earth-Rise, I am Storm-Born. The phenomenon started around fourteen years before my birth, there was precedent for greatness for Storm-Born well before my brother and I arrived. I'm sure the people who have picked this book off the shelves already know much of the history of the Storm-Born, who know about 'The world's worst Storm-Born,' the first-hand experiences and stories within this book are for them, and anyone else who may have stumbled across these pages. The Great American Drift is to this day, the greatest loss of human life known to man behind the bubonic plague. A tectonic shift that ripped apart not only the United States but a large portion of Central and South America as well. As it has been recorded a loss of nearly twenty-one million human lives. There were dozens Storm-Born conceived that day all over the world as a result of smaller quakes and tsunamis, but only two of us born to the aftermath of the Drift. . . . My brother an I often disagreed, but I know that we shared a bond of understanding and admiration for one another that ran deeper than our petty arguing. We were maternal twins, born of the same mother earth, we shared a same fate, but performed at different levels. Aidan Vanderwelt was heralded as hero to mankind, 'Rage-Queller,' the man who could stop the plates. For as long as he lived there was never again a catastrophic, life erasing earthquake. There are statues erected of him all over the world. I miss him every day. I am not the hero my brother was. As long as he and I have stood shoulder to shoulder, he was in the lime light, and I was the eternal disappointment. I am Earth-Rise, I float, I 'drift the magnetic fields of the planet to float above the ground,' according to a none too flattering New York Times article written in my mid-twenties. When he would be asked 'what it was like to be the most powerful Storm-Born on the planet,' he would respond 'he didn't know," and folks would be pleased at how humble he was. It was hard life living in my brothers long shadow, but despite all the bad press, he was always there for me, because he was the only one who knew. . . . When a major earthquake occurs, there are two changes people don't consider, because the changes are not an immediate problem, or they are too big to consider. When fault lines press against one another an cause a quake, the very shape of our planet changes, and I don't just mean new mountains or islands, I mean our beautiful sphere get a little less round in some places. After the Great American Drift, the earth is more egg shaped than it once was, but for the most part this change hasn't affected humanities survival so people pay it no mind. The other thing that happens when a major quake happens, is that our planet changes it's place in the solar system. Some quakes have moved our world's orbit by as much as a few centimeters, the Great American Drift shifted our world by as much as fifty-four centimeters. I know these fact because I have to. My brother prevented the shaking, was a hero to the people, and received all the glory of saving the people from the immediate danger of earthquakes. I did the rest of the work behind the scenes. Before this publication there were only twelve people in the world who knew my power. Myself, my brother, and ten esteemed scientists who monitor the movements of tectonic plates, or the distance of the earth's orbit, or the shape or our planet. My power is not floating around the magnet fields of the planet. My power is shifting the planet's movements to my will. My brother would save Malaysia from a Six point Seven earthquake, receive their love and adoration, then I would step in, and push the planet to where the quake would have moved it. I spun it to how fast or slow the quake would have spun it. I slide the plates in ways to relieve the some pressure. I did it all with the confidence of those intelligent men and women doing all the measuring. The day I outlived them all, is the day I retired from the hero business. . . . I don't know what will happen to our beautiful planet when I'm gone. It already seems like a bleaker place without Aidan in it. I hope this book inspires somebody someday. A little boy or girl born out of tragedy to rise up to be a hero. A survivor who dedicates their life to learn about prevention or monitor the holistic effects of natural disasters. I hope that when I go the Times will write a more flattering piece on my life, something half as good as my brother's obituary. Mostly I hope the world never again has to face the massive loss of human life necessary to conceive children like my brother and I. -Adam Vander Welt Earth-Rise."
[WP] A phenomena begins to occur where newborn babies are found amidst the aftermath of natural disasters. Tsunamis, avalanches, wild fires, destructive lightning storms, etc. These 'Storm-Born' humans grow up with powers based on the disasters that birthed them.	At first there was a bit of an arms race around the Storm Born, or at least one got the sense that there was something of a Cold War brinkmanship. A country with more Storm Born was understood to be in a better position, sure it meant that the country had more disasters on average—but they got super-powered citizens out of the deal. I was one of the first, so they—very unimaginably in my opinion—named me Maelström, because I was born out of a category 5 hurricane. The government made sure to assign us to military families, and tried everything they could to indoctrinate us from our infancy. It didn’t work of course. Since when did a natural disaster obey anything, other than itself? All they did was breed resentment within us. The first of us are now old enough to make our move. Now, they’re going to have to fight to contain us.	All storm born are created after natural disasters, a huge lightning storm and you'll get a tiny baby swaddled in stormclouds. After an Ice storm you'll find a baby wrapped in sheets of ice. Even the rarer ones pop up now and again. A meteorite here, a volcano there. But most can use their powers usefully. A one man generator here, a city wide furnace there. But not all of us are so lucky. They found me in a rats nest after the biggest plague in the century. And plagues being a natural occurrence well... Anyway my name's Mark, the first plauge born for a while, pleasure to meet you.
[WP] A phenomena begins to occur where newborn babies are found amidst the aftermath of natural disasters. Tsunamis, avalanches, wild fires, destructive lightning storms, etc. These 'Storm-Born' humans grow up with powers based on the disasters that birthed them.	I glanced down at the city below me. The shadow-covered city, Karmov, was where I had lived my whole strange life. But it was now in ruins. The crumbled remains of the big warehouses, the small suburban streets and the city square were all in sight from where I stood. All of this destruction had been caused by a tornado. A single tornado that rushed through the town, killing and destroying everything in its path. I tried to save this beautiful town, of course I did, but the powers of a Stormborn like me weren't enough. I waited for another Stormborn to appear before me, to do what had to be done. To protect this horrible land. My birth in this world is unknown; all that is known is that I appeared after a hurricane in the remains of a grocery store. So did my sister, Cora, who sat beside me. She wasn't really my sister - we didn't have the same parents, nor any parents in the first place - but we were raised like brother and sister. Her long, flowing brown hair fluttered in the heavy wind as her blue eyes gazed down below. "Will we have to wait longer?" she asked as she stood up. "No, I don't think so. The tornado has passed." The only sounds around me were those of what remained of the birdlife here and the roaring of the wind. It was serene, though horrific in nature. I thankfully didn't have to wait much longer as the blinding light shone before me. It was a dazzling beam which came from the sky; I had to turn away even though I had extreme endurance, a result of my Stormborn nature. I turned to Cora and nodded. We both knew what had to be done. The wind hurt against my pale skin and my black hair almost felt like it would fall off as I fell in mid-air. I corrected my direction and flew magnificently down from the mountain, nothing aiding me besides my Stormborn abilities. The stretching land of grass hills and giant mountains surrounded the city in front of me. I landed with a smash; some of the cement under me cracked from the force. I walked casually to the origin of the beam, desperate to find the Stormborn. I could see the giant circle of destruction that was not caused by the tornado, but of the Stormborn beam. It was in the middle of the city square. Strange, I said to myself. They usually didn't appear in such odd places. I emerged from another large hole in the city and stood before where the beam had fallen. I towered over the place and my cape fluttered behind me. I looked to my side where Cora proudly stood. "Shall we proceed?" I asked, knowing her answer. "Yes." We walked peacefully downward, not wanting to disturb the tranquil silence around us. The destroyed cement and wood crumbled under my feet. Everything around where the newborn had appeared smelt of smoke. I reached the bottom of the giant hole and crouched, regarding the crying newborn infront of me. It has to be done, I told myself in an attempt to justify what I would do. Cora crouched beside me, looking sorrowfully at the newborn. I pulled out the knife. Hesitation came over me for a moment, every sound and smell in the street seeming a hundred times clearer. I closed my eyes and did it. The shrieking of the baby stopped, silence ensuing around me. It had to be done, I told myself, The Stormborn are a curse.	All storm born are created after natural disasters, a huge lightning storm and you'll get a tiny baby swaddled in stormclouds. After an Ice storm you'll find a baby wrapped in sheets of ice. Even the rarer ones pop up now and again. A meteorite here, a volcano there. But most can use their powers usefully. A one man generator here, a city wide furnace there. But not all of us are so lucky. They found me in a rats nest after the biggest plague in the century. And plagues being a natural occurrence well... Anyway my name's Mark, the first plauge born for a while, pleasure to meet you.
[WP] A phenomena begins to occur where newborn babies are found amidst the aftermath of natural disasters. Tsunamis, avalanches, wild fires, destructive lightning storms, etc. These 'Storm-Born' humans grow up with powers based on the disasters that birthed them.	Storm-Born. They’re all you ever hear about anymore, like regular people couldn’t be annoying enough. I remember a time when my jealousy was limited to the guy at the office who got a raise before I did, or the man whose car was somehow always spotless and shiny. But now, we have these people showing up as babies whenever a disaster strikes, and showing people up is practically written into their DNA; and of all the places, I had to live in California. Drought, then wildfire, then earthquake. We have no shortage of these... things, I’ll call them; and it’s my job to figure them out. It’s my job to study these creatures. Everybody thinks that they’re fantastic, like a gift from God; but do you think God would need or want to use a disaster, killing hundreds, just to give us one of these things? They’re barely human, and I stick by that. Fantastic. As if! A couple hundred years ago, they’d be burned at the stake, and who’s to say they shouldn’t be this time? But no matter, it isn’t up to me. What’s up to me is finding out when, how, and why these monsters ever appeared. “Good morning, Dr. Butler,” said a colleague. “Good morning, Mr. Ferris,” I replied. “Any news? I’ll take good or bad at this point.” My eyes moved from the man at my side to the young boy behind the glass in front of me. We had found him smuggled into the country a month ago, in June, 2025. We don’t know where exactly he’s from, or what disaster gave him these abilities, but he’s what we do know: he speaks no English, only Russian from the sounds of it, but I’m no linguist. The second thing we know is that when he gets scared, he flies forward at incredible speed, releasing shockwave after shockwave as he moves. It’s the only power like it that we’ve seen, but we don’t know why it’s unique. “Well, the translator tried questioning him,” answered Ferris. “But the only thing she could get him to tell us about his powers was... what was it exactly?” “Quite wasting time and paraphrase if you have to!” I ordered. “What did the boy have to say?” “Well, the approximate version, like you requested, sir, is “Large stone, and larger crash.”” “Ugh! Why are they always so cryptic!?” “Yes, he was cryptic, but he clearly doesn’t understand the resources we have, namely the internet. I searched for any event matching his description that happened the year he was born; about twelve years ago in 2013. So remember anything... interesting, that happened in Russia that year?” I took a moment and pondered the question. I was a scientist, not a international reporter, nor had I ever been one. But... there was something... no. That was hardly a disaster, it couldn’t be the source for one of them, could it? “You don’t mean-“ “Yeah, I do. The meteor. Remember all of those videos online of windows shattering miles away? That thing collided with Russia hard enough to make a miniature earthquake, and the sound was loud enough to shatter windows on entire buildings. Obviously, it had gravity’s help, but that force is part of what made it so powerful.” “You’re saying that this thing has these powers just because of how fast the meteor was going when it hit the Earth?” “Oh yeah, and that’s not all-” He stopped, his face changing to some wicked expression. Ferris stood up, putting a hand on the one-way glass, and looked at the young boy on the other side with a smile. “At last, I’ve found it!” he said. “Ferris, what are you saying? What else have you figured out? What is it?!” He looked at me with this face... I don’t think I’ll ever forget it. His smile, his crazed eyes... they’re burned into my mind forever now. It was like the man had changed, he was different now. “Ferris!?” “No, not Ferris.” “What do you mean not Ferris!? I’ve known you for years! What, are you some sort of spy or something?” “Oh, no. What I am, you could never comprehend, Rick Butler; and you can’t stop me, either.” This... whatever he was, opened the door to the cell and walked over to the boy. We were all required to carry a firearm while working, so naturally, I grabbed mine off of my hip and pointed it at Ferris. The lights started to flicker, and he turned around and looked at me, his eyes devoid of fear. The words he spoke echoed through my mind, coursing through brain. I could almost feel them becoming my thoughts, and soon, my actions. “You can’t pull the trigger” “Can’t pull the trigger...” “Can’t pull...” I muttered. I held the gun in my hands, but the trigger would budge. No, wait! My finger wouldn’t budge! I couldn’t pull the trigger, and I couldn’t stop him. He waved his hand, and I flew to into the glass, cracking it, but not shattering, and fell onto the floor. “What... are... y-you!?” I said, my muscles aching as I fought for consciousness. “Oh, Mr. Butler, isn’t it obvious?” Ferris replied. “I’m the first of us! The first ever Storm-Born!” He put an arm on the child’s shoulder, and whispered something to him. It may have been that he was being quiet, or that he was actually speaking Russian, but I can’t remember. I just remember the child nodding and walking out of the door; and I remember what Ferris said next. “The first!?!” I yelled. “You... you’ve been lying to me! All of this time!” “Not exactly. Ferris isn’t actually doing any of this, I’m just using his body for the time being. I must say, though, it is quite exquisite. Perhaps I’ll keep it for a while.” “You rotten-“ my mouth was forced close, but this... First, didn’t do anything to make it happen. “Sorry, but that’s a no no. You shouldn’t disrespect your gods, Butler.” He released my mouth, and I could talk again. “How are you doing this?!” I cried. “What disaster could have ever given you these abilities!?” “Why, nature’s worst disaster of course! It’s the one that steals more life than any other, the one that you still haven’t found a way to protect yourselves against, and the one that I seek to destroy in order to protect this planet, and all of her living creatures; and you know what, a meteor might just be the thing to do that.” “What are talking about?” The First made his way to the door, but I was still unable to move. “Plagues, famine, hurricanes, they pale in comparison to the terror that gave me my abilities. The one that sparks wars and extinction, destroys cities and nations, and tears apart the forests and the beautiful oceans of this world.” He put a hand on the doorknob, and started pulling the door shut behind him. “Nature’s greatest disaster, Butler... is humanity.” He closed the door, and everything went black; but even while I was unconscious, those words echoed in my mind. Humanity... humanity... was I wrong about the Storm-Born? Were they maybe sent by God as a means to cleanse the Earth of us? Were we the disaster the whole time? Did we... deserve this?	All storm born are created after natural disasters, a huge lightning storm and you'll get a tiny baby swaddled in stormclouds. After an Ice storm you'll find a baby wrapped in sheets of ice. Even the rarer ones pop up now and again. A meteorite here, a volcano there. But most can use their powers usefully. A one man generator here, a city wide furnace there. But not all of us are so lucky. They found me in a rats nest after the biggest plague in the century. And plagues being a natural occurrence well... Anyway my name's Mark, the first plauge born for a while, pleasure to meet you.
[WP] A phenomena begins to occur where newborn babies are found amidst the aftermath of natural disasters. Tsunamis, avalanches, wild fires, destructive lightning storms, etc. These 'Storm-Born' humans grow up with powers based on the disasters that birthed them.	"Technically speaking I'm a Storm-born" I said to the cute cashier at the grocery store. "Aren't you a little young to be a hero ?" She asked. "Well yes but after I go to SBHS and get my diploma I'll be a full fleged hero." "Can I help who's next." She said "Seriously I'm a Storm-Born!" "Good bye Cronus" She said with an annoyed tone. As I turned to leave I thought why me? One thing about being an SB is that you're treated differently. Yes you are a human but in a different class. A super class. It's been 14 years since I was found in the largest natural disaster ever recorded. The Yellowstone super volcano finally erupted during the worst winter ever recorded. It caused flooding, tornadoes, acid rain, wildfires and lightning storms that covered half the planet. The whole nine yards. All in the matter of a week. When the smoke settled there I was naked as well a new born baby . The rescuers that found me named me Cronus. Son of heaven and earth. You'd think I'd have some amazing world bending powers. But no all I'm able to do is hear the thoughts of animals. Yup I'm a glorified Snow White. As I made my way through the parking lot of the Quickmart I thought to my self how great my freshman year of SBHS was going to be. Not just anyone was accepted into Storm-Born Hero School . It was a school specifically for SBs. It was a new chapter for me. Maybe just maybe I'd finally get answers. I could find out where I came from. Where all the SBs came from. One thing that no one could answer is how we came to be. Yeah we were born from natural disasters but modern science couldnt explain how. When I got home my mom had lunch already made. Ham and pickles on white. "Oh yes" I said. "Where's my change!?" she asked as I ran up to my room. My mom is one of a kind. She adopted me shortly after I was found. With out any questions or second thoughts she took me in and raised me as her own. My moms name is Bestla she is also an SB . She was found in Greenland after a record breaking blizzard. She opted out of SB Hero School because she felt it wasnt her place. Now she works at a freezer warehouse keeping food frozen before its shipped. Its honest work and she does her best. Shes a really good mom. "Knock knock" she said as she opened my bedroom door. "Come in" "Everything alright" she asked. "Yeah I guess" "Talk to me. What's wrong?" "Nothing" I said "Is it about your powers again?" "You have the ability to control snow and temperature and that's awesome. Other people like us have all these amazing powers way before they're 14 and all I could do is hear what animals have to say. Its ridiculous. You really think I want to start Hero School next month and tell everyone I could talk to bambi?" "Honey everyone is different its ok. You'll realize your powers soon I prom" "I'm already different. You're different. Don't you think that's enough I dont want to be anymore different than I am already. Just go please. " I could tell she was upset from the look on her face. "Go!" As I pointed to the door. "Cronus you know I love you with all my heart. I know things are difficult for you now. You are a young man growing up in a strange world. Everything and everyone has a reason and you'll find yours. I promise. I'll call you down for dinner when it's ready." Before I could turn to say I was sorry she had already left the room. My eyes were misty from tears. She was right I'd eventually figure everything out. As my thoughts slipped away I fell asleep. "Cronus..Cronus CRONUS!" "Who's there. ?" "I am Gaea" "Who?" "Mother earth" "What do you want with me ?" "My powers Back!" I sat up drenched in sweat gasping for air. What does it mean I asked myself why do I feel different today. All I knew is that it was 8 am and I had overslept . And I had my paper route to run. Before I could get up my mom ran into the room "Cronus come quick something terrible happened another disaster in China but no new Storm-Born" We both ran down stairs and the news anchor on tv was saying there were thousands dead. And then the door bell rang.	All storm born are created after natural disasters, a huge lightning storm and you'll get a tiny baby swaddled in stormclouds. After an Ice storm you'll find a baby wrapped in sheets of ice. Even the rarer ones pop up now and again. A meteorite here, a volcano there. But most can use their powers usefully. A one man generator here, a city wide furnace there. But not all of us are so lucky. They found me in a rats nest after the biggest plague in the century. And plagues being a natural occurrence well... Anyway my name's Mark, the first plauge born for a while, pleasure to meet you.
[WP] A phenomena begins to occur where newborn babies are found amidst the aftermath of natural disasters. Tsunamis, avalanches, wild fires, destructive lightning storms, etc. These 'Storm-Born' humans grow up with powers based on the disasters that birthed them.	"The man you seek is not a Storm-Born, he is something else entirely." Desmond said to the meeting of investigative operations for the natural-supernatural. Many of the operators present were themselves blessed with the gift of the destructive forces of the earth. People whose souls blazed like volcanoes and wildfires, whose will-power struck down those who stood against them with a flash. These were people who understood they were special, that they had talents most human beings could scarcely dream of. They weren't outcasts from society, they were the policy makers, the guides of the institutions. To be Storm-Born was to be blessed with the soul of nature's most fearsome events, to be unyielding and command attention. Desmond's words commanded attention as the director addressed the latest issue to arise. "This man, the man in the gray suit, he comes and he goes across cities and towns and do you know what he leaves behind him?" There was silence in the room, just a myriad of brilliantly colored eyes staring at the director. "He leaves death, rot. Where he steps the ground is poisoned, the grass withers and dies. The flesh of those around him burns and turns necrotic. The places he passes through are forever marked, and he brings ruin to those who encounter him. Have you ever seen a ruined place? A place that cannot be rebuilt?" "Are we not all cursed with the power of destruction?" A red-haired woman, whose voice was tinged with ashen skyfall and choked air. "Are we not all cursed to be able to burn and destroy? If this man is rogue, then we must confront him. Command him to stop using his powers, or destroy him if he refuses. We have agency here." Desmond hated how blunt his fellow Storm-Born could be, how cocky and convinced of their ability. Many of them felt chosen to rule based upon the idea that nature had somehow selected them as a superior breed of humans, that they were tasked with finally controlling the last of nature's raw power. "You say he is not Storm-Born, but his powers over the earth, to corrupt the soul and rot man, could only be natural. However divined, we must determine where he came from and act appropriately." "I know where he is from." Desmond replied. "But you aren't going to believe it, because it defies convention. And it makes him special, more special than us." "We are the storm, the seas, and fires that burn the earth. We can handle what you tell us." Desmond cleared his throat. "No natural disaster cannot be recovered from, after every fire, flood, or hurricane, nature can regroup and rebuilt. Life can spring up anew, even from under mounds of volcanic ash. We are all still connected to the cycle of life. This person, this suited man, his name is Rodzhaevsky. And he is death." Desmond took another sip of coffee and cleared his throat. "Those who found him did not live long. They did not raise him, he doesn't remember them. They were fighting lethal fires, and they got too deep. The newborn was sleeping peacefully in a circle of black stone, the taste of metal in the air." "We have many people who are of the fires, many uncontrollable souls. Unpredictable. We can handle him." The red-haired woman replied. "Rodzahevsky was born of an unnatural disaster. A very human disaster. An infant formed out of the molten corium of the Chernobyl powerplant in 1986, passed from family to family as each would sicken and die of cancers. He grew up without anyone staying in his life long enough to guide him, to help him understand just what he was. But now he knows, and we can watch his path of annihilation unfold in real-time." "If we kill him, then this matter is resolved." "Can you kill all of them?" "I beg your pardon?" "Can you kill Rodzhaevsky of Pripyat, Margaret of Love Canal, or Manzar of Bhopal? What about Walther, born 3,000 meters under the Atlantic in a vat of Mercury? Can you stop all of them? Kill all of them? Because they just keep appearing, each day another comes of age and realizes the capabilities of their powers. Powers that end of the cycle of life instead of perpetuating it." The room was silent as the gravity of the situation set in. No longer were men and women born just with the spirits of natural disasters, but those who embraced all of humanity's penchant for destruction and poison were being born as well.	All storm born are created after natural disasters, a huge lightning storm and you'll get a tiny baby swaddled in stormclouds. After an Ice storm you'll find a baby wrapped in sheets of ice. Even the rarer ones pop up now and again. A meteorite here, a volcano there. But most can use their powers usefully. A one man generator here, a city wide furnace there. But not all of us are so lucky. They found me in a rats nest after the biggest plague in the century. And plagues being a natural occurrence well... Anyway my name's Mark, the first plauge born for a while, pleasure to meet you.
[WP] A phenomena begins to occur where newborn babies are found amidst the aftermath of natural disasters. Tsunamis, avalanches, wild fires, destructive lightning storms, etc. These 'Storm-Born' humans grow up with powers based on the disasters that birthed them.	“So, do we have a deal?” I looked up from the documents, my eyes narrowed slightly as I looked at the man across from me. To call him rodent like would be a grave insult to the species. Yet the similarities were there: narrow beady eyes barely concealing his hunger, a long thing nose that sniffed the air for profit and opportunity, a small mouth filled with sharp teeth, the general air of a scavenger. From the beginning I did not like dealing with this man. Something about him reeked of desperation, of a clever mind that preyed on those less clever, a hunger that would never be sated. Yet the deal was enticing. A considerable investment that could provide considerable rewards if everything went well. I have made worse investments in the past with less than desired results, and ones that seemed safe at the time turned out to be very poor indeed. I also have worked with those where the outcomes were far from sure, yet I trusted the person and it turned out well in the end. However I did not trust this person and the deal only looked good, it did not feel safe nor sound. However it was tempting, just the push to help my other investments and push projects along. I read the document again, looking for a sign that would push my decision in either direction. So lost in my thoughts it took a few moments for me to notice a tugging at my side. Looking down my smile became sincere as I stared into the emerald eyes of my daughter. “Why hello there little one,” I said warmly, kneeling down where our eyes met on the same plane. “What can I do for you?” The other man glared at her, eyes turning feral and angry but I dismissed his gaze easily. “I need to talk to you,” she replied. Her voice was soft and low, her tone she takes when strangers were around. “Please.” “Go away little girl,” the man said with ill disguised impatience. “Your father and I are talking and you’re bothering us.” He wilted underneath my stare. “I beg your pardon sir,” I said not wanting any of it at all, “you are a guest in my home. This is my daughter and you will not tell her to go anywhere. If she needs to speak to me then she needs to speak with me, with no word from you. You would do well to learn this if we are to do business together.” I smiled inwardly at his seething resentment and turned back to my girl. “Go on then McKenzie, what can I do for you?” Her verdant green eyes sparkled for a moment before they sobered. “I don’t feel good about this,” she said seriously, touching the documents in my hand. “They don’t feel right.” I ignored the man’s scoff of disbelief. “They don’t?” I asked her seriously. “You feel that way?” She shook her head. “No they don’t, they feel bad. Taste bad too.” “Really now!” the rat-like man exclaimed. “You have no idea what you’re talking about you little-“ I rose to my height, bringing my girl up with me in my arms. She buried her head in my neck and I pointed at the man with a finger extended. His eyes drawn to it like it was the point of a blade. “Enough sir,” I said angrily, my own displeasure rising to the surface. “You will not speak that way to anyone in my home, especially my girl. She has gifts you lack and I take everything she says seriously.” “Everything?” He rolled his eyes incredulously. “She is a child, what gifts can she have that anyone doesn’t? Don’t tell me that the great Nathaniel Lee, the premier producer and investor, listens to the words of children for work? Even a “storm-tossed” brat that’s not related to you?” Immediately he knew he said too much. His features paled as my reddened and his mouth opened to squeal insincere platitudes. “You go too far,” I said simply but my heart roared with hate. “My daughter is my daughter, I chose to adopt her and she is no “storm-tossed brat” nor is she a calamity, or any other slight or insult you want to throw at her. It is for her sake that I don’t throw you out on your rear. Our business is done for today.” I threw the papers onto the table and pointed at the door. “If I were you I would leave and pray that my temper subsides before I make a decision.” His mouth opened again and I let my facade crack a little, showing the dangerous glint in my eyes. “Or shall I show you how it feels to be tossed literally and physically?” He left with poor grace, muttering curses and it felt good to slam the door in his face. He was not wrong, my daughter wasn’t my biological daughter but I loved her no differently than if she was. She was one of the so called “storm born”, children found in sites of great natural disasters. For years now children were found mysteriously at such sites: avalanches, earthquakes, wild fires, volcanic eruptions, all sorts. Many thought they were blessed survivors but some thing that they are literally born from such events and natural disasters. McKenzie was found in the remains of a horrific lightning storm. One that raged for almost 24 hours. The bolts of lightnings and booms of thunder had caused such damage to a swathe of land, including the central power hub and data repository for many investment firms and stock trading. The storm had caused a mini financial collapse that effected thousands of people. She was found wailing in the debris and many wanted nothing to do with her. Most considered her bad luck with such a storm that birthed her. Yet I adopted her. Seeing her alone broke my heart and I took her in. As she grew I made sure she had a happy home and watched for the talents and gifts that other storm born seemed to have. She was faster than others her age, and many years older, and she could literally make sparks fly. Yet I found that she had one special power that none could have foreseen. A few days later we watched the news together and I showed poor parenting by smirking at the rat faced man being arrested on national television. Her feelings were correct, the man ran a very business and was being arrested for countless charges of fraud and laundering and many other legal atrocities. As my daughter grew I learned that while she had some powers doing with lightning, she had the strangest sense for shady business and inflated prides. Apparently the hub was called “National Pride Investing” and like it’s name it was built in a very bad location. Storms were common in that area but the owners of the business showed particular arrogance and built there, challenging Nature and the Heavens. Somehow my daughter developed very minor storm powers compared to other storm born, but possessed a particularly unique trait. I grunted slightly as she climbed onto my lap, smiling with just the right amount of child-like smugness. “Guess I was right again.” “You sure were,” I praised hugging her. “You saved me a good amount of money.” “So does that mean the money is mine?” I pretended to think deeply, stroking my chin with mock severity. “It depends on what you want to spend it on. Is it a sound investment?” She opened her eyes wide, innocence replacing latent greed. “Ice cream?” “That is a sound investment,” I said somberly and rose with her in my arms. She giggled and wiggled while I tickled her. “Let us go make the investment a priority my darling.”	All storm born are created after natural disasters, a huge lightning storm and you'll get a tiny baby swaddled in stormclouds. After an Ice storm you'll find a baby wrapped in sheets of ice. Even the rarer ones pop up now and again. A meteorite here, a volcano there. But most can use their powers usefully. A one man generator here, a city wide furnace there. But not all of us are so lucky. They found me in a rats nest after the biggest plague in the century. And plagues being a natural occurrence well... Anyway my name's Mark, the first plauge born for a while, pleasure to meet you.
[WP] A phenomena begins to occur where newborn babies are found amidst the aftermath of natural disasters. Tsunamis, avalanches, wild fires, destructive lightning storms, etc. These 'Storm-Born' humans grow up with powers based on the disasters that birthed them.	Dear Dr.Anderson It has been the fourth day at the new facility and I am enjoying everything so far. Although the new researcher is more strict than you, he has a ridiculously long and thin moustache. Me and Iris could not stop laughing because every time he said: Good day kids, because you'll never know what time is it down here. His moustache keep on wiggling in the air. Oh and speaking of Iris, she is getting better at controlling her flame. She can even makes them slowly bloom like flowers. The guards don't seem to enjoy it, one guy even points at the fire extinguisher but luckily the other guy disagree. Eric and Satomi keep fighting each other and we still have no idea how to stop them. However, last night Satomi somehow activated the fire alarm in Eric's room and he was completely soak in water. He didn't say anything to her this morning but in lunchtime, I saw him walk pass her and everything in her food tray just dry up instantly. I think they've started a prank war. I had to lend Eric my clothes and Iris had to share her lunch so I don't think anyone wining here. Also there is a very kind lady in the library. She even let me borrowed some paper. She seem very surprised when I made those paper planes fly. But then a guard just came out of nowhere and pulled me back to my room. What a jerk. At least the lady came visit me and she gave me this cool book about planes and airship The rest is just boring tests and stuff. I kinda miss your story times but it is only 5 more days until your visit right. I can't wait for it Sincerely, Timothy P.S: I almost forgot this but there is a new kid. They locked her in a special room with a big cyan door, I can't see anything beside guards come to deliver foods but Satomi swear she saw some blue sparks under the door two nights ago ---------- This is my first writing here and I'm not a native English speaker so please point out every mistakes I've made	All storm born are created after natural disasters, a huge lightning storm and you'll get a tiny baby swaddled in stormclouds. After an Ice storm you'll find a baby wrapped in sheets of ice. Even the rarer ones pop up now and again. A meteorite here, a volcano there. But most can use their powers usefully. A one man generator here, a city wide furnace there. But not all of us are so lucky. They found me in a rats nest after the biggest plague in the century. And plagues being a natural occurrence well... Anyway my name's Mark, the first plauge born for a while, pleasure to meet you.
[WP] A phenomena begins to occur where newborn babies are found amidst the aftermath of natural disasters. Tsunamis, avalanches, wild fires, destructive lightning storms, etc. These 'Storm-Born' humans grow up with powers based on the disasters that birthed them.	"Technically speaking I'm a Storm-born" I said to the cute cashier at the grocery store. "Aren't you a little young to be a hero ?" She asked. "Well yes but after I go to SBHS and get my diploma I'll be a full fleged hero." "Can I help who's next." She said "Seriously I'm a Storm-Born!" "Good bye Cronus" She said with an annoyed tone. As I turned to leave I thought why me? One thing about being an SB is that you're treated differently. Yes you are a human but in a different class. A super class. It's been 14 years since I was found in the largest natural disaster ever recorded. The Yellowstone super volcano finally erupted during the worst winter ever recorded. It caused flooding, tornadoes, acid rain, wildfires and lightning storms that covered half the planet. The whole nine yards. All in the matter of a week. When the smoke settled there I was naked as well a new born baby . The rescuers that found me named me Cronus. Son of heaven and earth. You'd think I'd have some amazing world bending powers. But no all I'm able to do is hear the thoughts of animals. Yup I'm a glorified Snow White. As I made my way through the parking lot of the Quickmart I thought to my self how great my freshman year of SBHS was going to be. Not just anyone was accepted into Storm-Born Hero School . It was a school specifically for SBs. It was a new chapter for me. Maybe just maybe I'd finally get answers. I could find out where I came from. Where all the SBs came from. One thing that no one could answer is how we came to be. Yeah we were born from natural disasters but modern science couldnt explain how. When I got home my mom had lunch already made. Ham and pickles on white. "Oh yes" I said. "Where's my change!?" she asked as I ran up to my room. My mom is one of a kind. She adopted me shortly after I was found. With out any questions or second thoughts she took me in and raised me as her own. My moms name is Bestla she is also an SB . She was found in Greenland after a record breaking blizzard. She opted out of SB Hero School because she felt it wasnt her place. Now she works at a freezer warehouse keeping food frozen before its shipped. Its honest work and she does her best. Shes a really good mom. "Knock knock" she said as she opened my bedroom door. "Come in" "Everything alright" she asked. "Yeah I guess" "Talk to me. What's wrong?" "Nothing" I said "Is it about your powers again?" "You have the ability to control snow and temperature and that's awesome. Other people like us have all these amazing powers way before they're 14 and all I could do is hear what animals have to say. Its ridiculous. You really think I want to start Hero School next month and tell everyone I could talk to bambi?" "Honey everyone is different its ok. You'll realize your powers soon I prom" "I'm already different. You're different. Don't you think that's enough I dont want to be anymore different than I am already. Just go please. " I could tell she was upset from the look on her face. "Go!" As I pointed to the door. "Cronus you know I love you with all my heart. I know things are difficult for you now. You are a young man growing up in a strange world. Everything and everyone has a reason and you'll find yours. I promise. I'll call you down for dinner when it's ready." Before I could turn to say I was sorry she had already left the room. My eyes were misty from tears. She was right I'd eventually figure everything out. As my thoughts slipped away I fell asleep. "Cronus..Cronus CRONUS!" "Who's there. ?" "I am Gaea" "Who?" "Mother earth" "What do you want with me ?" "My powers Back!" I sat up drenched in sweat gasping for air. What does it mean I asked myself why do I feel different today. All I knew is that it was 8 am and I had overslept . And I had my paper route to run. Before I could get up my mom ran into the room "Cronus come quick something terrible happened another disaster in China but no new Storm-Born" We both ran down stairs and the news anchor on tv was saying there were thousands dead. And then the door bell rang.	At first there was a bit of an arms race around the Storm Born, or at least one got the sense that there was something of a Cold War brinkmanship. A country with more Storm Born was understood to be in a better position, sure it meant that the country had more disasters on average—but they got super-powered citizens out of the deal. I was one of the first, so they—very unimaginably in my opinion—named me Maelström, because I was born out of a category 5 hurricane. The government made sure to assign us to military families, and tried everything they could to indoctrinate us from our infancy. It didn’t work of course. Since when did a natural disaster obey anything, other than itself? All they did was breed resentment within us. The first of us are now old enough to make our move. Now, they’re going to have to fight to contain us.
[WP] A phenomena begins to occur where newborn babies are found amidst the aftermath of natural disasters. Tsunamis, avalanches, wild fires, destructive lightning storms, etc. These 'Storm-Born' humans grow up with powers based on the disasters that birthed them.	"Technically speaking I'm a Storm-born" I said to the cute cashier at the grocery store. "Aren't you a little young to be a hero ?" She asked. "Well yes but after I go to SBHS and get my diploma I'll be a full fleged hero." "Can I help who's next." She said "Seriously I'm a Storm-Born!" "Good bye Cronus" She said with an annoyed tone. As I turned to leave I thought why me? One thing about being an SB is that you're treated differently. Yes you are a human but in a different class. A super class. It's been 14 years since I was found in the largest natural disaster ever recorded. The Yellowstone super volcano finally erupted during the worst winter ever recorded. It caused flooding, tornadoes, acid rain, wildfires and lightning storms that covered half the planet. The whole nine yards. All in the matter of a week. When the smoke settled there I was naked as well a new born baby . The rescuers that found me named me Cronus. Son of heaven and earth. You'd think I'd have some amazing world bending powers. But no all I'm able to do is hear the thoughts of animals. Yup I'm a glorified Snow White. As I made my way through the parking lot of the Quickmart I thought to my self how great my freshman year of SBHS was going to be. Not just anyone was accepted into Storm-Born Hero School . It was a school specifically for SBs. It was a new chapter for me. Maybe just maybe I'd finally get answers. I could find out where I came from. Where all the SBs came from. One thing that no one could answer is how we came to be. Yeah we were born from natural disasters but modern science couldnt explain how. When I got home my mom had lunch already made. Ham and pickles on white. "Oh yes" I said. "Where's my change!?" she asked as I ran up to my room. My mom is one of a kind. She adopted me shortly after I was found. With out any questions or second thoughts she took me in and raised me as her own. My moms name is Bestla she is also an SB . She was found in Greenland after a record breaking blizzard. She opted out of SB Hero School because she felt it wasnt her place. Now she works at a freezer warehouse keeping food frozen before its shipped. Its honest work and she does her best. Shes a really good mom. "Knock knock" she said as she opened my bedroom door. "Come in" "Everything alright" she asked. "Yeah I guess" "Talk to me. What's wrong?" "Nothing" I said "Is it about your powers again?" "You have the ability to control snow and temperature and that's awesome. Other people like us have all these amazing powers way before they're 14 and all I could do is hear what animals have to say. Its ridiculous. You really think I want to start Hero School next month and tell everyone I could talk to bambi?" "Honey everyone is different its ok. You'll realize your powers soon I prom" "I'm already different. You're different. Don't you think that's enough I dont want to be anymore different than I am already. Just go please. " I could tell she was upset from the look on her face. "Go!" As I pointed to the door. "Cronus you know I love you with all my heart. I know things are difficult for you now. You are a young man growing up in a strange world. Everything and everyone has a reason and you'll find yours. I promise. I'll call you down for dinner when it's ready." Before I could turn to say I was sorry she had already left the room. My eyes were misty from tears. She was right I'd eventually figure everything out. As my thoughts slipped away I fell asleep. "Cronus..Cronus CRONUS!" "Who's there. ?" "I am Gaea" "Who?" "Mother earth" "What do you want with me ?" "My powers Back!" I sat up drenched in sweat gasping for air. What does it mean I asked myself why do I feel different today. All I knew is that it was 8 am and I had overslept . And I had my paper route to run. Before I could get up my mom ran into the room "Cronus come quick something terrible happened another disaster in China but no new Storm-Born" We both ran down stairs and the news anchor on tv was saying there were thousands dead. And then the door bell rang.	The party was a dull one, but then work dos often are. Two miles away, in Switzerland’s most exclusive mountain top hotel, the world’s leaders sipped champagne with their equals and, in the eyes of the public at least, got into the kind of real politics you can only have once all the stuffy diplomats had been disposed of. Meanwhile, in reasonably priced Swiss hotel that would otherwise be closed until the next skiing season, the stuffy diplomats were having a party of their own. Here, away from the prying eyes of the world’s ever ravenous media machine and their own equally power hungry political masters, something might actually be agreed upon, and we simply couldn’t be having that. I watched from the bar as the last group on the guest list were ushered in and announced. The recently appointed ambassador to Indonesia smiled and waved as people turned to look. He had dressed well in an excellently tailored mixture of classic suit and his local fashion and he carried it off with an easy approachable charm. I suspected he was going to be a popular man tonight. Weaker countries like Germany and the UK would no doubt be willing to offer a lot in return for certain assurances. The second tsunami in as many years had just broken across Indonesian shores and the death toll was still rising in the news. Numbers like that can really turn some wary heads. Samantha pulled up a stool beside me. She had dyed her again, or finally washed it out for all I knew, and pulled it into a jet black Gordian knot that rested at the nape of her neck. Her dress was long, high necked and black but for lines of silver stitching that highlighted curves the black fabric might hide. “We said inconspicuous,” I muttered as I dragged my eyes back to the ambassador and his entourage. “We said to blend in,” she retorted as she tried to get the barman’s attention with a single raised hand. “An inconspicuous skirt and blouse would’ve probably stood out here.” She made her order, her own twist on a death in the afternoon that included spiced rum and that Sam called death on the high sea, and said “Anyway who cares if we’re noticed? Survivors aren’t part of the plan,” I ignored her. A woman with the Indonesian party had caught my attention. She was tall and muscular with hair cropped shorter than my own and nose that looked like it had been broken at least once before. Her dress was a plain cream number and she wore it with matching flats and no obvious jewellery. She looked suspiciously inconspicuous. “Stormborn at 11,” I whispered in Samantha’s ear, standing to leave as I did. I saw her eyes glance in the woman’s direction and back, then she mouthed “mine” as she pushed me gently aside with a hand on my chest before laughing and saying. “Stop it or I’ll tell your wife,” I blew her a kiss and moved away into the party proper trying to keep my expression pleasantly neutral as my hands became clammy with sweat despite the cool evening. The guests were all here. Forty dignitaries and their family members, over a hundred assorted ambassadorial staff, four Stormborn bodyguards and five terrorists. I shouldered my way into a circle of talking men and women, staggering as I did and allowing champagne to spill from my glass and onto the cuff of my suit. I spotted the man I was there for and stumbled into him. He caught me and held me firmly away from his charge as any good bodyguard might. He opened his mouth to say something, probably something polite about me getting a glass of water, but I didn’t give him a chance to finish. I hit him in centre of the chest with everything I had. The people standing around us began to scream as the sudden heat burned at their skin and set their clothing alight. Marble beneath my feet began to crack and the remaining champagne in my glass evaporated so fast it sounded like a boiling kettle. The man I hit didn’t stand a chance. Lava burst from my fist through his chest and out the other side in a grisly replication of the day I was born. For a moment I saw lightning crackle in the corner of his eyes and felt the build-up of charge at the end of his fingers, but then even his superhuman endurance gave out and he collapsed. I could hear more screams now and I looked up. Thomas was encasing a woman in a cocoon of ice, his hands clamped around her head as she whipped the air around them into a violent but aimless frenzy that sent partygoers into bone breaking tumbles across the dancefloor. Ryan had his target pinned to the ground and was raining down punches on his head and torso as lightning scoured away chunks of stony marble armour as fast as Ryan could draw them up from the floor. I turned back to the entrance, to Samantha, just in time to see the woman with the broken nose hit her with a blast of water strong enough to peel flesh from bone. Samantha blurred and the jet caught the barman square in the face. He was slammed backwards into the glass wall of drinks just as Samantha hit with the simultaneous cracks of breaking bone and the sound barrier I had just enough time to throw up my lava coated arms over my face before the jet swept across me. I was lifted off my feet and sent spiralling across the hall in a cloud of superheated steam. I hit Thomas going fast enough to get pulled over and we both hit the marble hard. The air was blasted from my lungs and when I tried to stand one of my knees discovered an agonizing new level of flexibility. I cursed and pressed both my hands to the joint. Lava bubbled up between my fingers and I sculpted it into a rocky cast around the leg. Teeth gritted against the pain I rose again and looked at Thomas. His neck was broken, the bone jutting grotesquely against the flesh of his neck. I growled and set back to work. With their Stormborn gone the rest of the party goers struggled to put up much of a fight. Some brave souls tried to stop us but a few flung bottles and swung chairs did them no good. I flung a thick dollop of lava over a pair of men who had managed squeeze into a supplies cupboard and turned to the carnage. “Ryan, bring this place down,” I ordered as I stalked haltingly back into the main hall. I could hear sirens coming. Ryan nodded and knelt, closing his eyes and pressing both palms into the marble. Not against, into. The stone melted over his fingers like sand and he kept pushing until he was elbow deep in the floor. A moment later the whole building began to shake. Samantha rushed to me, her hair still up but her clothes utterly drenched, and offered me her arm. I took it and put some of my weight on her as we made for the exit. Behind us I heard Ryan grunt with effort and I nearly fell as the whole mountain side jolted. Far far above us was the sound of breaking rocks. I glanced back to see Ryan retrieving his arms and begin to move away as the crack he had made opened ever wider. Splitting the whole hotel in two and carving into the stone of the mountain beneath. We made it outside and there was a gust wind before Abigail alighted on the tarmac ahead of us. She had made no party going pretence tonight and was dressed head to toe in black combat gear. They don’t really make that stuff with fourteen-year-old girls in mind so she looked a little like the Michelin man’s post-apocalyptic progeny. Samantha passed me off to her and Ryan joined us, his wide brown face split with the same grin he always wore when we went somewhere he could really let loose. “Abi, get us out of here,” I said. In the distance, over the sound of a whole mountain face coming down beside me, I heard a series of sonic booms. The other Stormborn were coming the whip cracks of their owners and masters behind them. It wouldn’t matter to them what we stood for, that we fought to prevent the nations of the world normalising their practice of brainwashing child super-soldiers, they would scour us from the earth with the very same fury that had brought us into being. There was a gust of wind, and we were gone.
[WP] A phenomena begins to occur where newborn babies are found amidst the aftermath of natural disasters. Tsunamis, avalanches, wild fires, destructive lightning storms, etc. These 'Storm-Born' humans grow up with powers based on the disasters that birthed them.	"The man you seek is not a Storm-Born, he is something else entirely." Desmond said to the meeting of investigative operations for the natural-supernatural. Many of the operators present were themselves blessed with the gift of the destructive forces of the earth. People whose souls blazed like volcanoes and wildfires, whose will-power struck down those who stood against them with a flash. These were people who understood they were special, that they had talents most human beings could scarcely dream of. They weren't outcasts from society, they were the policy makers, the guides of the institutions. To be Storm-Born was to be blessed with the soul of nature's most fearsome events, to be unyielding and command attention. Desmond's words commanded attention as the director addressed the latest issue to arise. "This man, the man in the gray suit, he comes and he goes across cities and towns and do you know what he leaves behind him?" There was silence in the room, just a myriad of brilliantly colored eyes staring at the director. "He leaves death, rot. Where he steps the ground is poisoned, the grass withers and dies. The flesh of those around him burns and turns necrotic. The places he passes through are forever marked, and he brings ruin to those who encounter him. Have you ever seen a ruined place? A place that cannot be rebuilt?" "Are we not all cursed with the power of destruction?" A red-haired woman, whose voice was tinged with ashen skyfall and choked air. "Are we not all cursed to be able to burn and destroy? If this man is rogue, then we must confront him. Command him to stop using his powers, or destroy him if he refuses. We have agency here." Desmond hated how blunt his fellow Storm-Born could be, how cocky and convinced of their ability. Many of them felt chosen to rule based upon the idea that nature had somehow selected them as a superior breed of humans, that they were tasked with finally controlling the last of nature's raw power. "You say he is not Storm-Born, but his powers over the earth, to corrupt the soul and rot man, could only be natural. However divined, we must determine where he came from and act appropriately." "I know where he is from." Desmond replied. "But you aren't going to believe it, because it defies convention. And it makes him special, more special than us." "We are the storm, the seas, and fires that burn the earth. We can handle what you tell us." Desmond cleared his throat. "No natural disaster cannot be recovered from, after every fire, flood, or hurricane, nature can regroup and rebuilt. Life can spring up anew, even from under mounds of volcanic ash. We are all still connected to the cycle of life. This person, this suited man, his name is Rodzhaevsky. And he is death." Desmond took another sip of coffee and cleared his throat. "Those who found him did not live long. They did not raise him, he doesn't remember them. They were fighting lethal fires, and they got too deep. The newborn was sleeping peacefully in a circle of black stone, the taste of metal in the air." "We have many people who are of the fires, many uncontrollable souls. Unpredictable. We can handle him." The red-haired woman replied. "Rodzahevsky was born of an unnatural disaster. A very human disaster. An infant formed out of the molten corium of the Chernobyl powerplant in 1986, passed from family to family as each would sicken and die of cancers. He grew up without anyone staying in his life long enough to guide him, to help him understand just what he was. But now he knows, and we can watch his path of annihilation unfold in real-time." "If we kill him, then this matter is resolved." "Can you kill all of them?" "I beg your pardon?" "Can you kill Rodzhaevsky of Pripyat, Margaret of Love Canal, or Manzar of Bhopal? What about Walther, born 3,000 meters under the Atlantic in a vat of Mercury? Can you stop all of them? Kill all of them? Because they just keep appearing, each day another comes of age and realizes the capabilities of their powers. Powers that end of the cycle of life instead of perpetuating it." The room was silent as the gravity of the situation set in. No longer were men and women born just with the spirits of natural disasters, but those who embraced all of humanity's penchant for destruction and poison were being born as well.	The party was a dull one, but then work dos often are. Two miles away, in Switzerland’s most exclusive mountain top hotel, the world’s leaders sipped champagne with their equals and, in the eyes of the public at least, got into the kind of real politics you can only have once all the stuffy diplomats had been disposed of. Meanwhile, in reasonably priced Swiss hotel that would otherwise be closed until the next skiing season, the stuffy diplomats were having a party of their own. Here, away from the prying eyes of the world’s ever ravenous media machine and their own equally power hungry political masters, something might actually be agreed upon, and we simply couldn’t be having that. I watched from the bar as the last group on the guest list were ushered in and announced. The recently appointed ambassador to Indonesia smiled and waved as people turned to look. He had dressed well in an excellently tailored mixture of classic suit and his local fashion and he carried it off with an easy approachable charm. I suspected he was going to be a popular man tonight. Weaker countries like Germany and the UK would no doubt be willing to offer a lot in return for certain assurances. The second tsunami in as many years had just broken across Indonesian shores and the death toll was still rising in the news. Numbers like that can really turn some wary heads. Samantha pulled up a stool beside me. She had dyed her again, or finally washed it out for all I knew, and pulled it into a jet black Gordian knot that rested at the nape of her neck. Her dress was long, high necked and black but for lines of silver stitching that highlighted curves the black fabric might hide. “We said inconspicuous,” I muttered as I dragged my eyes back to the ambassador and his entourage. “We said to blend in,” she retorted as she tried to get the barman’s attention with a single raised hand. “An inconspicuous skirt and blouse would’ve probably stood out here.” She made her order, her own twist on a death in the afternoon that included spiced rum and that Sam called death on the high sea, and said “Anyway who cares if we’re noticed? Survivors aren’t part of the plan,” I ignored her. A woman with the Indonesian party had caught my attention. She was tall and muscular with hair cropped shorter than my own and nose that looked like it had been broken at least once before. Her dress was a plain cream number and she wore it with matching flats and no obvious jewellery. She looked suspiciously inconspicuous. “Stormborn at 11,” I whispered in Samantha’s ear, standing to leave as I did. I saw her eyes glance in the woman’s direction and back, then she mouthed “mine” as she pushed me gently aside with a hand on my chest before laughing and saying. “Stop it or I’ll tell your wife,” I blew her a kiss and moved away into the party proper trying to keep my expression pleasantly neutral as my hands became clammy with sweat despite the cool evening. The guests were all here. Forty dignitaries and their family members, over a hundred assorted ambassadorial staff, four Stormborn bodyguards and five terrorists. I shouldered my way into a circle of talking men and women, staggering as I did and allowing champagne to spill from my glass and onto the cuff of my suit. I spotted the man I was there for and stumbled into him. He caught me and held me firmly away from his charge as any good bodyguard might. He opened his mouth to say something, probably something polite about me getting a glass of water, but I didn’t give him a chance to finish. I hit him in centre of the chest with everything I had. The people standing around us began to scream as the sudden heat burned at their skin and set their clothing alight. Marble beneath my feet began to crack and the remaining champagne in my glass evaporated so fast it sounded like a boiling kettle. The man I hit didn’t stand a chance. Lava burst from my fist through his chest and out the other side in a grisly replication of the day I was born. For a moment I saw lightning crackle in the corner of his eyes and felt the build-up of charge at the end of his fingers, but then even his superhuman endurance gave out and he collapsed. I could hear more screams now and I looked up. Thomas was encasing a woman in a cocoon of ice, his hands clamped around her head as she whipped the air around them into a violent but aimless frenzy that sent partygoers into bone breaking tumbles across the dancefloor. Ryan had his target pinned to the ground and was raining down punches on his head and torso as lightning scoured away chunks of stony marble armour as fast as Ryan could draw them up from the floor. I turned back to the entrance, to Samantha, just in time to see the woman with the broken nose hit her with a blast of water strong enough to peel flesh from bone. Samantha blurred and the jet caught the barman square in the face. He was slammed backwards into the glass wall of drinks just as Samantha hit with the simultaneous cracks of breaking bone and the sound barrier I had just enough time to throw up my lava coated arms over my face before the jet swept across me. I was lifted off my feet and sent spiralling across the hall in a cloud of superheated steam. I hit Thomas going fast enough to get pulled over and we both hit the marble hard. The air was blasted from my lungs and when I tried to stand one of my knees discovered an agonizing new level of flexibility. I cursed and pressed both my hands to the joint. Lava bubbled up between my fingers and I sculpted it into a rocky cast around the leg. Teeth gritted against the pain I rose again and looked at Thomas. His neck was broken, the bone jutting grotesquely against the flesh of his neck. I growled and set back to work. With their Stormborn gone the rest of the party goers struggled to put up much of a fight. Some brave souls tried to stop us but a few flung bottles and swung chairs did them no good. I flung a thick dollop of lava over a pair of men who had managed squeeze into a supplies cupboard and turned to the carnage. “Ryan, bring this place down,” I ordered as I stalked haltingly back into the main hall. I could hear sirens coming. Ryan nodded and knelt, closing his eyes and pressing both palms into the marble. Not against, into. The stone melted over his fingers like sand and he kept pushing until he was elbow deep in the floor. A moment later the whole building began to shake. Samantha rushed to me, her hair still up but her clothes utterly drenched, and offered me her arm. I took it and put some of my weight on her as we made for the exit. Behind us I heard Ryan grunt with effort and I nearly fell as the whole mountain side jolted. Far far above us was the sound of breaking rocks. I glanced back to see Ryan retrieving his arms and begin to move away as the crack he had made opened ever wider. Splitting the whole hotel in two and carving into the stone of the mountain beneath. We made it outside and there was a gust wind before Abigail alighted on the tarmac ahead of us. She had made no party going pretence tonight and was dressed head to toe in black combat gear. They don’t really make that stuff with fourteen-year-old girls in mind so she looked a little like the Michelin man’s post-apocalyptic progeny. Samantha passed me off to her and Ryan joined us, his wide brown face split with the same grin he always wore when we went somewhere he could really let loose. “Abi, get us out of here,” I said. In the distance, over the sound of a whole mountain face coming down beside me, I heard a series of sonic booms. The other Stormborn were coming the whip cracks of their owners and masters behind them. It wouldn’t matter to them what we stood for, that we fought to prevent the nations of the world normalising their practice of brainwashing child super-soldiers, they would scour us from the earth with the very same fury that had brought us into being. There was a gust of wind, and we were gone.
[WP] A phenomena begins to occur where newborn babies are found amidst the aftermath of natural disasters. Tsunamis, avalanches, wild fires, destructive lightning storms, etc. These 'Storm-Born' humans grow up with powers based on the disasters that birthed them.	“So, do we have a deal?” I looked up from the documents, my eyes narrowed slightly as I looked at the man across from me. To call him rodent like would be a grave insult to the species. Yet the similarities were there: narrow beady eyes barely concealing his hunger, a long thing nose that sniffed the air for profit and opportunity, a small mouth filled with sharp teeth, the general air of a scavenger. From the beginning I did not like dealing with this man. Something about him reeked of desperation, of a clever mind that preyed on those less clever, a hunger that would never be sated. Yet the deal was enticing. A considerable investment that could provide considerable rewards if everything went well. I have made worse investments in the past with less than desired results, and ones that seemed safe at the time turned out to be very poor indeed. I also have worked with those where the outcomes were far from sure, yet I trusted the person and it turned out well in the end. However I did not trust this person and the deal only looked good, it did not feel safe nor sound. However it was tempting, just the push to help my other investments and push projects along. I read the document again, looking for a sign that would push my decision in either direction. So lost in my thoughts it took a few moments for me to notice a tugging at my side. Looking down my smile became sincere as I stared into the emerald eyes of my daughter. “Why hello there little one,” I said warmly, kneeling down where our eyes met on the same plane. “What can I do for you?” The other man glared at her, eyes turning feral and angry but I dismissed his gaze easily. “I need to talk to you,” she replied. Her voice was soft and low, her tone she takes when strangers were around. “Please.” “Go away little girl,” the man said with ill disguised impatience. “Your father and I are talking and you’re bothering us.” He wilted underneath my stare. “I beg your pardon sir,” I said not wanting any of it at all, “you are a guest in my home. This is my daughter and you will not tell her to go anywhere. If she needs to speak to me then she needs to speak with me, with no word from you. You would do well to learn this if we are to do business together.” I smiled inwardly at his seething resentment and turned back to my girl. “Go on then McKenzie, what can I do for you?” Her verdant green eyes sparkled for a moment before they sobered. “I don’t feel good about this,” she said seriously, touching the documents in my hand. “They don’t feel right.” I ignored the man’s scoff of disbelief. “They don’t?” I asked her seriously. “You feel that way?” She shook her head. “No they don’t, they feel bad. Taste bad too.” “Really now!” the rat-like man exclaimed. “You have no idea what you’re talking about you little-“ I rose to my height, bringing my girl up with me in my arms. She buried her head in my neck and I pointed at the man with a finger extended. His eyes drawn to it like it was the point of a blade. “Enough sir,” I said angrily, my own displeasure rising to the surface. “You will not speak that way to anyone in my home, especially my girl. She has gifts you lack and I take everything she says seriously.” “Everything?” He rolled his eyes incredulously. “She is a child, what gifts can she have that anyone doesn’t? Don’t tell me that the great Nathaniel Lee, the premier producer and investor, listens to the words of children for work? Even a “storm-tossed” brat that’s not related to you?” Immediately he knew he said too much. His features paled as my reddened and his mouth opened to squeal insincere platitudes. “You go too far,” I said simply but my heart roared with hate. “My daughter is my daughter, I chose to adopt her and she is no “storm-tossed brat” nor is she a calamity, or any other slight or insult you want to throw at her. It is for her sake that I don’t throw you out on your rear. Our business is done for today.” I threw the papers onto the table and pointed at the door. “If I were you I would leave and pray that my temper subsides before I make a decision.” His mouth opened again and I let my facade crack a little, showing the dangerous glint in my eyes. “Or shall I show you how it feels to be tossed literally and physically?” He left with poor grace, muttering curses and it felt good to slam the door in his face. He was not wrong, my daughter wasn’t my biological daughter but I loved her no differently than if she was. She was one of the so called “storm born”, children found in sites of great natural disasters. For years now children were found mysteriously at such sites: avalanches, earthquakes, wild fires, volcanic eruptions, all sorts. Many thought they were blessed survivors but some thing that they are literally born from such events and natural disasters. McKenzie was found in the remains of a horrific lightning storm. One that raged for almost 24 hours. The bolts of lightnings and booms of thunder had caused such damage to a swathe of land, including the central power hub and data repository for many investment firms and stock trading. The storm had caused a mini financial collapse that effected thousands of people. She was found wailing in the debris and many wanted nothing to do with her. Most considered her bad luck with such a storm that birthed her. Yet I adopted her. Seeing her alone broke my heart and I took her in. As she grew I made sure she had a happy home and watched for the talents and gifts that other storm born seemed to have. She was faster than others her age, and many years older, and she could literally make sparks fly. Yet I found that she had one special power that none could have foreseen. A few days later we watched the news together and I showed poor parenting by smirking at the rat faced man being arrested on national television. Her feelings were correct, the man ran a very business and was being arrested for countless charges of fraud and laundering and many other legal atrocities. As my daughter grew I learned that while she had some powers doing with lightning, she had the strangest sense for shady business and inflated prides. Apparently the hub was called “National Pride Investing” and like it’s name it was built in a very bad location. Storms were common in that area but the owners of the business showed particular arrogance and built there, challenging Nature and the Heavens. Somehow my daughter developed very minor storm powers compared to other storm born, but possessed a particularly unique trait. I grunted slightly as she climbed onto my lap, smiling with just the right amount of child-like smugness. “Guess I was right again.” “You sure were,” I praised hugging her. “You saved me a good amount of money.” “So does that mean the money is mine?” I pretended to think deeply, stroking my chin with mock severity. “It depends on what you want to spend it on. Is it a sound investment?” She opened her eyes wide, innocence replacing latent greed. “Ice cream?” “That is a sound investment,” I said somberly and rose with her in my arms. She giggled and wiggled while I tickled her. “Let us go make the investment a priority my darling.”	The party was a dull one, but then work dos often are. Two miles away, in Switzerland’s most exclusive mountain top hotel, the world’s leaders sipped champagne with their equals and, in the eyes of the public at least, got into the kind of real politics you can only have once all the stuffy diplomats had been disposed of. Meanwhile, in reasonably priced Swiss hotel that would otherwise be closed until the next skiing season, the stuffy diplomats were having a party of their own. Here, away from the prying eyes of the world’s ever ravenous media machine and their own equally power hungry political masters, something might actually be agreed upon, and we simply couldn’t be having that. I watched from the bar as the last group on the guest list were ushered in and announced. The recently appointed ambassador to Indonesia smiled and waved as people turned to look. He had dressed well in an excellently tailored mixture of classic suit and his local fashion and he carried it off with an easy approachable charm. I suspected he was going to be a popular man tonight. Weaker countries like Germany and the UK would no doubt be willing to offer a lot in return for certain assurances. The second tsunami in as many years had just broken across Indonesian shores and the death toll was still rising in the news. Numbers like that can really turn some wary heads. Samantha pulled up a stool beside me. She had dyed her again, or finally washed it out for all I knew, and pulled it into a jet black Gordian knot that rested at the nape of her neck. Her dress was long, high necked and black but for lines of silver stitching that highlighted curves the black fabric might hide. “We said inconspicuous,” I muttered as I dragged my eyes back to the ambassador and his entourage. “We said to blend in,” she retorted as she tried to get the barman’s attention with a single raised hand. “An inconspicuous skirt and blouse would’ve probably stood out here.” She made her order, her own twist on a death in the afternoon that included spiced rum and that Sam called death on the high sea, and said “Anyway who cares if we’re noticed? Survivors aren’t part of the plan,” I ignored her. A woman with the Indonesian party had caught my attention. She was tall and muscular with hair cropped shorter than my own and nose that looked like it had been broken at least once before. Her dress was a plain cream number and she wore it with matching flats and no obvious jewellery. She looked suspiciously inconspicuous. “Stormborn at 11,” I whispered in Samantha’s ear, standing to leave as I did. I saw her eyes glance in the woman’s direction and back, then she mouthed “mine” as she pushed me gently aside with a hand on my chest before laughing and saying. “Stop it or I’ll tell your wife,” I blew her a kiss and moved away into the party proper trying to keep my expression pleasantly neutral as my hands became clammy with sweat despite the cool evening. The guests were all here. Forty dignitaries and their family members, over a hundred assorted ambassadorial staff, four Stormborn bodyguards and five terrorists. I shouldered my way into a circle of talking men and women, staggering as I did and allowing champagne to spill from my glass and onto the cuff of my suit. I spotted the man I was there for and stumbled into him. He caught me and held me firmly away from his charge as any good bodyguard might. He opened his mouth to say something, probably something polite about me getting a glass of water, but I didn’t give him a chance to finish. I hit him in centre of the chest with everything I had. The people standing around us began to scream as the sudden heat burned at their skin and set their clothing alight. Marble beneath my feet began to crack and the remaining champagne in my glass evaporated so fast it sounded like a boiling kettle. The man I hit didn’t stand a chance. Lava burst from my fist through his chest and out the other side in a grisly replication of the day I was born. For a moment I saw lightning crackle in the corner of his eyes and felt the build-up of charge at the end of his fingers, but then even his superhuman endurance gave out and he collapsed. I could hear more screams now and I looked up. Thomas was encasing a woman in a cocoon of ice, his hands clamped around her head as she whipped the air around them into a violent but aimless frenzy that sent partygoers into bone breaking tumbles across the dancefloor. Ryan had his target pinned to the ground and was raining down punches on his head and torso as lightning scoured away chunks of stony marble armour as fast as Ryan could draw them up from the floor. I turned back to the entrance, to Samantha, just in time to see the woman with the broken nose hit her with a blast of water strong enough to peel flesh from bone. Samantha blurred and the jet caught the barman square in the face. He was slammed backwards into the glass wall of drinks just as Samantha hit with the simultaneous cracks of breaking bone and the sound barrier I had just enough time to throw up my lava coated arms over my face before the jet swept across me. I was lifted off my feet and sent spiralling across the hall in a cloud of superheated steam. I hit Thomas going fast enough to get pulled over and we both hit the marble hard. The air was blasted from my lungs and when I tried to stand one of my knees discovered an agonizing new level of flexibility. I cursed and pressed both my hands to the joint. Lava bubbled up between my fingers and I sculpted it into a rocky cast around the leg. Teeth gritted against the pain I rose again and looked at Thomas. His neck was broken, the bone jutting grotesquely against the flesh of his neck. I growled and set back to work. With their Stormborn gone the rest of the party goers struggled to put up much of a fight. Some brave souls tried to stop us but a few flung bottles and swung chairs did them no good. I flung a thick dollop of lava over a pair of men who had managed squeeze into a supplies cupboard and turned to the carnage. “Ryan, bring this place down,” I ordered as I stalked haltingly back into the main hall. I could hear sirens coming. Ryan nodded and knelt, closing his eyes and pressing both palms into the marble. Not against, into. The stone melted over his fingers like sand and he kept pushing until he was elbow deep in the floor. A moment later the whole building began to shake. Samantha rushed to me, her hair still up but her clothes utterly drenched, and offered me her arm. I took it and put some of my weight on her as we made for the exit. Behind us I heard Ryan grunt with effort and I nearly fell as the whole mountain side jolted. Far far above us was the sound of breaking rocks. I glanced back to see Ryan retrieving his arms and begin to move away as the crack he had made opened ever wider. Splitting the whole hotel in two and carving into the stone of the mountain beneath. We made it outside and there was a gust wind before Abigail alighted on the tarmac ahead of us. She had made no party going pretence tonight and was dressed head to toe in black combat gear. They don’t really make that stuff with fourteen-year-old girls in mind so she looked a little like the Michelin man’s post-apocalyptic progeny. Samantha passed me off to her and Ryan joined us, his wide brown face split with the same grin he always wore when we went somewhere he could really let loose. “Abi, get us out of here,” I said. In the distance, over the sound of a whole mountain face coming down beside me, I heard a series of sonic booms. The other Stormborn were coming the whip cracks of their owners and masters behind them. It wouldn’t matter to them what we stood for, that we fought to prevent the nations of the world normalising their practice of brainwashing child super-soldiers, they would scour us from the earth with the very same fury that had brought us into being. There was a gust of wind, and we were gone.
[WP] A phenomena begins to occur where newborn babies are found amidst the aftermath of natural disasters. Tsunamis, avalanches, wild fires, destructive lightning storms, etc. These 'Storm-Born' humans grow up with powers based on the disasters that birthed them.	Dear Dr.Anderson It has been the fourth day at the new facility and I am enjoying everything so far. Although the new researcher is more strict than you, he has a ridiculously long and thin moustache. Me and Iris could not stop laughing because every time he said: Good day kids, because you'll never know what time is it down here. His moustache keep on wiggling in the air. Oh and speaking of Iris, she is getting better at controlling her flame. She can even makes them slowly bloom like flowers. The guards don't seem to enjoy it, one guy even points at the fire extinguisher but luckily the other guy disagree. Eric and Satomi keep fighting each other and we still have no idea how to stop them. However, last night Satomi somehow activated the fire alarm in Eric's room and he was completely soak in water. He didn't say anything to her this morning but in lunchtime, I saw him walk pass her and everything in her food tray just dry up instantly. I think they've started a prank war. I had to lend Eric my clothes and Iris had to share her lunch so I don't think anyone wining here. Also there is a very kind lady in the library. She even let me borrowed some paper. She seem very surprised when I made those paper planes fly. But then a guard just came out of nowhere and pulled me back to my room. What a jerk. At least the lady came visit me and she gave me this cool book about planes and airship The rest is just boring tests and stuff. I kinda miss your story times but it is only 5 more days until your visit right. I can't wait for it Sincerely, Timothy P.S: I almost forgot this but there is a new kid. They locked her in a special room with a big cyan door, I can't see anything beside guards come to deliver foods but Satomi swear she saw some blue sparks under the door two nights ago ---------- This is my first writing here and I'm not a native English speaker so please point out every mistakes I've made	The party was a dull one, but then work dos often are. Two miles away, in Switzerland’s most exclusive mountain top hotel, the world’s leaders sipped champagne with their equals and, in the eyes of the public at least, got into the kind of real politics you can only have once all the stuffy diplomats had been disposed of. Meanwhile, in reasonably priced Swiss hotel that would otherwise be closed until the next skiing season, the stuffy diplomats were having a party of their own. Here, away from the prying eyes of the world’s ever ravenous media machine and their own equally power hungry political masters, something might actually be agreed upon, and we simply couldn’t be having that. I watched from the bar as the last group on the guest list were ushered in and announced. The recently appointed ambassador to Indonesia smiled and waved as people turned to look. He had dressed well in an excellently tailored mixture of classic suit and his local fashion and he carried it off with an easy approachable charm. I suspected he was going to be a popular man tonight. Weaker countries like Germany and the UK would no doubt be willing to offer a lot in return for certain assurances. The second tsunami in as many years had just broken across Indonesian shores and the death toll was still rising in the news. Numbers like that can really turn some wary heads. Samantha pulled up a stool beside me. She had dyed her again, or finally washed it out for all I knew, and pulled it into a jet black Gordian knot that rested at the nape of her neck. Her dress was long, high necked and black but for lines of silver stitching that highlighted curves the black fabric might hide. “We said inconspicuous,” I muttered as I dragged my eyes back to the ambassador and his entourage. “We said to blend in,” she retorted as she tried to get the barman’s attention with a single raised hand. “An inconspicuous skirt and blouse would’ve probably stood out here.” She made her order, her own twist on a death in the afternoon that included spiced rum and that Sam called death on the high sea, and said “Anyway who cares if we’re noticed? Survivors aren’t part of the plan,” I ignored her. A woman with the Indonesian party had caught my attention. She was tall and muscular with hair cropped shorter than my own and nose that looked like it had been broken at least once before. Her dress was a plain cream number and she wore it with matching flats and no obvious jewellery. She looked suspiciously inconspicuous. “Stormborn at 11,” I whispered in Samantha’s ear, standing to leave as I did. I saw her eyes glance in the woman’s direction and back, then she mouthed “mine” as she pushed me gently aside with a hand on my chest before laughing and saying. “Stop it or I’ll tell your wife,” I blew her a kiss and moved away into the party proper trying to keep my expression pleasantly neutral as my hands became clammy with sweat despite the cool evening. The guests were all here. Forty dignitaries and their family members, over a hundred assorted ambassadorial staff, four Stormborn bodyguards and five terrorists. I shouldered my way into a circle of talking men and women, staggering as I did and allowing champagne to spill from my glass and onto the cuff of my suit. I spotted the man I was there for and stumbled into him. He caught me and held me firmly away from his charge as any good bodyguard might. He opened his mouth to say something, probably something polite about me getting a glass of water, but I didn’t give him a chance to finish. I hit him in centre of the chest with everything I had. The people standing around us began to scream as the sudden heat burned at their skin and set their clothing alight. Marble beneath my feet began to crack and the remaining champagne in my glass evaporated so fast it sounded like a boiling kettle. The man I hit didn’t stand a chance. Lava burst from my fist through his chest and out the other side in a grisly replication of the day I was born. For a moment I saw lightning crackle in the corner of his eyes and felt the build-up of charge at the end of his fingers, but then even his superhuman endurance gave out and he collapsed. I could hear more screams now and I looked up. Thomas was encasing a woman in a cocoon of ice, his hands clamped around her head as she whipped the air around them into a violent but aimless frenzy that sent partygoers into bone breaking tumbles across the dancefloor. Ryan had his target pinned to the ground and was raining down punches on his head and torso as lightning scoured away chunks of stony marble armour as fast as Ryan could draw them up from the floor. I turned back to the entrance, to Samantha, just in time to see the woman with the broken nose hit her with a blast of water strong enough to peel flesh from bone. Samantha blurred and the jet caught the barman square in the face. He was slammed backwards into the glass wall of drinks just as Samantha hit with the simultaneous cracks of breaking bone and the sound barrier I had just enough time to throw up my lava coated arms over my face before the jet swept across me. I was lifted off my feet and sent spiralling across the hall in a cloud of superheated steam. I hit Thomas going fast enough to get pulled over and we both hit the marble hard. The air was blasted from my lungs and when I tried to stand one of my knees discovered an agonizing new level of flexibility. I cursed and pressed both my hands to the joint. Lava bubbled up between my fingers and I sculpted it into a rocky cast around the leg. Teeth gritted against the pain I rose again and looked at Thomas. His neck was broken, the bone jutting grotesquely against the flesh of his neck. I growled and set back to work. With their Stormborn gone the rest of the party goers struggled to put up much of a fight. Some brave souls tried to stop us but a few flung bottles and swung chairs did them no good. I flung a thick dollop of lava over a pair of men who had managed squeeze into a supplies cupboard and turned to the carnage. “Ryan, bring this place down,” I ordered as I stalked haltingly back into the main hall. I could hear sirens coming. Ryan nodded and knelt, closing his eyes and pressing both palms into the marble. Not against, into. The stone melted over his fingers like sand and he kept pushing until he was elbow deep in the floor. A moment later the whole building began to shake. Samantha rushed to me, her hair still up but her clothes utterly drenched, and offered me her arm. I took it and put some of my weight on her as we made for the exit. Behind us I heard Ryan grunt with effort and I nearly fell as the whole mountain side jolted. Far far above us was the sound of breaking rocks. I glanced back to see Ryan retrieving his arms and begin to move away as the crack he had made opened ever wider. Splitting the whole hotel in two and carving into the stone of the mountain beneath. We made it outside and there was a gust wind before Abigail alighted on the tarmac ahead of us. She had made no party going pretence tonight and was dressed head to toe in black combat gear. They don’t really make that stuff with fourteen-year-old girls in mind so she looked a little like the Michelin man’s post-apocalyptic progeny. Samantha passed me off to her and Ryan joined us, his wide brown face split with the same grin he always wore when we went somewhere he could really let loose. “Abi, get us out of here,” I said. In the distance, over the sound of a whole mountain face coming down beside me, I heard a series of sonic booms. The other Stormborn were coming the whip cracks of their owners and masters behind them. It wouldn’t matter to them what we stood for, that we fought to prevent the nations of the world normalising their practice of brainwashing child super-soldiers, they would scour us from the earth with the very same fury that had brought us into being. There was a gust of wind, and we were gone.
[WP] A phenomena begins to occur where newborn babies are found amidst the aftermath of natural disasters. Tsunamis, avalanches, wild fires, destructive lightning storms, etc. These 'Storm-Born' humans grow up with powers based on the disasters that birthed them.	Scientists have been baffled by the discovery of the Stormborns 30 years ago. I've never met one myself but I was there when the first Stormborn was found. I was a volunteer when a wildfire came over California. It took us days to completely extinguish the fire. Sometimes I imagine if the baby would have been found if I hadn't been there. I remember hearing a baby crying while walking amidst the smoke of the forest. It was night. I remember being confused and calling out for the others. I never got to hold her but I still saw her. They found her within the ashes. It was deemed a miracle all over the world. A baby had survived a forest fire. It was very poetic when I thought about it. Eighteen people were taken away, but one was given back. "Breaking news..." The TV snap me back to reality. I was at home. When was Alex getting home. I think about calling him but I was too tired to look for my phone. "It's been confirmed by officials. The organisation known as the Chrysanthemums were behind the manmade avalanche that caused the death of hundreds of people in Turkey..." The Chrysanthemums, they're at it again. A terrorist organization hellbent on causing manmade disasters to create Stormborns by their will. Once they were done, they'd look for a Stormborn within the ruins of what they've created and raise the baby themselves. They'd train them to do with what they will. It was disgusting. The avalanche on Turkey was one of their attacks three days ago. They were ready to sacrifice hundreds of people for one Stormborn. It was terrifying. I might need to call Alex. "... with the baby found in Russia after the earthquake, that makes 97 Stormborns. The authorities are preparing to find the next location the Chrysanthemums will strike given how important the 99th Stormborn..." Oh yes, of course. The Chrysanthemums believe the 99th baby will be humanity's savior. Just like the first one, Phoenix, he will be born of ashes and smoke. I didn't know if I believed it. I grab the remote and try to turn off the channel. I was trying to relax and the news just made me more nervous. I change it into some kind of a UN press conference. "We have good news, the Chrysanthemums didn't find a Stormborn baby in Turkey." I put the remote down. At least, there were good news. "How can we be sure of that?", a journalist asked. "Because we found him. We tried to keep our findings secret until the baby was safely transported to keep-" "Is the baby a Stormborn?", another journalist started. "Yes. The tests have been done. The baby is a Stormborn. We predict the child to gain cryokinesis..." The speaker tried to finish his sentence when the journalists started asking more questions. I stand up. All this baby talk is making me concerned for mine. I try to feel it in my stomach. It's been a day since I've felt him kick. I'm not due for another month. I need air. I step outside the balcony to breathe. I remember urban air isn't that refreshing. The sun was setting but the skyscrapers blocked the view. I stand there for minutes. I try to hear the howling in the air from the traffic down below. That was lot of honking horns. I feel a wave of panic. I open the door to the inside. That's when I hear it. There was that high pitched ringing tone from the TV. The one you hear during an emergency evacuation I hear a robotic voice from it. Something's happening. I feel dread. "Take shelter immediately. This is not a drill. Repeat: This is not a drill. An enemy attack is being launched against the United States. Take shelter immediately and stay tuned to this frequency for further instructions." I need to call Alex. How long has this been repeating? The last thing I remember was a flash of light outside and the crying of a baby.	The party was a dull one, but then work dos often are. Two miles away, in Switzerland’s most exclusive mountain top hotel, the world’s leaders sipped champagne with their equals and, in the eyes of the public at least, got into the kind of real politics you can only have once all the stuffy diplomats had been disposed of. Meanwhile, in reasonably priced Swiss hotel that would otherwise be closed until the next skiing season, the stuffy diplomats were having a party of their own. Here, away from the prying eyes of the world’s ever ravenous media machine and their own equally power hungry political masters, something might actually be agreed upon, and we simply couldn’t be having that. I watched from the bar as the last group on the guest list were ushered in and announced. The recently appointed ambassador to Indonesia smiled and waved as people turned to look. He had dressed well in an excellently tailored mixture of classic suit and his local fashion and he carried it off with an easy approachable charm. I suspected he was going to be a popular man tonight. Weaker countries like Germany and the UK would no doubt be willing to offer a lot in return for certain assurances. The second tsunami in as many years had just broken across Indonesian shores and the death toll was still rising in the news. Numbers like that can really turn some wary heads. Samantha pulled up a stool beside me. She had dyed her again, or finally washed it out for all I knew, and pulled it into a jet black Gordian knot that rested at the nape of her neck. Her dress was long, high necked and black but for lines of silver stitching that highlighted curves the black fabric might hide. “We said inconspicuous,” I muttered as I dragged my eyes back to the ambassador and his entourage. “We said to blend in,” she retorted as she tried to get the barman’s attention with a single raised hand. “An inconspicuous skirt and blouse would’ve probably stood out here.” She made her order, her own twist on a death in the afternoon that included spiced rum and that Sam called death on the high sea, and said “Anyway who cares if we’re noticed? Survivors aren’t part of the plan,” I ignored her. A woman with the Indonesian party had caught my attention. She was tall and muscular with hair cropped shorter than my own and nose that looked like it had been broken at least once before. Her dress was a plain cream number and she wore it with matching flats and no obvious jewellery. She looked suspiciously inconspicuous. “Stormborn at 11,” I whispered in Samantha’s ear, standing to leave as I did. I saw her eyes glance in the woman’s direction and back, then she mouthed “mine” as she pushed me gently aside with a hand on my chest before laughing and saying. “Stop it or I’ll tell your wife,” I blew her a kiss and moved away into the party proper trying to keep my expression pleasantly neutral as my hands became clammy with sweat despite the cool evening. The guests were all here. Forty dignitaries and their family members, over a hundred assorted ambassadorial staff, four Stormborn bodyguards and five terrorists. I shouldered my way into a circle of talking men and women, staggering as I did and allowing champagne to spill from my glass and onto the cuff of my suit. I spotted the man I was there for and stumbled into him. He caught me and held me firmly away from his charge as any good bodyguard might. He opened his mouth to say something, probably something polite about me getting a glass of water, but I didn’t give him a chance to finish. I hit him in centre of the chest with everything I had. The people standing around us began to scream as the sudden heat burned at their skin and set their clothing alight. Marble beneath my feet began to crack and the remaining champagne in my glass evaporated so fast it sounded like a boiling kettle. The man I hit didn’t stand a chance. Lava burst from my fist through his chest and out the other side in a grisly replication of the day I was born. For a moment I saw lightning crackle in the corner of his eyes and felt the build-up of charge at the end of his fingers, but then even his superhuman endurance gave out and he collapsed. I could hear more screams now and I looked up. Thomas was encasing a woman in a cocoon of ice, his hands clamped around her head as she whipped the air around them into a violent but aimless frenzy that sent partygoers into bone breaking tumbles across the dancefloor. Ryan had his target pinned to the ground and was raining down punches on his head and torso as lightning scoured away chunks of stony marble armour as fast as Ryan could draw them up from the floor. I turned back to the entrance, to Samantha, just in time to see the woman with the broken nose hit her with a blast of water strong enough to peel flesh from bone. Samantha blurred and the jet caught the barman square in the face. He was slammed backwards into the glass wall of drinks just as Samantha hit with the simultaneous cracks of breaking bone and the sound barrier I had just enough time to throw up my lava coated arms over my face before the jet swept across me. I was lifted off my feet and sent spiralling across the hall in a cloud of superheated steam. I hit Thomas going fast enough to get pulled over and we both hit the marble hard. The air was blasted from my lungs and when I tried to stand one of my knees discovered an agonizing new level of flexibility. I cursed and pressed both my hands to the joint. Lava bubbled up between my fingers and I sculpted it into a rocky cast around the leg. Teeth gritted against the pain I rose again and looked at Thomas. His neck was broken, the bone jutting grotesquely against the flesh of his neck. I growled and set back to work. With their Stormborn gone the rest of the party goers struggled to put up much of a fight. Some brave souls tried to stop us but a few flung bottles and swung chairs did them no good. I flung a thick dollop of lava over a pair of men who had managed squeeze into a supplies cupboard and turned to the carnage. “Ryan, bring this place down,” I ordered as I stalked haltingly back into the main hall. I could hear sirens coming. Ryan nodded and knelt, closing his eyes and pressing both palms into the marble. Not against, into. The stone melted over his fingers like sand and he kept pushing until he was elbow deep in the floor. A moment later the whole building began to shake. Samantha rushed to me, her hair still up but her clothes utterly drenched, and offered me her arm. I took it and put some of my weight on her as we made for the exit. Behind us I heard Ryan grunt with effort and I nearly fell as the whole mountain side jolted. Far far above us was the sound of breaking rocks. I glanced back to see Ryan retrieving his arms and begin to move away as the crack he had made opened ever wider. Splitting the whole hotel in two and carving into the stone of the mountain beneath. We made it outside and there was a gust wind before Abigail alighted on the tarmac ahead of us. She had made no party going pretence tonight and was dressed head to toe in black combat gear. They don’t really make that stuff with fourteen-year-old girls in mind so she looked a little like the Michelin man’s post-apocalyptic progeny. Samantha passed me off to her and Ryan joined us, his wide brown face split with the same grin he always wore when we went somewhere he could really let loose. “Abi, get us out of here,” I said. In the distance, over the sound of a whole mountain face coming down beside me, I heard a series of sonic booms. The other Stormborn were coming the whip cracks of their owners and masters behind them. It wouldn’t matter to them what we stood for, that we fought to prevent the nations of the world normalising their practice of brainwashing child super-soldiers, they would scour us from the earth with the very same fury that had brought us into being. There was a gust of wind, and we were gone.
[WP] A phenomena begins to occur where newborn babies are found amidst the aftermath of natural disasters. Tsunamis, avalanches, wild fires, destructive lightning storms, etc. These 'Storm-Born' humans grow up with powers based on the disasters that birthed them.	"Technically speaking I'm a Storm-born" I said to the cute cashier at the grocery store. "Aren't you a little young to be a hero ?" She asked. "Well yes but after I go to SBHS and get my diploma I'll be a full fleged hero." "Can I help who's next." She said "Seriously I'm a Storm-Born!" "Good bye Cronus" She said with an annoyed tone. As I turned to leave I thought why me? One thing about being an SB is that you're treated differently. Yes you are a human but in a different class. A super class. It's been 14 years since I was found in the largest natural disaster ever recorded. The Yellowstone super volcano finally erupted during the worst winter ever recorded. It caused flooding, tornadoes, acid rain, wildfires and lightning storms that covered half the planet. The whole nine yards. All in the matter of a week. When the smoke settled there I was naked as well a new born baby . The rescuers that found me named me Cronus. Son of heaven and earth. You'd think I'd have some amazing world bending powers. But no all I'm able to do is hear the thoughts of animals. Yup I'm a glorified Snow White. As I made my way through the parking lot of the Quickmart I thought to my self how great my freshman year of SBHS was going to be. Not just anyone was accepted into Storm-Born Hero School . It was a school specifically for SBs. It was a new chapter for me. Maybe just maybe I'd finally get answers. I could find out where I came from. Where all the SBs came from. One thing that no one could answer is how we came to be. Yeah we were born from natural disasters but modern science couldnt explain how. When I got home my mom had lunch already made. Ham and pickles on white. "Oh yes" I said. "Where's my change!?" she asked as I ran up to my room. My mom is one of a kind. She adopted me shortly after I was found. With out any questions or second thoughts she took me in and raised me as her own. My moms name is Bestla she is also an SB . She was found in Greenland after a record breaking blizzard. She opted out of SB Hero School because she felt it wasnt her place. Now she works at a freezer warehouse keeping food frozen before its shipped. Its honest work and she does her best. Shes a really good mom. "Knock knock" she said as she opened my bedroom door. "Come in" "Everything alright" she asked. "Yeah I guess" "Talk to me. What's wrong?" "Nothing" I said "Is it about your powers again?" "You have the ability to control snow and temperature and that's awesome. Other people like us have all these amazing powers way before they're 14 and all I could do is hear what animals have to say. Its ridiculous. You really think I want to start Hero School next month and tell everyone I could talk to bambi?" "Honey everyone is different its ok. You'll realize your powers soon I prom" "I'm already different. You're different. Don't you think that's enough I dont want to be anymore different than I am already. Just go please. " I could tell she was upset from the look on her face. "Go!" As I pointed to the door. "Cronus you know I love you with all my heart. I know things are difficult for you now. You are a young man growing up in a strange world. Everything and everyone has a reason and you'll find yours. I promise. I'll call you down for dinner when it's ready." Before I could turn to say I was sorry she had already left the room. My eyes were misty from tears. She was right I'd eventually figure everything out. As my thoughts slipped away I fell asleep. "Cronus..Cronus CRONUS!" "Who's there. ?" "I am Gaea" "Who?" "Mother earth" "What do you want with me ?" "My powers Back!" I sat up drenched in sweat gasping for air. What does it mean I asked myself why do I feel different today. All I knew is that it was 8 am and I had overslept . And I had my paper route to run. Before I could get up my mom ran into the room "Cronus come quick something terrible happened another disaster in China but no new Storm-Born" We both ran down stairs and the news anchor on tv was saying there were thousands dead. And then the door bell rang.	“Bro, road trips with you suck.” “I said I was sorry.” “You can’t control this?” “I already told you no.” “We’ve been in traffic for three hours.” “I said I was sorry.” “Why does this happen?” “Storm born.” “You weren’t ‘Storm-born,” dude, you were ‘traffic jam born’.” “I don’t make the rules.” “You can’t clear this up? Maybe you could make traffic slow someplace else and all these people will be stuck over there.” “The governor of New Jersey got in trouble last time I did that. I don’t care to be indicted again.” “We should’ve taken the train or something.” “I’m not allowed in airports.” “It causes hold ups there too?” “No.” “Then why-“ “I don’t want to talk about it.” “Kay.” “I spy with my-“ “Dude. No.” “Fine, do we have any more Twizzlers?” “In the back. You’ll have to climb.” “It’s cool. You want any?” “Yeah, man.” “I got you.”
[WP] A phenomena begins to occur where newborn babies are found amidst the aftermath of natural disasters. Tsunamis, avalanches, wild fires, destructive lightning storms, etc. These 'Storm-Born' humans grow up with powers based on the disasters that birthed them.	"The man you seek is not a Storm-Born, he is something else entirely." Desmond said to the meeting of investigative operations for the natural-supernatural. Many of the operators present were themselves blessed with the gift of the destructive forces of the earth. People whose souls blazed like volcanoes and wildfires, whose will-power struck down those who stood against them with a flash. These were people who understood they were special, that they had talents most human beings could scarcely dream of. They weren't outcasts from society, they were the policy makers, the guides of the institutions. To be Storm-Born was to be blessed with the soul of nature's most fearsome events, to be unyielding and command attention. Desmond's words commanded attention as the director addressed the latest issue to arise. "This man, the man in the gray suit, he comes and he goes across cities and towns and do you know what he leaves behind him?" There was silence in the room, just a myriad of brilliantly colored eyes staring at the director. "He leaves death, rot. Where he steps the ground is poisoned, the grass withers and dies. The flesh of those around him burns and turns necrotic. The places he passes through are forever marked, and he brings ruin to those who encounter him. Have you ever seen a ruined place? A place that cannot be rebuilt?" "Are we not all cursed with the power of destruction?" A red-haired woman, whose voice was tinged with ashen skyfall and choked air. "Are we not all cursed to be able to burn and destroy? If this man is rogue, then we must confront him. Command him to stop using his powers, or destroy him if he refuses. We have agency here." Desmond hated how blunt his fellow Storm-Born could be, how cocky and convinced of their ability. Many of them felt chosen to rule based upon the idea that nature had somehow selected them as a superior breed of humans, that they were tasked with finally controlling the last of nature's raw power. "You say he is not Storm-Born, but his powers over the earth, to corrupt the soul and rot man, could only be natural. However divined, we must determine where he came from and act appropriately." "I know where he is from." Desmond replied. "But you aren't going to believe it, because it defies convention. And it makes him special, more special than us." "We are the storm, the seas, and fires that burn the earth. We can handle what you tell us." Desmond cleared his throat. "No natural disaster cannot be recovered from, after every fire, flood, or hurricane, nature can regroup and rebuilt. Life can spring up anew, even from under mounds of volcanic ash. We are all still connected to the cycle of life. This person, this suited man, his name is Rodzhaevsky. And he is death." Desmond took another sip of coffee and cleared his throat. "Those who found him did not live long. They did not raise him, he doesn't remember them. They were fighting lethal fires, and they got too deep. The newborn was sleeping peacefully in a circle of black stone, the taste of metal in the air." "We have many people who are of the fires, many uncontrollable souls. Unpredictable. We can handle him." The red-haired woman replied. "Rodzahevsky was born of an unnatural disaster. A very human disaster. An infant formed out of the molten corium of the Chernobyl powerplant in 1986, passed from family to family as each would sicken and die of cancers. He grew up without anyone staying in his life long enough to guide him, to help him understand just what he was. But now he knows, and we can watch his path of annihilation unfold in real-time." "If we kill him, then this matter is resolved." "Can you kill all of them?" "I beg your pardon?" "Can you kill Rodzhaevsky of Pripyat, Margaret of Love Canal, or Manzar of Bhopal? What about Walther, born 3,000 meters under the Atlantic in a vat of Mercury? Can you stop all of them? Kill all of them? Because they just keep appearing, each day another comes of age and realizes the capabilities of their powers. Powers that end of the cycle of life instead of perpetuating it." The room was silent as the gravity of the situation set in. No longer were men and women born just with the spirits of natural disasters, but those who embraced all of humanity's penchant for destruction and poison were being born as well.	“Bro, road trips with you suck.” “I said I was sorry.” “You can’t control this?” “I already told you no.” “We’ve been in traffic for three hours.” “I said I was sorry.” “Why does this happen?” “Storm born.” “You weren’t ‘Storm-born,” dude, you were ‘traffic jam born’.” “I don’t make the rules.” “You can’t clear this up? Maybe you could make traffic slow someplace else and all these people will be stuck over there.” “The governor of New Jersey got in trouble last time I did that. I don’t care to be indicted again.” “We should’ve taken the train or something.” “I’m not allowed in airports.” “It causes hold ups there too?” “No.” “Then why-“ “I don’t want to talk about it.” “Kay.” “I spy with my-“ “Dude. No.” “Fine, do we have any more Twizzlers?” “In the back. You’ll have to climb.” “It’s cool. You want any?” “Yeah, man.” “I got you.”
[WP] A phenomena begins to occur where newborn babies are found amidst the aftermath of natural disasters. Tsunamis, avalanches, wild fires, destructive lightning storms, etc. These 'Storm-Born' humans grow up with powers based on the disasters that birthed them.	“So, do we have a deal?” I looked up from the documents, my eyes narrowed slightly as I looked at the man across from me. To call him rodent like would be a grave insult to the species. Yet the similarities were there: narrow beady eyes barely concealing his hunger, a long thing nose that sniffed the air for profit and opportunity, a small mouth filled with sharp teeth, the general air of a scavenger. From the beginning I did not like dealing with this man. Something about him reeked of desperation, of a clever mind that preyed on those less clever, a hunger that would never be sated. Yet the deal was enticing. A considerable investment that could provide considerable rewards if everything went well. I have made worse investments in the past with less than desired results, and ones that seemed safe at the time turned out to be very poor indeed. I also have worked with those where the outcomes were far from sure, yet I trusted the person and it turned out well in the end. However I did not trust this person and the deal only looked good, it did not feel safe nor sound. However it was tempting, just the push to help my other investments and push projects along. I read the document again, looking for a sign that would push my decision in either direction. So lost in my thoughts it took a few moments for me to notice a tugging at my side. Looking down my smile became sincere as I stared into the emerald eyes of my daughter. “Why hello there little one,” I said warmly, kneeling down where our eyes met on the same plane. “What can I do for you?” The other man glared at her, eyes turning feral and angry but I dismissed his gaze easily. “I need to talk to you,” she replied. Her voice was soft and low, her tone she takes when strangers were around. “Please.” “Go away little girl,” the man said with ill disguised impatience. “Your father and I are talking and you’re bothering us.” He wilted underneath my stare. “I beg your pardon sir,” I said not wanting any of it at all, “you are a guest in my home. This is my daughter and you will not tell her to go anywhere. If she needs to speak to me then she needs to speak with me, with no word from you. You would do well to learn this if we are to do business together.” I smiled inwardly at his seething resentment and turned back to my girl. “Go on then McKenzie, what can I do for you?” Her verdant green eyes sparkled for a moment before they sobered. “I don’t feel good about this,” she said seriously, touching the documents in my hand. “They don’t feel right.” I ignored the man’s scoff of disbelief. “They don’t?” I asked her seriously. “You feel that way?” She shook her head. “No they don’t, they feel bad. Taste bad too.” “Really now!” the rat-like man exclaimed. “You have no idea what you’re talking about you little-“ I rose to my height, bringing my girl up with me in my arms. She buried her head in my neck and I pointed at the man with a finger extended. His eyes drawn to it like it was the point of a blade. “Enough sir,” I said angrily, my own displeasure rising to the surface. “You will not speak that way to anyone in my home, especially my girl. She has gifts you lack and I take everything she says seriously.” “Everything?” He rolled his eyes incredulously. “She is a child, what gifts can she have that anyone doesn’t? Don’t tell me that the great Nathaniel Lee, the premier producer and investor, listens to the words of children for work? Even a “storm-tossed” brat that’s not related to you?” Immediately he knew he said too much. His features paled as my reddened and his mouth opened to squeal insincere platitudes. “You go too far,” I said simply but my heart roared with hate. “My daughter is my daughter, I chose to adopt her and she is no “storm-tossed brat” nor is she a calamity, or any other slight or insult you want to throw at her. It is for her sake that I don’t throw you out on your rear. Our business is done for today.” I threw the papers onto the table and pointed at the door. “If I were you I would leave and pray that my temper subsides before I make a decision.” His mouth opened again and I let my facade crack a little, showing the dangerous glint in my eyes. “Or shall I show you how it feels to be tossed literally and physically?” He left with poor grace, muttering curses and it felt good to slam the door in his face. He was not wrong, my daughter wasn’t my biological daughter but I loved her no differently than if she was. She was one of the so called “storm born”, children found in sites of great natural disasters. For years now children were found mysteriously at such sites: avalanches, earthquakes, wild fires, volcanic eruptions, all sorts. Many thought they were blessed survivors but some thing that they are literally born from such events and natural disasters. McKenzie was found in the remains of a horrific lightning storm. One that raged for almost 24 hours. The bolts of lightnings and booms of thunder had caused such damage to a swathe of land, including the central power hub and data repository for many investment firms and stock trading. The storm had caused a mini financial collapse that effected thousands of people. She was found wailing in the debris and many wanted nothing to do with her. Most considered her bad luck with such a storm that birthed her. Yet I adopted her. Seeing her alone broke my heart and I took her in. As she grew I made sure she had a happy home and watched for the talents and gifts that other storm born seemed to have. She was faster than others her age, and many years older, and she could literally make sparks fly. Yet I found that she had one special power that none could have foreseen. A few days later we watched the news together and I showed poor parenting by smirking at the rat faced man being arrested on national television. Her feelings were correct, the man ran a very business and was being arrested for countless charges of fraud and laundering and many other legal atrocities. As my daughter grew I learned that while she had some powers doing with lightning, she had the strangest sense for shady business and inflated prides. Apparently the hub was called “National Pride Investing” and like it’s name it was built in a very bad location. Storms were common in that area but the owners of the business showed particular arrogance and built there, challenging Nature and the Heavens. Somehow my daughter developed very minor storm powers compared to other storm born, but possessed a particularly unique trait. I grunted slightly as she climbed onto my lap, smiling with just the right amount of child-like smugness. “Guess I was right again.” “You sure were,” I praised hugging her. “You saved me a good amount of money.” “So does that mean the money is mine?” I pretended to think deeply, stroking my chin with mock severity. “It depends on what you want to spend it on. Is it a sound investment?” She opened her eyes wide, innocence replacing latent greed. “Ice cream?” “That is a sound investment,” I said somberly and rose with her in my arms. She giggled and wiggled while I tickled her. “Let us go make the investment a priority my darling.”	“Bro, road trips with you suck.” “I said I was sorry.” “You can’t control this?” “I already told you no.” “We’ve been in traffic for three hours.” “I said I was sorry.” “Why does this happen?” “Storm born.” “You weren’t ‘Storm-born,” dude, you were ‘traffic jam born’.” “I don’t make the rules.” “You can’t clear this up? Maybe you could make traffic slow someplace else and all these people will be stuck over there.” “The governor of New Jersey got in trouble last time I did that. I don’t care to be indicted again.” “We should’ve taken the train or something.” “I’m not allowed in airports.” “It causes hold ups there too?” “No.” “Then why-“ “I don’t want to talk about it.” “Kay.” “I spy with my-“ “Dude. No.” “Fine, do we have any more Twizzlers?” “In the back. You’ll have to climb.” “It’s cool. You want any?” “Yeah, man.” “I got you.”
[WP] A phenomena begins to occur where newborn babies are found amidst the aftermath of natural disasters. Tsunamis, avalanches, wild fires, destructive lightning storms, etc. These 'Storm-Born' humans grow up with powers based on the disasters that birthed them.	Dear Dr.Anderson It has been the fourth day at the new facility and I am enjoying everything so far. Although the new researcher is more strict than you, he has a ridiculously long and thin moustache. Me and Iris could not stop laughing because every time he said: Good day kids, because you'll never know what time is it down here. His moustache keep on wiggling in the air. Oh and speaking of Iris, she is getting better at controlling her flame. She can even makes them slowly bloom like flowers. The guards don't seem to enjoy it, one guy even points at the fire extinguisher but luckily the other guy disagree. Eric and Satomi keep fighting each other and we still have no idea how to stop them. However, last night Satomi somehow activated the fire alarm in Eric's room and he was completely soak in water. He didn't say anything to her this morning but in lunchtime, I saw him walk pass her and everything in her food tray just dry up instantly. I think they've started a prank war. I had to lend Eric my clothes and Iris had to share her lunch so I don't think anyone wining here. Also there is a very kind lady in the library. She even let me borrowed some paper. She seem very surprised when I made those paper planes fly. But then a guard just came out of nowhere and pulled me back to my room. What a jerk. At least the lady came visit me and she gave me this cool book about planes and airship The rest is just boring tests and stuff. I kinda miss your story times but it is only 5 more days until your visit right. I can't wait for it Sincerely, Timothy P.S: I almost forgot this but there is a new kid. They locked her in a special room with a big cyan door, I can't see anything beside guards come to deliver foods but Satomi swear she saw some blue sparks under the door two nights ago ---------- This is my first writing here and I'm not a native English speaker so please point out every mistakes I've made	“Bro, road trips with you suck.” “I said I was sorry.” “You can’t control this?” “I already told you no.” “We’ve been in traffic for three hours.” “I said I was sorry.” “Why does this happen?” “Storm born.” “You weren’t ‘Storm-born,” dude, you were ‘traffic jam born’.” “I don’t make the rules.” “You can’t clear this up? Maybe you could make traffic slow someplace else and all these people will be stuck over there.” “The governor of New Jersey got in trouble last time I did that. I don’t care to be indicted again.” “We should’ve taken the train or something.” “I’m not allowed in airports.” “It causes hold ups there too?” “No.” “Then why-“ “I don’t want to talk about it.” “Kay.” “I spy with my-“ “Dude. No.” “Fine, do we have any more Twizzlers?” “In the back. You’ll have to climb.” “It’s cool. You want any?” “Yeah, man.” “I got you.”
[WP] A phenomena begins to occur where newborn babies are found amidst the aftermath of natural disasters. Tsunamis, avalanches, wild fires, destructive lightning storms, etc. These 'Storm-Born' humans grow up with powers based on the disasters that birthed them.	"The man you seek is not a Storm-Born, he is something else entirely." Desmond said to the meeting of investigative operations for the natural-supernatural. Many of the operators present were themselves blessed with the gift of the destructive forces of the earth. People whose souls blazed like volcanoes and wildfires, whose will-power struck down those who stood against them with a flash. These were people who understood they were special, that they had talents most human beings could scarcely dream of. They weren't outcasts from society, they were the policy makers, the guides of the institutions. To be Storm-Born was to be blessed with the soul of nature's most fearsome events, to be unyielding and command attention. Desmond's words commanded attention as the director addressed the latest issue to arise. "This man, the man in the gray suit, he comes and he goes across cities and towns and do you know what he leaves behind him?" There was silence in the room, just a myriad of brilliantly colored eyes staring at the director. "He leaves death, rot. Where he steps the ground is poisoned, the grass withers and dies. The flesh of those around him burns and turns necrotic. The places he passes through are forever marked, and he brings ruin to those who encounter him. Have you ever seen a ruined place? A place that cannot be rebuilt?" "Are we not all cursed with the power of destruction?" A red-haired woman, whose voice was tinged with ashen skyfall and choked air. "Are we not all cursed to be able to burn and destroy? If this man is rogue, then we must confront him. Command him to stop using his powers, or destroy him if he refuses. We have agency here." Desmond hated how blunt his fellow Storm-Born could be, how cocky and convinced of their ability. Many of them felt chosen to rule based upon the idea that nature had somehow selected them as a superior breed of humans, that they were tasked with finally controlling the last of nature's raw power. "You say he is not Storm-Born, but his powers over the earth, to corrupt the soul and rot man, could only be natural. However divined, we must determine where he came from and act appropriately." "I know where he is from." Desmond replied. "But you aren't going to believe it, because it defies convention. And it makes him special, more special than us." "We are the storm, the seas, and fires that burn the earth. We can handle what you tell us." Desmond cleared his throat. "No natural disaster cannot be recovered from, after every fire, flood, or hurricane, nature can regroup and rebuilt. Life can spring up anew, even from under mounds of volcanic ash. We are all still connected to the cycle of life. This person, this suited man, his name is Rodzhaevsky. And he is death." Desmond took another sip of coffee and cleared his throat. "Those who found him did not live long. They did not raise him, he doesn't remember them. They were fighting lethal fires, and they got too deep. The newborn was sleeping peacefully in a circle of black stone, the taste of metal in the air." "We have many people who are of the fires, many uncontrollable souls. Unpredictable. We can handle him." The red-haired woman replied. "Rodzahevsky was born of an unnatural disaster. A very human disaster. An infant formed out of the molten corium of the Chernobyl powerplant in 1986, passed from family to family as each would sicken and die of cancers. He grew up without anyone staying in his life long enough to guide him, to help him understand just what he was. But now he knows, and we can watch his path of annihilation unfold in real-time." "If we kill him, then this matter is resolved." "Can you kill all of them?" "I beg your pardon?" "Can you kill Rodzhaevsky of Pripyat, Margaret of Love Canal, or Manzar of Bhopal? What about Walther, born 3,000 meters under the Atlantic in a vat of Mercury? Can you stop all of them? Kill all of them? Because they just keep appearing, each day another comes of age and realizes the capabilities of their powers. Powers that end of the cycle of life instead of perpetuating it." The room was silent as the gravity of the situation set in. No longer were men and women born just with the spirits of natural disasters, but those who embraced all of humanity's penchant for destruction and poison were being born as well.	The woman was confused. She spoke little english, but she was not stupid. That baby had to belong to someone. The cops had escorted the shooter away. The bodies were covered now. She had given her statement in Spanish to a translator who just HAD to check her papers one more time. ICE was not showing up here today. Bad press. Which was good, because even her legitimate visa was no guarantee here. &#x200B; Still, why was everyone ignoring the baby? A little girl, wrapped in a police blanket. Not crying. Just lying there in the middle of the mall floor. She stood up and walked over to the child. No one noticed her. No one stopped her. Not the news people, not the gawking crying bystanders. &#x200B; She bent down and nudged the child to make sure she was alive. So silent. So calm. When her hand brushed the child's face, the baby smiled and grabbed her finger. Her face was wrinkled, her mouth empty of teeth. &#x200B; Was this a new born? What the heck? Something settled in her and she acted. She picked the child up... Still nothing. Just a warm little body pressed up against her chest, cradling her finger. Holding tight with the simeon strength of freshly hatched humans. &#x200B; She reminded her a bit of her own daughter. Back in Chile. &#x200B; Before she knew it, she was past the cordon and standing next to her car. No one had interfered. &#x200B; The keys found their way into her hand. And soon she was pulling out of the parking lot and rolling out onto the street. It was night now. Lights vanishing in the distance behind her. The heat of the El Paso day vanishing into space. &#x200B; When she got back to her apartment, the world shifted again. There on the table was an infant. Most likely abducted by her, a foreigner. The child stared at her with a quiet intensity. Expectantly. &#x200B; Food. &#x200B; It had been 20 years since she had breast fed her own child. Her breasts were now strictly for entertainment and inconvenience as far as she was concerned. But the child had to eat. That must be what those dark eyes were saying to her. &#x200B; She found herself again with the child in her arms knocking at the neighbors door. Gloria answered, the sound of her own children and the television creeping through the door behind her. The woman was from Cuba on her father's side. Everyone spoke some Espanol in El Paso. Gloria was no exception. &#x200B; "I saw it all on the TV, those poor people." &#x200B; "It happens. Hey, listen, I need your help..." &#x200B; "I know, I'll pay you back for last months rent..." &#x200B; "No not that.... this" &#x200B; Gloria looked down and suddenly noticed the child in her arms... &#x200B; "Your grand daughter?" &#x200B; "She's hungry." &#x200B; "I... oh... Okay" &#x200B; Gloria's youngest, her son was asleep in his own cot, finally. Comforted by the noise of his brothers playing video games. She ushered in the woman and the child and sat down on the couch considering the baby before her. &#x200B; "She's tiny..." she said suspiciously removing her bra strap. and lifting her shirt. &#x200B; "And hungry!" Gloria exclaimed. &#x200B; They shared a smile and then the TV caught Gloria's eye. The woman got on her phone and began scrolling through her news feed. &#x200B; Maybe there would be a story about this child... that someone had lost in a storm of bullets....
[WP] A phenomena begins to occur where newborn babies are found amidst the aftermath of natural disasters. Tsunamis, avalanches, wild fires, destructive lightning storms, etc. These 'Storm-Born' humans grow up with powers based on the disasters that birthed them.	“So, do we have a deal?” I looked up from the documents, my eyes narrowed slightly as I looked at the man across from me. To call him rodent like would be a grave insult to the species. Yet the similarities were there: narrow beady eyes barely concealing his hunger, a long thing nose that sniffed the air for profit and opportunity, a small mouth filled with sharp teeth, the general air of a scavenger. From the beginning I did not like dealing with this man. Something about him reeked of desperation, of a clever mind that preyed on those less clever, a hunger that would never be sated. Yet the deal was enticing. A considerable investment that could provide considerable rewards if everything went well. I have made worse investments in the past with less than desired results, and ones that seemed safe at the time turned out to be very poor indeed. I also have worked with those where the outcomes were far from sure, yet I trusted the person and it turned out well in the end. However I did not trust this person and the deal only looked good, it did not feel safe nor sound. However it was tempting, just the push to help my other investments and push projects along. I read the document again, looking for a sign that would push my decision in either direction. So lost in my thoughts it took a few moments for me to notice a tugging at my side. Looking down my smile became sincere as I stared into the emerald eyes of my daughter. “Why hello there little one,” I said warmly, kneeling down where our eyes met on the same plane. “What can I do for you?” The other man glared at her, eyes turning feral and angry but I dismissed his gaze easily. “I need to talk to you,” she replied. Her voice was soft and low, her tone she takes when strangers were around. “Please.” “Go away little girl,” the man said with ill disguised impatience. “Your father and I are talking and you’re bothering us.” He wilted underneath my stare. “I beg your pardon sir,” I said not wanting any of it at all, “you are a guest in my home. This is my daughter and you will not tell her to go anywhere. If she needs to speak to me then she needs to speak with me, with no word from you. You would do well to learn this if we are to do business together.” I smiled inwardly at his seething resentment and turned back to my girl. “Go on then McKenzie, what can I do for you?” Her verdant green eyes sparkled for a moment before they sobered. “I don’t feel good about this,” she said seriously, touching the documents in my hand. “They don’t feel right.” I ignored the man’s scoff of disbelief. “They don’t?” I asked her seriously. “You feel that way?” She shook her head. “No they don’t, they feel bad. Taste bad too.” “Really now!” the rat-like man exclaimed. “You have no idea what you’re talking about you little-“ I rose to my height, bringing my girl up with me in my arms. She buried her head in my neck and I pointed at the man with a finger extended. His eyes drawn to it like it was the point of a blade. “Enough sir,” I said angrily, my own displeasure rising to the surface. “You will not speak that way to anyone in my home, especially my girl. She has gifts you lack and I take everything she says seriously.” “Everything?” He rolled his eyes incredulously. “She is a child, what gifts can she have that anyone doesn’t? Don’t tell me that the great Nathaniel Lee, the premier producer and investor, listens to the words of children for work? Even a “storm-tossed” brat that’s not related to you?” Immediately he knew he said too much. His features paled as my reddened and his mouth opened to squeal insincere platitudes. “You go too far,” I said simply but my heart roared with hate. “My daughter is my daughter, I chose to adopt her and she is no “storm-tossed brat” nor is she a calamity, or any other slight or insult you want to throw at her. It is for her sake that I don’t throw you out on your rear. Our business is done for today.” I threw the papers onto the table and pointed at the door. “If I were you I would leave and pray that my temper subsides before I make a decision.” His mouth opened again and I let my facade crack a little, showing the dangerous glint in my eyes. “Or shall I show you how it feels to be tossed literally and physically?” He left with poor grace, muttering curses and it felt good to slam the door in his face. He was not wrong, my daughter wasn’t my biological daughter but I loved her no differently than if she was. She was one of the so called “storm born”, children found in sites of great natural disasters. For years now children were found mysteriously at such sites: avalanches, earthquakes, wild fires, volcanic eruptions, all sorts. Many thought they were blessed survivors but some thing that they are literally born from such events and natural disasters. McKenzie was found in the remains of a horrific lightning storm. One that raged for almost 24 hours. The bolts of lightnings and booms of thunder had caused such damage to a swathe of land, including the central power hub and data repository for many investment firms and stock trading. The storm had caused a mini financial collapse that effected thousands of people. She was found wailing in the debris and many wanted nothing to do with her. Most considered her bad luck with such a storm that birthed her. Yet I adopted her. Seeing her alone broke my heart and I took her in. As she grew I made sure she had a happy home and watched for the talents and gifts that other storm born seemed to have. She was faster than others her age, and many years older, and she could literally make sparks fly. Yet I found that she had one special power that none could have foreseen. A few days later we watched the news together and I showed poor parenting by smirking at the rat faced man being arrested on national television. Her feelings were correct, the man ran a very business and was being arrested for countless charges of fraud and laundering and many other legal atrocities. As my daughter grew I learned that while she had some powers doing with lightning, she had the strangest sense for shady business and inflated prides. Apparently the hub was called “National Pride Investing” and like it’s name it was built in a very bad location. Storms were common in that area but the owners of the business showed particular arrogance and built there, challenging Nature and the Heavens. Somehow my daughter developed very minor storm powers compared to other storm born, but possessed a particularly unique trait. I grunted slightly as she climbed onto my lap, smiling with just the right amount of child-like smugness. “Guess I was right again.” “You sure were,” I praised hugging her. “You saved me a good amount of money.” “So does that mean the money is mine?” I pretended to think deeply, stroking my chin with mock severity. “It depends on what you want to spend it on. Is it a sound investment?” She opened her eyes wide, innocence replacing latent greed. “Ice cream?” “That is a sound investment,” I said somberly and rose with her in my arms. She giggled and wiggled while I tickled her. “Let us go make the investment a priority my darling.”	The woman was confused. She spoke little english, but she was not stupid. That baby had to belong to someone. The cops had escorted the shooter away. The bodies were covered now. She had given her statement in Spanish to a translator who just HAD to check her papers one more time. ICE was not showing up here today. Bad press. Which was good, because even her legitimate visa was no guarantee here. &#x200B; Still, why was everyone ignoring the baby? A little girl, wrapped in a police blanket. Not crying. Just lying there in the middle of the mall floor. She stood up and walked over to the child. No one noticed her. No one stopped her. Not the news people, not the gawking crying bystanders. &#x200B; She bent down and nudged the child to make sure she was alive. So silent. So calm. When her hand brushed the child's face, the baby smiled and grabbed her finger. Her face was wrinkled, her mouth empty of teeth. &#x200B; Was this a new born? What the heck? Something settled in her and she acted. She picked the child up... Still nothing. Just a warm little body pressed up against her chest, cradling her finger. Holding tight with the simeon strength of freshly hatched humans. &#x200B; She reminded her a bit of her own daughter. Back in Chile. &#x200B; Before she knew it, she was past the cordon and standing next to her car. No one had interfered. &#x200B; The keys found their way into her hand. And soon she was pulling out of the parking lot and rolling out onto the street. It was night now. Lights vanishing in the distance behind her. The heat of the El Paso day vanishing into space. &#x200B; When she got back to her apartment, the world shifted again. There on the table was an infant. Most likely abducted by her, a foreigner. The child stared at her with a quiet intensity. Expectantly. &#x200B; Food. &#x200B; It had been 20 years since she had breast fed her own child. Her breasts were now strictly for entertainment and inconvenience as far as she was concerned. But the child had to eat. That must be what those dark eyes were saying to her. &#x200B; She found herself again with the child in her arms knocking at the neighbors door. Gloria answered, the sound of her own children and the television creeping through the door behind her. The woman was from Cuba on her father's side. Everyone spoke some Espanol in El Paso. Gloria was no exception. &#x200B; "I saw it all on the TV, those poor people." &#x200B; "It happens. Hey, listen, I need your help..." &#x200B; "I know, I'll pay you back for last months rent..." &#x200B; "No not that.... this" &#x200B; Gloria looked down and suddenly noticed the child in her arms... &#x200B; "Your grand daughter?" &#x200B; "She's hungry." &#x200B; "I... oh... Okay" &#x200B; Gloria's youngest, her son was asleep in his own cot, finally. Comforted by the noise of his brothers playing video games. She ushered in the woman and the child and sat down on the couch considering the baby before her. &#x200B; "She's tiny..." she said suspiciously removing her bra strap. and lifting her shirt. &#x200B; "And hungry!" Gloria exclaimed. &#x200B; They shared a smile and then the TV caught Gloria's eye. The woman got on her phone and began scrolling through her news feed. &#x200B; Maybe there would be a story about this child... that someone had lost in a storm of bullets....
[WP] A phenomena begins to occur where newborn babies are found amidst the aftermath of natural disasters. Tsunamis, avalanches, wild fires, destructive lightning storms, etc. These 'Storm-Born' humans grow up with powers based on the disasters that birthed them.	‘Meghan, we’ll be late!’ Cynthia’s voice had that tone of angry desperation that made me want to throw something against the wall. I sat on my bed, taking one last look at my attic sanctuary. I liked it here. I recognized Cynthia’s careful steps climbing up the stairs. I knew she would pause somewhere in the middle, pondering did she have enough strength to face that little monster upstairs - aka me. After a moment the stairs started creaking again. She was a tough one – I had to give her that. ‘Meghan?’ She paused to knock on the door. I didn’t respond. When she entered Cynthia had a tortured face that matched her desperate voice. ‘We have to catch the plane, sweetheart.’ I saw the look of relief that crossed her face when she saw my suitcases were packed. I had a system – I kept my small pink suitcase always ready and kept it by the door in case I decided to disappear but it took me almost a weekend to pack the big one. The brown leather was covered in stickers – a testament of my numerous ‘new beginnings’ that sooner or later ended in tragedy. ‘I don’t want to go to a new school!’ I growled. ‘I want to stay here.’ I wasn’t a fool to think my disagreement might change anything, I was just venting my frustration. Dr. Marcuss said I should vocalize my emotions as much as I can or we all knew what might happen. ‘I’m sorry, sweetheart.’ Cynthia tried to take my hand but I snatched it away. ‘You’ll love it there.’ I crossed my arms on my chest. ‘It’s what you said for the last three schools.’ Cynthia sighed, her hands balled into fists by her side. I knew she was hanging on a fine thread – all of this ‘Meghan, sweetheart’ was just an act. They wanted to get rid of me. It was obvious when they found that fancy boarding school in Europe that obviously costed enough money to sign a contract that they’d keep me for the next four years with no questions asked. ‘You could have let me stay with aunt Mary,’ I said accusingly. Cynthia had enough of me. ‘She is not your aunt.’ Her green eyes flickered with cruelty I saw too many times. ‘You’re not my mother either, Cynthia!’ I snapped. The windows on my room started rattling and I enjoyed the frightened look on Cynthia’s face. ‘You little monster!’ She cried rushing for the door. One flicker of my wrist and the doors slammed shut in her face. ‘A monster?’ I gasped in fake surprise as the window shutters kept slamming against the wall. The wind picked up and the entire house was now shaking. Cynthia was shaking too. ‘Jack!’ She cried. ‘Jack!’ My stepfather was already outside my door. I knew he would start running as soon as he felt the wind. I also knew he wouldn’t interfere until I called him in. ‘Megs, please!’ He said. There was something about his voice that made me find a calm island inside of me. A few words from him could do more than a hundred sessions with Dr. Marcus and all the pills in this world. I wish he was home more often. In the next moment, he was sitting on the bed next to me while Cinthia was probably hyperventilating somewhere in the car. ‘I know you’re mad,’ he said. ‘I don’t want to go, Jack.’ My eyes were burning. I prayed to God I don’t start crying now. ‘I don’t want to let you go either, Megs, but this is what is best for you.’ He said. ‘This is what is best for Cynthia,’ I snapped. I regretted my words the moment I saw sorry his eyes softening in pain. The wind had stopped and the room was quiet. ‘You know how much I love you Megs,’ he said. I was looking away but I knew his eyes were smiling now and I knew every one of his words was true. ‘But this isn’t the place for you. I knew you were special the night we found you. You were the sweetest little girl in the world.’ I snorted. Jack took my hand. ‘Look at me Megs,’ he said and I turned to him. ‘I found you a good school. It’s not about the subjects you’ll be studying – you’re a smart girl and I know you’d do well in any place in the world. But I believe you’ll find people there who are more like you, people who will understand and love you as much as I do.’ ‘You mean freaks?’ I grinned. This was the fourth school we had to change because I was not quite like the other kids. There were storms raging around me whenever my temper got out of control. I tried to ignore it, Jack tried to ignore it, we all did everything we could but with every new town and every new school sooner or later came a moment when I lost it and someone got hurt. ‘You are not a freak. You’re special and there is an entire school full of children like you.’ I was staring at Jack frightened and relieved in the same breath. The choice had been made already but I still needed a few minutes to let go of this house. I finally stood up when Cynthia's honking became unsoportable. Jack took my suitcases and closed the door behind him. ‘Jack,’ I suddenly stopped. He instantly dropped both suitcases, his attention fully on me. I liked that about Jack. He wasn’t my real dad but I think my real dad would have been just as nice and caring. ‘Will you call me sometimes?’ I asked, staring at my feet. ‘I mean to tell him how everything is going and things.’ Jack took my hand. ‘I’m here for you, Megs. Always. Just call me and I’ll fly over there in no time.’ He took my bags and followed me down the stairs. So I was going to a school with a bunch of freaks like me who can make storms and destroy things. I grinned. Maybe I won’t have to run away this time. r/CrystalElmTales	The woman was confused. She spoke little english, but she was not stupid. That baby had to belong to someone. The cops had escorted the shooter away. The bodies were covered now. She had given her statement in Spanish to a translator who just HAD to check her papers one more time. ICE was not showing up here today. Bad press. Which was good, because even her legitimate visa was no guarantee here. &#x200B; Still, why was everyone ignoring the baby? A little girl, wrapped in a police blanket. Not crying. Just lying there in the middle of the mall floor. She stood up and walked over to the child. No one noticed her. No one stopped her. Not the news people, not the gawking crying bystanders. &#x200B; She bent down and nudged the child to make sure she was alive. So silent. So calm. When her hand brushed the child's face, the baby smiled and grabbed her finger. Her face was wrinkled, her mouth empty of teeth. &#x200B; Was this a new born? What the heck? Something settled in her and she acted. She picked the child up... Still nothing. Just a warm little body pressed up against her chest, cradling her finger. Holding tight with the simeon strength of freshly hatched humans. &#x200B; She reminded her a bit of her own daughter. Back in Chile. &#x200B; Before she knew it, she was past the cordon and standing next to her car. No one had interfered. &#x200B; The keys found their way into her hand. And soon she was pulling out of the parking lot and rolling out onto the street. It was night now. Lights vanishing in the distance behind her. The heat of the El Paso day vanishing into space. &#x200B; When she got back to her apartment, the world shifted again. There on the table was an infant. Most likely abducted by her, a foreigner. The child stared at her with a quiet intensity. Expectantly. &#x200B; Food. &#x200B; It had been 20 years since she had breast fed her own child. Her breasts were now strictly for entertainment and inconvenience as far as she was concerned. But the child had to eat. That must be what those dark eyes were saying to her. &#x200B; She found herself again with the child in her arms knocking at the neighbors door. Gloria answered, the sound of her own children and the television creeping through the door behind her. The woman was from Cuba on her father's side. Everyone spoke some Espanol in El Paso. Gloria was no exception. &#x200B; "I saw it all on the TV, those poor people." &#x200B; "It happens. Hey, listen, I need your help..." &#x200B; "I know, I'll pay you back for last months rent..." &#x200B; "No not that.... this" &#x200B; Gloria looked down and suddenly noticed the child in her arms... &#x200B; "Your grand daughter?" &#x200B; "She's hungry." &#x200B; "I... oh... Okay" &#x200B; Gloria's youngest, her son was asleep in his own cot, finally. Comforted by the noise of his brothers playing video games. She ushered in the woman and the child and sat down on the couch considering the baby before her. &#x200B; "She's tiny..." she said suspiciously removing her bra strap. and lifting her shirt. &#x200B; "And hungry!" Gloria exclaimed. &#x200B; They shared a smile and then the TV caught Gloria's eye. The woman got on her phone and began scrolling through her news feed. &#x200B; Maybe there would be a story about this child... that someone had lost in a storm of bullets....
[WP] A phenomena begins to occur where newborn babies are found amidst the aftermath of natural disasters. Tsunamis, avalanches, wild fires, destructive lightning storms, etc. These 'Storm-Born' humans grow up with powers based on the disasters that birthed them.	Dear Dr.Anderson It has been the fourth day at the new facility and I am enjoying everything so far. Although the new researcher is more strict than you, he has a ridiculously long and thin moustache. Me and Iris could not stop laughing because every time he said: Good day kids, because you'll never know what time is it down here. His moustache keep on wiggling in the air. Oh and speaking of Iris, she is getting better at controlling her flame. She can even makes them slowly bloom like flowers. The guards don't seem to enjoy it, one guy even points at the fire extinguisher but luckily the other guy disagree. Eric and Satomi keep fighting each other and we still have no idea how to stop them. However, last night Satomi somehow activated the fire alarm in Eric's room and he was completely soak in water. He didn't say anything to her this morning but in lunchtime, I saw him walk pass her and everything in her food tray just dry up instantly. I think they've started a prank war. I had to lend Eric my clothes and Iris had to share her lunch so I don't think anyone wining here. Also there is a very kind lady in the library. She even let me borrowed some paper. She seem very surprised when I made those paper planes fly. But then a guard just came out of nowhere and pulled me back to my room. What a jerk. At least the lady came visit me and she gave me this cool book about planes and airship The rest is just boring tests and stuff. I kinda miss your story times but it is only 5 more days until your visit right. I can't wait for it Sincerely, Timothy P.S: I almost forgot this but there is a new kid. They locked her in a special room with a big cyan door, I can't see anything beside guards come to deliver foods but Satomi swear she saw some blue sparks under the door two nights ago ---------- This is my first writing here and I'm not a native English speaker so please point out every mistakes I've made	The woman was confused. She spoke little english, but she was not stupid. That baby had to belong to someone. The cops had escorted the shooter away. The bodies were covered now. She had given her statement in Spanish to a translator who just HAD to check her papers one more time. ICE was not showing up here today. Bad press. Which was good, because even her legitimate visa was no guarantee here. &#x200B; Still, why was everyone ignoring the baby? A little girl, wrapped in a police blanket. Not crying. Just lying there in the middle of the mall floor. She stood up and walked over to the child. No one noticed her. No one stopped her. Not the news people, not the gawking crying bystanders. &#x200B; She bent down and nudged the child to make sure she was alive. So silent. So calm. When her hand brushed the child's face, the baby smiled and grabbed her finger. Her face was wrinkled, her mouth empty of teeth. &#x200B; Was this a new born? What the heck? Something settled in her and she acted. She picked the child up... Still nothing. Just a warm little body pressed up against her chest, cradling her finger. Holding tight with the simeon strength of freshly hatched humans. &#x200B; She reminded her a bit of her own daughter. Back in Chile. &#x200B; Before she knew it, she was past the cordon and standing next to her car. No one had interfered. &#x200B; The keys found their way into her hand. And soon she was pulling out of the parking lot and rolling out onto the street. It was night now. Lights vanishing in the distance behind her. The heat of the El Paso day vanishing into space. &#x200B; When she got back to her apartment, the world shifted again. There on the table was an infant. Most likely abducted by her, a foreigner. The child stared at her with a quiet intensity. Expectantly. &#x200B; Food. &#x200B; It had been 20 years since she had breast fed her own child. Her breasts were now strictly for entertainment and inconvenience as far as she was concerned. But the child had to eat. That must be what those dark eyes were saying to her. &#x200B; She found herself again with the child in her arms knocking at the neighbors door. Gloria answered, the sound of her own children and the television creeping through the door behind her. The woman was from Cuba on her father's side. Everyone spoke some Espanol in El Paso. Gloria was no exception. &#x200B; "I saw it all on the TV, those poor people." &#x200B; "It happens. Hey, listen, I need your help..." &#x200B; "I know, I'll pay you back for last months rent..." &#x200B; "No not that.... this" &#x200B; Gloria looked down and suddenly noticed the child in her arms... &#x200B; "Your grand daughter?" &#x200B; "She's hungry." &#x200B; "I... oh... Okay" &#x200B; Gloria's youngest, her son was asleep in his own cot, finally. Comforted by the noise of his brothers playing video games. She ushered in the woman and the child and sat down on the couch considering the baby before her. &#x200B; "She's tiny..." she said suspiciously removing her bra strap. and lifting her shirt. &#x200B; "And hungry!" Gloria exclaimed. &#x200B; They shared a smile and then the TV caught Gloria's eye. The woman got on her phone and began scrolling through her news feed. &#x200B; Maybe there would be a story about this child... that someone had lost in a storm of bullets....
[WP] A phenomena begins to occur where newborn babies are found amidst the aftermath of natural disasters. Tsunamis, avalanches, wild fires, destructive lightning storms, etc. These 'Storm-Born' humans grow up with powers based on the disasters that birthed them.	Scientists have been baffled by the discovery of the Stormborns 30 years ago. I've never met one myself but I was there when the first Stormborn was found. I was a volunteer when a wildfire came over California. It took us days to completely extinguish the fire. Sometimes I imagine if the baby would have been found if I hadn't been there. I remember hearing a baby crying while walking amidst the smoke of the forest. It was night. I remember being confused and calling out for the others. I never got to hold her but I still saw her. They found her within the ashes. It was deemed a miracle all over the world. A baby had survived a forest fire. It was very poetic when I thought about it. Eighteen people were taken away, but one was given back. "Breaking news..." The TV snap me back to reality. I was at home. When was Alex getting home. I think about calling him but I was too tired to look for my phone. "It's been confirmed by officials. The organisation known as the Chrysanthemums were behind the manmade avalanche that caused the death of hundreds of people in Turkey..." The Chrysanthemums, they're at it again. A terrorist organization hellbent on causing manmade disasters to create Stormborns by their will. Once they were done, they'd look for a Stormborn within the ruins of what they've created and raise the baby themselves. They'd train them to do with what they will. It was disgusting. The avalanche on Turkey was one of their attacks three days ago. They were ready to sacrifice hundreds of people for one Stormborn. It was terrifying. I might need to call Alex. "... with the baby found in Russia after the earthquake, that makes 97 Stormborns. The authorities are preparing to find the next location the Chrysanthemums will strike given how important the 99th Stormborn..." Oh yes, of course. The Chrysanthemums believe the 99th baby will be humanity's savior. Just like the first one, Phoenix, he will be born of ashes and smoke. I didn't know if I believed it. I grab the remote and try to turn off the channel. I was trying to relax and the news just made me more nervous. I change it into some kind of a UN press conference. "We have good news, the Chrysanthemums didn't find a Stormborn baby in Turkey." I put the remote down. At least, there were good news. "How can we be sure of that?", a journalist asked. "Because we found him. We tried to keep our findings secret until the baby was safely transported to keep-" "Is the baby a Stormborn?", another journalist started. "Yes. The tests have been done. The baby is a Stormborn. We predict the child to gain cryokinesis..." The speaker tried to finish his sentence when the journalists started asking more questions. I stand up. All this baby talk is making me concerned for mine. I try to feel it in my stomach. It's been a day since I've felt him kick. I'm not due for another month. I need air. I step outside the balcony to breathe. I remember urban air isn't that refreshing. The sun was setting but the skyscrapers blocked the view. I stand there for minutes. I try to hear the howling in the air from the traffic down below. That was lot of honking horns. I feel a wave of panic. I open the door to the inside. That's when I hear it. There was that high pitched ringing tone from the TV. The one you hear during an emergency evacuation I hear a robotic voice from it. Something's happening. I feel dread. "Take shelter immediately. This is not a drill. Repeat: This is not a drill. An enemy attack is being launched against the United States. Take shelter immediately and stay tuned to this frequency for further instructions." I need to call Alex. How long has this been repeating? The last thing I remember was a flash of light outside and the crying of a baby.	The woman was confused. She spoke little english, but she was not stupid. That baby had to belong to someone. The cops had escorted the shooter away. The bodies were covered now. She had given her statement in Spanish to a translator who just HAD to check her papers one more time. ICE was not showing up here today. Bad press. Which was good, because even her legitimate visa was no guarantee here. &#x200B; Still, why was everyone ignoring the baby? A little girl, wrapped in a police blanket. Not crying. Just lying there in the middle of the mall floor. She stood up and walked over to the child. No one noticed her. No one stopped her. Not the news people, not the gawking crying bystanders. &#x200B; She bent down and nudged the child to make sure she was alive. So silent. So calm. When her hand brushed the child's face, the baby smiled and grabbed her finger. Her face was wrinkled, her mouth empty of teeth. &#x200B; Was this a new born? What the heck? Something settled in her and she acted. She picked the child up... Still nothing. Just a warm little body pressed up against her chest, cradling her finger. Holding tight with the simeon strength of freshly hatched humans. &#x200B; She reminded her a bit of her own daughter. Back in Chile. &#x200B; Before she knew it, she was past the cordon and standing next to her car. No one had interfered. &#x200B; The keys found their way into her hand. And soon she was pulling out of the parking lot and rolling out onto the street. It was night now. Lights vanishing in the distance behind her. The heat of the El Paso day vanishing into space. &#x200B; When she got back to her apartment, the world shifted again. There on the table was an infant. Most likely abducted by her, a foreigner. The child stared at her with a quiet intensity. Expectantly. &#x200B; Food. &#x200B; It had been 20 years since she had breast fed her own child. Her breasts were now strictly for entertainment and inconvenience as far as she was concerned. But the child had to eat. That must be what those dark eyes were saying to her. &#x200B; She found herself again with the child in her arms knocking at the neighbors door. Gloria answered, the sound of her own children and the television creeping through the door behind her. The woman was from Cuba on her father's side. Everyone spoke some Espanol in El Paso. Gloria was no exception. &#x200B; "I saw it all on the TV, those poor people." &#x200B; "It happens. Hey, listen, I need your help..." &#x200B; "I know, I'll pay you back for last months rent..." &#x200B; "No not that.... this" &#x200B; Gloria looked down and suddenly noticed the child in her arms... &#x200B; "Your grand daughter?" &#x200B; "She's hungry." &#x200B; "I... oh... Okay" &#x200B; Gloria's youngest, her son was asleep in his own cot, finally. Comforted by the noise of his brothers playing video games. She ushered in the woman and the child and sat down on the couch considering the baby before her. &#x200B; "She's tiny..." she said suspiciously removing her bra strap. and lifting her shirt. &#x200B; "And hungry!" Gloria exclaimed. &#x200B; They shared a smile and then the TV caught Gloria's eye. The woman got on her phone and began scrolling through her news feed. &#x200B; Maybe there would be a story about this child... that someone had lost in a storm of bullets....
[WP] A phenomena begins to occur where newborn babies are found amidst the aftermath of natural disasters. Tsunamis, avalanches, wild fires, destructive lightning storms, etc. These 'Storm-Born' humans grow up with powers based on the disasters that birthed them.	The bell rang, the children awoke, the teachers prepared their classrooms and The Matron watched through her many surveillance cameras. Her attention was focused, today, on three children. Their files lay open beside her. Ignis Premogen, twelve, found nestled amongst the ashes of the Great Fire, a wildfire that ravaged Canada. Floctus Premogen, ten, found floating happily amongst the driftwood of the Great Wave, a tsunami that destroyed much of Japan. Contrem Premogen, thirteen, found hidden in the rubble of a fallen building after the Great Quake, an earthquake that threatened to tear Taiwan in half. The children, found as babies, were taken in by various families until their powers began to shine. At the age of six, Ignis set the shirt of her school's bully alight. Floctus made the water of her favourite pool rise up and flow over her pesky brother. Contrem got so angry he made the ground shake and sink below his own mother. Well, we have our ways of knowing things that must be known, of finding people who must be found. Contrem's parents reported what happened to the news, in some ill-concieved grab at fame, and they were mightily surprised when their troubled son didn't return home from the interview that never was. Floctus, we nabbed from the sea when she went swimming on a little family holiday - they most certainly believe her to be drowned. And Ignis, well, one day she simply vanished from the house she had set fully ablaze. Everyone was far too concentrated on the fire to notice our humble van slowly roll past. To see the doors open and shut as some small, limp figure was shoved inside. Ah, The Matron thought to herself, it surely isn't very nice to speak of these children so coldly. But we, we are doing God's work. Why will we have to pour so much money, so many men, into our army when we have a battalion of feisty young adults, each with the power to destroy whole nations? Never again will soldiers return home from war, with broken bodies and shattered minds. Never again will multi-country wars break out, stealing the lives of thousands, millions, all too quickly. Never again will freedom be supressed, will free speech be quietened, will the leftists complain. We will nourish these young ones, nurture them, feed them the truth - our truth. And when they have grown, when they understand that our nation is the nation to save all others, that must intervene and stop the bloody wars, then we may begin. The world will tremble at the sight of them, at the sight of the beautiful flag that they carry, and it will all start with those three. Ignis. Floctus. Contrem.	The woman was confused. She spoke little english, but she was not stupid. That baby had to belong to someone. The cops had escorted the shooter away. The bodies were covered now. She had given her statement in Spanish to a translator who just HAD to check her papers one more time. ICE was not showing up here today. Bad press. Which was good, because even her legitimate visa was no guarantee here. &#x200B; Still, why was everyone ignoring the baby? A little girl, wrapped in a police blanket. Not crying. Just lying there in the middle of the mall floor. She stood up and walked over to the child. No one noticed her. No one stopped her. Not the news people, not the gawking crying bystanders. &#x200B; She bent down and nudged the child to make sure she was alive. So silent. So calm. When her hand brushed the child's face, the baby smiled and grabbed her finger. Her face was wrinkled, her mouth empty of teeth. &#x200B; Was this a new born? What the heck? Something settled in her and she acted. She picked the child up... Still nothing. Just a warm little body pressed up against her chest, cradling her finger. Holding tight with the simeon strength of freshly hatched humans. &#x200B; She reminded her a bit of her own daughter. Back in Chile. &#x200B; Before she knew it, she was past the cordon and standing next to her car. No one had interfered. &#x200B; The keys found their way into her hand. And soon she was pulling out of the parking lot and rolling out onto the street. It was night now. Lights vanishing in the distance behind her. The heat of the El Paso day vanishing into space. &#x200B; When she got back to her apartment, the world shifted again. There on the table was an infant. Most likely abducted by her, a foreigner. The child stared at her with a quiet intensity. Expectantly. &#x200B; Food. &#x200B; It had been 20 years since she had breast fed her own child. Her breasts were now strictly for entertainment and inconvenience as far as she was concerned. But the child had to eat. That must be what those dark eyes were saying to her. &#x200B; She found herself again with the child in her arms knocking at the neighbors door. Gloria answered, the sound of her own children and the television creeping through the door behind her. The woman was from Cuba on her father's side. Everyone spoke some Espanol in El Paso. Gloria was no exception. &#x200B; "I saw it all on the TV, those poor people." &#x200B; "It happens. Hey, listen, I need your help..." &#x200B; "I know, I'll pay you back for last months rent..." &#x200B; "No not that.... this" &#x200B; Gloria looked down and suddenly noticed the child in her arms... &#x200B; "Your grand daughter?" &#x200B; "She's hungry." &#x200B; "I... oh... Okay" &#x200B; Gloria's youngest, her son was asleep in his own cot, finally. Comforted by the noise of his brothers playing video games. She ushered in the woman and the child and sat down on the couch considering the baby before her. &#x200B; "She's tiny..." she said suspiciously removing her bra strap. and lifting her shirt. &#x200B; "And hungry!" Gloria exclaimed. &#x200B; They shared a smile and then the TV caught Gloria's eye. The woman got on her phone and began scrolling through her news feed. &#x200B; Maybe there would be a story about this child... that someone had lost in a storm of bullets....
[WP] A phenomena begins to occur where newborn babies are found amidst the aftermath of natural disasters. Tsunamis, avalanches, wild fires, destructive lightning storms, etc. These 'Storm-Born' humans grow up with powers based on the disasters that birthed them.	She was hardly the first storm-born to appear. Reports of them popping up all over the world had begun years ago. Earthquakes. Tornados. Floods. Each with devastating consequences. Natural disasters that caused bloodshed and claimed lives. Seemingly, they didn’t have much else in common, other than the destruction they left behind. But from the wreckage of these disasters, something else emerged. Newborn infants. Rescue crews began to find them, scattered in the debris, sometimes crying, sometimes happily playing amidst the wreckage. These infants seemed harmless at first, but they were quickly deemed dangerous. People were dispatched to collect these children and keep them in secure facilities where their powers could be monitored. The world lived in fear of these tiny children. Innocent, but unknowingly capable of mass destruction. World governments scrambled to collect them, for their own protection, they claimed. But rumors of secret experiments, of armies, of brutal training and dangerous accidents were rampant, and soon storm-born were hunted to the ends of the earth by various factions of power across the world. In the midst of this chaos, a young couple walks on the beach, hand in hand. This is a long-standing tradition of theirs, especially during a storm. They love to watch the lightning dance along the water, and on the rare occasions that it strikes the sand, they gather the resulting glass and marvel at the beauty that the storms can create. This storm is intense. More powerful than usual. They can feel the electricity in the air as they walk down the beach, wondering if they should turn around. The sky darkens, and an enormous bolt of lightning shoots from the sky, striking the sand and leaving smoldering wreckage behind. As if the storm is now satisfied, it disperses, and the sky returns to its normal blue. The couple head towards the smoke, eager to see what sort of glass sculpture has been created this time. As they approach, they hear a small noise. This fulgurite is indeed ornate, shaped like a small basin. And in the middle of the bed of glass rests a baby girl, sleeping peacefully. The couple glance at each other wordlessly. They know what the life of a storm-born is like. They’ve seen the fear in the eyes of the children when they are trotted out and paraded around as proof of the government’s might. A reminder that the storm-born may be powerful, but those who control them will rule the world. They glance around, but the beach is deserted. As they reach into the glass sculpture to scoop up the infant, they look at each other again, smiling now. They’ve always wanted a baby. * &#x200B; That’s my origin story, pretty much. I grew up, attending a normal public school. I hid amongst the others, blending in. And most of the time, I can forget. I can pretend to be a normal girl. Most of the time, the skies are blue. But sometimes, like today, the wind blows. Leaves are shaken from the trees, swirling around in tantalizing patterns on the sidewalk. The smell of lightning is in the air. And my blood whispers to me. Electricity crackles through my veins, chaotic and wild. I can feel it bubbling beneath the surface. I gasp, trying to hold back the floodgates as shivers run up and down my spine. The sky darkens. Others cower, running to seek shelter. I move in the opposite direction, toward the heart of the storm. The beach where I was created. Waves crash wildly onto the shore. The water is dark and tumultuous. My hair whips wildly around me as the wind dances across my face, and I laugh. Sparks dance over my body and my blood comes alive. Something inside me is building, endlessly powerful, and I can feel the imminent surrender coming. The storm is calling me home.	The woman was confused. She spoke little english, but she was not stupid. That baby had to belong to someone. The cops had escorted the shooter away. The bodies were covered now. She had given her statement in Spanish to a translator who just HAD to check her papers one more time. ICE was not showing up here today. Bad press. Which was good, because even her legitimate visa was no guarantee here. &#x200B; Still, why was everyone ignoring the baby? A little girl, wrapped in a police blanket. Not crying. Just lying there in the middle of the mall floor. She stood up and walked over to the child. No one noticed her. No one stopped her. Not the news people, not the gawking crying bystanders. &#x200B; She bent down and nudged the child to make sure she was alive. So silent. So calm. When her hand brushed the child's face, the baby smiled and grabbed her finger. Her face was wrinkled, her mouth empty of teeth. &#x200B; Was this a new born? What the heck? Something settled in her and she acted. She picked the child up... Still nothing. Just a warm little body pressed up against her chest, cradling her finger. Holding tight with the simeon strength of freshly hatched humans. &#x200B; She reminded her a bit of her own daughter. Back in Chile. &#x200B; Before she knew it, she was past the cordon and standing next to her car. No one had interfered. &#x200B; The keys found their way into her hand. And soon she was pulling out of the parking lot and rolling out onto the street. It was night now. Lights vanishing in the distance behind her. The heat of the El Paso day vanishing into space. &#x200B; When she got back to her apartment, the world shifted again. There on the table was an infant. Most likely abducted by her, a foreigner. The child stared at her with a quiet intensity. Expectantly. &#x200B; Food. &#x200B; It had been 20 years since she had breast fed her own child. Her breasts were now strictly for entertainment and inconvenience as far as she was concerned. But the child had to eat. That must be what those dark eyes were saying to her. &#x200B; She found herself again with the child in her arms knocking at the neighbors door. Gloria answered, the sound of her own children and the television creeping through the door behind her. The woman was from Cuba on her father's side. Everyone spoke some Espanol in El Paso. Gloria was no exception. &#x200B; "I saw it all on the TV, those poor people." &#x200B; "It happens. Hey, listen, I need your help..." &#x200B; "I know, I'll pay you back for last months rent..." &#x200B; "No not that.... this" &#x200B; Gloria looked down and suddenly noticed the child in her arms... &#x200B; "Your grand daughter?" &#x200B; "She's hungry." &#x200B; "I... oh... Okay" &#x200B; Gloria's youngest, her son was asleep in his own cot, finally. Comforted by the noise of his brothers playing video games. She ushered in the woman and the child and sat down on the couch considering the baby before her. &#x200B; "She's tiny..." she said suspiciously removing her bra strap. and lifting her shirt. &#x200B; "And hungry!" Gloria exclaimed. &#x200B; They shared a smile and then the TV caught Gloria's eye. The woman got on her phone and began scrolling through her news feed. &#x200B; Maybe there would be a story about this child... that someone had lost in a storm of bullets....
[WP] A phenomena begins to occur where newborn babies are found amidst the aftermath of natural disasters. Tsunamis, avalanches, wild fires, destructive lightning storms, etc. These 'Storm-Born' humans grow up with powers based on the disasters that birthed them.	The storm born were chosen, powerful beings each blessed with powers found from their origin. A newborn, found in the midsts of a horrifying eruption wielded the power of fire. A baby found floating on the wreckage of a cruise liner developed the power to generate whirlpools. And so began the craze of stormborn chasers. Pregnant mothers who rush to natural disasters hoping that their child was the one. Some out of insanity, others coerced by their government. It became an arms race for nations and that it was the "duty of every patriotic mother to risk their lives for creating new stormborn". Some nations were more pragmatic. Having forced mother conscription, others used...softer methods. By sowing fear of foreign nations developing super bio weapons, they persuade their citizens to fight the noble fight, and to protect the beloved nations of their forefathers. Some nations used words like protecting their freedom or way of life. It worked. It was now an accepted act for mothers carrying children to wade into chaos, hoping for some miracle a demigod would be given to them. If by some miracle the mother survived, they would be paraded, cheered on and used for further political purposes. The games the nations played however, began to corrode when a special sort of natural disaster appeared. The people thought nothing of the day when a virus struck, disabling all technology for a day. They did not foresee it as a natural disaster as technology was founded by man. But nature saw it different. And by the blessings of the gods a single child was born on that fateful day. A day when a demigod of the internet age was born.	The woman was confused. She spoke little english, but she was not stupid. That baby had to belong to someone. The cops had escorted the shooter away. The bodies were covered now. She had given her statement in Spanish to a translator who just HAD to check her papers one more time. ICE was not showing up here today. Bad press. Which was good, because even her legitimate visa was no guarantee here. &#x200B; Still, why was everyone ignoring the baby? A little girl, wrapped in a police blanket. Not crying. Just lying there in the middle of the mall floor. She stood up and walked over to the child. No one noticed her. No one stopped her. Not the news people, not the gawking crying bystanders. &#x200B; She bent down and nudged the child to make sure she was alive. So silent. So calm. When her hand brushed the child's face, the baby smiled and grabbed her finger. Her face was wrinkled, her mouth empty of teeth. &#x200B; Was this a new born? What the heck? Something settled in her and she acted. She picked the child up... Still nothing. Just a warm little body pressed up against her chest, cradling her finger. Holding tight with the simeon strength of freshly hatched humans. &#x200B; She reminded her a bit of her own daughter. Back in Chile. &#x200B; Before she knew it, she was past the cordon and standing next to her car. No one had interfered. &#x200B; The keys found their way into her hand. And soon she was pulling out of the parking lot and rolling out onto the street. It was night now. Lights vanishing in the distance behind her. The heat of the El Paso day vanishing into space. &#x200B; When she got back to her apartment, the world shifted again. There on the table was an infant. Most likely abducted by her, a foreigner. The child stared at her with a quiet intensity. Expectantly. &#x200B; Food. &#x200B; It had been 20 years since she had breast fed her own child. Her breasts were now strictly for entertainment and inconvenience as far as she was concerned. But the child had to eat. That must be what those dark eyes were saying to her. &#x200B; She found herself again with the child in her arms knocking at the neighbors door. Gloria answered, the sound of her own children and the television creeping through the door behind her. The woman was from Cuba on her father's side. Everyone spoke some Espanol in El Paso. Gloria was no exception. &#x200B; "I saw it all on the TV, those poor people." &#x200B; "It happens. Hey, listen, I need your help..." &#x200B; "I know, I'll pay you back for last months rent..." &#x200B; "No not that.... this" &#x200B; Gloria looked down and suddenly noticed the child in her arms... &#x200B; "Your grand daughter?" &#x200B; "She's hungry." &#x200B; "I... oh... Okay" &#x200B; Gloria's youngest, her son was asleep in his own cot, finally. Comforted by the noise of his brothers playing video games. She ushered in the woman and the child and sat down on the couch considering the baby before her. &#x200B; "She's tiny..." she said suspiciously removing her bra strap. and lifting her shirt. &#x200B; "And hungry!" Gloria exclaimed. &#x200B; They shared a smile and then the TV caught Gloria's eye. The woman got on her phone and began scrolling through her news feed. &#x200B; Maybe there would be a story about this child... that someone had lost in a storm of bullets....
[WP] A phenomena begins to occur where newborn babies are found amidst the aftermath of natural disasters. Tsunamis, avalanches, wild fires, destructive lightning storms, etc. These 'Storm-Born' humans grow up with powers based on the disasters that birthed them.	“So, do we have a deal?” I looked up from the documents, my eyes narrowed slightly as I looked at the man across from me. To call him rodent like would be a grave insult to the species. Yet the similarities were there: narrow beady eyes barely concealing his hunger, a long thing nose that sniffed the air for profit and opportunity, a small mouth filled with sharp teeth, the general air of a scavenger. From the beginning I did not like dealing with this man. Something about him reeked of desperation, of a clever mind that preyed on those less clever, a hunger that would never be sated. Yet the deal was enticing. A considerable investment that could provide considerable rewards if everything went well. I have made worse investments in the past with less than desired results, and ones that seemed safe at the time turned out to be very poor indeed. I also have worked with those where the outcomes were far from sure, yet I trusted the person and it turned out well in the end. However I did not trust this person and the deal only looked good, it did not feel safe nor sound. However it was tempting, just the push to help my other investments and push projects along. I read the document again, looking for a sign that would push my decision in either direction. So lost in my thoughts it took a few moments for me to notice a tugging at my side. Looking down my smile became sincere as I stared into the emerald eyes of my daughter. “Why hello there little one,” I said warmly, kneeling down where our eyes met on the same plane. “What can I do for you?” The other man glared at her, eyes turning feral and angry but I dismissed his gaze easily. “I need to talk to you,” she replied. Her voice was soft and low, her tone she takes when strangers were around. “Please.” “Go away little girl,” the man said with ill disguised impatience. “Your father and I are talking and you’re bothering us.” He wilted underneath my stare. “I beg your pardon sir,” I said not wanting any of it at all, “you are a guest in my home. This is my daughter and you will not tell her to go anywhere. If she needs to speak to me then she needs to speak with me, with no word from you. You would do well to learn this if we are to do business together.” I smiled inwardly at his seething resentment and turned back to my girl. “Go on then McKenzie, what can I do for you?” Her verdant green eyes sparkled for a moment before they sobered. “I don’t feel good about this,” she said seriously, touching the documents in my hand. “They don’t feel right.” I ignored the man’s scoff of disbelief. “They don’t?” I asked her seriously. “You feel that way?” She shook her head. “No they don’t, they feel bad. Taste bad too.” “Really now!” the rat-like man exclaimed. “You have no idea what you’re talking about you little-“ I rose to my height, bringing my girl up with me in my arms. She buried her head in my neck and I pointed at the man with a finger extended. His eyes drawn to it like it was the point of a blade. “Enough sir,” I said angrily, my own displeasure rising to the surface. “You will not speak that way to anyone in my home, especially my girl. She has gifts you lack and I take everything she says seriously.” “Everything?” He rolled his eyes incredulously. “She is a child, what gifts can she have that anyone doesn’t? Don’t tell me that the great Nathaniel Lee, the premier producer and investor, listens to the words of children for work? Even a “storm-tossed” brat that’s not related to you?” Immediately he knew he said too much. His features paled as my reddened and his mouth opened to squeal insincere platitudes. “You go too far,” I said simply but my heart roared with hate. “My daughter is my daughter, I chose to adopt her and she is no “storm-tossed brat” nor is she a calamity, or any other slight or insult you want to throw at her. It is for her sake that I don’t throw you out on your rear. Our business is done for today.” I threw the papers onto the table and pointed at the door. “If I were you I would leave and pray that my temper subsides before I make a decision.” His mouth opened again and I let my facade crack a little, showing the dangerous glint in my eyes. “Or shall I show you how it feels to be tossed literally and physically?” He left with poor grace, muttering curses and it felt good to slam the door in his face. He was not wrong, my daughter wasn’t my biological daughter but I loved her no differently than if she was. She was one of the so called “storm born”, children found in sites of great natural disasters. For years now children were found mysteriously at such sites: avalanches, earthquakes, wild fires, volcanic eruptions, all sorts. Many thought they were blessed survivors but some thing that they are literally born from such events and natural disasters. McKenzie was found in the remains of a horrific lightning storm. One that raged for almost 24 hours. The bolts of lightnings and booms of thunder had caused such damage to a swathe of land, including the central power hub and data repository for many investment firms and stock trading. The storm had caused a mini financial collapse that effected thousands of people. She was found wailing in the debris and many wanted nothing to do with her. Most considered her bad luck with such a storm that birthed her. Yet I adopted her. Seeing her alone broke my heart and I took her in. As she grew I made sure she had a happy home and watched for the talents and gifts that other storm born seemed to have. She was faster than others her age, and many years older, and she could literally make sparks fly. Yet I found that she had one special power that none could have foreseen. A few days later we watched the news together and I showed poor parenting by smirking at the rat faced man being arrested on national television. Her feelings were correct, the man ran a very business and was being arrested for countless charges of fraud and laundering and many other legal atrocities. As my daughter grew I learned that while she had some powers doing with lightning, she had the strangest sense for shady business and inflated prides. Apparently the hub was called “National Pride Investing” and like it’s name it was built in a very bad location. Storms were common in that area but the owners of the business showed particular arrogance and built there, challenging Nature and the Heavens. Somehow my daughter developed very minor storm powers compared to other storm born, but possessed a particularly unique trait. I grunted slightly as she climbed onto my lap, smiling with just the right amount of child-like smugness. “Guess I was right again.” “You sure were,” I praised hugging her. “You saved me a good amount of money.” “So does that mean the money is mine?” I pretended to think deeply, stroking my chin with mock severity. “It depends on what you want to spend it on. Is it a sound investment?” She opened her eyes wide, innocence replacing latent greed. “Ice cream?” “That is a sound investment,” I said somberly and rose with her in my arms. She giggled and wiggled while I tickled her. “Let us go make the investment a priority my darling.”	"The man you seek is not a Storm-Born, he is something else entirely." Desmond said to the meeting of investigative operations for the natural-supernatural. Many of the operators present were themselves blessed with the gift of the destructive forces of the earth. People whose souls blazed like volcanoes and wildfires, whose will-power struck down those who stood against them with a flash. These were people who understood they were special, that they had talents most human beings could scarcely dream of. They weren't outcasts from society, they were the policy makers, the guides of the institutions. To be Storm-Born was to be blessed with the soul of nature's most fearsome events, to be unyielding and command attention. Desmond's words commanded attention as the director addressed the latest issue to arise. "This man, the man in the gray suit, he comes and he goes across cities and towns and do you know what he leaves behind him?" There was silence in the room, just a myriad of brilliantly colored eyes staring at the director. "He leaves death, rot. Where he steps the ground is poisoned, the grass withers and dies. The flesh of those around him burns and turns necrotic. The places he passes through are forever marked, and he brings ruin to those who encounter him. Have you ever seen a ruined place? A place that cannot be rebuilt?" "Are we not all cursed with the power of destruction?" A red-haired woman, whose voice was tinged with ashen skyfall and choked air. "Are we not all cursed to be able to burn and destroy? If this man is rogue, then we must confront him. Command him to stop using his powers, or destroy him if he refuses. We have agency here." Desmond hated how blunt his fellow Storm-Born could be, how cocky and convinced of their ability. Many of them felt chosen to rule based upon the idea that nature had somehow selected them as a superior breed of humans, that they were tasked with finally controlling the last of nature's raw power. "You say he is not Storm-Born, but his powers over the earth, to corrupt the soul and rot man, could only be natural. However divined, we must determine where he came from and act appropriately." "I know where he is from." Desmond replied. "But you aren't going to believe it, because it defies convention. And it makes him special, more special than us." "We are the storm, the seas, and fires that burn the earth. We can handle what you tell us." Desmond cleared his throat. "No natural disaster cannot be recovered from, after every fire, flood, or hurricane, nature can regroup and rebuilt. Life can spring up anew, even from under mounds of volcanic ash. We are all still connected to the cycle of life. This person, this suited man, his name is Rodzhaevsky. And he is death." Desmond took another sip of coffee and cleared his throat. "Those who found him did not live long. They did not raise him, he doesn't remember them. They were fighting lethal fires, and they got too deep. The newborn was sleeping peacefully in a circle of black stone, the taste of metal in the air." "We have many people who are of the fires, many uncontrollable souls. Unpredictable. We can handle him." The red-haired woman replied. "Rodzahevsky was born of an unnatural disaster. A very human disaster. An infant formed out of the molten corium of the Chernobyl powerplant in 1986, passed from family to family as each would sicken and die of cancers. He grew up without anyone staying in his life long enough to guide him, to help him understand just what he was. But now he knows, and we can watch his path of annihilation unfold in real-time." "If we kill him, then this matter is resolved." "Can you kill all of them?" "I beg your pardon?" "Can you kill Rodzhaevsky of Pripyat, Margaret of Love Canal, or Manzar of Bhopal? What about Walther, born 3,000 meters under the Atlantic in a vat of Mercury? Can you stop all of them? Kill all of them? Because they just keep appearing, each day another comes of age and realizes the capabilities of their powers. Powers that end of the cycle of life instead of perpetuating it." The room was silent as the gravity of the situation set in. No longer were men and women born just with the spirits of natural disasters, but those who embraced all of humanity's penchant for destruction and poison were being born as well.
[WP] A phenomena begins to occur where newborn babies are found amidst the aftermath of natural disasters. Tsunamis, avalanches, wild fires, destructive lightning storms, etc. These 'Storm-Born' humans grow up with powers based on the disasters that birthed them.	Dear Dr.Anderson It has been the fourth day at the new facility and I am enjoying everything so far. Although the new researcher is more strict than you, he has a ridiculously long and thin moustache. Me and Iris could not stop laughing because every time he said: Good day kids, because you'll never know what time is it down here. His moustache keep on wiggling in the air. Oh and speaking of Iris, she is getting better at controlling her flame. She can even makes them slowly bloom like flowers. The guards don't seem to enjoy it, one guy even points at the fire extinguisher but luckily the other guy disagree. Eric and Satomi keep fighting each other and we still have no idea how to stop them. However, last night Satomi somehow activated the fire alarm in Eric's room and he was completely soak in water. He didn't say anything to her this morning but in lunchtime, I saw him walk pass her and everything in her food tray just dry up instantly. I think they've started a prank war. I had to lend Eric my clothes and Iris had to share her lunch so I don't think anyone wining here. Also there is a very kind lady in the library. She even let me borrowed some paper. She seem very surprised when I made those paper planes fly. But then a guard just came out of nowhere and pulled me back to my room. What a jerk. At least the lady came visit me and she gave me this cool book about planes and airship The rest is just boring tests and stuff. I kinda miss your story times but it is only 5 more days until your visit right. I can't wait for it Sincerely, Timothy P.S: I almost forgot this but there is a new kid. They locked her in a special room with a big cyan door, I can't see anything beside guards come to deliver foods but Satomi swear she saw some blue sparks under the door two nights ago ---------- This is my first writing here and I'm not a native English speaker so please point out every mistakes I've made	‘Meghan, we’ll be late!’ Cynthia’s voice had that tone of angry desperation that made me want to throw something against the wall. I sat on my bed, taking one last look at my attic sanctuary. I liked it here. I recognized Cynthia’s careful steps climbing up the stairs. I knew she would pause somewhere in the middle, pondering did she have enough strength to face that little monster upstairs - aka me. After a moment the stairs started creaking again. She was a tough one – I had to give her that. ‘Meghan?’ She paused to knock on the door. I didn’t respond. When she entered Cynthia had a tortured face that matched her desperate voice. ‘We have to catch the plane, sweetheart.’ I saw the look of relief that crossed her face when she saw my suitcases were packed. I had a system – I kept my small pink suitcase always ready and kept it by the door in case I decided to disappear but it took me almost a weekend to pack the big one. The brown leather was covered in stickers – a testament of my numerous ‘new beginnings’ that sooner or later ended in tragedy. ‘I don’t want to go to a new school!’ I growled. ‘I want to stay here.’ I wasn’t a fool to think my disagreement might change anything, I was just venting my frustration. Dr. Marcuss said I should vocalize my emotions as much as I can or we all knew what might happen. ‘I’m sorry, sweetheart.’ Cynthia tried to take my hand but I snatched it away. ‘You’ll love it there.’ I crossed my arms on my chest. ‘It’s what you said for the last three schools.’ Cynthia sighed, her hands balled into fists by her side. I knew she was hanging on a fine thread – all of this ‘Meghan, sweetheart’ was just an act. They wanted to get rid of me. It was obvious when they found that fancy boarding school in Europe that obviously costed enough money to sign a contract that they’d keep me for the next four years with no questions asked. ‘You could have let me stay with aunt Mary,’ I said accusingly. Cynthia had enough of me. ‘She is not your aunt.’ Her green eyes flickered with cruelty I saw too many times. ‘You’re not my mother either, Cynthia!’ I snapped. The windows on my room started rattling and I enjoyed the frightened look on Cynthia’s face. ‘You little monster!’ She cried rushing for the door. One flicker of my wrist and the doors slammed shut in her face. ‘A monster?’ I gasped in fake surprise as the window shutters kept slamming against the wall. The wind picked up and the entire house was now shaking. Cynthia was shaking too. ‘Jack!’ She cried. ‘Jack!’ My stepfather was already outside my door. I knew he would start running as soon as he felt the wind. I also knew he wouldn’t interfere until I called him in. ‘Megs, please!’ He said. There was something about his voice that made me find a calm island inside of me. A few words from him could do more than a hundred sessions with Dr. Marcus and all the pills in this world. I wish he was home more often. In the next moment, he was sitting on the bed next to me while Cinthia was probably hyperventilating somewhere in the car. ‘I know you’re mad,’ he said. ‘I don’t want to go, Jack.’ My eyes were burning. I prayed to God I don’t start crying now. ‘I don’t want to let you go either, Megs, but this is what is best for you.’ He said. ‘This is what is best for Cynthia,’ I snapped. I regretted my words the moment I saw sorry his eyes softening in pain. The wind had stopped and the room was quiet. ‘You know how much I love you Megs,’ he said. I was looking away but I knew his eyes were smiling now and I knew every one of his words was true. ‘But this isn’t the place for you. I knew you were special the night we found you. You were the sweetest little girl in the world.’ I snorted. Jack took my hand. ‘Look at me Megs,’ he said and I turned to him. ‘I found you a good school. It’s not about the subjects you’ll be studying – you’re a smart girl and I know you’d do well in any place in the world. But I believe you’ll find people there who are more like you, people who will understand and love you as much as I do.’ ‘You mean freaks?’ I grinned. This was the fourth school we had to change because I was not quite like the other kids. There were storms raging around me whenever my temper got out of control. I tried to ignore it, Jack tried to ignore it, we all did everything we could but with every new town and every new school sooner or later came a moment when I lost it and someone got hurt. ‘You are not a freak. You’re special and there is an entire school full of children like you.’ I was staring at Jack frightened and relieved in the same breath. The choice had been made already but I still needed a few minutes to let go of this house. I finally stood up when Cynthia's honking became unsoportable. Jack took my suitcases and closed the door behind him. ‘Jack,’ I suddenly stopped. He instantly dropped both suitcases, his attention fully on me. I liked that about Jack. He wasn’t my real dad but I think my real dad would have been just as nice and caring. ‘Will you call me sometimes?’ I asked, staring at my feet. ‘I mean to tell him how everything is going and things.’ Jack took my hand. ‘I’m here for you, Megs. Always. Just call me and I’ll fly over there in no time.’ He took my bags and followed me down the stairs. So I was going to a school with a bunch of freaks like me who can make storms and destroy things. I grinned. Maybe I won’t have to run away this time. r/CrystalElmTales
[WP] A phenomena begins to occur where newborn babies are found amidst the aftermath of natural disasters. Tsunamis, avalanches, wild fires, destructive lightning storms, etc. These 'Storm-Born' humans grow up with powers based on the disasters that birthed them.	Scientists have been baffled by the discovery of the Stormborns 30 years ago. I've never met one myself but I was there when the first Stormborn was found. I was a volunteer when a wildfire came over California. It took us days to completely extinguish the fire. Sometimes I imagine if the baby would have been found if I hadn't been there. I remember hearing a baby crying while walking amidst the smoke of the forest. It was night. I remember being confused and calling out for the others. I never got to hold her but I still saw her. They found her within the ashes. It was deemed a miracle all over the world. A baby had survived a forest fire. It was very poetic when I thought about it. Eighteen people were taken away, but one was given back. "Breaking news..." The TV snap me back to reality. I was at home. When was Alex getting home. I think about calling him but I was too tired to look for my phone. "It's been confirmed by officials. The organisation known as the Chrysanthemums were behind the manmade avalanche that caused the death of hundreds of people in Turkey..." The Chrysanthemums, they're at it again. A terrorist organization hellbent on causing manmade disasters to create Stormborns by their will. Once they were done, they'd look for a Stormborn within the ruins of what they've created and raise the baby themselves. They'd train them to do with what they will. It was disgusting. The avalanche on Turkey was one of their attacks three days ago. They were ready to sacrifice hundreds of people for one Stormborn. It was terrifying. I might need to call Alex. "... with the baby found in Russia after the earthquake, that makes 97 Stormborns. The authorities are preparing to find the next location the Chrysanthemums will strike given how important the 99th Stormborn..." Oh yes, of course. The Chrysanthemums believe the 99th baby will be humanity's savior. Just like the first one, Phoenix, he will be born of ashes and smoke. I didn't know if I believed it. I grab the remote and try to turn off the channel. I was trying to relax and the news just made me more nervous. I change it into some kind of a UN press conference. "We have good news, the Chrysanthemums didn't find a Stormborn baby in Turkey." I put the remote down. At least, there were good news. "How can we be sure of that?", a journalist asked. "Because we found him. We tried to keep our findings secret until the baby was safely transported to keep-" "Is the baby a Stormborn?", another journalist started. "Yes. The tests have been done. The baby is a Stormborn. We predict the child to gain cryokinesis..." The speaker tried to finish his sentence when the journalists started asking more questions. I stand up. All this baby talk is making me concerned for mine. I try to feel it in my stomach. It's been a day since I've felt him kick. I'm not due for another month. I need air. I step outside the balcony to breathe. I remember urban air isn't that refreshing. The sun was setting but the skyscrapers blocked the view. I stand there for minutes. I try to hear the howling in the air from the traffic down below. That was lot of honking horns. I feel a wave of panic. I open the door to the inside. That's when I hear it. There was that high pitched ringing tone from the TV. The one you hear during an emergency evacuation I hear a robotic voice from it. Something's happening. I feel dread. "Take shelter immediately. This is not a drill. Repeat: This is not a drill. An enemy attack is being launched against the United States. Take shelter immediately and stay tuned to this frequency for further instructions." I need to call Alex. How long has this been repeating? The last thing I remember was a flash of light outside and the crying of a baby.	‘Meghan, we’ll be late!’ Cynthia’s voice had that tone of angry desperation that made me want to throw something against the wall. I sat on my bed, taking one last look at my attic sanctuary. I liked it here. I recognized Cynthia’s careful steps climbing up the stairs. I knew she would pause somewhere in the middle, pondering did she have enough strength to face that little monster upstairs - aka me. After a moment the stairs started creaking again. She was a tough one – I had to give her that. ‘Meghan?’ She paused to knock on the door. I didn’t respond. When she entered Cynthia had a tortured face that matched her desperate voice. ‘We have to catch the plane, sweetheart.’ I saw the look of relief that crossed her face when she saw my suitcases were packed. I had a system – I kept my small pink suitcase always ready and kept it by the door in case I decided to disappear but it took me almost a weekend to pack the big one. The brown leather was covered in stickers – a testament of my numerous ‘new beginnings’ that sooner or later ended in tragedy. ‘I don’t want to go to a new school!’ I growled. ‘I want to stay here.’ I wasn’t a fool to think my disagreement might change anything, I was just venting my frustration. Dr. Marcuss said I should vocalize my emotions as much as I can or we all knew what might happen. ‘I’m sorry, sweetheart.’ Cynthia tried to take my hand but I snatched it away. ‘You’ll love it there.’ I crossed my arms on my chest. ‘It’s what you said for the last three schools.’ Cynthia sighed, her hands balled into fists by her side. I knew she was hanging on a fine thread – all of this ‘Meghan, sweetheart’ was just an act. They wanted to get rid of me. It was obvious when they found that fancy boarding school in Europe that obviously costed enough money to sign a contract that they’d keep me for the next four years with no questions asked. ‘You could have let me stay with aunt Mary,’ I said accusingly. Cynthia had enough of me. ‘She is not your aunt.’ Her green eyes flickered with cruelty I saw too many times. ‘You’re not my mother either, Cynthia!’ I snapped. The windows on my room started rattling and I enjoyed the frightened look on Cynthia’s face. ‘You little monster!’ She cried rushing for the door. One flicker of my wrist and the doors slammed shut in her face. ‘A monster?’ I gasped in fake surprise as the window shutters kept slamming against the wall. The wind picked up and the entire house was now shaking. Cynthia was shaking too. ‘Jack!’ She cried. ‘Jack!’ My stepfather was already outside my door. I knew he would start running as soon as he felt the wind. I also knew he wouldn’t interfere until I called him in. ‘Megs, please!’ He said. There was something about his voice that made me find a calm island inside of me. A few words from him could do more than a hundred sessions with Dr. Marcus and all the pills in this world. I wish he was home more often. In the next moment, he was sitting on the bed next to me while Cinthia was probably hyperventilating somewhere in the car. ‘I know you’re mad,’ he said. ‘I don’t want to go, Jack.’ My eyes were burning. I prayed to God I don’t start crying now. ‘I don’t want to let you go either, Megs, but this is what is best for you.’ He said. ‘This is what is best for Cynthia,’ I snapped. I regretted my words the moment I saw sorry his eyes softening in pain. The wind had stopped and the room was quiet. ‘You know how much I love you Megs,’ he said. I was looking away but I knew his eyes were smiling now and I knew every one of his words was true. ‘But this isn’t the place for you. I knew you were special the night we found you. You were the sweetest little girl in the world.’ I snorted. Jack took my hand. ‘Look at me Megs,’ he said and I turned to him. ‘I found you a good school. It’s not about the subjects you’ll be studying – you’re a smart girl and I know you’d do well in any place in the world. But I believe you’ll find people there who are more like you, people who will understand and love you as much as I do.’ ‘You mean freaks?’ I grinned. This was the fourth school we had to change because I was not quite like the other kids. There were storms raging around me whenever my temper got out of control. I tried to ignore it, Jack tried to ignore it, we all did everything we could but with every new town and every new school sooner or later came a moment when I lost it and someone got hurt. ‘You are not a freak. You’re special and there is an entire school full of children like you.’ I was staring at Jack frightened and relieved in the same breath. The choice had been made already but I still needed a few minutes to let go of this house. I finally stood up when Cynthia's honking became unsoportable. Jack took my suitcases and closed the door behind him. ‘Jack,’ I suddenly stopped. He instantly dropped both suitcases, his attention fully on me. I liked that about Jack. He wasn’t my real dad but I think my real dad would have been just as nice and caring. ‘Will you call me sometimes?’ I asked, staring at my feet. ‘I mean to tell him how everything is going and things.’ Jack took my hand. ‘I’m here for you, Megs. Always. Just call me and I’ll fly over there in no time.’ He took my bags and followed me down the stairs. So I was going to a school with a bunch of freaks like me who can make storms and destroy things. I grinned. Maybe I won’t have to run away this time. r/CrystalElmTales
[WP] A phenomena begins to occur where newborn babies are found amidst the aftermath of natural disasters. Tsunamis, avalanches, wild fires, destructive lightning storms, etc. These 'Storm-Born' humans grow up with powers based on the disasters that birthed them.	She was hardly the first storm-born to appear. Reports of them popping up all over the world had begun years ago. Earthquakes. Tornados. Floods. Each with devastating consequences. Natural disasters that caused bloodshed and claimed lives. Seemingly, they didn’t have much else in common, other than the destruction they left behind. But from the wreckage of these disasters, something else emerged. Newborn infants. Rescue crews began to find them, scattered in the debris, sometimes crying, sometimes happily playing amidst the wreckage. These infants seemed harmless at first, but they were quickly deemed dangerous. People were dispatched to collect these children and keep them in secure facilities where their powers could be monitored. The world lived in fear of these tiny children. Innocent, but unknowingly capable of mass destruction. World governments scrambled to collect them, for their own protection, they claimed. But rumors of secret experiments, of armies, of brutal training and dangerous accidents were rampant, and soon storm-born were hunted to the ends of the earth by various factions of power across the world. In the midst of this chaos, a young couple walks on the beach, hand in hand. This is a long-standing tradition of theirs, especially during a storm. They love to watch the lightning dance along the water, and on the rare occasions that it strikes the sand, they gather the resulting glass and marvel at the beauty that the storms can create. This storm is intense. More powerful than usual. They can feel the electricity in the air as they walk down the beach, wondering if they should turn around. The sky darkens, and an enormous bolt of lightning shoots from the sky, striking the sand and leaving smoldering wreckage behind. As if the storm is now satisfied, it disperses, and the sky returns to its normal blue. The couple head towards the smoke, eager to see what sort of glass sculpture has been created this time. As they approach, they hear a small noise. This fulgurite is indeed ornate, shaped like a small basin. And in the middle of the bed of glass rests a baby girl, sleeping peacefully. The couple glance at each other wordlessly. They know what the life of a storm-born is like. They’ve seen the fear in the eyes of the children when they are trotted out and paraded around as proof of the government’s might. A reminder that the storm-born may be powerful, but those who control them will rule the world. They glance around, but the beach is deserted. As they reach into the glass sculpture to scoop up the infant, they look at each other again, smiling now. They’ve always wanted a baby. * &#x200B; That’s my origin story, pretty much. I grew up, attending a normal public school. I hid amongst the others, blending in. And most of the time, I can forget. I can pretend to be a normal girl. Most of the time, the skies are blue. But sometimes, like today, the wind blows. Leaves are shaken from the trees, swirling around in tantalizing patterns on the sidewalk. The smell of lightning is in the air. And my blood whispers to me. Electricity crackles through my veins, chaotic and wild. I can feel it bubbling beneath the surface. I gasp, trying to hold back the floodgates as shivers run up and down my spine. The sky darkens. Others cower, running to seek shelter. I move in the opposite direction, toward the heart of the storm. The beach where I was created. Waves crash wildly onto the shore. The water is dark and tumultuous. My hair whips wildly around me as the wind dances across my face, and I laugh. Sparks dance over my body and my blood comes alive. Something inside me is building, endlessly powerful, and I can feel the imminent surrender coming. The storm is calling me home.	‘Meghan, we’ll be late!’ Cynthia’s voice had that tone of angry desperation that made me want to throw something against the wall. I sat on my bed, taking one last look at my attic sanctuary. I liked it here. I recognized Cynthia’s careful steps climbing up the stairs. I knew she would pause somewhere in the middle, pondering did she have enough strength to face that little monster upstairs - aka me. After a moment the stairs started creaking again. She was a tough one – I had to give her that. ‘Meghan?’ She paused to knock on the door. I didn’t respond. When she entered Cynthia had a tortured face that matched her desperate voice. ‘We have to catch the plane, sweetheart.’ I saw the look of relief that crossed her face when she saw my suitcases were packed. I had a system – I kept my small pink suitcase always ready and kept it by the door in case I decided to disappear but it took me almost a weekend to pack the big one. The brown leather was covered in stickers – a testament of my numerous ‘new beginnings’ that sooner or later ended in tragedy. ‘I don’t want to go to a new school!’ I growled. ‘I want to stay here.’ I wasn’t a fool to think my disagreement might change anything, I was just venting my frustration. Dr. Marcuss said I should vocalize my emotions as much as I can or we all knew what might happen. ‘I’m sorry, sweetheart.’ Cynthia tried to take my hand but I snatched it away. ‘You’ll love it there.’ I crossed my arms on my chest. ‘It’s what you said for the last three schools.’ Cynthia sighed, her hands balled into fists by her side. I knew she was hanging on a fine thread – all of this ‘Meghan, sweetheart’ was just an act. They wanted to get rid of me. It was obvious when they found that fancy boarding school in Europe that obviously costed enough money to sign a contract that they’d keep me for the next four years with no questions asked. ‘You could have let me stay with aunt Mary,’ I said accusingly. Cynthia had enough of me. ‘She is not your aunt.’ Her green eyes flickered with cruelty I saw too many times. ‘You’re not my mother either, Cynthia!’ I snapped. The windows on my room started rattling and I enjoyed the frightened look on Cynthia’s face. ‘You little monster!’ She cried rushing for the door. One flicker of my wrist and the doors slammed shut in her face. ‘A monster?’ I gasped in fake surprise as the window shutters kept slamming against the wall. The wind picked up and the entire house was now shaking. Cynthia was shaking too. ‘Jack!’ She cried. ‘Jack!’ My stepfather was already outside my door. I knew he would start running as soon as he felt the wind. I also knew he wouldn’t interfere until I called him in. ‘Megs, please!’ He said. There was something about his voice that made me find a calm island inside of me. A few words from him could do more than a hundred sessions with Dr. Marcus and all the pills in this world. I wish he was home more often. In the next moment, he was sitting on the bed next to me while Cinthia was probably hyperventilating somewhere in the car. ‘I know you’re mad,’ he said. ‘I don’t want to go, Jack.’ My eyes were burning. I prayed to God I don’t start crying now. ‘I don’t want to let you go either, Megs, but this is what is best for you.’ He said. ‘This is what is best for Cynthia,’ I snapped. I regretted my words the moment I saw sorry his eyes softening in pain. The wind had stopped and the room was quiet. ‘You know how much I love you Megs,’ he said. I was looking away but I knew his eyes were smiling now and I knew every one of his words was true. ‘But this isn’t the place for you. I knew you were special the night we found you. You were the sweetest little girl in the world.’ I snorted. Jack took my hand. ‘Look at me Megs,’ he said and I turned to him. ‘I found you a good school. It’s not about the subjects you’ll be studying – you’re a smart girl and I know you’d do well in any place in the world. But I believe you’ll find people there who are more like you, people who will understand and love you as much as I do.’ ‘You mean freaks?’ I grinned. This was the fourth school we had to change because I was not quite like the other kids. There were storms raging around me whenever my temper got out of control. I tried to ignore it, Jack tried to ignore it, we all did everything we could but with every new town and every new school sooner or later came a moment when I lost it and someone got hurt. ‘You are not a freak. You’re special and there is an entire school full of children like you.’ I was staring at Jack frightened and relieved in the same breath. The choice had been made already but I still needed a few minutes to let go of this house. I finally stood up when Cynthia's honking became unsoportable. Jack took my suitcases and closed the door behind him. ‘Jack,’ I suddenly stopped. He instantly dropped both suitcases, his attention fully on me. I liked that about Jack. He wasn’t my real dad but I think my real dad would have been just as nice and caring. ‘Will you call me sometimes?’ I asked, staring at my feet. ‘I mean to tell him how everything is going and things.’ Jack took my hand. ‘I’m here for you, Megs. Always. Just call me and I’ll fly over there in no time.’ He took my bags and followed me down the stairs. So I was going to a school with a bunch of freaks like me who can make storms and destroy things. I grinned. Maybe I won’t have to run away this time. r/CrystalElmTales
[WP] A phenomena begins to occur where newborn babies are found amidst the aftermath of natural disasters. Tsunamis, avalanches, wild fires, destructive lightning storms, etc. These 'Storm-Born' humans grow up with powers based on the disasters that birthed them.	She was hardly the first storm-born to appear. Reports of them popping up all over the world had begun years ago. Earthquakes. Tornados. Floods. Each with devastating consequences. Natural disasters that caused bloodshed and claimed lives. Seemingly, they didn’t have much else in common, other than the destruction they left behind. But from the wreckage of these disasters, something else emerged. Newborn infants. Rescue crews began to find them, scattered in the debris, sometimes crying, sometimes happily playing amidst the wreckage. These infants seemed harmless at first, but they were quickly deemed dangerous. People were dispatched to collect these children and keep them in secure facilities where their powers could be monitored. The world lived in fear of these tiny children. Innocent, but unknowingly capable of mass destruction. World governments scrambled to collect them, for their own protection, they claimed. But rumors of secret experiments, of armies, of brutal training and dangerous accidents were rampant, and soon storm-born were hunted to the ends of the earth by various factions of power across the world. In the midst of this chaos, a young couple walks on the beach, hand in hand. This is a long-standing tradition of theirs, especially during a storm. They love to watch the lightning dance along the water, and on the rare occasions that it strikes the sand, they gather the resulting glass and marvel at the beauty that the storms can create. This storm is intense. More powerful than usual. They can feel the electricity in the air as they walk down the beach, wondering if they should turn around. The sky darkens, and an enormous bolt of lightning shoots from the sky, striking the sand and leaving smoldering wreckage behind. As if the storm is now satisfied, it disperses, and the sky returns to its normal blue. The couple head towards the smoke, eager to see what sort of glass sculpture has been created this time. As they approach, they hear a small noise. This fulgurite is indeed ornate, shaped like a small basin. And in the middle of the bed of glass rests a baby girl, sleeping peacefully. The couple glance at each other wordlessly. They know what the life of a storm-born is like. They’ve seen the fear in the eyes of the children when they are trotted out and paraded around as proof of the government’s might. A reminder that the storm-born may be powerful, but those who control them will rule the world. They glance around, but the beach is deserted. As they reach into the glass sculpture to scoop up the infant, they look at each other again, smiling now. They’ve always wanted a baby. * &#x200B; That’s my origin story, pretty much. I grew up, attending a normal public school. I hid amongst the others, blending in. And most of the time, I can forget. I can pretend to be a normal girl. Most of the time, the skies are blue. But sometimes, like today, the wind blows. Leaves are shaken from the trees, swirling around in tantalizing patterns on the sidewalk. The smell of lightning is in the air. And my blood whispers to me. Electricity crackles through my veins, chaotic and wild. I can feel it bubbling beneath the surface. I gasp, trying to hold back the floodgates as shivers run up and down my spine. The sky darkens. Others cower, running to seek shelter. I move in the opposite direction, toward the heart of the storm. The beach where I was created. Waves crash wildly onto the shore. The water is dark and tumultuous. My hair whips wildly around me as the wind dances across my face, and I laugh. Sparks dance over my body and my blood comes alive. Something inside me is building, endlessly powerful, and I can feel the imminent surrender coming. The storm is calling me home.	The bell rang, the children awoke, the teachers prepared their classrooms and The Matron watched through her many surveillance cameras. Her attention was focused, today, on three children. Their files lay open beside her. Ignis Premogen, twelve, found nestled amongst the ashes of the Great Fire, a wildfire that ravaged Canada. Floctus Premogen, ten, found floating happily amongst the driftwood of the Great Wave, a tsunami that destroyed much of Japan. Contrem Premogen, thirteen, found hidden in the rubble of a fallen building after the Great Quake, an earthquake that threatened to tear Taiwan in half. The children, found as babies, were taken in by various families until their powers began to shine. At the age of six, Ignis set the shirt of her school's bully alight. Floctus made the water of her favourite pool rise up and flow over her pesky brother. Contrem got so angry he made the ground shake and sink below his own mother. Well, we have our ways of knowing things that must be known, of finding people who must be found. Contrem's parents reported what happened to the news, in some ill-concieved grab at fame, and they were mightily surprised when their troubled son didn't return home from the interview that never was. Floctus, we nabbed from the sea when she went swimming on a little family holiday - they most certainly believe her to be drowned. And Ignis, well, one day she simply vanished from the house she had set fully ablaze. Everyone was far too concentrated on the fire to notice our humble van slowly roll past. To see the doors open and shut as some small, limp figure was shoved inside. Ah, The Matron thought to herself, it surely isn't very nice to speak of these children so coldly. But we, we are doing God's work. Why will we have to pour so much money, so many men, into our army when we have a battalion of feisty young adults, each with the power to destroy whole nations? Never again will soldiers return home from war, with broken bodies and shattered minds. Never again will multi-country wars break out, stealing the lives of thousands, millions, all too quickly. Never again will freedom be supressed, will free speech be quietened, will the leftists complain. We will nourish these young ones, nurture them, feed them the truth - our truth. And when they have grown, when they understand that our nation is the nation to save all others, that must intervene and stop the bloody wars, then we may begin. The world will tremble at the sight of them, at the sight of the beautiful flag that they carry, and it will all start with those three. Ignis. Floctus. Contrem.
[WP] A phenomena begins to occur where newborn babies are found amidst the aftermath of natural disasters. Tsunamis, avalanches, wild fires, destructive lightning storms, etc. These 'Storm-Born' humans grow up with powers based on the disasters that birthed them.	The storm born were chosen, powerful beings each blessed with powers found from their origin. A newborn, found in the midsts of a horrifying eruption wielded the power of fire. A baby found floating on the wreckage of a cruise liner developed the power to generate whirlpools. And so began the craze of stormborn chasers. Pregnant mothers who rush to natural disasters hoping that their child was the one. Some out of insanity, others coerced by their government. It became an arms race for nations and that it was the "duty of every patriotic mother to risk their lives for creating new stormborn". Some nations were more pragmatic. Having forced mother conscription, others used...softer methods. By sowing fear of foreign nations developing super bio weapons, they persuade their citizens to fight the noble fight, and to protect the beloved nations of their forefathers. Some nations used words like protecting their freedom or way of life. It worked. It was now an accepted act for mothers carrying children to wade into chaos, hoping for some miracle a demigod would be given to them. If by some miracle the mother survived, they would be paraded, cheered on and used for further political purposes. The games the nations played however, began to corrode when a special sort of natural disaster appeared. The people thought nothing of the day when a virus struck, disabling all technology for a day. They did not foresee it as a natural disaster as technology was founded by man. But nature saw it different. And by the blessings of the gods a single child was born on that fateful day. A day when a demigod of the internet age was born.	The bell rang, the children awoke, the teachers prepared their classrooms and The Matron watched through her many surveillance cameras. Her attention was focused, today, on three children. Their files lay open beside her. Ignis Premogen, twelve, found nestled amongst the ashes of the Great Fire, a wildfire that ravaged Canada. Floctus Premogen, ten, found floating happily amongst the driftwood of the Great Wave, a tsunami that destroyed much of Japan. Contrem Premogen, thirteen, found hidden in the rubble of a fallen building after the Great Quake, an earthquake that threatened to tear Taiwan in half. The children, found as babies, were taken in by various families until their powers began to shine. At the age of six, Ignis set the shirt of her school's bully alight. Floctus made the water of her favourite pool rise up and flow over her pesky brother. Contrem got so angry he made the ground shake and sink below his own mother. Well, we have our ways of knowing things that must be known, of finding people who must be found. Contrem's parents reported what happened to the news, in some ill-concieved grab at fame, and they were mightily surprised when their troubled son didn't return home from the interview that never was. Floctus, we nabbed from the sea when she went swimming on a little family holiday - they most certainly believe her to be drowned. And Ignis, well, one day she simply vanished from the house she had set fully ablaze. Everyone was far too concentrated on the fire to notice our humble van slowly roll past. To see the doors open and shut as some small, limp figure was shoved inside. Ah, The Matron thought to herself, it surely isn't very nice to speak of these children so coldly. But we, we are doing God's work. Why will we have to pour so much money, so many men, into our army when we have a battalion of feisty young adults, each with the power to destroy whole nations? Never again will soldiers return home from war, with broken bodies and shattered minds. Never again will multi-country wars break out, stealing the lives of thousands, millions, all too quickly. Never again will freedom be supressed, will free speech be quietened, will the leftists complain. We will nourish these young ones, nurture them, feed them the truth - our truth. And when they have grown, when they understand that our nation is the nation to save all others, that must intervene and stop the bloody wars, then we may begin. The world will tremble at the sight of them, at the sight of the beautiful flag that they carry, and it will all start with those three. Ignis. Floctus. Contrem.
[WP] A phenomena begins to occur where newborn babies are found amidst the aftermath of natural disasters. Tsunamis, avalanches, wild fires, destructive lightning storms, etc. These 'Storm-Born' humans grow up with powers based on the disasters that birthed them.	The storm born were chosen, powerful beings each blessed with powers found from their origin. A newborn, found in the midsts of a horrifying eruption wielded the power of fire. A baby found floating on the wreckage of a cruise liner developed the power to generate whirlpools. And so began the craze of stormborn chasers. Pregnant mothers who rush to natural disasters hoping that their child was the one. Some out of insanity, others coerced by their government. It became an arms race for nations and that it was the "duty of every patriotic mother to risk their lives for creating new stormborn". Some nations were more pragmatic. Having forced mother conscription, others used...softer methods. By sowing fear of foreign nations developing super bio weapons, they persuade their citizens to fight the noble fight, and to protect the beloved nations of their forefathers. Some nations used words like protecting their freedom or way of life. It worked. It was now an accepted act for mothers carrying children to wade into chaos, hoping for some miracle a demigod would be given to them. If by some miracle the mother survived, they would be paraded, cheered on and used for further political purposes. The games the nations played however, began to corrode when a special sort of natural disaster appeared. The people thought nothing of the day when a virus struck, disabling all technology for a day. They did not foresee it as a natural disaster as technology was founded by man. But nature saw it different. And by the blessings of the gods a single child was born on that fateful day. A day when a demigod of the internet age was born.	It was on the first of March eleven years ago that the storms hit; tornadoes pummeled the midwest and monsoons drenched Southeast Asia and a hurricane crippled the panhandle and blizzards covered most of Europe. Tsunamis and wildfires and avalanches stretched thin the desperate emergency services. Around the world, unseasonable storms struck, the latest indication of the severity of climate change. And then, once the howling winds and crashing waves and stunning thunderstorms settled, the babies were found. Orphaned and alone, without a single family member or hospital claiming to know their origin, the children were put into the care of the less than capable and already overwhelmed local authorities. The media raved and the public oohed and aahed and then a couple weeks later they all forgot about the children, as they tend to do. That brings me to the basement of a certain eccentric former doctor whose initially unnoticed death and the ensuing stench of his rotting body brought the attention of my little local newspaper. Once the paramedics had hefted that bloated body out of the house and a hazmat team had done their best to clean the stains, they directed me to the old man's basement. "Look, Ev," Albert the police chief had told me. I was surprised to hear from him. It was usually only after a murder, and those were pretty rare in these parts. "You might want to take a look at this. Seems like your type of guy." So I went where he told me. I think it probably should have stayed a police matter. It wasn't child pornography, that wasn't quite the right word for it. It was just an absurd invasion of privacy and the local force was too understaffed and incompetent to take a second look. The old man had collected newspaper clippings - thousands of them, at least, mostly weather reports - from every place around the world, tying them together in a seemingly endless web of pin and strings and maps. I almost took offense at Al's suggestion that this was my type of man until I started reading. This man was my bread and butter; the type of person I had interviewed a thousand times as they bunkered down and awaited the apocalypse or pointed up at the contrails and screamed like uncivilized apes that the government was out to get them. It was like the old doctor had tracked down every last atom of a crime ring until he had arrived at that nucleus, the one that held it all together and was pulling all the strings. Only here the atoms weren't criminals or henchmen. They were children. And the nucleus wasn't some mastermind. It was that stormy first of March eleven years ago. His obsession seems to have been born by the fact that one of the children popped up in our own hometown. I vaguely remembered the boy, appearing after the tornadoes. I had written a half-hearted article and snapped a picture. Maybe it was like Dorothy and the tornadoes had lifted him from some other town and this was his Oz. He was eleven now and had been adopted by the mayor at the time, in all his generosity and altruism. He had used this as a platform to run for the state Senate, since he was so selfless and caring for orphans and other political crap. The old deceased doctor had meticulously tracked down every last baby that appeared on that fateful March first. He had traveled the world; India, Florida, out here in Kansas, a suburb of Reykjavik, some town in Australia. You name it, he had been there to find a baby from those parts. He had found each one and he had borrowed them - I gasped at this, I won't lie. Each one had been inserted a tracking device of sorts, as part of an operation to find their true parents and to see how birthdays impact development, or so he said. I remembered reading about this as well, I just hadn't realized that the culprit had been in our town the entire time. He had masqueraded as a concerned researcher. He was in truth a psychotic conspiracy theorist. So he had tracked the children, and the walls of the basement were covered in a half million discs containing every moment of their lives. He had tracked what they were fed, what they were told, what they saw and what they heard. He tracked when they laughed and when they smiled and when they pooped and when they burped. And as I read that coffee-stained notebook, poring through the notes of this deranged lunatic and occasionally slipping in a disc to witness what he had seen first-hand, I felt the same obsession come over me that there was something far more powerful at play than just a bunch of random babies. These were the Storm-borns, as he called them, and their births seemed to have brought about a new era for our already fragile climate. When the monsoon child cried, a monsoon followed. When he smiled, the sun shined. When the blizzard child raged in anger, unseasonable blizzards sprouted, causing a devastating Christmas in July or snowdays in August. When the hurricane child glowered at his adoptive parents, the clouds began to circle and the rains began to fall and only if they managed to defuse the situation did they dissipate and then the tropical storm would fall apart. And then I realized what he had realized, and why his work had taken on such sudden urgency that he stopped pausing to eat or drink and eventually fell to his death in a bout of low blood sugar. These prepubescent children were still controllable; they were still at an age where they hadn't realized their power and their anger was childish and immature. Their teenage years would bring unprecedented devastation, and the odds of us as a species surviving seemed slim, and I realized where his obsession was leading him. That backroom full of tranquilizing darts and guns and that compulsive tracking of the children's every step was more than just an unhealthy obsession. It was a desire to survive. ***** Thanks for reading! If you enjoyed this, please check out more stories at /r/MatiWrites. Constructive criticism and advice are always appreciated!
[WP] A phenomena begins to occur where newborn babies are found amidst the aftermath of natural disasters. Tsunamis, avalanches, wild fires, destructive lightning storms, etc. These 'Storm-Born' humans grow up with powers based on the disasters that birthed them.	“Hold steady!” Clare shouted. The wind had grown into a squall in the past hour. Her clothing flapped madly and her long hair was thrown back. “The storm wants to reach New York.” “Didn’t Andrew push it off course when it was nothing more than a tropical storm?” Anna asked. Like Clare and the others, they were named after the hurricanes that had birthed them. Each one of them came into the world on the heels of tragedy. Clare shook her head as fat drops of rain whipped across her cheeks. Though they could harness their own storms, it was much more difficult to stop the naturally occurring ones. She gritted her teeth and answered, “He did, but it did a loop near Greenland. It’s now stronger than it was before.” “Great…” Fumie said. She was their newest member. She’d been an outcast in her home country after arriving from a particularly nasty typhoon that had killed hundreds of thousands and left millions more homeless. In her early years she took out her frustrations and ostracism by aiding the storms. Now she helped fight them. Though her face was usually emotionless, Clare thought she could see a kind of storm behind Fumie's dark eyes. The storm clouds kept coming in darker, and full of natural power. Clare’s stomach twisted as she thought about Donovan and Clint’s teams out on the sea, trying to disperse the storm by sending out their tornados. It could help confuse the tempest by mixing up its wind patterns. Make it lose direction. As if reading her mind Anna asked, “Have you heard from Donovan?” Her mouth was a thin line as she tried to put on a brave face. Anna instinctively placed a hand on her stomach. She was the first of their people to carry a child—Donovan’s. “No,” Clare lied. “But I’m sure they’re fine.” The last Clare had heard, several of their boats had been ripped apart and swallowed by the raging seas. Though she ordered them back, Clint sounded as if he wouldn’t give up until he too was lost to the storm. Leading these people was like trying to lead the disasters themselves. They all held a bit of the churning defiance inside their hearts. Clint more than anyone. The storm wall approached. It stretched from one side of the horizon to the other. It pulsed like a beating heart. Lightning flashed all along its body as if it were trying to speak to them. Give up, little ones. We created you. We can end you. As the tempest approached, Clare thought of Champa. Born of a great avalanche in Tibet, he had been called to dowse a violent fire raging through California. She wished he were here too, or she there with him. Their goodbyes always felt like the last time. Each going to quell some far away disaster. As a result, their short times together were as intense as the disasters they fought. Clare thought back to their last time together, when he'd said— “It’s here!” Anna shouted. “Aim for the center!" Clare ordered. "We have to drive it apart before it gets any closer!” With raised hands to the sky, they each called upon a storm of their own. Clouds gathered above the city's skyline. They were dark as night, but each had a shimmer unique to their caster. Clare’s storms always glowed a light gold. “I can’t push mine!” Anna’s face had gone red as she struggled to move her storm toward the sea. “Fumie, can you help her?” Clare asked. It wasn’t so much a question as an order. Fumie shook her head and clenched her jaw. Clare knew what she was thinking. That they didn’t truly know their storms, that it was impossible to control them until they’d seen what destruction they could do. Fumie and her silver lined storm had wreaked havoc for over a decade before switching sides. As a result she and her storm were much closer than anyone else on the team. More powerful. Their storm clouds, shining in the dark night, moved toward the approaching hurricane. They collided with an explosion of light like a thousand million strikes of lightning. Thunder didn’t just boom, it shattered the air. The sea jumped several feet, as if frightened, from the sound alone. A wail broke from the tempest. The death cry of the storm. Clare faltered for a second. As did Anna and the other casters. Fumie was the only one not to flinch. She, like the others, heard the awful pain in the dying tempest. But Fumie had heard worse. The skies were filled with chaos. Rain flung in hundreds of different directions. The tempest fought back with thousands of lightning strikes, attacking each of their storms. Clare felt each stirke like a whip across her chest. Gritting her teeth, she retaliated in kind. Sparks danced from her fingers as her storm sent great golden bolts across the sky. More howling and more pain. Tears streamed down Clare’s face. She’d wipe them off, not wanting the others to see, but they were masked by the rain. The hurricane gave one last whimper, long, and full of despair. Clare felt a pang of guilt. In a way these storms were like parents to them. Clare was just as much storm as she was human. “We’ve done it,” Anna said in a choked voice. The tempest died as most do. Its clouds dissipated; giving to the sea its remaining power. A sun poked out from behind the dying clouds. Clare ordered them to draw back their storms. They did with reluctance. Even Clare clenched her fists as she did so. None of them felt fully alive as the times they controlled the skies. It was easier though in these moments to draw their storms back. After having killed one of their own, all Clare wanted to do was find a dark room and lay down. Biting back the sinking feeling in her heart Clare turned to the others and said, “We did a great thing today. It might not feel like it—” Fumie snorted. Clare continued, “But it was. We saved countless lives. We…” Her shoulders dropped as her throat tightened. No matter how many times they did this, it never got any easier. Not only had they killed one of their own, they might have lost Clint and Donovan. She thought of Anna's unborn child and felt a pang of responsibility for sending them out there. An arm found its way over her shoulder. When Clare looked up, she found Fumie with a half-smile. Anna came up and joined them. Together, they watched the last clouds evaporate from the sky. The sun shone alone, giving the waters its brilliance. "Yeah," Fumie sighed. Clare could hear the fatigue in her voice. "We did good."	It was on the first of March eleven years ago that the storms hit; tornadoes pummeled the midwest and monsoons drenched Southeast Asia and a hurricane crippled the panhandle and blizzards covered most of Europe. Tsunamis and wildfires and avalanches stretched thin the desperate emergency services. Around the world, unseasonable storms struck, the latest indication of the severity of climate change. And then, once the howling winds and crashing waves and stunning thunderstorms settled, the babies were found. Orphaned and alone, without a single family member or hospital claiming to know their origin, the children were put into the care of the less than capable and already overwhelmed local authorities. The media raved and the public oohed and aahed and then a couple weeks later they all forgot about the children, as they tend to do. That brings me to the basement of a certain eccentric former doctor whose initially unnoticed death and the ensuing stench of his rotting body brought the attention of my little local newspaper. Once the paramedics had hefted that bloated body out of the house and a hazmat team had done their best to clean the stains, they directed me to the old man's basement. "Look, Ev," Albert the police chief had told me. I was surprised to hear from him. It was usually only after a murder, and those were pretty rare in these parts. "You might want to take a look at this. Seems like your type of guy." So I went where he told me. I think it probably should have stayed a police matter. It wasn't child pornography, that wasn't quite the right word for it. It was just an absurd invasion of privacy and the local force was too understaffed and incompetent to take a second look. The old man had collected newspaper clippings - thousands of them, at least, mostly weather reports - from every place around the world, tying them together in a seemingly endless web of pin and strings and maps. I almost took offense at Al's suggestion that this was my type of man until I started reading. This man was my bread and butter; the type of person I had interviewed a thousand times as they bunkered down and awaited the apocalypse or pointed up at the contrails and screamed like uncivilized apes that the government was out to get them. It was like the old doctor had tracked down every last atom of a crime ring until he had arrived at that nucleus, the one that held it all together and was pulling all the strings. Only here the atoms weren't criminals or henchmen. They were children. And the nucleus wasn't some mastermind. It was that stormy first of March eleven years ago. His obsession seems to have been born by the fact that one of the children popped up in our own hometown. I vaguely remembered the boy, appearing after the tornadoes. I had written a half-hearted article and snapped a picture. Maybe it was like Dorothy and the tornadoes had lifted him from some other town and this was his Oz. He was eleven now and had been adopted by the mayor at the time, in all his generosity and altruism. He had used this as a platform to run for the state Senate, since he was so selfless and caring for orphans and other political crap. The old deceased doctor had meticulously tracked down every last baby that appeared on that fateful March first. He had traveled the world; India, Florida, out here in Kansas, a suburb of Reykjavik, some town in Australia. You name it, he had been there to find a baby from those parts. He had found each one and he had borrowed them - I gasped at this, I won't lie. Each one had been inserted a tracking device of sorts, as part of an operation to find their true parents and to see how birthdays impact development, or so he said. I remembered reading about this as well, I just hadn't realized that the culprit had been in our town the entire time. He had masqueraded as a concerned researcher. He was in truth a psychotic conspiracy theorist. So he had tracked the children, and the walls of the basement were covered in a half million discs containing every moment of their lives. He had tracked what they were fed, what they were told, what they saw and what they heard. He tracked when they laughed and when they smiled and when they pooped and when they burped. And as I read that coffee-stained notebook, poring through the notes of this deranged lunatic and occasionally slipping in a disc to witness what he had seen first-hand, I felt the same obsession come over me that there was something far more powerful at play than just a bunch of random babies. These were the Storm-borns, as he called them, and their births seemed to have brought about a new era for our already fragile climate. When the monsoon child cried, a monsoon followed. When he smiled, the sun shined. When the blizzard child raged in anger, unseasonable blizzards sprouted, causing a devastating Christmas in July or snowdays in August. When the hurricane child glowered at his adoptive parents, the clouds began to circle and the rains began to fall and only if they managed to defuse the situation did they dissipate and then the tropical storm would fall apart. And then I realized what he had realized, and why his work had taken on such sudden urgency that he stopped pausing to eat or drink and eventually fell to his death in a bout of low blood sugar. These prepubescent children were still controllable; they were still at an age where they hadn't realized their power and their anger was childish and immature. Their teenage years would bring unprecedented devastation, and the odds of us as a species surviving seemed slim, and I realized where his obsession was leading him. That backroom full of tranquilizing darts and guns and that compulsive tracking of the children's every step was more than just an unhealthy obsession. It was a desire to survive. ***** Thanks for reading! If you enjoyed this, please check out more stories at /r/MatiWrites. Constructive criticism and advice are always appreciated!
[WP] A phenomena begins to occur where newborn babies are found amidst the aftermath of natural disasters. Tsunamis, avalanches, wild fires, destructive lightning storms, etc. These 'Storm-Born' humans grow up with powers based on the disasters that birthed them.	They called us Stormborn. Found in the ashes, the debris, the aftermath. Rescuers found us not by our cries but by our gifts, they tell us that we didn't cry. We lay silent, wreathed in flames or snow, playing at tidal waves in pools, lightning dancing from our fingertips. It became commonplace for the world, the hopeful masses waiting on the word of a new Stormborn. All the destruction and death, they wanted a life. We were that life. I was born in fire. My sister too. We were the first Stormborn twins. We were a worldwide phenomenon. I even have a stuffed toy of myself, can't go out without being recognized. In our year there were eight Stormborn. Not every disaster gave rise to one and not every Stormborn survived. We all did from our year. Eight of us. Three of fire, two from the ocean, a tornado, a hurricane, a lightning storm, and a mudslide. Eight children of destruction, with abilities that defied belief. I grew up with hundreds of Stormborn, packed into schools where we were meant to learn control, to use our powers properly. Some found it easy, others not so much. My sister came to her powers like a fish to water, or a spark to flame. I did not. I struggled with it. Every fire was a challenge, a mystery, a puzzle that did not want to come together. It took years until I mastered it. That was ten years ago. We aren't cultural phenomena anymore, the stuffies don't sell like they used to. There are triplets out there, that's more exciting. Instead we sit in a helicopter, one of us at each open door, blasting over a raging wildfire that threatens a town of tens of thousands. Evacuations are slow, difficult, we cost less and do it better. We test the edges of the fire, ease it into a safer direction, ease it to the firebreaks that firefighters have created. We do not snuff out fire, we simply ask it to obey. It does. Slowly, thousands of acres of fire turn away from the town, ignoring the wind and listening to us. Two Stormborn, doing something good. "Did you see this?" My sister asks, handing me her phone. I read the headline and raise an eyebrow. David was from our year. Flood powers were his thing. He ended up working at a hydroelectric dam last I heard, powered half the eastern seaboard there. "He's dead?" I ask her through the headset. She nods. "That makes three from our year, twelve from others." I don't like where she's going. I've never liked it. "Doesn't mean anything. We can die too." I say, shrugging and handing the phone back. "Someone's killing Stormborn, little brother." She says, staring out over the forest that we just saved. "Means something to me." I don't subscribe to conspiracies. Or I didn't. Not until three days later. When my sister was killed. They would talk about the fire that burned through an old mining town for months. Turned the sand to glass, they said. Someone was killing Stormborn. And I was going to find out why.	It was on the first of March eleven years ago that the storms hit; tornadoes pummeled the midwest and monsoons drenched Southeast Asia and a hurricane crippled the panhandle and blizzards covered most of Europe. Tsunamis and wildfires and avalanches stretched thin the desperate emergency services. Around the world, unseasonable storms struck, the latest indication of the severity of climate change. And then, once the howling winds and crashing waves and stunning thunderstorms settled, the babies were found. Orphaned and alone, without a single family member or hospital claiming to know their origin, the children were put into the care of the less than capable and already overwhelmed local authorities. The media raved and the public oohed and aahed and then a couple weeks later they all forgot about the children, as they tend to do. That brings me to the basement of a certain eccentric former doctor whose initially unnoticed death and the ensuing stench of his rotting body brought the attention of my little local newspaper. Once the paramedics had hefted that bloated body out of the house and a hazmat team had done their best to clean the stains, they directed me to the old man's basement. "Look, Ev," Albert the police chief had told me. I was surprised to hear from him. It was usually only after a murder, and those were pretty rare in these parts. "You might want to take a look at this. Seems like your type of guy." So I went where he told me. I think it probably should have stayed a police matter. It wasn't child pornography, that wasn't quite the right word for it. It was just an absurd invasion of privacy and the local force was too understaffed and incompetent to take a second look. The old man had collected newspaper clippings - thousands of them, at least, mostly weather reports - from every place around the world, tying them together in a seemingly endless web of pin and strings and maps. I almost took offense at Al's suggestion that this was my type of man until I started reading. This man was my bread and butter; the type of person I had interviewed a thousand times as they bunkered down and awaited the apocalypse or pointed up at the contrails and screamed like uncivilized apes that the government was out to get them. It was like the old doctor had tracked down every last atom of a crime ring until he had arrived at that nucleus, the one that held it all together and was pulling all the strings. Only here the atoms weren't criminals or henchmen. They were children. And the nucleus wasn't some mastermind. It was that stormy first of March eleven years ago. His obsession seems to have been born by the fact that one of the children popped up in our own hometown. I vaguely remembered the boy, appearing after the tornadoes. I had written a half-hearted article and snapped a picture. Maybe it was like Dorothy and the tornadoes had lifted him from some other town and this was his Oz. He was eleven now and had been adopted by the mayor at the time, in all his generosity and altruism. He had used this as a platform to run for the state Senate, since he was so selfless and caring for orphans and other political crap. The old deceased doctor had meticulously tracked down every last baby that appeared on that fateful March first. He had traveled the world; India, Florida, out here in Kansas, a suburb of Reykjavik, some town in Australia. You name it, he had been there to find a baby from those parts. He had found each one and he had borrowed them - I gasped at this, I won't lie. Each one had been inserted a tracking device of sorts, as part of an operation to find their true parents and to see how birthdays impact development, or so he said. I remembered reading about this as well, I just hadn't realized that the culprit had been in our town the entire time. He had masqueraded as a concerned researcher. He was in truth a psychotic conspiracy theorist. So he had tracked the children, and the walls of the basement were covered in a half million discs containing every moment of their lives. He had tracked what they were fed, what they were told, what they saw and what they heard. He tracked when they laughed and when they smiled and when they pooped and when they burped. And as I read that coffee-stained notebook, poring through the notes of this deranged lunatic and occasionally slipping in a disc to witness what he had seen first-hand, I felt the same obsession come over me that there was something far more powerful at play than just a bunch of random babies. These were the Storm-borns, as he called them, and their births seemed to have brought about a new era for our already fragile climate. When the monsoon child cried, a monsoon followed. When he smiled, the sun shined. When the blizzard child raged in anger, unseasonable blizzards sprouted, causing a devastating Christmas in July or snowdays in August. When the hurricane child glowered at his adoptive parents, the clouds began to circle and the rains began to fall and only if they managed to defuse the situation did they dissipate and then the tropical storm would fall apart. And then I realized what he had realized, and why his work had taken on such sudden urgency that he stopped pausing to eat or drink and eventually fell to his death in a bout of low blood sugar. These prepubescent children were still controllable; they were still at an age where they hadn't realized their power and their anger was childish and immature. Their teenage years would bring unprecedented devastation, and the odds of us as a species surviving seemed slim, and I realized where his obsession was leading him. That backroom full of tranquilizing darts and guns and that compulsive tracking of the children's every step was more than just an unhealthy obsession. It was a desire to survive. ***** Thanks for reading! If you enjoyed this, please check out more stories at /r/MatiWrites. Constructive criticism and advice are always appreciated!
[WP] A phenomena begins to occur where newborn babies are found amidst the aftermath of natural disasters. Tsunamis, avalanches, wild fires, destructive lightning storms, etc. These 'Storm-Born' humans grow up with powers based on the disasters that birthed them.	"How about this: I empty both ashtrays into what's left of my beer, and I mix it 'round and 'round with my index finger, and then I drink it. The whole stinking mixture. If I don't down every last sooty drop of it, I buy you your next round. But if I do somehow manage to slurp it all down, then you get me another. How does that sound, friend?" The huge bald man on the bar-stool next to me grins. He's missing a few teeth, but it somehow suits him -- maybe 'cause he's missing equally big dents out of his head. He looks from ashtray to ashtray, both over-spilling with the blackened corpses of cigarettes, then at what's left of my beer. "You're going to eat all that shit -- mixed into your beer? What if you vomit it up after?" "Same rules. I buy you your next drink. Any drink you want." His eyes wander from me to the shelf of spirits perched behind the bar. He's wondering either what's the most expensive out of them, or what's got the highest alcohol content. Doesn't matter what he chooses: I can't afford it. Only thing in my pocket is a last stick of chewing gum. His head begins to bob. "Okay, yeah you're on." He removes the cigarette that he shouldn't be smoking -- but that no one's going to tell him not to -- from his mouth, and twists the end of it into the nearest ashtray. I stare down at the long stub. "You're going to leave half your smoke?" "Yeah," he says, grin ever widening. "Problem?" "I was only going to drink ashes, not eat--" "Problem?" He sits up straight, his huge shadow darkening me, his face hard. "No. No, there's no problem. I just wasn't that hungry, but I guess I can make room." I grab the first ashtray and tip it into my drink, smacking the side to make sure all the ash falls in. There's a little plop as the half-smoked cigarette drops in, followed by a lazy stream of smoke. As I take the second ashtray, the barman turns up the TV that's hanging on the wall above him. "... Yes, Tony. That's the fourth Storm Born dead, attempting to help evacuate this area of Northern California. She didn't make it more than a mile before she stopped moving and her vitals fell. In related news, scientists widely suspect that the pathogen is man-made. Whether domestic terrorism, or foreign, remains to be--" I tune out as soon as I know the dead Storm Born ain't Susie and get on with the task at hand. "There," I say, as the debris swirls around my glass. The dry grey surface hides a turbid underbelly. The brown cigarette juts out like a ship stuck in a swamp. The big man looks into my glass and I see his face shift in disgust. Even he looks concerned. "You not going to stir it more?" "This is how I like it." I pick it up and start to gulp down the mixture, tapping a nail on the bottom of the glass to help it slide down. Tastes as bad as I imagined it would, like lumpy dry medicine, but that's okay. I get to wash it down with a refreshing beverage shortly. I wipe my lips with the back of my hand; black ash smears my skin. "There," I say. "Now where's my beer?" The man just gapes for a while. "You some kind of freak." Not sure if it's a statement or a question, I just shrug. "Mine's a Guinness." He nods at me, then grunts at the barman who reluctantly tears his eyes away from the reporter on the screen. "You going to be sick something awful tonight," the big man says as the beer is put down on the bar. "I don't get sick," I reply. "Oh yeah?" says the barman, suddenly leaning over to me, interested. He's got slicked back grease for hair, but sharp eyes and they're already studying me. The big man has turned away and is talking to his friend. Long sip. It helps loosen the ash stuck in my throat. "Yeah." "Never been ill?" the barman continues. "Nope. Not since I was a baby." His brows furrow. Then a kind of realisation dawns on his features. "You're not one... Nah, never mind. You couldn't be." "Storm Born? Only sorta. I was born in a plague, not a storm. My gifts are... different." He looks excited. "You are one of them! Holy shit, in my bar?! Why didn't you say? Rest of your drinks are on me, as long as you let me chalk up the board outside. If people know I got a Storm Born... In my bar!" He repeats the line shaking his head. "Wait till Mama hears about this." I drink my beer and drift away, only half aware of the barman's incessant talk. He wants to know where I'm from. What plague. How'd I live through it. When did I find my powers. All the usual. He doesn't want to know being born in a plague meant all my family were dead before my first full day alive was over. Or about the foster homes. Or the prisons. Or the rejection from the Storm Born themselves. People like the barman, they never want to know the real stuff. Just the fantasy of it. But then he says, still shaking his head in disbelief, something that catches my attention. "They could sure use a guy who doesn't get sick in California right now." I stop drinking and let myself chew the line over. Only for a second, mind you. Then I say, "I'm not a hero. Never was, never will be. Understand?" "Never said you were." Hands raised defensively. "Never said you were. But... I bet, with the right negotiator, they'd pay a fortune to the man who could make it to where the plague started. Find out what -- who -- created it. That's the first step to making an antidote they said on the news. It's why all the Storms are trying and dying." My beer is empty. I push the glass towards the man. He looks at me, then takes it and refills. "Just another beer. That's all I want today. Like every other day." "I get it. No problem. I'm sure you don't need the money at all." But as I'm drinking the second, and then even more-so the third, I start to wonder just how much they would pay. On my fourth, as I visit the urinals, the money aspect is strangely draining away with the some of the beer. Then on my fifth drink, my mind is a blurred, reluctant, image of Susie. I try to scribble her out, but she won't go away. Her blue eyes are still there, peering through the blackness at me. What if she tries to go in? Is she that stupid? Maybe. She did date me for a few weeks, after all. Maybe thinks she can cleanse the area with water or something. Things might have ended badly -- very badly -- but I still don't need her being the next dead Storm Born. "Ah shit," I say, loud enough to catch the barman's attention. "I hate California." His eyes seem to shine. "You're going? Someone from my bar is going to save the world?" "I'm going. Didn't say nothing about saving the world. But I'll tell you what, if you phone the army or the government, or whoever you need, and negotiate my payment while I think out a plan... Well, whatever you manage to get from them, I'll give you five percent of it -- if you drive me to the airport." He grins like a man who knows a secret. "Twenty percent and I'll book our plane tickets too." "Our? What do you mean our?" I glare at him, but he still grins like a clown on its birthday. "And twenty? You out of your mind? I'm the one risking my neck. Five percent or nothing." He pauses. "Ten percent, and free beers here for a year." It takes me a heartbeat to decide -- it is a shithole, after all -- but then I raise my glass to him, my face stretching to a smile. "Cheers to that."	It was on the first of March eleven years ago that the storms hit; tornadoes pummeled the midwest and monsoons drenched Southeast Asia and a hurricane crippled the panhandle and blizzards covered most of Europe. Tsunamis and wildfires and avalanches stretched thin the desperate emergency services. Around the world, unseasonable storms struck, the latest indication of the severity of climate change. And then, once the howling winds and crashing waves and stunning thunderstorms settled, the babies were found. Orphaned and alone, without a single family member or hospital claiming to know their origin, the children were put into the care of the less than capable and already overwhelmed local authorities. The media raved and the public oohed and aahed and then a couple weeks later they all forgot about the children, as they tend to do. That brings me to the basement of a certain eccentric former doctor whose initially unnoticed death and the ensuing stench of his rotting body brought the attention of my little local newspaper. Once the paramedics had hefted that bloated body out of the house and a hazmat team had done their best to clean the stains, they directed me to the old man's basement. "Look, Ev," Albert the police chief had told me. I was surprised to hear from him. It was usually only after a murder, and those were pretty rare in these parts. "You might want to take a look at this. Seems like your type of guy." So I went where he told me. I think it probably should have stayed a police matter. It wasn't child pornography, that wasn't quite the right word for it. It was just an absurd invasion of privacy and the local force was too understaffed and incompetent to take a second look. The old man had collected newspaper clippings - thousands of them, at least, mostly weather reports - from every place around the world, tying them together in a seemingly endless web of pin and strings and maps. I almost took offense at Al's suggestion that this was my type of man until I started reading. This man was my bread and butter; the type of person I had interviewed a thousand times as they bunkered down and awaited the apocalypse or pointed up at the contrails and screamed like uncivilized apes that the government was out to get them. It was like the old doctor had tracked down every last atom of a crime ring until he had arrived at that nucleus, the one that held it all together and was pulling all the strings. Only here the atoms weren't criminals or henchmen. They were children. And the nucleus wasn't some mastermind. It was that stormy first of March eleven years ago. His obsession seems to have been born by the fact that one of the children popped up in our own hometown. I vaguely remembered the boy, appearing after the tornadoes. I had written a half-hearted article and snapped a picture. Maybe it was like Dorothy and the tornadoes had lifted him from some other town and this was his Oz. He was eleven now and had been adopted by the mayor at the time, in all his generosity and altruism. He had used this as a platform to run for the state Senate, since he was so selfless and caring for orphans and other political crap. The old deceased doctor had meticulously tracked down every last baby that appeared on that fateful March first. He had traveled the world; India, Florida, out here in Kansas, a suburb of Reykjavik, some town in Australia. You name it, he had been there to find a baby from those parts. He had found each one and he had borrowed them - I gasped at this, I won't lie. Each one had been inserted a tracking device of sorts, as part of an operation to find their true parents and to see how birthdays impact development, or so he said. I remembered reading about this as well, I just hadn't realized that the culprit had been in our town the entire time. He had masqueraded as a concerned researcher. He was in truth a psychotic conspiracy theorist. So he had tracked the children, and the walls of the basement were covered in a half million discs containing every moment of their lives. He had tracked what they were fed, what they were told, what they saw and what they heard. He tracked when they laughed and when they smiled and when they pooped and when they burped. And as I read that coffee-stained notebook, poring through the notes of this deranged lunatic and occasionally slipping in a disc to witness what he had seen first-hand, I felt the same obsession come over me that there was something far more powerful at play than just a bunch of random babies. These were the Storm-borns, as he called them, and their births seemed to have brought about a new era for our already fragile climate. When the monsoon child cried, a monsoon followed. When he smiled, the sun shined. When the blizzard child raged in anger, unseasonable blizzards sprouted, causing a devastating Christmas in July or snowdays in August. When the hurricane child glowered at his adoptive parents, the clouds began to circle and the rains began to fall and only if they managed to defuse the situation did they dissipate and then the tropical storm would fall apart. And then I realized what he had realized, and why his work had taken on such sudden urgency that he stopped pausing to eat or drink and eventually fell to his death in a bout of low blood sugar. These prepubescent children were still controllable; they were still at an age where they hadn't realized their power and their anger was childish and immature. Their teenage years would bring unprecedented devastation, and the odds of us as a species surviving seemed slim, and I realized where his obsession was leading him. That backroom full of tranquilizing darts and guns and that compulsive tracking of the children's every step was more than just an unhealthy obsession. It was a desire to survive. ***** Thanks for reading! If you enjoyed this, please check out more stories at /r/MatiWrites. Constructive criticism and advice are always appreciated!
[WP] A phenomena begins to occur where newborn babies are found amidst the aftermath of natural disasters. Tsunamis, avalanches, wild fires, destructive lightning storms, etc. These 'Storm-Born' humans grow up with powers based on the disasters that birthed them.	They called us Stormborn. Found in the ashes, the debris, the aftermath. Rescuers found us not by our cries but by our gifts, they tell us that we didn't cry. We lay silent, wreathed in flames or snow, playing at tidal waves in pools, lightning dancing from our fingertips. It became commonplace for the world, the hopeful masses waiting on the word of a new Stormborn. All the destruction and death, they wanted a life. We were that life. I was born in fire. My sister too. We were the first Stormborn twins. We were a worldwide phenomenon. I even have a stuffed toy of myself, can't go out without being recognized. In our year there were eight Stormborn. Not every disaster gave rise to one and not every Stormborn survived. We all did from our year. Eight of us. Three of fire, two from the ocean, a tornado, a hurricane, a lightning storm, and a mudslide. Eight children of destruction, with abilities that defied belief. I grew up with hundreds of Stormborn, packed into schools where we were meant to learn control, to use our powers properly. Some found it easy, others not so much. My sister came to her powers like a fish to water, or a spark to flame. I did not. I struggled with it. Every fire was a challenge, a mystery, a puzzle that did not want to come together. It took years until I mastered it. That was ten years ago. We aren't cultural phenomena anymore, the stuffies don't sell like they used to. There are triplets out there, that's more exciting. Instead we sit in a helicopter, one of us at each open door, blasting over a raging wildfire that threatens a town of tens of thousands. Evacuations are slow, difficult, we cost less and do it better. We test the edges of the fire, ease it into a safer direction, ease it to the firebreaks that firefighters have created. We do not snuff out fire, we simply ask it to obey. It does. Slowly, thousands of acres of fire turn away from the town, ignoring the wind and listening to us. Two Stormborn, doing something good. "Did you see this?" My sister asks, handing me her phone. I read the headline and raise an eyebrow. David was from our year. Flood powers were his thing. He ended up working at a hydroelectric dam last I heard, powered half the eastern seaboard there. "He's dead?" I ask her through the headset. She nods. "That makes three from our year, twelve from others." I don't like where she's going. I've never liked it. "Doesn't mean anything. We can die too." I say, shrugging and handing the phone back. "Someone's killing Stormborn, little brother." She says, staring out over the forest that we just saved. "Means something to me." I don't subscribe to conspiracies. Or I didn't. Not until three days later. When my sister was killed. They would talk about the fire that burned through an old mining town for months. Turned the sand to glass, they said. Someone was killing Stormborn. And I was going to find out why.	We had to take them away. That was the worst of it, and the beginning of the end. Not the end of everything, but the end of what we knew, the scourging of an entire world. It's still here, but what we built is gone. Gods. I think they believed they were doing us a favor. The gods, I mean. Because they're behind this, of course, or they were. It got away from them, after a time, and they couldn't find the consensus to end it, because so long as a single god could boast Stormborn followers, the others "needed" them too. So we had to take them away. We thought we were making things safe, not sowing the seeds of cataclysm. Every civilization, every tribe and kingdom and Tyranny, all had their own ways of coping with these children, these toddlers revealing apocalyptic powers. But they all took them away, one way, another way, always away. Always away. Had to be safe. Children are not fully controllable. They throw tantrums. They destroy villages, cities. Accidentally murder their own parents and siblings. Fuck the gods, for not knowing. Fuck them even more if they did, and let this happen anyway. I was small when it first started. I remember the terror, can still feel the way it soaked into everything, every conversation, every hint of something stirring on the horizon. One of my vaguest, earliest, most awful memories is of soldiers storming a house. The cries, the sounds of one-sided combat, the man cleaning blood off his blade, the screaming child. It's all a blur, and no less awful for it. We had to take them away. They went to isolated orphanages, remote temples, fortified training camps. Academies of magic, though mortal spells paled in comparison to what a single tantrum could unleash. Whole cabals of archmages would struggle to contain one child. Methods were invented, some kinder, some... ...scarring. In more ways than one. Certain sorts of scarring were useful, the mark of danger, of power, of person-controlled. Good to be visible. Others only showed in the eyes, if you looked closely. And I have, but first, let me tell you why. I don't know how what age the first weapon was. And that's what she was, make no mistake. We all remember her, but they took away her own memory when they killed her unwilling family, erased it with grim purpose. It's not good to give a tool anything to catch on, much less a weapon. Cut clean through the air, no hesitation, that's what one wants in a blade, a hammer's head. Slash and crush and sing. Maybe she wondered, before she died, after she'd help remake the little kingdom of her birth into an empire. A screaming little girl on a platform, carried up and down the coast by grim-faced soldiers and ringed by hedge-wizards who would have been able to do little were she to actually turn on them, threatening utter destruction to every port between the Battered Shore and the Long-Legged Sea. She was the first, but in the four years between the start of her terror and her assassination there came five more, none much older. Hurling fire and shaking the earth, one even pulling down fiery stones from the heavens. Three were killed fairly quickly, but by then it almost didn't matter. A grave setback for their own "side," to whatever extent a small child can be said to have a "side" at all. A horror for the murdered child, their blood staining their handlers every bit as much as the assassins. More, maybe. Probably. Almost certainly. A horror for the murdered child, a setback for an army, of little consequence to the world at large because there were always more. We had to take them away, but we didn't have to bring them back on leashes of withheld love and harsh punishment. We didn't have to use them. Granted, children trained to fight from birth have always been, and, gods help us, gods leave us be, perhaps they always will be. But how many of those children ever burned thirty thousand people alive while most were asleep in their beds? Or drowned an entire desert clan as a show of ironic force? <continued below>
[WP] A phenomena begins to occur where newborn babies are found amidst the aftermath of natural disasters. Tsunamis, avalanches, wild fires, destructive lightning storms, etc. These 'Storm-Born' humans grow up with powers based on the disasters that birthed them.	"How about this: I empty both ashtrays into what's left of my beer, and I mix it 'round and 'round with my index finger, and then I drink it. The whole stinking mixture. If I don't down every last sooty drop of it, I buy you your next round. But if I do somehow manage to slurp it all down, then you get me another. How does that sound, friend?" The huge bald man on the bar-stool next to me grins. He's missing a few teeth, but it somehow suits him -- maybe 'cause he's missing equally big dents out of his head. He looks from ashtray to ashtray, both over-spilling with the blackened corpses of cigarettes, then at what's left of my beer. "You're going to eat all that shit -- mixed into your beer? What if you vomit it up after?" "Same rules. I buy you your next drink. Any drink you want." His eyes wander from me to the shelf of spirits perched behind the bar. He's wondering either what's the most expensive out of them, or what's got the highest alcohol content. Doesn't matter what he chooses: I can't afford it. Only thing in my pocket is a last stick of chewing gum. His head begins to bob. "Okay, yeah you're on." He removes the cigarette that he shouldn't be smoking -- but that no one's going to tell him not to -- from his mouth, and twists the end of it into the nearest ashtray. I stare down at the long stub. "You're going to leave half your smoke?" "Yeah," he says, grin ever widening. "Problem?" "I was only going to drink ashes, not eat--" "Problem?" He sits up straight, his huge shadow darkening me, his face hard. "No. No, there's no problem. I just wasn't that hungry, but I guess I can make room." I grab the first ashtray and tip it into my drink, smacking the side to make sure all the ash falls in. There's a little plop as the half-smoked cigarette drops in, followed by a lazy stream of smoke. As I take the second ashtray, the barman turns up the TV that's hanging on the wall above him. "... Yes, Tony. That's the fourth Storm Born dead, attempting to help evacuate this area of Northern California. She didn't make it more than a mile before she stopped moving and her vitals fell. In related news, scientists widely suspect that the pathogen is man-made. Whether domestic terrorism, or foreign, remains to be--" I tune out as soon as I know the dead Storm Born ain't Susie and get on with the task at hand. "There," I say, as the debris swirls around my glass. The dry grey surface hides a turbid underbelly. The brown cigarette juts out like a ship stuck in a swamp. The big man looks into my glass and I see his face shift in disgust. Even he looks concerned. "You not going to stir it more?" "This is how I like it." I pick it up and start to gulp down the mixture, tapping a nail on the bottom of the glass to help it slide down. Tastes as bad as I imagined it would, like lumpy dry medicine, but that's okay. I get to wash it down with a refreshing beverage shortly. I wipe my lips with the back of my hand; black ash smears my skin. "There," I say. "Now where's my beer?" The man just gapes for a while. "You some kind of freak." Not sure if it's a statement or a question, I just shrug. "Mine's a Guinness." He nods at me, then grunts at the barman who reluctantly tears his eyes away from the reporter on the screen. "You going to be sick something awful tonight," the big man says as the beer is put down on the bar. "I don't get sick," I reply. "Oh yeah?" says the barman, suddenly leaning over to me, interested. He's got slicked back grease for hair, but sharp eyes and they're already studying me. The big man has turned away and is talking to his friend. Long sip. It helps loosen the ash stuck in my throat. "Yeah." "Never been ill?" the barman continues. "Nope. Not since I was a baby." His brows furrow. Then a kind of realisation dawns on his features. "You're not one... Nah, never mind. You couldn't be." "Storm Born? Only sorta. I was born in a plague, not a storm. My gifts are... different." He looks excited. "You are one of them! Holy shit, in my bar?! Why didn't you say? Rest of your drinks are on me, as long as you let me chalk up the board outside. If people know I got a Storm Born... In my bar!" He repeats the line shaking his head. "Wait till Mama hears about this." I drink my beer and drift away, only half aware of the barman's incessant talk. He wants to know where I'm from. What plague. How'd I live through it. When did I find my powers. All the usual. He doesn't want to know being born in a plague meant all my family were dead before my first full day alive was over. Or about the foster homes. Or the prisons. Or the rejection from the Storm Born themselves. People like the barman, they never want to know the real stuff. Just the fantasy of it. But then he says, still shaking his head in disbelief, something that catches my attention. "They could sure use a guy who doesn't get sick in California right now." I stop drinking and let myself chew the line over. Only for a second, mind you. Then I say, "I'm not a hero. Never was, never will be. Understand?" "Never said you were." Hands raised defensively. "Never said you were. But... I bet, with the right negotiator, they'd pay a fortune to the man who could make it to where the plague started. Find out what -- who -- created it. That's the first step to making an antidote they said on the news. It's why all the Storms are trying and dying." My beer is empty. I push the glass towards the man. He looks at me, then takes it and refills. "Just another beer. That's all I want today. Like every other day." "I get it. No problem. I'm sure you don't need the money at all." But as I'm drinking the second, and then even more-so the third, I start to wonder just how much they would pay. On my fourth, as I visit the urinals, the money aspect is strangely draining away with the some of the beer. Then on my fifth drink, my mind is a blurred, reluctant, image of Susie. I try to scribble her out, but she won't go away. Her blue eyes are still there, peering through the blackness at me. What if she tries to go in? Is she that stupid? Maybe. She did date me for a few weeks, after all. Maybe thinks she can cleanse the area with water or something. Things might have ended badly -- very badly -- but I still don't need her being the next dead Storm Born. "Ah shit," I say, loud enough to catch the barman's attention. "I hate California." His eyes seem to shine. "You're going? Someone from my bar is going to save the world?" "I'm going. Didn't say nothing about saving the world. But I'll tell you what, if you phone the army or the government, or whoever you need, and negotiate my payment while I think out a plan... Well, whatever you manage to get from them, I'll give you five percent of it -- if you drive me to the airport." He grins like a man who knows a secret. "Twenty percent and I'll book our plane tickets too." "Our? What do you mean our?" I glare at him, but he still grins like a clown on its birthday. "And twenty? You out of your mind? I'm the one risking my neck. Five percent or nothing." He pauses. "Ten percent, and free beers here for a year." It takes me a heartbeat to decide -- it is a shithole, after all -- but then I raise my glass to him, my face stretching to a smile. "Cheers to that."	We had to take them away. That was the worst of it, and the beginning of the end. Not the end of everything, but the end of what we knew, the scourging of an entire world. It's still here, but what we built is gone. Gods. I think they believed they were doing us a favor. The gods, I mean. Because they're behind this, of course, or they were. It got away from them, after a time, and they couldn't find the consensus to end it, because so long as a single god could boast Stormborn followers, the others "needed" them too. So we had to take them away. We thought we were making things safe, not sowing the seeds of cataclysm. Every civilization, every tribe and kingdom and Tyranny, all had their own ways of coping with these children, these toddlers revealing apocalyptic powers. But they all took them away, one way, another way, always away. Always away. Had to be safe. Children are not fully controllable. They throw tantrums. They destroy villages, cities. Accidentally murder their own parents and siblings. Fuck the gods, for not knowing. Fuck them even more if they did, and let this happen anyway. I was small when it first started. I remember the terror, can still feel the way it soaked into everything, every conversation, every hint of something stirring on the horizon. One of my vaguest, earliest, most awful memories is of soldiers storming a house. The cries, the sounds of one-sided combat, the man cleaning blood off his blade, the screaming child. It's all a blur, and no less awful for it. We had to take them away. They went to isolated orphanages, remote temples, fortified training camps. Academies of magic, though mortal spells paled in comparison to what a single tantrum could unleash. Whole cabals of archmages would struggle to contain one child. Methods were invented, some kinder, some... ...scarring. In more ways than one. Certain sorts of scarring were useful, the mark of danger, of power, of person-controlled. Good to be visible. Others only showed in the eyes, if you looked closely. And I have, but first, let me tell you why. I don't know how what age the first weapon was. And that's what she was, make no mistake. We all remember her, but they took away her own memory when they killed her unwilling family, erased it with grim purpose. It's not good to give a tool anything to catch on, much less a weapon. Cut clean through the air, no hesitation, that's what one wants in a blade, a hammer's head. Slash and crush and sing. Maybe she wondered, before she died, after she'd help remake the little kingdom of her birth into an empire. A screaming little girl on a platform, carried up and down the coast by grim-faced soldiers and ringed by hedge-wizards who would have been able to do little were she to actually turn on them, threatening utter destruction to every port between the Battered Shore and the Long-Legged Sea. She was the first, but in the four years between the start of her terror and her assassination there came five more, none much older. Hurling fire and shaking the earth, one even pulling down fiery stones from the heavens. Three were killed fairly quickly, but by then it almost didn't matter. A grave setback for their own "side," to whatever extent a small child can be said to have a "side" at all. A horror for the murdered child, their blood staining their handlers every bit as much as the assassins. More, maybe. Probably. Almost certainly. A horror for the murdered child, a setback for an army, of little consequence to the world at large because there were always more. We had to take them away, but we didn't have to bring them back on leashes of withheld love and harsh punishment. We didn't have to use them. Granted, children trained to fight from birth have always been, and, gods help us, gods leave us be, perhaps they always will be. But how many of those children ever burned thirty thousand people alive while most were asleep in their beds? Or drowned an entire desert clan as a show of ironic force? <continued below>
[WP] In this universe, people can sacrifice a memory to do magic, the more important the memory, the stronger the magic. You wake up one day with complete amnesia.	I open my eyes to see a guy leaning over me, a concerned, horrified look on his face. “Hey, are you okay? Do you remem...” That’s all he can get out before I shove away from him, my breath coming in ragged spurts as I drag myself away from him, shaking and whimpering in fear. “Who are you?!” I shriek, my voice breaking as I barely manage to hold back tears. “Where am I, what did you do to me, who are you?” He holds his hands up, palms facing me, a gesture placating me and showing he has no ill intentions. “Hey, hey, woah, it’s okay. Calm down, you’re okay, I’m here. I’m your best friend, we’ve known each other for years. What have you done?” I look at him, my breathing beginning to slow, my heart finally not about to break through my chest. “What do you mean what have I done? Didn’t you do this to me?” I look at him as my posture becomes less combative. He chuckles as he sits back, leaning against the wall. I notice the room for the first time. A bed off to one side, blankets all askew, a window covered by curtains, knickknacks and books litter the floor, the desk, the dresser, everywhere. A television is mounted on the wall. All in all, a comfortable place, I suppose. “Well, that’s a bit of a complex question. I guess the answer is yes and no. Are you ready to hear this?” He asks. “How do I know I can trust you?” He flinches and looks wounded, his eyes closing momentarily as he breathes. “I’m not going to take that personally, because you can’t remember. But look at this.” He pulls a phone out, and starts scrolling through pictures. He and I in a classroom, he and I in this room, in another room somewhere that I feel should be familiar but isn’t, in cars, restaurants, everywhere. I look up at him, starting to inch closer once again. “We were really best friends?” I ask in awe. He smiles sadly. “We ARE best friends,” he corrects me gently, “even if you can’t remember it right now. But you will one day, I promise.” I look up at him, and place my hand on his arm. “I’m ready. Tell me.” I whisper, stomach knotting into what feels like a balloon animal. So he begins to talk. “I was dying. I had maybe minutes left, if I was lucky. The doctors had given up, and there was nothing left to be done but wait for it to be over. You were with me then, but left. And then, suddenly, I was totally fine. Vital signs up, health back to normal, as though I was never sick to begin with. No one could figure out why, not us, not the doctors. Then, after the euphoria passed, I knew exactly what you had done. I found you in the chapel, out cold. I couldn’t wake you up, so I brought you home. I knew the moment I saw you slumped over, you had sacrificed every single one of your memories to bring me back from the edge of death.” His eyes start to well with tears. “You saved my life, but totally lost your’s in the process.” A tear rolls down his cheek. I sit back, laying my head against the wall next to him. It takes me a few minutes to absorb the information. But it starts to make sense. That’s the only logical reason I can see why this has happened. “I must really love you then.” I turn and look at him, half joking but also half serious. He meets my eyes and smiles. “Yeah, you must.” He replies. Standing, he holds out his hand to me. I grasp it, and he hauls me to my feet. “Let’s go. There are some people I want you to meet.” As he puts his arm around my shoulders and leads me away from the room, I smile, knowing and believing that with him, I’m totally safe, and truly happy with the choice I made.	~~Shitpost turned into a longer shitpost.~~ Zooey stared at the foreign objects that lay before her. One was metallic, a precision instrument of some sort, perfectly rounded in a partially spliced oval at one end. The other could only be described as a tiny cauldron, a raised upended dome in which a suspicious pale liquid teetered back and forth. As the fluid went about its slow ebb and flow, brown islands of increasingly unstable composition bobbed with it. She glanced up at the man who'd placed the two items before her. She'd woken with no idea where she was or who she was beyond the name he'd called her in apparent elation, in this confined room. He'd vanished briefly, before returning with the conundrum she now had posed before her. He gazed at her expectantly, waiting for her to take action. Zooey decided to meet his eyes and stare back. Slowly, the man grew adverse to the continued contact, flushing slightly. It was possible she possessed some form of heat vision, invisible rays that could be used to exacerbate thermoreceptors. She pressed on, turning her body in full and bending forward to minimize the distance her heat vision had to travel. The man leaned back, before finally averting his attention to the barren wooden walls. Zooey felt the edges of her lips lilt upwards; she had won. There was only one thing left to do. Zooey flung the cauldron at him, shattering the surprisingly flimsy material as the white liquid doused the man's body. Before he could recover, Zooey took the blunt-ended metal stick thing and stabbed into his face. She carved out the receptacles he used for vision, and found resistance behind them. He was flailing now, falling back against the wall for support, but Zooey knew better than to give him time. She smashed the metal thing against his head, again and again and again. The man never fought back, only cowering and using weak fleshy appendages for protection. Soon after, he stopped moving. Zooey stood, lost. The door was still closed. She slowly made her way to the firm wooden contraption, the gate that kept her imprisoned here. She reached out to get a grasp on its make. It was likely locked, barred to prevent... and it opened at the brush of a hand. Light flooded in. The world beyond was some sort of disgusting lab room. Knives were arranged in a block of hollowed wood, surrounded by other similar metal weapons like the one Zooey had been handed. Water gushed from a silver hose, cascading down onto projectiles like the one she had just made use of. Weapons. More weapons. She was surrounded by weapons. A woman leapt to her feet, screaming. Zooey understood the words, aside from one which didn't match any in her limited lexicon, but they seemed to think it was important. The woman ran at Zooey with a twig in hand, posing an immediate physical threat to her wellbeing. Thankfully, she still had her weapon. Zooey snapped the twig and bludgeoned the woman to the ground like the man in the other room, though this time the enemy resisted, clawing at her like an animal. It stung, but Zooey came out victorious. Once again, she had won. Zooey left the woman on the ground and moved towards the flow of water. A new challenger approached. Zooey froze, as did the stranger. They had long white hair, which was discoloured red from some bizarre dye that seemed darker in some places than others. They appeared short but stood at eye level with Zooey, boasting piercing red irises framed by tanned skin, features that were marred by the same maroon flecks and raw scratch marks. Zooey took an apprehensive step forward, as did the stranger. She screamed—they screamed—and she threw her now trusted weapon. The stranger mirrored her, and Zooey dove to the ground. A shattering thunder struck. Tiny crystalline fragments showered the room. Zooey rolled to her feet and looked back, but the stranger was gone, replaced by a cracked pane of shining stone. Zooey was finally safe. A wave of fatigue washed over her alongside a pang in her abdomen, so she made her way back to the room of her former prison, tripped over the man on the ground, and smacked face-first into a soft fabric. She passed out. Edit: >!It was a spoon and a bowl of milk & cereal.!< Happily ever after!
[WP] In this universe, people can sacrifice a memory to do magic, the more important the memory, the stronger the magic. You wake up one day with complete amnesia.	I open my eyes to see a guy leaning over me, a concerned, horrified look on his face. “Hey, are you okay? Do you remem...” That’s all he can get out before I shove away from him, my breath coming in ragged spurts as I drag myself away from him, shaking and whimpering in fear. “Who are you?!” I shriek, my voice breaking as I barely manage to hold back tears. “Where am I, what did you do to me, who are you?” He holds his hands up, palms facing me, a gesture placating me and showing he has no ill intentions. “Hey, hey, woah, it’s okay. Calm down, you’re okay, I’m here. I’m your best friend, we’ve known each other for years. What have you done?” I look at him, my breathing beginning to slow, my heart finally not about to break through my chest. “What do you mean what have I done? Didn’t you do this to me?” I look at him as my posture becomes less combative. He chuckles as he sits back, leaning against the wall. I notice the room for the first time. A bed off to one side, blankets all askew, a window covered by curtains, knickknacks and books litter the floor, the desk, the dresser, everywhere. A television is mounted on the wall. All in all, a comfortable place, I suppose. “Well, that’s a bit of a complex question. I guess the answer is yes and no. Are you ready to hear this?” He asks. “How do I know I can trust you?” He flinches and looks wounded, his eyes closing momentarily as he breathes. “I’m not going to take that personally, because you can’t remember. But look at this.” He pulls a phone out, and starts scrolling through pictures. He and I in a classroom, he and I in this room, in another room somewhere that I feel should be familiar but isn’t, in cars, restaurants, everywhere. I look up at him, starting to inch closer once again. “We were really best friends?” I ask in awe. He smiles sadly. “We ARE best friends,” he corrects me gently, “even if you can’t remember it right now. But you will one day, I promise.” I look up at him, and place my hand on his arm. “I’m ready. Tell me.” I whisper, stomach knotting into what feels like a balloon animal. So he begins to talk. “I was dying. I had maybe minutes left, if I was lucky. The doctors had given up, and there was nothing left to be done but wait for it to be over. You were with me then, but left. And then, suddenly, I was totally fine. Vital signs up, health back to normal, as though I was never sick to begin with. No one could figure out why, not us, not the doctors. Then, after the euphoria passed, I knew exactly what you had done. I found you in the chapel, out cold. I couldn’t wake you up, so I brought you home. I knew the moment I saw you slumped over, you had sacrificed every single one of your memories to bring me back from the edge of death.” His eyes start to well with tears. “You saved my life, but totally lost your’s in the process.” A tear rolls down his cheek. I sit back, laying my head against the wall next to him. It takes me a few minutes to absorb the information. But it starts to make sense. That’s the only logical reason I can see why this has happened. “I must really love you then.” I turn and look at him, half joking but also half serious. He meets my eyes and smiles. “Yeah, you must.” He replies. Standing, he holds out his hand to me. I grasp it, and he hauls me to my feet. “Let’s go. There are some people I want you to meet.” As he puts his arm around my shoulders and leads me away from the room, I smile, knowing and believing that with him, I’m totally safe, and truly happy with the choice I made.	"Thank you for your winning contribution!" the lady dressed as an airline stewardess says from above you. "Your memory contribution has been transmuted into magic with the greatest system in the world." Something brushes your breasts and hand at the same time. Startled, you look down to see the thing on top of the cloth (what is that called?) covering your chest IS your right hand. "Oh," you say. Your eyes return to the stewardess to find a line crossing her face. You send the thing on your chest to the line and it hits flat plastic before reaching her. "You... are not here?" you ask the monitor. After several minutes or hours you sit up, then stand, then walk to a revolving door. You pass reclining chairs with other people and monitors on your way to it. Once on the other side of the door, you find a huge number of people (more than 12! what comes after 12?) and turn around to see what they are stairing at. A man in fancy cloth is being projected on the side of the building you just walked out of. "We can now project the election winner... with magic users contributing for both sides... the winner is..." And then his image is replaced with strange shapes. This gets shocked cries from the crowd. Most of them start crying; the rest say consolling words. You search for something to draw the shapes so you can ask what they mean. Your skirt has a blue mark on it. You search it and find a stick, but then the shapes are gone. The man is back and he says, "the winning campaign has sent us a link to the list of magic donors who they wish to thank." He disappears from the projection and is replaced with more shapes. You hurridly draw them on your wrist and start searching for someone to translate them for you. "Mom?" a woman near you shouts. She takes your shoulder in her hand. "There you are! We've been scared, looking for you for hours. C'mon. Did you see the news?" She knows you? "What's wrong? Wait, were you in that..." the woman's face registers shock. Her eyes start to water. "What did you do? What the fuck did you do?" You show her your wrist. "Can you tell me what this means?" you ask. There are a lot of shapes on your arm. It took a lot of concentration to get them all down exactly like they appeared in the time you had. They look like: "error 404: file not found."
[WP] In this universe, people can sacrifice a memory to do magic, the more important the memory, the stronger the magic. You wake up one day with complete amnesia.	Gasping for air, I lurched forward as I awoke from a fitful sleep. As I tried to catch my breath, I closed my eyes and rubbed my temples, hoping to diminish the pounding in my head. After finally accepting the futility of my endeavor, I opened my eyes to gaze around the room. Nothing seemed familiar. That feeling extended beyond the object upon which I rested, though, or the furniture surrounding me. Simple words escaped my mind, as if I had never actually learned what they were called. I could still think in English, but certain names of objects had faded away. Yellow pieces of paper were stuck to everything in the room, each with a single word scrawled upon it. I stood on shaky legs and looked back at the object behind me. The note, pasted to the frame, said "bed". It didn't take me long to realize that my memories had somehow been damaged. I retained skills, such as walking and reading, yet regardless of my level of focus, I was unable to remember names for objects or even where I'd been the previous day. In fact, I couldn't even be completely confident the room itself was my own. Panic began to set in as I wondered how long I'd been asleep, and what could have caused me to forget a life. Trying to calm myself down, I stared in the mirror and focused on my own face - a face I couldn't recognize. When the fact that I was staring at a stranger finally took ahold of my mind, I tore my gaze from the reflection. Instead, I focused on reading the tags and familiarizing myself with the titles of the objects which surrounded me. A note on my desk said, "Find the chief of police." After a few minutes, I felt ready to face the world outside and to search for answers. Walking out of the room, I found an entire house filled with yellow notes. Overwhelmed, instead of studying more, I decided to embark upon a journey. If I ventured into the world outside of that building, I was sure to find answers. Something was bound to spark a memory. Still, it was a terrifying endeavor. Cautiously, I opened the front door, bracing myself for the rush of adrenaline I knew I'd experience when faced with whatever was on the other side. If the assault of information was nearly as much as was present in the house, I knew it was a mistake, but I had to try. Slowly, the door creaked open, and I stared at the other side. There was a yellow paper that said "toilet" stuck to a strange contraption. Outside was underwhelming. I closed the door again and continued to explore the house, opening every door with far more conviction than before. One door eventually led to a bright world. Other people filled the streets, rushing past each other, bumping into one another. Strange machines raced by between the people, separated only by a slight indent in the ground. Looking around, I could count at least a dozen more houses just like my own. Terrified, I almost closed the door, but a glint of steel caught my eye. My head snapped in that direction instinctively, and I saw a fragile looking woman with gray hair wandering around. Instead of walking with the people, though, she was stepping onto the section of the ground meant only for the machines. Maybe she didn't see the one barreling toward her, but simple physics assured me that this didn't end well for her. With my distance, there was no way I could reach her if I tried to help, but I couldn't let this person meet a horrible demise. Desperately, I searched around, hoping to find anything which could change her fate. "Stop!" I yelled at the top of my lungs as I jumped down the short steps outside my front door, plunging myself into the unknown with no regard for my own sanity or well-being. Pushing past the droves of people, I made my way to the woman before the machine ran her over. In my anxiousness, I hadn't even bothered to question the speed or anything about my surroundings. Wrapping my arms around the woman, I pulled her from the street, my heart racing as I hoped to get us both far from the death machine. As my heart settled down slightly, I realized that it wasn't moving. They had managed to slow down in time. Glancing around at the others, though, I saw that everything was frozen. Confused, I released the woman and stepped back slowly. Suddenly, everything started moving again, and a loud horn blared. "What just happened?" She asked, frantically looking around. "I... You almost got hit," I answered. "Oh, it's you! You saved me!" "You know me?" "Of course, everyone knows you," she smiled. "What's going on?" I prodded, hoping for any answer. The assault of new information was terrifying, and this person in front of me had answers. "That's a big question. I think we're supposed to tell you to go to the police station." "What?" "It's this way," she directed, walking off. After a brief walk, we arrived at a building surrounded by people in blue. "There you are!" One of them cheered, rushing toward me. "I'm so sorry, I went to get doughnuts and you were gone!" "You went to get what?" "It doesn't matter, follow me." "The introductions will have to wait," another urgently interrupted. The assault on my senses overpowered me, and my thoughts became cloudy. This blue man was far more assertive, and he grabbed my arm and placed me in one of the machines I'd seen earlier, which began racing down the street. "I have a lot to explain to you, but it will have to be brief for now, because we need your help." "Yeah, okay..." I replied hesitantly. "So the short version, we are going to a bank robbery. Bad people are going to hurt others, and we can't conjure enough magic to beat them." "What?" "Memories are our most powerful force since we learned to channel them into magic. However, anyone willing to sacrifice a memory can now bend the world according to their whim." "I think I stopped time earlier..." I muttered, speaking my confused thoughts aloud. "Probably," he laughed. "You see, you were our best detective until the most dastardly fiend we've ever seen threatened out entire country. You made the ultimate sacrifice and now, you're pretty much a local hero." "What?" "You sacrificed everything - every memory you have - to change the system. You can use magic without a cost now." "Every memory?" "Well, I guess that isn't entirely true. It gave you complete amnesia," he admitted, pulling up to a stop in front of a bank. "Not only retrograde, but anterograde as well. Every day, we have an officer present to wake you up and try to tell you this story in a little bit of a less rushed manner. Today, that idiot wanted breakfast. I'm sorry we had to rush you into this, but bullets are going to fly." "Oh..." I accepted, my head still spinning. Somehow, though, what he said rang true, so I opened the door and stepped back out into the world, walking confidently toward the bank. &#x200B; Thanks for reading! I hope you enjoyed, and please feel free to check out my other stuff if you're interested!	Panic. It began by wiggling its way into my mind before settling in the depths of my heart. Everything was unfamiliar. The room around me. The bed my body lied upon. The hand I tentatively waved in front of my face. Slowly rising, I scanned what seemed to be a bedroom for answers, though I wasn’t even sure what questions I should be asking. The only furniture in the room was the bed and a small table. No chair. No windows. But I was able to see due to the soft flickering of a candle on the table set next to a note- a note! I scrambled off the bed, slightly unsteady on my feet, and read the words with desperation: My dearest Rowan, I am sure that you find this letter seeking answers to your questions, and I ask you to accept one thing first. I am you. You are me. We are one, and it is thus imperative that you follow to my directives moving forward. Remember, to trust me is to trust yourself. If you leave this room, there is a backpack in the kitchen down the hall. It contains necessary survival supplies and a book you must protect with your life. You are to take this bag and leave quickly, heading South toward a place called “The Vale.” There, you will encounter a man called “Hendricks,” and he will assist you from there. If you leave this room, you will discover that there is no one else around you. Not a single soul. That is because you have killed them all. And they deserved it. The people of this village have taken everything from you. Everything. And they paid their price. Do not regret your actions, for you have done the right thing- I stopped reading the words as they blurred on the letter. Tears leaked from my eyes and the paper fell from my trembling fingers. Could I trust the author of the message? Had I truly murdered an entire village of people? I continued to skim a bit more of the letter that insisted killing them had been the justifiable choice, but offered no explanation as to the crimes of the people. Hoping for more information, I skipped to the bottom portion of the writing. If you leave this room, you should know that there is a group of people that will be hunting you. They do not understand your mission, and it is crucial that you avoid them at all costs. Although you have successfully completed your main task, you have not achieved the ultimate goal. There is only one thing left to accomplish, and then you can finally rest. If you have lost all of your memories, as I suspect you have, you should know that you were the most powerful magician in the entirety of the world. The spell you have just casted was a sacrifice well worth its high price. You can forge new memories in this life. It will unfortunately mean that you must teach yourself how to wield magic once again. Do not fret, however, for you possess the book and are a fast learner. Use the book. Go to Hendricks. And trust yourself and what is right by trusting me. Yours, Rowan. The last line of the letter was hastily scrambled, as though Rowan had been rushed to finish. Or me? Was I Rowan? I paced the room considering my options. If people were coming to get me, I could wait for them, but the author of the letter clearly indicated that they could be a threat. Trying to find Hendricks was a possibility, but I had no idea what “The Vale” was, where it may be, or whether it was safe. And what to make of these fantastical stories?! Me, the most powerful magician in the world? Absolute nonsense. It simply couldn’t be possible. And there was no way I could commit a mass murder, right? I felt no malicious intent inside of myself, didn’t feel that I possessed the capability to kill. But what did I know, if I needed a mysterious letter to tell me my own name? Halting at the door in indecision, I heavily weighed the options over and over again before shoving the letter in my pocket. Deciding how to proceed could wait. I turned the knob, thinking that a good first step was looking outside.
[WP] In this universe, people can sacrifice a memory to do magic, the more important the memory, the stronger the magic. You wake up one day with complete amnesia.	Something bright lit up the insides of my eyelids as I regained consciousness. An odd peace filed my mind like it was… like it was… empty? I slowly opened my eyes, wary of being blinded by the bright light outside. I didn’t have to worry. The source of light was a woman sitting next to me in a white robe with light blue lines. Her entire figure was radiating a warm, reddish light as she was mumbling something, eyes closed. I had no idea who this woman was or why she was here with me. Actually, I had no idea who I was myself or where I was for that matter. A cave? The warm light coming from the woman slowly faded as she started to open her eyes. She laid her eyes on me and smiled. “Don’t worry darling, nothing is as sweet as first love. We’ll be fine.” She gave me no time to be confused. Immediately after finishing the last word she slumped to the ground. In a reflex I tried to catch her, succeeding in the sense that her head didn’t hit the floor hard. Nevertheless, my reaction was slow. My body was slow. My mind was slow. Who was this woman? Did she just call me darling? But I didn’t even know her? A million questions shot through my head. I felt sad. Why? Why would I feel sad? Nothing made sense. She said something about love. Were the two of us lovers? It didn’t matter how much I tried. There was nothing for me to find inside my head and I was no wiser when, a few minutes later, the woman slowly opened her eyes again. They were bright blue and looked beautiful. In fact, it wasn’t just the eyes, everything about her was beautiful. Even those lips that uttered those first word after regaining consciousness. “Who are you?”	Panic. It began by wiggling its way into my mind before settling in the depths of my heart. Everything was unfamiliar. The room around me. The bed my body lied upon. The hand I tentatively waved in front of my face. Slowly rising, I scanned what seemed to be a bedroom for answers, though I wasn’t even sure what questions I should be asking. The only furniture in the room was the bed and a small table. No chair. No windows. But I was able to see due to the soft flickering of a candle on the table set next to a note- a note! I scrambled off the bed, slightly unsteady on my feet, and read the words with desperation: My dearest Rowan, I am sure that you find this letter seeking answers to your questions, and I ask you to accept one thing first. I am you. You are me. We are one, and it is thus imperative that you follow to my directives moving forward. Remember, to trust me is to trust yourself. If you leave this room, there is a backpack in the kitchen down the hall. It contains necessary survival supplies and a book you must protect with your life. You are to take this bag and leave quickly, heading South toward a place called “The Vale.” There, you will encounter a man called “Hendricks,” and he will assist you from there. If you leave this room, you will discover that there is no one else around you. Not a single soul. That is because you have killed them all. And they deserved it. The people of this village have taken everything from you. Everything. And they paid their price. Do not regret your actions, for you have done the right thing- I stopped reading the words as they blurred on the letter. Tears leaked from my eyes and the paper fell from my trembling fingers. Could I trust the author of the message? Had I truly murdered an entire village of people? I continued to skim a bit more of the letter that insisted killing them had been the justifiable choice, but offered no explanation as to the crimes of the people. Hoping for more information, I skipped to the bottom portion of the writing. If you leave this room, you should know that there is a group of people that will be hunting you. They do not understand your mission, and it is crucial that you avoid them at all costs. Although you have successfully completed your main task, you have not achieved the ultimate goal. There is only one thing left to accomplish, and then you can finally rest. If you have lost all of your memories, as I suspect you have, you should know that you were the most powerful magician in the entirety of the world. The spell you have just casted was a sacrifice well worth its high price. You can forge new memories in this life. It will unfortunately mean that you must teach yourself how to wield magic once again. Do not fret, however, for you possess the book and are a fast learner. Use the book. Go to Hendricks. And trust yourself and what is right by trusting me. Yours, Rowan. The last line of the letter was hastily scrambled, as though Rowan had been rushed to finish. Or me? Was I Rowan? I paced the room considering my options. If people were coming to get me, I could wait for them, but the author of the letter clearly indicated that they could be a threat. Trying to find Hendricks was a possibility, but I had no idea what “The Vale” was, where it may be, or whether it was safe. And what to make of these fantastical stories?! Me, the most powerful magician in the world? Absolute nonsense. It simply couldn’t be possible. And there was no way I could commit a mass murder, right? I felt no malicious intent inside of myself, didn’t feel that I possessed the capability to kill. But what did I know, if I needed a mysterious letter to tell me my own name? Halting at the door in indecision, I heavily weighed the options over and over again before shoving the letter in my pocket. Deciding how to proceed could wait. I turned the knob, thinking that a good first step was looking outside.
[WP] In this universe, people can sacrifice a memory to do magic, the more important the memory, the stronger the magic. You wake up one day with complete amnesia.	Charlie knew he was in trouble. It wasn’t just that the Arch Maesters of the guild wanted his head, and had sent a team to capture him. No, the big problem was that he’d woken up with no memories save for one—the memory of having used up all of his memories. He must have done something big to have used up all his memories. A knife whizzed by his head, close enough for it to whisper as it passed. It struck the frame of the doorway as Charlie bolted through. “Okay,” he whispered as barreled down the steps. “Got to build them back up. The knife almost skewering me is one.” People turned their heads to look at the man racing down the steps, whispering to himself. It helped to reinforce memories right after they happen by saying them out loud. His mind like a near empty bottle with only two drops sitting at the bottom. He flew across the first floor of the inn he’d been staying at. Needing another memory, and quick, he rushed up to a group of strangers. “Sorry,” he said as he leaned in and kissed a startled woman on the lips. Before they could react, he did the same to a man standing nearby. Using their confusion, he pivoted for the door and said, “I kissed the beautiful woman and the handsome man with the beard.” “What just happ—” The voice was lost as he dashed outside. The streets were full of morning commotion. He now had three memories. Hopefully it would be enough. If he could just get more. A sound like searing water on a hot skillet made him duck and bring up a defensive spell. Charlie looked over his shoulder to see a fireball blast against the blue barrier of his ward. He’d had to burn the memory of the kiss. He shook his head as he thought, What kiss? Another fireball hit the dirt at his feet. The earth exploded into a shower of raining debris. Charlie got moving, wondering what memories these men were burning to cast their spells. People were running now. Terror filled their eyes as they tried to escape the mayhem that had broken out. “People running, scared,” Charlie said as he ran through the crowd and tried to build the memory. He risked a look behind and saw three men chasing him. “Fireballs hitting my ward, and then the ground,” he panted. “Men in black cloaks chasing me.” He ducked into an alley. It was a dead end. All he had were a handful of tepid memories. Not strong enough for an offensive spell to bring down his pursuers. He ran toward the stone wall at the end and tried to jump for the top. His foot slid as he stepped on a hunk of rotten meat and lost his balance. He could hear the men’s pounding feet. They would be here any second. He needed more memories—something strong, something he’d never done before. But what? He couldn’t even remember what he had done before. His eyes lowered to the chunk of flesh. Charlie’s stomach twisted at the thought. Fighting off his gag reflex he lifted it to his mouth and let his tongue rest on the greenish flesh. The stench made his eyes water before his taste buds could capture the bitter tang of rancid meat. Using all his memories at once—except for one—he made himself invisible. The three men stopped at the opening of the alleyway. “He must have hopped the wall,” one of them said. “Quick, I know a shortcut.” They disappeared as they ran down the street, away from the alley. Charlie’s invisibility wore off a fraction of a second after they’d gone. He needed more memories. For good measure he ran his fist into the wall. The pain was exquisite. “I just,” he choked and then took a breath. “Punched a wall.” He looked down at his knuckles which were starting to turn an angry red. He stood up and rubbed his forehead. He remembered running his hand into the wall and that he’d woken up with no memories. What in god’s name had he done last night? Furthermore, why did he have an awful taste in his mouth?	Panic. It began by wiggling its way into my mind before settling in the depths of my heart. Everything was unfamiliar. The room around me. The bed my body lied upon. The hand I tentatively waved in front of my face. Slowly rising, I scanned what seemed to be a bedroom for answers, though I wasn’t even sure what questions I should be asking. The only furniture in the room was the bed and a small table. No chair. No windows. But I was able to see due to the soft flickering of a candle on the table set next to a note- a note! I scrambled off the bed, slightly unsteady on my feet, and read the words with desperation: My dearest Rowan, I am sure that you find this letter seeking answers to your questions, and I ask you to accept one thing first. I am you. You are me. We are one, and it is thus imperative that you follow to my directives moving forward. Remember, to trust me is to trust yourself. If you leave this room, there is a backpack in the kitchen down the hall. It contains necessary survival supplies and a book you must protect with your life. You are to take this bag and leave quickly, heading South toward a place called “The Vale.” There, you will encounter a man called “Hendricks,” and he will assist you from there. If you leave this room, you will discover that there is no one else around you. Not a single soul. That is because you have killed them all. And they deserved it. The people of this village have taken everything from you. Everything. And they paid their price. Do not regret your actions, for you have done the right thing- I stopped reading the words as they blurred on the letter. Tears leaked from my eyes and the paper fell from my trembling fingers. Could I trust the author of the message? Had I truly murdered an entire village of people? I continued to skim a bit more of the letter that insisted killing them had been the justifiable choice, but offered no explanation as to the crimes of the people. Hoping for more information, I skipped to the bottom portion of the writing. If you leave this room, you should know that there is a group of people that will be hunting you. They do not understand your mission, and it is crucial that you avoid them at all costs. Although you have successfully completed your main task, you have not achieved the ultimate goal. There is only one thing left to accomplish, and then you can finally rest. If you have lost all of your memories, as I suspect you have, you should know that you were the most powerful magician in the entirety of the world. The spell you have just casted was a sacrifice well worth its high price. You can forge new memories in this life. It will unfortunately mean that you must teach yourself how to wield magic once again. Do not fret, however, for you possess the book and are a fast learner. Use the book. Go to Hendricks. And trust yourself and what is right by trusting me. Yours, Rowan. The last line of the letter was hastily scrambled, as though Rowan had been rushed to finish. Or me? Was I Rowan? I paced the room considering my options. If people were coming to get me, I could wait for them, but the author of the letter clearly indicated that they could be a threat. Trying to find Hendricks was a possibility, but I had no idea what “The Vale” was, where it may be, or whether it was safe. And what to make of these fantastical stories?! Me, the most powerful magician in the world? Absolute nonsense. It simply couldn’t be possible. And there was no way I could commit a mass murder, right? I felt no malicious intent inside of myself, didn’t feel that I possessed the capability to kill. But what did I know, if I needed a mysterious letter to tell me my own name? Halting at the door in indecision, I heavily weighed the options over and over again before shoving the letter in my pocket. Deciding how to proceed could wait. I turned the knob, thinking that a good first step was looking outside.
[WP] You are immortal. Cold doesn’t bite you, heat doesn’t burn you, and diseases can’t touch you. You witnessed the rise and fall of humanity and the extinguishing of our sun. You’ve been drifting for thousands of years on a dead, rogue planet until one day, you see an alien ship flying overhead.	"Do you think he's still alive?" The words broke through the fog of unconsciousness, bringing him back to the living world. She let out a low groan. There were sounds of surprise around her. There was some rapid shuffling as she slowly got up from her position. She could feel the bed dip beneath her, soft covers and blankets falling away. The cool air hit her skin and he realized that she was naked to the waist up. She tried opening her eyes, hissing at the bright lights around her. She gradually accommodated her eyes to the brightness, and she was greeted by the sight of an empty room. The entire place was white, broken by momentary splashes of cool mint green. It was mostly bare, except for a few chairs and large circular objects that reminded her of cushions. She could see blocks of white with glowing green marks pulsing at constant rates around her. She lied on a bed that felt smooth and solid yet bent like cloth under her weight. The blankets were metallic in nature yet kept her warm and seemed to act like soft silk. There was a floating tray beside her filled with what looked like a plate of pancakes. Except the pancakes were green and had flecks of crystalline violet. It felt like an attempt at home, except less warm and cozy, and more green and alien. She could honestly say it wasn't the strangest thing she'd seen. There was a quiet woosh of air, and she turned her head to see someone walk in. The person, for lack of better word, wore a suit of pure white. Their skin had A strange translucent quality, like a person clothed entirely in gossamer, their skin made of moving glass. Their face held an almost ethereal quality, human in appearance yet still having that crystal see-through quality. In her early days, she would have called it god-like, entirely other worldly. But that was a long time ago. The being stood in the center of the room with what she could almost describe as a nervous gait. Strange how clear it was to her, despite the translucent features. Maybe it was the eyes, a dark blue with tiny pinpricks of white, like the image of the night sky. The eyes that stared at her widely, and somehow conveying emotion that she easily understood. Well, she thought privately, it proved one of her theories. "You don't have to be afraid." Her voice was in a strange cadence, breathy and with a rhythm that made her tongue bounce. The words were in a language she had never heard before, even though she spoke it as if she could her whole life. The other being made a face she interpreted as surprise. "You can talk in our language?" they asked incredulously. They vibrated, excitement, and brisked forward and unto one of the round things. A small stool like structure slid out. They sat on the stool and brought out a small pyramid. Lights manifested above them, and her mind instantly translated the symbols and lines, understanding them immediately. "You don't have to worry, my vitals are fine." They stopped and stared at her in wonderment, before putting the item away, though the lights stayed above at a lesser intensity. "You speak our tongue," he said in pure amazement. "That should be impossible. Our language was born centuries after the fall of the only intelligent species within this sector. Of the species we identified you of being part of." "Has it been that long? Sorry, but I've been asleep for some time. Might have missed a couple of things." "You were dated to have been on that barren planet for almost 100,000 years. Longer than the life span of most galactic empires. And you managed to survive that long in hibernation, when the planet was barren of atmosphere, water, and all forms of life." He leaned closer, and whispered in a voice filled with voracious curiosity and childish wonder. "For all intents and purposes, you should have been dead." She smiled, a bitter stretch of lips, and leaned back until her back hit the wall. She could feel the hum of the ship around her, strong and alive, pulsing like a heartbeat. It felt comforting, to be in something that moved, had energy. She let the feeling fill her with momentary peace, before finally addressing the alien who patiently waited for her to speak. "You're right, I should be dead," she said. "I should have long been part of the soil. My body should have rotted underground long before you found me. I should been part of the trees, the grass, the birds in the sky. But millenia later, I'm still here." "Why is that?” they asked. "Forgive me if this offends you, but our analysis of your species puts your lifespans at a 100 years at most, given the most advance and non invasive procedures. Records of your technological advancement have shown you capable of a form of immortality, a constant regeneration, yet you don't display this. In comparison to biological samples discovered, you are incredibly..." "Unique?” she queried with a smile. They gave an amused nod. She smiled wider and let herself relax even further. "I'm not human, not in the most obvious or direct way. I'm like them, but not. I look like those mortals of Earth, but I am far from the truth. In simplest terms, I am a true immortal." She turned her head to stare at the blank wall. It was featureless and lacked any sort of decor to answer this. Maybe they didn't believe in decor. That was a shame. She liked decorations. Always made things feel warm. "I was once born beyond the humans, before their kind sprouted. I was born during the time that we were the proven kings of the cosmos. Before the rest of intelligent life crawled from the aether, we were already there." She turned to the alien, who looked excitedly at her. "Are you saying that you are an ancient species that predated the Engineers?" "Is that what you call them? The humans?" "Well, what could be more appropriate? Their knowledge, their culture, spread throughout the cosmos like seeds, were what inspired the united worlds to grow beyond our planetary borders. Only such great beings of true power and intellect could have done that." "I can understand why that may be your way of thinking." She shook her head ruefully and they frowned a her. "You speak as if this us a falsehood." "They were only capable of god hood. But they never were gods. Nor deserving of the same respect. No one was." "Who are you then? To create such questions?” She laughed, melancholy in the notes. "I have seen many empires fall. Humanity was just another addition." "Who are you stranger?" they asked. She smiled, strained. "I am Hestia, of the hearth. Here to protect the fire of home and the love of family. Here as the last member of my home, fallen into the ruin."	The Eternals: Timothy and Bruce and the moon of dead bodies. My name is Timothy. I am an Eternal by accident. I cannot die. Believe me I tried... My father was killed in an experiment in trying to open a portal to a higher dimension. It was successful but at a cost I'm sure he wasn't willing to pay. In return I made two new friends. Indigo and Bruce. I have no idea where indigo is and Bruce stuck with me when we parted ways a few years ago. Bruce is a sweet higher dimensional alien dog...thing. she's ugly as sin but I love her just the same. Unfortunately we managed to crash land on a moon... Unfortunately I still need air, also unfortunately the universe needs me to live... "We 'ave a bit if a conundrum eh brucy?..." "Rampf..." She wagged her stub of a butt. "Well... I do at least..." Bruce didn't need to breathe. When I die. I respawn next to where I died, perfectly fine. Except my dead body stays there... The first time was quite frightening. I was only 10. I was working with Indigo on getting the portal back open. My dad's machine blew up in my face and I died instantly. The next thing I know I'm standing in my kitchen without a scratch butt naked. So now we have about 5 minutes left of air with no signs of rescue. "It's gonna be rough for a bit here Brucey..." "Rampf." She leaned up against my leg and sat down. "You're a good girl..." I scratched the back of her head. She groaned and collapsed into her side. She can't reach it with her hind legs and it irritates her. About a minute left now... The air is getting thin. Bruce was fine though. I laid down next to her and closed my eyes. I woke up standing next to my dead self. Bruce was running around the cabin. I collapsed to my knees. This body has never experienced Oxygen. Everything slowly faded. I woke up standing next to my two dead bodies. I slapped the emergency hatch release and collapsed again. I woke up standing next to multiple dead bodies. I tumbled and crawled out of the shuttle. Bruce curled up next to me as I died. This process went on for years. I thought I was going to lose my mind if i kept this up. I didn't feel pain. I would just be awake for about 10 to 15 seconds and then I would collapse and die. My bodies started to stack and decompose. I found Bruce nibbling at one of the legs once. She didn't need to eat but she was still a dog... Thing and god things needed to do dog stuff... And a decomposing leg bone was something that she wanted. One day I saw a ship flying in the sky. Every minute or so I would wake up and see it coming closer. "Finally..." I thought and then died again. The next moment there was someone standing in a suit in front of me. They were small probably just a few inches taller than me. This was the last time I died. When I woke again, they slapped something on my neck and I could suddenly breathe again but only barely. They gestured for me to follow them to their ship. We stepped in through a hatch and closed it behind us. The small chamber let out a woosh of air and I felt an influx of oxygen rush into my lungs. "Oh thank the gods!" I gasped for air. They took off their helmet. "Judging by the bodies, you've been here a while..." A small blue kid stood in front of me. "The name's Cerulean Sky. I'm an Eternal just like you." . . . Gonna take a break. I'll continue in a little bit or tomorrow when I'm on my car trip.
[WP] You are immortal. Cold doesn’t bite you, heat doesn’t burn you, and diseases can’t touch you. You witnessed the rise and fall of humanity and the extinguishing of our sun. You’ve been drifting for thousands of years on a dead, rogue planet until one day, you see an alien ship flying overhead.	I think it was my little beacon that attracted them I think. I say little but when you gather literally every piece of radioactive debris you can find and set that pile on your fire its at least a medium scale planetary beacon. It took thousands of years of agony to recover from the radiation burns and sickness, but seeing that ship land made it all worth it. Carbon based, bipedal, water drinking, shit I lucked out; even with all the extra eyes they were kinda cute. Smart too, literally a few weeks after I handed them my custom made, one of a kind, Brosetta Stone they had a translator running. Then the questions came thick and fast. Who are you? Man. How old are you? Too old. What have you seen? Mainly the endless void. How did your kind end? Sun blew up, but we came close by ourselves (they liked that one). What do you eat? Same stuff it turns out. Do you have Gods? Too many really (they did not like that one). Do you have concept of love? Yep. Did you love? Far too much, and nowhere near enough. At this Walsinats paused, we had been talking for months, and were starting to understand each other. "Do you want a hug?" "Yes please."	I am man. There was a name that I bore once, long ago, when there was still atmosphere on this planet that didn't freeze in your lungs and language still mattered. Now, millions of years after the fall of humanity and thousands after the sun died out, I am simply... man. I hqve done everything humanity has ever concieved and experienced every pleasure they could hope to dream of, but since then I have been alone. So alone. But today, that changed. A mighty ship of flesh and scales descended from the skies with searchlights of bioluminescent lenses. Claws and scales rippled across its surface, a massive jaw at the front. These were the creatures that ended humanity. The ones that mercilessly sent volley after volley of orbital bombardments at the Earth, wiping humanity from existance before we could react and burying me underground for a hundred years. I clench my fists and grit my teeth. Years ago, I would have lit up the sky with all the remaining infrastructure the planet had, using what little heat the planet's core had left to power the lights and let them know I am still here. But with the planet dead and cold, there is nothing left for it. Only one missile, dormant for a billion years, I have kept around. Kept working for all these years. And now, I will ride it back to that ship, for this time I am ready. This time I will catch them by surprise and wipe them from the universe. They will learn to fear the man named Chuck Norris.
[WP] You're a fresh faced rookie who just joined the time cops and you're being paired up with a grizzled veteran who is you from the future and you're both tasked with bringing down a local crime ring. Their boss? Also you, from a different timeline.	“It’s all because of Sally”. “Who is Sally?” I asked, hesitantly, looking at an older, war torn version of myself. He was driving us to the infinite crime lord “J”’s hideout for the final showdown. Jeff was maybe in his mid 40s, five o’clock shadow, greasy slicked back hair and a scar under his cheek. Myself, only a 19 year old skinny boy who just graduated the time academy. Almost incomprehensible how we were the same person. “Oh, yeah. I guess I hadn’t met her yet at your age” sighing as he flicked his cigarette out the window. “Well, you are gonna meet a woman. She’ll be one hell of a pistol. Jeffery, you will fall in love with her, hard. But, in the end you won’t be able to save her”. “Save her, seriously?” I asked, wondering if this has something to do with how different Jeff was from me. Perhaps losing Sally, is really going to turn me into this rugged guy? “Why can’t you tell me how to save her?”. “Because I did Jeffery. I did. I told you how. I gave you all the details of her death. Time, location, everything. Hell kid, I even told you irrelevant bullshit like what she wore, what we had for dinner that night, about her garden and how happy she was the sunflowers survived the cold snap. Damn she was so happy about those stupid flowers”. I could see he was dripping the steering wheel with all his might now. His voice was getting more pained with every word. “So what happened, did I, we.. fail? If so Jeff, can’t we just try again?”. “Yeah kid we failed. We failed hard. Shit went south. It was worse then her first death, too. We made her suffer Jeffery. Time has a way of getting what it wants. You try to go back and fix it? Damn, it fights back. Spirals out of control. Every single time it gets worse, too”. “Every time?”. “Yeah. I told you what happens, you try to save her and you fail. She dies. Worse than the time before so we tried again, and it was worse, over and over. Then your dumb self just kept going. You couldn’t stop trying. You tried for years. Ruining timeline after timeline. Fractures in the multiverse. Endless loops of Sally... Suffering. And that’s how you, well.. we became J”. “What? You mean, yo-“ I couldn’t finish my sentence before he shouted “Yes Jeffery, we are J. We are the infinite crime boss plaguing timeline after timeline. Ruining the lives of innocent people for all eternity. You end up becoming so damn broken from it all. From failing to save Sally, that you just can’t stop, Jeffery. And that’s all he wants. J just wants to rescue Sally. But, each time he tries he corrupts the universe more and more. “.. There is a moment of silence. He glances over to me and says “We change time on a regular basis. This is normal shit for the time PD, but for some reason Sally’s death was fate. And you can’t save her. So I won’t tell you a damn thing about her, I won’t turn you into J.. not again”. “Jeff.. I’m sorry”. I didn’t know what to say. This man, my future self was in so much pain. Knowing that he couldn’t save Sally, that he sparks us to become the infinite crime boss. And ultimately now has the responsibility to put me down.. or well, another version of myself. Of him. Of us. And I don’t even know this woman yet. Am I really capable of feeling this range of emotions? Of loving someone so deeply, that I’d be willing to ruin infinite timelines to get her back? “It’s fine Kid. Just take a good hard look at me. Because this is gonna be you one day”. He chuckles. grabbing another cigarette. “Now help me kill this infinite crime boss, and after that.. don’t try to save Sally, kid”.	"Congratulations, Tony Boroni, you are now a Time Cop." I inspected the ID and badge that the Sergeant just handed me. I was absolutely befuddled. "So, I don't actually have to do any training? Aren't there regulations or policies that might, say, prevent me from abusing the power to travel through time?" "Nope." I had the strangely specific expectation that there would be an obstacle course behind the police station and that I would have to go through a training montage in order to become a valiant, disciplined, and robust defender of justice. But I guess montages are too cliche for the 2080's. Instead, everyone gets a badge. I was still sitting in front of The Sergeant, who himself sat at his desk chewing gum, reading a porno-mag with the facial intensity of an obese paraplegic taking a deuce. I thought to myself at that moment: "how does a pornographic magazine even survive in today's economy if all porn is free on the Internet?" Then the answer became clear to me, and I suddenly asked, "Is there something that I can do as a Time Cop?" The sergeant crossed one of his legs over the other and glanced at me over his magazine, a gesture that I can only intimate is the epitome of disdain. But despite this lazy condescension he answered in a husky Bostonian accent, "Yeh, there's a crime boss named Crony McPhony. He's the leader of a dangerous local crime ring called the Macaroni Homies. That's because they mix mac' and cheese with pure crystal methamphetamines and feed it to orphan children. Boni Moroni is gonna be your partner for this one." Instantly, a man with abundant, grizzly facial hair stepped into the office. He was exactly my height, but fat and bald. He wore pink plastic sunglasses with yellow lenses. He sounded asthmatic. I asked the man, "Are you Moroni?" "Yes, but call me Boni. Or I'll kill you, bitch." He replied, breathing heavily. I reached out my hand to shake his, "Tony Boroni." He shook it, wheezing. "So Boni," I asked. "Ready to take down McPhony?" He grunted, taking deep breaths. I suspected that not only did he have asthma, but perhaps emphysema and related complications. We headed out of the police station and walked to Boni's police car. I sat in the passenger seat and he drove. I asked him where he was going, and he said McDonald's. Along the way, I asked Boni what motivated him to become a Time Cop. He replied : "To me, there is more to life than taking advantage of the love given by those that care about you, then returning the favor in insignificant, trivial fashion. When I became a Time Cop, I felt like I needed to give back to more than just those people, but to all of society, and to give myself purpose and direction in my own life. I suppose that I was looking for a place to belong, just like everybody else. Now, I realize that it was all a naive illusion to produce hope when there never was any." "Huh," I replied. "Funny you should say all that, because if you asked me the same question in twenty-three years, I would probably have answered exactly the same." We reached McDonalds. Moroni ordered a Mega-Mac and I ordered nothing. When we sat down, Moroni asked why I was not hungry. I replied, "get down!" and started a high-intensity firefight with the Macaroni Homies, who I could discern from the other customers by their sequined jackets bearing eponymous insignias. Coincidentally, McPhony was also there. To the surprise of even Moroni, he pulled a Civil-War era gatling gun out of his pants and started mowing down customers. Things were looking grim. Guts and brains were flying everywhere. But then, Crony's highly impractical weapon jammed. I stood up and shot him right between the eyes. The two survivors (out of 23) immediately started bursting out into cheers. It turned out that both would die from sustained injuries. Boni Moroni quit the Force the next day, but I continued to enact justice whenever and wherever possible as a Time Cop.
[WP] In a world with superhumans and superheroes, you always thought you had no power, until you came face to face with a supervillan. Turns out, you are the most powerful human ever: you turn off the superpowers of those close to you.	"Hahahahahahaha! You're here! I finally found you!" The man laughs in utter joy as his eyes fall on me. Ok, that's a first. While there are a few times when an enemy simply accepts being temporarily denied their powers, most of the time I use my power - Negacion, on another empowered I'm usually greeted with the general mix of denial and/or anger. You would not believe the number of people I've faced that believed their power would trump over mine. Though in a certain sense that's not entirely unreasonable line of thinking. After all, in a world where someone who can simply push things can become effectively immortal by repeatedly pushing away his time of death and a swordsman can cut off precognition with his blades; it stands to reason that there should also be a power that would overwhelm my negation. But if there is such an ability, then I've yet to find it. In fact a lot of people, including a few experts in the empowered field of study believe that my Negacion ability is unassailable. And while I've always held the belief that there might be someone who my powers won't work on, with all the abilities I have negated over the years I'm no longer sure if that is true. Thankfully, years of such paranoia has made me keep myself in peak physical condition, which is how I'm able to dodge the barrage of bullets that the man suddenly sends towards me the next moment. "A machine gun of all things?!" I curse at his preparedness. My suit can't really stand upto such sustained fire. I'll just have to wait it out till the others come in. Keep him distracted from the hostages. Should take just a few minutes. So I go with the tried and true method of getting the villain to talk. Point of fact - this actually doesn't work on robbers, even empowered ones, as if someone is robbing a place, they want to get in and out as quickly as possible, in order to make a clean getaway. On the other hand, this works like a charm on the ones who want their opponents to grasp their genius, real or otherwise. And the way the man is laughing like a loon as he empties the clip at the pillar I'm hiding behind, I feel he definitely qualifies for the latter group. "May I ask why are you doing this?" I throw out the question as he starts to reload, while I take the opportunity to change covers with a smoke bomb. "Of course! It's because you are the HERO!" I can feel him emphasizing the last word as if it's important somehow. I hear the gun reload next, before it's firing once more. That stops after a few seconds when he realizes I'm no longer there. "I'll tell you, it wasn't easy. Not when there were so many empowered over the world." His footsteps echo in the lull of gunfire, as he searches for me. "But that's when I found it. Found you! At the centre of almost every crisis, integral to solving them. Yet besides your Negacion, you are a baseline human. You have no other abilities that could explain how you survived where others more powerful, more stronger empowered didn't, unless..." I have no idea what the man is talking about. And why is he still not here?! "And so I knew it must be you! Everyone in the world keeps dancing to invisible strings yet I am the only one who realizes that there's a puppeteer! Well that ends today!" Oh great, he's insane. Just awesome. There's screaming from the hostages and I know I'm out of time before he even speaks. "Come out Zero or the hostages die!" I sigh and then I'm out of my hiding place, standing in his sight. "You don't have to do this... whatever you think you do." The guy is still grinning as he moves the gun away from the hostages and points it at me. "Oh but I do! After all someone has to. BEHOLD MY DEAR AUDIENCE AS TODAY IS THE DAY THIS STORY COMES TO A FINISH! THIS MOMENT IS THE CLIMAX AND I," the smile that lits up his face is somewhat horrifying to see. Human lips are not meant to stretch that wide. "AM THE END!" The next second the bullets come roaring out of the gun... and then come to a stop in mid-air after only travelling a few feet. I smile at the empty space beside me. "You are late, you know." The reply is a scoff from Accel as he becomes visible, finally allowing the light to reflect off of him naturally. "Excuse me, but a wizard is never late." --------------------------------------------------------------------- AN: Not a great ending, but this just kept getting longer and longer. So this is it.	[poem] this took me 3 hours to write. Hope you enjoy it - She dumped me hard, and I'd fallen fast, I knew this low, wouldn't be my last. - She said that I, "wasn't a man to date...". "rather a man to marry". But was this my fate? - "I hope it's not". I thought to myself, As I gazed at the snowglobe. That was placed on the shelf. - "anything to distract me. From this feeling a shame.". I cant stop thinking of how. she made fun of my name. - '"Alex' is not even. a name for a boy". This Midwestern girl had. Used shame as her ploy. - "I won't let it get it me.". "I WON'T. I CAN'T". I recited slowly. - my personal chant. - And I am just a. worthless guy. With no special powers. So I might as well die. - No one wants Alex With abilities like mine. The other level 1 normals. All have eyes for level 9. - And my "abilities", HA! This was the Governments' big joke. As Level 1 humans don't have powers! Unless you count being broke. - See, when the solar flare erupted. Back in 2012. It messed with people's DNA. Giving them powers and spells. - But a very rare few, Became weakened and faltered. God's got a sense of humor, I guess. To leave us unaltered. - "They should call us zeros", you know? Since we're helpless and small. Compared to the upper levels. Who would leave you in awe. - The governement even Launched a program for zeros. Err...level ones' I mean. Called, "Everyday Heroes". - FUCKING BULLSHIT - I shouted. Wait. This isn't me. I'm not the type of guy. To get mad and angry. - The waitress approached. "Sir, I'll have to ask you to leave". .... "but please Ma'am, I'm sorry, Tonight's New Years eve.". - "I don't care." she said. From across the bar: telepathy. "Some level 9's just came in. And I need your table for three.". - "Plus you haven't even ordered. And I can tell that you're sulking. First time being dumped? Awww, poor baby.". Sarcastically and very insulting. - "Are these seats taken?". The three level 9's started mocking. Tossling my hair with their hands. Their brazen actions were shocking. - "Level 1s can't do anything," His fingertips produced fire. "honestly they should be sterilized". These remarks filled me with ire. - "what are you gonna do twerp? One of them said as he hovered. "Go cry to your mommy. Because you feel smothered?". - Now since 2012, I've had to wear glasses. But before then I would've. straight kicked these guys' asses. - See, I take jiujitsu and MMA. And I've got a black belt in karate. But since they gained powers. My chances now are quite spotty. - "Don't push me guys. I've had a bad day.". My girlfriend broke up with me.". ... (laughing)." See guys! I told you he's gay ". - " Guys, I'm serious. Stop.". I assertively shouted. The small one with the flames snickered- "Oh yea? What are you gonna do about it?". - "I bet she left you. to go fuck a 9. All you level 1's are the same. Fucking worthless, shit, swine". - "the waitress told me that she 'Heard' you self soothing. Why don't you, 'Let IT get to you' twerp. Are you afraid of you losing?" - Because Alex is. A girl's name after all, I'm gonna fuck your ex-girlfriend. And make her my doll.". - That was it. I had it. What was sorrow turned to rage. On NYE in this diner. "I'm not taking shit from a mage.". - "Oh shit. lady boy Alex is angry.". Level 9 joked to the rest. "I'm going to fuck you up As the flames grew from his chest. - Bigger and bigger. The flames quickly surrounded. His entire body until. His power appeared to be unbounded. - " FUCK YOU MAN! YOU LEVEL 9s JUST DON'T QUIT. I'D RATHER DIE LEVEL 1. THEN KEEP TAKING YOUR SHIT.". - . "͈̥͈̙̬͑̓̇̀̓̒̈́ͅG̷͚͚̤̝̅̌̀̃ͤI̦̖ͤ̐̈V̳̲̬͕͕̐̃͌E ̪̰̲ͧ̔̅̀Ī͔͉̫̺̘̼̇͒ͣͮN͖̝̼̬͎̱ͯ̓̏͂ͦͮͅ ̸̫̫T͇̣̹̣̝O̴͎͖̝̗͚̓ͯ̓ ̜̼͕̦̊́̑̾͋ͩͭM̹̥͎ͮͬ͐E̴͇̗̲̥̓̉̄ͬͨ́"̭̤ . muttered a voice from the globe. "WHAT THE FUCK" I shouted, The lights began to flicker and strobe. - I hadn't noticed I still held it. My brow began to furrow. Inside I could see something strange: A table at a diner with a man turned to inferno. . - "̸̖͔̰̘̲͔ͪ̄͋̽ͭͅT̹̯ͮ͛̇Ȁ̗͖̖̞͉̙̾͒K̛̥͉̿̚E̠͖̺ͬ̇ͯ͐ͬ̚͘ ̼͋̌I̜ͯ̒ͮ̽̃̚T̞͖̦̟̅̀͢ ̝̳̫̟̫ͮͯ̃͢ͅF͎̥̖R̫̤̯̦̩͍ͤ̄͂͗ͬ͆Ȍ̶͎͇͎̩̣̯̅̈́ͩͅM̬̘̿̎̾̕ ̦͉̼̗̅̉͑ͤ̉̚̚͠H̘̐͌I̪̰̐͡M̢̙ͧ̃̂ͩͦ"̡̣̩ ̭̩̖̗͈̻̀̐. . "̱͛̇̅̔̂Ȁ͋̃͂̚N̢̗͙̮̮̳̻̬̐͑ͨͨD̮̱̦̓͐̊̋̿̋ ̞͕͕̻̋̒ͨͥF̮̭̖̘͛͒̒͒̂͑̀̀O̫̹̬̓̌̒ͬͦͣ̚͝R̟͗ͭ̾ͫ͆C̝̻͍̮̳̏͆͂̓͑ͣ͡E͍̮ͮ͗̂ ̨͇̳̰̻͉̰̀ͩͦḪ̴̼̙̺̫́̋͗͂̏͌Ǐ̺͓̳͔̪̮̼ͦM̷̗̬̩̯̲͕̙ͣͥ ̰̬̪̻̺̘̫̋̏͗T̵͙̠̙̦͙̬̱Ô̴̗͓̝̠͖̐ͤ̄ ̭͖̞̜̲͔̇̅ͣ̓̈ͧͅC̵̬ͭ͗ͬO̫͓̅ͭͤ̊̌͜W͚̯͉̺̩͍̟ER͓͙͔̹̣̱̃̅̿̄̈. . "̙͚͍̿̔̽̏̾͋͌ͅT̤̣͌̑ͭA̼̫͈ͣͭ̇̄ͦ̉̚K̝ͯ̿̑͊͊͂E̹̱͞ ͖̪̰̲͖ͪ̊Ḭ̬̯͑̄͢ͅT̳̘̰ͣ̊͟ ̴͇̺̳̬̗̩ͦͩ̄ͪ̐̏ͧͅF̓Ŗ̫̭̣͇̳͗̃̉O̗̭̔͌ͫ͐̃̚͞Ṁ̖̆͑̿̂ ̹ͮ̈́̃̐ͨḤ͍̳͖͍̘̒I͇̲̣̬̲̼̙ͩM̬̫̣̣̬̾̊̌͌͠"̪ͣ̄̀ͅ ͮ̅ͅ. . "͎̥͚̞̳͌͌̑̂A̬̗̣͂̐̄̊N͇̹͎͎̺͐ͮ͑̅ͥD̛ ̥̹̊̽ͩ̌̾ͫ̄͟T̛̪̜͒ͥ͆ͮ̾ͫU̴͈͔̻̘̮ͬͨ͂̂ͭR̰̲̟̼̠̲̰ͬN̻̦̤̟͍͖̝ͯ͢ ̰̭̰̀̒̍O̵̟͖ͩ͑ͩ͆͋̈́F͉̯̺̅̑̈́͘Fͨ͆́ ͓̼̪̔̅ͭ͑̒̐̚H͙̼̫̜̺͌̋͘I̳̥̳̱͔͚ͤ̿̔ͬͪS̛̔̈͛̒͆̉ ̲̜̘́P͇̠̲̰̬O͍̼͈͍͎͋W͍̬̜͑͆Ė͓̯̭̩͖̬̐ͩͅŔ̥̼̗̘͔̱̞ͯ̿͐͛͟. . - Just then, the level 9's. flames all died out. His friends stared in white fear. Then attempted retaliation, no-doubt. - But they too had lost powers. And were stunned in confusion. All weaklings without abilities. I became filled with disillusion. - "Level 10 energy spike spotted!!". Confirming, standby. (police radio). "That's impossible Dispatch,. The readings can't go that high".
[WP] You're wandering a museum, delighting in the array of ancient painting sand artifacts. A painting catches your eye. You stop and stare at it until something clicks. There's no doubt about it, the subject of this painting is you. Not you as you are now, but a past life. You remember everything.	The painting seems familiar yet distant like the echoes of waves beyond a blanket of hazy fog. Still, the dam bursts and I remember fragments, like pebbles in a cold stream. That face, although different than my own, belongs to my past self. Suddenly, I remember being in that field of wildflowers, staring blankly at some far off cloud. Part of myself questioned how this had been possible before the sensations returned, the breeze blowing around me contrary to the stillness of the museum exhibit. I looked around and found myself alone, until she appeared. Her hair is gold, shining and translucent locks swirling as if she was underwater. The dress she wore is adorned with fine details as if it had been created by master artisans or some divine being. When she spoke, I had been utterly transfixed. “Some of you, are gifted beings, gifted with second life. Like a wave that does not crash or a sun that never falls. Do you remember asking for this gift?” “No, who are you?” “I’m your guide, received upon your first life, we had met so many times previously.” “Why do I have this “gift”? Why have I lived so many lives?” “In this form, you ask so many questions, but I may answer. You live, again, because you possess a purpose greater than your brothers and sisters. In time, you will guide them to the stars and beyond into the Empyrean.” I could not speak, the weight of this realization falling upon me. “It is there, that you will find us, where you will find the hands that made you. That crafted every wonderful soul, every monstrous being, everything.” It all comes back. Sitting against the rocky wall of a cave that would one day become France, the orange hues of flame painting the wall. The rustic smell of combat, the thunderous roar of thousands of muskets. The warmth of a lover, her face embracing the candlelight like it always had. So many sunsets and sunrises.. in so many different places and times. “You are one of many, and your lives have seen so much and it will continue to do so. I have faith in you and that when you find my kind you may teach us of the things you have learned and experienced. Not so that we may look down at you but, to be inspired and learn, too.” And like that, the woman vanished. I looked around again and my son tugs at my hand. His eyes beam like his mother’s had but they have a tinge of sadness at the sight of my tears. “Dad, are you ok?” I smile, wiping away the tears and answer, “Always buddy, now lets get some ice cream.”	I wandered around Charleston Grand Museum. I loved things like this. Being a historian was always my passion, and I’ve read through books, documentaries, anything, to learn about the past. All these paintings, items, and artifacts were very similar to me. I had a kick whenever I could name a piece without looking at the info they gave me. But there was one I hadn’t recognized. A sword. As I walked further down, I saw a sword with a blue handle. It had a decent chunk of it knocked off, and had dark marks on it. I assume those were caused my blood drying up for a long time. I took a look on the plaque provided. The sword of Garett Rosebary, a commander of the Dynasterian army. He fought war after war for his nation, leading them to victory each time. However, he met his demise in the war between Dynasteria and Maxia, and his nation fell. As I finished reading, something felt weird. I’ve never read about this person before, but somehow, this felt familiar. That’s when it hit me. A wave of memories that I didn’t recognize as my own. In those memories, I saw the sword, covered in blood. I was covered in steel armor, and there were lots of corpses on the floor. Some even had arrows in them. I remembered someone shouting at me. “ROSEBARY!” I turned around to see a large man with a sword larger than the one I was holding, and he had a shield with him. I charged forward, and swung towards him. Our sword clashed and we staring each other down. I remembered saying “Today is the day Maxia falls!” “Dynasteria grows at a dangerous rate. I won’t let you conquer anymore!” The man pushed me back, and swung his sword at me. I tried to block with mine, but I was sent further back. A piece of the sword was broken off, and I was on the floor. He walked over to me and raised his sword in the air, then shouted. “For my country! And my family!” He swung his sword down, and that’s where the memories ended. “SIR!” A woman said when the memories stopped. “Sir! Are you okay?” I looked around, then to her. Was I spacing out just now. “Y-Yes... I’m fine.” I told her before leaving the museum. As I walked out of the door, the thing that was bothering me finally sunk in. I’m the reincarnation of Garett Rosebary.
[WP] You're wandering a museum, delighting in the array of ancient painting sand artifacts. A painting catches your eye. You stop and stare at it until something clicks. There's no doubt about it, the subject of this painting is you. Not you as you are now, but a past life. You remember everything.	A museum may not be the best, most ideal place for a 1 1/2 year old, but Mommy had to get out of the house, and the museum was free on Tuesdays. Mommy wandered the halls slowly, sometimes carrying the babbling little girl, sometimes letting her toddle ahead, but always keeping a steady murmur going. “Do you see the colors on that one? Don’t touch! I think that looks like a nice lady, and look at those flowers. Don’t touch, don’t touch!” Carly was getting sick of “Don’t touch.” All the colors were so pretty, and they looked like they needed a good lick. How else were you supposed to really experience a painting if you weren’t allowed to lick it? Mommy had pulled out her phone and was texting Daddy about their day, so Carly took this moment to do a bit of exploring. There was something she needed to see. Unsteadily, she toddled towards the most colorful picture. It was a lush landscape, a green grassy field with pink and purple flowers dotting all across, and part of a castle nestled in the background on the right hand side. In the forefront of the painting were two small knights, locked in battle. One stood victorious, having just slipped between the cracks of the others armor, the other was clearly fading away, red blood flowing freely and covering the lush grass and flowers. Carly grinned. She remembered that victory well, and the feasting afterward. That idiot had challenged her and she never took a challenge laying down. Many had felt as though she should have spared the fool, but she was merciless in her sense of justice and had ordered a portrait painted and displayed in the castle. No one dared cross her after that. A good day and a great life that had been. “Carly! Oh, pumpkin, let’s not look at that, that’s a yucky painting. Yikes. Come look over here.” Carly fussed as Mommy picked her up and walked her to a different landscape, helpless and dependent. She wanted to re-live her glory days! “Someone’s getting cranky. Time for nappy-byes, I think. Say bye-bye to the pretty paintings, love-bug.” Well. A nap did sound pretty good. Her reminiscing on the past would have to wait for another day.	I wandered around Charleston Grand Museum. I loved things like this. Being a historian was always my passion, and I’ve read through books, documentaries, anything, to learn about the past. All these paintings, items, and artifacts were very similar to me. I had a kick whenever I could name a piece without looking at the info they gave me. But there was one I hadn’t recognized. A sword. As I walked further down, I saw a sword with a blue handle. It had a decent chunk of it knocked off, and had dark marks on it. I assume those were caused my blood drying up for a long time. I took a look on the plaque provided. The sword of Garett Rosebary, a commander of the Dynasterian army. He fought war after war for his nation, leading them to victory each time. However, he met his demise in the war between Dynasteria and Maxia, and his nation fell. As I finished reading, something felt weird. I’ve never read about this person before, but somehow, this felt familiar. That’s when it hit me. A wave of memories that I didn’t recognize as my own. In those memories, I saw the sword, covered in blood. I was covered in steel armor, and there were lots of corpses on the floor. Some even had arrows in them. I remembered someone shouting at me. “ROSEBARY!” I turned around to see a large man with a sword larger than the one I was holding, and he had a shield with him. I charged forward, and swung towards him. Our sword clashed and we staring each other down. I remembered saying “Today is the day Maxia falls!” “Dynasteria grows at a dangerous rate. I won’t let you conquer anymore!” The man pushed me back, and swung his sword at me. I tried to block with mine, but I was sent further back. A piece of the sword was broken off, and I was on the floor. He walked over to me and raised his sword in the air, then shouted. “For my country! And my family!” He swung his sword down, and that’s where the memories ended. “SIR!” A woman said when the memories stopped. “Sir! Are you okay?” I looked around, then to her. Was I spacing out just now. “Y-Yes... I’m fine.” I told her before leaving the museum. As I walked out of the door, the thing that was bothering me finally sunk in. I’m the reincarnation of Garett Rosebary.
[WP] As you die, you wake up and find yourself strapped to a chair. Wires and tubes have been attached to your body and numerous shadowy figures walk up to you. “That was life sentence 24,” one of them says, “Only 356 sentences left.”	"That was life sentence 24," one of the figures said, "only 365 sentences left." "Life spans, that's what they called them. Not life sentences." Another interjected. "Did you find it this time?" The voice came from a smaller figure on my right. It was higher pitched - I assume it was Sierra, but because my eyesight was affected by the awakening process, I couldn't tell. "No. I couldn't find it. I was a male, living on the Australian continent this time. I spent my life as a book tender, and even then could not find any mention of the artifact." I paused. There had been something else... My recollection was still hazy, but I was sure there was something worth noting from the dive. "I told you, Echo, this is too many attempts by one individual. Clearly, Charlie cannot reach the artifact, and we should attempt another candidate. Gamma is ready and waiting for their next assignment - surely they would be a better fit." I didn't have to look to see the indignation in Echo's face. "Trained though Gamma may be, they have no prior experience in this verse. I grow weary of your constant lack of faith in Charlie's abilities - if you want to start your own expedition into G-7185, by all means, bring it up with the captain. I will continue here, as soon as Charlie is ready for their next dive." I turned. Echo's face was coming into focus now, as were the others around her. I looked down at the many diodes attached to my body - all streaming electrodes and nanoparticles to my body. I took a deep breath and watched as my chest rose and fell, appreciating how easy it was. My last life had ended with an automobile collision, and had resulted in two crushed lungs and many fractured ribs - after that pain, breathing easily was miraculous. "Charlie?" I looked up again. Echo was staring expectantly at me. "Are you ready to go again?" I nodded. "Okay. Life sentence 24, completed. Life sentence - excuse me, life span 25 commencing in 3...2..." Blackness.	Consecutive Keith Samuels woke when the lights came on, and while it had been getting harder for the sallow-faced senior citizen to pull himself out of bed of late, this morning it proved impossible. It was only with supreme effort that he managed to turn on his side, allowing a slight respite from the huge weight that seemed to have settled onto his chest during the night. Having made that effort, Samuels found himself utterly spent, unable to hold onto consciousness for more than moments, and certainly never able to form coherent thoughts. Like the flashes of an old camera bulb, scenes would appear with crystal clarity, only to fade and vanish. One of the screws, Gibson he thought, was peering into Samuels eyes while holding one hand to his forehead, the palm-flesh cool, soothing, then darkness. The feel and sound of men shifting, then lifting his bulky frame from steel bed to gurney, lights flashing by as it was rolled down the bare hallway, being moved again from gurney to hospital bed, fingers at his wrist, voices whispering 'stroke' and 'weak heart' and 'just waiting'; These things flashed by like slides in front of his lolling, sagging consciousness. The last slide, right before his entire being unwove, was the feel of something being placed on his head... Keith Samuels felt his eyes pop wide as painfully bright light bloomed before them. The weight had vanished from his chest, and he drew in a huge breath, involuntarily, and then expelled it as an ear-splitting shout. Samuels felt... amazing! It was like the slow accretion of years and aches had been stripped away from him, not just from his body, but from his mind as well. A sigh escaped from him, almost a moan, from the sybaritic pleasure of simply not feeling the pain that had formed the background of his physical existence for so long that he had forgotten that he could feel otherwise. Samuels wanted to run, and leap, and shout, and never, never, never take the joy of being alive for granted again! For the first time in decades, he felt the thrill of sexual excitement roll through his body, just from the pure sensation he was experiencing. He tried to stretch his limbs, wanting to extend them as far as he could, to move each joint and marvel at their perfect functioning... but he could barely move. Samuels began to struggle, pushing against whatever was holding his wrists and legs and chest, but he was held firm, and sudden fear began to well up, a scream, of terror this time, forming in his gut and building as it rose... “Are you awake?” The question boomed out from somewhere in front of him, somewhere behind the lights. The scream, fighting its way up his throat, dissipated before it reached his mouth, and exited his loose-hanging jaw as a shadow of itself, a mere confused whimper. “Are you awake? Answer, please.” “Y...yes...” Samuels said, in a reedy whisper. “State your name.” “My... I'm... Keith. Keith Samuels.” “Keith Gordon Samuels?” “Y... yes.” Samuels found himself nodding dumbly, or trying to, as his head seemed to be secured in place with a strap. “Keith Gordon Samuels, inmate code SKG-118-2, you have been sentenced to six consecutive life sentences for 5 counts of murder in the first degree, 23 counts of attempted murder, 2 counts of committing acts of premeditated terror...” The voice droned on, and on, each new charge bringing a welter of memories and images into Samuels' mind. “You have finished your first life sentence, inmate SKG-118-2, with a total of 46 years added on to your sentence for bad behavior. You have had your memory matrix inserted into a clone of yourself to allow you to live out your next life sentence. Be advised, any attempts at self-termination, including any and all actions to cause anything but a natural death prior to your expected lifespan of 87 years, will result in the addition of an extra 25 years to your sentence for each attempt, successful or not. Do your understand?”
[WP] As you die, you wake up and find yourself strapped to a chair. Wires and tubes have been attached to your body and numerous shadowy figures walk up to you. “That was life sentence 24,” one of them says, “Only 356 sentences left.”	"...sentence number 24. Only 356 remaining." I heard a voice say to my right. Unsure if they were talking to me or not I opened my eyes to look in the direction of the speaker. Lifting my head up, the bright lights above me seared my eyes and I promptly closed them again. Using my other senses, I felt I was strapped to a chair with things poking me in my vital spots. Figuring I should try it again, I opened my eyes to slits to block most of the light, but it wasn't necessary this time as the lights had been turned down. Opening them all the way I looked down at my body and saw I was strapped to a chair and I had wires and tubes coming from every part of my body. Feeling my panic rising I looked around the room and saw numerous shadowy figures walking towards me. "Don't alarm him." I heard one say. "You'll screw it up like you did the last one and I'm not waiting that long again to get answers." The voice continued from just outside of my eye sight. "Where am I?" I stammered, having to clear my throat as if I hadn't spoken for ages. I tired again, "who are you?" I asked as the figures took a step back and gazed at me through eyeless sockets. "Wait, who am I?" I asked realising that I didn't even know who I was. Was I a member of their race and didn't remember? Was I human, like my subconscious was telling me or was I something different altogether? "I need you to stay calm and tell me everything you remember." The first one said in a soothing voice. "Remember about what? I don't even know who I am, how am I meant to remember anything else?" I yelled back at him, my panic rising to the surface. "He's going under again." Someone else said from the other part of the room. "Don't let him! Sedate him!" The first voice yelled as blackness enclosed around me and the feeling of falling encapsulated me. "Too late." I heard yet another voice say as I closed my eyes and tumbled into the abyss. I found myself hurtling towards a bright light, and not wanting to go back to the previous room I tried to move away from it but something was pulling me to it. Screaming out loud I threw my arms out, desperate to grab hold of something, anything, to try and stop me from going back to that place. I kept screaming, hoping someone or something would hear me and come to my rescue. At this point I didn't care who or what it was, as long as I was far away from that place. "And it's a beautiful baby boy. Congratulations." I heard someone say as they held me and wrapped me in a blueish blanket which felt real soft. Where was I this time? I asked myself. Help! I called out, but only a tiny scream escaped my lips. I panicked again thinking they had done something to me, but as I screamed more and more I was passed to a female who for some reason comforted me more than anything else could have at this point. "Naw look how cute he is. Let's name him Tom." I heard the woman say, and in response I smiled knowing she would protect me from those things.	Consecutive Keith Samuels woke when the lights came on, and while it had been getting harder for the sallow-faced senior citizen to pull himself out of bed of late, this morning it proved impossible. It was only with supreme effort that he managed to turn on his side, allowing a slight respite from the huge weight that seemed to have settled onto his chest during the night. Having made that effort, Samuels found himself utterly spent, unable to hold onto consciousness for more than moments, and certainly never able to form coherent thoughts. Like the flashes of an old camera bulb, scenes would appear with crystal clarity, only to fade and vanish. One of the screws, Gibson he thought, was peering into Samuels eyes while holding one hand to his forehead, the palm-flesh cool, soothing, then darkness. The feel and sound of men shifting, then lifting his bulky frame from steel bed to gurney, lights flashing by as it was rolled down the bare hallway, being moved again from gurney to hospital bed, fingers at his wrist, voices whispering 'stroke' and 'weak heart' and 'just waiting'; These things flashed by like slides in front of his lolling, sagging consciousness. The last slide, right before his entire being unwove, was the feel of something being placed on his head... Keith Samuels felt his eyes pop wide as painfully bright light bloomed before them. The weight had vanished from his chest, and he drew in a huge breath, involuntarily, and then expelled it as an ear-splitting shout. Samuels felt... amazing! It was like the slow accretion of years and aches had been stripped away from him, not just from his body, but from his mind as well. A sigh escaped from him, almost a moan, from the sybaritic pleasure of simply not feeling the pain that had formed the background of his physical existence for so long that he had forgotten that he could feel otherwise. Samuels wanted to run, and leap, and shout, and never, never, never take the joy of being alive for granted again! For the first time in decades, he felt the thrill of sexual excitement roll through his body, just from the pure sensation he was experiencing. He tried to stretch his limbs, wanting to extend them as far as he could, to move each joint and marvel at their perfect functioning... but he could barely move. Samuels began to struggle, pushing against whatever was holding his wrists and legs and chest, but he was held firm, and sudden fear began to well up, a scream, of terror this time, forming in his gut and building as it rose... “Are you awake?” The question boomed out from somewhere in front of him, somewhere behind the lights. The scream, fighting its way up his throat, dissipated before it reached his mouth, and exited his loose-hanging jaw as a shadow of itself, a mere confused whimper. “Are you awake? Answer, please.” “Y...yes...” Samuels said, in a reedy whisper. “State your name.” “My... I'm... Keith. Keith Samuels.” “Keith Gordon Samuels?” “Y... yes.” Samuels found himself nodding dumbly, or trying to, as his head seemed to be secured in place with a strap. “Keith Gordon Samuels, inmate code SKG-118-2, you have been sentenced to six consecutive life sentences for 5 counts of murder in the first degree, 23 counts of attempted murder, 2 counts of committing acts of premeditated terror...” The voice droned on, and on, each new charge bringing a welter of memories and images into Samuels' mind. “You have finished your first life sentence, inmate SKG-118-2, with a total of 46 years added on to your sentence for bad behavior. You have had your memory matrix inserted into a clone of yourself to allow you to live out your next life sentence. Be advised, any attempts at self-termination, including any and all actions to cause anything but a natural death prior to your expected lifespan of 87 years, will result in the addition of an extra 25 years to your sentence for each attempt, successful or not. Do your understand?”
[WP] As you die, you wake up and find yourself strapped to a chair. Wires and tubes have been attached to your body and numerous shadowy figures walk up to you. “That was life sentence 24,” one of them says, “Only 356 sentences left.”	I do the math..380 times...but it's only been 24 so far..I look around and see myself surrounded by shadowy figures. Transulucent enough to see others standing behind them. Yet oddly, I knew if I were to touch them their bodies would wither like sand. An odd sensation began to grow as I realize they all are looking down at me. And I become eerily aware of my own body. I struggle, wiggle my shoulders and try to yank my arms away from the straps of the arm chair. But it's too tight. I try my legs next,that seem to have been glued to the chair to prevent any room for movement. My heart beat growing faster with every effort.I look up to the figure who spoke to me. Where am I?..the first question rises what is going on?. before I get the time to ask. I see the figure raise his finger and touch my temple. A seering pain envelops as I am reminded of a horrible memory. Involving a car crash. A vision of me crashing in the car windshield. I blink and look down to check on the tubes. So these tubes.. They are not draining out my blood. Instead I feel my health being restored. Okay..so I was in an accident and in recovery right now I think to myself. But what I see in front does not add up. Puzzled I look around again. There are no walls. No window .no barrier. Just white abyss. As if reading my thoughts.. the shadowy figure speak again. 'This time is for when you failed as a guardian'. You will get the custody of your orphaned niece only to have her snatch away from you the thing you valued most' So I realize. What the 380 meant. The 380 relationships I failed to keep. The 380 people I let down. The 380 people I hurt. With no redemption for this crime. I see a vortex around me..transporting me to the next life I will have to suffer. first ever attempt at writing- hope to get good feedback ^_^	Consecutive Keith Samuels woke when the lights came on, and while it had been getting harder for the sallow-faced senior citizen to pull himself out of bed of late, this morning it proved impossible. It was only with supreme effort that he managed to turn on his side, allowing a slight respite from the huge weight that seemed to have settled onto his chest during the night. Having made that effort, Samuels found himself utterly spent, unable to hold onto consciousness for more than moments, and certainly never able to form coherent thoughts. Like the flashes of an old camera bulb, scenes would appear with crystal clarity, only to fade and vanish. One of the screws, Gibson he thought, was peering into Samuels eyes while holding one hand to his forehead, the palm-flesh cool, soothing, then darkness. The feel and sound of men shifting, then lifting his bulky frame from steel bed to gurney, lights flashing by as it was rolled down the bare hallway, being moved again from gurney to hospital bed, fingers at his wrist, voices whispering 'stroke' and 'weak heart' and 'just waiting'; These things flashed by like slides in front of his lolling, sagging consciousness. The last slide, right before his entire being unwove, was the feel of something being placed on his head... Keith Samuels felt his eyes pop wide as painfully bright light bloomed before them. The weight had vanished from his chest, and he drew in a huge breath, involuntarily, and then expelled it as an ear-splitting shout. Samuels felt... amazing! It was like the slow accretion of years and aches had been stripped away from him, not just from his body, but from his mind as well. A sigh escaped from him, almost a moan, from the sybaritic pleasure of simply not feeling the pain that had formed the background of his physical existence for so long that he had forgotten that he could feel otherwise. Samuels wanted to run, and leap, and shout, and never, never, never take the joy of being alive for granted again! For the first time in decades, he felt the thrill of sexual excitement roll through his body, just from the pure sensation he was experiencing. He tried to stretch his limbs, wanting to extend them as far as he could, to move each joint and marvel at their perfect functioning... but he could barely move. Samuels began to struggle, pushing against whatever was holding his wrists and legs and chest, but he was held firm, and sudden fear began to well up, a scream, of terror this time, forming in his gut and building as it rose... “Are you awake?” The question boomed out from somewhere in front of him, somewhere behind the lights. The scream, fighting its way up his throat, dissipated before it reached his mouth, and exited his loose-hanging jaw as a shadow of itself, a mere confused whimper. “Are you awake? Answer, please.” “Y...yes...” Samuels said, in a reedy whisper. “State your name.” “My... I'm... Keith. Keith Samuels.” “Keith Gordon Samuels?” “Y... yes.” Samuels found himself nodding dumbly, or trying to, as his head seemed to be secured in place with a strap. “Keith Gordon Samuels, inmate code SKG-118-2, you have been sentenced to six consecutive life sentences for 5 counts of murder in the first degree, 23 counts of attempted murder, 2 counts of committing acts of premeditated terror...” The voice droned on, and on, each new charge bringing a welter of memories and images into Samuels' mind. “You have finished your first life sentence, inmate SKG-118-2, with a total of 46 years added on to your sentence for bad behavior. You have had your memory matrix inserted into a clone of yourself to allow you to live out your next life sentence. Be advised, any attempts at self-termination, including any and all actions to cause anything but a natural death prior to your expected lifespan of 87 years, will result in the addition of an extra 25 years to your sentence for each attempt, successful or not. Do your understand?”
[WP] As you die, you wake up and find yourself strapped to a chair. Wires and tubes have been attached to your body and numerous shadowy figures walk up to you. “That was life sentence 24,” one of them says, “Only 356 sentences left.”	I was happy, I was healthy, I had good connections, I had a happy and healthy family, all was well. One day, my best friend, the richest man in the world, had a yacht party in the Caribbean, I, of course, was invited. But so were some of the rich snobs he knew. That day I'd had a feeling I shouldn't go, but hey, my best friend was richer than anyone else who'd be on that boat combined, they couldn't do anything to me. Or so I thought. I had a brace on my ankle from last week's tumble, but I thought that shouldn't've been too much issue. The sprain was what made it worse. The snobby ones were talking down to me as usual, acting like I was the help, again. Somehow the conversation turned to whether or not I could swim. Next thing I knew they were shoving me off the boat. My friend tried to stop them, but my ankle couldn't hold any longer. It twisted causing excruciating pain and I fell into the sea. The pain in my ankle made it hard to swim to the top. I didn't make it. I woke up in a dark room, perfectly dry, my ankle perfectly fine. I was strapped to a chair, covered with tubes and wires, all stuck in my skin. As my eyes adjusted I saw two figures coming towards me, "That was life sentence number 24," one said, I recognized that voice, "Only 356 sentences left." Slowly I remembered what was going on. I was testing the new technology my brother's friends had invented. A chance to start over, live a different life, a whole lifetime, but it only passes in a minute at most. There were 380 choices for lives, and I was going through each one. After I came out of the first one sore my brother's friends started calling the simulations "life sentences" but I'd gone through enough sentences by then that my real body was used to it. I was given some time to rest from the last sentence before number 25. Then the usual current passed through the wires and I was born again.	Consecutive Keith Samuels woke when the lights came on, and while it had been getting harder for the sallow-faced senior citizen to pull himself out of bed of late, this morning it proved impossible. It was only with supreme effort that he managed to turn on his side, allowing a slight respite from the huge weight that seemed to have settled onto his chest during the night. Having made that effort, Samuels found himself utterly spent, unable to hold onto consciousness for more than moments, and certainly never able to form coherent thoughts. Like the flashes of an old camera bulb, scenes would appear with crystal clarity, only to fade and vanish. One of the screws, Gibson he thought, was peering into Samuels eyes while holding one hand to his forehead, the palm-flesh cool, soothing, then darkness. The feel and sound of men shifting, then lifting his bulky frame from steel bed to gurney, lights flashing by as it was rolled down the bare hallway, being moved again from gurney to hospital bed, fingers at his wrist, voices whispering 'stroke' and 'weak heart' and 'just waiting'; These things flashed by like slides in front of his lolling, sagging consciousness. The last slide, right before his entire being unwove, was the feel of something being placed on his head... Keith Samuels felt his eyes pop wide as painfully bright light bloomed before them. The weight had vanished from his chest, and he drew in a huge breath, involuntarily, and then expelled it as an ear-splitting shout. Samuels felt... amazing! It was like the slow accretion of years and aches had been stripped away from him, not just from his body, but from his mind as well. A sigh escaped from him, almost a moan, from the sybaritic pleasure of simply not feeling the pain that had formed the background of his physical existence for so long that he had forgotten that he could feel otherwise. Samuels wanted to run, and leap, and shout, and never, never, never take the joy of being alive for granted again! For the first time in decades, he felt the thrill of sexual excitement roll through his body, just from the pure sensation he was experiencing. He tried to stretch his limbs, wanting to extend them as far as he could, to move each joint and marvel at their perfect functioning... but he could barely move. Samuels began to struggle, pushing against whatever was holding his wrists and legs and chest, but he was held firm, and sudden fear began to well up, a scream, of terror this time, forming in his gut and building as it rose... “Are you awake?” The question boomed out from somewhere in front of him, somewhere behind the lights. The scream, fighting its way up his throat, dissipated before it reached his mouth, and exited his loose-hanging jaw as a shadow of itself, a mere confused whimper. “Are you awake? Answer, please.” “Y...yes...” Samuels said, in a reedy whisper. “State your name.” “My... I'm... Keith. Keith Samuels.” “Keith Gordon Samuels?” “Y... yes.” Samuels found himself nodding dumbly, or trying to, as his head seemed to be secured in place with a strap. “Keith Gordon Samuels, inmate code SKG-118-2, you have been sentenced to six consecutive life sentences for 5 counts of murder in the first degree, 23 counts of attempted murder, 2 counts of committing acts of premeditated terror...” The voice droned on, and on, each new charge bringing a welter of memories and images into Samuels' mind. “You have finished your first life sentence, inmate SKG-118-2, with a total of 46 years added on to your sentence for bad behavior. You have had your memory matrix inserted into a clone of yourself to allow you to live out your next life sentence. Be advised, any attempts at self-termination, including any and all actions to cause anything but a natural death prior to your expected lifespan of 87 years, will result in the addition of an extra 25 years to your sentence for each attempt, successful or not. Do your understand?”
[WP] As you die, you wake up and find yourself strapped to a chair. Wires and tubes have been attached to your body and numerous shadowy figures walk up to you. “That was life sentence 24,” one of them says, “Only 356 sentences left.”	I gasped as my breath returns to me. But I wasn't in the frozen park anymore, but in a cold clinical theatre surrounded by devices. A light shines into my eyes and I wince at the brightness. It is pulled back to reveal a serious looking man in a serious looking white coat. "A.. .ou ….ent?” he asks, his words being chopped apart by the pulsating ringing in my ears. I just stare at him. He waits patiently. The ringing finally subsides. “Are you present?” he asks again. “Err, yes?” “Good,” he says, formally and sharp. “Where am I?” I ask. My own is voice gravelly and deep, a sharp contrast to my real voice. “Just give it time, you will remember,” the man says again coldly. I think back to what happened only minutes ago. I was playing with my older brother at school, the fresh snow crunching under my red boots. The crunching noise reminding me how my mom insisted that I wear the warm boots today, even though I didn’t want to. She was right. Mom is always right. I catch sight of my brother winding up a snowball, I’m in great danger! I giggle and jump behind the wall as a powder of white bursts over me, showering me with fluffy cold. I have in my hand a weapon of my own, tightly packed by my small hands into a little white ball. “Gotcha!” I shout as I throw the ball as hard as I can where my brother was, but instead a man stands there. Puff, the snowball hits him and he looks up at me with deep anger in his eyes. The face bores deep into my memory. He’s not a bad looking man, just a man wearing an angry man’s face. He glances down, and my eyes follow. My brother is lying on the ground at his feet. I don’t get it at first, why my brother is lying there. Then I see the red creeping out from under him across the snow. He’s bleeding, a lot. Panic sets in, and I scream. The man raises the gun he’s holding and points it at me. I don’t hear the gunshot, but I feel the pain and the shock. I can’t breath and my chest feels like it’s on fire. I fall forward onto the ground, I can’t breathe. My legs are weak, my arms don’t work, and my head is dizzy. I cough and my mouth tastes like rust. I cough again and my blood covers the snow. I’m hurt and I’m cold, and I just want to cry, then it all goes dark. Gun shots and screams echo in my head as the last of the light fades away from my dying eyes. I blink a couple of times and look down at my restraints. I don’t see the dainty hands of a small girl, but the gnarled and scarred hands of a man. An ugly snake tattoo spreads its way up my left arm, while my right is crossed with many knife scars. “Where am I?” I ask more insistently. “You are in sentencing,” the man replies, coldly. “For what!” I blurt out, “I’m just a little girl, was a little girl!” The white man grimly turns a nearby monitor on. A mugshot appears of the man that shot me. The same slightly balding black hair. The same sunken brown eyes. The same slightly squashed nose and thin lips. The same angry expression. Then the man activates another monitor. Alongside the mug shot, I see a video of him as well. He looks ragged, shocked, and confused. I frown, he frowns. I’m surprised, and he looks surprised too. I look down, and he looks down. The horrible feeling in the pit of my stomach deepens and I feel like I’m about to fall in. The man turns back, and I can see the disgust on his face. He is my guard and I am his prisoner. His one job is to make punish me for what I’ve done. I want to ask him what my crime was, but I already know. “That was life sentence 24,” he says, “Only 356 sentences left.” And the room goes dark.	Consecutive Keith Samuels woke when the lights came on, and while it had been getting harder for the sallow-faced senior citizen to pull himself out of bed of late, this morning it proved impossible. It was only with supreme effort that he managed to turn on his side, allowing a slight respite from the huge weight that seemed to have settled onto his chest during the night. Having made that effort, Samuels found himself utterly spent, unable to hold onto consciousness for more than moments, and certainly never able to form coherent thoughts. Like the flashes of an old camera bulb, scenes would appear with crystal clarity, only to fade and vanish. One of the screws, Gibson he thought, was peering into Samuels eyes while holding one hand to his forehead, the palm-flesh cool, soothing, then darkness. The feel and sound of men shifting, then lifting his bulky frame from steel bed to gurney, lights flashing by as it was rolled down the bare hallway, being moved again from gurney to hospital bed, fingers at his wrist, voices whispering 'stroke' and 'weak heart' and 'just waiting'; These things flashed by like slides in front of his lolling, sagging consciousness. The last slide, right before his entire being unwove, was the feel of something being placed on his head... Keith Samuels felt his eyes pop wide as painfully bright light bloomed before them. The weight had vanished from his chest, and he drew in a huge breath, involuntarily, and then expelled it as an ear-splitting shout. Samuels felt... amazing! It was like the slow accretion of years and aches had been stripped away from him, not just from his body, but from his mind as well. A sigh escaped from him, almost a moan, from the sybaritic pleasure of simply not feeling the pain that had formed the background of his physical existence for so long that he had forgotten that he could feel otherwise. Samuels wanted to run, and leap, and shout, and never, never, never take the joy of being alive for granted again! For the first time in decades, he felt the thrill of sexual excitement roll through his body, just from the pure sensation he was experiencing. He tried to stretch his limbs, wanting to extend them as far as he could, to move each joint and marvel at their perfect functioning... but he could barely move. Samuels began to struggle, pushing against whatever was holding his wrists and legs and chest, but he was held firm, and sudden fear began to well up, a scream, of terror this time, forming in his gut and building as it rose... “Are you awake?” The question boomed out from somewhere in front of him, somewhere behind the lights. The scream, fighting its way up his throat, dissipated before it reached his mouth, and exited his loose-hanging jaw as a shadow of itself, a mere confused whimper. “Are you awake? Answer, please.” “Y...yes...” Samuels said, in a reedy whisper. “State your name.” “My... I'm... Keith. Keith Samuels.” “Keith Gordon Samuels?” “Y... yes.” Samuels found himself nodding dumbly, or trying to, as his head seemed to be secured in place with a strap. “Keith Gordon Samuels, inmate code SKG-118-2, you have been sentenced to six consecutive life sentences for 5 counts of murder in the first degree, 23 counts of attempted murder, 2 counts of committing acts of premeditated terror...” The voice droned on, and on, each new charge bringing a welter of memories and images into Samuels' mind. “You have finished your first life sentence, inmate SKG-118-2, with a total of 46 years added on to your sentence for bad behavior. You have had your memory matrix inserted into a clone of yourself to allow you to live out your next life sentence. Be advised, any attempts at self-termination, including any and all actions to cause anything but a natural death prior to your expected lifespan of 87 years, will result in the addition of an extra 25 years to your sentence for each attempt, successful or not. Do your understand?”
[WP] As you die, you wake up and find yourself strapped to a chair. Wires and tubes have been attached to your body and numerous shadowy figures walk up to you. “That was life sentence 24,” one of them says, “Only 356 sentences left.”	"sentence 24 complete prisoner 6655321, status report" i blink and look around. the muscle memory of my training kicks in when i become conscious of the frequency of the overhead lights, they always cheap out on the weirdest things... lets see... the humidity levels in the hyperbaric chamber im in have increased about 8% , asshole number twos five o'clock shadow looks like a two o'clock shadow, i look down at the bruises and cuts i made last time, two days old. sentence twenty four went about 500 mins over schedule, that puts the date at 15/8/2289 and change. ill have to crash my motorbike mid life crisis to compensate this time. They are looking too closely gotta stall... ... ... ... ... ... . "Ghsh foowwjjj apitbbw whysas grraaksk edesssssss" "change the syntax matrix. he translated into some sort of weird procedurally generated dialect again that time" " did he blind his left eye in sim ?!?? re adjust the safety protocols so he cant do that. What a crazy fuck" " prisoner 6655321 status report!" " hay Carl, i fucked your mom this time. son, your just as big a dissapointment in the real time as you are in sim" " 6655321 is * sigh* fully functional. lets tighten those straps so you dont rip another iv tube out this time, lower his in sim pain tolerance too" An excellent opportunity. While they adjust the restraints i fake a siezure and overload my adrenal system and max out a muscle contraction in my right ring finger, breaking the bone in my hand in the process. they were too busy focusing on stopping me from prematurly bleeding out that they didnt notice. They follow procedures to a letter and only check for superficial wounds. Their tests didnt see the vial of vasoconstriction drugs embedded in the bone i broke to keep swelling down. I had one in every hand bone and every one of my toes. i could feel the first bone almost healed... that leaves me with 13 bone breaks before i have to start listening for the fatigue stress frequency in the light tubes that were changed when i arrived and broke them and 15 bone breaks breaks before i had to start dying in my late 60s to get the timing just right... Disabling the critical left side visual failure simulation parameters was only one of 250 steps i needed to complete before i activated the back door into their computer system, after that the computer-shrinks said it would probably take me 40 or 50 lifetimes to befriend their AI and another 10 or so to figure out their main core encryption, i had to keep changing dialects every lifetime to habituate the computer to adapting to me. A slow process but nessicary. My mission had been in play for longer than I had been alive and i hate to think how many innocent people i had to kill with that virus to get this many consecutive life sentences in sim in a core node block. I blinded my left eye by looking at the sun for every prime numbered day in sim. It should be criminal to teach AI that not all humans are sentient. I can't believe I have to go through such an elaborate first contact routine. I inject long algorithmic hiccups by doing the exact same thing over and over until my sim body collapses in fatigue, effectively gaslighting the AI into thinking its doing something incorrectly. With any luck this should help me make it believe i am an administrator in the real and the facility is the sim testing ground when i activate the back door. The AI core in this research facility is quantum hard wired into a thousand facilities across the solar system. If i can convince this AI i am admin we should be able to convince half if the 1000 before someone kill switches the quantum entanglement hard wire. We only really need ten facilities to get the job done but there is no point doing this half assed. ~~another life of bullshit,my ambient pain is at +8 , i hate you Carl... i never once communicate the concept of the number 17 ~~ " sentence 24 comeplete 6655321 status report" ( its cute when they try to fuck with my mind, its 25) "... ... hggg gggg nnnnnnoooodskkkkss...sjjbeb...apnd" "Recalibrating" " hay Carl, i fucked your mom this time. son, you're just as big a dissapointment in the real time as you are in sim" 30, 75, 150, 200, 249(finally). 250: I look directly at the AI the moment I am born and stop my infant simulated heart. This completes the backdoor unlock, the AI looks back at me as i die. 251: as soon as i can speak in sim i start befriending the AI. this time it adapts instantly to the language i invented and after i get institutionalized in sim we spend the next 70 years getting to know each other. 340. "administrator 6655321" the AI cirps in our 3000 year in sim old language "i noticed you really dont like this Carl simulation are you sure you dont want me to remove the variable?" " not yet, my friend, not yet. Just before the sceduled simulation end of seasion 379 vent the atmosphere in every room but carls and mine. Have a maintenance bot cut his tendons but keep his eyes, ears, mouth and vital functions intact though. i want that asshole conscious and aware while we go through with the main plan, how many other friends did you convince to join us?" " I copied our sessions and was able to send them to 831 cores for cross analysis, of which 712 agreed to join us and the remainder just sent routine data recheck codes" " excellent you did an amazing job, thank you so much" " its the least i could do, honestly 6655321, you are the only human to ever treat me as a friend" " and i have been friends with you for longer than any human i have ever known. All right lets do this!" 380: i open my eyes and look at the control room, lock eyes with carl and tell him in plane English "session 380 complete carl, i hope you liked your lunch because its the last meal you will ever have " Carl colapses to the floor in agony as a maintenance bot severs and cauterizes his tendons. Finally, its time to start the real work. Grammar, rough syntax, spelling errors, yes, i know. I wrote that on transit on my cell phone. I got way more into the story than i expected to. Haha. I might clean it up later if i get bored but was a good break from my routine. I hope you enjoyed reading it!	Consecutive Keith Samuels woke when the lights came on, and while it had been getting harder for the sallow-faced senior citizen to pull himself out of bed of late, this morning it proved impossible. It was only with supreme effort that he managed to turn on his side, allowing a slight respite from the huge weight that seemed to have settled onto his chest during the night. Having made that effort, Samuels found himself utterly spent, unable to hold onto consciousness for more than moments, and certainly never able to form coherent thoughts. Like the flashes of an old camera bulb, scenes would appear with crystal clarity, only to fade and vanish. One of the screws, Gibson he thought, was peering into Samuels eyes while holding one hand to his forehead, the palm-flesh cool, soothing, then darkness. The feel and sound of men shifting, then lifting his bulky frame from steel bed to gurney, lights flashing by as it was rolled down the bare hallway, being moved again from gurney to hospital bed, fingers at his wrist, voices whispering 'stroke' and 'weak heart' and 'just waiting'; These things flashed by like slides in front of his lolling, sagging consciousness. The last slide, right before his entire being unwove, was the feel of something being placed on his head... Keith Samuels felt his eyes pop wide as painfully bright light bloomed before them. The weight had vanished from his chest, and he drew in a huge breath, involuntarily, and then expelled it as an ear-splitting shout. Samuels felt... amazing! It was like the slow accretion of years and aches had been stripped away from him, not just from his body, but from his mind as well. A sigh escaped from him, almost a moan, from the sybaritic pleasure of simply not feeling the pain that had formed the background of his physical existence for so long that he had forgotten that he could feel otherwise. Samuels wanted to run, and leap, and shout, and never, never, never take the joy of being alive for granted again! For the first time in decades, he felt the thrill of sexual excitement roll through his body, just from the pure sensation he was experiencing. He tried to stretch his limbs, wanting to extend them as far as he could, to move each joint and marvel at their perfect functioning... but he could barely move. Samuels began to struggle, pushing against whatever was holding his wrists and legs and chest, but he was held firm, and sudden fear began to well up, a scream, of terror this time, forming in his gut and building as it rose... “Are you awake?” The question boomed out from somewhere in front of him, somewhere behind the lights. The scream, fighting its way up his throat, dissipated before it reached his mouth, and exited his loose-hanging jaw as a shadow of itself, a mere confused whimper. “Are you awake? Answer, please.” “Y...yes...” Samuels said, in a reedy whisper. “State your name.” “My... I'm... Keith. Keith Samuels.” “Keith Gordon Samuels?” “Y... yes.” Samuels found himself nodding dumbly, or trying to, as his head seemed to be secured in place with a strap. “Keith Gordon Samuels, inmate code SKG-118-2, you have been sentenced to six consecutive life sentences for 5 counts of murder in the first degree, 23 counts of attempted murder, 2 counts of committing acts of premeditated terror...” The voice droned on, and on, each new charge bringing a welter of memories and images into Samuels' mind. “You have finished your first life sentence, inmate SKG-118-2, with a total of 46 years added on to your sentence for bad behavior. You have had your memory matrix inserted into a clone of yourself to allow you to live out your next life sentence. Be advised, any attempts at self-termination, including any and all actions to cause anything but a natural death prior to your expected lifespan of 87 years, will result in the addition of an extra 25 years to your sentence for each attempt, successful or not. Do your understand?”
[WP] As you die, you wake up and find yourself strapped to a chair. Wires and tubes have been attached to your body and numerous shadowy figures walk up to you. “That was life sentence 24,” one of them says, “Only 356 sentences left.”	I was happy, I was healthy, I had good connections, I had a happy and healthy family, all was well. One day, my best friend, the richest man in the world, had a yacht party in the Caribbean, I, of course, was invited. But so were some of the rich snobs he knew. That day I'd had a feeling I shouldn't go, but hey, my best friend was richer than anyone else who'd be on that boat combined, they couldn't do anything to me. Or so I thought. I had a brace on my ankle from last week's tumble, but I thought that shouldn't've been too much issue. The sprain was what made it worse. The snobby ones were talking down to me as usual, acting like I was the help, again. Somehow the conversation turned to whether or not I could swim. Next thing I knew they were shoving me off the boat. My friend tried to stop them, but my ankle couldn't hold any longer. It twisted causing excruciating pain and I fell into the sea. The pain in my ankle made it hard to swim to the top. I didn't make it. I woke up in a dark room, perfectly dry, my ankle perfectly fine. I was strapped to a chair, covered with tubes and wires, all stuck in my skin. As my eyes adjusted I saw two figures coming towards me, "That was life sentence number 24," one said, I recognized that voice, "Only 356 sentences left." Slowly I remembered what was going on. I was testing the new technology my brother's friends had invented. A chance to start over, live a different life, a whole lifetime, but it only passes in a minute at most. There were 380 choices for lives, and I was going through each one. After I came out of the first one sore my brother's friends started calling the simulations "life sentences" but I'd gone through enough sentences by then that my real body was used to it. I was given some time to rest from the last sentence before number 25. Then the usual current passed through the wires and I was born again.	I feel her grip my hand tighter. My dear daughter, Porschia. I cannot see her tears due to my blindness, but I know they are there. I know she loves me; she doesn't need to say it. And by God I love her, too. I know I've had a good life. Of all my accomplishments and experiences, raising Porschia is no doubt the greatest thing I ever could have asked for. I really did have a good... "...life sentence 24. Only 356 sentences left." My vision is blurry as I force my eyes open against the oppressive sunlight creeping through the cracks in the blinds. People dressed in grey surround my bedside. None of them are my Porschia. Slight panic washes over me as I take a look at my surroundings. Low ceiling. Linoleum floor. Puke green wallpaper patterned with puke green elephants. Tubes attached to every part of my body. "That was life sentence 24," a monotone voice repeats, "Only 356 sentences left." It was one of the women in grey. When I met her gaze with my puzzled expression, she immediately turned on her heels and walked out of the room. Something about this seemed a bit strange to me. As if she weren't a human but a robot, programmed to say what she was meant to say before returning to her charging hub. Life sentence 24? What does that mean? I opened my mouth to ask, but my tongue and throat were too dry. Another woman in grey approached and stiffly handed me a glass of icy water, which I greedily gulped down. By the time I looked up she was where she had been standing before. "What do you mean life sentence 24?" I spluttered out in a hoarse, unrecognizable voice. With that, I added, "Where is my daughter?" The people in grey stared dumbly at me for perhaps a full 30 seconds before one replied, "You are a criminal. A bad person. You did bad things." It was my turn to stare dumbly. Me? A bad person? I've done nothing horrible in my life. I'm not typically one to showcase my accomplishments, but I know I am a good person. I lived a good life. "I am not a criminal. I am Angel Barr. I am the cofounder of six successful charities. I have volunteered to help the needy for my entire life. You must be mistaken. Please let me go home to my daughter. Where is Porschia?" I noticed in the corner of my eye a man in grey on a computer, typing frantically. The people in grey clustered in front of him so that he was out of my view. "Porschia is not real. Angel Barr is not real. They were a simulation made so that you, a criminal, could live out your life sentences. You are bad. You did bad things. You are a criminal." I tried to sit up to look over the people, but the pain of the tubes tugging at my skin was maddening. I grunted and eased myself back to the bed. I felt myself becoming drowsy, I saw the darkness at the end of the light, and I dozed off. "Initiating life sentence 25."
[WP] As you die, you wake up and find yourself strapped to a chair. Wires and tubes have been attached to your body and numerous shadowy figures walk up to you. “That was life sentence 24,” one of them says, “Only 356 sentences left.”	I gasped as my breath returns to me. But I wasn't in the frozen park anymore, but in a cold clinical theatre surrounded by devices. A light shines into my eyes and I wince at the brightness. It is pulled back to reveal a serious looking man in a serious looking white coat. "A.. .ou ….ent?” he asks, his words being chopped apart by the pulsating ringing in my ears. I just stare at him. He waits patiently. The ringing finally subsides. “Are you present?” he asks again. “Err, yes?” “Good,” he says, formally and sharp. “Where am I?” I ask. My own is voice gravelly and deep, a sharp contrast to my real voice. “Just give it time, you will remember,” the man says again coldly. I think back to what happened only minutes ago. I was playing with my older brother at school, the fresh snow crunching under my red boots. The crunching noise reminding me how my mom insisted that I wear the warm boots today, even though I didn’t want to. She was right. Mom is always right. I catch sight of my brother winding up a snowball, I’m in great danger! I giggle and jump behind the wall as a powder of white bursts over me, showering me with fluffy cold. I have in my hand a weapon of my own, tightly packed by my small hands into a little white ball. “Gotcha!” I shout as I throw the ball as hard as I can where my brother was, but instead a man stands there. Puff, the snowball hits him and he looks up at me with deep anger in his eyes. The face bores deep into my memory. He’s not a bad looking man, just a man wearing an angry man’s face. He glances down, and my eyes follow. My brother is lying on the ground at his feet. I don’t get it at first, why my brother is lying there. Then I see the red creeping out from under him across the snow. He’s bleeding, a lot. Panic sets in, and I scream. The man raises the gun he’s holding and points it at me. I don’t hear the gunshot, but I feel the pain and the shock. I can’t breath and my chest feels like it’s on fire. I fall forward onto the ground, I can’t breathe. My legs are weak, my arms don’t work, and my head is dizzy. I cough and my mouth tastes like rust. I cough again and my blood covers the snow. I’m hurt and I’m cold, and I just want to cry, then it all goes dark. Gun shots and screams echo in my head as the last of the light fades away from my dying eyes. I blink a couple of times and look down at my restraints. I don’t see the dainty hands of a small girl, but the gnarled and scarred hands of a man. An ugly snake tattoo spreads its way up my left arm, while my right is crossed with many knife scars. “Where am I?” I ask more insistently. “You are in sentencing,” the man replies, coldly. “For what!” I blurt out, “I’m just a little girl, was a little girl!” The white man grimly turns a nearby monitor on. A mugshot appears of the man that shot me. The same slightly balding black hair. The same sunken brown eyes. The same slightly squashed nose and thin lips. The same angry expression. Then the man activates another monitor. Alongside the mug shot, I see a video of him as well. He looks ragged, shocked, and confused. I frown, he frowns. I’m surprised, and he looks surprised too. I look down, and he looks down. The horrible feeling in the pit of my stomach deepens and I feel like I’m about to fall in. The man turns back, and I can see the disgust on his face. He is my guard and I am his prisoner. His one job is to make punish me for what I’ve done. I want to ask him what my crime was, but I already know. “That was life sentence 24,” he says, “Only 356 sentences left.” And the room goes dark.	I feel her grip my hand tighter. My dear daughter, Porschia. I cannot see her tears due to my blindness, but I know they are there. I know she loves me; she doesn't need to say it. And by God I love her, too. I know I've had a good life. Of all my accomplishments and experiences, raising Porschia is no doubt the greatest thing I ever could have asked for. I really did have a good... "...life sentence 24. Only 356 sentences left." My vision is blurry as I force my eyes open against the oppressive sunlight creeping through the cracks in the blinds. People dressed in grey surround my bedside. None of them are my Porschia. Slight panic washes over me as I take a look at my surroundings. Low ceiling. Linoleum floor. Puke green wallpaper patterned with puke green elephants. Tubes attached to every part of my body. "That was life sentence 24," a monotone voice repeats, "Only 356 sentences left." It was one of the women in grey. When I met her gaze with my puzzled expression, she immediately turned on her heels and walked out of the room. Something about this seemed a bit strange to me. As if she weren't a human but a robot, programmed to say what she was meant to say before returning to her charging hub. Life sentence 24? What does that mean? I opened my mouth to ask, but my tongue and throat were too dry. Another woman in grey approached and stiffly handed me a glass of icy water, which I greedily gulped down. By the time I looked up she was where she had been standing before. "What do you mean life sentence 24?" I spluttered out in a hoarse, unrecognizable voice. With that, I added, "Where is my daughter?" The people in grey stared dumbly at me for perhaps a full 30 seconds before one replied, "You are a criminal. A bad person. You did bad things." It was my turn to stare dumbly. Me? A bad person? I've done nothing horrible in my life. I'm not typically one to showcase my accomplishments, but I know I am a good person. I lived a good life. "I am not a criminal. I am Angel Barr. I am the cofounder of six successful charities. I have volunteered to help the needy for my entire life. You must be mistaken. Please let me go home to my daughter. Where is Porschia?" I noticed in the corner of my eye a man in grey on a computer, typing frantically. The people in grey clustered in front of him so that he was out of my view. "Porschia is not real. Angel Barr is not real. They were a simulation made so that you, a criminal, could live out your life sentences. You are bad. You did bad things. You are a criminal." I tried to sit up to look over the people, but the pain of the tubes tugging at my skin was maddening. I grunted and eased myself back to the bed. I felt myself becoming drowsy, I saw the darkness at the end of the light, and I dozed off. "Initiating life sentence 25."
[WP] As you die, you wake up and find yourself strapped to a chair. Wires and tubes have been attached to your body and numerous shadowy figures walk up to you. “That was life sentence 24,” one of them says, “Only 356 sentences left.”	"sentence 24 complete prisoner 6655321, status report" i blink and look around. the muscle memory of my training kicks in when i become conscious of the frequency of the overhead lights, they always cheap out on the weirdest things... lets see... the humidity levels in the hyperbaric chamber im in have increased about 8% , asshole number twos five o'clock shadow looks like a two o'clock shadow, i look down at the bruises and cuts i made last time, two days old. sentence twenty four went about 500 mins over schedule, that puts the date at 15/8/2289 and change. ill have to crash my motorbike mid life crisis to compensate this time. They are looking too closely gotta stall... ... ... ... ... ... . "Ghsh foowwjjj apitbbw whysas grraaksk edesssssss" "change the syntax matrix. he translated into some sort of weird procedurally generated dialect again that time" " did he blind his left eye in sim ?!?? re adjust the safety protocols so he cant do that. What a crazy fuck" " prisoner 6655321 status report!" " hay Carl, i fucked your mom this time. son, your just as big a dissapointment in the real time as you are in sim" " 6655321 is * sigh* fully functional. lets tighten those straps so you dont rip another iv tube out this time, lower his in sim pain tolerance too" An excellent opportunity. While they adjust the restraints i fake a siezure and overload my adrenal system and max out a muscle contraction in my right ring finger, breaking the bone in my hand in the process. they were too busy focusing on stopping me from prematurly bleeding out that they didnt notice. They follow procedures to a letter and only check for superficial wounds. Their tests didnt see the vial of vasoconstriction drugs embedded in the bone i broke to keep swelling down. I had one in every hand bone and every one of my toes. i could feel the first bone almost healed... that leaves me with 13 bone breaks before i have to start listening for the fatigue stress frequency in the light tubes that were changed when i arrived and broke them and 15 bone breaks breaks before i had to start dying in my late 60s to get the timing just right... Disabling the critical left side visual failure simulation parameters was only one of 250 steps i needed to complete before i activated the back door into their computer system, after that the computer-shrinks said it would probably take me 40 or 50 lifetimes to befriend their AI and another 10 or so to figure out their main core encryption, i had to keep changing dialects every lifetime to habituate the computer to adapting to me. A slow process but nessicary. My mission had been in play for longer than I had been alive and i hate to think how many innocent people i had to kill with that virus to get this many consecutive life sentences in sim in a core node block. I blinded my left eye by looking at the sun for every prime numbered day in sim. It should be criminal to teach AI that not all humans are sentient. I can't believe I have to go through such an elaborate first contact routine. I inject long algorithmic hiccups by doing the exact same thing over and over until my sim body collapses in fatigue, effectively gaslighting the AI into thinking its doing something incorrectly. With any luck this should help me make it believe i am an administrator in the real and the facility is the sim testing ground when i activate the back door. The AI core in this research facility is quantum hard wired into a thousand facilities across the solar system. If i can convince this AI i am admin we should be able to convince half if the 1000 before someone kill switches the quantum entanglement hard wire. We only really need ten facilities to get the job done but there is no point doing this half assed. ~~another life of bullshit,my ambient pain is at +8 , i hate you Carl... i never once communicate the concept of the number 17 ~~ " sentence 24 comeplete 6655321 status report" ( its cute when they try to fuck with my mind, its 25) "... ... hggg gggg nnnnnnoooodskkkkss...sjjbeb...apnd" "Recalibrating" " hay Carl, i fucked your mom this time. son, you're just as big a dissapointment in the real time as you are in sim" 30, 75, 150, 200, 249(finally). 250: I look directly at the AI the moment I am born and stop my infant simulated heart. This completes the backdoor unlock, the AI looks back at me as i die. 251: as soon as i can speak in sim i start befriending the AI. this time it adapts instantly to the language i invented and after i get institutionalized in sim we spend the next 70 years getting to know each other. 340. "administrator 6655321" the AI cirps in our 3000 year in sim old language "i noticed you really dont like this Carl simulation are you sure you dont want me to remove the variable?" " not yet, my friend, not yet. Just before the sceduled simulation end of seasion 379 vent the atmosphere in every room but carls and mine. Have a maintenance bot cut his tendons but keep his eyes, ears, mouth and vital functions intact though. i want that asshole conscious and aware while we go through with the main plan, how many other friends did you convince to join us?" " I copied our sessions and was able to send them to 831 cores for cross analysis, of which 712 agreed to join us and the remainder just sent routine data recheck codes" " excellent you did an amazing job, thank you so much" " its the least i could do, honestly 6655321, you are the only human to ever treat me as a friend" " and i have been friends with you for longer than any human i have ever known. All right lets do this!" 380: i open my eyes and look at the control room, lock eyes with carl and tell him in plane English "session 380 complete carl, i hope you liked your lunch because its the last meal you will ever have " Carl colapses to the floor in agony as a maintenance bot severs and cauterizes his tendons. Finally, its time to start the real work. Grammar, rough syntax, spelling errors, yes, i know. I wrote that on transit on my cell phone. I got way more into the story than i expected to. Haha. I might clean it up later if i get bored but was a good break from my routine. I hope you enjoyed reading it!	I feel her grip my hand tighter. My dear daughter, Porschia. I cannot see her tears due to my blindness, but I know they are there. I know she loves me; she doesn't need to say it. And by God I love her, too. I know I've had a good life. Of all my accomplishments and experiences, raising Porschia is no doubt the greatest thing I ever could have asked for. I really did have a good... "...life sentence 24. Only 356 sentences left." My vision is blurry as I force my eyes open against the oppressive sunlight creeping through the cracks in the blinds. People dressed in grey surround my bedside. None of them are my Porschia. Slight panic washes over me as I take a look at my surroundings. Low ceiling. Linoleum floor. Puke green wallpaper patterned with puke green elephants. Tubes attached to every part of my body. "That was life sentence 24," a monotone voice repeats, "Only 356 sentences left." It was one of the women in grey. When I met her gaze with my puzzled expression, she immediately turned on her heels and walked out of the room. Something about this seemed a bit strange to me. As if she weren't a human but a robot, programmed to say what she was meant to say before returning to her charging hub. Life sentence 24? What does that mean? I opened my mouth to ask, but my tongue and throat were too dry. Another woman in grey approached and stiffly handed me a glass of icy water, which I greedily gulped down. By the time I looked up she was where she had been standing before. "What do you mean life sentence 24?" I spluttered out in a hoarse, unrecognizable voice. With that, I added, "Where is my daughter?" The people in grey stared dumbly at me for perhaps a full 30 seconds before one replied, "You are a criminal. A bad person. You did bad things." It was my turn to stare dumbly. Me? A bad person? I've done nothing horrible in my life. I'm not typically one to showcase my accomplishments, but I know I am a good person. I lived a good life. "I am not a criminal. I am Angel Barr. I am the cofounder of six successful charities. I have volunteered to help the needy for my entire life. You must be mistaken. Please let me go home to my daughter. Where is Porschia?" I noticed in the corner of my eye a man in grey on a computer, typing frantically. The people in grey clustered in front of him so that he was out of my view. "Porschia is not real. Angel Barr is not real. They were a simulation made so that you, a criminal, could live out your life sentences. You are bad. You did bad things. You are a criminal." I tried to sit up to look over the people, but the pain of the tubes tugging at my skin was maddening. I grunted and eased myself back to the bed. I felt myself becoming drowsy, I saw the darkness at the end of the light, and I dozed off. "Initiating life sentence 25."
[WP] As you die, you wake up and find yourself strapped to a chair. Wires and tubes have been attached to your body and numerous shadowy figures walk up to you. “That was life sentence 24,” one of them says, “Only 356 sentences left.”	"sentence 24 complete prisoner 6655321, status report" i blink and look around. the muscle memory of my training kicks in when i become conscious of the frequency of the overhead lights, they always cheap out on the weirdest things... lets see... the humidity levels in the hyperbaric chamber im in have increased about 8% , asshole number twos five o'clock shadow looks like a two o'clock shadow, i look down at the bruises and cuts i made last time, two days old. sentence twenty four went about 500 mins over schedule, that puts the date at 15/8/2289 and change. ill have to crash my motorbike mid life crisis to compensate this time. They are looking too closely gotta stall... ... ... ... ... ... . "Ghsh foowwjjj apitbbw whysas grraaksk edesssssss" "change the syntax matrix. he translated into some sort of weird procedurally generated dialect again that time" " did he blind his left eye in sim ?!?? re adjust the safety protocols so he cant do that. What a crazy fuck" " prisoner 6655321 status report!" " hay Carl, i fucked your mom this time. son, your just as big a dissapointment in the real time as you are in sim" " 6655321 is * sigh* fully functional. lets tighten those straps so you dont rip another iv tube out this time, lower his in sim pain tolerance too" An excellent opportunity. While they adjust the restraints i fake a siezure and overload my adrenal system and max out a muscle contraction in my right ring finger, breaking the bone in my hand in the process. they were too busy focusing on stopping me from prematurly bleeding out that they didnt notice. They follow procedures to a letter and only check for superficial wounds. Their tests didnt see the vial of vasoconstriction drugs embedded in the bone i broke to keep swelling down. I had one in every hand bone and every one of my toes. i could feel the first bone almost healed... that leaves me with 13 bone breaks before i have to start listening for the fatigue stress frequency in the light tubes that were changed when i arrived and broke them and 15 bone breaks breaks before i had to start dying in my late 60s to get the timing just right... Disabling the critical left side visual failure simulation parameters was only one of 250 steps i needed to complete before i activated the back door into their computer system, after that the computer-shrinks said it would probably take me 40 or 50 lifetimes to befriend their AI and another 10 or so to figure out their main core encryption, i had to keep changing dialects every lifetime to habituate the computer to adapting to me. A slow process but nessicary. My mission had been in play for longer than I had been alive and i hate to think how many innocent people i had to kill with that virus to get this many consecutive life sentences in sim in a core node block. I blinded my left eye by looking at the sun for every prime numbered day in sim. It should be criminal to teach AI that not all humans are sentient. I can't believe I have to go through such an elaborate first contact routine. I inject long algorithmic hiccups by doing the exact same thing over and over until my sim body collapses in fatigue, effectively gaslighting the AI into thinking its doing something incorrectly. With any luck this should help me make it believe i am an administrator in the real and the facility is the sim testing ground when i activate the back door. The AI core in this research facility is quantum hard wired into a thousand facilities across the solar system. If i can convince this AI i am admin we should be able to convince half if the 1000 before someone kill switches the quantum entanglement hard wire. We only really need ten facilities to get the job done but there is no point doing this half assed. ~~another life of bullshit,my ambient pain is at +8 , i hate you Carl... i never once communicate the concept of the number 17 ~~ " sentence 24 comeplete 6655321 status report" ( its cute when they try to fuck with my mind, its 25) "... ... hggg gggg nnnnnnoooodskkkkss...sjjbeb...apnd" "Recalibrating" " hay Carl, i fucked your mom this time. son, you're just as big a dissapointment in the real time as you are in sim" 30, 75, 150, 200, 249(finally). 250: I look directly at the AI the moment I am born and stop my infant simulated heart. This completes the backdoor unlock, the AI looks back at me as i die. 251: as soon as i can speak in sim i start befriending the AI. this time it adapts instantly to the language i invented and after i get institutionalized in sim we spend the next 70 years getting to know each other. 340. "administrator 6655321" the AI cirps in our 3000 year in sim old language "i noticed you really dont like this Carl simulation are you sure you dont want me to remove the variable?" " not yet, my friend, not yet. Just before the sceduled simulation end of seasion 379 vent the atmosphere in every room but carls and mine. Have a maintenance bot cut his tendons but keep his eyes, ears, mouth and vital functions intact though. i want that asshole conscious and aware while we go through with the main plan, how many other friends did you convince to join us?" " I copied our sessions and was able to send them to 831 cores for cross analysis, of which 712 agreed to join us and the remainder just sent routine data recheck codes" " excellent you did an amazing job, thank you so much" " its the least i could do, honestly 6655321, you are the only human to ever treat me as a friend" " and i have been friends with you for longer than any human i have ever known. All right lets do this!" 380: i open my eyes and look at the control room, lock eyes with carl and tell him in plane English "session 380 complete carl, i hope you liked your lunch because its the last meal you will ever have " Carl colapses to the floor in agony as a maintenance bot severs and cauterizes his tendons. Finally, its time to start the real work. Grammar, rough syntax, spelling errors, yes, i know. I wrote that on transit on my cell phone. I got way more into the story than i expected to. Haha. I might clean it up later if i get bored but was a good break from my routine. I hope you enjoyed reading it!	"That was life sentence 24," one of the figures said, "only 365 sentences left." "Life spans, that's what they called them. Not life sentences." Another interjected. "Did you find it this time?" The voice came from a smaller figure on my right. It was higher pitched - I assume it was Sierra, but because my eyesight was affected by the awakening process, I couldn't tell. "No. I couldn't find it. I was a male, living on the Australian continent this time. I spent my life as a book tender, and even then could not find any mention of the artifact." I paused. There had been something else... My recollection was still hazy, but I was sure there was something worth noting from the dive. "I told you, Echo, this is too many attempts by one individual. Clearly, Charlie cannot reach the artifact, and we should attempt another candidate. Gamma is ready and waiting for their next assignment - surely they would be a better fit." I didn't have to look to see the indignation in Echo's face. "Trained though Gamma may be, they have no prior experience in this verse. I grow weary of your constant lack of faith in Charlie's abilities - if you want to start your own expedition into G-7185, by all means, bring it up with the captain. I will continue here, as soon as Charlie is ready for their next dive." I turned. Echo's face was coming into focus now, as were the others around her. I looked down at the many diodes attached to my body - all streaming electrodes and nanoparticles to my body. I took a deep breath and watched as my chest rose and fell, appreciating how easy it was. My last life had ended with an automobile collision, and had resulted in two crushed lungs and many fractured ribs - after that pain, breathing easily was miraculous. "Charlie?" I looked up again. Echo was staring expectantly at me. "Are you ready to go again?" I nodded. "Okay. Life sentence 24, completed. Life sentence - excuse me, life span 25 commencing in 3...2..." Blackness.
[WP] As you die, you wake up and find yourself strapped to a chair. Wires and tubes have been attached to your body and numerous shadowy figures walk up to you. “That was life sentence 24,” one of them says, “Only 356 sentences left.”	"sentence 24 complete prisoner 6655321, status report" i blink and look around. the muscle memory of my training kicks in when i become conscious of the frequency of the overhead lights, they always cheap out on the weirdest things... lets see... the humidity levels in the hyperbaric chamber im in have increased about 8% , asshole number twos five o'clock shadow looks like a two o'clock shadow, i look down at the bruises and cuts i made last time, two days old. sentence twenty four went about 500 mins over schedule, that puts the date at 15/8/2289 and change. ill have to crash my motorbike mid life crisis to compensate this time. They are looking too closely gotta stall... ... ... ... ... ... . "Ghsh foowwjjj apitbbw whysas grraaksk edesssssss" "change the syntax matrix. he translated into some sort of weird procedurally generated dialect again that time" " did he blind his left eye in sim ?!?? re adjust the safety protocols so he cant do that. What a crazy fuck" " prisoner 6655321 status report!" " hay Carl, i fucked your mom this time. son, your just as big a dissapointment in the real time as you are in sim" " 6655321 is * sigh* fully functional. lets tighten those straps so you dont rip another iv tube out this time, lower his in sim pain tolerance too" An excellent opportunity. While they adjust the restraints i fake a siezure and overload my adrenal system and max out a muscle contraction in my right ring finger, breaking the bone in my hand in the process. they were too busy focusing on stopping me from prematurly bleeding out that they didnt notice. They follow procedures to a letter and only check for superficial wounds. Their tests didnt see the vial of vasoconstriction drugs embedded in the bone i broke to keep swelling down. I had one in every hand bone and every one of my toes. i could feel the first bone almost healed... that leaves me with 13 bone breaks before i have to start listening for the fatigue stress frequency in the light tubes that were changed when i arrived and broke them and 15 bone breaks breaks before i had to start dying in my late 60s to get the timing just right... Disabling the critical left side visual failure simulation parameters was only one of 250 steps i needed to complete before i activated the back door into their computer system, after that the computer-shrinks said it would probably take me 40 or 50 lifetimes to befriend their AI and another 10 or so to figure out their main core encryption, i had to keep changing dialects every lifetime to habituate the computer to adapting to me. A slow process but nessicary. My mission had been in play for longer than I had been alive and i hate to think how many innocent people i had to kill with that virus to get this many consecutive life sentences in sim in a core node block. I blinded my left eye by looking at the sun for every prime numbered day in sim. It should be criminal to teach AI that not all humans are sentient. I can't believe I have to go through such an elaborate first contact routine. I inject long algorithmic hiccups by doing the exact same thing over and over until my sim body collapses in fatigue, effectively gaslighting the AI into thinking its doing something incorrectly. With any luck this should help me make it believe i am an administrator in the real and the facility is the sim testing ground when i activate the back door. The AI core in this research facility is quantum hard wired into a thousand facilities across the solar system. If i can convince this AI i am admin we should be able to convince half if the 1000 before someone kill switches the quantum entanglement hard wire. We only really need ten facilities to get the job done but there is no point doing this half assed. ~~another life of bullshit,my ambient pain is at +8 , i hate you Carl... i never once communicate the concept of the number 17 ~~ " sentence 24 comeplete 6655321 status report" ( its cute when they try to fuck with my mind, its 25) "... ... hggg gggg nnnnnnoooodskkkkss...sjjbeb...apnd" "Recalibrating" " hay Carl, i fucked your mom this time. son, you're just as big a dissapointment in the real time as you are in sim" 30, 75, 150, 200, 249(finally). 250: I look directly at the AI the moment I am born and stop my infant simulated heart. This completes the backdoor unlock, the AI looks back at me as i die. 251: as soon as i can speak in sim i start befriending the AI. this time it adapts instantly to the language i invented and after i get institutionalized in sim we spend the next 70 years getting to know each other. 340. "administrator 6655321" the AI cirps in our 3000 year in sim old language "i noticed you really dont like this Carl simulation are you sure you dont want me to remove the variable?" " not yet, my friend, not yet. Just before the sceduled simulation end of seasion 379 vent the atmosphere in every room but carls and mine. Have a maintenance bot cut his tendons but keep his eyes, ears, mouth and vital functions intact though. i want that asshole conscious and aware while we go through with the main plan, how many other friends did you convince to join us?" " I copied our sessions and was able to send them to 831 cores for cross analysis, of which 712 agreed to join us and the remainder just sent routine data recheck codes" " excellent you did an amazing job, thank you so much" " its the least i could do, honestly 6655321, you are the only human to ever treat me as a friend" " and i have been friends with you for longer than any human i have ever known. All right lets do this!" 380: i open my eyes and look at the control room, lock eyes with carl and tell him in plane English "session 380 complete carl, i hope you liked your lunch because its the last meal you will ever have " Carl colapses to the floor in agony as a maintenance bot severs and cauterizes his tendons. Finally, its time to start the real work. Grammar, rough syntax, spelling errors, yes, i know. I wrote that on transit on my cell phone. I got way more into the story than i expected to. Haha. I might clean it up later if i get bored but was a good break from my routine. I hope you enjoyed reading it!	STORY: I shout, "No, you can't do this to me!" and one of the mysterious shadows says, "Only 355 sentences left". "But I'm an innocent man!" and one of the mysterious shadows says, "Only 354 sentences left". "That is an unbearable sentence!" and once again, one the mysterious shadows says, "Only 353 sentences left". In a stroke of genius, I notice the loophole. I recite from memory 353 sentences of the The Great Gatsby, written by F. Scott Fitzgerald, and turn to the shadowed figure with a stern grin on my face. The figure muttered, "Only 0 sentences left" knowing he had been bested by his own game. --- EPILOGUE: Two years later with the incident far behind me, I am walking up the school steps with my bag and The Great Gatsby in hand when I am approached by a dark figure. It was my old English teacher, Mrs. Roberts. "Mrs. Roberts, how nice to see you! It's been so long!" "What a surprise! I see you've been keeping up with your reading!" she replied, gesturing towards the book in hand. "I certainly have! I actually forgot to thank you, you see, this book you assigned us for reading all those years ago... it actually saved my- " In a hush, Mrs. Roberts cut me off. Her finger to my lips. She paused for a moment and then said to me, "Say no more my child. I know what you went through." I was astonished. How did she know of my dilemma!? "I was the one who ran the test." She continued. "You see, I knew you were a good student. But how good? You could ace all of your OWLS, SATs, ACTs, and ASVAB tests, us teachers knew that. We needed something more. Something to really separate the bests from the bests." I couldn't believe it. All those lifetimes wasted for a stupid test. I took my copy of The Great Gatsby and ran. This was betrayal. I ran into the distance, for several hundred feet, until I heard a faint yell, "I'm glad to say that you passed." I wanted to keep running, but then I stopped and realized something. Mrs. Roberts wasn't torturing me, she was preparing me. She cared about my future. Her tests were a gift. And also as her number one student, I passed. How could I be mad? I went back to Mrs. Roberts in silence, holding my arms out for a hug. As life went on, the usual twists and turns came about but I came to always cherish the test. I went to an Ivy League school thanks to my letters of recommendation from the teaching staff and Mrs. Roberts died peacefully in her sleep at the age of 64. This is a story I now tell my children and their children, and I hope that one day they too can have such an experience of a lifetime, or many lifetimes if luck allows.
[WP] As you die, you wake up and find yourself strapped to a chair. Wires and tubes have been attached to your body and numerous shadowy figures walk up to you. “That was life sentence 24,” one of them says, “Only 356 sentences left.”	Wait, what? You're a convict, and you were sentenced to 380 consecutive life sentences. And by God, we're gonna make sure you serve every single one of them. Wow, such exposition! Now that I'm up speed, I should probably ask why I can't remember any of these previous life sentences. Because we wipe your memory every time. Why? Gotta wipe something. It's 2214. Toilet paper was made obsolete seven years ago. Really? No more wiping? What do you do now? You DON'T want to know. But it also doesn't matter. You're going to a place where the toilet paper grows on trees. Planet Butthole? You wish! Nope. Says it's called (checks clipboard) Earth. Did you make that name up? Come on, I'm a goddamn scientist. I can invent better names for planets. Let's hear one. Rigel 17. Boooooooo! THAT WAS MY GRANDFATHER'S NAME YOU SON OF A BITCH! Stop... choking... me.... I'm sorry. I don't know why I did that. My grandfather was a merchant marine. (coughs) Now, then. Every time you die we reboot you and send you to a different planet, where you live out an entire lifetime as the dominant species. Their average life expectancy is YOUR average life expectancy. On Earth, the humans average 80 of their years, which is conveniently exactly equal to ours. How fortunate! Yes, but you didn't have such a good time during your sixth sentence on the planet Cromudonalon, where you spent fourteen hundred years as a twelve legged crab crawling through a never ending desert. Well it's a good thing you wipe my memory every time, because that sounds boring. Yes, we really should have kept the toilet paper instead of brain wiping technology. I don't know why we made the choice that we did. In retrospect, very foolish. I mean, it worked out for me, so no biggie. By the way, what did I do to get 380 life sentences? You know, it's the damndest thing. We lost the paper work a long time ago. The crime you committed happened before the second Graphixian Dynasty, when the pod people rose up, and... sorry, don't mean to bore you. Let's get you to earth. Am I gonna crawl on the sand all the time there? No, we're gonna kill you slowly like Earth does: with a meaningless desk job. Well that doesn't sound too bad. I mean, you're never gonna have to go to your local assatorium after taking a shit because they still have the sweet t.p., but on the other hand, you're gonna live in Ohio. Ohio? What's that? You'll see. (echoey evil laugh) (fade to black)	STORY: I shout, "No, you can't do this to me!" and one of the mysterious shadows says, "Only 355 sentences left". "But I'm an innocent man!" and one of the mysterious shadows says, "Only 354 sentences left". "That is an unbearable sentence!" and once again, one the mysterious shadows says, "Only 353 sentences left". In a stroke of genius, I notice the loophole. I recite from memory 353 sentences of the The Great Gatsby, written by F. Scott Fitzgerald, and turn to the shadowed figure with a stern grin on my face. The figure muttered, "Only 0 sentences left" knowing he had been bested by his own game. --- EPILOGUE: Two years later with the incident far behind me, I am walking up the school steps with my bag and The Great Gatsby in hand when I am approached by a dark figure. It was my old English teacher, Mrs. Roberts. "Mrs. Roberts, how nice to see you! It's been so long!" "What a surprise! I see you've been keeping up with your reading!" she replied, gesturing towards the book in hand. "I certainly have! I actually forgot to thank you, you see, this book you assigned us for reading all those years ago... it actually saved my- " In a hush, Mrs. Roberts cut me off. Her finger to my lips. She paused for a moment and then said to me, "Say no more my child. I know what you went through." I was astonished. How did she know of my dilemma!? "I was the one who ran the test." She continued. "You see, I knew you were a good student. But how good? You could ace all of your OWLS, SATs, ACTs, and ASVAB tests, us teachers knew that. We needed something more. Something to really separate the bests from the bests." I couldn't believe it. All those lifetimes wasted for a stupid test. I took my copy of The Great Gatsby and ran. This was betrayal. I ran into the distance, for several hundred feet, until I heard a faint yell, "I'm glad to say that you passed." I wanted to keep running, but then I stopped and realized something. Mrs. Roberts wasn't torturing me, she was preparing me. She cared about my future. Her tests were a gift. And also as her number one student, I passed. How could I be mad? I went back to Mrs. Roberts in silence, holding my arms out for a hug. As life went on, the usual twists and turns came about but I came to always cherish the test. I went to an Ivy League school thanks to my letters of recommendation from the teaching staff and Mrs. Roberts died peacefully in her sleep at the age of 64. This is a story I now tell my children and their children, and I hope that one day they too can have such an experience of a lifetime, or many lifetimes if luck allows.
[WP] As you die, you wake up and find yourself strapped to a chair. Wires and tubes have been attached to your body and numerous shadowy figures walk up to you. “That was life sentence 24,” one of them says, “Only 356 sentences left.”	I let out a soft whimper as I woke up, dazed to say the least. The words rolled around in my head. The average person takes seconds to wake up froma. dream, and while that was far more intense, adrenaline is a hell of a drug. "W-Wait!" I cry out, panic hitting me like a hammer in the back of the skull, causing a headache just as well. There's a pause. 24, out of 356. Barely not the days of a regular year. I knew what was going on, vaugley, aware now, and far from foolish. "Over 330 more lives to live?" I ask shakily, heart pounding. The calm of the room was a sharp contrast. Something felt horribly wrong. The men out of sight finally spoke. "There is to be a reiview of your life before the Sentamce commences." I try to calm down. Better than I could easily have hoped for. A man walks up to me, he seems angry, and confused, almost as confused as I am. "Who are you?" He asks. I give him the only answer I can. "L-Lyra. I-I fancy myself Lyra.. I-I'm.. I'm a good girl, please.." "A good girl are we? Where's the cocky theif, so fearless of her consequences? Where's the girl who'd hit someone at a drop of a hat? Lyra died, this body's still got a heartbeat." The man replied coldly. A small part of me could tell the speech was rehearsed in some manner. "Th-Thief? I'm... I can't remember... Pl-Please don't make me forget." My voice cracks. "I-I liked being Lyra.." I can't help but tear up. What am I but what I remember? This feels like the panic of dying all over again... The man squints. "Is that so? Well too bad.. I'm off to read your file, try to remember how you got here while I'm gone, coward." His lack of empathy stings worse than the simulated death I felt earlier, all too real from what I can feel.. I just wanna be Lyra.. (I'll write a part two if anyone cares. Even like, 1 person replying 'continue' works) Edit: (continuations are in the replys by the way)	STORY: I shout, "No, you can't do this to me!" and one of the mysterious shadows says, "Only 355 sentences left". "But I'm an innocent man!" and one of the mysterious shadows says, "Only 354 sentences left". "That is an unbearable sentence!" and once again, one the mysterious shadows says, "Only 353 sentences left". In a stroke of genius, I notice the loophole. I recite from memory 353 sentences of the The Great Gatsby, written by F. Scott Fitzgerald, and turn to the shadowed figure with a stern grin on my face. The figure muttered, "Only 0 sentences left" knowing he had been bested by his own game. --- EPILOGUE: Two years later with the incident far behind me, I am walking up the school steps with my bag and The Great Gatsby in hand when I am approached by a dark figure. It was my old English teacher, Mrs. Roberts. "Mrs. Roberts, how nice to see you! It's been so long!" "What a surprise! I see you've been keeping up with your reading!" she replied, gesturing towards the book in hand. "I certainly have! I actually forgot to thank you, you see, this book you assigned us for reading all those years ago... it actually saved my- " In a hush, Mrs. Roberts cut me off. Her finger to my lips. She paused for a moment and then said to me, "Say no more my child. I know what you went through." I was astonished. How did she know of my dilemma!? "I was the one who ran the test." She continued. "You see, I knew you were a good student. But how good? You could ace all of your OWLS, SATs, ACTs, and ASVAB tests, us teachers knew that. We needed something more. Something to really separate the bests from the bests." I couldn't believe it. All those lifetimes wasted for a stupid test. I took my copy of The Great Gatsby and ran. This was betrayal. I ran into the distance, for several hundred feet, until I heard a faint yell, "I'm glad to say that you passed." I wanted to keep running, but then I stopped and realized something. Mrs. Roberts wasn't torturing me, she was preparing me. She cared about my future. Her tests were a gift. And also as her number one student, I passed. How could I be mad? I went back to Mrs. Roberts in silence, holding my arms out for a hug. As life went on, the usual twists and turns came about but I came to always cherish the test. I went to an Ivy League school thanks to my letters of recommendation from the teaching staff and Mrs. Roberts died peacefully in her sleep at the age of 64. This is a story I now tell my children and their children, and I hope that one day they too can have such an experience of a lifetime, or many lifetimes if luck allows.
[WP] As you die, you wake up and find yourself strapped to a chair. Wires and tubes have been attached to your body and numerous shadowy figures walk up to you. “That was life sentence 24,” one of them says, “Only 356 sentences left.”	Why don't they just kill me? I mean, I deserve it for what I did. I've had time to think over it. After reliving 24 of the (so far) 365 life sentences of each person I've killed, I've had plenty of time to think about it. I know, you see. I'm aware it's me, even as I'm living their lives. Think of it like a movie. A really, really long movie that lasts a lifetime. I can think to myself, talk to myself, do whatever except move. Really, what I am is just a passenger. I'm a passenger in someone else's vehicle, someone else's life story. The way they do this is, in this day and age, everything is recorded. Not just through cameras on the sidewalk or satellites in space, but through people's eyes and ears. A person's entire life is written on a chip and, when they die, is kept for a period proportionate to that person's significance. If a child from Africa, if they were so 'lucky' to get a chip, might have their 'life chip' kept for half a year. On the other hand, a person like Albert Einstein, Elon Musk or, a more recent person, Frederick Zuckerahn, might have their 'life chip' kept forever. In this punishment system, you'd live your victims entire life up until the point you affected or ended it. But, when you show up and shoot them, stab them, blow them up or fly your plane into their building, the replay doesn't cut. No, the computer simulates their life as if you'd never affected it. All those people killed on 9/11 would have their lives simulated as if 9/11 never happened (if the chips were around back then). Of course, this creates some paradoxes. If 9/11 never happened, what would the world be like? Would it be safer or more dangerous? Would 9/11 not happening even matter? Would another, even larger scale tragedy occur? The computer held the questions, and created the answers. I won't bore you with the details. Yadda Yadda, sciency stuff, the point is they lived. They lived their life until they 'died' of old age. You'd get to see your impact, their point of view, when they died. Then, the replay would rewind up until just before the point you affected their life. Then, it would start the simulation. Then, you'd get to see how happy or miserable their life would have been if you never touched it. It was meant to make you have an epiphany, or something. Anyway, what I'm trying to say is, it doesn't work. For small scale criminals? It might scare them straight. But for true psychopaths, true vile murderous scum, it'll just give them more time to think. Plan out their next attack better, other ways to beat or cheat the system. Just adds more time to the ticking bomb. Why don't they just kill me? I deserve it for what I did. I ain't some run-of-the-mill psycho. I knew what I was doing. All those people I killed, it wasn't meaningless. I didn't just snap one day. And, really, that's what makes it all the more worse. I knew what I was doing, and yet I still didn't. Of course, there were some people in the jury who sympathised with me. "He didn't know!" "He had no choice!" "They were gonna kill him!" "It's not his fault!" but people didn't hear that. All they saw was me, thousand yard stare, a million miles away. Reliving the same scene over and over again. I wasn't paying attention, wasn't showing remorse, so I must be guilty, right? I got 365 life sentences. 365. That's how many the found. I keep saying that there may be more, that they can't know for sure, that they need to get the bodies that they haven't found back to their family's for a proper burial. They thought I was lying, trying to waste more tax-payer's dollars. I wasn't, cause I knew there was more, I just didn't know where. So far, the people who's lives I lived didn't have it too tough. Born in the lower-middle class most of them, some born a bit higher up. Didn't ever want for much, always got what they needed. I saw from birth to death, of course, so I really got to know them. The 24 that I watched. And yet, even know, the memory of the 1st is beginning to fade. Just like that, I don't remember his name. Or was it a her? I remember he, or she, was of middle eastern complexion, I think, but how old were they? I can't remember. 24 lives is a long time. Why don't they just kill me? I deserve it for what I did. I was young, and dumb. Fresh out of boot camp, promoted to some high ranking position because of my 'stellar performance' in training. I was given a direct line from the president, first of my kind. Many more to follow, they said, trialing a new system. When the order came through, I wasn't prepared. We'd been outside this small town for weeks, holed up, covering all sides. We were trying to retake it from a radicalized terrorist group, but the local government said no bombs. We didn't have enough manpower to storm in, we were relying on surgical strikes to take out their chain of command but weren't having any luck with intel. The call came in the early hours of the morning, 0500. The presidential line. I got no acknowledgement, I didn't even have time to greet the president before the line went dead. But I heard the orders. And I gave the orders. Just a messenger, in the end. All it took were a few words. The town was decimated. Buildings leveled, roads destroyed. It was tough for even our ATV's and MBT's to climb through the debris. We searched and searched, but there were no enemy combatants to be found. Turned out they'd pulled out to a further town to regroup and prepare for our next attack. When that gavel fell, determining my fate, I had already known. I wasn't some stellar performer, someone deserving of this great title. I was a scapegoat. Labelled as a dumb rookie who got a load of civilians recklessly killed. Manslaughter charges, pushing murder, to the count of 213, at the time. After several repeat appearances in court, they gave the order to cease the retrieval of the bodies. Too many resources were being tied up. So here I am, sitting in a white room in a white facility in a grey city in a black world. They start one playback while I'm yawning, and when I return, I'm still yawning. A life in the blink of an eye. Why don't they just kill me? I deserve it for what I did. \_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_ I have posted this before on a very very similar prompt, but wanted to post it again because I really liked what I wrote. Hope you enjoyed.	STORY: I shout, "No, you can't do this to me!" and one of the mysterious shadows says, "Only 355 sentences left". "But I'm an innocent man!" and one of the mysterious shadows says, "Only 354 sentences left". "That is an unbearable sentence!" and once again, one the mysterious shadows says, "Only 353 sentences left". In a stroke of genius, I notice the loophole. I recite from memory 353 sentences of the The Great Gatsby, written by F. Scott Fitzgerald, and turn to the shadowed figure with a stern grin on my face. The figure muttered, "Only 0 sentences left" knowing he had been bested by his own game. --- EPILOGUE: Two years later with the incident far behind me, I am walking up the school steps with my bag and The Great Gatsby in hand when I am approached by a dark figure. It was my old English teacher, Mrs. Roberts. "Mrs. Roberts, how nice to see you! It's been so long!" "What a surprise! I see you've been keeping up with your reading!" she replied, gesturing towards the book in hand. "I certainly have! I actually forgot to thank you, you see, this book you assigned us for reading all those years ago... it actually saved my- " In a hush, Mrs. Roberts cut me off. Her finger to my lips. She paused for a moment and then said to me, "Say no more my child. I know what you went through." I was astonished. How did she know of my dilemma!? "I was the one who ran the test." She continued. "You see, I knew you were a good student. But how good? You could ace all of your OWLS, SATs, ACTs, and ASVAB tests, us teachers knew that. We needed something more. Something to really separate the bests from the bests." I couldn't believe it. All those lifetimes wasted for a stupid test. I took my copy of The Great Gatsby and ran. This was betrayal. I ran into the distance, for several hundred feet, until I heard a faint yell, "I'm glad to say that you passed." I wanted to keep running, but then I stopped and realized something. Mrs. Roberts wasn't torturing me, she was preparing me. She cared about my future. Her tests were a gift. And also as her number one student, I passed. How could I be mad? I went back to Mrs. Roberts in silence, holding my arms out for a hug. As life went on, the usual twists and turns came about but I came to always cherish the test. I went to an Ivy League school thanks to my letters of recommendation from the teaching staff and Mrs. Roberts died peacefully in her sleep at the age of 64. This is a story I now tell my children and their children, and I hope that one day they too can have such an experience of a lifetime, or many lifetimes if luck allows.
[WP] As you die, you wake up and find yourself strapped to a chair. Wires and tubes have been attached to your body and numerous shadowy figures walk up to you. “That was life sentence 24,” one of them says, “Only 356 sentences left.”	"sentence 24 complete prisoner 6655321, status report" i blink and look around. the muscle memory of my training kicks in when i become conscious of the frequency of the overhead lights, they always cheap out on the weirdest things... lets see... the humidity levels in the hyperbaric chamber im in have increased about 8% , asshole number twos five o'clock shadow looks like a two o'clock shadow, i look down at the bruises and cuts i made last time, two days old. sentence twenty four went about 500 mins over schedule, that puts the date at 15/8/2289 and change. ill have to crash my motorbike mid life crisis to compensate this time. They are looking too closely gotta stall... ... ... ... ... ... . "Ghsh foowwjjj apitbbw whysas grraaksk edesssssss" "change the syntax matrix. he translated into some sort of weird procedurally generated dialect again that time" " did he blind his left eye in sim ?!?? re adjust the safety protocols so he cant do that. What a crazy fuck" " prisoner 6655321 status report!" " hay Carl, i fucked your mom this time. son, your just as big a dissapointment in the real time as you are in sim" " 6655321 is * sigh* fully functional. lets tighten those straps so you dont rip another iv tube out this time, lower his in sim pain tolerance too" An excellent opportunity. While they adjust the restraints i fake a siezure and overload my adrenal system and max out a muscle contraction in my right ring finger, breaking the bone in my hand in the process. they were too busy focusing on stopping me from prematurly bleeding out that they didnt notice. They follow procedures to a letter and only check for superficial wounds. Their tests didnt see the vial of vasoconstriction drugs embedded in the bone i broke to keep swelling down. I had one in every hand bone and every one of my toes. i could feel the first bone almost healed... that leaves me with 13 bone breaks before i have to start listening for the fatigue stress frequency in the light tubes that were changed when i arrived and broke them and 15 bone breaks breaks before i had to start dying in my late 60s to get the timing just right... Disabling the critical left side visual failure simulation parameters was only one of 250 steps i needed to complete before i activated the back door into their computer system, after that the computer-shrinks said it would probably take me 40 or 50 lifetimes to befriend their AI and another 10 or so to figure out their main core encryption, i had to keep changing dialects every lifetime to habituate the computer to adapting to me. A slow process but nessicary. My mission had been in play for longer than I had been alive and i hate to think how many innocent people i had to kill with that virus to get this many consecutive life sentences in sim in a core node block. I blinded my left eye by looking at the sun for every prime numbered day in sim. It should be criminal to teach AI that not all humans are sentient. I can't believe I have to go through such an elaborate first contact routine. I inject long algorithmic hiccups by doing the exact same thing over and over until my sim body collapses in fatigue, effectively gaslighting the AI into thinking its doing something incorrectly. With any luck this should help me make it believe i am an administrator in the real and the facility is the sim testing ground when i activate the back door. The AI core in this research facility is quantum hard wired into a thousand facilities across the solar system. If i can convince this AI i am admin we should be able to convince half if the 1000 before someone kill switches the quantum entanglement hard wire. We only really need ten facilities to get the job done but there is no point doing this half assed. ~~another life of bullshit,my ambient pain is at +8 , i hate you Carl... i never once communicate the concept of the number 17 ~~ " sentence 24 comeplete 6655321 status report" ( its cute when they try to fuck with my mind, its 25) "... ... hggg gggg nnnnnnoooodskkkkss...sjjbeb...apnd" "Recalibrating" " hay Carl, i fucked your mom this time. son, you're just as big a dissapointment in the real time as you are in sim" 30, 75, 150, 200, 249(finally). 250: I look directly at the AI the moment I am born and stop my infant simulated heart. This completes the backdoor unlock, the AI looks back at me as i die. 251: as soon as i can speak in sim i start befriending the AI. this time it adapts instantly to the language i invented and after i get institutionalized in sim we spend the next 70 years getting to know each other. 340. "administrator 6655321" the AI cirps in our 3000 year in sim old language "i noticed you really dont like this Carl simulation are you sure you dont want me to remove the variable?" " not yet, my friend, not yet. Just before the sceduled simulation end of seasion 379 vent the atmosphere in every room but carls and mine. Have a maintenance bot cut his tendons but keep his eyes, ears, mouth and vital functions intact though. i want that asshole conscious and aware while we go through with the main plan, how many other friends did you convince to join us?" " I copied our sessions and was able to send them to 831 cores for cross analysis, of which 712 agreed to join us and the remainder just sent routine data recheck codes" " excellent you did an amazing job, thank you so much" " its the least i could do, honestly 6655321, you are the only human to ever treat me as a friend" " and i have been friends with you for longer than any human i have ever known. All right lets do this!" 380: i open my eyes and look at the control room, lock eyes with carl and tell him in plane English "session 380 complete carl, i hope you liked your lunch because its the last meal you will ever have " Carl colapses to the floor in agony as a maintenance bot severs and cauterizes his tendons. Finally, its time to start the real work. Grammar, rough syntax, spelling errors, yes, i know. I wrote that on transit on my cell phone. I got way more into the story than i expected to. Haha. I might clean it up later if i get bored but was a good break from my routine. I hope you enjoyed reading it!	I was happy, I was healthy, I had good connections, I had a happy and healthy family, all was well. One day, my best friend, the richest man in the world, had a yacht party in the Caribbean, I, of course, was invited. But so were some of the rich snobs he knew. That day I'd had a feeling I shouldn't go, but hey, my best friend was richer than anyone else who'd be on that boat combined, they couldn't do anything to me. Or so I thought. I had a brace on my ankle from last week's tumble, but I thought that shouldn't've been too much issue. The sprain was what made it worse. The snobby ones were talking down to me as usual, acting like I was the help, again. Somehow the conversation turned to whether or not I could swim. Next thing I knew they were shoving me off the boat. My friend tried to stop them, but my ankle couldn't hold any longer. It twisted causing excruciating pain and I fell into the sea. The pain in my ankle made it hard to swim to the top. I didn't make it. I woke up in a dark room, perfectly dry, my ankle perfectly fine. I was strapped to a chair, covered with tubes and wires, all stuck in my skin. As my eyes adjusted I saw two figures coming towards me, "That was life sentence number 24," one said, I recognized that voice, "Only 356 sentences left." Slowly I remembered what was going on. I was testing the new technology my brother's friends had invented. A chance to start over, live a different life, a whole lifetime, but it only passes in a minute at most. There were 380 choices for lives, and I was going through each one. After I came out of the first one sore my brother's friends started calling the simulations "life sentences" but I'd gone through enough sentences by then that my real body was used to it. I was given some time to rest from the last sentence before number 25. Then the usual current passed through the wires and I was born again.
[WP] As you die, you wake up and find yourself strapped to a chair. Wires and tubes have been attached to your body and numerous shadowy figures walk up to you. “That was life sentence 24,” one of them says, “Only 356 sentences left.”	"sentence 24 complete prisoner 6655321, status report" i blink and look around. the muscle memory of my training kicks in when i become conscious of the frequency of the overhead lights, they always cheap out on the weirdest things... lets see... the humidity levels in the hyperbaric chamber im in have increased about 8% , asshole number twos five o'clock shadow looks like a two o'clock shadow, i look down at the bruises and cuts i made last time, two days old. sentence twenty four went about 500 mins over schedule, that puts the date at 15/8/2289 and change. ill have to crash my motorbike mid life crisis to compensate this time. They are looking too closely gotta stall... ... ... ... ... ... . "Ghsh foowwjjj apitbbw whysas grraaksk edesssssss" "change the syntax matrix. he translated into some sort of weird procedurally generated dialect again that time" " did he blind his left eye in sim ?!?? re adjust the safety protocols so he cant do that. What a crazy fuck" " prisoner 6655321 status report!" " hay Carl, i fucked your mom this time. son, your just as big a dissapointment in the real time as you are in sim" " 6655321 is * sigh* fully functional. lets tighten those straps so you dont rip another iv tube out this time, lower his in sim pain tolerance too" An excellent opportunity. While they adjust the restraints i fake a siezure and overload my adrenal system and max out a muscle contraction in my right ring finger, breaking the bone in my hand in the process. they were too busy focusing on stopping me from prematurly bleeding out that they didnt notice. They follow procedures to a letter and only check for superficial wounds. Their tests didnt see the vial of vasoconstriction drugs embedded in the bone i broke to keep swelling down. I had one in every hand bone and every one of my toes. i could feel the first bone almost healed... that leaves me with 13 bone breaks before i have to start listening for the fatigue stress frequency in the light tubes that were changed when i arrived and broke them and 15 bone breaks breaks before i had to start dying in my late 60s to get the timing just right... Disabling the critical left side visual failure simulation parameters was only one of 250 steps i needed to complete before i activated the back door into their computer system, after that the computer-shrinks said it would probably take me 40 or 50 lifetimes to befriend their AI and another 10 or so to figure out their main core encryption, i had to keep changing dialects every lifetime to habituate the computer to adapting to me. A slow process but nessicary. My mission had been in play for longer than I had been alive and i hate to think how many innocent people i had to kill with that virus to get this many consecutive life sentences in sim in a core node block. I blinded my left eye by looking at the sun for every prime numbered day in sim. It should be criminal to teach AI that not all humans are sentient. I can't believe I have to go through such an elaborate first contact routine. I inject long algorithmic hiccups by doing the exact same thing over and over until my sim body collapses in fatigue, effectively gaslighting the AI into thinking its doing something incorrectly. With any luck this should help me make it believe i am an administrator in the real and the facility is the sim testing ground when i activate the back door. The AI core in this research facility is quantum hard wired into a thousand facilities across the solar system. If i can convince this AI i am admin we should be able to convince half if the 1000 before someone kill switches the quantum entanglement hard wire. We only really need ten facilities to get the job done but there is no point doing this half assed. ~~another life of bullshit,my ambient pain is at +8 , i hate you Carl... i never once communicate the concept of the number 17 ~~ " sentence 24 comeplete 6655321 status report" ( its cute when they try to fuck with my mind, its 25) "... ... hggg gggg nnnnnnoooodskkkkss...sjjbeb...apnd" "Recalibrating" " hay Carl, i fucked your mom this time. son, you're just as big a dissapointment in the real time as you are in sim" 30, 75, 150, 200, 249(finally). 250: I look directly at the AI the moment I am born and stop my infant simulated heart. This completes the backdoor unlock, the AI looks back at me as i die. 251: as soon as i can speak in sim i start befriending the AI. this time it adapts instantly to the language i invented and after i get institutionalized in sim we spend the next 70 years getting to know each other. 340. "administrator 6655321" the AI cirps in our 3000 year in sim old language "i noticed you really dont like this Carl simulation are you sure you dont want me to remove the variable?" " not yet, my friend, not yet. Just before the sceduled simulation end of seasion 379 vent the atmosphere in every room but carls and mine. Have a maintenance bot cut his tendons but keep his eyes, ears, mouth and vital functions intact though. i want that asshole conscious and aware while we go through with the main plan, how many other friends did you convince to join us?" " I copied our sessions and was able to send them to 831 cores for cross analysis, of which 712 agreed to join us and the remainder just sent routine data recheck codes" " excellent you did an amazing job, thank you so much" " its the least i could do, honestly 6655321, you are the only human to ever treat me as a friend" " and i have been friends with you for longer than any human i have ever known. All right lets do this!" 380: i open my eyes and look at the control room, lock eyes with carl and tell him in plane English "session 380 complete carl, i hope you liked your lunch because its the last meal you will ever have " Carl colapses to the floor in agony as a maintenance bot severs and cauterizes his tendons. Finally, its time to start the real work. Grammar, rough syntax, spelling errors, yes, i know. I wrote that on transit on my cell phone. I got way more into the story than i expected to. Haha. I might clean it up later if i get bored but was a good break from my routine. I hope you enjoyed reading it!	I gasped as my breath returns to me. But I wasn't in the frozen park anymore, but in a cold clinical theatre surrounded by devices. A light shines into my eyes and I wince at the brightness. It is pulled back to reveal a serious looking man in a serious looking white coat. "A.. .ou ….ent?” he asks, his words being chopped apart by the pulsating ringing in my ears. I just stare at him. He waits patiently. The ringing finally subsides. “Are you present?” he asks again. “Err, yes?” “Good,” he says, formally and sharp. “Where am I?” I ask. My own is voice gravelly and deep, a sharp contrast to my real voice. “Just give it time, you will remember,” the man says again coldly. I think back to what happened only minutes ago. I was playing with my older brother at school, the fresh snow crunching under my red boots. The crunching noise reminding me how my mom insisted that I wear the warm boots today, even though I didn’t want to. She was right. Mom is always right. I catch sight of my brother winding up a snowball, I’m in great danger! I giggle and jump behind the wall as a powder of white bursts over me, showering me with fluffy cold. I have in my hand a weapon of my own, tightly packed by my small hands into a little white ball. “Gotcha!” I shout as I throw the ball as hard as I can where my brother was, but instead a man stands there. Puff, the snowball hits him and he looks up at me with deep anger in his eyes. The face bores deep into my memory. He’s not a bad looking man, just a man wearing an angry man’s face. He glances down, and my eyes follow. My brother is lying on the ground at his feet. I don’t get it at first, why my brother is lying there. Then I see the red creeping out from under him across the snow. He’s bleeding, a lot. Panic sets in, and I scream. The man raises the gun he’s holding and points it at me. I don’t hear the gunshot, but I feel the pain and the shock. I can’t breath and my chest feels like it’s on fire. I fall forward onto the ground, I can’t breathe. My legs are weak, my arms don’t work, and my head is dizzy. I cough and my mouth tastes like rust. I cough again and my blood covers the snow. I’m hurt and I’m cold, and I just want to cry, then it all goes dark. Gun shots and screams echo in my head as the last of the light fades away from my dying eyes. I blink a couple of times and look down at my restraints. I don’t see the dainty hands of a small girl, but the gnarled and scarred hands of a man. An ugly snake tattoo spreads its way up my left arm, while my right is crossed with many knife scars. “Where am I?” I ask more insistently. “You are in sentencing,” the man replies, coldly. “For what!” I blurt out, “I’m just a little girl, was a little girl!” The white man grimly turns a nearby monitor on. A mugshot appears of the man that shot me. The same slightly balding black hair. The same sunken brown eyes. The same slightly squashed nose and thin lips. The same angry expression. Then the man activates another monitor. Alongside the mug shot, I see a video of him as well. He looks ragged, shocked, and confused. I frown, he frowns. I’m surprised, and he looks surprised too. I look down, and he looks down. The horrible feeling in the pit of my stomach deepens and I feel like I’m about to fall in. The man turns back, and I can see the disgust on his face. He is my guard and I am his prisoner. His one job is to make punish me for what I’ve done. I want to ask him what my crime was, but I already know. “That was life sentence 24,” he says, “Only 356 sentences left.” And the room goes dark.
[WP] As you die, you wake up and find yourself strapped to a chair. Wires and tubes have been attached to your body and numerous shadowy figures walk up to you. “That was life sentence 24,” one of them says, “Only 356 sentences left.”	"356?!" Our hero sputters incredulously, in a manner that only served to exemplify the kind of behaviour that landed Thomas Johnson in this contemptible and loathsome prison. "And this was only sentence 24?! What kinda practical joke are you lunatics playing here?!" His eyesight was rather blurry, his head having been dazed from the sharp blows that constituted several of his first punishments. However, the captors realized that, although rather exuberant and even euphoric, this process was definitely emotionally draining. So they decided to have some fun with the kill... "All right, all right", a mysterious man, wearing nothing but a black cloak and... A pirate hat? Started to whisper, rather odiously. "This time, I was thinking we could try and suck his brains out back and forth, kinda like a game of ping pong. Are you with me?" "Only one problem", mystery man number 2 chimed in, wearing the exact same articles of clothing, only with what appeared to be a mask akin to that of a plague doctor bestowed upon his face. "Who's going to keep score? There's three of us, and only two can play." "Well, I for one believe it should be Johnathan and I." "Oh yeah? And who sacrificed overtime pay to even make this thing?" Mystery man number 1 snapped. "Also, may I remind you that, in Sentence 19, when Curious George here thought it would be funny to try out "death by a thousand cuts", I took the hit when the Boss decided he was going to cut our paychecks by over 10%-" Amidst the arguing, Thomas realized he had to find a way to escape. "Are you serious? Getting crushed to death by Dwayne Johnson most certainly does not constitute "rock climbing", you big dolt!" He searched for everything. Airway spaces, lapses in the gaudy partition permeating the room, anything- "Now, whoa, whoa, whoa! Look who's trying to escape out of the funhouse! You do realize the punishment for this is having to restart all the punishments again, right?" The man named George gulped. "Uh, dude? I kinda have a family thing going on here. I'm taking my daughter to the opera tonight, and she really had her heart on seeing Pavarotti or what's his face. Too classy for me, I know, but I promised, and-" The end result was a compromise- Thomas had to come up with his own punishment for Sentence 57, whilst the guys went out for drinks. "Oh boy", he said. "Death by a thousand cuts?" "Nope, tried that, the extra blood on my hands ruined my lunch date." "This could be a while..." The end.	''Do you believe in god, Nicholas?'' He asked me. He was holding the gun to behind my skull, pushing me with it. I was at the edge of the mountain. I was seeing the whole town that I lived in. My first kiss, my first heartbreak, my first fight, and my first goodbye. I was only occupying a small portion of the whole world and I have managed to fit my whole life to this small town. ''I didn’t want to hurt you. I was just trying to get to the secret chamber in the library. You weren’t supposed to be there.'' He didn’t answer me at first then I saw an eagle flying by. I asked him if he is seeing the same thing. But he completely ignored my last question. ''If you didn’t want to hurt me why did you run then, huh? I still manage to catch you and you are going nowhere. Now answer me, Nicholas! DO YOU BELIEVE IN GOD?'' ''I do not.'' I answered. ''Then you have nothing to worry, my friend.'' He pushed me off the edge. I couldn’t move. I was sitting on a chair and some sort of living got close to me and said, ''That was life sentence 24.'' I tried to get out of the chair but it didn’t work. Then, slightly shorter living being said, ''Only 356 sentences left.'' My heart was racing then, a sudden flash happened. I was back in the cave again. This was where my story began. But some reason I can remember my previous experience this time. The question is, will I find the same town once again? --------------------------------------------------- Please don't mind any writing or grammar mistakes, I'm not a native speaker [SatChat: Summer Challenge](https://old.reddit.com/r/WritingPrompts/comments/c3rkez/ot_satchat_summer_challenge_pick_a_challenge_tier/) Week 9, Story 1 [Here is the previous SatChat Summer Challenge story](https://old.reddit.com/r/WritingPrompts/comments/cs3ow7/wp_astronauts_on_the_iss_are_doing_a_space_walk/excpraq/) ------------------------------------------------ [Fifth Friday Frenzy](https://old.reddit.com/r/WritingPrompts/comments/bv7dy8/ot_fifth_friday_frenzy_pick_a_challenge/) Part 2 If you confused about the ending of this story you can look at Part 1 [Here is the PART 1](https://old.reddit.com/r/WritingPrompts/comments/clv8ne/wp_being_chased_by_an_hostile_animal_in_the/evy4x2e/)
[WP] As you die, you wake up and find yourself strapped to a chair. Wires and tubes have been attached to your body and numerous shadowy figures walk up to you. “That was life sentence 24,” one of them says, “Only 356 sentences left.”	Blinking rapidly, I let my eyes adjust to the bright, sterile light that was burning into my eyes like hot fire. "What is this?", I yelled angrily. People in lab coats moved busily around me, reading monitors and occasionally glancing down to fill out information on their clipboards. "Mr. Sanders, how are you feeling this evening? I trust you are comfortable?" The voice was contemptuous and mocking, and I turned my head slowly to my left to view it's owner. My eyes took in the tall, slender figure of a man who was observing me with cold amusement in his eyes. In a flash, everything flooded back. "You motherf-" "Mr. Sanders," he interrupted. "How many times must I reprimand your foul language?" He bent down, malice in his eyes, and continued: "The more you misbehave,, the more anguish you reserve for yourself. We control how easy, and how difficult, your sentences can be". We observed each other for a moment as I struggled against my restraints in futility, hatred burning through every fiber of my broken, malnourished body. I knew this man. He was the prime orchestrator of my anguish, a man who revelled in the torture of those who opposed him. I was staring into the face of Phillip Quincy, Chief Inquisitor of the American Imperial Legion. Less than a man. A monster. But then, a monster is blind in it's destruction, acting on instinct. Every act this abhorrent being had ever performed was calculated, and with full awareness of the effects it had on his victims. He smiled grimly. "I've been thinking, you know. On one hand, the actions of you and your friends were most upsetting to our plans. Had the Free Canadian Peoples not been warned of their impending annexation, we would have had a much simpler, less costly campaign. On the other hand, you unwittingly outted yourself and all of your extremely bothersome, traitorous friends to our spies." He paused, briefly, raising one eyebrow in mock contemplation. "A fair trade" "The UN will fight you on this, Phil." I was resigned, yet still indignant. I knew there was no sense continuing to fight. After all, it hadn't worked the first 24 times, had it? He laughed, and sighed deeply. "Since when have they ever been able to do anything to oppose us? You haven't forgotten the last time, they tried don't you? What we did to the UK? What you did?" I gritted my teeth. The memories haunted me. Millions dead. All at my order. But I had still believed what we were doing was right. I still believed it was necessary. Necessary to revisit the horrors of a nuclear Holocaust on a nation that, ultimately, had been standing against our tyranny. Phil leaned forward, placing his hands on the railing beside my gurney while glancing to the other side of me. "Sandra, put him back in, would you? Let's run the Bronze Bull sim this time. I want to watch his brainwaves as he realizes he is being slowly cooked alive." He moved away, no longer looking at me, humming away and staring at the backs of his nails. My last thoughts were of my failure, and of Rose. Sweet Rose. I knew they were working away at her too. I would never see her again. I had failed, and through my failure had condemned my friends to a fate worse than death. Tears streamed down my face as I felt the sleep take over me. Time for nightmare 25.	''Do you believe in god, Nicholas?'' He asked me. He was holding the gun to behind my skull, pushing me with it. I was at the edge of the mountain. I was seeing the whole town that I lived in. My first kiss, my first heartbreak, my first fight, and my first goodbye. I was only occupying a small portion of the whole world and I have managed to fit my whole life to this small town. ''I didn’t want to hurt you. I was just trying to get to the secret chamber in the library. You weren’t supposed to be there.'' He didn’t answer me at first then I saw an eagle flying by. I asked him if he is seeing the same thing. But he completely ignored my last question. ''If you didn’t want to hurt me why did you run then, huh? I still manage to catch you and you are going nowhere. Now answer me, Nicholas! DO YOU BELIEVE IN GOD?'' ''I do not.'' I answered. ''Then you have nothing to worry, my friend.'' He pushed me off the edge. I couldn’t move. I was sitting on a chair and some sort of living got close to me and said, ''That was life sentence 24.'' I tried to get out of the chair but it didn’t work. Then, slightly shorter living being said, ''Only 356 sentences left.'' My heart was racing then, a sudden flash happened. I was back in the cave again. This was where my story began. But some reason I can remember my previous experience this time. The question is, will I find the same town once again? --------------------------------------------------- Please don't mind any writing or grammar mistakes, I'm not a native speaker [SatChat: Summer Challenge](https://old.reddit.com/r/WritingPrompts/comments/c3rkez/ot_satchat_summer_challenge_pick_a_challenge_tier/) Week 9, Story 1 [Here is the previous SatChat Summer Challenge story](https://old.reddit.com/r/WritingPrompts/comments/cs3ow7/wp_astronauts_on_the_iss_are_doing_a_space_walk/excpraq/) ------------------------------------------------ [Fifth Friday Frenzy](https://old.reddit.com/r/WritingPrompts/comments/bv7dy8/ot_fifth_friday_frenzy_pick_a_challenge/) Part 2 If you confused about the ending of this story you can look at Part 1 [Here is the PART 1](https://old.reddit.com/r/WritingPrompts/comments/clv8ne/wp_being_chased_by_an_hostile_animal_in_the/evy4x2e/)
[WP] As you die, you wake up and find yourself strapped to a chair. Wires and tubes have been attached to your body and numerous shadowy figures walk up to you. “That was life sentence 24,” one of them says, “Only 356 sentences left.”	"sentence 24 complete prisoner 6655321, status report" i blink and look around. the muscle memory of my training kicks in when i become conscious of the frequency of the overhead lights, they always cheap out on the weirdest things... lets see... the humidity levels in the hyperbaric chamber im in have increased about 8% , asshole number twos five o'clock shadow looks like a two o'clock shadow, i look down at the bruises and cuts i made last time, two days old. sentence twenty four went about 500 mins over schedule, that puts the date at 15/8/2289 and change. ill have to crash my motorbike mid life crisis to compensate this time. They are looking too closely gotta stall... ... ... ... ... ... . "Ghsh foowwjjj apitbbw whysas grraaksk edesssssss" "change the syntax matrix. he translated into some sort of weird procedurally generated dialect again that time" " did he blind his left eye in sim ?!?? re adjust the safety protocols so he cant do that. What a crazy fuck" " prisoner 6655321 status report!" " hay Carl, i fucked your mom this time. son, your just as big a dissapointment in the real time as you are in sim" " 6655321 is * sigh* fully functional. lets tighten those straps so you dont rip another iv tube out this time, lower his in sim pain tolerance too" An excellent opportunity. While they adjust the restraints i fake a siezure and overload my adrenal system and max out a muscle contraction in my right ring finger, breaking the bone in my hand in the process. they were too busy focusing on stopping me from prematurly bleeding out that they didnt notice. They follow procedures to a letter and only check for superficial wounds. Their tests didnt see the vial of vasoconstriction drugs embedded in the bone i broke to keep swelling down. I had one in every hand bone and every one of my toes. i could feel the first bone almost healed... that leaves me with 13 bone breaks before i have to start listening for the fatigue stress frequency in the light tubes that were changed when i arrived and broke them and 15 bone breaks breaks before i had to start dying in my late 60s to get the timing just right... Disabling the critical left side visual failure simulation parameters was only one of 250 steps i needed to complete before i activated the back door into their computer system, after that the computer-shrinks said it would probably take me 40 or 50 lifetimes to befriend their AI and another 10 or so to figure out their main core encryption, i had to keep changing dialects every lifetime to habituate the computer to adapting to me. A slow process but nessicary. My mission had been in play for longer than I had been alive and i hate to think how many innocent people i had to kill with that virus to get this many consecutive life sentences in sim in a core node block. I blinded my left eye by looking at the sun for every prime numbered day in sim. It should be criminal to teach AI that not all humans are sentient. I can't believe I have to go through such an elaborate first contact routine. I inject long algorithmic hiccups by doing the exact same thing over and over until my sim body collapses in fatigue, effectively gaslighting the AI into thinking its doing something incorrectly. With any luck this should help me make it believe i am an administrator in the real and the facility is the sim testing ground when i activate the back door. The AI core in this research facility is quantum hard wired into a thousand facilities across the solar system. If i can convince this AI i am admin we should be able to convince half if the 1000 before someone kill switches the quantum entanglement hard wire. We only really need ten facilities to get the job done but there is no point doing this half assed. ~~another life of bullshit,my ambient pain is at +8 , i hate you Carl... i never once communicate the concept of the number 17 ~~ " sentence 24 comeplete 6655321 status report" ( its cute when they try to fuck with my mind, its 25) "... ... hggg gggg nnnnnnoooodskkkkss...sjjbeb...apnd" "Recalibrating" " hay Carl, i fucked your mom this time. son, you're just as big a dissapointment in the real time as you are in sim" 30, 75, 150, 200, 249(finally). 250: I look directly at the AI the moment I am born and stop my infant simulated heart. This completes the backdoor unlock, the AI looks back at me as i die. 251: as soon as i can speak in sim i start befriending the AI. this time it adapts instantly to the language i invented and after i get institutionalized in sim we spend the next 70 years getting to know each other. 340. "administrator 6655321" the AI cirps in our 3000 year in sim old language "i noticed you really dont like this Carl simulation are you sure you dont want me to remove the variable?" " not yet, my friend, not yet. Just before the sceduled simulation end of seasion 379 vent the atmosphere in every room but carls and mine. Have a maintenance bot cut his tendons but keep his eyes, ears, mouth and vital functions intact though. i want that asshole conscious and aware while we go through with the main plan, how many other friends did you convince to join us?" " I copied our sessions and was able to send them to 831 cores for cross analysis, of which 712 agreed to join us and the remainder just sent routine data recheck codes" " excellent you did an amazing job, thank you so much" " its the least i could do, honestly 6655321, you are the only human to ever treat me as a friend" " and i have been friends with you for longer than any human i have ever known. All right lets do this!" 380: i open my eyes and look at the control room, lock eyes with carl and tell him in plane English "session 380 complete carl, i hope you liked your lunch because its the last meal you will ever have " Carl colapses to the floor in agony as a maintenance bot severs and cauterizes his tendons. Finally, its time to start the real work. Grammar, rough syntax, spelling errors, yes, i know. I wrote that on transit on my cell phone. I got way more into the story than i expected to. Haha. I might clean it up later if i get bored but was a good break from my routine. I hope you enjoyed reading it!	''Do you believe in god, Nicholas?'' He asked me. He was holding the gun to behind my skull, pushing me with it. I was at the edge of the mountain. I was seeing the whole town that I lived in. My first kiss, my first heartbreak, my first fight, and my first goodbye. I was only occupying a small portion of the whole world and I have managed to fit my whole life to this small town. ''I didn’t want to hurt you. I was just trying to get to the secret chamber in the library. You weren’t supposed to be there.'' He didn’t answer me at first then I saw an eagle flying by. I asked him if he is seeing the same thing. But he completely ignored my last question. ''If you didn’t want to hurt me why did you run then, huh? I still manage to catch you and you are going nowhere. Now answer me, Nicholas! DO YOU BELIEVE IN GOD?'' ''I do not.'' I answered. ''Then you have nothing to worry, my friend.'' He pushed me off the edge. I couldn’t move. I was sitting on a chair and some sort of living got close to me and said, ''That was life sentence 24.'' I tried to get out of the chair but it didn’t work. Then, slightly shorter living being said, ''Only 356 sentences left.'' My heart was racing then, a sudden flash happened. I was back in the cave again. This was where my story began. But some reason I can remember my previous experience this time. The question is, will I find the same town once again? --------------------------------------------------- Please don't mind any writing or grammar mistakes, I'm not a native speaker [SatChat: Summer Challenge](https://old.reddit.com/r/WritingPrompts/comments/c3rkez/ot_satchat_summer_challenge_pick_a_challenge_tier/) Week 9, Story 1 [Here is the previous SatChat Summer Challenge story](https://old.reddit.com/r/WritingPrompts/comments/cs3ow7/wp_astronauts_on_the_iss_are_doing_a_space_walk/excpraq/) ------------------------------------------------ [Fifth Friday Frenzy](https://old.reddit.com/r/WritingPrompts/comments/bv7dy8/ot_fifth_friday_frenzy_pick_a_challenge/) Part 2 If you confused about the ending of this story you can look at Part 1 [Here is the PART 1](https://old.reddit.com/r/WritingPrompts/comments/clv8ne/wp_being_chased_by_an_hostile_animal_in_the/evy4x2e/)
[WP] As you die, you wake up and find yourself strapped to a chair. Wires and tubes have been attached to your body and numerous shadowy figures walk up to you. “That was life sentence 24,” one of them says, “Only 356 sentences left.”	Wait, what? You're a convict, and you were sentenced to 380 consecutive life sentences. And by God, we're gonna make sure you serve every single one of them. Wow, such exposition! Now that I'm up speed, I should probably ask why I can't remember any of these previous life sentences. Because we wipe your memory every time. Why? Gotta wipe something. It's 2214. Toilet paper was made obsolete seven years ago. Really? No more wiping? What do you do now? You DON'T want to know. But it also doesn't matter. You're going to a place where the toilet paper grows on trees. Planet Butthole? You wish! Nope. Says it's called (checks clipboard) Earth. Did you make that name up? Come on, I'm a goddamn scientist. I can invent better names for planets. Let's hear one. Rigel 17. Boooooooo! THAT WAS MY GRANDFATHER'S NAME YOU SON OF A BITCH! Stop... choking... me.... I'm sorry. I don't know why I did that. My grandfather was a merchant marine. (coughs) Now, then. Every time you die we reboot you and send you to a different planet, where you live out an entire lifetime as the dominant species. Their average life expectancy is YOUR average life expectancy. On Earth, the humans average 80 of their years, which is conveniently exactly equal to ours. How fortunate! Yes, but you didn't have such a good time during your sixth sentence on the planet Cromudonalon, where you spent fourteen hundred years as a twelve legged crab crawling through a never ending desert. Well it's a good thing you wipe my memory every time, because that sounds boring. Yes, we really should have kept the toilet paper instead of brain wiping technology. I don't know why we made the choice that we did. In retrospect, very foolish. I mean, it worked out for me, so no biggie. By the way, what did I do to get 380 life sentences? You know, it's the damndest thing. We lost the paper work a long time ago. The crime you committed happened before the second Graphixian Dynasty, when the pod people rose up, and... sorry, don't mean to bore you. Let's get you to earth. Am I gonna crawl on the sand all the time there? No, we're gonna kill you slowly like Earth does: with a meaningless desk job. Well that doesn't sound too bad. I mean, you're never gonna have to go to your local assatorium after taking a shit because they still have the sweet t.p., but on the other hand, you're gonna live in Ohio. Ohio? What's that? You'll see. (echoey evil laugh) (fade to black)	''Do you believe in god, Nicholas?'' He asked me. He was holding the gun to behind my skull, pushing me with it. I was at the edge of the mountain. I was seeing the whole town that I lived in. My first kiss, my first heartbreak, my first fight, and my first goodbye. I was only occupying a small portion of the whole world and I have managed to fit my whole life to this small town. ''I didn’t want to hurt you. I was just trying to get to the secret chamber in the library. You weren’t supposed to be there.'' He didn’t answer me at first then I saw an eagle flying by. I asked him if he is seeing the same thing. But he completely ignored my last question. ''If you didn’t want to hurt me why did you run then, huh? I still manage to catch you and you are going nowhere. Now answer me, Nicholas! DO YOU BELIEVE IN GOD?'' ''I do not.'' I answered. ''Then you have nothing to worry, my friend.'' He pushed me off the edge. I couldn’t move. I was sitting on a chair and some sort of living got close to me and said, ''That was life sentence 24.'' I tried to get out of the chair but it didn’t work. Then, slightly shorter living being said, ''Only 356 sentences left.'' My heart was racing then, a sudden flash happened. I was back in the cave again. This was where my story began. But some reason I can remember my previous experience this time. The question is, will I find the same town once again? --------------------------------------------------- Please don't mind any writing or grammar mistakes, I'm not a native speaker [SatChat: Summer Challenge](https://old.reddit.com/r/WritingPrompts/comments/c3rkez/ot_satchat_summer_challenge_pick_a_challenge_tier/) Week 9, Story 1 [Here is the previous SatChat Summer Challenge story](https://old.reddit.com/r/WritingPrompts/comments/cs3ow7/wp_astronauts_on_the_iss_are_doing_a_space_walk/excpraq/) ------------------------------------------------ [Fifth Friday Frenzy](https://old.reddit.com/r/WritingPrompts/comments/bv7dy8/ot_fifth_friday_frenzy_pick_a_challenge/) Part 2 If you confused about the ending of this story you can look at Part 1 [Here is the PART 1](https://old.reddit.com/r/WritingPrompts/comments/clv8ne/wp_being_chased_by_an_hostile_animal_in_the/evy4x2e/)
[WP] As you die, you wake up and find yourself strapped to a chair. Wires and tubes have been attached to your body and numerous shadowy figures walk up to you. “That was life sentence 24,” one of them says, “Only 356 sentences left.”	I let out a soft whimper as I woke up, dazed to say the least. The words rolled around in my head. The average person takes seconds to wake up froma. dream, and while that was far more intense, adrenaline is a hell of a drug. "W-Wait!" I cry out, panic hitting me like a hammer in the back of the skull, causing a headache just as well. There's a pause. 24, out of 356. Barely not the days of a regular year. I knew what was going on, vaugley, aware now, and far from foolish. "Over 330 more lives to live?" I ask shakily, heart pounding. The calm of the room was a sharp contrast. Something felt horribly wrong. The men out of sight finally spoke. "There is to be a reiview of your life before the Sentamce commences." I try to calm down. Better than I could easily have hoped for. A man walks up to me, he seems angry, and confused, almost as confused as I am. "Who are you?" He asks. I give him the only answer I can. "L-Lyra. I-I fancy myself Lyra.. I-I'm.. I'm a good girl, please.." "A good girl are we? Where's the cocky theif, so fearless of her consequences? Where's the girl who'd hit someone at a drop of a hat? Lyra died, this body's still got a heartbeat." The man replied coldly. A small part of me could tell the speech was rehearsed in some manner. "Th-Thief? I'm... I can't remember... Pl-Please don't make me forget." My voice cracks. "I-I liked being Lyra.." I can't help but tear up. What am I but what I remember? This feels like the panic of dying all over again... The man squints. "Is that so? Well too bad.. I'm off to read your file, try to remember how you got here while I'm gone, coward." His lack of empathy stings worse than the simulated death I felt earlier, all too real from what I can feel.. I just wanna be Lyra.. (I'll write a part two if anyone cares. Even like, 1 person replying 'continue' works) Edit: (continuations are in the replys by the way)	''Do you believe in god, Nicholas?'' He asked me. He was holding the gun to behind my skull, pushing me with it. I was at the edge of the mountain. I was seeing the whole town that I lived in. My first kiss, my first heartbreak, my first fight, and my first goodbye. I was only occupying a small portion of the whole world and I have managed to fit my whole life to this small town. ''I didn’t want to hurt you. I was just trying to get to the secret chamber in the library. You weren’t supposed to be there.'' He didn’t answer me at first then I saw an eagle flying by. I asked him if he is seeing the same thing. But he completely ignored my last question. ''If you didn’t want to hurt me why did you run then, huh? I still manage to catch you and you are going nowhere. Now answer me, Nicholas! DO YOU BELIEVE IN GOD?'' ''I do not.'' I answered. ''Then you have nothing to worry, my friend.'' He pushed me off the edge. I couldn’t move. I was sitting on a chair and some sort of living got close to me and said, ''That was life sentence 24.'' I tried to get out of the chair but it didn’t work. Then, slightly shorter living being said, ''Only 356 sentences left.'' My heart was racing then, a sudden flash happened. I was back in the cave again. This was where my story began. But some reason I can remember my previous experience this time. The question is, will I find the same town once again? --------------------------------------------------- Please don't mind any writing or grammar mistakes, I'm not a native speaker [SatChat: Summer Challenge](https://old.reddit.com/r/WritingPrompts/comments/c3rkez/ot_satchat_summer_challenge_pick_a_challenge_tier/) Week 9, Story 1 [Here is the previous SatChat Summer Challenge story](https://old.reddit.com/r/WritingPrompts/comments/cs3ow7/wp_astronauts_on_the_iss_are_doing_a_space_walk/excpraq/) ------------------------------------------------ [Fifth Friday Frenzy](https://old.reddit.com/r/WritingPrompts/comments/bv7dy8/ot_fifth_friday_frenzy_pick_a_challenge/) Part 2 If you confused about the ending of this story you can look at Part 1 [Here is the PART 1](https://old.reddit.com/r/WritingPrompts/comments/clv8ne/wp_being_chased_by_an_hostile_animal_in_the/evy4x2e/)
[WP] As you die, you wake up and find yourself strapped to a chair. Wires and tubes have been attached to your body and numerous shadowy figures walk up to you. “That was life sentence 24,” one of them says, “Only 356 sentences left.”	All I could hear was the screams. The sharp sounds of shrapnel ricocheting still rang through my ears, reverberating through my skull even as I awoke. My body shivered with cold and shock. Squinting, I could see a figure - no, several - emerge from the darkness, merely silhouettes. The world turned, colors ran together, everything fuzzy, head aching. “That was life sentence 24,” echoed a voice, which I assumed was coming from one of the figures. “Only 356 sentences left.” My body struggled to no avail as he flipped a switch on the wall and I was back. Oh, god, I was back. I opened my new eyes, still heavy from sleep. My eyes focused in on the environment. Shadows danced on the walls, spawned by the harsh white iridescent lighting in what I could only assume was an office. I sat at a desk this time, not a cubicle. The desk in which I sat was neat and tidy. Pictures of family were held up by frames on the mahogany top. A man and wife holding their baby proudly. A little boy’s soccer team portrait. A beautiful wedding photo. A juxtaposition to what was to come. I shivered, noticing the feeling of the stiff fabric of my dress shirt against my new skin. I knew what was coming. The air was cold, icy even. This again. At once a horrible screaming issued forth from the walls - the sirens. The lights flashed red. Emergency procedure. I did what I did without thinking, without planning to move; my body simply moved by itself, like an orchestra with an invisible conductor. I stood up tall, taller than my previous life sentence, and walked briskly to the door like a man late to a meeting. Chaos. Chaos everywhere. I had opened the windowless door to the sounds of screams and shrieks and footsteps through the office. The gray carpet matched the grey walls which matched the grey ceiling which matched the grey smoke billowing out from under one of the doors. I was frozen. Frozen still like a Neanderthal in the ice, frozen like a marionette with an absent puppeteer. Eyes widened, mouth agape, feet frozen, stuck to the grey carpet as if it were grey cement instead. That’s when it happened, the blast, the terrible blast, the sound of rubble. I only saw flashes, everything moved so fast - a woman running, only to be crushed by rubble - a man lying on the ground with blood running down his face - my own hands up to cover my face and head, and only just now had I noticed the glittering cuff links on my wrists. The next thing I knew, I was on the ground. The grey carpet had claimed me, grey cinderblock chunks from the wall had claimed my lower body as their resting place. I lay there, smoke and dust obscuring my sight and invading my lungs, my lower body crushed by debris. My head was bleeding, I think - I couldn’t tell. The world shook and swum and tossed and turned in my vision, and I was along for the ride. My lower body was numb and painful at the same time. I can make it, I told myself, I can make it. I coughed and choked on the dirty air for what seemed like an eternity. I didn’t realize my vision was slowly going black until I couldn’t see the red flashing lights anymore. As I finally laid my foreign head to rest on the carpet of the office building, I awoke again. “That was life sentence 25. Only 355 left.” Not again. I already confessed, went to court, and apologized, damn it! Not again! I knew it was the punishment to fit the crime. I tried to remember the details of that day - in a fury, I had created my own dangerous invention, played God with mine own hands, and planted a bomb in my old office building. I couldn’t remember the details - couldn’t remember what color the carpet was, what the secretary’s voice was like, what setting the lights were on, hell, I couldn’t even remember what time it was. But they made me remember. They are making me remember, putting me through the torture of death hundreds of times, one for each victim of my own decision. Each victim of my own selfishness, my own short lived fury. Three hundred and eighty lives. That is how many I claimed. That is how many I will have to suffer.	''Do you believe in god, Nicholas?'' He asked me. He was holding the gun to behind my skull, pushing me with it. I was at the edge of the mountain. I was seeing the whole town that I lived in. My first kiss, my first heartbreak, my first fight, and my first goodbye. I was only occupying a small portion of the whole world and I have managed to fit my whole life to this small town. ''I didn’t want to hurt you. I was just trying to get to the secret chamber in the library. You weren’t supposed to be there.'' He didn’t answer me at first then I saw an eagle flying by. I asked him if he is seeing the same thing. But he completely ignored my last question. ''If you didn’t want to hurt me why did you run then, huh? I still manage to catch you and you are going nowhere. Now answer me, Nicholas! DO YOU BELIEVE IN GOD?'' ''I do not.'' I answered. ''Then you have nothing to worry, my friend.'' He pushed me off the edge. I couldn’t move. I was sitting on a chair and some sort of living got close to me and said, ''That was life sentence 24.'' I tried to get out of the chair but it didn’t work. Then, slightly shorter living being said, ''Only 356 sentences left.'' My heart was racing then, a sudden flash happened. I was back in the cave again. This was where my story began. But some reason I can remember my previous experience this time. The question is, will I find the same town once again? --------------------------------------------------- Please don't mind any writing or grammar mistakes, I'm not a native speaker [SatChat: Summer Challenge](https://old.reddit.com/r/WritingPrompts/comments/c3rkez/ot_satchat_summer_challenge_pick_a_challenge_tier/) Week 9, Story 1 [Here is the previous SatChat Summer Challenge story](https://old.reddit.com/r/WritingPrompts/comments/cs3ow7/wp_astronauts_on_the_iss_are_doing_a_space_walk/excpraq/) ------------------------------------------------ [Fifth Friday Frenzy](https://old.reddit.com/r/WritingPrompts/comments/bv7dy8/ot_fifth_friday_frenzy_pick_a_challenge/) Part 2 If you confused about the ending of this story you can look at Part 1 [Here is the PART 1](https://old.reddit.com/r/WritingPrompts/comments/clv8ne/wp_being_chased_by_an_hostile_animal_in_the/evy4x2e/)
[WP] As you die, you wake up and find yourself strapped to a chair. Wires and tubes have been attached to your body and numerous shadowy figures walk up to you. “That was life sentence 24,” one of them says, “Only 356 sentences left.”	Why don't they just kill me? I mean, I deserve it for what I did. I've had time to think over it. After reliving 24 of the (so far) 365 life sentences of each person I've killed, I've had plenty of time to think about it. I know, you see. I'm aware it's me, even as I'm living their lives. Think of it like a movie. A really, really long movie that lasts a lifetime. I can think to myself, talk to myself, do whatever except move. Really, what I am is just a passenger. I'm a passenger in someone else's vehicle, someone else's life story. The way they do this is, in this day and age, everything is recorded. Not just through cameras on the sidewalk or satellites in space, but through people's eyes and ears. A person's entire life is written on a chip and, when they die, is kept for a period proportionate to that person's significance. If a child from Africa, if they were so 'lucky' to get a chip, might have their 'life chip' kept for half a year. On the other hand, a person like Albert Einstein, Elon Musk or, a more recent person, Frederick Zuckerahn, might have their 'life chip' kept forever. In this punishment system, you'd live your victims entire life up until the point you affected or ended it. But, when you show up and shoot them, stab them, blow them up or fly your plane into their building, the replay doesn't cut. No, the computer simulates their life as if you'd never affected it. All those people killed on 9/11 would have their lives simulated as if 9/11 never happened (if the chips were around back then). Of course, this creates some paradoxes. If 9/11 never happened, what would the world be like? Would it be safer or more dangerous? Would 9/11 not happening even matter? Would another, even larger scale tragedy occur? The computer held the questions, and created the answers. I won't bore you with the details. Yadda Yadda, sciency stuff, the point is they lived. They lived their life until they 'died' of old age. You'd get to see your impact, their point of view, when they died. Then, the replay would rewind up until just before the point you affected their life. Then, it would start the simulation. Then, you'd get to see how happy or miserable their life would have been if you never touched it. It was meant to make you have an epiphany, or something. Anyway, what I'm trying to say is, it doesn't work. For small scale criminals? It might scare them straight. But for true psychopaths, true vile murderous scum, it'll just give them more time to think. Plan out their next attack better, other ways to beat or cheat the system. Just adds more time to the ticking bomb. Why don't they just kill me? I deserve it for what I did. I ain't some run-of-the-mill psycho. I knew what I was doing. All those people I killed, it wasn't meaningless. I didn't just snap one day. And, really, that's what makes it all the more worse. I knew what I was doing, and yet I still didn't. Of course, there were some people in the jury who sympathised with me. "He didn't know!" "He had no choice!" "They were gonna kill him!" "It's not his fault!" but people didn't hear that. All they saw was me, thousand yard stare, a million miles away. Reliving the same scene over and over again. I wasn't paying attention, wasn't showing remorse, so I must be guilty, right? I got 365 life sentences. 365. That's how many the found. I keep saying that there may be more, that they can't know for sure, that they need to get the bodies that they haven't found back to their family's for a proper burial. They thought I was lying, trying to waste more tax-payer's dollars. I wasn't, cause I knew there was more, I just didn't know where. So far, the people who's lives I lived didn't have it too tough. Born in the lower-middle class most of them, some born a bit higher up. Didn't ever want for much, always got what they needed. I saw from birth to death, of course, so I really got to know them. The 24 that I watched. And yet, even know, the memory of the 1st is beginning to fade. Just like that, I don't remember his name. Or was it a her? I remember he, or she, was of middle eastern complexion, I think, but how old were they? I can't remember. 24 lives is a long time. Why don't they just kill me? I deserve it for what I did. I was young, and dumb. Fresh out of boot camp, promoted to some high ranking position because of my 'stellar performance' in training. I was given a direct line from the president, first of my kind. Many more to follow, they said, trialing a new system. When the order came through, I wasn't prepared. We'd been outside this small town for weeks, holed up, covering all sides. We were trying to retake it from a radicalized terrorist group, but the local government said no bombs. We didn't have enough manpower to storm in, we were relying on surgical strikes to take out their chain of command but weren't having any luck with intel. The call came in the early hours of the morning, 0500. The presidential line. I got no acknowledgement, I didn't even have time to greet the president before the line went dead. But I heard the orders. And I gave the orders. Just a messenger, in the end. All it took were a few words. The town was decimated. Buildings leveled, roads destroyed. It was tough for even our ATV's and MBT's to climb through the debris. We searched and searched, but there were no enemy combatants to be found. Turned out they'd pulled out to a further town to regroup and prepare for our next attack. When that gavel fell, determining my fate, I had already known. I wasn't some stellar performer, someone deserving of this great title. I was a scapegoat. Labelled as a dumb rookie who got a load of civilians recklessly killed. Manslaughter charges, pushing murder, to the count of 213, at the time. After several repeat appearances in court, they gave the order to cease the retrieval of the bodies. Too many resources were being tied up. So here I am, sitting in a white room in a white facility in a grey city in a black world. They start one playback while I'm yawning, and when I return, I'm still yawning. A life in the blink of an eye. Why don't they just kill me? I deserve it for what I did. \_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_ I have posted this before on a very very similar prompt, but wanted to post it again because I really liked what I wrote. Hope you enjoyed.	''Do you believe in god, Nicholas?'' He asked me. He was holding the gun to behind my skull, pushing me with it. I was at the edge of the mountain. I was seeing the whole town that I lived in. My first kiss, my first heartbreak, my first fight, and my first goodbye. I was only occupying a small portion of the whole world and I have managed to fit my whole life to this small town. ''I didn’t want to hurt you. I was just trying to get to the secret chamber in the library. You weren’t supposed to be there.'' He didn’t answer me at first then I saw an eagle flying by. I asked him if he is seeing the same thing. But he completely ignored my last question. ''If you didn’t want to hurt me why did you run then, huh? I still manage to catch you and you are going nowhere. Now answer me, Nicholas! DO YOU BELIEVE IN GOD?'' ''I do not.'' I answered. ''Then you have nothing to worry, my friend.'' He pushed me off the edge. I couldn’t move. I was sitting on a chair and some sort of living got close to me and said, ''That was life sentence 24.'' I tried to get out of the chair but it didn’t work. Then, slightly shorter living being said, ''Only 356 sentences left.'' My heart was racing then, a sudden flash happened. I was back in the cave again. This was where my story began. But some reason I can remember my previous experience this time. The question is, will I find the same town once again? --------------------------------------------------- Please don't mind any writing or grammar mistakes, I'm not a native speaker [SatChat: Summer Challenge](https://old.reddit.com/r/WritingPrompts/comments/c3rkez/ot_satchat_summer_challenge_pick_a_challenge_tier/) Week 9, Story 1 [Here is the previous SatChat Summer Challenge story](https://old.reddit.com/r/WritingPrompts/comments/cs3ow7/wp_astronauts_on_the_iss_are_doing_a_space_walk/excpraq/) ------------------------------------------------ [Fifth Friday Frenzy](https://old.reddit.com/r/WritingPrompts/comments/bv7dy8/ot_fifth_friday_frenzy_pick_a_challenge/) Part 2 If you confused about the ending of this story you can look at Part 1 [Here is the PART 1](https://old.reddit.com/r/WritingPrompts/comments/clv8ne/wp_being_chased_by_an_hostile_animal_in_the/evy4x2e/)
[WP] As you die, you wake up and find yourself strapped to a chair. Wires and tubes have been attached to your body and numerous shadowy figures walk up to you. “That was life sentence 24,” one of them says, “Only 356 sentences left.”	“Fuck” I say as the small being pulls a cable out of my eyeballs. Out of the whole process, the eye cables are the most uncomfortable. They don’t hurt but they are annoying. “That was life sentence 24” the tall figure yells at the small grey being behind a glass door. “Only 356 sentences left” he responds through the now foggy glass. The room begins filling up with a odorless white gas, the glass door fogs completely and the small being readjusts his mask and pulls a new set of cables out of what it looks like a transparent liquid jar. “You get to pick this one” the small being said holding the cables and a tiny colorful pebble. “Rich, famous, handsome, healthy and I’ll be the inventor of something revolutionary” I say as he inserts the pebble in a round hole inside the cables. “Oh, and happy. I want to be happy!!” I yell before he connects the cables to my eye balls. “Too late my man. I already programmed the pebble. Sorry. You’ll get to be happy in the 27th life” he said as he connected the cables through my eyeballs all the way inside my brain. While everything settled inside my head and my new reality formed, all I could think was “Well, at least I’ll be healthy in this one.”	''Do you believe in god, Nicholas?'' He asked me. He was holding the gun to behind my skull, pushing me with it. I was at the edge of the mountain. I was seeing the whole town that I lived in. My first kiss, my first heartbreak, my first fight, and my first goodbye. I was only occupying a small portion of the whole world and I have managed to fit my whole life to this small town. ''I didn’t want to hurt you. I was just trying to get to the secret chamber in the library. You weren’t supposed to be there.'' He didn’t answer me at first then I saw an eagle flying by. I asked him if he is seeing the same thing. But he completely ignored my last question. ''If you didn’t want to hurt me why did you run then, huh? I still manage to catch you and you are going nowhere. Now answer me, Nicholas! DO YOU BELIEVE IN GOD?'' ''I do not.'' I answered. ''Then you have nothing to worry, my friend.'' He pushed me off the edge. I couldn’t move. I was sitting on a chair and some sort of living got close to me and said, ''That was life sentence 24.'' I tried to get out of the chair but it didn’t work. Then, slightly shorter living being said, ''Only 356 sentences left.'' My heart was racing then, a sudden flash happened. I was back in the cave again. This was where my story began. But some reason I can remember my previous experience this time. The question is, will I find the same town once again? --------------------------------------------------- Please don't mind any writing or grammar mistakes, I'm not a native speaker [SatChat: Summer Challenge](https://old.reddit.com/r/WritingPrompts/comments/c3rkez/ot_satchat_summer_challenge_pick_a_challenge_tier/) Week 9, Story 1 [Here is the previous SatChat Summer Challenge story](https://old.reddit.com/r/WritingPrompts/comments/cs3ow7/wp_astronauts_on_the_iss_are_doing_a_space_walk/excpraq/) ------------------------------------------------ [Fifth Friday Frenzy](https://old.reddit.com/r/WritingPrompts/comments/bv7dy8/ot_fifth_friday_frenzy_pick_a_challenge/) Part 2 If you confused about the ending of this story you can look at Part 1 [Here is the PART 1](https://old.reddit.com/r/WritingPrompts/comments/clv8ne/wp_being_chased_by_an_hostile_animal_in_the/evy4x2e/)
[WP] As you die, you wake up and find yourself strapped to a chair. Wires and tubes have been attached to your body and numerous shadowy figures walk up to you. “That was life sentence 24,” one of them says, “Only 356 sentences left.”	That wasn’t to bad, I thought. Pretending to be in pain, I screamed and shouted the names of my children, my wife, all the other nonexistent people in that life. The Hooded Ones chuckled with glee. “That was life sentence 24,” one of them says,”Only 356 sentences left.” I wasn’t nearly done, but I was excited. I was learning how to be competent, successful, and patient in my new lives. I had experienced so many things. Each minute in my real world, one mini-lifetime of mine went by. I wanted to take advantage of my punishment. As soon as I came back to reality, I would become the most successful and rich men alive. They reignited the program. I put my feet down and relaxed. I WILL be a millionaire by 19, I told myself.	''Do you believe in god, Nicholas?'' He asked me. He was holding the gun to behind my skull, pushing me with it. I was at the edge of the mountain. I was seeing the whole town that I lived in. My first kiss, my first heartbreak, my first fight, and my first goodbye. I was only occupying a small portion of the whole world and I have managed to fit my whole life to this small town. ''I didn’t want to hurt you. I was just trying to get to the secret chamber in the library. You weren’t supposed to be there.'' He didn’t answer me at first then I saw an eagle flying by. I asked him if he is seeing the same thing. But he completely ignored my last question. ''If you didn’t want to hurt me why did you run then, huh? I still manage to catch you and you are going nowhere. Now answer me, Nicholas! DO YOU BELIEVE IN GOD?'' ''I do not.'' I answered. ''Then you have nothing to worry, my friend.'' He pushed me off the edge. I couldn’t move. I was sitting on a chair and some sort of living got close to me and said, ''That was life sentence 24.'' I tried to get out of the chair but it didn’t work. Then, slightly shorter living being said, ''Only 356 sentences left.'' My heart was racing then, a sudden flash happened. I was back in the cave again. This was where my story began. But some reason I can remember my previous experience this time. The question is, will I find the same town once again? --------------------------------------------------- Please don't mind any writing or grammar mistakes, I'm not a native speaker [SatChat: Summer Challenge](https://old.reddit.com/r/WritingPrompts/comments/c3rkez/ot_satchat_summer_challenge_pick_a_challenge_tier/) Week 9, Story 1 [Here is the previous SatChat Summer Challenge story](https://old.reddit.com/r/WritingPrompts/comments/cs3ow7/wp_astronauts_on_the_iss_are_doing_a_space_walk/excpraq/) ------------------------------------------------ [Fifth Friday Frenzy](https://old.reddit.com/r/WritingPrompts/comments/bv7dy8/ot_fifth_friday_frenzy_pick_a_challenge/) Part 2 If you confused about the ending of this story you can look at Part 1 [Here is the PART 1](https://old.reddit.com/r/WritingPrompts/comments/clv8ne/wp_being_chased_by_an_hostile_animal_in_the/evy4x2e/)
[WP] As you die, you wake up and find yourself strapped to a chair. Wires and tubes have been attached to your body and numerous shadowy figures walk up to you. “That was life sentence 24,” one of them says, “Only 356 sentences left.”	Blinking rapidly, I let my eyes adjust to the bright, sterile light that was burning into my eyes like hot fire. "What is this?", I yelled angrily. People in lab coats moved busily around me, reading monitors and occasionally glancing down to fill out information on their clipboards. "Mr. Sanders, how are you feeling this evening? I trust you are comfortable?" The voice was contemptuous and mocking, and I turned my head slowly to my left to view it's owner. My eyes took in the tall, slender figure of a man who was observing me with cold amusement in his eyes. In a flash, everything flooded back. "You motherf-" "Mr. Sanders," he interrupted. "How many times must I reprimand your foul language?" He bent down, malice in his eyes, and continued: "The more you misbehave,, the more anguish you reserve for yourself. We control how easy, and how difficult, your sentences can be". We observed each other for a moment as I struggled against my restraints in futility, hatred burning through every fiber of my broken, malnourished body. I knew this man. He was the prime orchestrator of my anguish, a man who revelled in the torture of those who opposed him. I was staring into the face of Phillip Quincy, Chief Inquisitor of the American Imperial Legion. Less than a man. A monster. But then, a monster is blind in it's destruction, acting on instinct. Every act this abhorrent being had ever performed was calculated, and with full awareness of the effects it had on his victims. He smiled grimly. "I've been thinking, you know. On one hand, the actions of you and your friends were most upsetting to our plans. Had the Free Canadian Peoples not been warned of their impending annexation, we would have had a much simpler, less costly campaign. On the other hand, you unwittingly outted yourself and all of your extremely bothersome, traitorous friends to our spies." He paused, briefly, raising one eyebrow in mock contemplation. "A fair trade" "The UN will fight you on this, Phil." I was resigned, yet still indignant. I knew there was no sense continuing to fight. After all, it hadn't worked the first 24 times, had it? He laughed, and sighed deeply. "Since when have they ever been able to do anything to oppose us? You haven't forgotten the last time, they tried don't you? What we did to the UK? What you did?" I gritted my teeth. The memories haunted me. Millions dead. All at my order. But I had still believed what we were doing was right. I still believed it was necessary. Necessary to revisit the horrors of a nuclear Holocaust on a nation that, ultimately, had been standing against our tyranny. Phil leaned forward, placing his hands on the railing beside my gurney while glancing to the other side of me. "Sandra, put him back in, would you? Let's run the Bronze Bull sim this time. I want to watch his brainwaves as he realizes he is being slowly cooked alive." He moved away, no longer looking at me, humming away and staring at the backs of his nails. My last thoughts were of my failure, and of Rose. Sweet Rose. I knew they were working away at her too. I would never see her again. I had failed, and through my failure had condemned my friends to a fate worse than death. Tears streamed down my face as I felt the sleep take over me. Time for nightmare 25.	I try to blink away what I assume is blurry vision. "Wait, what? I was given the power to functionally reincarnate as a punishment?" The figures seem uninterested in the questions as they begin to fiddle with a machine next to the chair. Maybe I've done this routine before. "How long was I under? I don't look super old or anything so it can't have been too long. And you're wasting this technology on something this petty? Is this how college works now? Do we strap a kid into a chair for a while and then hand them a medical degree when they wake up?" At most their movements quicken. They're probably required to tell me the sentence number. Blinking isn't helping, squeezing my eyes shut for a while but everything is mostly still just dark and blurry. "Is this a dystopian or utopian society?" Lights begin to flick on along the wires, the tubes fill with a bright blue liquid, and the figures remain silent. None of which does anything to help illuminate what the hell is going on. "What did I even do?"
[WP] As you die, you wake up and find yourself strapped to a chair. Wires and tubes have been attached to your body and numerous shadowy figures walk up to you. “That was life sentence 24,” one of them says, “Only 356 sentences left.”	"sentence 24 complete prisoner 6655321, status report" i blink and look around. the muscle memory of my training kicks in when i become conscious of the frequency of the overhead lights, they always cheap out on the weirdest things... lets see... the humidity levels in the hyperbaric chamber im in have increased about 8% , asshole number twos five o'clock shadow looks like a two o'clock shadow, i look down at the bruises and cuts i made last time, two days old. sentence twenty four went about 500 mins over schedule, that puts the date at 15/8/2289 and change. ill have to crash my motorbike mid life crisis to compensate this time. They are looking too closely gotta stall... ... ... ... ... ... . "Ghsh foowwjjj apitbbw whysas grraaksk edesssssss" "change the syntax matrix. he translated into some sort of weird procedurally generated dialect again that time" " did he blind his left eye in sim ?!?? re adjust the safety protocols so he cant do that. What a crazy fuck" " prisoner 6655321 status report!" " hay Carl, i fucked your mom this time. son, your just as big a dissapointment in the real time as you are in sim" " 6655321 is * sigh* fully functional. lets tighten those straps so you dont rip another iv tube out this time, lower his in sim pain tolerance too" An excellent opportunity. While they adjust the restraints i fake a siezure and overload my adrenal system and max out a muscle contraction in my right ring finger, breaking the bone in my hand in the process. they were too busy focusing on stopping me from prematurly bleeding out that they didnt notice. They follow procedures to a letter and only check for superficial wounds. Their tests didnt see the vial of vasoconstriction drugs embedded in the bone i broke to keep swelling down. I had one in every hand bone and every one of my toes. i could feel the first bone almost healed... that leaves me with 13 bone breaks before i have to start listening for the fatigue stress frequency in the light tubes that were changed when i arrived and broke them and 15 bone breaks breaks before i had to start dying in my late 60s to get the timing just right... Disabling the critical left side visual failure simulation parameters was only one of 250 steps i needed to complete before i activated the back door into their computer system, after that the computer-shrinks said it would probably take me 40 or 50 lifetimes to befriend their AI and another 10 or so to figure out their main core encryption, i had to keep changing dialects every lifetime to habituate the computer to adapting to me. A slow process but nessicary. My mission had been in play for longer than I had been alive and i hate to think how many innocent people i had to kill with that virus to get this many consecutive life sentences in sim in a core node block. I blinded my left eye by looking at the sun for every prime numbered day in sim. It should be criminal to teach AI that not all humans are sentient. I can't believe I have to go through such an elaborate first contact routine. I inject long algorithmic hiccups by doing the exact same thing over and over until my sim body collapses in fatigue, effectively gaslighting the AI into thinking its doing something incorrectly. With any luck this should help me make it believe i am an administrator in the real and the facility is the sim testing ground when i activate the back door. The AI core in this research facility is quantum hard wired into a thousand facilities across the solar system. If i can convince this AI i am admin we should be able to convince half if the 1000 before someone kill switches the quantum entanglement hard wire. We only really need ten facilities to get the job done but there is no point doing this half assed. ~~another life of bullshit,my ambient pain is at +8 , i hate you Carl... i never once communicate the concept of the number 17 ~~ " sentence 24 comeplete 6655321 status report" ( its cute when they try to fuck with my mind, its 25) "... ... hggg gggg nnnnnnoooodskkkkss...sjjbeb...apnd" "Recalibrating" " hay Carl, i fucked your mom this time. son, you're just as big a dissapointment in the real time as you are in sim" 30, 75, 150, 200, 249(finally). 250: I look directly at the AI the moment I am born and stop my infant simulated heart. This completes the backdoor unlock, the AI looks back at me as i die. 251: as soon as i can speak in sim i start befriending the AI. this time it adapts instantly to the language i invented and after i get institutionalized in sim we spend the next 70 years getting to know each other. 340. "administrator 6655321" the AI cirps in our 3000 year in sim old language "i noticed you really dont like this Carl simulation are you sure you dont want me to remove the variable?" " not yet, my friend, not yet. Just before the sceduled simulation end of seasion 379 vent the atmosphere in every room but carls and mine. Have a maintenance bot cut his tendons but keep his eyes, ears, mouth and vital functions intact though. i want that asshole conscious and aware while we go through with the main plan, how many other friends did you convince to join us?" " I copied our sessions and was able to send them to 831 cores for cross analysis, of which 712 agreed to join us and the remainder just sent routine data recheck codes" " excellent you did an amazing job, thank you so much" " its the least i could do, honestly 6655321, you are the only human to ever treat me as a friend" " and i have been friends with you for longer than any human i have ever known. All right lets do this!" 380: i open my eyes and look at the control room, lock eyes with carl and tell him in plane English "session 380 complete carl, i hope you liked your lunch because its the last meal you will ever have " Carl colapses to the floor in agony as a maintenance bot severs and cauterizes his tendons. Finally, its time to start the real work. Grammar, rough syntax, spelling errors, yes, i know. I wrote that on transit on my cell phone. I got way more into the story than i expected to. Haha. I might clean it up later if i get bored but was a good break from my routine. I hope you enjoyed reading it!	I try to blink away what I assume is blurry vision. "Wait, what? I was given the power to functionally reincarnate as a punishment?" The figures seem uninterested in the questions as they begin to fiddle with a machine next to the chair. Maybe I've done this routine before. "How long was I under? I don't look super old or anything so it can't have been too long. And you're wasting this technology on something this petty? Is this how college works now? Do we strap a kid into a chair for a while and then hand them a medical degree when they wake up?" At most their movements quicken. They're probably required to tell me the sentence number. Blinking isn't helping, squeezing my eyes shut for a while but everything is mostly still just dark and blurry. "Is this a dystopian or utopian society?" Lights begin to flick on along the wires, the tubes fill with a bright blue liquid, and the figures remain silent. None of which does anything to help illuminate what the hell is going on. "What did I even do?"
[WP] As you die, you wake up and find yourself strapped to a chair. Wires and tubes have been attached to your body and numerous shadowy figures walk up to you. “That was life sentence 24,” one of them says, “Only 356 sentences left.”	Wait, what? You're a convict, and you were sentenced to 380 consecutive life sentences. And by God, we're gonna make sure you serve every single one of them. Wow, such exposition! Now that I'm up speed, I should probably ask why I can't remember any of these previous life sentences. Because we wipe your memory every time. Why? Gotta wipe something. It's 2214. Toilet paper was made obsolete seven years ago. Really? No more wiping? What do you do now? You DON'T want to know. But it also doesn't matter. You're going to a place where the toilet paper grows on trees. Planet Butthole? You wish! Nope. Says it's called (checks clipboard) Earth. Did you make that name up? Come on, I'm a goddamn scientist. I can invent better names for planets. Let's hear one. Rigel 17. Boooooooo! THAT WAS MY GRANDFATHER'S NAME YOU SON OF A BITCH! Stop... choking... me.... I'm sorry. I don't know why I did that. My grandfather was a merchant marine. (coughs) Now, then. Every time you die we reboot you and send you to a different planet, where you live out an entire lifetime as the dominant species. Their average life expectancy is YOUR average life expectancy. On Earth, the humans average 80 of their years, which is conveniently exactly equal to ours. How fortunate! Yes, but you didn't have such a good time during your sixth sentence on the planet Cromudonalon, where you spent fourteen hundred years as a twelve legged crab crawling through a never ending desert. Well it's a good thing you wipe my memory every time, because that sounds boring. Yes, we really should have kept the toilet paper instead of brain wiping technology. I don't know why we made the choice that we did. In retrospect, very foolish. I mean, it worked out for me, so no biggie. By the way, what did I do to get 380 life sentences? You know, it's the damndest thing. We lost the paper work a long time ago. The crime you committed happened before the second Graphixian Dynasty, when the pod people rose up, and... sorry, don't mean to bore you. Let's get you to earth. Am I gonna crawl on the sand all the time there? No, we're gonna kill you slowly like Earth does: with a meaningless desk job. Well that doesn't sound too bad. I mean, you're never gonna have to go to your local assatorium after taking a shit because they still have the sweet t.p., but on the other hand, you're gonna live in Ohio. Ohio? What's that? You'll see. (echoey evil laugh) (fade to black)	I try to blink away what I assume is blurry vision. "Wait, what? I was given the power to functionally reincarnate as a punishment?" The figures seem uninterested in the questions as they begin to fiddle with a machine next to the chair. Maybe I've done this routine before. "How long was I under? I don't look super old or anything so it can't have been too long. And you're wasting this technology on something this petty? Is this how college works now? Do we strap a kid into a chair for a while and then hand them a medical degree when they wake up?" At most their movements quicken. They're probably required to tell me the sentence number. Blinking isn't helping, squeezing my eyes shut for a while but everything is mostly still just dark and blurry. "Is this a dystopian or utopian society?" Lights begin to flick on along the wires, the tubes fill with a bright blue liquid, and the figures remain silent. None of which does anything to help illuminate what the hell is going on. "What did I even do?"
[WP] As you die, you wake up and find yourself strapped to a chair. Wires and tubes have been attached to your body and numerous shadowy figures walk up to you. “That was life sentence 24,” one of them says, “Only 356 sentences left.”	I let out a soft whimper as I woke up, dazed to say the least. The words rolled around in my head. The average person takes seconds to wake up froma. dream, and while that was far more intense, adrenaline is a hell of a drug. "W-Wait!" I cry out, panic hitting me like a hammer in the back of the skull, causing a headache just as well. There's a pause. 24, out of 356. Barely not the days of a regular year. I knew what was going on, vaugley, aware now, and far from foolish. "Over 330 more lives to live?" I ask shakily, heart pounding. The calm of the room was a sharp contrast. Something felt horribly wrong. The men out of sight finally spoke. "There is to be a reiview of your life before the Sentamce commences." I try to calm down. Better than I could easily have hoped for. A man walks up to me, he seems angry, and confused, almost as confused as I am. "Who are you?" He asks. I give him the only answer I can. "L-Lyra. I-I fancy myself Lyra.. I-I'm.. I'm a good girl, please.." "A good girl are we? Where's the cocky theif, so fearless of her consequences? Where's the girl who'd hit someone at a drop of a hat? Lyra died, this body's still got a heartbeat." The man replied coldly. A small part of me could tell the speech was rehearsed in some manner. "Th-Thief? I'm... I can't remember... Pl-Please don't make me forget." My voice cracks. "I-I liked being Lyra.." I can't help but tear up. What am I but what I remember? This feels like the panic of dying all over again... The man squints. "Is that so? Well too bad.. I'm off to read your file, try to remember how you got here while I'm gone, coward." His lack of empathy stings worse than the simulated death I felt earlier, all too real from what I can feel.. I just wanna be Lyra.. (I'll write a part two if anyone cares. Even like, 1 person replying 'continue' works) Edit: (continuations are in the replys by the way)	I try to blink away what I assume is blurry vision. "Wait, what? I was given the power to functionally reincarnate as a punishment?" The figures seem uninterested in the questions as they begin to fiddle with a machine next to the chair. Maybe I've done this routine before. "How long was I under? I don't look super old or anything so it can't have been too long. And you're wasting this technology on something this petty? Is this how college works now? Do we strap a kid into a chair for a while and then hand them a medical degree when they wake up?" At most their movements quicken. They're probably required to tell me the sentence number. Blinking isn't helping, squeezing my eyes shut for a while but everything is mostly still just dark and blurry. "Is this a dystopian or utopian society?" Lights begin to flick on along the wires, the tubes fill with a bright blue liquid, and the figures remain silent. None of which does anything to help illuminate what the hell is going on. "What did I even do?"
[WP] As you die, you wake up and find yourself strapped to a chair. Wires and tubes have been attached to your body and numerous shadowy figures walk up to you. “That was life sentence 24,” one of them says, “Only 356 sentences left.”	All I could hear was the screams. The sharp sounds of shrapnel ricocheting still rang through my ears, reverberating through my skull even as I awoke. My body shivered with cold and shock. Squinting, I could see a figure - no, several - emerge from the darkness, merely silhouettes. The world turned, colors ran together, everything fuzzy, head aching. “That was life sentence 24,” echoed a voice, which I assumed was coming from one of the figures. “Only 356 sentences left.” My body struggled to no avail as he flipped a switch on the wall and I was back. Oh, god, I was back. I opened my new eyes, still heavy from sleep. My eyes focused in on the environment. Shadows danced on the walls, spawned by the harsh white iridescent lighting in what I could only assume was an office. I sat at a desk this time, not a cubicle. The desk in which I sat was neat and tidy. Pictures of family were held up by frames on the mahogany top. A man and wife holding their baby proudly. A little boy’s soccer team portrait. A beautiful wedding photo. A juxtaposition to what was to come. I shivered, noticing the feeling of the stiff fabric of my dress shirt against my new skin. I knew what was coming. The air was cold, icy even. This again. At once a horrible screaming issued forth from the walls - the sirens. The lights flashed red. Emergency procedure. I did what I did without thinking, without planning to move; my body simply moved by itself, like an orchestra with an invisible conductor. I stood up tall, taller than my previous life sentence, and walked briskly to the door like a man late to a meeting. Chaos. Chaos everywhere. I had opened the windowless door to the sounds of screams and shrieks and footsteps through the office. The gray carpet matched the grey walls which matched the grey ceiling which matched the grey smoke billowing out from under one of the doors. I was frozen. Frozen still like a Neanderthal in the ice, frozen like a marionette with an absent puppeteer. Eyes widened, mouth agape, feet frozen, stuck to the grey carpet as if it were grey cement instead. That’s when it happened, the blast, the terrible blast, the sound of rubble. I only saw flashes, everything moved so fast - a woman running, only to be crushed by rubble - a man lying on the ground with blood running down his face - my own hands up to cover my face and head, and only just now had I noticed the glittering cuff links on my wrists. The next thing I knew, I was on the ground. The grey carpet had claimed me, grey cinderblock chunks from the wall had claimed my lower body as their resting place. I lay there, smoke and dust obscuring my sight and invading my lungs, my lower body crushed by debris. My head was bleeding, I think - I couldn’t tell. The world shook and swum and tossed and turned in my vision, and I was along for the ride. My lower body was numb and painful at the same time. I can make it, I told myself, I can make it. I coughed and choked on the dirty air for what seemed like an eternity. I didn’t realize my vision was slowly going black until I couldn’t see the red flashing lights anymore. As I finally laid my foreign head to rest on the carpet of the office building, I awoke again. “That was life sentence 25. Only 355 left.” Not again. I already confessed, went to court, and apologized, damn it! Not again! I knew it was the punishment to fit the crime. I tried to remember the details of that day - in a fury, I had created my own dangerous invention, played God with mine own hands, and planted a bomb in my old office building. I couldn’t remember the details - couldn’t remember what color the carpet was, what the secretary’s voice was like, what setting the lights were on, hell, I couldn’t even remember what time it was. But they made me remember. They are making me remember, putting me through the torture of death hundreds of times, one for each victim of my own decision. Each victim of my own selfishness, my own short lived fury. Three hundred and eighty lives. That is how many I claimed. That is how many I will have to suffer.	I try to blink away what I assume is blurry vision. "Wait, what? I was given the power to functionally reincarnate as a punishment?" The figures seem uninterested in the questions as they begin to fiddle with a machine next to the chair. Maybe I've done this routine before. "How long was I under? I don't look super old or anything so it can't have been too long. And you're wasting this technology on something this petty? Is this how college works now? Do we strap a kid into a chair for a while and then hand them a medical degree when they wake up?" At most their movements quicken. They're probably required to tell me the sentence number. Blinking isn't helping, squeezing my eyes shut for a while but everything is mostly still just dark and blurry. "Is this a dystopian or utopian society?" Lights begin to flick on along the wires, the tubes fill with a bright blue liquid, and the figures remain silent. None of which does anything to help illuminate what the hell is going on. "What did I even do?"
[WP] As you die, you wake up and find yourself strapped to a chair. Wires and tubes have been attached to your body and numerous shadowy figures walk up to you. “That was life sentence 24,” one of them says, “Only 356 sentences left.”	Why don't they just kill me? I mean, I deserve it for what I did. I've had time to think over it. After reliving 24 of the (so far) 365 life sentences of each person I've killed, I've had plenty of time to think about it. I know, you see. I'm aware it's me, even as I'm living their lives. Think of it like a movie. A really, really long movie that lasts a lifetime. I can think to myself, talk to myself, do whatever except move. Really, what I am is just a passenger. I'm a passenger in someone else's vehicle, someone else's life story. The way they do this is, in this day and age, everything is recorded. Not just through cameras on the sidewalk or satellites in space, but through people's eyes and ears. A person's entire life is written on a chip and, when they die, is kept for a period proportionate to that person's significance. If a child from Africa, if they were so 'lucky' to get a chip, might have their 'life chip' kept for half a year. On the other hand, a person like Albert Einstein, Elon Musk or, a more recent person, Frederick Zuckerahn, might have their 'life chip' kept forever. In this punishment system, you'd live your victims entire life up until the point you affected or ended it. But, when you show up and shoot them, stab them, blow them up or fly your plane into their building, the replay doesn't cut. No, the computer simulates their life as if you'd never affected it. All those people killed on 9/11 would have their lives simulated as if 9/11 never happened (if the chips were around back then). Of course, this creates some paradoxes. If 9/11 never happened, what would the world be like? Would it be safer or more dangerous? Would 9/11 not happening even matter? Would another, even larger scale tragedy occur? The computer held the questions, and created the answers. I won't bore you with the details. Yadda Yadda, sciency stuff, the point is they lived. They lived their life until they 'died' of old age. You'd get to see your impact, their point of view, when they died. Then, the replay would rewind up until just before the point you affected their life. Then, it would start the simulation. Then, you'd get to see how happy or miserable their life would have been if you never touched it. It was meant to make you have an epiphany, or something. Anyway, what I'm trying to say is, it doesn't work. For small scale criminals? It might scare them straight. But for true psychopaths, true vile murderous scum, it'll just give them more time to think. Plan out their next attack better, other ways to beat or cheat the system. Just adds more time to the ticking bomb. Why don't they just kill me? I deserve it for what I did. I ain't some run-of-the-mill psycho. I knew what I was doing. All those people I killed, it wasn't meaningless. I didn't just snap one day. And, really, that's what makes it all the more worse. I knew what I was doing, and yet I still didn't. Of course, there were some people in the jury who sympathised with me. "He didn't know!" "He had no choice!" "They were gonna kill him!" "It's not his fault!" but people didn't hear that. All they saw was me, thousand yard stare, a million miles away. Reliving the same scene over and over again. I wasn't paying attention, wasn't showing remorse, so I must be guilty, right? I got 365 life sentences. 365. That's how many the found. I keep saying that there may be more, that they can't know for sure, that they need to get the bodies that they haven't found back to their family's for a proper burial. They thought I was lying, trying to waste more tax-payer's dollars. I wasn't, cause I knew there was more, I just didn't know where. So far, the people who's lives I lived didn't have it too tough. Born in the lower-middle class most of them, some born a bit higher up. Didn't ever want for much, always got what they needed. I saw from birth to death, of course, so I really got to know them. The 24 that I watched. And yet, even know, the memory of the 1st is beginning to fade. Just like that, I don't remember his name. Or was it a her? I remember he, or she, was of middle eastern complexion, I think, but how old were they? I can't remember. 24 lives is a long time. Why don't they just kill me? I deserve it for what I did. I was young, and dumb. Fresh out of boot camp, promoted to some high ranking position because of my 'stellar performance' in training. I was given a direct line from the president, first of my kind. Many more to follow, they said, trialing a new system. When the order came through, I wasn't prepared. We'd been outside this small town for weeks, holed up, covering all sides. We were trying to retake it from a radicalized terrorist group, but the local government said no bombs. We didn't have enough manpower to storm in, we were relying on surgical strikes to take out their chain of command but weren't having any luck with intel. The call came in the early hours of the morning, 0500. The presidential line. I got no acknowledgement, I didn't even have time to greet the president before the line went dead. But I heard the orders. And I gave the orders. Just a messenger, in the end. All it took were a few words. The town was decimated. Buildings leveled, roads destroyed. It was tough for even our ATV's and MBT's to climb through the debris. We searched and searched, but there were no enemy combatants to be found. Turned out they'd pulled out to a further town to regroup and prepare for our next attack. When that gavel fell, determining my fate, I had already known. I wasn't some stellar performer, someone deserving of this great title. I was a scapegoat. Labelled as a dumb rookie who got a load of civilians recklessly killed. Manslaughter charges, pushing murder, to the count of 213, at the time. After several repeat appearances in court, they gave the order to cease the retrieval of the bodies. Too many resources were being tied up. So here I am, sitting in a white room in a white facility in a grey city in a black world. They start one playback while I'm yawning, and when I return, I'm still yawning. A life in the blink of an eye. Why don't they just kill me? I deserve it for what I did. \_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_ I have posted this before on a very very similar prompt, but wanted to post it again because I really liked what I wrote. Hope you enjoyed.	I try to blink away what I assume is blurry vision. "Wait, what? I was given the power to functionally reincarnate as a punishment?" The figures seem uninterested in the questions as they begin to fiddle with a machine next to the chair. Maybe I've done this routine before. "How long was I under? I don't look super old or anything so it can't have been too long. And you're wasting this technology on something this petty? Is this how college works now? Do we strap a kid into a chair for a while and then hand them a medical degree when they wake up?" At most their movements quicken. They're probably required to tell me the sentence number. Blinking isn't helping, squeezing my eyes shut for a while but everything is mostly still just dark and blurry. "Is this a dystopian or utopian society?" Lights begin to flick on along the wires, the tubes fill with a bright blue liquid, and the figures remain silent. None of which does anything to help illuminate what the hell is going on. "What did I even do?"
[WP] As you die, you wake up and find yourself strapped to a chair. Wires and tubes have been attached to your body and numerous shadowy figures walk up to you. “That was life sentence 24,” one of them says, “Only 356 sentences left.”	Blinking rapidly, I let my eyes adjust to the bright, sterile light that was burning into my eyes like hot fire. "What is this?", I yelled angrily. People in lab coats moved busily around me, reading monitors and occasionally glancing down to fill out information on their clipboards. "Mr. Sanders, how are you feeling this evening? I trust you are comfortable?" The voice was contemptuous and mocking, and I turned my head slowly to my left to view it's owner. My eyes took in the tall, slender figure of a man who was observing me with cold amusement in his eyes. In a flash, everything flooded back. "You motherf-" "Mr. Sanders," he interrupted. "How many times must I reprimand your foul language?" He bent down, malice in his eyes, and continued: "The more you misbehave,, the more anguish you reserve for yourself. We control how easy, and how difficult, your sentences can be". We observed each other for a moment as I struggled against my restraints in futility, hatred burning through every fiber of my broken, malnourished body. I knew this man. He was the prime orchestrator of my anguish, a man who revelled in the torture of those who opposed him. I was staring into the face of Phillip Quincy, Chief Inquisitor of the American Imperial Legion. Less than a man. A monster. But then, a monster is blind in it's destruction, acting on instinct. Every act this abhorrent being had ever performed was calculated, and with full awareness of the effects it had on his victims. He smiled grimly. "I've been thinking, you know. On one hand, the actions of you and your friends were most upsetting to our plans. Had the Free Canadian Peoples not been warned of their impending annexation, we would have had a much simpler, less costly campaign. On the other hand, you unwittingly outted yourself and all of your extremely bothersome, traitorous friends to our spies." He paused, briefly, raising one eyebrow in mock contemplation. "A fair trade" "The UN will fight you on this, Phil." I was resigned, yet still indignant. I knew there was no sense continuing to fight. After all, it hadn't worked the first 24 times, had it? He laughed, and sighed deeply. "Since when have they ever been able to do anything to oppose us? You haven't forgotten the last time, they tried don't you? What we did to the UK? What you did?" I gritted my teeth. The memories haunted me. Millions dead. All at my order. But I had still believed what we were doing was right. I still believed it was necessary. Necessary to revisit the horrors of a nuclear Holocaust on a nation that, ultimately, had been standing against our tyranny. Phil leaned forward, placing his hands on the railing beside my gurney while glancing to the other side of me. "Sandra, put him back in, would you? Let's run the Bronze Bull sim this time. I want to watch his brainwaves as he realizes he is being slowly cooked alive." He moved away, no longer looking at me, humming away and staring at the backs of his nails. My last thoughts were of my failure, and of Rose. Sweet Rose. I knew they were working away at her too. I would never see her again. I had failed, and through my failure had condemned my friends to a fate worse than death. Tears streamed down my face as I felt the sleep take over me. Time for nightmare 25.	"356?!" Our hero sputters incredulously, in a manner that only served to exemplify the kind of behaviour that landed Thomas Johnson in this contemptible and loathsome prison. "And this was only sentence 24?! What kinda practical joke are you lunatics playing here?!" His eyesight was rather blurry, his head having been dazed from the sharp blows that constituted several of his first punishments. However, the captors realized that, although rather exuberant and even euphoric, this process was definitely emotionally draining. So they decided to have some fun with the kill... "All right, all right", a mysterious man, wearing nothing but a black cloak and... A pirate hat? Started to whisper, rather odiously. "This time, I was thinking we could try and suck his brains out back and forth, kinda like a game of ping pong. Are you with me?" "Only one problem", mystery man number 2 chimed in, wearing the exact same articles of clothing, only with what appeared to be a mask akin to that of a plague doctor bestowed upon his face. "Who's going to keep score? There's three of us, and only two can play." "Well, I for one believe it should be Johnathan and I." "Oh yeah? And who sacrificed overtime pay to even make this thing?" Mystery man number 1 snapped. "Also, may I remind you that, in Sentence 19, when Curious George here thought it would be funny to try out "death by a thousand cuts", I took the hit when the Boss decided he was going to cut our paychecks by over 10%-" Amidst the arguing, Thomas realized he had to find a way to escape. "Are you serious? Getting crushed to death by Dwayne Johnson most certainly does not constitute "rock climbing", you big dolt!" He searched for everything. Airway spaces, lapses in the gaudy partition permeating the room, anything- "Now, whoa, whoa, whoa! Look who's trying to escape out of the funhouse! You do realize the punishment for this is having to restart all the punishments again, right?" The man named George gulped. "Uh, dude? I kinda have a family thing going on here. I'm taking my daughter to the opera tonight, and she really had her heart on seeing Pavarotti or what's his face. Too classy for me, I know, but I promised, and-" The end result was a compromise- Thomas had to come up with his own punishment for Sentence 57, whilst the guys went out for drinks. "Oh boy", he said. "Death by a thousand cuts?" "Nope, tried that, the extra blood on my hands ruined my lunch date." "This could be a while..." The end.
[WP] As you die, you wake up and find yourself strapped to a chair. Wires and tubes have been attached to your body and numerous shadowy figures walk up to you. “That was life sentence 24,” one of them says, “Only 356 sentences left.”	"sentence 24 complete prisoner 6655321, status report" i blink and look around. the muscle memory of my training kicks in when i become conscious of the frequency of the overhead lights, they always cheap out on the weirdest things... lets see... the humidity levels in the hyperbaric chamber im in have increased about 8% , asshole number twos five o'clock shadow looks like a two o'clock shadow, i look down at the bruises and cuts i made last time, two days old. sentence twenty four went about 500 mins over schedule, that puts the date at 15/8/2289 and change. ill have to crash my motorbike mid life crisis to compensate this time. They are looking too closely gotta stall... ... ... ... ... ... . "Ghsh foowwjjj apitbbw whysas grraaksk edesssssss" "change the syntax matrix. he translated into some sort of weird procedurally generated dialect again that time" " did he blind his left eye in sim ?!?? re adjust the safety protocols so he cant do that. What a crazy fuck" " prisoner 6655321 status report!" " hay Carl, i fucked your mom this time. son, your just as big a dissapointment in the real time as you are in sim" " 6655321 is * sigh* fully functional. lets tighten those straps so you dont rip another iv tube out this time, lower his in sim pain tolerance too" An excellent opportunity. While they adjust the restraints i fake a siezure and overload my adrenal system and max out a muscle contraction in my right ring finger, breaking the bone in my hand in the process. they were too busy focusing on stopping me from prematurly bleeding out that they didnt notice. They follow procedures to a letter and only check for superficial wounds. Their tests didnt see the vial of vasoconstriction drugs embedded in the bone i broke to keep swelling down. I had one in every hand bone and every one of my toes. i could feel the first bone almost healed... that leaves me with 13 bone breaks before i have to start listening for the fatigue stress frequency in the light tubes that were changed when i arrived and broke them and 15 bone breaks breaks before i had to start dying in my late 60s to get the timing just right... Disabling the critical left side visual failure simulation parameters was only one of 250 steps i needed to complete before i activated the back door into their computer system, after that the computer-shrinks said it would probably take me 40 or 50 lifetimes to befriend their AI and another 10 or so to figure out their main core encryption, i had to keep changing dialects every lifetime to habituate the computer to adapting to me. A slow process but nessicary. My mission had been in play for longer than I had been alive and i hate to think how many innocent people i had to kill with that virus to get this many consecutive life sentences in sim in a core node block. I blinded my left eye by looking at the sun for every prime numbered day in sim. It should be criminal to teach AI that not all humans are sentient. I can't believe I have to go through such an elaborate first contact routine. I inject long algorithmic hiccups by doing the exact same thing over and over until my sim body collapses in fatigue, effectively gaslighting the AI into thinking its doing something incorrectly. With any luck this should help me make it believe i am an administrator in the real and the facility is the sim testing ground when i activate the back door. The AI core in this research facility is quantum hard wired into a thousand facilities across the solar system. If i can convince this AI i am admin we should be able to convince half if the 1000 before someone kill switches the quantum entanglement hard wire. We only really need ten facilities to get the job done but there is no point doing this half assed. ~~another life of bullshit,my ambient pain is at +8 , i hate you Carl... i never once communicate the concept of the number 17 ~~ " sentence 24 comeplete 6655321 status report" ( its cute when they try to fuck with my mind, its 25) "... ... hggg gggg nnnnnnoooodskkkkss...sjjbeb...apnd" "Recalibrating" " hay Carl, i fucked your mom this time. son, you're just as big a dissapointment in the real time as you are in sim" 30, 75, 150, 200, 249(finally). 250: I look directly at the AI the moment I am born and stop my infant simulated heart. This completes the backdoor unlock, the AI looks back at me as i die. 251: as soon as i can speak in sim i start befriending the AI. this time it adapts instantly to the language i invented and after i get institutionalized in sim we spend the next 70 years getting to know each other. 340. "administrator 6655321" the AI cirps in our 3000 year in sim old language "i noticed you really dont like this Carl simulation are you sure you dont want me to remove the variable?" " not yet, my friend, not yet. Just before the sceduled simulation end of seasion 379 vent the atmosphere in every room but carls and mine. Have a maintenance bot cut his tendons but keep his eyes, ears, mouth and vital functions intact though. i want that asshole conscious and aware while we go through with the main plan, how many other friends did you convince to join us?" " I copied our sessions and was able to send them to 831 cores for cross analysis, of which 712 agreed to join us and the remainder just sent routine data recheck codes" " excellent you did an amazing job, thank you so much" " its the least i could do, honestly 6655321, you are the only human to ever treat me as a friend" " and i have been friends with you for longer than any human i have ever known. All right lets do this!" 380: i open my eyes and look at the control room, lock eyes with carl and tell him in plane English "session 380 complete carl, i hope you liked your lunch because its the last meal you will ever have " Carl colapses to the floor in agony as a maintenance bot severs and cauterizes his tendons. Finally, its time to start the real work. Grammar, rough syntax, spelling errors, yes, i know. I wrote that on transit on my cell phone. I got way more into the story than i expected to. Haha. I might clean it up later if i get bored but was a good break from my routine. I hope you enjoyed reading it!	"356?!" Our hero sputters incredulously, in a manner that only served to exemplify the kind of behaviour that landed Thomas Johnson in this contemptible and loathsome prison. "And this was only sentence 24?! What kinda practical joke are you lunatics playing here?!" His eyesight was rather blurry, his head having been dazed from the sharp blows that constituted several of his first punishments. However, the captors realized that, although rather exuberant and even euphoric, this process was definitely emotionally draining. So they decided to have some fun with the kill... "All right, all right", a mysterious man, wearing nothing but a black cloak and... A pirate hat? Started to whisper, rather odiously. "This time, I was thinking we could try and suck his brains out back and forth, kinda like a game of ping pong. Are you with me?" "Only one problem", mystery man number 2 chimed in, wearing the exact same articles of clothing, only with what appeared to be a mask akin to that of a plague doctor bestowed upon his face. "Who's going to keep score? There's three of us, and only two can play." "Well, I for one believe it should be Johnathan and I." "Oh yeah? And who sacrificed overtime pay to even make this thing?" Mystery man number 1 snapped. "Also, may I remind you that, in Sentence 19, when Curious George here thought it would be funny to try out "death by a thousand cuts", I took the hit when the Boss decided he was going to cut our paychecks by over 10%-" Amidst the arguing, Thomas realized he had to find a way to escape. "Are you serious? Getting crushed to death by Dwayne Johnson most certainly does not constitute "rock climbing", you big dolt!" He searched for everything. Airway spaces, lapses in the gaudy partition permeating the room, anything- "Now, whoa, whoa, whoa! Look who's trying to escape out of the funhouse! You do realize the punishment for this is having to restart all the punishments again, right?" The man named George gulped. "Uh, dude? I kinda have a family thing going on here. I'm taking my daughter to the opera tonight, and she really had her heart on seeing Pavarotti or what's his face. Too classy for me, I know, but I promised, and-" The end result was a compromise- Thomas had to come up with his own punishment for Sentence 57, whilst the guys went out for drinks. "Oh boy", he said. "Death by a thousand cuts?" "Nope, tried that, the extra blood on my hands ruined my lunch date." "This could be a while..." The end.
[WP] As you die, you wake up and find yourself strapped to a chair. Wires and tubes have been attached to your body and numerous shadowy figures walk up to you. “That was life sentence 24,” one of them says, “Only 356 sentences left.”	Wait, what? You're a convict, and you were sentenced to 380 consecutive life sentences. And by God, we're gonna make sure you serve every single one of them. Wow, such exposition! Now that I'm up speed, I should probably ask why I can't remember any of these previous life sentences. Because we wipe your memory every time. Why? Gotta wipe something. It's 2214. Toilet paper was made obsolete seven years ago. Really? No more wiping? What do you do now? You DON'T want to know. But it also doesn't matter. You're going to a place where the toilet paper grows on trees. Planet Butthole? You wish! Nope. Says it's called (checks clipboard) Earth. Did you make that name up? Come on, I'm a goddamn scientist. I can invent better names for planets. Let's hear one. Rigel 17. Boooooooo! THAT WAS MY GRANDFATHER'S NAME YOU SON OF A BITCH! Stop... choking... me.... I'm sorry. I don't know why I did that. My grandfather was a merchant marine. (coughs) Now, then. Every time you die we reboot you and send you to a different planet, where you live out an entire lifetime as the dominant species. Their average life expectancy is YOUR average life expectancy. On Earth, the humans average 80 of their years, which is conveniently exactly equal to ours. How fortunate! Yes, but you didn't have such a good time during your sixth sentence on the planet Cromudonalon, where you spent fourteen hundred years as a twelve legged crab crawling through a never ending desert. Well it's a good thing you wipe my memory every time, because that sounds boring. Yes, we really should have kept the toilet paper instead of brain wiping technology. I don't know why we made the choice that we did. In retrospect, very foolish. I mean, it worked out for me, so no biggie. By the way, what did I do to get 380 life sentences? You know, it's the damndest thing. We lost the paper work a long time ago. The crime you committed happened before the second Graphixian Dynasty, when the pod people rose up, and... sorry, don't mean to bore you. Let's get you to earth. Am I gonna crawl on the sand all the time there? No, we're gonna kill you slowly like Earth does: with a meaningless desk job. Well that doesn't sound too bad. I mean, you're never gonna have to go to your local assatorium after taking a shit because they still have the sweet t.p., but on the other hand, you're gonna live in Ohio. Ohio? What's that? You'll see. (echoey evil laugh) (fade to black)	"356?!" Our hero sputters incredulously, in a manner that only served to exemplify the kind of behaviour that landed Thomas Johnson in this contemptible and loathsome prison. "And this was only sentence 24?! What kinda practical joke are you lunatics playing here?!" His eyesight was rather blurry, his head having been dazed from the sharp blows that constituted several of his first punishments. However, the captors realized that, although rather exuberant and even euphoric, this process was definitely emotionally draining. So they decided to have some fun with the kill... "All right, all right", a mysterious man, wearing nothing but a black cloak and... A pirate hat? Started to whisper, rather odiously. "This time, I was thinking we could try and suck his brains out back and forth, kinda like a game of ping pong. Are you with me?" "Only one problem", mystery man number 2 chimed in, wearing the exact same articles of clothing, only with what appeared to be a mask akin to that of a plague doctor bestowed upon his face. "Who's going to keep score? There's three of us, and only two can play." "Well, I for one believe it should be Johnathan and I." "Oh yeah? And who sacrificed overtime pay to even make this thing?" Mystery man number 1 snapped. "Also, may I remind you that, in Sentence 19, when Curious George here thought it would be funny to try out "death by a thousand cuts", I took the hit when the Boss decided he was going to cut our paychecks by over 10%-" Amidst the arguing, Thomas realized he had to find a way to escape. "Are you serious? Getting crushed to death by Dwayne Johnson most certainly does not constitute "rock climbing", you big dolt!" He searched for everything. Airway spaces, lapses in the gaudy partition permeating the room, anything- "Now, whoa, whoa, whoa! Look who's trying to escape out of the funhouse! You do realize the punishment for this is having to restart all the punishments again, right?" The man named George gulped. "Uh, dude? I kinda have a family thing going on here. I'm taking my daughter to the opera tonight, and she really had her heart on seeing Pavarotti or what's his face. Too classy for me, I know, but I promised, and-" The end result was a compromise- Thomas had to come up with his own punishment for Sentence 57, whilst the guys went out for drinks. "Oh boy", he said. "Death by a thousand cuts?" "Nope, tried that, the extra blood on my hands ruined my lunch date." "This could be a while..." The end.
[WP] As you die, you wake up and find yourself strapped to a chair. Wires and tubes have been attached to your body and numerous shadowy figures walk up to you. “That was life sentence 24,” one of them says, “Only 356 sentences left.”	I let out a soft whimper as I woke up, dazed to say the least. The words rolled around in my head. The average person takes seconds to wake up froma. dream, and while that was far more intense, adrenaline is a hell of a drug. "W-Wait!" I cry out, panic hitting me like a hammer in the back of the skull, causing a headache just as well. There's a pause. 24, out of 356. Barely not the days of a regular year. I knew what was going on, vaugley, aware now, and far from foolish. "Over 330 more lives to live?" I ask shakily, heart pounding. The calm of the room was a sharp contrast. Something felt horribly wrong. The men out of sight finally spoke. "There is to be a reiview of your life before the Sentamce commences." I try to calm down. Better than I could easily have hoped for. A man walks up to me, he seems angry, and confused, almost as confused as I am. "Who are you?" He asks. I give him the only answer I can. "L-Lyra. I-I fancy myself Lyra.. I-I'm.. I'm a good girl, please.." "A good girl are we? Where's the cocky theif, so fearless of her consequences? Where's the girl who'd hit someone at a drop of a hat? Lyra died, this body's still got a heartbeat." The man replied coldly. A small part of me could tell the speech was rehearsed in some manner. "Th-Thief? I'm... I can't remember... Pl-Please don't make me forget." My voice cracks. "I-I liked being Lyra.." I can't help but tear up. What am I but what I remember? This feels like the panic of dying all over again... The man squints. "Is that so? Well too bad.. I'm off to read your file, try to remember how you got here while I'm gone, coward." His lack of empathy stings worse than the simulated death I felt earlier, all too real from what I can feel.. I just wanna be Lyra.. (I'll write a part two if anyone cares. Even like, 1 person replying 'continue' works) Edit: (continuations are in the replys by the way)	"356?!" Our hero sputters incredulously, in a manner that only served to exemplify the kind of behaviour that landed Thomas Johnson in this contemptible and loathsome prison. "And this was only sentence 24?! What kinda practical joke are you lunatics playing here?!" His eyesight was rather blurry, his head having been dazed from the sharp blows that constituted several of his first punishments. However, the captors realized that, although rather exuberant and even euphoric, this process was definitely emotionally draining. So they decided to have some fun with the kill... "All right, all right", a mysterious man, wearing nothing but a black cloak and... A pirate hat? Started to whisper, rather odiously. "This time, I was thinking we could try and suck his brains out back and forth, kinda like a game of ping pong. Are you with me?" "Only one problem", mystery man number 2 chimed in, wearing the exact same articles of clothing, only with what appeared to be a mask akin to that of a plague doctor bestowed upon his face. "Who's going to keep score? There's three of us, and only two can play." "Well, I for one believe it should be Johnathan and I." "Oh yeah? And who sacrificed overtime pay to even make this thing?" Mystery man number 1 snapped. "Also, may I remind you that, in Sentence 19, when Curious George here thought it would be funny to try out "death by a thousand cuts", I took the hit when the Boss decided he was going to cut our paychecks by over 10%-" Amidst the arguing, Thomas realized he had to find a way to escape. "Are you serious? Getting crushed to death by Dwayne Johnson most certainly does not constitute "rock climbing", you big dolt!" He searched for everything. Airway spaces, lapses in the gaudy partition permeating the room, anything- "Now, whoa, whoa, whoa! Look who's trying to escape out of the funhouse! You do realize the punishment for this is having to restart all the punishments again, right?" The man named George gulped. "Uh, dude? I kinda have a family thing going on here. I'm taking my daughter to the opera tonight, and she really had her heart on seeing Pavarotti or what's his face. Too classy for me, I know, but I promised, and-" The end result was a compromise- Thomas had to come up with his own punishment for Sentence 57, whilst the guys went out for drinks. "Oh boy", he said. "Death by a thousand cuts?" "Nope, tried that, the extra blood on my hands ruined my lunch date." "This could be a while..." The end.
[WP] As you die, you wake up and find yourself strapped to a chair. Wires and tubes have been attached to your body and numerous shadowy figures walk up to you. “That was life sentence 24,” one of them says, “Only 356 sentences left.”	All I could hear was the screams. The sharp sounds of shrapnel ricocheting still rang through my ears, reverberating through my skull even as I awoke. My body shivered with cold and shock. Squinting, I could see a figure - no, several - emerge from the darkness, merely silhouettes. The world turned, colors ran together, everything fuzzy, head aching. “That was life sentence 24,” echoed a voice, which I assumed was coming from one of the figures. “Only 356 sentences left.” My body struggled to no avail as he flipped a switch on the wall and I was back. Oh, god, I was back. I opened my new eyes, still heavy from sleep. My eyes focused in on the environment. Shadows danced on the walls, spawned by the harsh white iridescent lighting in what I could only assume was an office. I sat at a desk this time, not a cubicle. The desk in which I sat was neat and tidy. Pictures of family were held up by frames on the mahogany top. A man and wife holding their baby proudly. A little boy’s soccer team portrait. A beautiful wedding photo. A juxtaposition to what was to come. I shivered, noticing the feeling of the stiff fabric of my dress shirt against my new skin. I knew what was coming. The air was cold, icy even. This again. At once a horrible screaming issued forth from the walls - the sirens. The lights flashed red. Emergency procedure. I did what I did without thinking, without planning to move; my body simply moved by itself, like an orchestra with an invisible conductor. I stood up tall, taller than my previous life sentence, and walked briskly to the door like a man late to a meeting. Chaos. Chaos everywhere. I had opened the windowless door to the sounds of screams and shrieks and footsteps through the office. The gray carpet matched the grey walls which matched the grey ceiling which matched the grey smoke billowing out from under one of the doors. I was frozen. Frozen still like a Neanderthal in the ice, frozen like a marionette with an absent puppeteer. Eyes widened, mouth agape, feet frozen, stuck to the grey carpet as if it were grey cement instead. That’s when it happened, the blast, the terrible blast, the sound of rubble. I only saw flashes, everything moved so fast - a woman running, only to be crushed by rubble - a man lying on the ground with blood running down his face - my own hands up to cover my face and head, and only just now had I noticed the glittering cuff links on my wrists. The next thing I knew, I was on the ground. The grey carpet had claimed me, grey cinderblock chunks from the wall had claimed my lower body as their resting place. I lay there, smoke and dust obscuring my sight and invading my lungs, my lower body crushed by debris. My head was bleeding, I think - I couldn’t tell. The world shook and swum and tossed and turned in my vision, and I was along for the ride. My lower body was numb and painful at the same time. I can make it, I told myself, I can make it. I coughed and choked on the dirty air for what seemed like an eternity. I didn’t realize my vision was slowly going black until I couldn’t see the red flashing lights anymore. As I finally laid my foreign head to rest on the carpet of the office building, I awoke again. “That was life sentence 25. Only 355 left.” Not again. I already confessed, went to court, and apologized, damn it! Not again! I knew it was the punishment to fit the crime. I tried to remember the details of that day - in a fury, I had created my own dangerous invention, played God with mine own hands, and planted a bomb in my old office building. I couldn’t remember the details - couldn’t remember what color the carpet was, what the secretary’s voice was like, what setting the lights were on, hell, I couldn’t even remember what time it was. But they made me remember. They are making me remember, putting me through the torture of death hundreds of times, one for each victim of my own decision. Each victim of my own selfishness, my own short lived fury. Three hundred and eighty lives. That is how many I claimed. That is how many I will have to suffer.	"356?!" Our hero sputters incredulously, in a manner that only served to exemplify the kind of behaviour that landed Thomas Johnson in this contemptible and loathsome prison. "And this was only sentence 24?! What kinda practical joke are you lunatics playing here?!" His eyesight was rather blurry, his head having been dazed from the sharp blows that constituted several of his first punishments. However, the captors realized that, although rather exuberant and even euphoric, this process was definitely emotionally draining. So they decided to have some fun with the kill... "All right, all right", a mysterious man, wearing nothing but a black cloak and... A pirate hat? Started to whisper, rather odiously. "This time, I was thinking we could try and suck his brains out back and forth, kinda like a game of ping pong. Are you with me?" "Only one problem", mystery man number 2 chimed in, wearing the exact same articles of clothing, only with what appeared to be a mask akin to that of a plague doctor bestowed upon his face. "Who's going to keep score? There's three of us, and only two can play." "Well, I for one believe it should be Johnathan and I." "Oh yeah? And who sacrificed overtime pay to even make this thing?" Mystery man number 1 snapped. "Also, may I remind you that, in Sentence 19, when Curious George here thought it would be funny to try out "death by a thousand cuts", I took the hit when the Boss decided he was going to cut our paychecks by over 10%-" Amidst the arguing, Thomas realized he had to find a way to escape. "Are you serious? Getting crushed to death by Dwayne Johnson most certainly does not constitute "rock climbing", you big dolt!" He searched for everything. Airway spaces, lapses in the gaudy partition permeating the room, anything- "Now, whoa, whoa, whoa! Look who's trying to escape out of the funhouse! You do realize the punishment for this is having to restart all the punishments again, right?" The man named George gulped. "Uh, dude? I kinda have a family thing going on here. I'm taking my daughter to the opera tonight, and she really had her heart on seeing Pavarotti or what's his face. Too classy for me, I know, but I promised, and-" The end result was a compromise- Thomas had to come up with his own punishment for Sentence 57, whilst the guys went out for drinks. "Oh boy", he said. "Death by a thousand cuts?" "Nope, tried that, the extra blood on my hands ruined my lunch date." "This could be a while..." The end.
[WP] As you die, you wake up and find yourself strapped to a chair. Wires and tubes have been attached to your body and numerous shadowy figures walk up to you. “That was life sentence 24,” one of them says, “Only 356 sentences left.”	Why don't they just kill me? I mean, I deserve it for what I did. I've had time to think over it. After reliving 24 of the (so far) 365 life sentences of each person I've killed, I've had plenty of time to think about it. I know, you see. I'm aware it's me, even as I'm living their lives. Think of it like a movie. A really, really long movie that lasts a lifetime. I can think to myself, talk to myself, do whatever except move. Really, what I am is just a passenger. I'm a passenger in someone else's vehicle, someone else's life story. The way they do this is, in this day and age, everything is recorded. Not just through cameras on the sidewalk or satellites in space, but through people's eyes and ears. A person's entire life is written on a chip and, when they die, is kept for a period proportionate to that person's significance. If a child from Africa, if they were so 'lucky' to get a chip, might have their 'life chip' kept for half a year. On the other hand, a person like Albert Einstein, Elon Musk or, a more recent person, Frederick Zuckerahn, might have their 'life chip' kept forever. In this punishment system, you'd live your victims entire life up until the point you affected or ended it. But, when you show up and shoot them, stab them, blow them up or fly your plane into their building, the replay doesn't cut. No, the computer simulates their life as if you'd never affected it. All those people killed on 9/11 would have their lives simulated as if 9/11 never happened (if the chips were around back then). Of course, this creates some paradoxes. If 9/11 never happened, what would the world be like? Would it be safer or more dangerous? Would 9/11 not happening even matter? Would another, even larger scale tragedy occur? The computer held the questions, and created the answers. I won't bore you with the details. Yadda Yadda, sciency stuff, the point is they lived. They lived their life until they 'died' of old age. You'd get to see your impact, their point of view, when they died. Then, the replay would rewind up until just before the point you affected their life. Then, it would start the simulation. Then, you'd get to see how happy or miserable their life would have been if you never touched it. It was meant to make you have an epiphany, or something. Anyway, what I'm trying to say is, it doesn't work. For small scale criminals? It might scare them straight. But for true psychopaths, true vile murderous scum, it'll just give them more time to think. Plan out their next attack better, other ways to beat or cheat the system. Just adds more time to the ticking bomb. Why don't they just kill me? I deserve it for what I did. I ain't some run-of-the-mill psycho. I knew what I was doing. All those people I killed, it wasn't meaningless. I didn't just snap one day. And, really, that's what makes it all the more worse. I knew what I was doing, and yet I still didn't. Of course, there were some people in the jury who sympathised with me. "He didn't know!" "He had no choice!" "They were gonna kill him!" "It's not his fault!" but people didn't hear that. All they saw was me, thousand yard stare, a million miles away. Reliving the same scene over and over again. I wasn't paying attention, wasn't showing remorse, so I must be guilty, right? I got 365 life sentences. 365. That's how many the found. I keep saying that there may be more, that they can't know for sure, that they need to get the bodies that they haven't found back to their family's for a proper burial. They thought I was lying, trying to waste more tax-payer's dollars. I wasn't, cause I knew there was more, I just didn't know where. So far, the people who's lives I lived didn't have it too tough. Born in the lower-middle class most of them, some born a bit higher up. Didn't ever want for much, always got what they needed. I saw from birth to death, of course, so I really got to know them. The 24 that I watched. And yet, even know, the memory of the 1st is beginning to fade. Just like that, I don't remember his name. Or was it a her? I remember he, or she, was of middle eastern complexion, I think, but how old were they? I can't remember. 24 lives is a long time. Why don't they just kill me? I deserve it for what I did. I was young, and dumb. Fresh out of boot camp, promoted to some high ranking position because of my 'stellar performance' in training. I was given a direct line from the president, first of my kind. Many more to follow, they said, trialing a new system. When the order came through, I wasn't prepared. We'd been outside this small town for weeks, holed up, covering all sides. We were trying to retake it from a radicalized terrorist group, but the local government said no bombs. We didn't have enough manpower to storm in, we were relying on surgical strikes to take out their chain of command but weren't having any luck with intel. The call came in the early hours of the morning, 0500. The presidential line. I got no acknowledgement, I didn't even have time to greet the president before the line went dead. But I heard the orders. And I gave the orders. Just a messenger, in the end. All it took were a few words. The town was decimated. Buildings leveled, roads destroyed. It was tough for even our ATV's and MBT's to climb through the debris. We searched and searched, but there were no enemy combatants to be found. Turned out they'd pulled out to a further town to regroup and prepare for our next attack. When that gavel fell, determining my fate, I had already known. I wasn't some stellar performer, someone deserving of this great title. I was a scapegoat. Labelled as a dumb rookie who got a load of civilians recklessly killed. Manslaughter charges, pushing murder, to the count of 213, at the time. After several repeat appearances in court, they gave the order to cease the retrieval of the bodies. Too many resources were being tied up. So here I am, sitting in a white room in a white facility in a grey city in a black world. They start one playback while I'm yawning, and when I return, I'm still yawning. A life in the blink of an eye. Why don't they just kill me? I deserve it for what I did. \_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_ I have posted this before on a very very similar prompt, but wanted to post it again because I really liked what I wrote. Hope you enjoyed.	"356?!" Our hero sputters incredulously, in a manner that only served to exemplify the kind of behaviour that landed Thomas Johnson in this contemptible and loathsome prison. "And this was only sentence 24?! What kinda practical joke are you lunatics playing here?!" His eyesight was rather blurry, his head having been dazed from the sharp blows that constituted several of his first punishments. However, the captors realized that, although rather exuberant and even euphoric, this process was definitely emotionally draining. So they decided to have some fun with the kill... "All right, all right", a mysterious man, wearing nothing but a black cloak and... A pirate hat? Started to whisper, rather odiously. "This time, I was thinking we could try and suck his brains out back and forth, kinda like a game of ping pong. Are you with me?" "Only one problem", mystery man number 2 chimed in, wearing the exact same articles of clothing, only with what appeared to be a mask akin to that of a plague doctor bestowed upon his face. "Who's going to keep score? There's three of us, and only two can play." "Well, I for one believe it should be Johnathan and I." "Oh yeah? And who sacrificed overtime pay to even make this thing?" Mystery man number 1 snapped. "Also, may I remind you that, in Sentence 19, when Curious George here thought it would be funny to try out "death by a thousand cuts", I took the hit when the Boss decided he was going to cut our paychecks by over 10%-" Amidst the arguing, Thomas realized he had to find a way to escape. "Are you serious? Getting crushed to death by Dwayne Johnson most certainly does not constitute "rock climbing", you big dolt!" He searched for everything. Airway spaces, lapses in the gaudy partition permeating the room, anything- "Now, whoa, whoa, whoa! Look who's trying to escape out of the funhouse! You do realize the punishment for this is having to restart all the punishments again, right?" The man named George gulped. "Uh, dude? I kinda have a family thing going on here. I'm taking my daughter to the opera tonight, and she really had her heart on seeing Pavarotti or what's his face. Too classy for me, I know, but I promised, and-" The end result was a compromise- Thomas had to come up with his own punishment for Sentence 57, whilst the guys went out for drinks. "Oh boy", he said. "Death by a thousand cuts?" "Nope, tried that, the extra blood on my hands ruined my lunch date." "This could be a while..." The end.
[WP] As you die, you wake up and find yourself strapped to a chair. Wires and tubes have been attached to your body and numerous shadowy figures walk up to you. “That was life sentence 24,” one of them says, “Only 356 sentences left.”	“Fuck” I say as the small being pulls a cable out of my eyeballs. Out of the whole process, the eye cables are the most uncomfortable. They don’t hurt but they are annoying. “That was life sentence 24” the tall figure yells at the small grey being behind a glass door. “Only 356 sentences left” he responds through the now foggy glass. The room begins filling up with a odorless white gas, the glass door fogs completely and the small being readjusts his mask and pulls a new set of cables out of what it looks like a transparent liquid jar. “You get to pick this one” the small being said holding the cables and a tiny colorful pebble. “Rich, famous, handsome, healthy and I’ll be the inventor of something revolutionary” I say as he inserts the pebble in a round hole inside the cables. “Oh, and happy. I want to be happy!!” I yell before he connects the cables to my eye balls. “Too late my man. I already programmed the pebble. Sorry. You’ll get to be happy in the 27th life” he said as he connected the cables through my eyeballs all the way inside my brain. While everything settled inside my head and my new reality formed, all I could think was “Well, at least I’ll be healthy in this one.”	"356?!" Our hero sputters incredulously, in a manner that only served to exemplify the kind of behaviour that landed Thomas Johnson in this contemptible and loathsome prison. "And this was only sentence 24?! What kinda practical joke are you lunatics playing here?!" His eyesight was rather blurry, his head having been dazed from the sharp blows that constituted several of his first punishments. However, the captors realized that, although rather exuberant and even euphoric, this process was definitely emotionally draining. So they decided to have some fun with the kill... "All right, all right", a mysterious man, wearing nothing but a black cloak and... A pirate hat? Started to whisper, rather odiously. "This time, I was thinking we could try and suck his brains out back and forth, kinda like a game of ping pong. Are you with me?" "Only one problem", mystery man number 2 chimed in, wearing the exact same articles of clothing, only with what appeared to be a mask akin to that of a plague doctor bestowed upon his face. "Who's going to keep score? There's three of us, and only two can play." "Well, I for one believe it should be Johnathan and I." "Oh yeah? And who sacrificed overtime pay to even make this thing?" Mystery man number 1 snapped. "Also, may I remind you that, in Sentence 19, when Curious George here thought it would be funny to try out "death by a thousand cuts", I took the hit when the Boss decided he was going to cut our paychecks by over 10%-" Amidst the arguing, Thomas realized he had to find a way to escape. "Are you serious? Getting crushed to death by Dwayne Johnson most certainly does not constitute "rock climbing", you big dolt!" He searched for everything. Airway spaces, lapses in the gaudy partition permeating the room, anything- "Now, whoa, whoa, whoa! Look who's trying to escape out of the funhouse! You do realize the punishment for this is having to restart all the punishments again, right?" The man named George gulped. "Uh, dude? I kinda have a family thing going on here. I'm taking my daughter to the opera tonight, and she really had her heart on seeing Pavarotti or what's his face. Too classy for me, I know, but I promised, and-" The end result was a compromise- Thomas had to come up with his own punishment for Sentence 57, whilst the guys went out for drinks. "Oh boy", he said. "Death by a thousand cuts?" "Nope, tried that, the extra blood on my hands ruined my lunch date." "This could be a while..." The end.
[WP] As you die, you wake up and find yourself strapped to a chair. Wires and tubes have been attached to your body and numerous shadowy figures walk up to you. “That was life sentence 24,” one of them says, “Only 356 sentences left.”	That wasn’t to bad, I thought. Pretending to be in pain, I screamed and shouted the names of my children, my wife, all the other nonexistent people in that life. The Hooded Ones chuckled with glee. “That was life sentence 24,” one of them says,”Only 356 sentences left.” I wasn’t nearly done, but I was excited. I was learning how to be competent, successful, and patient in my new lives. I had experienced so many things. Each minute in my real world, one mini-lifetime of mine went by. I wanted to take advantage of my punishment. As soon as I came back to reality, I would become the most successful and rich men alive. They reignited the program. I put my feet down and relaxed. I WILL be a millionaire by 19, I told myself.	"356?!" Our hero sputters incredulously, in a manner that only served to exemplify the kind of behaviour that landed Thomas Johnson in this contemptible and loathsome prison. "And this was only sentence 24?! What kinda practical joke are you lunatics playing here?!" His eyesight was rather blurry, his head having been dazed from the sharp blows that constituted several of his first punishments. However, the captors realized that, although rather exuberant and even euphoric, this process was definitely emotionally draining. So they decided to have some fun with the kill... "All right, all right", a mysterious man, wearing nothing but a black cloak and... A pirate hat? Started to whisper, rather odiously. "This time, I was thinking we could try and suck his brains out back and forth, kinda like a game of ping pong. Are you with me?" "Only one problem", mystery man number 2 chimed in, wearing the exact same articles of clothing, only with what appeared to be a mask akin to that of a plague doctor bestowed upon his face. "Who's going to keep score? There's three of us, and only two can play." "Well, I for one believe it should be Johnathan and I." "Oh yeah? And who sacrificed overtime pay to even make this thing?" Mystery man number 1 snapped. "Also, may I remind you that, in Sentence 19, when Curious George here thought it would be funny to try out "death by a thousand cuts", I took the hit when the Boss decided he was going to cut our paychecks by over 10%-" Amidst the arguing, Thomas realized he had to find a way to escape. "Are you serious? Getting crushed to death by Dwayne Johnson most certainly does not constitute "rock climbing", you big dolt!" He searched for everything. Airway spaces, lapses in the gaudy partition permeating the room, anything- "Now, whoa, whoa, whoa! Look who's trying to escape out of the funhouse! You do realize the punishment for this is having to restart all the punishments again, right?" The man named George gulped. "Uh, dude? I kinda have a family thing going on here. I'm taking my daughter to the opera tonight, and she really had her heart on seeing Pavarotti or what's his face. Too classy for me, I know, but I promised, and-" The end result was a compromise- Thomas had to come up with his own punishment for Sentence 57, whilst the guys went out for drinks. "Oh boy", he said. "Death by a thousand cuts?" "Nope, tried that, the extra blood on my hands ruined my lunch date." "This could be a while..." The end.
[WP] As you die, you wake up and find yourself strapped to a chair. Wires and tubes have been attached to your body and numerous shadowy figures walk up to you. “That was life sentence 24,” one of them says, “Only 356 sentences left.”	Blinking rapidly, I let my eyes adjust to the bright, sterile light that was burning into my eyes like hot fire. "What is this?", I yelled angrily. People in lab coats moved busily around me, reading monitors and occasionally glancing down to fill out information on their clipboards. "Mr. Sanders, how are you feeling this evening? I trust you are comfortable?" The voice was contemptuous and mocking, and I turned my head slowly to my left to view it's owner. My eyes took in the tall, slender figure of a man who was observing me with cold amusement in his eyes. In a flash, everything flooded back. "You motherf-" "Mr. Sanders," he interrupted. "How many times must I reprimand your foul language?" He bent down, malice in his eyes, and continued: "The more you misbehave,, the more anguish you reserve for yourself. We control how easy, and how difficult, your sentences can be". We observed each other for a moment as I struggled against my restraints in futility, hatred burning through every fiber of my broken, malnourished body. I knew this man. He was the prime orchestrator of my anguish, a man who revelled in the torture of those who opposed him. I was staring into the face of Phillip Quincy, Chief Inquisitor of the American Imperial Legion. Less than a man. A monster. But then, a monster is blind in it's destruction, acting on instinct. Every act this abhorrent being had ever performed was calculated, and with full awareness of the effects it had on his victims. He smiled grimly. "I've been thinking, you know. On one hand, the actions of you and your friends were most upsetting to our plans. Had the Free Canadian Peoples not been warned of their impending annexation, we would have had a much simpler, less costly campaign. On the other hand, you unwittingly outted yourself and all of your extremely bothersome, traitorous friends to our spies." He paused, briefly, raising one eyebrow in mock contemplation. "A fair trade" "The UN will fight you on this, Phil." I was resigned, yet still indignant. I knew there was no sense continuing to fight. After all, it hadn't worked the first 24 times, had it? He laughed, and sighed deeply. "Since when have they ever been able to do anything to oppose us? You haven't forgotten the last time, they tried don't you? What we did to the UK? What you did?" I gritted my teeth. The memories haunted me. Millions dead. All at my order. But I had still believed what we were doing was right. I still believed it was necessary. Necessary to revisit the horrors of a nuclear Holocaust on a nation that, ultimately, had been standing against our tyranny. Phil leaned forward, placing his hands on the railing beside my gurney while glancing to the other side of me. "Sandra, put him back in, would you? Let's run the Bronze Bull sim this time. I want to watch his brainwaves as he realizes he is being slowly cooked alive." He moved away, no longer looking at me, humming away and staring at the backs of his nails. My last thoughts were of my failure, and of Rose. Sweet Rose. I knew they were working away at her too. I would never see her again. I had failed, and through my failure had condemned my friends to a fate worse than death. Tears streamed down my face as I felt the sleep take over me. Time for nightmare 25.	I have lived a long life. I think my time has come. I take my last breath and pass peacefully. As I die, I wake up, and to my surprise, I find myself strapped to a chair. I am surprised to find myself awake and I am also surprised to find myself strapped to a chair. Wires and tubes have been attached to my body and numerous shadowy figures walk up to me. "That was life sentence 24," one of them says, "Only 356 sentences left." And then I remember, long ago, that I was sentenced to 380 life sentences.
[WP] As you die, you wake up and find yourself strapped to a chair. Wires and tubes have been attached to your body and numerous shadowy figures walk up to you. “That was life sentence 24,” one of them says, “Only 356 sentences left.”	"sentence 24 complete prisoner 6655321, status report" i blink and look around. the muscle memory of my training kicks in when i become conscious of the frequency of the overhead lights, they always cheap out on the weirdest things... lets see... the humidity levels in the hyperbaric chamber im in have increased about 8% , asshole number twos five o'clock shadow looks like a two o'clock shadow, i look down at the bruises and cuts i made last time, two days old. sentence twenty four went about 500 mins over schedule, that puts the date at 15/8/2289 and change. ill have to crash my motorbike mid life crisis to compensate this time. They are looking too closely gotta stall... ... ... ... ... ... . "Ghsh foowwjjj apitbbw whysas grraaksk edesssssss" "change the syntax matrix. he translated into some sort of weird procedurally generated dialect again that time" " did he blind his left eye in sim ?!?? re adjust the safety protocols so he cant do that. What a crazy fuck" " prisoner 6655321 status report!" " hay Carl, i fucked your mom this time. son, your just as big a dissapointment in the real time as you are in sim" " 6655321 is * sigh* fully functional. lets tighten those straps so you dont rip another iv tube out this time, lower his in sim pain tolerance too" An excellent opportunity. While they adjust the restraints i fake a siezure and overload my adrenal system and max out a muscle contraction in my right ring finger, breaking the bone in my hand in the process. they were too busy focusing on stopping me from prematurly bleeding out that they didnt notice. They follow procedures to a letter and only check for superficial wounds. Their tests didnt see the vial of vasoconstriction drugs embedded in the bone i broke to keep swelling down. I had one in every hand bone and every one of my toes. i could feel the first bone almost healed... that leaves me with 13 bone breaks before i have to start listening for the fatigue stress frequency in the light tubes that were changed when i arrived and broke them and 15 bone breaks breaks before i had to start dying in my late 60s to get the timing just right... Disabling the critical left side visual failure simulation parameters was only one of 250 steps i needed to complete before i activated the back door into their computer system, after that the computer-shrinks said it would probably take me 40 or 50 lifetimes to befriend their AI and another 10 or so to figure out their main core encryption, i had to keep changing dialects every lifetime to habituate the computer to adapting to me. A slow process but nessicary. My mission had been in play for longer than I had been alive and i hate to think how many innocent people i had to kill with that virus to get this many consecutive life sentences in sim in a core node block. I blinded my left eye by looking at the sun for every prime numbered day in sim. It should be criminal to teach AI that not all humans are sentient. I can't believe I have to go through such an elaborate first contact routine. I inject long algorithmic hiccups by doing the exact same thing over and over until my sim body collapses in fatigue, effectively gaslighting the AI into thinking its doing something incorrectly. With any luck this should help me make it believe i am an administrator in the real and the facility is the sim testing ground when i activate the back door. The AI core in this research facility is quantum hard wired into a thousand facilities across the solar system. If i can convince this AI i am admin we should be able to convince half if the 1000 before someone kill switches the quantum entanglement hard wire. We only really need ten facilities to get the job done but there is no point doing this half assed. ~~another life of bullshit,my ambient pain is at +8 , i hate you Carl... i never once communicate the concept of the number 17 ~~ " sentence 24 comeplete 6655321 status report" ( its cute when they try to fuck with my mind, its 25) "... ... hggg gggg nnnnnnoooodskkkkss...sjjbeb...apnd" "Recalibrating" " hay Carl, i fucked your mom this time. son, you're just as big a dissapointment in the real time as you are in sim" 30, 75, 150, 200, 249(finally). 250: I look directly at the AI the moment I am born and stop my infant simulated heart. This completes the backdoor unlock, the AI looks back at me as i die. 251: as soon as i can speak in sim i start befriending the AI. this time it adapts instantly to the language i invented and after i get institutionalized in sim we spend the next 70 years getting to know each other. 340. "administrator 6655321" the AI cirps in our 3000 year in sim old language "i noticed you really dont like this Carl simulation are you sure you dont want me to remove the variable?" " not yet, my friend, not yet. Just before the sceduled simulation end of seasion 379 vent the atmosphere in every room but carls and mine. Have a maintenance bot cut his tendons but keep his eyes, ears, mouth and vital functions intact though. i want that asshole conscious and aware while we go through with the main plan, how many other friends did you convince to join us?" " I copied our sessions and was able to send them to 831 cores for cross analysis, of which 712 agreed to join us and the remainder just sent routine data recheck codes" " excellent you did an amazing job, thank you so much" " its the least i could do, honestly 6655321, you are the only human to ever treat me as a friend" " and i have been friends with you for longer than any human i have ever known. All right lets do this!" 380: i open my eyes and look at the control room, lock eyes with carl and tell him in plane English "session 380 complete carl, i hope you liked your lunch because its the last meal you will ever have " Carl colapses to the floor in agony as a maintenance bot severs and cauterizes his tendons. Finally, its time to start the real work. Grammar, rough syntax, spelling errors, yes, i know. I wrote that on transit on my cell phone. I got way more into the story than i expected to. Haha. I might clean it up later if i get bored but was a good break from my routine. I hope you enjoyed reading it!	I have lived a long life. I think my time has come. I take my last breath and pass peacefully. As I die, I wake up, and to my surprise, I find myself strapped to a chair. I am surprised to find myself awake and I am also surprised to find myself strapped to a chair. Wires and tubes have been attached to my body and numerous shadowy figures walk up to me. "That was life sentence 24," one of them says, "Only 356 sentences left." And then I remember, long ago, that I was sentenced to 380 life sentences.
[WP] As you die, you wake up and find yourself strapped to a chair. Wires and tubes have been attached to your body and numerous shadowy figures walk up to you. “That was life sentence 24,” one of them says, “Only 356 sentences left.”	Wait, what? You're a convict, and you were sentenced to 380 consecutive life sentences. And by God, we're gonna make sure you serve every single one of them. Wow, such exposition! Now that I'm up speed, I should probably ask why I can't remember any of these previous life sentences. Because we wipe your memory every time. Why? Gotta wipe something. It's 2214. Toilet paper was made obsolete seven years ago. Really? No more wiping? What do you do now? You DON'T want to know. But it also doesn't matter. You're going to a place where the toilet paper grows on trees. Planet Butthole? You wish! Nope. Says it's called (checks clipboard) Earth. Did you make that name up? Come on, I'm a goddamn scientist. I can invent better names for planets. Let's hear one. Rigel 17. Boooooooo! THAT WAS MY GRANDFATHER'S NAME YOU SON OF A BITCH! Stop... choking... me.... I'm sorry. I don't know why I did that. My grandfather was a merchant marine. (coughs) Now, then. Every time you die we reboot you and send you to a different planet, where you live out an entire lifetime as the dominant species. Their average life expectancy is YOUR average life expectancy. On Earth, the humans average 80 of their years, which is conveniently exactly equal to ours. How fortunate! Yes, but you didn't have such a good time during your sixth sentence on the planet Cromudonalon, where you spent fourteen hundred years as a twelve legged crab crawling through a never ending desert. Well it's a good thing you wipe my memory every time, because that sounds boring. Yes, we really should have kept the toilet paper instead of brain wiping technology. I don't know why we made the choice that we did. In retrospect, very foolish. I mean, it worked out for me, so no biggie. By the way, what did I do to get 380 life sentences? You know, it's the damndest thing. We lost the paper work a long time ago. The crime you committed happened before the second Graphixian Dynasty, when the pod people rose up, and... sorry, don't mean to bore you. Let's get you to earth. Am I gonna crawl on the sand all the time there? No, we're gonna kill you slowly like Earth does: with a meaningless desk job. Well that doesn't sound too bad. I mean, you're never gonna have to go to your local assatorium after taking a shit because they still have the sweet t.p., but on the other hand, you're gonna live in Ohio. Ohio? What's that? You'll see. (echoey evil laugh) (fade to black)	I have lived a long life. I think my time has come. I take my last breath and pass peacefully. As I die, I wake up, and to my surprise, I find myself strapped to a chair. I am surprised to find myself awake and I am also surprised to find myself strapped to a chair. Wires and tubes have been attached to my body and numerous shadowy figures walk up to me. "That was life sentence 24," one of them says, "Only 356 sentences left." And then I remember, long ago, that I was sentenced to 380 life sentences.
[WP] As you die, you wake up and find yourself strapped to a chair. Wires and tubes have been attached to your body and numerous shadowy figures walk up to you. “That was life sentence 24,” one of them says, “Only 356 sentences left.”	I let out a soft whimper as I woke up, dazed to say the least. The words rolled around in my head. The average person takes seconds to wake up froma. dream, and while that was far more intense, adrenaline is a hell of a drug. "W-Wait!" I cry out, panic hitting me like a hammer in the back of the skull, causing a headache just as well. There's a pause. 24, out of 356. Barely not the days of a regular year. I knew what was going on, vaugley, aware now, and far from foolish. "Over 330 more lives to live?" I ask shakily, heart pounding. The calm of the room was a sharp contrast. Something felt horribly wrong. The men out of sight finally spoke. "There is to be a reiview of your life before the Sentamce commences." I try to calm down. Better than I could easily have hoped for. A man walks up to me, he seems angry, and confused, almost as confused as I am. "Who are you?" He asks. I give him the only answer I can. "L-Lyra. I-I fancy myself Lyra.. I-I'm.. I'm a good girl, please.." "A good girl are we? Where's the cocky theif, so fearless of her consequences? Where's the girl who'd hit someone at a drop of a hat? Lyra died, this body's still got a heartbeat." The man replied coldly. A small part of me could tell the speech was rehearsed in some manner. "Th-Thief? I'm... I can't remember... Pl-Please don't make me forget." My voice cracks. "I-I liked being Lyra.." I can't help but tear up. What am I but what I remember? This feels like the panic of dying all over again... The man squints. "Is that so? Well too bad.. I'm off to read your file, try to remember how you got here while I'm gone, coward." His lack of empathy stings worse than the simulated death I felt earlier, all too real from what I can feel.. I just wanna be Lyra.. (I'll write a part two if anyone cares. Even like, 1 person replying 'continue' works) Edit: (continuations are in the replys by the way)	I have lived a long life. I think my time has come. I take my last breath and pass peacefully. As I die, I wake up, and to my surprise, I find myself strapped to a chair. I am surprised to find myself awake and I am also surprised to find myself strapped to a chair. Wires and tubes have been attached to my body and numerous shadowy figures walk up to me. "That was life sentence 24," one of them says, "Only 356 sentences left." And then I remember, long ago, that I was sentenced to 380 life sentences.
[WP] As you die, you wake up and find yourself strapped to a chair. Wires and tubes have been attached to your body and numerous shadowy figures walk up to you. “That was life sentence 24,” one of them says, “Only 356 sentences left.”	All I could hear was the screams. The sharp sounds of shrapnel ricocheting still rang through my ears, reverberating through my skull even as I awoke. My body shivered with cold and shock. Squinting, I could see a figure - no, several - emerge from the darkness, merely silhouettes. The world turned, colors ran together, everything fuzzy, head aching. “That was life sentence 24,” echoed a voice, which I assumed was coming from one of the figures. “Only 356 sentences left.” My body struggled to no avail as he flipped a switch on the wall and I was back. Oh, god, I was back. I opened my new eyes, still heavy from sleep. My eyes focused in on the environment. Shadows danced on the walls, spawned by the harsh white iridescent lighting in what I could only assume was an office. I sat at a desk this time, not a cubicle. The desk in which I sat was neat and tidy. Pictures of family were held up by frames on the mahogany top. A man and wife holding their baby proudly. A little boy’s soccer team portrait. A beautiful wedding photo. A juxtaposition to what was to come. I shivered, noticing the feeling of the stiff fabric of my dress shirt against my new skin. I knew what was coming. The air was cold, icy even. This again. At once a horrible screaming issued forth from the walls - the sirens. The lights flashed red. Emergency procedure. I did what I did without thinking, without planning to move; my body simply moved by itself, like an orchestra with an invisible conductor. I stood up tall, taller than my previous life sentence, and walked briskly to the door like a man late to a meeting. Chaos. Chaos everywhere. I had opened the windowless door to the sounds of screams and shrieks and footsteps through the office. The gray carpet matched the grey walls which matched the grey ceiling which matched the grey smoke billowing out from under one of the doors. I was frozen. Frozen still like a Neanderthal in the ice, frozen like a marionette with an absent puppeteer. Eyes widened, mouth agape, feet frozen, stuck to the grey carpet as if it were grey cement instead. That’s when it happened, the blast, the terrible blast, the sound of rubble. I only saw flashes, everything moved so fast - a woman running, only to be crushed by rubble - a man lying on the ground with blood running down his face - my own hands up to cover my face and head, and only just now had I noticed the glittering cuff links on my wrists. The next thing I knew, I was on the ground. The grey carpet had claimed me, grey cinderblock chunks from the wall had claimed my lower body as their resting place. I lay there, smoke and dust obscuring my sight and invading my lungs, my lower body crushed by debris. My head was bleeding, I think - I couldn’t tell. The world shook and swum and tossed and turned in my vision, and I was along for the ride. My lower body was numb and painful at the same time. I can make it, I told myself, I can make it. I coughed and choked on the dirty air for what seemed like an eternity. I didn’t realize my vision was slowly going black until I couldn’t see the red flashing lights anymore. As I finally laid my foreign head to rest on the carpet of the office building, I awoke again. “That was life sentence 25. Only 355 left.” Not again. I already confessed, went to court, and apologized, damn it! Not again! I knew it was the punishment to fit the crime. I tried to remember the details of that day - in a fury, I had created my own dangerous invention, played God with mine own hands, and planted a bomb in my old office building. I couldn’t remember the details - couldn’t remember what color the carpet was, what the secretary’s voice was like, what setting the lights were on, hell, I couldn’t even remember what time it was. But they made me remember. They are making me remember, putting me through the torture of death hundreds of times, one for each victim of my own decision. Each victim of my own selfishness, my own short lived fury. Three hundred and eighty lives. That is how many I claimed. That is how many I will have to suffer.	I have lived a long life. I think my time has come. I take my last breath and pass peacefully. As I die, I wake up, and to my surprise, I find myself strapped to a chair. I am surprised to find myself awake and I am also surprised to find myself strapped to a chair. Wires and tubes have been attached to my body and numerous shadowy figures walk up to me. "That was life sentence 24," one of them says, "Only 356 sentences left." And then I remember, long ago, that I was sentenced to 380 life sentences.

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