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[WP] Some assassins are paid extra to make deaths look accidental. Your job is the opposite. You're hired for those rare instances in which accidental or natural deaths need to appear as if they were murders.
|
[POEM]
Sometimes It’s An Accident
—
Sometimes it’s an accident,
When you fall and bump your head.
Sometimes it’s an accident,
When people end up dead.
—
Sometimes it’s an accident,
When people slip in the shower.
Sometimes it’s an accident,
When they choke on a bag of flour.
—
Sometimes it’s an accident,
When we can’t say who or why.
Yes, sometimes it’s an accident,
But yours won’t be when you die.
|
"It appears as though Junior's harness was tampered with."
Justice died the moment Investigative Detective Billcox spoke those words. His job - his real job - had just begun. The seed of doubt was planted, and it was now assassin Billcox's job to water it.
"What do you mean?" Sheila asked with sudden aliveness. Such a detail cut through her grief and awakened the part of her soul that stayed alive in hopes of an answer, an explanation for tragedy.
"It might be best if you have a seat." Mr. Billcox sat opposite to her in the detective's office and placed his hands atop of hers, facing her.
"Mrs. Everry, upon inspection of the body cam video Junior wore and the harness itself, my team and I have reason to believe Junior was given faulty equipment intentionally. Understand that we are still investigating, but I would not be telling you this without reasonable suspicion."
Billcox felt like a world class actor, timing his ethos and pathos in a believable rhythm.
"I don't understand. Junior climbed towers for, I don't know, fifteen years about. He told me all the time how annoying inspection was what with all the paperwork he had to do, but he did it all the time. He is - was - so good at his job. How would he not know if his equipment was unsafe?"
Inside himself, Billcox was pleased. He realized then that Sheila would pour all the details out that he needed to consider to make his case believable. She would not grill him, but trust him. He kept a straight face, giving a nearly imperceptible frown to maintain appearances.
"We are still investigating, but my team and I have the same kind of questions. Sheila, it is important that you help us by answering just a few questions. Would you know of anyone who, for any reason, would have wanted to harm your husband?" Billcox already had the answer he was looking for. He was just watering the seed. He knew from his real work what Junior frequented online; conspiracies. Conspiracies of all sorts. The most relevant to Billcox, of course, was Junior's belief in world elites spying, microchipping, and mind controlling the world's population. Junior believed it enough to share call-to-action memes on his Facebook wall, bitch about it to friends and coworkers, and read articles about the topic daily.
That line of thinking will take Billcox and Sheila on a journey, one where Sheila never returns and one where Billcox cashes a percentage of the settlement check that would have went to Sheila had she rightly sued her husband's employer. In the end, Billcox will have assassinated her ability to heal, luring her with idle hope in pursuit of a ghost; one that gets bigger and more elaborate with time.
|
|
[WP] Some assassins are paid extra to make deaths look accidental. Your job is the opposite. You're hired for those rare instances in which accidental or natural deaths need to appear as if they were murders.
|
Making murder look like an accident is an art. My art. I staged well over a thousand “accidents” before I found an even more profitable venture: making accidents looks like murders.
I honestly never thought I’d feel fulfilled by doing my work badly, but this just feels… fun.
Someone so popular or so important, killed by ACCIDENT? That’s not a story you want to hear. But make a few subtle adjustments to the scene of the accident, and suddenly the police are investigating the death as a manslaughter, assuming the killer badly staged an accident with the victim’s body after killing them by accident.
It’s peak irony - somewhere out there, investigations are being conducted into a death - under the assumption that the death was an accident that someone tried to cover up by staging an accident.
So close, yet so far.
|
The boss of the Falcone family fell down the stairs last night, broke his neck in five places. Would have died slow if he hadn't had a fork in his mouth, thing shot straight through the roof of his mouth, more of it was in his brain pan than in his mouth. The piece of lasagna went with jt, messy messy messy. If he had been older it wouldn't have been an issue, but he was only thirty five, clumsy bastard. A death like this would ruin the image of the family for years.
The location of his death was fine, but really couldn't leave the fork in. After a couple tests trying to figure out how to get all of the lasagna out of the idiots skull, came down to a shotgun, damn near point blank or a spear. For a mob boss, figured it made more sense to use a shotgun not that I wasn't tempted to go for a spear, been a while since I got to go medieval.
The rest of the scene of death was in pretty good order. After a bit of work, and with the help of Grandma Falcone and her favorite pair of knitting needles, the lead hitman of the O'Briens family was bleeding out on the floor next to the Falcone boss. I gave Granny Falconey a hug and she slapped me lightly for the nickname I gave her when I helped settle a matter of inheritance a few years back.
I say my goodbyes and head home before rush hour. Not too bad for a day's work. Too bad the O'Brian had to die, my sister liked him. Payback for when she used the Kelly girl to make that autoerotic asphyxiation accident look like a double murder homicide I guess. Oh well.
|
|
[WP] Some assassins are paid extra to make deaths look accidental. Your job is the opposite. You're hired for those rare instances in which accidental or natural deaths need to appear as if they were murders.
|
"WHAT DO YOU MEAN HE'S DEAD?"
"H...He just fell over sir."
"What the fuck?! You were only suppose to get into position! I didn't give you the order!"
"Sir, I swear, I didn't touch him. I was watching him on top of the building opposite his penthouse, like we agreed. I saw him clutch his chest, then he fell into the pool."
"What's going on now?"
"He's just ...floating, sir. He's face down in the pool."
"Jesus Christ. Alright, well. Fuck! Just pack up and get outta there. I don't want any more shit to deal with."
"Alright, boss."
Hanging up the phone, Frank sank back in his chair, hands over his face.
"What's going on boss?"
Looking up, Frank saw his number two man, Georgio looking at him.
"That old, fat fuck had a heart attack. He fell into the pool and is still floatin."
"Shit. I knew we should have went after him last night."
"We have a serious problem. If the cops get there and find out it was a heart attack, there's no way we're gettin paid for the hit. We'll be out $10 mill because that fuckin prick couldn't lay off the alfredo."
"What do you wanna do about it? We might still be able to get a man over there and put a few in him. He's probably still warm."
"Are you fuckin stupid? They'll know it was after. Nah, we gotta think outside the box on this. You still got that detective friend on the payroll?"
"Yeah, why?"
"Call him up, give him a tip that you think the old man was slipped somethin. Tell him he can get the coroner to confirm."
"Alright, boss but that autopsy ain't gonna show anything. What's the plan here?"
"Just go make the fuckin call. I'll handle the rest."
Frank watched Georgio leave and picked up the phone. He sat impatiently waiting, listening to the ringing.
"Hello, county morgue."
"Yeah, hi. Can you get me Doctor Barone, please. Tell him it's his uncle."
"One moment, please."
*A couple minutes later*
"Yo, Uncle Frank. What's goin on? It's been a while."
"Yeah, hey listen, sorry to call at work, but I need a favor."
|
The boss of the Falcone family fell down the stairs last night, broke his neck in five places. Would have died slow if he hadn't had a fork in his mouth, thing shot straight through the roof of his mouth, more of it was in his brain pan than in his mouth. The piece of lasagna went with jt, messy messy messy. If he had been older it wouldn't have been an issue, but he was only thirty five, clumsy bastard. A death like this would ruin the image of the family for years.
The location of his death was fine, but really couldn't leave the fork in. After a couple tests trying to figure out how to get all of the lasagna out of the idiots skull, came down to a shotgun, damn near point blank or a spear. For a mob boss, figured it made more sense to use a shotgun not that I wasn't tempted to go for a spear, been a while since I got to go medieval.
The rest of the scene of death was in pretty good order. After a bit of work, and with the help of Grandma Falcone and her favorite pair of knitting needles, the lead hitman of the O'Briens family was bleeding out on the floor next to the Falcone boss. I gave Granny Falconey a hug and she slapped me lightly for the nickname I gave her when I helped settle a matter of inheritance a few years back.
I say my goodbyes and head home before rush hour. Not too bad for a day's work. Too bad the O'Brian had to die, my sister liked him. Payback for when she used the Kelly girl to make that autoerotic asphyxiation accident look like a double murder homicide I guess. Oh well.
|
|
[WP] Some assassins are paid extra to make deaths look accidental. Your job is the opposite. You're hired for those rare instances in which accidental or natural deaths need to appear as if they were murders.
|
Making murder look like an accident is an art. My art. I staged well over a thousand “accidents” before I found an even more profitable venture: making accidents looks like murders.
I honestly never thought I’d feel fulfilled by doing my work badly, but this just feels… fun.
Someone so popular or so important, killed by ACCIDENT? That’s not a story you want to hear. But make a few subtle adjustments to the scene of the accident, and suddenly the police are investigating the death as a manslaughter, assuming the killer badly staged an accident with the victim’s body after killing them by accident.
It’s peak irony - somewhere out there, investigations are being conducted into a death - under the assumption that the death was an accident that someone tried to cover up by staging an accident.
So close, yet so far.
|
"But it's a lie! Lies are wrong. How can angels lie?" I asked, puzzled. The beautifully androgynous messenger cocked her head, puzzled. "God works in mysterious ways. What the fallen are willing to misinterpret, how they twist it, is not the same as a d direct untruth. It's not a lie. It's wrongdoers projecting their own base nature on others."
He had a point. But I couldn't leave it alone. "So paying me to slip in after the fact, drop subtle 'clues', transact suspicious business before and after their...well, natural, mostly... deaths. That's ok?"
The angel sniffed. "Of course. While wherever we can, we directly fight the forces of evil, we can't be everywhere. It's more effective if they just fight each other," she said.
"What about crossfire, collateral damage?" I asked. It smiled. "God knows His own. But it rarely happens." "What?! It happens all the time," I protested. "Bystanders get shot in drive-bys in gang areas all the time!"
"Oh, those? That's not us. No margin in it. Nothing good comes out of gangs fighting. We don't instigate that. Just the high profile stuff. Look, this is all above board and even holy. I don't understand the fuss. In return for supernatural stealth and a promise not to steal more than a reasonable fee, you'll work for us now. Make deaths by natural causes, look like murder. Set off conflict, pit evil against evil. Can heaven count on you?"
|
|
[WP] Some assassins are paid extra to make deaths look accidental. Your job is the opposite. You're hired for those rare instances in which accidental or natural deaths need to appear as if they were murders.
|
"WHAT DO YOU MEAN HE'S DEAD?"
"H...He just fell over sir."
"What the fuck?! You were only suppose to get into position! I didn't give you the order!"
"Sir, I swear, I didn't touch him. I was watching him on top of the building opposite his penthouse, like we agreed. I saw him clutch his chest, then he fell into the pool."
"What's going on now?"
"He's just ...floating, sir. He's face down in the pool."
"Jesus Christ. Alright, well. Fuck! Just pack up and get outta there. I don't want any more shit to deal with."
"Alright, boss."
Hanging up the phone, Frank sank back in his chair, hands over his face.
"What's going on boss?"
Looking up, Frank saw his number two man, Georgio looking at him.
"That old, fat fuck had a heart attack. He fell into the pool and is still floatin."
"Shit. I knew we should have went after him last night."
"We have a serious problem. If the cops get there and find out it was a heart attack, there's no way we're gettin paid for the hit. We'll be out $10 mill because that fuckin prick couldn't lay off the alfredo."
"What do you wanna do about it? We might still be able to get a man over there and put a few in him. He's probably still warm."
"Are you fuckin stupid? They'll know it was after. Nah, we gotta think outside the box on this. You still got that detective friend on the payroll?"
"Yeah, why?"
"Call him up, give him a tip that you think the old man was slipped somethin. Tell him he can get the coroner to confirm."
"Alright, boss but that autopsy ain't gonna show anything. What's the plan here?"
"Just go make the fuckin call. I'll handle the rest."
Frank watched Georgio leave and picked up the phone. He sat impatiently waiting, listening to the ringing.
"Hello, county morgue."
"Yeah, hi. Can you get me Doctor Barone, please. Tell him it's his uncle."
"One moment, please."
*A couple minutes later*
"Yo, Uncle Frank. What's goin on? It's been a while."
"Yeah, hey listen, sorry to call at work, but I need a favor."
|
"But it's a lie! Lies are wrong. How can angels lie?" I asked, puzzled. The beautifully androgynous messenger cocked her head, puzzled. "God works in mysterious ways. What the fallen are willing to misinterpret, how they twist it, is not the same as a d direct untruth. It's not a lie. It's wrongdoers projecting their own base nature on others."
He had a point. But I couldn't leave it alone. "So paying me to slip in after the fact, drop subtle 'clues', transact suspicious business before and after their...well, natural, mostly... deaths. That's ok?"
The angel sniffed. "Of course. While wherever we can, we directly fight the forces of evil, we can't be everywhere. It's more effective if they just fight each other," she said.
"What about crossfire, collateral damage?" I asked. It smiled. "God knows His own. But it rarely happens." "What?! It happens all the time," I protested. "Bystanders get shot in drive-bys in gang areas all the time!"
"Oh, those? That's not us. No margin in it. Nothing good comes out of gangs fighting. We don't instigate that. Just the high profile stuff. Look, this is all above board and even holy. I don't understand the fuss. In return for supernatural stealth and a promise not to steal more than a reasonable fee, you'll work for us now. Make deaths by natural causes, look like murder. Set off conflict, pit evil against evil. Can heaven count on you?"
|
|
[WP] Some assassins are paid extra to make deaths look accidental. Your job is the opposite. You're hired for those rare instances in which accidental or natural deaths need to appear as if they were murders.
|
My job is simple, I get hired by people with a sick sense of humor to make come to the sight of their death and make their death look like a gruesome murder. Sometimes a it has a purpose. Just last week I was hired by a political activist. He wanted his death to look like someone wanted to shut him up. Honestly, I think he thought I was an actual assassin, he looked so confused when I hooked up the sensors and walked out.
This is a misconception that a lot of people have. I may never actually perform my services. I might die before you. You may forget you ever payed me, but if you die, I'll show up and make it look like you pissed off the wrong person.
One job I was on, the person died in a back road, when they were driving home, drunk. It was really a tragedy, they were only like 28. When I got there I cut their breaks, cleaned out the sent of alcohol, and left.
Another person fell in the shower. This was a difficult one. Blunt force is never simple to convince people that it was accidental. I had to clean off the wall, find a weapon that would fit wound, and hit them over the head with it a few more times to put blood on the object.
I never got why people hire me, honestly when I put my services up on crieg's list, I was surprised when someone ACTUALLY hired me at $40,000 to "Make your accidental death look like a murder", but it was some old guy who was a total narcissist. He kept telling his children and grandchildren about his "Old gangster days", and he was feeling his body wearing down. I took his money, had a lawyer write up a document making it so that I not legally at risk, and informed the police what I was doing. They weren't fans of it at first, but part of our deal was that I would report the death to them and let them perform an autopsy. I would fix up the area, and they would put the body back.
I even have a team of actors who I pay to play police. When the police get a 911 call and are given an address, they call up the actors and they come down instead of real police. My fee has slowly increased to around $250,000 to deal with all the expenses. Yes, faking your death cost more than actually hiring a professional killer, but some rich people get a laugh out of it, and the police make a nice $100,000 donation per "kill" to help them deal with the headache. Honestly, the whole thing is a lot of fun for everyone...
Except the families... I have had a few suicides or near suicides, and some people who hire me are truly sick and convince their families that they will come for them next. That of course, breeches the contract, and I quickly inform the families and give them a partial refund. Some insist of suing still, and that I why I have a kick ass lawyer and an iron clad contract protecting me.
It isn't a great job, but I work 4 times a year on average and make about a clean million per year.
|
"Ah fuck"
My job is to make natural deaths look like murder. I'm probably the reason why there are some cases that become unsolvable. To be honest I am surprised. I used to be part of a company that cleans up dead bodies after a suicide, homicide and some other causes like natural or accidental deaths but when I got my first job to clean someone after their death bed but I stumbled and it looked like someone murdered the old guy in cold blood like a kid angry over inheritance. I failed that one time and the family destroyed itself in months because of the distrust I accidentally sowed. I quit some time after repeating accidents and some big shots who knew everything started looking for me and I'm somehow living a life.
"Today's job is a car crash? The usual and he's a rich man's spoiled brat"
I wear my usual outfit, blue overalls and a black shirt and a tie because they said I needed to be a bit more formal and this is what they get. I'm no assassin but they really want drama. I don't understand rich people and their enemies
"Poor kid, died in a car crash and it was reported to me first before his family but a job is a job"
I took a gun and shot him twice, tripped while getting back with a kitchen knife and cut his leg. It went well I guess so I shot a tire, broke glass and wrote "CHEATER" on his car hood.
"This is fine"
I went back and got paid too much than what I do. Later, I saw the news about a possible murder case about the rich kid. I don't laugh about it as much anymore since this is my daily life.
|
|
[WP] Some assassins are paid extra to make deaths look accidental. Your job is the opposite. You're hired for those rare instances in which accidental or natural deaths need to appear as if they were murders.
|
"WHAT DO YOU MEAN HE'S DEAD?"
"H...He just fell over sir."
"What the fuck?! You were only suppose to get into position! I didn't give you the order!"
"Sir, I swear, I didn't touch him. I was watching him on top of the building opposite his penthouse, like we agreed. I saw him clutch his chest, then he fell into the pool."
"What's going on now?"
"He's just ...floating, sir. He's face down in the pool."
"Jesus Christ. Alright, well. Fuck! Just pack up and get outta there. I don't want any more shit to deal with."
"Alright, boss."
Hanging up the phone, Frank sank back in his chair, hands over his face.
"What's going on boss?"
Looking up, Frank saw his number two man, Georgio looking at him.
"That old, fat fuck had a heart attack. He fell into the pool and is still floatin."
"Shit. I knew we should have went after him last night."
"We have a serious problem. If the cops get there and find out it was a heart attack, there's no way we're gettin paid for the hit. We'll be out $10 mill because that fuckin prick couldn't lay off the alfredo."
"What do you wanna do about it? We might still be able to get a man over there and put a few in him. He's probably still warm."
"Are you fuckin stupid? They'll know it was after. Nah, we gotta think outside the box on this. You still got that detective friend on the payroll?"
"Yeah, why?"
"Call him up, give him a tip that you think the old man was slipped somethin. Tell him he can get the coroner to confirm."
"Alright, boss but that autopsy ain't gonna show anything. What's the plan here?"
"Just go make the fuckin call. I'll handle the rest."
Frank watched Georgio leave and picked up the phone. He sat impatiently waiting, listening to the ringing.
"Hello, county morgue."
"Yeah, hi. Can you get me Doctor Barone, please. Tell him it's his uncle."
"One moment, please."
*A couple minutes later*
"Yo, Uncle Frank. What's goin on? It's been a while."
"Yeah, hey listen, sorry to call at work, but I need a favor."
|
"Ah fuck"
My job is to make natural deaths look like murder. I'm probably the reason why there are some cases that become unsolvable. To be honest I am surprised. I used to be part of a company that cleans up dead bodies after a suicide, homicide and some other causes like natural or accidental deaths but when I got my first job to clean someone after their death bed but I stumbled and it looked like someone murdered the old guy in cold blood like a kid angry over inheritance. I failed that one time and the family destroyed itself in months because of the distrust I accidentally sowed. I quit some time after repeating accidents and some big shots who knew everything started looking for me and I'm somehow living a life.
"Today's job is a car crash? The usual and he's a rich man's spoiled brat"
I wear my usual outfit, blue overalls and a black shirt and a tie because they said I needed to be a bit more formal and this is what they get. I'm no assassin but they really want drama. I don't understand rich people and their enemies
"Poor kid, died in a car crash and it was reported to me first before his family but a job is a job"
I took a gun and shot him twice, tripped while getting back with a kitchen knife and cut his leg. It went well I guess so I shot a tire, broke glass and wrote "CHEATER" on his car hood.
"This is fine"
I went back and got paid too much than what I do. Later, I saw the news about a possible murder case about the rich kid. I don't laugh about it as much anymore since this is my daily life.
|
|
[WP] Some assassins are paid extra to make deaths look accidental. Your job is the opposite. You're hired for those rare instances in which accidental or natural deaths need to appear as if they were murders.
|
I went to college for forensic science in a small town called Northbrook, Wyoming. You'd be surprised they had anything more than a high school considering the small population. Yet there I was, sitting in a class with about fourteen other people, examining photos of blood splatter patterns taped to the whiteboard in front of me for my final exam.
We were doing some sort of "who dunnit" project inspired by Jack the Ripper's work in England. The ironic part was that poor old Jack was never found. Well, lucky for him I guess. But that didn't give me any comfort; I was certain the professor rigged the test to be impossible, just like the Ripper case, and I was shaking at the thought of failing this important assignment. I knew I shouldn't be this worried, since I'd been receiving high honors in forensics for months now, but that gave me no solace.
I finished up my report, and, tripping over my own feet on the way out, handed my paper in to the professor. She smirked as she glanced at the paper, and I felt my knees start to give way.
*No no no no no this is not happening is this what I think this means? I failed completely and utterly failed I don't know why I considered becoming a detective in the first place it's just some stupid childhood fantasy I can't believe... I-*
-I grabbed onto her desk, pushed myself upright, and dashed out the door.
Five minutes later, I arrived at my dormitory door and pushed full force (it was never locked). I shut the door behind me. Struggling to capture my breath, I slowly looked up and saw my roommate idly playing with a plastic paddleball on her bed. Her long legs were stretched carelessly up the wall. Her head was perked up with a small white pillow as she watched the ball rise and fall. Her long auburn hair was spread out around her like an open fan, leaving no surface of her twin mattress untouched.
**Hey.**
I froze. This was probably the first time my roommate, Lola, has spoken one word to me since we started rooming back in the fall.
**I just want to let you know, I ate your sandwich.**
At this I lifted an eyebrow, thinking back to all of the other times this past year she's eaten my food. Sensing my skepticism, she added:
**I'll pay you back though, I promise. Anyways, I was thinking maybe-we-could-go-to-the-café-and-pick-up something-for-dinner-and-then-check-our-exam-scores-on-the-way-back.**
She spoke those last few words in rapid succession as if she was running out of air. I didn't respond. Instead, I stared just beside her at a band poster thinking back to forensics.
Just ten minutes after getting our papers, Lola got up with ease and turned her assignment in. I didn't finish until over two hours after, using up almost all of my three hour time limit on my report. This was far from out of the ordinary, and in fact was a pattern we had developed just a week into the school year. She procrastinated, rushed, cheated. I worked tirelessly, bartered, and worried. I was set for success. She was set for the McDonald's down the road. That's life, I suppose.
Even though Lola was confident in everything she did, and I was a nervous wreck, the pattern would yield the same results. She would fail, and I would get nothing less than an A. So why was Lola so adamant about viewing our scores? Why did she want to go to dinner with *me*? And why did the always-so-confident Lola seem so scared?
I snapped back to attention, and gazed at Lola's face. She mistook my apprehension for confusion, and opened her mouth to repeat herself. But before she could continue, I nodded my head rapidly. I was curious to see where this went.
Lola smiled, an unusual sight, and got up off her bed. She threw the paddleball near her pillow and slipped her flip flops on. I followed her out the door.
*******
I threw my tray in the trash and followed Lola to the forensics classroom. Stuck to the door was a list of student names and a letter grade. Like I had suspected, Lola had received an F and I had received an A+. But Lola didn't seem bothered by this. Instead, her face seemed to *glow* and she looked up at the clock. 19:04.
**'s getting late. C'mon.**
She started powerwalking back to the dorm (I would've laughed at the absurdity of it all if I had no self-respect) and I followed in close pursuit. She slammed the door behind us and sat on the stool by her bed.
**You are great with forensics.**
I stared back at her. Why was she complimenting me out of nowhere? Did she want me to cheat for her or give her the answers on next year's exam? What was going on?
**I know you're probably wondering why I'm being so nice to you** (*Yes.*) **and I can explain. I...**
She took a deep breath and stared into my soul.
**I want to become an assassin.**
I gaped at her from the doorway. This is when I would've spit out water or another beverage if I had had any in my mouth. But I didn't, so I stupidly gawked like a fish out of water.
**You can probably see where I'm going with this...Like I said, you're great at forensics. I was thinking, maybe if I do the heavy-lifting, you can use your genius to make my presence known.**
This girl must be *insane.* Aren't assassins supposed to be secretive? Cover their tracks? Why am I supposed to make sure everyone knows she's a killer? *Why* does she want to kill??
**I know you're real innocent and all, but you'd be doing the world a huge favor. You see, I want to murder sinners...corrupt politicians, serial killers, the like. Those kind of people are the people who murdered my family. And with your expertise, you would make sure that my name gets out there, and sinners will sin no more!**
A crack of thunder punctuated her monologue. Or maybe that was just something I filled in after the fact. I've been told I like to romanticize things too much.
**And the name they'll all fear? Miss Fortune!**
My eyes bore deeper into her skull. She can't be serious. This is all just some comedy show! Cue the laugh track!
**Your job? Brand all of my victims with this symbol. Sinners will collect the dots and cower in fear!**
She pulled a piece of paper out from her jean pocket, which bore a crudely drawn tragedy mask of the like found in old Greek theaters. Or was it Shakespearean? This is why I wasn't an arts major.
I was *not* going through with this plan. Or at least, it would take a whole lot of convincing for me to even consider-
**Don't worry, you will be rewarded handsomely. I inherited a lot of money, as well as a few houses, from the death of my parents and their parents. And y'know, that would go a long way toward your student loans...**
That's it. I'm going for it.
*******
Miss Fortune and I made a great team. You see, she didn't get around to much murdering. Whenever she came across a "villain," they suffered some horrible accident and died on the spot. Normally this would seem like a good thing for an assassin. No blood on your hands, not even a Sherlock would suspect foul play, and you still got the job done. Plus, you wouldn't risk a court visit or an annoying amount of paperwork. But this wasn't enough for Lola.
Lola not only wanted every villain branded with her symbol, but she also wanted each one to be an obvious victim of homicide. A knife caught in their throat, you get the shtick. But these accidents made it very difficult for her to complete her kills without coming off as sloppy or random. Miss Fortune faced a lot of, well, misfortune.
That's where I came in. I used my forensics skills to create a crime scene wherever we went, hiding evidence of any accident and helping Miss Fortune replace them with a clean cut across the neck. We finished the job off with her seal of approval, the tragedy mask.
With Lola's payment, I paid off all of my debts and got a nice apartment overlooking NYC. The combination of my gothic clothing style and the layer of blood that constantly coated my body gave me a trademark red and black emblem. I became the Harley Quinn to her Joker. And if you're a fan of Batman, you know how that went.
One day, after a particularly passionate killing spree, Miss Fortune and I sat back on a park bench and shared a bottle of wine. I almost finished my first glass when I looked over and wondered why Lola hadn't started on her's yet. Then my vision began to fizzle out, darkening at the edges and then surrounding me in darkness. I started to choke, and clutched at my chest for the aching pain to go away. All went quiet.
Never dance with Miss Fortune.
|
"Ah fuck"
My job is to make natural deaths look like murder. I'm probably the reason why there are some cases that become unsolvable. To be honest I am surprised. I used to be part of a company that cleans up dead bodies after a suicide, homicide and some other causes like natural or accidental deaths but when I got my first job to clean someone after their death bed but I stumbled and it looked like someone murdered the old guy in cold blood like a kid angry over inheritance. I failed that one time and the family destroyed itself in months because of the distrust I accidentally sowed. I quit some time after repeating accidents and some big shots who knew everything started looking for me and I'm somehow living a life.
"Today's job is a car crash? The usual and he's a rich man's spoiled brat"
I wear my usual outfit, blue overalls and a black shirt and a tie because they said I needed to be a bit more formal and this is what they get. I'm no assassin but they really want drama. I don't understand rich people and their enemies
"Poor kid, died in a car crash and it was reported to me first before his family but a job is a job"
I took a gun and shot him twice, tripped while getting back with a kitchen knife and cut his leg. It went well I guess so I shot a tire, broke glass and wrote "CHEATER" on his car hood.
"This is fine"
I went back and got paid too much than what I do. Later, I saw the news about a possible murder case about the rich kid. I don't laugh about it as much anymore since this is my daily life.
|
|
[WP] Some assassins are paid extra to make deaths look accidental. Your job is the opposite. You're hired for those rare instances in which accidental or natural deaths need to appear as if they were murders.
|
*This should be the easiest job yet.*
I pulled into the prison parking lot, stopping my fairly ordinary looking hatchback, with just a bit more than legal tint in the windows, in my usual spot under the tree. You see, prisons actually pay me to do my job quite often- poor healthcare, food that barely sustains life, and frequent overzealous beatings by guards often lead to deaths that need to look like a shanking, to avoid public outcry at the state of our prison system. While it’s deplorable, working to maintain these conditions, someone will do it whether I do or not at the rates the prisons pay, and it turns out my incredible attention to detail and obsession with criminal handiwork makes me quite good at it. I hate the more gory parts, though.
It wasn’t a prison warden who called me for this job. The warden’s in on it, of course, and probably received a sum comparable to the fortune I’m being paid, since, after all, this job will ruin his reputation. I don’t actually know who I’m working for, or what their true motives are, but whoever they are, they mean business, and I know exactly why it’s so serious to them. I feel disgusted, and a bit nauseous, whenever I think about it.
*Luckily,*, I thought while walking towards the guard who was already holding the door for me, *This job won’t involve any gore.*
The past few weeks was when the majority of the job actually occurred, and it will be ongoing for quite some time after I leave this prison. Since this prisoner’s arrest, people have been doing my job for me- speculating online that he’ll be killed in prison for what he’s done, that people both in and out of prison will want his head, before he can get a fair trial. They’re absolutely right, there are people in the world who would give everything to get the chance to end this man, and I made sure to spread that word as much as possible, anonymously of course. Once I’m done and my version of what happened goes public, I’ll be continuing to spread the word online, saying I knew it would happen. My not-quite-100% accurate predictions will hopefully get my persona a bit of fame online and further spread the word.
As I entered the prison, I was led silently to a room full of servers and monitors, showing camera footage of the entire prison. The guard began to explain what I was trying to do, but I put up a hand to silence him, and gave him a nod. He nodded back, and I began to get to work.
And by “get to work”, I mean slip the still living target a bit of contraband, use some basic editing techniques to make the camera footage look like I was a family member visiting a different prisoner entirely, and give the unit’s guards their orders, and replacement identities.
Once everything was set up, I reviewed my handiwork, and made sure nothing would slip by.
*Wow, when did I pick up these editing skills?* I wondered to myself, as I settled down for a long night of making sure the guards followed their orders. *I guess practice does pay off.*
By morning, the deed was done. The prisoner had used the contraband as planned, dying... well, not as naturally or accidentally as most of my “kills”, but still not by any hand but his own. The guards held up their end of the bargain too, which wasn’t exactly hard for either of the carefully picked men with little to lose and the easiest payout of their life to gain. They didn’t even have to watch cameras like they normally did; *I* worked harder than them.
Regardless, my job was done, so I left the prison before breakfast, driving home to take a nap, then watch the news.
—————————————————————
Hours later, around noon, I awoke to find my phone blaring with notifications from the sites I’d been posting on, many of them asking if I’d seen the news, others congratulating me, and a few asking if I could see into the future.
I opened my laptop in bed, satisfied that my work had gone over well. It was time to spread the word, and make sure this death wasn’t passed off into the sidelines of history as a notable suicide, but rather the major conspiracy it was, that my clients wanted it to be.
Because whether the decision to go through with it was solely his own or not, Jeffrey Epstein didn’t kill himself.
|
"Ah fuck"
My job is to make natural deaths look like murder. I'm probably the reason why there are some cases that become unsolvable. To be honest I am surprised. I used to be part of a company that cleans up dead bodies after a suicide, homicide and some other causes like natural or accidental deaths but when I got my first job to clean someone after their death bed but I stumbled and it looked like someone murdered the old guy in cold blood like a kid angry over inheritance. I failed that one time and the family destroyed itself in months because of the distrust I accidentally sowed. I quit some time after repeating accidents and some big shots who knew everything started looking for me and I'm somehow living a life.
"Today's job is a car crash? The usual and he's a rich man's spoiled brat"
I wear my usual outfit, blue overalls and a black shirt and a tie because they said I needed to be a bit more formal and this is what they get. I'm no assassin but they really want drama. I don't understand rich people and their enemies
"Poor kid, died in a car crash and it was reported to me first before his family but a job is a job"
I took a gun and shot him twice, tripped while getting back with a kitchen knife and cut his leg. It went well I guess so I shot a tire, broke glass and wrote "CHEATER" on his car hood.
"This is fine"
I went back and got paid too much than what I do. Later, I saw the news about a possible murder case about the rich kid. I don't laugh about it as much anymore since this is my daily life.
|
|
[WP] Some assassins are paid extra to make deaths look accidental. Your job is the opposite. You're hired for those rare instances in which accidental or natural deaths need to appear as if they were murders.
|
"WHAT DO YOU MEAN HE'S DEAD?"
"H...He just fell over sir."
"What the fuck?! You were only suppose to get into position! I didn't give you the order!"
"Sir, I swear, I didn't touch him. I was watching him on top of the building opposite his penthouse, like we agreed. I saw him clutch his chest, then he fell into the pool."
"What's going on now?"
"He's just ...floating, sir. He's face down in the pool."
"Jesus Christ. Alright, well. Fuck! Just pack up and get outta there. I don't want any more shit to deal with."
"Alright, boss."
Hanging up the phone, Frank sank back in his chair, hands over his face.
"What's going on boss?"
Looking up, Frank saw his number two man, Georgio looking at him.
"That old, fat fuck had a heart attack. He fell into the pool and is still floatin."
"Shit. I knew we should have went after him last night."
"We have a serious problem. If the cops get there and find out it was a heart attack, there's no way we're gettin paid for the hit. We'll be out $10 mill because that fuckin prick couldn't lay off the alfredo."
"What do you wanna do about it? We might still be able to get a man over there and put a few in him. He's probably still warm."
"Are you fuckin stupid? They'll know it was after. Nah, we gotta think outside the box on this. You still got that detective friend on the payroll?"
"Yeah, why?"
"Call him up, give him a tip that you think the old man was slipped somethin. Tell him he can get the coroner to confirm."
"Alright, boss but that autopsy ain't gonna show anything. What's the plan here?"
"Just go make the fuckin call. I'll handle the rest."
Frank watched Georgio leave and picked up the phone. He sat impatiently waiting, listening to the ringing.
"Hello, county morgue."
"Yeah, hi. Can you get me Doctor Barone, please. Tell him it's his uncle."
"One moment, please."
*A couple minutes later*
"Yo, Uncle Frank. What's goin on? It's been a while."
"Yeah, hey listen, sorry to call at work, but I need a favor."
|
My job is simple, I get hired by people with a sick sense of humor to make come to the sight of their death and make their death look like a gruesome murder. Sometimes a it has a purpose. Just last week I was hired by a political activist. He wanted his death to look like someone wanted to shut him up. Honestly, I think he thought I was an actual assassin, he looked so confused when I hooked up the sensors and walked out.
This is a misconception that a lot of people have. I may never actually perform my services. I might die before you. You may forget you ever payed me, but if you die, I'll show up and make it look like you pissed off the wrong person.
One job I was on, the person died in a back road, when they were driving home, drunk. It was really a tragedy, they were only like 28. When I got there I cut their breaks, cleaned out the sent of alcohol, and left.
Another person fell in the shower. This was a difficult one. Blunt force is never simple to convince people that it was accidental. I had to clean off the wall, find a weapon that would fit wound, and hit them over the head with it a few more times to put blood on the object.
I never got why people hire me, honestly when I put my services up on crieg's list, I was surprised when someone ACTUALLY hired me at $40,000 to "Make your accidental death look like a murder", but it was some old guy who was a total narcissist. He kept telling his children and grandchildren about his "Old gangster days", and he was feeling his body wearing down. I took his money, had a lawyer write up a document making it so that I not legally at risk, and informed the police what I was doing. They weren't fans of it at first, but part of our deal was that I would report the death to them and let them perform an autopsy. I would fix up the area, and they would put the body back.
I even have a team of actors who I pay to play police. When the police get a 911 call and are given an address, they call up the actors and they come down instead of real police. My fee has slowly increased to around $250,000 to deal with all the expenses. Yes, faking your death cost more than actually hiring a professional killer, but some rich people get a laugh out of it, and the police make a nice $100,000 donation per "kill" to help them deal with the headache. Honestly, the whole thing is a lot of fun for everyone...
Except the families... I have had a few suicides or near suicides, and some people who hire me are truly sick and convince their families that they will come for them next. That of course, breeches the contract, and I quickly inform the families and give them a partial refund. Some insist of suing still, and that I why I have a kick ass lawyer and an iron clad contract protecting me.
It isn't a great job, but I work 4 times a year on average and make about a clean million per year.
|
|
[WP] Some assassins are paid extra to make deaths look accidental. Your job is the opposite. You're hired for those rare instances in which accidental or natural deaths need to appear as if they were murders.
|
I went to college for forensic science in a small town called Northbrook, Wyoming. You'd be surprised they had anything more than a high school considering the small population. Yet there I was, sitting in a class with about fourteen other people, examining photos of blood splatter patterns taped to the whiteboard in front of me for my final exam.
We were doing some sort of "who dunnit" project inspired by Jack the Ripper's work in England. The ironic part was that poor old Jack was never found. Well, lucky for him I guess. But that didn't give me any comfort; I was certain the professor rigged the test to be impossible, just like the Ripper case, and I was shaking at the thought of failing this important assignment. I knew I shouldn't be this worried, since I'd been receiving high honors in forensics for months now, but that gave me no solace.
I finished up my report, and, tripping over my own feet on the way out, handed my paper in to the professor. She smirked as she glanced at the paper, and I felt my knees start to give way.
*No no no no no this is not happening is this what I think this means? I failed completely and utterly failed I don't know why I considered becoming a detective in the first place it's just some stupid childhood fantasy I can't believe... I-*
-I grabbed onto her desk, pushed myself upright, and dashed out the door.
Five minutes later, I arrived at my dormitory door and pushed full force (it was never locked). I shut the door behind me. Struggling to capture my breath, I slowly looked up and saw my roommate idly playing with a plastic paddleball on her bed. Her long legs were stretched carelessly up the wall. Her head was perked up with a small white pillow as she watched the ball rise and fall. Her long auburn hair was spread out around her like an open fan, leaving no surface of her twin mattress untouched.
**Hey.**
I froze. This was probably the first time my roommate, Lola, has spoken one word to me since we started rooming back in the fall.
**I just want to let you know, I ate your sandwich.**
At this I lifted an eyebrow, thinking back to all of the other times this past year she's eaten my food. Sensing my skepticism, she added:
**I'll pay you back though, I promise. Anyways, I was thinking maybe-we-could-go-to-the-café-and-pick-up something-for-dinner-and-then-check-our-exam-scores-on-the-way-back.**
She spoke those last few words in rapid succession as if she was running out of air. I didn't respond. Instead, I stared just beside her at a band poster thinking back to forensics.
Just ten minutes after getting our papers, Lola got up with ease and turned her assignment in. I didn't finish until over two hours after, using up almost all of my three hour time limit on my report. This was far from out of the ordinary, and in fact was a pattern we had developed just a week into the school year. She procrastinated, rushed, cheated. I worked tirelessly, bartered, and worried. I was set for success. She was set for the McDonald's down the road. That's life, I suppose.
Even though Lola was confident in everything she did, and I was a nervous wreck, the pattern would yield the same results. She would fail, and I would get nothing less than an A. So why was Lola so adamant about viewing our scores? Why did she want to go to dinner with *me*? And why did the always-so-confident Lola seem so scared?
I snapped back to attention, and gazed at Lola's face. She mistook my apprehension for confusion, and opened her mouth to repeat herself. But before she could continue, I nodded my head rapidly. I was curious to see where this went.
Lola smiled, an unusual sight, and got up off her bed. She threw the paddleball near her pillow and slipped her flip flops on. I followed her out the door.
*******
I threw my tray in the trash and followed Lola to the forensics classroom. Stuck to the door was a list of student names and a letter grade. Like I had suspected, Lola had received an F and I had received an A+. But Lola didn't seem bothered by this. Instead, her face seemed to *glow* and she looked up at the clock. 19:04.
**'s getting late. C'mon.**
She started powerwalking back to the dorm (I would've laughed at the absurdity of it all if I had no self-respect) and I followed in close pursuit. She slammed the door behind us and sat on the stool by her bed.
**You are great with forensics.**
I stared back at her. Why was she complimenting me out of nowhere? Did she want me to cheat for her or give her the answers on next year's exam? What was going on?
**I know you're probably wondering why I'm being so nice to you** (*Yes.*) **and I can explain. I...**
She took a deep breath and stared into my soul.
**I want to become an assassin.**
I gaped at her from the doorway. This is when I would've spit out water or another beverage if I had had any in my mouth. But I didn't, so I stupidly gawked like a fish out of water.
**You can probably see where I'm going with this...Like I said, you're great at forensics. I was thinking, maybe if I do the heavy-lifting, you can use your genius to make my presence known.**
This girl must be *insane.* Aren't assassins supposed to be secretive? Cover their tracks? Why am I supposed to make sure everyone knows she's a killer? *Why* does she want to kill??
**I know you're real innocent and all, but you'd be doing the world a huge favor. You see, I want to murder sinners...corrupt politicians, serial killers, the like. Those kind of people are the people who murdered my family. And with your expertise, you would make sure that my name gets out there, and sinners will sin no more!**
A crack of thunder punctuated her monologue. Or maybe that was just something I filled in after the fact. I've been told I like to romanticize things too much.
**And the name they'll all fear? Miss Fortune!**
My eyes bore deeper into her skull. She can't be serious. This is all just some comedy show! Cue the laugh track!
**Your job? Brand all of my victims with this symbol. Sinners will collect the dots and cower in fear!**
She pulled a piece of paper out from her jean pocket, which bore a crudely drawn tragedy mask of the like found in old Greek theaters. Or was it Shakespearean? This is why I wasn't an arts major.
I was *not* going through with this plan. Or at least, it would take a whole lot of convincing for me to even consider-
**Don't worry, you will be rewarded handsomely. I inherited a lot of money, as well as a few houses, from the death of my parents and their parents. And y'know, that would go a long way toward your student loans...**
That's it. I'm going for it.
*******
Miss Fortune and I made a great team. You see, she didn't get around to much murdering. Whenever she came across a "villain," they suffered some horrible accident and died on the spot. Normally this would seem like a good thing for an assassin. No blood on your hands, not even a Sherlock would suspect foul play, and you still got the job done. Plus, you wouldn't risk a court visit or an annoying amount of paperwork. But this wasn't enough for Lola.
Lola not only wanted every villain branded with her symbol, but she also wanted each one to be an obvious victim of homicide. A knife caught in their throat, you get the shtick. But these accidents made it very difficult for her to complete her kills without coming off as sloppy or random. Miss Fortune faced a lot of, well, misfortune.
That's where I came in. I used my forensics skills to create a crime scene wherever we went, hiding evidence of any accident and helping Miss Fortune replace them with a clean cut across the neck. We finished the job off with her seal of approval, the tragedy mask.
With Lola's payment, I paid off all of my debts and got a nice apartment overlooking NYC. The combination of my gothic clothing style and the layer of blood that constantly coated my body gave me a trademark red and black emblem. I became the Harley Quinn to her Joker. And if you're a fan of Batman, you know how that went.
One day, after a particularly passionate killing spree, Miss Fortune and I sat back on a park bench and shared a bottle of wine. I almost finished my first glass when I looked over and wondered why Lola hadn't started on her's yet. Then my vision began to fizzle out, darkening at the edges and then surrounding me in darkness. I started to choke, and clutched at my chest for the aching pain to go away. All went quiet.
Never dance with Miss Fortune.
|
My job is simple, I get hired by people with a sick sense of humor to make come to the sight of their death and make their death look like a gruesome murder. Sometimes a it has a purpose. Just last week I was hired by a political activist. He wanted his death to look like someone wanted to shut him up. Honestly, I think he thought I was an actual assassin, he looked so confused when I hooked up the sensors and walked out.
This is a misconception that a lot of people have. I may never actually perform my services. I might die before you. You may forget you ever payed me, but if you die, I'll show up and make it look like you pissed off the wrong person.
One job I was on, the person died in a back road, when they were driving home, drunk. It was really a tragedy, they were only like 28. When I got there I cut their breaks, cleaned out the sent of alcohol, and left.
Another person fell in the shower. This was a difficult one. Blunt force is never simple to convince people that it was accidental. I had to clean off the wall, find a weapon that would fit wound, and hit them over the head with it a few more times to put blood on the object.
I never got why people hire me, honestly when I put my services up on crieg's list, I was surprised when someone ACTUALLY hired me at $40,000 to "Make your accidental death look like a murder", but it was some old guy who was a total narcissist. He kept telling his children and grandchildren about his "Old gangster days", and he was feeling his body wearing down. I took his money, had a lawyer write up a document making it so that I not legally at risk, and informed the police what I was doing. They weren't fans of it at first, but part of our deal was that I would report the death to them and let them perform an autopsy. I would fix up the area, and they would put the body back.
I even have a team of actors who I pay to play police. When the police get a 911 call and are given an address, they call up the actors and they come down instead of real police. My fee has slowly increased to around $250,000 to deal with all the expenses. Yes, faking your death cost more than actually hiring a professional killer, but some rich people get a laugh out of it, and the police make a nice $100,000 donation per "kill" to help them deal with the headache. Honestly, the whole thing is a lot of fun for everyone...
Except the families... I have had a few suicides or near suicides, and some people who hire me are truly sick and convince their families that they will come for them next. That of course, breeches the contract, and I quickly inform the families and give them a partial refund. Some insist of suing still, and that I why I have a kick ass lawyer and an iron clad contract protecting me.
It isn't a great job, but I work 4 times a year on average and make about a clean million per year.
|
|
[WP] Some assassins are paid extra to make deaths look accidental. Your job is the opposite. You're hired for those rare instances in which accidental or natural deaths need to appear as if they were murders.
|
*This should be the easiest job yet.*
I pulled into the prison parking lot, stopping my fairly ordinary looking hatchback, with just a bit more than legal tint in the windows, in my usual spot under the tree. You see, prisons actually pay me to do my job quite often- poor healthcare, food that barely sustains life, and frequent overzealous beatings by guards often lead to deaths that need to look like a shanking, to avoid public outcry at the state of our prison system. While it’s deplorable, working to maintain these conditions, someone will do it whether I do or not at the rates the prisons pay, and it turns out my incredible attention to detail and obsession with criminal handiwork makes me quite good at it. I hate the more gory parts, though.
It wasn’t a prison warden who called me for this job. The warden’s in on it, of course, and probably received a sum comparable to the fortune I’m being paid, since, after all, this job will ruin his reputation. I don’t actually know who I’m working for, or what their true motives are, but whoever they are, they mean business, and I know exactly why it’s so serious to them. I feel disgusted, and a bit nauseous, whenever I think about it.
*Luckily,*, I thought while walking towards the guard who was already holding the door for me, *This job won’t involve any gore.*
The past few weeks was when the majority of the job actually occurred, and it will be ongoing for quite some time after I leave this prison. Since this prisoner’s arrest, people have been doing my job for me- speculating online that he’ll be killed in prison for what he’s done, that people both in and out of prison will want his head, before he can get a fair trial. They’re absolutely right, there are people in the world who would give everything to get the chance to end this man, and I made sure to spread that word as much as possible, anonymously of course. Once I’m done and my version of what happened goes public, I’ll be continuing to spread the word online, saying I knew it would happen. My not-quite-100% accurate predictions will hopefully get my persona a bit of fame online and further spread the word.
As I entered the prison, I was led silently to a room full of servers and monitors, showing camera footage of the entire prison. The guard began to explain what I was trying to do, but I put up a hand to silence him, and gave him a nod. He nodded back, and I began to get to work.
And by “get to work”, I mean slip the still living target a bit of contraband, use some basic editing techniques to make the camera footage look like I was a family member visiting a different prisoner entirely, and give the unit’s guards their orders, and replacement identities.
Once everything was set up, I reviewed my handiwork, and made sure nothing would slip by.
*Wow, when did I pick up these editing skills?* I wondered to myself, as I settled down for a long night of making sure the guards followed their orders. *I guess practice does pay off.*
By morning, the deed was done. The prisoner had used the contraband as planned, dying... well, not as naturally or accidentally as most of my “kills”, but still not by any hand but his own. The guards held up their end of the bargain too, which wasn’t exactly hard for either of the carefully picked men with little to lose and the easiest payout of their life to gain. They didn’t even have to watch cameras like they normally did; *I* worked harder than them.
Regardless, my job was done, so I left the prison before breakfast, driving home to take a nap, then watch the news.
—————————————————————
Hours later, around noon, I awoke to find my phone blaring with notifications from the sites I’d been posting on, many of them asking if I’d seen the news, others congratulating me, and a few asking if I could see into the future.
I opened my laptop in bed, satisfied that my work had gone over well. It was time to spread the word, and make sure this death wasn’t passed off into the sidelines of history as a notable suicide, but rather the major conspiracy it was, that my clients wanted it to be.
Because whether the decision to go through with it was solely his own or not, Jeffrey Epstein didn’t kill himself.
|
My job is simple, I get hired by people with a sick sense of humor to make come to the sight of their death and make their death look like a gruesome murder. Sometimes a it has a purpose. Just last week I was hired by a political activist. He wanted his death to look like someone wanted to shut him up. Honestly, I think he thought I was an actual assassin, he looked so confused when I hooked up the sensors and walked out.
This is a misconception that a lot of people have. I may never actually perform my services. I might die before you. You may forget you ever payed me, but if you die, I'll show up and make it look like you pissed off the wrong person.
One job I was on, the person died in a back road, when they were driving home, drunk. It was really a tragedy, they were only like 28. When I got there I cut their breaks, cleaned out the sent of alcohol, and left.
Another person fell in the shower. This was a difficult one. Blunt force is never simple to convince people that it was accidental. I had to clean off the wall, find a weapon that would fit wound, and hit them over the head with it a few more times to put blood on the object.
I never got why people hire me, honestly when I put my services up on crieg's list, I was surprised when someone ACTUALLY hired me at $40,000 to "Make your accidental death look like a murder", but it was some old guy who was a total narcissist. He kept telling his children and grandchildren about his "Old gangster days", and he was feeling his body wearing down. I took his money, had a lawyer write up a document making it so that I not legally at risk, and informed the police what I was doing. They weren't fans of it at first, but part of our deal was that I would report the death to them and let them perform an autopsy. I would fix up the area, and they would put the body back.
I even have a team of actors who I pay to play police. When the police get a 911 call and are given an address, they call up the actors and they come down instead of real police. My fee has slowly increased to around $250,000 to deal with all the expenses. Yes, faking your death cost more than actually hiring a professional killer, but some rich people get a laugh out of it, and the police make a nice $100,000 donation per "kill" to help them deal with the headache. Honestly, the whole thing is a lot of fun for everyone...
Except the families... I have had a few suicides or near suicides, and some people who hire me are truly sick and convince their families that they will come for them next. That of course, breeches the contract, and I quickly inform the families and give them a partial refund. Some insist of suing still, and that I why I have a kick ass lawyer and an iron clad contract protecting me.
It isn't a great job, but I work 4 times a year on average and make about a clean million per year.
|
|
[WP] Some assassins are paid extra to make deaths look accidental. Your job is the opposite. You're hired for those rare instances in which accidental or natural deaths need to appear as if they were murders.
|
"WHAT DO YOU MEAN HE'S DEAD?"
"H...He just fell over sir."
"What the fuck?! You were only suppose to get into position! I didn't give you the order!"
"Sir, I swear, I didn't touch him. I was watching him on top of the building opposite his penthouse, like we agreed. I saw him clutch his chest, then he fell into the pool."
"What's going on now?"
"He's just ...floating, sir. He's face down in the pool."
"Jesus Christ. Alright, well. Fuck! Just pack up and get outta there. I don't want any more shit to deal with."
"Alright, boss."
Hanging up the phone, Frank sank back in his chair, hands over his face.
"What's going on boss?"
Looking up, Frank saw his number two man, Georgio looking at him.
"That old, fat fuck had a heart attack. He fell into the pool and is still floatin."
"Shit. I knew we should have went after him last night."
"We have a serious problem. If the cops get there and find out it was a heart attack, there's no way we're gettin paid for the hit. We'll be out $10 mill because that fuckin prick couldn't lay off the alfredo."
"What do you wanna do about it? We might still be able to get a man over there and put a few in him. He's probably still warm."
"Are you fuckin stupid? They'll know it was after. Nah, we gotta think outside the box on this. You still got that detective friend on the payroll?"
"Yeah, why?"
"Call him up, give him a tip that you think the old man was slipped somethin. Tell him he can get the coroner to confirm."
"Alright, boss but that autopsy ain't gonna show anything. What's the plan here?"
"Just go make the fuckin call. I'll handle the rest."
Frank watched Georgio leave and picked up the phone. He sat impatiently waiting, listening to the ringing.
"Hello, county morgue."
"Yeah, hi. Can you get me Doctor Barone, please. Tell him it's his uncle."
"One moment, please."
*A couple minutes later*
"Yo, Uncle Frank. What's goin on? It's been a while."
"Yeah, hey listen, sorry to call at work, but I need a favor."
|
There is a special art in making something out of nothing. Yes, yes, we all know that one guy who argues that the world is flat by ignoring the facts, but that is not an art so much as it is, well, ignorant. And thus, you have come to me. To claim that extra payout from life insurance or maybe it's just a more convenient way to get rid of that pesky neighbor for good. Welcome to my artist's studio...
First i should preface our meeting by enlightening you on our practices. In your case, this was a simple "fell from a ladder" accident and you want your husband to take the fall (no pun intended) so you and your lover can run away with no strings attached. This is all well and good, but remember that we also tie up all loose ends like any other murder professional would. The difference here is that we have no plausible deniability. Because of this, you need to provide us with the story you want, the detective and insurance companies investigating, and any witnesses that may need dealt with. If you do not provide us with this information before an official investigation starts, you will owe us 25% of our agreed upon sum after this meeting is over.
Another thing to keep in mind is that you, under no circumstances, may get involved with anything you may see us plant or tamper with. This is for the protection of all parties involved. Any sort of action that could be treated as tampering will also cost you 25% of our agreed upon sum. You wanted us to kill two birds with one stone for you and our sum is quite substantial, so i believe that it is in your best interest to follow these simple rules. All other arrangements of our contract will be sent after you provide us the previously mentioned information.
Now while you're here im going to need alibis, interests, arguments, and any little scowl or groan that may imply that these two men disliked each other. The more evidence we can plant towards foul-play, the better. This gives us more room to work with and plug as many potential holes in any story we come up with as possible. Now, don't feel like you need to exaggerate anything, and keep in mind that we've framed politicians for murder because of an out-of-place ice cube before. No matter how much you feel you might be missing, we've done much more with much less i assure you.
So now, shall we begin our business of framing your partner for murder? Or perhaps, now that you're here, you feel like you made a mistake and your partner isnt so bad after all? Well you are definitely more than welcome to leave at any time! Just remember, we are just as good at framing people, as we are for making them disappear...
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[WP] Some assassins are paid extra to make deaths look accidental. Your job is the opposite. You're hired for those rare instances in which accidental or natural deaths need to appear as if they were murders.
|
I went to college for forensic science in a small town called Northbrook, Wyoming. You'd be surprised they had anything more than a high school considering the small population. Yet there I was, sitting in a class with about fourteen other people, examining photos of blood splatter patterns taped to the whiteboard in front of me for my final exam.
We were doing some sort of "who dunnit" project inspired by Jack the Ripper's work in England. The ironic part was that poor old Jack was never found. Well, lucky for him I guess. But that didn't give me any comfort; I was certain the professor rigged the test to be impossible, just like the Ripper case, and I was shaking at the thought of failing this important assignment. I knew I shouldn't be this worried, since I'd been receiving high honors in forensics for months now, but that gave me no solace.
I finished up my report, and, tripping over my own feet on the way out, handed my paper in to the professor. She smirked as she glanced at the paper, and I felt my knees start to give way.
*No no no no no this is not happening is this what I think this means? I failed completely and utterly failed I don't know why I considered becoming a detective in the first place it's just some stupid childhood fantasy I can't believe... I-*
-I grabbed onto her desk, pushed myself upright, and dashed out the door.
Five minutes later, I arrived at my dormitory door and pushed full force (it was never locked). I shut the door behind me. Struggling to capture my breath, I slowly looked up and saw my roommate idly playing with a plastic paddleball on her bed. Her long legs were stretched carelessly up the wall. Her head was perked up with a small white pillow as she watched the ball rise and fall. Her long auburn hair was spread out around her like an open fan, leaving no surface of her twin mattress untouched.
**Hey.**
I froze. This was probably the first time my roommate, Lola, has spoken one word to me since we started rooming back in the fall.
**I just want to let you know, I ate your sandwich.**
At this I lifted an eyebrow, thinking back to all of the other times this past year she's eaten my food. Sensing my skepticism, she added:
**I'll pay you back though, I promise. Anyways, I was thinking maybe-we-could-go-to-the-café-and-pick-up something-for-dinner-and-then-check-our-exam-scores-on-the-way-back.**
She spoke those last few words in rapid succession as if she was running out of air. I didn't respond. Instead, I stared just beside her at a band poster thinking back to forensics.
Just ten minutes after getting our papers, Lola got up with ease and turned her assignment in. I didn't finish until over two hours after, using up almost all of my three hour time limit on my report. This was far from out of the ordinary, and in fact was a pattern we had developed just a week into the school year. She procrastinated, rushed, cheated. I worked tirelessly, bartered, and worried. I was set for success. She was set for the McDonald's down the road. That's life, I suppose.
Even though Lola was confident in everything she did, and I was a nervous wreck, the pattern would yield the same results. She would fail, and I would get nothing less than an A. So why was Lola so adamant about viewing our scores? Why did she want to go to dinner with *me*? And why did the always-so-confident Lola seem so scared?
I snapped back to attention, and gazed at Lola's face. She mistook my apprehension for confusion, and opened her mouth to repeat herself. But before she could continue, I nodded my head rapidly. I was curious to see where this went.
Lola smiled, an unusual sight, and got up off her bed. She threw the paddleball near her pillow and slipped her flip flops on. I followed her out the door.
*******
I threw my tray in the trash and followed Lola to the forensics classroom. Stuck to the door was a list of student names and a letter grade. Like I had suspected, Lola had received an F and I had received an A+. But Lola didn't seem bothered by this. Instead, her face seemed to *glow* and she looked up at the clock. 19:04.
**'s getting late. C'mon.**
She started powerwalking back to the dorm (I would've laughed at the absurdity of it all if I had no self-respect) and I followed in close pursuit. She slammed the door behind us and sat on the stool by her bed.
**You are great with forensics.**
I stared back at her. Why was she complimenting me out of nowhere? Did she want me to cheat for her or give her the answers on next year's exam? What was going on?
**I know you're probably wondering why I'm being so nice to you** (*Yes.*) **and I can explain. I...**
She took a deep breath and stared into my soul.
**I want to become an assassin.**
I gaped at her from the doorway. This is when I would've spit out water or another beverage if I had had any in my mouth. But I didn't, so I stupidly gawked like a fish out of water.
**You can probably see where I'm going with this...Like I said, you're great at forensics. I was thinking, maybe if I do the heavy-lifting, you can use your genius to make my presence known.**
This girl must be *insane.* Aren't assassins supposed to be secretive? Cover their tracks? Why am I supposed to make sure everyone knows she's a killer? *Why* does she want to kill??
**I know you're real innocent and all, but you'd be doing the world a huge favor. You see, I want to murder sinners...corrupt politicians, serial killers, the like. Those kind of people are the people who murdered my family. And with your expertise, you would make sure that my name gets out there, and sinners will sin no more!**
A crack of thunder punctuated her monologue. Or maybe that was just something I filled in after the fact. I've been told I like to romanticize things too much.
**And the name they'll all fear? Miss Fortune!**
My eyes bore deeper into her skull. She can't be serious. This is all just some comedy show! Cue the laugh track!
**Your job? Brand all of my victims with this symbol. Sinners will collect the dots and cower in fear!**
She pulled a piece of paper out from her jean pocket, which bore a crudely drawn tragedy mask of the like found in old Greek theaters. Or was it Shakespearean? This is why I wasn't an arts major.
I was *not* going through with this plan. Or at least, it would take a whole lot of convincing for me to even consider-
**Don't worry, you will be rewarded handsomely. I inherited a lot of money, as well as a few houses, from the death of my parents and their parents. And y'know, that would go a long way toward your student loans...**
That's it. I'm going for it.
*******
Miss Fortune and I made a great team. You see, she didn't get around to much murdering. Whenever she came across a "villain," they suffered some horrible accident and died on the spot. Normally this would seem like a good thing for an assassin. No blood on your hands, not even a Sherlock would suspect foul play, and you still got the job done. Plus, you wouldn't risk a court visit or an annoying amount of paperwork. But this wasn't enough for Lola.
Lola not only wanted every villain branded with her symbol, but she also wanted each one to be an obvious victim of homicide. A knife caught in their throat, you get the shtick. But these accidents made it very difficult for her to complete her kills without coming off as sloppy or random. Miss Fortune faced a lot of, well, misfortune.
That's where I came in. I used my forensics skills to create a crime scene wherever we went, hiding evidence of any accident and helping Miss Fortune replace them with a clean cut across the neck. We finished the job off with her seal of approval, the tragedy mask.
With Lola's payment, I paid off all of my debts and got a nice apartment overlooking NYC. The combination of my gothic clothing style and the layer of blood that constantly coated my body gave me a trademark red and black emblem. I became the Harley Quinn to her Joker. And if you're a fan of Batman, you know how that went.
One day, after a particularly passionate killing spree, Miss Fortune and I sat back on a park bench and shared a bottle of wine. I almost finished my first glass when I looked over and wondered why Lola hadn't started on her's yet. Then my vision began to fizzle out, darkening at the edges and then surrounding me in darkness. I started to choke, and clutched at my chest for the aching pain to go away. All went quiet.
Never dance with Miss Fortune.
|
There is a special art in making something out of nothing. Yes, yes, we all know that one guy who argues that the world is flat by ignoring the facts, but that is not an art so much as it is, well, ignorant. And thus, you have come to me. To claim that extra payout from life insurance or maybe it's just a more convenient way to get rid of that pesky neighbor for good. Welcome to my artist's studio...
First i should preface our meeting by enlightening you on our practices. In your case, this was a simple "fell from a ladder" accident and you want your husband to take the fall (no pun intended) so you and your lover can run away with no strings attached. This is all well and good, but remember that we also tie up all loose ends like any other murder professional would. The difference here is that we have no plausible deniability. Because of this, you need to provide us with the story you want, the detective and insurance companies investigating, and any witnesses that may need dealt with. If you do not provide us with this information before an official investigation starts, you will owe us 25% of our agreed upon sum after this meeting is over.
Another thing to keep in mind is that you, under no circumstances, may get involved with anything you may see us plant or tamper with. This is for the protection of all parties involved. Any sort of action that could be treated as tampering will also cost you 25% of our agreed upon sum. You wanted us to kill two birds with one stone for you and our sum is quite substantial, so i believe that it is in your best interest to follow these simple rules. All other arrangements of our contract will be sent after you provide us the previously mentioned information.
Now while you're here im going to need alibis, interests, arguments, and any little scowl or groan that may imply that these two men disliked each other. The more evidence we can plant towards foul-play, the better. This gives us more room to work with and plug as many potential holes in any story we come up with as possible. Now, don't feel like you need to exaggerate anything, and keep in mind that we've framed politicians for murder because of an out-of-place ice cube before. No matter how much you feel you might be missing, we've done much more with much less i assure you.
So now, shall we begin our business of framing your partner for murder? Or perhaps, now that you're here, you feel like you made a mistake and your partner isnt so bad after all? Well you are definitely more than welcome to leave at any time! Just remember, we are just as good at framing people, as we are for making them disappear...
|
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[WP] Some assassins are paid extra to make deaths look accidental. Your job is the opposite. You're hired for those rare instances in which accidental or natural deaths need to appear as if they were murders.
|
*This should be the easiest job yet.*
I pulled into the prison parking lot, stopping my fairly ordinary looking hatchback, with just a bit more than legal tint in the windows, in my usual spot under the tree. You see, prisons actually pay me to do my job quite often- poor healthcare, food that barely sustains life, and frequent overzealous beatings by guards often lead to deaths that need to look like a shanking, to avoid public outcry at the state of our prison system. While it’s deplorable, working to maintain these conditions, someone will do it whether I do or not at the rates the prisons pay, and it turns out my incredible attention to detail and obsession with criminal handiwork makes me quite good at it. I hate the more gory parts, though.
It wasn’t a prison warden who called me for this job. The warden’s in on it, of course, and probably received a sum comparable to the fortune I’m being paid, since, after all, this job will ruin his reputation. I don’t actually know who I’m working for, or what their true motives are, but whoever they are, they mean business, and I know exactly why it’s so serious to them. I feel disgusted, and a bit nauseous, whenever I think about it.
*Luckily,*, I thought while walking towards the guard who was already holding the door for me, *This job won’t involve any gore.*
The past few weeks was when the majority of the job actually occurred, and it will be ongoing for quite some time after I leave this prison. Since this prisoner’s arrest, people have been doing my job for me- speculating online that he’ll be killed in prison for what he’s done, that people both in and out of prison will want his head, before he can get a fair trial. They’re absolutely right, there are people in the world who would give everything to get the chance to end this man, and I made sure to spread that word as much as possible, anonymously of course. Once I’m done and my version of what happened goes public, I’ll be continuing to spread the word online, saying I knew it would happen. My not-quite-100% accurate predictions will hopefully get my persona a bit of fame online and further spread the word.
As I entered the prison, I was led silently to a room full of servers and monitors, showing camera footage of the entire prison. The guard began to explain what I was trying to do, but I put up a hand to silence him, and gave him a nod. He nodded back, and I began to get to work.
And by “get to work”, I mean slip the still living target a bit of contraband, use some basic editing techniques to make the camera footage look like I was a family member visiting a different prisoner entirely, and give the unit’s guards their orders, and replacement identities.
Once everything was set up, I reviewed my handiwork, and made sure nothing would slip by.
*Wow, when did I pick up these editing skills?* I wondered to myself, as I settled down for a long night of making sure the guards followed their orders. *I guess practice does pay off.*
By morning, the deed was done. The prisoner had used the contraband as planned, dying... well, not as naturally or accidentally as most of my “kills”, but still not by any hand but his own. The guards held up their end of the bargain too, which wasn’t exactly hard for either of the carefully picked men with little to lose and the easiest payout of their life to gain. They didn’t even have to watch cameras like they normally did; *I* worked harder than them.
Regardless, my job was done, so I left the prison before breakfast, driving home to take a nap, then watch the news.
—————————————————————
Hours later, around noon, I awoke to find my phone blaring with notifications from the sites I’d been posting on, many of them asking if I’d seen the news, others congratulating me, and a few asking if I could see into the future.
I opened my laptop in bed, satisfied that my work had gone over well. It was time to spread the word, and make sure this death wasn’t passed off into the sidelines of history as a notable suicide, but rather the major conspiracy it was, that my clients wanted it to be.
Because whether the decision to go through with it was solely his own or not, Jeffrey Epstein didn’t kill himself.
|
There is a special art in making something out of nothing. Yes, yes, we all know that one guy who argues that the world is flat by ignoring the facts, but that is not an art so much as it is, well, ignorant. And thus, you have come to me. To claim that extra payout from life insurance or maybe it's just a more convenient way to get rid of that pesky neighbor for good. Welcome to my artist's studio...
First i should preface our meeting by enlightening you on our practices. In your case, this was a simple "fell from a ladder" accident and you want your husband to take the fall (no pun intended) so you and your lover can run away with no strings attached. This is all well and good, but remember that we also tie up all loose ends like any other murder professional would. The difference here is that we have no plausible deniability. Because of this, you need to provide us with the story you want, the detective and insurance companies investigating, and any witnesses that may need dealt with. If you do not provide us with this information before an official investigation starts, you will owe us 25% of our agreed upon sum after this meeting is over.
Another thing to keep in mind is that you, under no circumstances, may get involved with anything you may see us plant or tamper with. This is for the protection of all parties involved. Any sort of action that could be treated as tampering will also cost you 25% of our agreed upon sum. You wanted us to kill two birds with one stone for you and our sum is quite substantial, so i believe that it is in your best interest to follow these simple rules. All other arrangements of our contract will be sent after you provide us the previously mentioned information.
Now while you're here im going to need alibis, interests, arguments, and any little scowl or groan that may imply that these two men disliked each other. The more evidence we can plant towards foul-play, the better. This gives us more room to work with and plug as many potential holes in any story we come up with as possible. Now, don't feel like you need to exaggerate anything, and keep in mind that we've framed politicians for murder because of an out-of-place ice cube before. No matter how much you feel you might be missing, we've done much more with much less i assure you.
So now, shall we begin our business of framing your partner for murder? Or perhaps, now that you're here, you feel like you made a mistake and your partner isnt so bad after all? Well you are definitely more than welcome to leave at any time! Just remember, we are just as good at framing people, as we are for making them disappear...
|
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[WP] Some assassins are paid extra to make deaths look accidental. Your job is the opposite. You're hired for those rare instances in which accidental or natural deaths need to appear as if they were murders.
|
The endlessly profitable businesses of 'procurement', 'entertainment' and 'insurance sales'- the lucrative mafia requires never-ending work to deter competitors. There is only one lubricant that can stifle competition and prevent police involvement: Blood. Blood creates fear, and fear makes people think twice before getting involved.
My job, as right-hand man of the big boss himself, was to produce the necessary bloodshed. My boss has enemies- enemies he wants out of the way- and as long as his enemies were croaking fast enough, I kept my job.
Eventually I worked out you didn't need the blood to make the fear. You just needed people- everyone and anyone- to *think* you had the blood. See, in this line of work, people don't tend to live very long. People dying fast enough that if I just made my boss *think* I'd offed them, he'd be happy and I'd get a big bonus every Christmas, regular.
I started taking credit for accidents- actual accidents, not 'accidents'. A shop owner who didn't buy insurance gets hit by a car? I'd tell the boss I'd taken care of him. A police officer in a troublesome unit dies of the flu? My boss would think I'd poisoned him. Pretty soon though, I started needing evidence. And that's where the trouble started, and I mean the real trouble- it's one thing to get in trouble with the law if you get found out as a mobster, but if the big boss finds out you're keeping secrets, that's *real trouble*.
How to prove I did a murder that nobody actually done? I had to tamper with crime scenes, plant things on bodies, add a few bullet holes, and in one particular occasion, take away a few bullet holes. After the mayor's dear old mother took the wrong pills, I swapped the pills in the bottles to make it look like she'd taken the right bottle and it had been a murder. When a newspaper man got shot during a mugging, I found the mugger and made sure the first thing he said in custody was 'I got nothing to do with the mob'. When a rival fell in the river and drowned, I fished up the body, added a few bullets, wrapped him in cheesewire, and dropped him back in.
Pretty soon, the whole city thought there was a great big murder ring we never actually had- everytime someone died, people would think we'd done it and covered it up. Pretty soon, I was getting credit for bodies I never even touched. Police were afraid to mess with us, the papers thought one wrong word would have the editor in the river, and competitors were shutting down before we got to them. And the big boss was happy.
I got pretty darn good at it, too. A trail of blood *here*, a few scratches *there*, and a broken window *over there* would have the police and public thinking there had been another murder they wouldn't be able to prove. I got bolder and bolder, till I made my big blunder and it all came crashing down.
So ladies and gentlemen of the jury, I tell you I didn't hurt a hair on the head of that diplomat. He overdosed in that brothel, and that's the real truth!
|
The ringing of the telephone echoed throughout the large, derelict house. Its noise jangled my nerves, persistent and promising one more foul intention among a cesspool of depravity. Sipping my brandy one last time, I set the glass down next to the coaster and crossed the hall to the parlor, where the offending nuisance perched on the wall. It was the only thing that was brand new in that crumbling mansion.
Lifting the phone off its hook, I pressed the bell-shaped earpiece to my face and said, "I am retired."
The voice on the other end laughed raucously. "No, you're not, Benison. Get your ass on the road. This is an important one."
I turned, gazing up along the once-elaborate banister that curved in a sweeping arch across the front hall, guiding the eye appreciatively along the rich moulding and portraits. The eyes of my forefathers gazed down on me in stern reproach, scorning me for plunging their good name into such a gritty infamy.
Into the mouthpiece, I muttered, "I want to retire, Joe."
"Then I'll pay you a fortune for this one. You can retire to a private island. But you're doing this job, Benison. And quick. This is crucial."
I hung my head, rubbing my eyes with my thumb and forefinger. "Alright. What's the job?"
"The Prince of Fried is about to be murdered by the Duchy of Cardiguff."
~
I stepped around the dark nursery, listening to the pitiful coughs of the young Prince Edwin. Any moment now, his nursemaid had promised. I was certain her affair with Joe's lackey was all part of the plan, and there was no love between them. I scanned the windows and the doors, tapping the locks to hear their weaknesses, running my fingers across the secret panel that led to the prince's escape hatch. There were weaknesses in every strength, and finding them made my job that much easier. If the lock had been broken, people would know it was betrayal, for the king spared no expense there. Aggressors wouldn't leave through the escape hatch, for it was too well hidden.
But the latch on the window was old, and the nearby tower cast a shadow just near enough that a ladder could be concealed in the night. But how might they open it? They would surely pry it, for that is the only way without breaking the glass. Breaking the glass would be far too obvious. I was not an amateur.
As the coughing grew fainter, I pushed open the window and stepped out, keeping one leg crooked over the sill. I withdrew a small crowbar and scuffed the outer edges of the window, making sure to nick the oak-paneled sill, as well. Belief came with the smallest touches.
The entry was done. They would escape the same way. I scuffed my boots across the carpeting, tracking marks to and from the bed. Carefully inwards, quickly outwards. They'd be in a hurry to leave despite themselves.
The coughing stopped, and the room was eerily quiet.
I moved to the small bed and drew the curtains aside. This was the worst part. I had never killed a living soul, and I hoped I never had to. But defacing the dead had won me my fame, and this would not be the first child. Nonetheless, I felt like I would gag as I looked upon his youthful face, pale and sunken from his wasting disease. There were any number of ways a foul creature might kill a child. And I had to think like them.
Suddenly, in the still quiet, I heard voices outside the door down the hall. I stiffened and hastily looked around. There should be no one here tonight! The nursemaid assured it! But the voices invariably drew nearer. I gritted my teeth. My most important job would be my sloppiest! I hastily uncorked my vial of chalky dirt found only in the mountainous region of the Cardiguff and sprinkled it along the carpet. The boy's death would have to be smothering--I yanked his pillow out from under his head and placed it carefully over his face. The voices were right outside the door when I dashed away from the bed and toward the secret panel.
I paused. Such a hasty death would bespeak a sudden escape. Otherwise, it would surely look planted. In a single bound, I reached the window and threw it open, letting it bounce back against the stone wall. Outside, one of the voices gave a shout of alarm, and keys jangled in the lock. I swung myself out the window and grasped the thick vines growing just beneath them. They were not strong enough to hold my weight and immediately began popping out of the stone.
Panic flashed through me as I fell, but the vines were thicker lower down, and they held fast, slowing my reckless plummet to the earth. Above me, a man wailed in agony, and a woman screamed in shock. It had to be the King and Queen--damn them for choosing tonight to worry restlessly about their son!
I released the vines when they stuck a few feet off the ground. When my boots hit the earth, the king roared from the prince's window, "Archers! Murder! There has been a murder! Waylay that man!"
I sprinted across the field, hoping to reach the safety of the trees before the archers could gain their bearings in the cloudy night. There was a horse waiting for me, the fastest in the nine realms. Just one quick sprint and I would be free forever.
An arrow whizzed through the air and stuck in the ground inches from my boot, and I ducked sideways in fright. It was a thick shaft, designed for long-distance shooting. I redoubled my efforts, keeping my eyes on the treeline, as another arrow buried itself into the black silt.
The trees! I made it! I sagged in relief as I sprinted under the cover of darkness, and I reached for the reins of the long-legged mare tied to a tree branch.
Suddenly, a lightning bolt of pain tore through my abdomen, and I cried out in agony as I stumbled to my knees, startling the horse. Looking down, I saw an arrow protruding from my belly, just beneath my ribs, dripping blood. Damn! _Damn!_
Hands shaking, I dragged myself into the saddle. If I was found now, the conspiracy would be revealed! Whatever Joe wanted to achieve by framing the Duchy of Cardiguff would never come to pass, and I wouldn't get my money. So I clung to the saddle horn and kicked the mare's sides, letting her choose her path through the darkness. She knew the way home. She had never failed me before.
~
I awoke on my side, my face buried in long grass and my arm crooked beneath me. The horse nuzzled me, breathing heavily. She must have been running. I weakly pushed myself to my feet, nearly passing out from the pain in my abdomen. Looking up, I saw we were at the base of the hill upon which my family home stood. The mare had brought me home! Clinging to the saddle to help me stand, I stumbled up the drive so I could get inside.
I climbed the steps to the door, leaving the mare to fend for herself, and collapsed against the doorknob. The oaken door swung inward, admitting me into the shadowed recesses where my ancestors watched disapprovingly. I bled onto the faded carpet as I reached for the phone, spinning the dial to call Joe.
He picked up on the first ring. "Is it done?" he asked.
Laboring for breath, I replied, "I'm retired now, Joe. Don't ever call me again." I slammed the phone back in its cradle, and my knees gave out on me. I leaned against the wall for a moment to recover my strength. I was glad I was retiring. I hated mutilating dead bodies. Especially the kids. And why--because someone wanted to start a war? I breathed heavily, looking forward to rebuilding my family estate and finally living in peace.
A floorboard creaked further within the shadows of the house. I had no strength left to stand, so I drew my rapier and peered blearily down the dark hall.
"You're the one they call Benison?" an unfamiliar voice issued from the blackness.
My vision shifted nauseatingly for a moment, and I swallowed dryly.
"You're the Maker of Wars," the stranger went on, slow footsteps creaking closer. "The Destroyer of Reputations. The Thief of Truth."
Then a tall, broad-shouldered woman stepped into view of the moonlight pouring in the front door. I had never seen her before. Straight blond hair hung to her waist, and a silver chain draped like a crown around her brow. But she wore a coat and breeches like a soldier, with the insignia of a country I've never heard of sewn into the shoulder.
Meeting her cold, silver eyes, I asked, "Who are you? And what do you want?"
"Hm. I am a Thief of Truth, as well, though not the kind anyone would have heard of. I have a proposition for you, Benison--"
"I'm _retired_," I spat, vitriol and blood flying off my tongue. "Get out of my house."
She chuckled. "I'm afraid I can't do that. For you see, I'm here to ensure your brutal murder, to pay you back for your war crimes. And afterwards, we want you to come work for us. We believe your skills, and your devotion to your task, will make you a valuable asset."
My vision went double again, and I felt my speech slurring slightly, as I growled, "I'm... retired."
"I'm afraid that's not an option, Benison," the woman said, approaching me. Her tall boots filled my vision as I tilted, the earth drawing me downwards. "My boss is not the type of person you want to say no to." Her laughter was the last thing I remember before everything went black.
r/aDittyaDay
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[WP] Some assassins are paid extra to make deaths look accidental. Your job is the opposite. You're hired for those rare instances in which accidental or natural deaths need to appear as if they were murders.
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How do you make an idea last? Make it really grow roots into the minds of men, when such minds are fickle and rarely capable of grasping any idea fully? You make them follow a symbol. Someone who can speak the words to them and make the words and indeed the very idea a part of their soul, if only for a brief moment. But how do you prevent the rot? Keep the sickly force of corruption that follows all those who gain followers? How you keep the errors of their past from tainting the movements that will change the world? The answer is that it is completely impossible to do this. What do you do then, when their vices catches up to them, and they die with indignity and dishonour?
That's where I step in.
You've heard of assassins who can walk into a crowd and escape while making the deaths they have caused looked like nothing more than a mere accident. In a sense, I do the exact opposite. When a political leader has had an overdose, or an important artist has fallen down and broken their neck, or if somebody became embarrassingly dead, they call for me.
I can make any death seem like a murder. Leave it to me. Actor died of auto-erotic asphyxiation? I make it seem like a mob hit, make the actor a hero for not allowing the mob to influence the arts. Proud and rich man pays me to ensure that his death will be mysterious and spoken about, when he is dying from some sort of embarrassing disease picked up from an overuse of exotic courtesans? I make it seem like an anarchist plot as I blow up his sick bed. Vain model dead because she refused to get medicine which would have given her acne? Make it seem like a poison job by a jealous rival.
Why? Because you need drama. If you die a stupid death, your star dimishes. Many live grand lives, but fear mundane deaths. So they bring me in. Make it seem like their deaths were as glamorous as their lives. Sometimes even more. It isn't easy. I make sure that there are untraceable but clear signs of intruders in the house. Untraceable hair bought directly from beggars in Central Asia, which police in the states won't be able to identify. Clear signs of a struggle. Perhaps even some blood here and there. Or perhaps make it so the overdose taken seems forced upon them, that one is always a good one for people to argue over.
Some might ask what if rigor mortis has set in, what if it seems that the body might have been dead for hours or days before they got injured? Easy. I am an able chemist, and a wizard with the human body. With the right knowledge of the human body, the right chemicals, the right way of doing things, I can make any corpse seem like it was killed by its post-mortem wounds. I can't work on corpses older than three days, unless they've been frozen. But I can make any corpse that falls into that criteria, seem as if it has died from the evil will of its detractors, turning it from a case of pity and scorn, into a story of determination and bravery.
And today, oh today I have a masterpiece on my hands. The Vice President is dead, and I have to make it look like a brutal murder. As I work, I can say that I am positively giddy. Because I have to make it look like it was the president who did it. The greatest story told via a murder that never happened. He just had a stroke. The face is the first I correct, make it look betrayed and scared. The wounds come next. Strangling around the neck, leaving bruises, after the VP fought off the president in this story written with an exquisite corpse. A knife wound in the arm, with the VP's own blood re-liquefied from its dried form, following out naturally. A few slashes across the stomach. Finally, the braindamage, partially to keep the stroke hidden, partially to show the brutality of this murder. I know how to be quiet and secretive, so I already have hair from the president. Already have his fingerprints on the murder weapon. It has been deposited in his private quarters.
When I am done, I have to take a step back. The perfect fake murder. Indistinguishable from the real thing. And my biggest job yet. Cults who don't want the sheep to know that the guru was a filthy bastard, companies that don't want their image tarnished from the actions of their CEO at the time of their death, rich families covering up their screw-up members when they inevitably jump into that early grave. They've been nothing compared to the scope of this day. This'll go down in history. When the president tries to flee in his helicopter, there will also be a subtle error in the engine, causing him to crash and burn. The work of my esteemed counterparts, who make deaths seem like accidents.
I walk out and blend in with the crowd as a noticeable person but not a particularly suspicious one, in contrast to my counterparts who are good at being unnoticeable, but seem very shady wherever they go. Everyone puts me down as looking like a noticeable, but harmless goof. I hear the police sirens, I hear the press talking about the rumour. I see the helicopter fly away and then crash down into the National Mall.
Perfection is my art. Everyone will always agree that you must have been murdered when I am done with your corpse.
[/r/ApocalypseOwl](https://www.reddit.com/r/ApocalypseOwl/)
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My job title is crime scene creator, I bet you're wondering how I came into this role?
Unfortunate circumstances really, my step mother was a narcissist, she relied on my father's money, and verbally beat him down constantly.
She needed to go, and I was willing to do whatever it would take.
The decision was made, I set up sound recorders and hidden cameras about the house, the evidence started rolling in.
"He only gave me £1000 spending money this month, I could murder that useless fool, I don't know why I married him" shrieking away in confidence.
"You know I'll be so much better off without you, and then I can but whatever I want"
The smirk I grew as I watched this evidence was almost frightening.
One morning I begin to bag up the evidence, thinking I'll send it to the police claiming she's abusive and wants my father dead, but it seems nature was in my favour, my step mother shrieked, but it wasn't in the usual tone so I ran towards her, to find my father who appeared to have peacefully passed away during the night.
You could see the money signs glowing in my step mums eyes, and I could see my life falling away from me, and that's when the lightbulb went off within me.
"Dear sweet Cynthia" I said sympathetically to my step mum. "Why don't you go across the road to Mary's house, calm down and perhaps start planning the funeral".
And just like that she went, she couldn't resist a gossip, especially the ones where she could brag.
I wasted no time, I had a particular interest in crime and murder stories, so my brain knew how to work quickly, I found some strong painkillers in the cupboard, ground them down and mixed them into liquid, then fed a tube down my father's throat, I poured the liquid in to his stomach. The amount of networth we had, they wouldn't refuse a post mortem examination. I noted some hairs from my step mum in the pillow, and carefully inserted them into my father's nose.
Now the trap was set, I called the police
"My father is dead, and I'm so worried, my step mum was always saying she would kill him".
*Some days after his death*
The police violently hit against our door, Cynthia answered, and was immediately arrested
I barely shut the front door, before there was another knock, a very well dressed man. He handed me a thick A4 envelope, and a business card that had just a phone number.
My eyes widened as I read it's contents, I had underestimated the skills of the elites of the world, I had my every move watched and they thought my skills were good enough to fix crime scenes full time.
It's been 20 years in this job now and dressing my father's death as a murder was the best decision of my life.
EDIT: thank you for the responses. I tried to fix grammar so apologies if it's still wrong!
Formatting on my phone didn't work, so speech has bunched together instead of being on seperate lines! I also don't mind if you point out other grammar mistakes.
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[WP] Nobody's perfect. Write something where the main character doesn't succeed.
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Seth rolled his shoulders and cracked his neck. Standing half a head taller than most men and with a lean but muscular frame, he captured the attention of every girl and the envy of every boy in the land of Cerulin. His bright green eyes, the only ones to be found in the region, marked him as unique, a prize that had won many hearts and broken as many. But today, as he stood before the towering oak doors of the Arena, he was neither the daredevil nor the prince of the streets that he had become known to be. Today he shed all other identities, friend, orphan, hero, enemy, to become solely what he needed to be.
The very best Cerulin had to offer.
“Showtime.” He whispered to himself, before lifting a single brass knocker, twice the size of his head, and letting it fall, crashing into the wood with a resonant *BOOM.*
“Enter!” The twin giants swung inwards with a grace and ease unnatural for their size, revealing the low lit arena that they guarded. Seth strode forward purposefully, forcing himself to not acknowledge the masses of red and black that surrounded him, those that he would soon call brothers. He willed himself not to show fear in the knowledge that every one of them knew a dozen ways to kill or disable him without getting up. Finally, he stood before the raised platform that seated the Council of Nine, the elders of the elite, the greatest of the Assassins. And in the middle of them sat the Grandmaster, The King Killer, who earned his name by doing exactly so.
A brief moment of silence as every eye examined him, assessing his chances of survival, and liking what they saw. A voice rasped out. “Do you understand, Initiate, that there is no turning back from this test?”
“Yes”
Another voice, deeper, croaked out from the Grandmaster’s other side. “You understand then, that there can only be one of two outcomes?”
Seth swallowed hard.
“Victory or death.”
The Grandmaster gave a small nod, and gestured to a guard holding a small pot in front of Seth. This is it, he thought as he reached into the pot. My life, my training, all boils down to this. Fishing out a scrap of paper, he read its contents aloud
“Ursus Ignis!”
*Bear of fire.*
Immediately, hushed murmurs filled the arena. All looked to the Grandmaster, the sole survivor of the test of Ursus Ignis, where he had lost an eye. For the first time since he had set foot into arena, Seth felt his composure slipping. He took a deep breath, smiled a false smile, and spread his hands wide. A barely detectable quiver slipped into his voice as he tried to maintain his confident façade. “Well, are we going to start or what?”
A single raised finger, and the arena fell silent, such was the respect and authority the Grandmaster wielded. The guards surrounding the pit left through a side gate, which was then shut and bound with heavy chains, as was the entrance. A larger gate was opened, and a hulking black bear, prodded by spears, lumbered out. Soon, that gate too was bound and shut, and Seth was trapped with the bear. In the low light, Seth could just make out the tar that made the bear appear black, dripping off its fur in thick, fat droplets.
Suddenly, a flash cut through the air, as a guard threw a flaming spear at the bear from the safety of the stands. The blunted end slammed into the bear’s side, and a blaze washed over it, turning the towering creature into a living inferno, straight from the depths of hell. The creature roared in fury, and through a cloud of pain saw only Seth to claim vengeance on. Lunging towards Seth, the beast swung its claws with the strength of ten men. Years of training kicked in, his body automatically diving into a shoulder roll, a claw slicing the air above him.
Seth recovered and used his momentum to propel himself up and running. Wounded and naturally slower, the infuriated animal couldn't touch Seth as he danced around the edges of its reach. But Seth knew that he had to do something soon, for letting the bear die of its wounds counted as a defeat.
As he leapt back from another vicious swipe, he stumbled and nearly fell as he stepped on the discarded spear. Almost unthinkingly, he jinked his shoulder left, then spun around as the bear fell for the feint, whipping the spear off the ground and diving once again to safety as the bear slammed a flaming paw down onto the spot where Seth had been just a moment ago. *CRACK.* The sound rang through the arena, followed with a burst of cursing as Seth realised that he now held only the butt end of the spear. The other half lay under the fiery mass of the bear.
Half blinded with one eye melted and its other senses all but destroyed, the bear knew its time was ending, and it had not yet avenged itself. With a final show of strength it charged at Seth, hellish fury perfectly matching the aura that shrouded it.
The living fireball bearing down on him, Seth saw no choice but to play his last desperate card, the Ace that only guaranteed death, but for whom it would not say. Running straight at the wall, he leapt up, perfectly toned muscles launching him above his own height. Time seemed to slow as he planted his feet and the butt of the spear on the wall, the broken jagged end facing the doomed animal, aligned perfectly with its head. Seth pushed off the wall into a backflip, releasing the spear. Far too late to stop itself, the bear’s momentum drove wooden stake straight through its nose, the grisly brain covered end emerging through back of its head in an explosion of splintered bone.
Seth completed the movement and landed gracefully into a crouch, the elegant finale to his dance of death. Though it had felt like an eternity, the fight lasted no more than five minutes. Still fueled by adrenaline, he drew himself up to full height, standing defiantly before the council, almost challenging them to question his victory, to denounce his flawless completion of a challenge only one other had survived.
For a moment, no one spoke, the masses stunned into silence. Then the Grandmaster stood, signalling to the guards before turning to address Seth. His deep voice echoed throughout the cavernous room. “Initiate, none who stand here may question your skill in combat, and for that the Brotherhood applauds you.”
As if on cue, the masses of red and black, his Brothers now, began chanting his name as one, and his spirits soared, the excitement at being taken in into the ranks of the elite racing through his veins, sending his heart pounding. But then the Brothers fell silent, and almost instantly the mood turned dark and solemn. Discomforted by the sudden tension, Seth forced himself to keep a straight face, unwilling to show any emotion, any weakness.
“Yet the life of a Brother Assassin is not by his prowess with the sword alone. To be a Brother is to follow every order given, even at the expense of your life.”
On hearing this, Seth could not help but remember a phrase he had once heard a Brother say. Before he could stop himself, the words had escaped his tongue. “Obedience unto death.” His eyes widened in horror as he realised he had interrupted the Grandmaster. Mentally he braced himself for the repercussions, struggling to maintain his composure.
But the Grandmaster merely tilted his hooded head upwards in acknowledgement. “Obedience unto death. Your final task is simple, but your willingness to do so will determine the remainder of your life.”
Intrigued, Seth watched as two guards dragged in a struggling man, his head covered with a hood and his limbs bound with rope. His knees kicked out from behind, the man fell to his knees before Seth, and an ornate knife was presented to Seth. As he gingerly took the bejewelled blade, the hood was ripped off, revealing a horrifyingly familiar face.
“Father Drake?” Seth whispered, not daring to say more as realisation dawned upon him. The blackened eyes of the man who had raised him since infancy found his face, and his body sagged in relief, before flying into renewed panic at the sight of the knife.
“Kill him.”
Though the words only confirmed what he already knew, it hit him like a death sentence. He looked once more at the sea of black and red that surrounded him, and where he had seen brothers only moments ago, he only found murderers and traitors. These who he had held in reverence, whose names had spoken of honour and justice to him as a child, now filled him with a revulsion and rage at the knowledge that they too had betrayed someone who had loved them, trading their humanity for glory. He drank the sight in, and felt no guilt at what he was about to do.
Swinging the knife in a wide arc, he slashed through the throat of one guard and plunged it into the eye of the other. One hand drawing the sword of the screaming guard, one hand dragging along Father Drake, he tried to make a mad dash for the entrance.
Anywhere else, and he might have stood a chance, but among the Brotherhood of Assassins his attempt seemed almost pathetic. Within seconds he found him lying immobile in the dirt, staring at the decapitated head of Father Drake. Each limb held in iron grips, they forced him up, so that he could look as the Grandmaster dropped down effortlessly, his advancing age not showing in the slightest. Taking the ornate knife, he strode up to Seth, and unceremoniously buried it into his chest.
Seth gasped at the intensity of the pain, and blood flew out of his mouth, splattering across the unfazed face of the Grandmaster. As he began drowning in his own blood, his vision began to dim, as did his other diminishing senses. The last thing he heard before death claimed him was the Grandmaster's voice. “I expected better, *son*”
*Son?* He thought in confusion as he stared into the Grandmaster's one eye. His bright, green eye.
Son
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I rounded the corner in a mad dash. My blood was pumping in my head. There was no one around. No way to get help. No crowd to melt into. No sweet old woman to hide me. Just me, the moon and my impending doom.
My steps were loud. Far louder than was acceptable for my survival. My pursuer was silent. My legs ached but swung on anyway, adrenaline pushing me on well past my normal limits.
I turned another corner. I desperately looked for a place to hide, a weapon, help...
Anything.
All I saw was a shadowed sidewalk and my own bloody footprints. My heart sank and I scrambled away again. I cant stay still for long. I try to wrench open every door I dare. All closed and locked. I dont dare call out for help in this dead town.
No one else would come anyway.
Was this it? Was this how it all ended? A trapped animal lashing out in its cage? Was this all I helped left?
I pushed harder. I could barely see. My legs were numb. My body throbbing.
Just keep going.
I could feel the goosebumps flash across my skin. I could smell the faint scents of blood and tobacco.
More. Harder.
I was feeling in the most vague senses. Reduced to the instinct of do or die. I ran like a million years of predators were on my heels.
But as I was pulled back into the shadows of the streets and my last screams echoed through the night, I realized it didn't matter.
We had never evolved to fight the monsters beside us.
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[WP] You are the special weapon of the law, if a murder case seems unsolvable they call you. You are a mutant with the power to raise the dead, for a short amount of time. Most dead are happy to see their murderer behind bars but there was this one guy who just didn't want to help.
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Todd rubbed his eyes. Rain was lashing the windshield in the darkness. Every few minutes a vehicle would approach from the opposite direction, its high beams on. The rage would rise in Todd's chest until their beams flicked down to the highway pavement and out of his eyes, granting him relief from the ocular strain and from his own murderous psychology. The car would pass, and the road ahead would again be empty. "God-fucking-dammit! What the fuck! You couldn't have called me during a nice summer day? You gotta call me in the middle of the fucking night during a fucking hurricane? Is that it? Motherfucker!" He knew it was silly, but cursing profusely to himself in the car was another form of relief.
He arrived at his destination after coming off the highway, and up a winding road to a large estate. Parking in front of a pillared and grand front porch that was dimly lit in the rain, he pulled his raincoat hood over his head and stepped out of the car into the wet. He trotted past two police cruisers before ascending the steps where the door opened, as if waiting for his arrival.
"Hey Todd, thanks for coming. Appreciate it. I know its late." The Sheriff was apologetic, and it was galling.
"Yeah whatever Ben. Let's get this over with."
"Hey, man," Sheriff Ben grabbed Todd by the elbow, "This is serious, don't cop an attitude. You didn't have to come."
Todd pulled his elbow away. Being reminded of his own flaws wasn't helping.
As he entered the hall, he saw a host of characters. A couple in their nightgowns, distraught. A mother weeping. A father consoling the mother. A maid and a butler looking on uncomfortably. Two tall police officers in cowboy hats standing awkwardly next to a door off the hallway.
"Make way, he's here to help," Ben ordered.
Todd entered the room and quickly spotted the body on the bed. It was a small child, about 8 or 9 years old. His eyes were open and his skin was grey.
"Christ, it had to be a kid. What makes you think this is foul play Ben? Kid could have died in his sleep."
"Kids who die in their sleep don't have a wound like this." Ben pulled back the covers, and revealed a stab wound, and blood pooled all around the body on the mattress.
Todd sighed. "Ok, ok... give me some space."
Ben stepped out of the room and closed the door, leaving Todd alone with the child. Outside he heard the father protesting and Ben's voice firmly stating that this was the way it had to be done. Todd pulled out his pocket knife, and expertly cut a small slice in the back of his hand, next to dozens of small scars. He had done this so many times now that it was becoming routine. The blood oozed out and began dripping down his hand and onto the floor in small droplets. Time slowed. Todd closed his eyes as he felt his life force flow out of his hand and then spider around the room seeking a presence. And he found it. He opened his eyes, and all the world was tinted red.
The child sat in the corner shivering looking at his own body on the bed.
"Hey," Todd said gently and he stepped towards the boy. "It's going to be ok."
"Am... am I dead?"
"Yeah. But its ok. Everything is going to be ok."
The boy's eyes grew wide.
"What's your name kid?"
"Danny."
"Danny, I'm Todd. I'm here to help. You are about to go to a much better place, and its all going to be ok. But I need your help first ok?"
"What can I help with?"
"Who did that to you?" Todd pointed to the gash on Danny's body.
Danny's eyes grew wide again. And he shook his head.
"What, you don't know?"
"I know, I just can't tell."
Well that was a first. They always wanted to tell. Bursting with details. "Put that bastard behind bars who fucking killed me," was the common sentiment.
"Ok Danny, here's the thing, I don't have much time. I can only talk to you for a few minutes. I need to know who did this so we can catch the bad guy. Understand?" Todd could see the lights beginning to shift away from the redness already, and Danny's skin was turning translucent.
"I can't tell you!" Danny sobbed.
"Shh-shh-shh, its ok. Why can't you tell me? Was it your Dad? Or your Mom?"
"No!" Danny wailed.
"Hey we gotta catch the bad guy Danny, can you help me catch the bad guy?"
"If I tell you, he will kill everyone." Danny whispered.
"I'm a pretty tough guy, and so is your family. We're going to be ok."
"He kills anyone who knows his name. And you can't stop him. No one can!" Danny cried.
"Ok, so you found out his name, and he came and killed you?"
Danny sniffled. "Yeah. He's really scary!" His last word sent an unearthly shiver down Todd's spine. "You have to not know. You have to not know."
The lights were growing brighter. The blood on Todd's hand was starting to clot. Todd could see the wall through Danny's head. It was nearly time.
"Danny, hey, I gotta know. You are almost gone. We need to get the bad guy. You gotta help me now Danny. For your Mom. For your Dad."
"No... I can't..." Danny sobbed as he stared at his body.
Todd looked back at the body. The gruesome scene was one he was accustomed to under normal circumstances, almost routine. But this time it took on an air of despair. Tears began to fill his eyes, but suddenly, he noticed something on the floor. He stepped forward to take a closer look and saw the boy's tablet.
"No don't! No! No--" Danny began screaming but his voice was pulled off into a distance as the lights shed their final red hues.
Unsettled, Todd stooped down and picked up the tablet. A browser was open to a webpage with a black background. At the top there were bold red letters. "REPEAT THIS MANTRA IF YOU DARE. HIS NAME IS DEATH. HIS NAME IS DEATH. REPEAT HIS NAME FOR HIS NAME IS DEATH. REPEAT IT THRICE IF YOU DARE TO SUMMON THE LORD OF FLIES. BEELZEBUB. BEELZEBUB. BEELZEBUB."
Todd's blood ran cold. He quickly closed the browser window and set the tablet down. He stepped out of the room and walked past the cast of characters outside the room straight into the rain, and back to his car.
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"No."
"What?" I quickly look at the officers around me, several sharing the same confused look as me. The man crossed him arm, the stump of what remained of his right elbow kinda stabbing into his left. "I said no."
"Why don't you want us to help you?" I asked. "You have a brief chance here. You can help us figure out who killed you. Don't you want to rest in piece?" The man narrowed his eye, then shook what was left of his head. "Nah."
I felt a pit grow in my stomach. One of my few cases and this guy doesn't even want to talk.
​
(I can't come up with anything else, hope you liked)
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[WP] You are the special weapon of the law, if a murder case seems unsolvable they call you. You are a mutant with the power to raise the dead, for a short amount of time. Most dead are happy to see their murderer behind bars but there was this one guy who just didn't want to help.
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"You know, you're making this a lot more difficult than it needs to be! You were laying in a pool of your own blood for 32 hours under a bridge in the middle of the city. You were MURDERED in broad daylight for goodness sakes. your shoes were ripped off of your feet and a lock of your hair was cut off. You HAD to have seen something". I stare at our victim, Alex, sitting up right on the metal table. He looks everywhere except at me. I give a big sigh, shake my frustrations out of my head, and dig into my pocket for my pack of cigarettes.
I am at my wits end with this guy. Not a single helpful sentence from him and my time is almost running out. Really the only thing hes said to me was 'bad' when I asked him how he was. I've been "talking" with him for 9 hours. He's starting to smell putrid and pretty soon his brain is doing to be one good for nothin' grey goopy mess.
I find a half smoked cigarette at the bottom of my pack. I dont really like smoking but it masks the smell of death.
Of course my stubbly little fingers can't reach it so I tip my pack over. My pre-smoked prize falls on to the floor. "JESUS CHRIST" I exclaim. Alex tenses up as if his blood turned to ice. For the first time in 9 long hours I see an actual emotional response in him. I try my hardest to pretend not to notice. I pick up my smoke and I can feel the sensation of eyes burning holes in the back of my head. Alex is engaging, cool.
I nonchalantly place the half cigarette in my mouth.
"Alex, do you smoke?"
I flick the lighter, one, two, three missing the gas trigger on purpose.
"Ugh!" I loudly fein my frustration.
No reaction other than a shake of the head.
I knock on the table with the lighter loudly as if to knock some sense into it.
No reaction.
"God dammit" I say to my self
Alex subtly grabs his left arm and his eyes are wide but hes trying to hid it.
"Good thing you dont, alex. wouldnt want to get lung cancer and die."
I chuckle at my own, stupid cruel joke and continue.
"But I guess that wouldnt matter since you dont care that you're dead"
I inhale, and I pretend to stare at the plume of smoke bellowing out of my mouth.
After a couple seconds I was about to speak when I hear Alex's raspy voice
"I...I do care."
Shit, his larynx is starting to degrade.
"Well alex, you haven't been very forth coming with any kind of information. We know you knew your killer. There were 2 open cans of faygo under the bridge where you spent most of your time. You lived under there, didnt you? You were covered with a blanket as if you were sleeping and even though you were stabbed. Only one stab wound and it lead to a quick death. Your murderer cared for you. But didnt care enough to not kill you!. Probably looked you in the eyes. YOU KNEW THEM! ARENT YOU UPSET THEY WATCHED THE GLOW OF LIFE LEAVE YOUR EYES?!"
I didnt realize I had started yelling. This case is getting under my skin. He just looked ashamed.
"What were you doing under living under that bridge anyway?! You're just a kid! You were a year away from graduating! Your foster mom loves you. She just wanted to take care of you. Shes broken because she lost you!"
Alex has a look in his cloudy eyes. It's a look I've seen many times before. Crying, but with no tears.
I feel a tear on my cheek as well. A loving family, what a concept, Right?
Alex is looking at me in the eyes now.
"She didnt deserve a bad kid. I am bad. I always was bad."
Hes gripping his arm tighter.
I deflate.
"What could you have done that was so bad, hun?"
His mouth cocks into an unsure grimace.
"I'm going to hell"
He says this to me like he is admitting and accepting a horrible truth.
"I'm the son of a whore and I'm going to hell"
And he is wide eyed and stares towards the floor.
I'm taken back. What? Is this kid for real? I'm overly frustrated but my heart hurts and I dont know why. I grab his face between both hands. I look him in the dead of his eyes and the realization struck me. It was just a theory, but I wanted to run with it.
Still holding his bloated face in my hands I pry with compassion
"You wanted this to happen, didnt you?"
He makes the gesture of breathing
I continue
"You wanted to kill yourself, but god doesnt dig that, right? You had someone do it for you. Someone close."
He nodded. His voice is quiet and straining now.
"But planning my own murder...that's the same as suicide. I am going to hell. I'm going to hell. I'm going to hell....."
Hes spiraling and Hes starting to fade.
"Alex, honey, who did it. Who stabbed you? Why did they cut your hair? Why did he take your shoes?"
Alex blankly stares through me.
"She liked it short, we ran out of time"
And that was the last thing he said.
I let go of his face and lay him back on the corners table. Now officially a husk of the guy he used to be.
That was exhausting.
I sit in my chair watching the ember of my cigarette fade.
This isnt really an exact science. Talking to ghosts would be much easier. I'm limited to the biological limitations of the human brain and memory functions.
Detective Howard walks in to the room. Tall, dark skin and has a voice that radiates humor. Really sucks at a time like this.
"Oh shit it stinks in here! You alright? You look like you seen a ghost"
Howard laughs at his own played out joke
" I got the M.E. report back. We know he was stabbed in the heart with a make shift shank. Turns out it was made from the broken pew we saw at the crime scene. Also, interestingly enough The medical examiner was able to see multiple cases of bone remodeling on his left arm and right leg. But it doesnt look like anything was too fresh. Kid probably just had an active child hood. Athletic maybe? They are looking into the causes now for shits and giggles. Maybe it was somebody on the same little league team when he was little. Who knows. But so far, no suspects. I mean, his foster family had to attend a funeral out of town. Plenty of eye witnesses , any time he was seen around he was alone. Didnt talk to anyone in school. Nothing on who this guy is"
He paused as if waiting for me to jump in.
I stood up. I feel the weight on my eyes.
"I smell like 41 hour decomp. I'm gonna take a shower"
I walk towards the door. I take a deep breath and tell the detective,
"We can talk about the entire interview tonight over dinner, you're buying. But you're looking for a girl. Some one from child hood who could sympathize with him and his childhood abuse. Look into his biological family. I dont think they did it, but I bet my nose thatll give you a good lead. I'd also encourage the family to have a memorial service. She loved him. She will show up."
Tight lipped, I tap the wall beside the door before walking out.
|
"No."
"What?" I quickly look at the officers around me, several sharing the same confused look as me. The man crossed him arm, the stump of what remained of his right elbow kinda stabbing into his left. "I said no."
"Why don't you want us to help you?" I asked. "You have a brief chance here. You can help us figure out who killed you. Don't you want to rest in piece?" The man narrowed his eye, then shook what was left of his head. "Nah."
I felt a pit grow in my stomach. One of my few cases and this guy doesn't even want to talk.
​
(I can't come up with anything else, hope you liked)
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[WP] You are the special weapon of the law, if a murder case seems unsolvable they call you. You are a mutant with the power to raise the dead, for a short amount of time. Most dead are happy to see their murderer behind bars but there was this one guy who just didn't want to help.
|
I trudged through the graveyard in the dead of night, cursing my handlers under my breath. I still couldn’t understand why they hadn’t hired somebody else to do this part of the job. The other parts were traumatizing enough, the least they could do was help me with the physical labor.
They definitely had the money. From the few times I had actually been to their offices, the daily catered lunches and personal gyms didn’t suggest that this was a division of the FBI struggling to stay afloat. Now, I’m not one to brag, but they could only afford those ostentatious displays of wealth because of the funding that came in due to the work of yours truly. Nobody else was solving 10 cold cases a month. Hell, nobody was solving that many cold cases in a *year*.
But no - my job had to stay “top secret”, so I couldn’t get any help. The last time I had asked, Shane had laughed at me. And he was supposed to be the nice one.
“Jason, do you really think we can tell anyone about what you can do? Especially a random kid who’s just going to be digging corpses for you? Just go do your job!”
The nerve! If he was in front of me right now, I would have smacked him across the face with the shovel strapped across my back. If they rejected me the next time I politely asked about hiring a little apprentice to do the corpse digging, I’d just have to go out and find someone off the street to help me. What could they do if I threatened to tell someone else about my job? Replace me?
Ha. Good luck with that.
After about 10 minutes of walking, I found the gravesite noted in the briefing slipped under my door this morning. The memos were always short: name, age, cause of death, prime suspects in their murder. Standard stuff. Once in a while, I would have liked *some* personal info inserted in there - hobbies, dreams, jobs, etc. You know, a little conversation starter to kick off the sessions with my witnesses. It’s not easy talking to the recently deceased 3 nights a week.
Ah yeah, sorry, forgot to mention that part. I can talk to the dead. Don’t worry, I’m not like that kid from the Sixth Sense, seeing ghosts walking around all the time. That would be *wild*. I had no idea how that kid wasn’t completely off his rocker.
No, my powers are a bit more controlled - I touch a corpse in my own special way, and they return to life for roughly an hour, completely good as new. I warm them up with my sparkling personality, ask them a few questions, and they tell me the name of their murderer. Boom - another cold case solved.
I wish it ended there. After their hour is up, they relive their death in all its glorious detail. In the last decade, I’d seen more gunshot wounds, stranglings, and stabbings than I could count. I wasn’t kidding about the traumatizing parts of the job. Sometimes I close my eyes, but that feels strangely disrespectful to these poor souls. I usually watch. Ok, ok - I usually cry.
But hey, since we’re talking about me now, I also want to let you know that I follow the Mets religiously, cook a mean lasagna, and spend *way* too much time on Netflix. If you’re interested, I can hook you up with a nice list of the most underrated TV shows on there (which is quite good, if I do say so myself). I’m actually thinking of starting a little TV review website on the side.
What’s that? Oh, you’re not interested in those things? You just want to hear about my “talking to the dead” shtick like everyone else. Typical.
I checked my watch, a customized Rolex with little Grim Reapers inscribed around the face. I had just gotten it a few months ago - a gift for the 10th anniversary on the job from my handlers. When I requested this particular beauty, they looked at me with a combination of disgust and...well, more disgust. What can I say? I’ve really leaned into this life. After all, you only live once. Well, unless you have the pleasure of talking to me - then you get to enjoy a brief second jaunt into the land of the living.
It was 2 AM. If all went as planned, I would be back in my bed by 6. I unstrapped the shovel and stuck it into the soft dirt in a single smooth motion. I dug for about 30 minutes until I fully uncovered the casket. It was a beautiful piece of craftsmanship, a maple piece adorned with gold all around the edges - certainly not the final resting place of a poor man.
I took a seat on the ground and sipped at a bottle of water from my backpack, mentally preparing myself for the conversation. It never got easier. I flipped through the briefing one last time.
Name: Lance Wilson.
Age at death: 35. Only a couple years older than me.
Cause of death: Unknown. This was odd, but nothing I hadn’t seen before. It was usually chalked up to a fast-acting poison that exited the victim’s body before they were found.
Suspects: None. Again, not unusual. After all, I only got called in on the coldest of cases.
I shut the briefing folder and dropped it by my side - it was go time. I clambered into the newly excavated hole next to the casket. I popped open the lid with a firm push and got my first look at Lance. He was a handsome man, with a neatly combed mane of brown hair, light stubble, and a sharp jawline.
I won’t bother you with the details of the un-killing process, but as usual, it went off without a hitch. Lance slowly came back to life - his chest started rising and falling again, and I could hear the faint thumps of his heart in the thick silence of the graveyard. After a couple more minutes, he opened his eyes and propped himself on his elbows.
At this point, most of my corpses completely lose it. I would have to go into immediate panic control mode, helping to orient and calm them to stop their blubbering and get them into a state where they could answer my questions.
Lance was different.
He decided to fucking smile at me.
“Hey there. How’re you doing?” he said jovially, as if we were having a nice chat over coffee in the middle of the afternoon.
I had no idea how to respond. I was shaking. My usual charm was gone. This had never happened before. There was no protocol for this type of reaction.
Lance had piped up again. “Hellooo - are you alive?” He chuckled at his own quip.
I flashed back into the present. This man was cracking jokes - that was usually my job. I had to say something, and at this point, I was too nervous to have any filter. “How do you know who I am? Do you know where you are?” I couldn’t conceal my shock.
“Yes, I know exactly where we are. I’m dead. You’re alive. You just reanimated me. And as for my lack of surprise - after how I died, I figured it was just a matter of time before one of you guys came around.”
A shiver went down my spine. What did he mean by “one of you guys”?
“So you know what I can do? Why I can talk to you right now?”
“Well, of course, buddy. Did you really think you were the only one with your abilities?”
Yes, Lance, in fact I did believe I was the only one who could do this. But I couldn't think about that right now. I had to get the information I came for, and then I would peace out. I’d tell my handlers about this tomorrow, and they would figure this shit out. I did not sign up for these types of unexpected confrontations (and yes, I get how ironic this sounds coming from someone who talks to the dead).
Maybe this was all just a huge prank by my handlers. I had seen those TV shows where people injected some chemical that temporarily stopped their heart to play dead. Maybe this Lance guy was just some agent in the division who knew all about my project that I’d just never met. They would be laughing their asses off when I called tomorrow. I’d really lay into them then.
But I was just lying to myself. My division was way too uptight to pull off such an elaborate prank.
I abandoned my usual scripts - they were completely useless. None of my training booklets had been called “What to do when the corpse you just reanimated starts talking back to you.”
“Ok, I’m just gonna cut out all the bullshit that I usually have to go through. You know who I am - I have no idea how - but you also know why I’m here. Who killed you?”
“Ah well, I can’t tell you that. Come on, given how this conversation’s gone so far, did you really think I would just offer up my murderer’s name?”
Things were just getting worse and worse. I was scared out of my mind, but I could only respond with anger.
“What? Why the fuck not? Nobody can hurt you anymore. You’re dead. You have about 50 minutes left before you’re rotting in the ground again. At least help me put your murderer behind bars. This person could be hurting other people. We *need* to know what you know.” I ended on a pleading note, hoping to appeal to the humanity in his undead body.
He smiled again, but it was a different look than before. The first time, it had seemed almost friendly. Now, it seemed more like a grimace of fear.
“Some people can reach beyond death, my friend. You of all people should know that. The man who killed me - well, he’s one of those people. And he can do so much more than you. He can see me all the time. He can see me right now. Now that you’ve visited me, he’ll be coming for you next. He doesn’t like competition, even when it’s as weak as you. I’d get out while you still can.”
I stumbled backwards. I couldn’t take this anymore. I climbed out of the gravesite and ran.
|
"No."
"What?" I quickly look at the officers around me, several sharing the same confused look as me. The man crossed him arm, the stump of what remained of his right elbow kinda stabbing into his left. "I said no."
"Why don't you want us to help you?" I asked. "You have a brief chance here. You can help us figure out who killed you. Don't you want to rest in piece?" The man narrowed his eye, then shook what was left of his head. "Nah."
I felt a pit grow in my stomach. One of my few cases and this guy doesn't even want to talk.
​
(I can't come up with anything else, hope you liked)
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[WP] You are the special weapon of the law, if a murder case seems unsolvable they call you. You are a mutant with the power to raise the dead, for a short amount of time. Most dead are happy to see their murderer behind bars but there was this one guy who just didn't want to help.
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"I just can't talk about it." Jack looked away.
I sat with him at his tombstone like I did for every client.
"But don't you want justice?" I asked, pushing the long strands of my black hair out of my face.
This case had bothered me from day one. Jack was a 34 year old single father that had died at the beginning of this year. It seemed to be a robbery gone wrong. His fourteen year old daughter was the one to find him. It was tragic.
And now, looking at this sorrowful ghost, I could tell he had not yet made it to the place beyond life. I wanted to help him. I wanted to help him find closure.
"Please, Jack. Your daughter couldn't help us. She didn't know what your perp looked like. I want to help you move on from this place, and I think the best way to do that is for you to tell me what happened, best as you can."
He looked cross at me. "You don't understand. And telling you who did it would keep me here longer. I need to see my daughter. I need to see Katie. Who has her? We don't have any family."
I sighed and put my hand on his. It felt like what I imagine touching a very cold cloud would feel like. There was something there, but just barely.
"Did you know the perp? Is that why you can't talk to me? It looked like your house had been ransacked. Do you know what he was looking for? And I don't know where Katie is. I'm not involved in anything with this case other than speaking with you. I have minimal information."
He stood up, pulling his hand away from mine angrily, "So you can't even tell me if she's okay?! Then I have nothing to say to you! You want details, you find my daughter. Got it?!"
He disappeared into the place where lost souls roam. I've seen that place. I have to in order to bring back the spirits. It was like trying to find someone in a dense crowd but the energy feels so incredibly off. There's so much sadness and anger and worry. I hate going there, but I have to. If I can just help one person into the place beyond death, then I have done my job.
I dusted off my pants and headed back to my van. I spoke into the microphone situated on my collar, "Did you get all that, Ced?" I asked my sound guy that was waiting in the back of my van. We have to record every conversation then adjust it so that the spirits voices can be heard.
"Got it. So... What are you going to do about Katie? he seemed pretty adamant about talking to her." I sat in the van, looked over at my sidekick, and shrugged my shoulders.
\*\*Part 2 will be in the comments.\*\*
|
"No."
"What?" I quickly look at the officers around me, several sharing the same confused look as me. The man crossed him arm, the stump of what remained of his right elbow kinda stabbing into his left. "I said no."
"Why don't you want us to help you?" I asked. "You have a brief chance here. You can help us figure out who killed you. Don't you want to rest in piece?" The man narrowed his eye, then shook what was left of his head. "Nah."
I felt a pit grow in my stomach. One of my few cases and this guy doesn't even want to talk.
​
(I can't come up with anything else, hope you liked)
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[WP] You are the special weapon of the law, if a murder case seems unsolvable they call you. You are a mutant with the power to raise the dead, for a short amount of time. Most dead are happy to see their murderer behind bars but there was this one guy who just didn't want to help.
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Tally held the remains of the burger to her lips and with a soft “It only works on humans” bit down on the last of the bread and meat.
Detective Zero had the decency to look embarrassed at being caught staring. “What? I didn't say anything?” he said weakly defending himself.
Tally's silent glare was all the reply he needed to look embarrassed again.
“Well … well I never thought about it till just now but … meat is dead so …”
With the last drop of tea gone he threw his disposable cup into the bin and tried to act naturally as they walked away from the burger van. The two passed trucks and cars that had spilled into the parking spot on the side of the road. The smell of cooking fat and exhaust fumes mixing in the air.
“My powers only work on humans” mumbled Tally as she chewed “I don't summon dead cows or chickens or anything.” She swallowed and sucked her fingers. “And if I did I think it a few ghost cows would be the least of our worries. That cheap greasy burger, as delirious as it was, was probably made of loads of things. Maybe a few cows but more likely anything that was left over when they sweep the floor at night. Bits of hoof and skin and maybe come hair. Could have summoned anything from the gap” She grinned and waited to see how he'd react.
An odd sort of friendship had grown between the two; built on messy murders, insults and a suspicion that the other was a little more interesting outside of work than they let on. Not that they ever met outside of work to find out. Zero said very little about his private life and Tally had made it a habit to lie about hers. Anti-mutant groups were on the rise again and you never knew who might be trying to listen in.
Her companion shuddered and smacked his lips as thought he could taste the stale trotters and chicken feet.“I'm a vegetarian. I don't need to imagine that.”
She looked at the detective with a mixture of surprise and pretend horror. “For real? No meat at all?”
“Not since I was fourteen.”
“You never said that before.”
He smiled and shrugged “You never usually eat before work. Why would it come up?”
Both wondering, as the other subject had come up, if now was a good time to discuss the reason they had met.
“Speaking of work ...” Tally paused wondering how she was going to explain herself.
Detective Zero was more direct. “What happened yesterday?”
They were back at the car. She gave a nod, a signal, to climb in before they spoke again. Once the doors were closed behind them, locked and with all windows tightly shuts she made herself speak.
“I … couldn't do it.”
“You couldn't bring him back?”
“Oh that was easy. Sort of.”
“Sort of?”
Tally thought about the last afternoon. The way her skin prickled as she touched the dead man, her powers triggering, that surge of energy and then …
“He was there but … he didn't say anything. I couldn't get him to talk.”
“He was shot in the face with an explosive round. The bullet took off his jaw,. There wasn't a lot left. That's why I gave you a pen and paper. He could have written down ...”
“No. I mean … My powers fix the dead. At least for a while. Bullets, fire, acid, animal bites, when they come back they can see and hear and move even with chunks missing or … well he should have been just fine. But he wasn't. He could talk and think but he was so ...”
She paused to think of the right word. Zero didn't say anything to rush her. He let her take her time as he sat quietly. He seemed to be half asleep behind the wheel of the parked car but in reality he was alert. Taking in everything she said and making mental notes for future questions.
Tally finally settle on the the word she wanted. “Stiff. He was so stiff.” She looked at Zero and nodded. “And I don't mean stiff like dead. I mean wooden, ya-know. Like a really snobby butler who doesn't want to be in the same room with you but they can't leave. Very polite but really he was just ignoring everything we said. It was all 'Sorry I have no idea who killed me' and 'I have no idea why I'm missing my fingers'.”
“I thought you could control them? Make them talk?”
Tally uncomfortably fidgeted in her seat. “Usually. More like persuading than control but, this guy was all wrong. Even when I touched him it felt … icky. And I've touched a lot of dead things so when I say it was icky you know I mean it.”
She shook herself out of her memory and gestured to the road ahead. Detective Zero started the car and pulled out into the traffic. They drove in silence for a minute before Tally spoke again.
“Why are we on this case? Hardy a mystery on how he died.”
“File on the back seat.”
She reached over and started flipping pages of info. Name, age, all personal details of the dead man was marked as unknown. The bullet was unknown. No suspects or clues or witnesses to the shooting. CCTV caught him walking into the block of abandoned flats but no one else was seen entering or exiting. Only reason he'd been found was a phone call complaining about loud banging noises coming from inside. The neighbour hadn't even realised they were gunshots till they were questioned later.
“Okay what am I looking at? Looking for?” she said as she ruffled the pages again.
“Pathology report.”
“Okay” she flipped the pages back and looked at it again “Shot in the face. Still no mystery.”
“Check the time of death.”
She looked at the numbers scribbled over the top of the page. She checked the longer report. She flipped back to the transcript of the phone call that reported the shot. She flipped back.
“This can't be right?”
Zero clicked on the indicators and turned the car to the east, back to where they had inspected the body yesterday.
“Doctor says it's right. He was already dead for hours when they shot him.”
“But he walked in by himself. Says here you can see it on the video.”
“Yea. A dead man walking around. Imagine that.” He looked at her with a slight smile “You see why I thought this case might interest you.”
|
"No."
"What?" I quickly look at the officers around me, several sharing the same confused look as me. The man crossed him arm, the stump of what remained of his right elbow kinda stabbing into his left. "I said no."
"Why don't you want us to help you?" I asked. "You have a brief chance here. You can help us figure out who killed you. Don't you want to rest in piece?" The man narrowed his eye, then shook what was left of his head. "Nah."
I felt a pit grow in my stomach. One of my few cases and this guy doesn't even want to talk.
​
(I can't come up with anything else, hope you liked)
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[WP] You are the special weapon of the law, if a murder case seems unsolvable they call you. You are a mutant with the power to raise the dead, for a short amount of time. Most dead are happy to see their murderer behind bars but there was this one guy who just didn't want to help.
|
The worst part about raising the dead is that they don't like it when you pull them back from the afterlife. It's painful for both parties, since the living weren't made to go to the land of the dead, and vice versa. Think of sticking your hands outside on a cold day, and there's a sander running against your flesh.
I wiped sweat from my brow as I looked at the woman. She was in the state she'd been when she died, dressed impeccably, hair only a few strands out of place, and her head twisted at the wrong angle. Her upper torso was all that remained, meaning that even if she had lived, she would have been a paraplegic or worse.
I pulled out my pen and paper. (Tape recorders and cell phones can't pick up traces of the dead, only some weird static and feedback.)
"So, Sammy, tell me what happened."
Then, she burst into tears. Only they didn't flow from her eyes. Her body still went through the motions of sobbing, rocking back and forth and wiping her eyes and nose, despite the lack of liquid. Her eyes looked glassy.
Her shoulders shook as she floated around the room, running her hands across the walls. When her hands sunk through the walls, she let out a cry of shock and quickly floated back to me.
"You don't understand..." She said softly, shaking her head. The nonexistent bones creaked loudly, making the hair on the back of my neck stand up. The pen nearly snapped in half in my grip. I cleared my throat and stuck the pen behind my ear.
"I deserved it..." Her body shook and she began to wail again. Parts of her body began to fade away as she did so.
"Sammy, focus." I said sharply, snapping my fingers in front of her face.
Slowly, she brought them down, the tips of her fingers pulling the skin around her eyes down. Rather than the familiar pink, there was nothing there.
"It was my fault." She sobbed, throwing her arms down. A lamp fell off the table, shattering when it hit the ground. "Sorry..."
"Why is it your fault?" I pried, trying to not let my exasperation show on my face. The department had bought me cheap lamps, dish sets, and the like that always broke if the dead flipped out. Easy to break, cheap to replace, rinse and repeat.
Sammy's whole body turned red and she covered her face again, before a hazel eye peeked out between her fingers. Then, when she brought her hands down, the red started to take over her features.
"Because I hit her first." She said softly. "I hit her so hard that she fell down the flight of stairs."
I paused, quickly pulling my pen free and scratching down notes. "So... Did you and this woman both fall down the stairs?" I hadn't been briefed on a second body being found. Perhaps the murder had done so out of revenge.
"No... Not a woman," She shook her head pack and forth so fast her face became a blur. "A little girl... My little girl." Grabbing her head, she held it upright and looked at me. "My mother saw... And so she did the same for me."
My pen paused above the paper. "Your mother?"
She nodded. "Yes..." Looking at her hands, she shook them as red took over them, starting to fall off in a liquid state. It looked almost like blood. "I can't get it off my hands! Please... Please... Let me go, let me go..."
She faded quickly, leaving only a puddle of ectoplasm where she'd been a moment before. I frowned and looked at my notes. A spirit had never been able to pull themselves back into the ether without assistance.
A mother who had killed her own child, then had justice done to her?
I couldn't pull her back without taxing myself, so I told the department what she'd told me.
"She said that her mother pushed her down the stairs?" The Detective said, arching a brow.
"Yeah." I sighed. "Was too scared of her mother to stay in the land of the living I guess."
"Her mother has been dead for ten years," He replied, shaking his head. "And I never saw a record of her having a daughter."
My mouth became dry as I suddenly thought of how Sammy had been pulled back into the land of the dead.
|
“Breathe deeply Mr. Clark.”
Gasping breathes.
“Breathe….Breathe. It may take a few moments for your lungs to re-animate.”
Gasping breaths.
The bullet holes tend to make it harder. I try not to bring that up right away. Most people are surprised enough by the sudden waking up. Being told you have been brutally murdered is a whole other level of shock.
“There you go. Breeeeeath.” I try to sound reassuring. “How do you feel? I understand if you are feeling a bit disoriented.”
I take a few minutes to let Mr. Clark catch his breathe. The gasping isn’t going to let up. Not fully. Five shots with 9mm through the heart and lungs make breathing more…laborious.
“Can you speak, Mr. Clark?” I pick up my clipboard and prepare to write down anything he might say.
“Aahhh…” mostly wheezing air escapes his lips. I offer him a flimsy plastic cup of water. He takes a sip and then drinks greedily. I hand him another as bloody water drips out one of the holes above his stomach.
“Try again.” I coax.
“Ahhee…I think I can.” His voice was still airy and wheezing. Probably as good as it’s going to get.
“Mr. Clark, you have been deceased for about three days. Using a unique, proprietary technique you have been temporarily reanimated so that we can ask you some questions about your cause of death. Do you understand what I’ve told you so far?”
Mr. Clark looked around a bit nervously. He nodded apprehensively.
“Do you remember your demise, Mr. Clark?” I asked. Another nod.
“We are looking for any information that you can provide that will lead us to your killer. I have a list of questions here but, is there anything you can tell me about the incident?”
A wheezing gurgle rose from his throat “ssssssuicide.”
I stared blankly at the five holes in his chest.
I cleared my throat. “Mr. Clark…people don’t commit suicide by shooting themselves in the chest multiple times.”
He lowered his eyes and slowly shook his head. I sat expectantly and gave him as much time as he needed.
“It says here you were an airline pilot for North American Transcontinental until you quit unexpectedly.”
Mr. Clark shook his head a bit. “Got a better offer.” He croaked.
Now we were getting somewhere. “From who?” I didn’t look up from my clipboard and tried to sound passively curious.
He grumbled a bit. “Private firm. Hired to fly millionaires to the Caribbean, Europe, Southeast Asia. Better pay. Better hours.”
“More time with the family?” I asked. I flipped up a page on the clipboard. Mr. Clark was a widower of some 15 years. One son who has married and two grandchildren.
He stirred uncomfortably. Reanimation was known to be an uncomfortable process. Blood had pooled in certain areas, drained out of other areas. Muscles had released, completely tensed, and then relaxed again. Joints had stiffened, tissues started breaking down. Even in cold storage it was like waking up to being sore in every muscle and joint on top of a migraine headache.
“I realize you are out of the loop a bit over the past few days, but do you know where your son might be?”
Mr. Clark looked up a bit too suddenly. His son Brent Clark was the key suspect in the murder. It didn’t make sense that a loving son would kill his father. Stranger things had happened. You never knew with people. In this job it seems like you see it all. Gambling away the family fortune, changing the will, pedophiles. What would make you kill *your* father? Still it was now standard practice to send cases like this to me.
My particular skillset, the process, and how I was the only one able to do it were closely guarded secrets. Half of the agencies that hired me would have been horrified to understand and would never have called me again. The other half would have tried to replicate it. Both were bad for business.
“Your son Brent was seen at your apartment the morning of your death. He was seen leaving the scene in a hurry. He, his wife, and your grandchildren are now unreachable. The last ping off his cell phone was 25 miles south of the city heading south in a hurry. Do you know where he would go if he was in trouble?”
“I don’t know. My son didn’t kill me.” Mr. Clark was now agitated.
“The weapon,” I pulled a photo of a Berretta 9mm pistol of my clipboard, “was registered in your son’s name and had his prints on the handle and slide.”
“no.” said Mr. Clark in quiet disbelief.
“The noise suppressor was purchased with a credit card in his name and delivered to his work address.”
“No.” Mr. Clark was finding his voice now. Sometimes an emotional response was needed to get the blood flowing again.
“What did you talk about that morning, Mr. Clark? Did you argue?”
“Yes, no, I couldn’t say.” Mr. Clark was shaking his head. His whole body was starting to shake.
“Can’t remember? Or won’t remember? You can’t protect him Mr. Clark. Maybe you deserved it. Or maybe you found out something about him? Was it a money issue?” I pressed harder.
“Can’t say…” He finally whispered. “…have to protect them.” His eyes were trying to produce tears, but they would not, could not come.
“Protect who, Mr. Clark?” I softened a bit.
The dim light in the corner hummed and cast shadows. A moth bounced against the bulb. Somewhere down the hall a door slammed. I drummed my fingers on the back of my clip board. “Who are you trying to protect?”
“Everyone.” He paused with words pressing against his lips. He lifted his head and turned his eyes away from the light. “I flew all over, you know. I kept meticulous logs. I made sure to keep track. I wanted to look back and say that I was a pilot to millionaires, rock stars, movie stars, presidents. It was a legacy to be proud of, you know? It had its perks too. Tickets to football games, box seats at the world cup, amenities packages at high-end resorts. They couldn’t just leave me sitting with the plane so I was able to enjoy myself. I wanted to be able to look back and show that I had had an interesting life.”
“Get to the point please, Mr. Clark.” He was building something, justification from the sound of it.
“They were happy enough to forget me when I retired. Gave me a nice gold watch and a retirement package. Had me sign a non-disclosure agreement.” He paused again and a dry sob fell on unsympathetic ears.
“Then he showed up one day. Out of the blue. Security guy, you know the type. Dark glasses, dark suit. I had seen him around in the later years. He stopped by to ‘check up on me’ I thanked him but told him it wasn’t necessary. I was happy as a clam. ‘Good’ he said, I should let him know if there was *anything* I needed. I thought it was strange. This was a good six years after retirement. Hadn’t heard a word from them and then all of a sudden they were so interested.” He cleared his throat and reached shakily for another glass of water.
“The next visit wasn’t as friendly. I was reminded of the NDA. Reminded of my obligation to keep my mouth shut. Not to even tell my family.”
“Then the stories started to come out. Young women recruited for the entertainment of senators, celebrities, presidents and royalty. I tried not to think about it. But then there were more and more. And the timelines started being more than coincidence. My logs. It was all there. Names, dates, locations.”
“It all started to come together. I took the logs and buried them in the bottom of a box in my basement. Then I noticed cars following me. A reporter approached me, I told her I couldn’t comment. I kept seeing the same people in crowds. I tried to tell my son I was being followed. He thought I was delusional and paranoid.” He chuckled a dry chuckle. “Even talked about putting me in a home. We argued and I told him. . . I told him I wasn’t crazy. I told him about the logs. He found them and told me I had to come forward. But I wa…I was scared. I told him to put it back and forget about it but took the books and left. I couldn’t stop him.”
A knock at the door. I told them not to disturb me while in a session.
“Excuse me.” I said politely and walked to the door, opening it just a crack. Green light flooded through the crack.
“We found the son’s car. No sign of them.” Came a whisper through the crack. I nodded and closed the door quietly.
Mr. Clark was now staring despondently at the shadows in the corner of the room.
“Mr. Clark, do you believe these people would hurt your son?”
“Why?” He now had panic in his eyes.
“Your son’s car was found at a rest stop about 50 miles south of the city. There is no sign of him or his family.”
His panic turned to despair. “Of course they would. They would do anything to cover it up. Register a gun. Buy a silencer. Send it to his work.”
“Then help me help them. What else can you tell me?” I pleaded
“I made another copy. In a safe deposit box. The key is in my coffee tin.” His voice trailed off. “I should have done the right thing. I should have said something. I was dead the day I took that job. There was no other way it could end.” Another dry chuckle, “I told you it was suicide.”
​
​
“We’re done here.” I said to the shadows in the corner.
Red glowing eyes and sharp fangs appeared slowly from the shadows. The shadows moved over Mr. Clark and he was gone again.
|
|
[WP] You are the special weapon of the law, if a murder case seems unsolvable they call you. You are a mutant with the power to raise the dead, for a short amount of time. Most dead are happy to see their murderer behind bars but there was this one guy who just didn't want to help.
|
‘Do you KNOW who I WAS?’
Celebrities. Ugh.
‘Yes Mr Jones. And we are going to do everything in our power to hel-‘
‘NANCY!’
Nancy was his assistant. She no longer works for him. Because he’s dead, natch.
‘Nancy doesn’t work for you any more, Mr. Jones..’
His glassy nostrils flare in the glare of the coroner’s lamp.
‘That is some BULLSHIT!’
Nooo buddy. I am meant to be at Amy’s birthday party. She’s 5 and won’t understand why daddy isn’t there. THAT’s bullshit.
‘No, I’m afraid it’s not. She went back to Ohio when her boss OD-ed in a diaper during fleet week. You can’t... really... blame her? Girl’s gotta eat.’
He looks down at his see-through body and the see-through grownup diaper it is still wearing, like he is seeing it for the first time.
‘Oh fuck.’
I cough politely.
‘Yeahhhh....’
He rolls his eyes and sits down heavily on the floor which parts like fog around him and swirls back into place as he comes back up above it. Guess celebrities are used to worse things than being told you’re dead in a diaper and everyone is going to know. Like... not being nominated or whatever.
He focused on me and flashed what would have been a million dollar smile before he died. Does that make it more or less expensive now? Do celeb smiles appreciate like art?
‘Bit late to give a shit now eh?’
Good for him! Most people have no sense of humour when they die. Jess thinks it’s cause ghosts have no endocrine system and I think it’s cause people are humourless ass-hats.
‘From what I’m told, you ‘gave a shit’ as you left, Mr Jones.’
He looked back, horrified, at his prone body in the now-empty hot tub and then laughed.
‘Thank god for the diaper eh.’
‘Thank god for the diaper.’
Right about now they’re cutting Amy’s cake and she’s wondering where I am to help her blow out all those little candles.
‘So can you just help me out real quick and we can all get ho- get wherever we’re going?’
He raises his arms in a wide shrug. ‘What do you need to know? There was a bunch of sailors, a bagful of fun and I have never been good at saying ‘enough’. It’s hardly a mystery.’
‘The mystery isn’t why you died from a recreational drug overdose in a gay sauna, Mr. Jones. The mystery is why you died of other poisoning and someone made everyone including YOU believe it was your own fault. That’s why I’m here.’
His glassy eyes widen. ‘Wait so... I was murdered? Like... actually murdered?’
I nod. ‘I’m sorry.’
He goes to clap my shoulder and his hand goes through me, of course.
‘Why are you sorry? Dude I am going to be sooo famous.’
‘But you’re famous already. And... not to put too fine a point on it... kinda dead.’
‘So? They re gonna talk about me for years!’
I sigh.
‘Do you even care who killed you?’
He ticks off the possibilities on his ghost fingers.
‘Could be my old agent. My wife. My boyfriend. His boyfriend... Could be a lot of people... Hell maybe they clubbed together. The point isn’t who killed me it’s that I died in a diaper in a hot tub surrounded by gay sailors. You couldn’t BUY this kinda publicity.’
I scratch my head.
‘If you were less enthusiastic, I’d worry this was all part of a For Your Consideration campaign.’
He does a double take and a grin splits his face. ‘
‘Posthumous Oscar klaxon!’
I laugh, despite myself. ‘My little girl’s turning 5 today so I’d like to get home before I miss her whole party. If you don’t mind.’
‘Oh wow. Sorry... does she like...?’ He makes wizardy motions in the air.
‘Yeah she loves the first film. She’s not old enough to have seen the rest yet.’
He gives me a wide eyed grin. ‘Lemme send her a birthday video message! Least I can do.’
I pause long enough that he remembers to look down at his half invisible body in the half invisible diaper.
‘Oh yeah. Maybe not.’
I nod. ‘Especially not with the death boner.’
He squints.
‘Ohhhh is that what that is?’
‘Yeah, they happen. It’s nice of you to offer though. I’ll tell her you said hello.’
Mr Jones scratches his shadowy nose and wipes his finger on the ghost of his diaper.
‘Always nice to meet a fan,’ he says.
|
“Breathe deeply Mr. Clark.”
Gasping breathes.
“Breathe….Breathe. It may take a few moments for your lungs to re-animate.”
Gasping breaths.
The bullet holes tend to make it harder. I try not to bring that up right away. Most people are surprised enough by the sudden waking up. Being told you have been brutally murdered is a whole other level of shock.
“There you go. Breeeeeath.” I try to sound reassuring. “How do you feel? I understand if you are feeling a bit disoriented.”
I take a few minutes to let Mr. Clark catch his breathe. The gasping isn’t going to let up. Not fully. Five shots with 9mm through the heart and lungs make breathing more…laborious.
“Can you speak, Mr. Clark?” I pick up my clipboard and prepare to write down anything he might say.
“Aahhh…” mostly wheezing air escapes his lips. I offer him a flimsy plastic cup of water. He takes a sip and then drinks greedily. I hand him another as bloody water drips out one of the holes above his stomach.
“Try again.” I coax.
“Ahhee…I think I can.” His voice was still airy and wheezing. Probably as good as it’s going to get.
“Mr. Clark, you have been deceased for about three days. Using a unique, proprietary technique you have been temporarily reanimated so that we can ask you some questions about your cause of death. Do you understand what I’ve told you so far?”
Mr. Clark looked around a bit nervously. He nodded apprehensively.
“Do you remember your demise, Mr. Clark?” I asked. Another nod.
“We are looking for any information that you can provide that will lead us to your killer. I have a list of questions here but, is there anything you can tell me about the incident?”
A wheezing gurgle rose from his throat “ssssssuicide.”
I stared blankly at the five holes in his chest.
I cleared my throat. “Mr. Clark…people don’t commit suicide by shooting themselves in the chest multiple times.”
He lowered his eyes and slowly shook his head. I sat expectantly and gave him as much time as he needed.
“It says here you were an airline pilot for North American Transcontinental until you quit unexpectedly.”
Mr. Clark shook his head a bit. “Got a better offer.” He croaked.
Now we were getting somewhere. “From who?” I didn’t look up from my clipboard and tried to sound passively curious.
He grumbled a bit. “Private firm. Hired to fly millionaires to the Caribbean, Europe, Southeast Asia. Better pay. Better hours.”
“More time with the family?” I asked. I flipped up a page on the clipboard. Mr. Clark was a widower of some 15 years. One son who has married and two grandchildren.
He stirred uncomfortably. Reanimation was known to be an uncomfortable process. Blood had pooled in certain areas, drained out of other areas. Muscles had released, completely tensed, and then relaxed again. Joints had stiffened, tissues started breaking down. Even in cold storage it was like waking up to being sore in every muscle and joint on top of a migraine headache.
“I realize you are out of the loop a bit over the past few days, but do you know where your son might be?”
Mr. Clark looked up a bit too suddenly. His son Brent Clark was the key suspect in the murder. It didn’t make sense that a loving son would kill his father. Stranger things had happened. You never knew with people. In this job it seems like you see it all. Gambling away the family fortune, changing the will, pedophiles. What would make you kill *your* father? Still it was now standard practice to send cases like this to me.
My particular skillset, the process, and how I was the only one able to do it were closely guarded secrets. Half of the agencies that hired me would have been horrified to understand and would never have called me again. The other half would have tried to replicate it. Both were bad for business.
“Your son Brent was seen at your apartment the morning of your death. He was seen leaving the scene in a hurry. He, his wife, and your grandchildren are now unreachable. The last ping off his cell phone was 25 miles south of the city heading south in a hurry. Do you know where he would go if he was in trouble?”
“I don’t know. My son didn’t kill me.” Mr. Clark was now agitated.
“The weapon,” I pulled a photo of a Berretta 9mm pistol of my clipboard, “was registered in your son’s name and had his prints on the handle and slide.”
“no.” said Mr. Clark in quiet disbelief.
“The noise suppressor was purchased with a credit card in his name and delivered to his work address.”
“No.” Mr. Clark was finding his voice now. Sometimes an emotional response was needed to get the blood flowing again.
“What did you talk about that morning, Mr. Clark? Did you argue?”
“Yes, no, I couldn’t say.” Mr. Clark was shaking his head. His whole body was starting to shake.
“Can’t remember? Or won’t remember? You can’t protect him Mr. Clark. Maybe you deserved it. Or maybe you found out something about him? Was it a money issue?” I pressed harder.
“Can’t say…” He finally whispered. “…have to protect them.” His eyes were trying to produce tears, but they would not, could not come.
“Protect who, Mr. Clark?” I softened a bit.
The dim light in the corner hummed and cast shadows. A moth bounced against the bulb. Somewhere down the hall a door slammed. I drummed my fingers on the back of my clip board. “Who are you trying to protect?”
“Everyone.” He paused with words pressing against his lips. He lifted his head and turned his eyes away from the light. “I flew all over, you know. I kept meticulous logs. I made sure to keep track. I wanted to look back and say that I was a pilot to millionaires, rock stars, movie stars, presidents. It was a legacy to be proud of, you know? It had its perks too. Tickets to football games, box seats at the world cup, amenities packages at high-end resorts. They couldn’t just leave me sitting with the plane so I was able to enjoy myself. I wanted to be able to look back and show that I had had an interesting life.”
“Get to the point please, Mr. Clark.” He was building something, justification from the sound of it.
“They were happy enough to forget me when I retired. Gave me a nice gold watch and a retirement package. Had me sign a non-disclosure agreement.” He paused again and a dry sob fell on unsympathetic ears.
“Then he showed up one day. Out of the blue. Security guy, you know the type. Dark glasses, dark suit. I had seen him around in the later years. He stopped by to ‘check up on me’ I thanked him but told him it wasn’t necessary. I was happy as a clam. ‘Good’ he said, I should let him know if there was *anything* I needed. I thought it was strange. This was a good six years after retirement. Hadn’t heard a word from them and then all of a sudden they were so interested.” He cleared his throat and reached shakily for another glass of water.
“The next visit wasn’t as friendly. I was reminded of the NDA. Reminded of my obligation to keep my mouth shut. Not to even tell my family.”
“Then the stories started to come out. Young women recruited for the entertainment of senators, celebrities, presidents and royalty. I tried not to think about it. But then there were more and more. And the timelines started being more than coincidence. My logs. It was all there. Names, dates, locations.”
“It all started to come together. I took the logs and buried them in the bottom of a box in my basement. Then I noticed cars following me. A reporter approached me, I told her I couldn’t comment. I kept seeing the same people in crowds. I tried to tell my son I was being followed. He thought I was delusional and paranoid.” He chuckled a dry chuckle. “Even talked about putting me in a home. We argued and I told him. . . I told him I wasn’t crazy. I told him about the logs. He found them and told me I had to come forward. But I wa…I was scared. I told him to put it back and forget about it but took the books and left. I couldn’t stop him.”
A knock at the door. I told them not to disturb me while in a session.
“Excuse me.” I said politely and walked to the door, opening it just a crack. Green light flooded through the crack.
“We found the son’s car. No sign of them.” Came a whisper through the crack. I nodded and closed the door quietly.
Mr. Clark was now staring despondently at the shadows in the corner of the room.
“Mr. Clark, do you believe these people would hurt your son?”
“Why?” He now had panic in his eyes.
“Your son’s car was found at a rest stop about 50 miles south of the city. There is no sign of him or his family.”
His panic turned to despair. “Of course they would. They would do anything to cover it up. Register a gun. Buy a silencer. Send it to his work.”
“Then help me help them. What else can you tell me?” I pleaded
“I made another copy. In a safe deposit box. The key is in my coffee tin.” His voice trailed off. “I should have done the right thing. I should have said something. I was dead the day I took that job. There was no other way it could end.” Another dry chuckle, “I told you it was suicide.”
​
​
“We’re done here.” I said to the shadows in the corner.
Red glowing eyes and sharp fangs appeared slowly from the shadows. The shadows moved over Mr. Clark and he was gone again.
|
|
[WP] You are the special weapon of the law, if a murder case seems unsolvable they call you. You are a mutant with the power to raise the dead, for a short amount of time. Most dead are happy to see their murderer behind bars but there was this one guy who just didn't want to help.
|
The worst part about raising the dead is that they don't like it when you pull them back from the afterlife. It's painful for both parties, since the living weren't made to go to the land of the dead, and vice versa. Think of sticking your hands outside on a cold day, and there's a sander running against your flesh.
I wiped sweat from my brow as I looked at the woman. She was in the state she'd been when she died, dressed impeccably, hair only a few strands out of place, and her head twisted at the wrong angle. Her upper torso was all that remained, meaning that even if she had lived, she would have been a paraplegic or worse.
I pulled out my pen and paper. (Tape recorders and cell phones can't pick up traces of the dead, only some weird static and feedback.)
"So, Sammy, tell me what happened."
Then, she burst into tears. Only they didn't flow from her eyes. Her body still went through the motions of sobbing, rocking back and forth and wiping her eyes and nose, despite the lack of liquid. Her eyes looked glassy.
Her shoulders shook as she floated around the room, running her hands across the walls. When her hands sunk through the walls, she let out a cry of shock and quickly floated back to me.
"You don't understand..." She said softly, shaking her head. The nonexistent bones creaked loudly, making the hair on the back of my neck stand up. The pen nearly snapped in half in my grip. I cleared my throat and stuck the pen behind my ear.
"I deserved it..." Her body shook and she began to wail again. Parts of her body began to fade away as she did so.
"Sammy, focus." I said sharply, snapping my fingers in front of her face.
Slowly, she brought them down, the tips of her fingers pulling the skin around her eyes down. Rather than the familiar pink, there was nothing there.
"It was my fault." She sobbed, throwing her arms down. A lamp fell off the table, shattering when it hit the ground. "Sorry..."
"Why is it your fault?" I pried, trying to not let my exasperation show on my face. The department had bought me cheap lamps, dish sets, and the like that always broke if the dead flipped out. Easy to break, cheap to replace, rinse and repeat.
Sammy's whole body turned red and she covered her face again, before a hazel eye peeked out between her fingers. Then, when she brought her hands down, the red started to take over her features.
"Because I hit her first." She said softly. "I hit her so hard that she fell down the flight of stairs."
I paused, quickly pulling my pen free and scratching down notes. "So... Did you and this woman both fall down the stairs?" I hadn't been briefed on a second body being found. Perhaps the murder had done so out of revenge.
"No... Not a woman," She shook her head pack and forth so fast her face became a blur. "A little girl... My little girl." Grabbing her head, she held it upright and looked at me. "My mother saw... And so she did the same for me."
My pen paused above the paper. "Your mother?"
She nodded. "Yes..." Looking at her hands, she shook them as red took over them, starting to fall off in a liquid state. It looked almost like blood. "I can't get it off my hands! Please... Please... Let me go, let me go..."
She faded quickly, leaving only a puddle of ectoplasm where she'd been a moment before. I frowned and looked at my notes. A spirit had never been able to pull themselves back into the ether without assistance.
A mother who had killed her own child, then had justice done to her?
I couldn't pull her back without taxing myself, so I told the department what she'd told me.
"She said that her mother pushed her down the stairs?" The Detective said, arching a brow.
"Yeah." I sighed. "Was too scared of her mother to stay in the land of the living I guess."
"Her mother has been dead for ten years," He replied, shaking his head. "And I never saw a record of her having a daughter."
My mouth became dry as I suddenly thought of how Sammy had been pulled back into the land of the dead.
|
Susan looked carefully at the shimmering light, studying the features of his face. He looked grim, as if he was mourning his own death. It was the face of a man who was murdered, certainly. She had seen it before, and this looked particularly gruesome. Yet, why was he holding back? Why was he protecting the killer, after spending so long investigating him? She would think that he would provide more details to protect the wife he left behind, and his six year old daughter. The killer was still out there, and this time he took out the best detective on the case.
"Frank, you were one of the best. You always had a keen eye for the tiniest details. There must be something small you remember? Anything?"
"I didn't see his face, Susan. I can't provide any more details on the serial killer than I already had on file in my desk. He was wearing that same wolf mask, the one every other victim described. It was our man."
"Describe it again."
"Grey, white tinged fake fur, red eyes with slits like cat eyes."
"That's the exact description you took from the family of the last victim. Come on, Frank. What aren't you telling me?"
The dead always seemed to be in a mental fog-like state. They were able to talk, sometimes coherently, but sometimes they'd get lost in a wave of emotion, speak about feelings they had, usually fear, sometimes rage. It was as if the subconscious would speak for them here and there, and then the memory would be gone. It reminded Susan of caring for her grandmother when she became senile. She had to be patient, let them get lost. Then she would bring them back to reality, for the short time they had.
"Soft eyes... so scared..."
"What about those wolf eyes were 'soft', Frank? You know something."
"Soft? No, cat's eyes. Like I said."
"Then describe your fear. You were scared."
"No, I wasn't afraid. I knew what was coming. It was my fault."
"Your fault? How was it your fault? It was your gun, Frank, sure. Did the killer wrestle it out of you?"
The face grew stern. Something changed.
"Yes. The killer took my gun then shot me."
"That's not what you said before. You said he took it from your bedroom."
The eyes looked distant again.
"She did. She took it from my bedroom."
Susan wheeled around and faced her partner, "It's a SHE! The killer is a woman! Frank just said SHE!"
"Frank, tell me about her."
"Soft eyes... so scared..."
Of course. The killer was scared, not him. Why was the killer scared? What could the killer be afraid of?
"Why was she scared, Frank? Tell me, why was she scared? What was she afraid of?"
"She thought it was a toy... I shouldn't have left it out. She's just six... So scared..."
|
|
[WP] You are the special weapon of the law, if a murder case seems unsolvable they call you. You are a mutant with the power to raise the dead, for a short amount of time. Most dead are happy to see their murderer behind bars but there was this one guy who just didn't want to help.
|
‘Do you KNOW who I WAS?’
Celebrities. Ugh.
‘Yes Mr Jones. And we are going to do everything in our power to hel-‘
‘NANCY!’
Nancy was his assistant. She no longer works for him. Because he’s dead, natch.
‘Nancy doesn’t work for you any more, Mr. Jones..’
His glassy nostrils flare in the glare of the coroner’s lamp.
‘That is some BULLSHIT!’
Nooo buddy. I am meant to be at Amy’s birthday party. She’s 5 and won’t understand why daddy isn’t there. THAT’s bullshit.
‘No, I’m afraid it’s not. She went back to Ohio when her boss OD-ed in a diaper during fleet week. You can’t... really... blame her? Girl’s gotta eat.’
He looks down at his see-through body and the see-through grownup diaper it is still wearing, like he is seeing it for the first time.
‘Oh fuck.’
I cough politely.
‘Yeahhhh....’
He rolls his eyes and sits down heavily on the floor which parts like fog around him and swirls back into place as he comes back up above it. Guess celebrities are used to worse things than being told you’re dead in a diaper and everyone is going to know. Like... not being nominated or whatever.
He focused on me and flashed what would have been a million dollar smile before he died. Does that make it more or less expensive now? Do celeb smiles appreciate like art?
‘Bit late to give a shit now eh?’
Good for him! Most people have no sense of humour when they die. Jess thinks it’s cause ghosts have no endocrine system and I think it’s cause people are humourless ass-hats.
‘From what I’m told, you ‘gave a shit’ as you left, Mr Jones.’
He looked back, horrified, at his prone body in the now-empty hot tub and then laughed.
‘Thank god for the diaper eh.’
‘Thank god for the diaper.’
Right about now they’re cutting Amy’s cake and she’s wondering where I am to help her blow out all those little candles.
‘So can you just help me out real quick and we can all get ho- get wherever we’re going?’
He raises his arms in a wide shrug. ‘What do you need to know? There was a bunch of sailors, a bagful of fun and I have never been good at saying ‘enough’. It’s hardly a mystery.’
‘The mystery isn’t why you died from a recreational drug overdose in a gay sauna, Mr. Jones. The mystery is why you died of other poisoning and someone made everyone including YOU believe it was your own fault. That’s why I’m here.’
His glassy eyes widen. ‘Wait so... I was murdered? Like... actually murdered?’
I nod. ‘I’m sorry.’
He goes to clap my shoulder and his hand goes through me, of course.
‘Why are you sorry? Dude I am going to be sooo famous.’
‘But you’re famous already. And... not to put too fine a point on it... kinda dead.’
‘So? They re gonna talk about me for years!’
I sigh.
‘Do you even care who killed you?’
He ticks off the possibilities on his ghost fingers.
‘Could be my old agent. My wife. My boyfriend. His boyfriend... Could be a lot of people... Hell maybe they clubbed together. The point isn’t who killed me it’s that I died in a diaper in a hot tub surrounded by gay sailors. You couldn’t BUY this kinda publicity.’
I scratch my head.
‘If you were less enthusiastic, I’d worry this was all part of a For Your Consideration campaign.’
He does a double take and a grin splits his face. ‘
‘Posthumous Oscar klaxon!’
I laugh, despite myself. ‘My little girl’s turning 5 today so I’d like to get home before I miss her whole party. If you don’t mind.’
‘Oh wow. Sorry... does she like...?’ He makes wizardy motions in the air.
‘Yeah she loves the first film. She’s not old enough to have seen the rest yet.’
He gives me a wide eyed grin. ‘Lemme send her a birthday video message! Least I can do.’
I pause long enough that he remembers to look down at his half invisible body in the half invisible diaper.
‘Oh yeah. Maybe not.’
I nod. ‘Especially not with the death boner.’
He squints.
‘Ohhhh is that what that is?’
‘Yeah, they happen. It’s nice of you to offer though. I’ll tell her you said hello.’
Mr Jones scratches his shadowy nose and wipes his finger on the ghost of his diaper.
‘Always nice to meet a fan,’ he says.
|
Susan looked carefully at the shimmering light, studying the features of his face. He looked grim, as if he was mourning his own death. It was the face of a man who was murdered, certainly. She had seen it before, and this looked particularly gruesome. Yet, why was he holding back? Why was he protecting the killer, after spending so long investigating him? She would think that he would provide more details to protect the wife he left behind, and his six year old daughter. The killer was still out there, and this time he took out the best detective on the case.
"Frank, you were one of the best. You always had a keen eye for the tiniest details. There must be something small you remember? Anything?"
"I didn't see his face, Susan. I can't provide any more details on the serial killer than I already had on file in my desk. He was wearing that same wolf mask, the one every other victim described. It was our man."
"Describe it again."
"Grey, white tinged fake fur, red eyes with slits like cat eyes."
"That's the exact description you took from the family of the last victim. Come on, Frank. What aren't you telling me?"
The dead always seemed to be in a mental fog-like state. They were able to talk, sometimes coherently, but sometimes they'd get lost in a wave of emotion, speak about feelings they had, usually fear, sometimes rage. It was as if the subconscious would speak for them here and there, and then the memory would be gone. It reminded Susan of caring for her grandmother when she became senile. She had to be patient, let them get lost. Then she would bring them back to reality, for the short time they had.
"Soft eyes... so scared..."
"What about those wolf eyes were 'soft', Frank? You know something."
"Soft? No, cat's eyes. Like I said."
"Then describe your fear. You were scared."
"No, I wasn't afraid. I knew what was coming. It was my fault."
"Your fault? How was it your fault? It was your gun, Frank, sure. Did the killer wrestle it out of you?"
The face grew stern. Something changed.
"Yes. The killer took my gun then shot me."
"That's not what you said before. You said he took it from your bedroom."
The eyes looked distant again.
"She did. She took it from my bedroom."
Susan wheeled around and faced her partner, "It's a SHE! The killer is a woman! Frank just said SHE!"
"Frank, tell me about her."
"Soft eyes... so scared..."
Of course. The killer was scared, not him. Why was the killer scared? What could the killer be afraid of?
"Why was she scared, Frank? Tell me, why was she scared? What was she afraid of?"
"She thought it was a toy... I shouldn't have left it out. She's just six... So scared..."
|
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[WP] You are the special weapon of the law, if a murder case seems unsolvable they call you. You are a mutant with the power to raise the dead, for a short amount of time. Most dead are happy to see their murderer behind bars but there was this one guy who just didn't want to help.
|
‘Do you KNOW who I WAS?’
Celebrities. Ugh.
‘Yes Mr Jones. And we are going to do everything in our power to hel-‘
‘NANCY!’
Nancy was his assistant. She no longer works for him. Because he’s dead, natch.
‘Nancy doesn’t work for you any more, Mr. Jones..’
His glassy nostrils flare in the glare of the coroner’s lamp.
‘That is some BULLSHIT!’
Nooo buddy. I am meant to be at Amy’s birthday party. She’s 5 and won’t understand why daddy isn’t there. THAT’s bullshit.
‘No, I’m afraid it’s not. She went back to Ohio when her boss OD-ed in a diaper during fleet week. You can’t... really... blame her? Girl’s gotta eat.’
He looks down at his see-through body and the see-through grownup diaper it is still wearing, like he is seeing it for the first time.
‘Oh fuck.’
I cough politely.
‘Yeahhhh....’
He rolls his eyes and sits down heavily on the floor which parts like fog around him and swirls back into place as he comes back up above it. Guess celebrities are used to worse things than being told you’re dead in a diaper and everyone is going to know. Like... not being nominated or whatever.
He focused on me and flashed what would have been a million dollar smile before he died. Does that make it more or less expensive now? Do celeb smiles appreciate like art?
‘Bit late to give a shit now eh?’
Good for him! Most people have no sense of humour when they die. Jess thinks it’s cause ghosts have no endocrine system and I think it’s cause people are humourless ass-hats.
‘From what I’m told, you ‘gave a shit’ as you left, Mr Jones.’
He looked back, horrified, at his prone body in the now-empty hot tub and then laughed.
‘Thank god for the diaper eh.’
‘Thank god for the diaper.’
Right about now they’re cutting Amy’s cake and she’s wondering where I am to help her blow out all those little candles.
‘So can you just help me out real quick and we can all get ho- get wherever we’re going?’
He raises his arms in a wide shrug. ‘What do you need to know? There was a bunch of sailors, a bagful of fun and I have never been good at saying ‘enough’. It’s hardly a mystery.’
‘The mystery isn’t why you died from a recreational drug overdose in a gay sauna, Mr. Jones. The mystery is why you died of other poisoning and someone made everyone including YOU believe it was your own fault. That’s why I’m here.’
His glassy eyes widen. ‘Wait so... I was murdered? Like... actually murdered?’
I nod. ‘I’m sorry.’
He goes to clap my shoulder and his hand goes through me, of course.
‘Why are you sorry? Dude I am going to be sooo famous.’
‘But you’re famous already. And... not to put too fine a point on it... kinda dead.’
‘So? They re gonna talk about me for years!’
I sigh.
‘Do you even care who killed you?’
He ticks off the possibilities on his ghost fingers.
‘Could be my old agent. My wife. My boyfriend. His boyfriend... Could be a lot of people... Hell maybe they clubbed together. The point isn’t who killed me it’s that I died in a diaper in a hot tub surrounded by gay sailors. You couldn’t BUY this kinda publicity.’
I scratch my head.
‘If you were less enthusiastic, I’d worry this was all part of a For Your Consideration campaign.’
He does a double take and a grin splits his face. ‘
‘Posthumous Oscar klaxon!’
I laugh, despite myself. ‘My little girl’s turning 5 today so I’d like to get home before I miss her whole party. If you don’t mind.’
‘Oh wow. Sorry... does she like...?’ He makes wizardy motions in the air.
‘Yeah she loves the first film. She’s not old enough to have seen the rest yet.’
He gives me a wide eyed grin. ‘Lemme send her a birthday video message! Least I can do.’
I pause long enough that he remembers to look down at his half invisible body in the half invisible diaper.
‘Oh yeah. Maybe not.’
I nod. ‘Especially not with the death boner.’
He squints.
‘Ohhhh is that what that is?’
‘Yeah, they happen. It’s nice of you to offer though. I’ll tell her you said hello.’
Mr Jones scratches his shadowy nose and wipes his finger on the ghost of his diaper.
‘Always nice to meet a fan,’ he says.
|
"No!"
"Say again?"
"I said no, just leave me to be dead and all."
I scratched my head. Never in my career had some dead ghost had the audacity to deny me information about it's... Well death.
"Okay, listen here! Seriously I can't keep you alive for longer. You are the freshest case of that mysterious murderer I've been after for months! We can catch him and a lot of other dead will be happy."
"Well, no. I stated my point. No!"
"All you stated was screaming 'No!' at me every time..."
"Exactly. Point made! Bye! Good luck and I'm gonna rest from now on. Take care!"
"Okay, hold on! Why not? It's not like it is going to harm you!"
The ghost seemed to have sank in thoughts. After a while it talked again. "Well there is just no point." He looked smug. "I am dead, others are dead, finding him won't bring us back to life." He shrugged. "Besides, you won't be able to find him if I told you what I knew."
Keeping this bitchy ghost up costed me a lot of energy. However this one seemed to know more than the others.
"What do you mean?"
"You know what, you look tired, just let me go and..."
"What do you mean!"
"Sweet demons! Hold your energy man, don't scream at me!" The ghost came closer. "I told you. I can't cooperate. I don't want to."
"Don't start this again!"
"Okay, look. If I tell you why I don't want to tell you, you will know who my murderer is."
"That's the idea, yes, you are beginning to understand it."
"But I don't want you to know that... Because if you knew..."
"Just stop playing around you idiot! I have a case to solve! Last chance and you will never talk to me again!"
"Okay. I tell you and we are done?"
"Yes."
"No further yada yada?"
"Yes!"
"Just done and dusted?"
"YES!"
"Okay, so I saw my murderer, I kinda pulled down the hockey mask he wore in an attempt to fight against him, but, well you see, I didn't succeed. However in my last moments I recognized that face. The old, crooked nose and those emerald green, wild eyes, dark bushy eyebrows and a round face." The ghost looked at me. "I actually recognized that face after you resurrected me."
I looked at him confused.
"Yes, that exact expression! The murderer... Was you?"
My eyes were wide as candy. "WHAT?!"
"Look at me. Remember everyone else on this case. Why are we all ghosts? Why aren't we zombies? We were dead before... And you are the only one who can resurrect or kill us. It's all you. Who was the first to die?"
I looked helpless. "Dr. Tim Gakel." I stuttered " 'Theory of the time travel.' "
The ghost shook its head approvingly.
"That's all I can help with. Take care... And good luck!" As he disappeared, leaving me powerless against the new information.
"God! WHY!!!" I screamed at the night sky.
|
|
[WP] You are the special weapon of the law, if a murder case seems unsolvable they call you. You are a mutant with the power to raise the dead, for a short amount of time. Most dead are happy to see their murderer behind bars but there was this one guy who just didn't want to help.
|
‘Do you KNOW who I WAS?’
Celebrities. Ugh.
‘Yes Mr Jones. And we are going to do everything in our power to hel-‘
‘NANCY!’
Nancy was his assistant. She no longer works for him. Because he’s dead, natch.
‘Nancy doesn’t work for you any more, Mr. Jones..’
His glassy nostrils flare in the glare of the coroner’s lamp.
‘That is some BULLSHIT!’
Nooo buddy. I am meant to be at Amy’s birthday party. She’s 5 and won’t understand why daddy isn’t there. THAT’s bullshit.
‘No, I’m afraid it’s not. She went back to Ohio when her boss OD-ed in a diaper during fleet week. You can’t... really... blame her? Girl’s gotta eat.’
He looks down at his see-through body and the see-through grownup diaper it is still wearing, like he is seeing it for the first time.
‘Oh fuck.’
I cough politely.
‘Yeahhhh....’
He rolls his eyes and sits down heavily on the floor which parts like fog around him and swirls back into place as he comes back up above it. Guess celebrities are used to worse things than being told you’re dead in a diaper and everyone is going to know. Like... not being nominated or whatever.
He focused on me and flashed what would have been a million dollar smile before he died. Does that make it more or less expensive now? Do celeb smiles appreciate like art?
‘Bit late to give a shit now eh?’
Good for him! Most people have no sense of humour when they die. Jess thinks it’s cause ghosts have no endocrine system and I think it’s cause people are humourless ass-hats.
‘From what I’m told, you ‘gave a shit’ as you left, Mr Jones.’
He looked back, horrified, at his prone body in the now-empty hot tub and then laughed.
‘Thank god for the diaper eh.’
‘Thank god for the diaper.’
Right about now they’re cutting Amy’s cake and she’s wondering where I am to help her blow out all those little candles.
‘So can you just help me out real quick and we can all get ho- get wherever we’re going?’
He raises his arms in a wide shrug. ‘What do you need to know? There was a bunch of sailors, a bagful of fun and I have never been good at saying ‘enough’. It’s hardly a mystery.’
‘The mystery isn’t why you died from a recreational drug overdose in a gay sauna, Mr. Jones. The mystery is why you died of other poisoning and someone made everyone including YOU believe it was your own fault. That’s why I’m here.’
His glassy eyes widen. ‘Wait so... I was murdered? Like... actually murdered?’
I nod. ‘I’m sorry.’
He goes to clap my shoulder and his hand goes through me, of course.
‘Why are you sorry? Dude I am going to be sooo famous.’
‘But you’re famous already. And... not to put too fine a point on it... kinda dead.’
‘So? They re gonna talk about me for years!’
I sigh.
‘Do you even care who killed you?’
He ticks off the possibilities on his ghost fingers.
‘Could be my old agent. My wife. My boyfriend. His boyfriend... Could be a lot of people... Hell maybe they clubbed together. The point isn’t who killed me it’s that I died in a diaper in a hot tub surrounded by gay sailors. You couldn’t BUY this kinda publicity.’
I scratch my head.
‘If you were less enthusiastic, I’d worry this was all part of a For Your Consideration campaign.’
He does a double take and a grin splits his face. ‘
‘Posthumous Oscar klaxon!’
I laugh, despite myself. ‘My little girl’s turning 5 today so I’d like to get home before I miss her whole party. If you don’t mind.’
‘Oh wow. Sorry... does she like...?’ He makes wizardy motions in the air.
‘Yeah she loves the first film. She’s not old enough to have seen the rest yet.’
He gives me a wide eyed grin. ‘Lemme send her a birthday video message! Least I can do.’
I pause long enough that he remembers to look down at his half invisible body in the half invisible diaper.
‘Oh yeah. Maybe not.’
I nod. ‘Especially not with the death boner.’
He squints.
‘Ohhhh is that what that is?’
‘Yeah, they happen. It’s nice of you to offer though. I’ll tell her you said hello.’
Mr Jones scratches his shadowy nose and wipes his finger on the ghost of his diaper.
‘Always nice to meet a fan,’ he says.
|
"Why the heck are you eating my sandwich?!" The apparition protested, flailing his formless arms in the air and penetrating the ceiling fan.
"It's not like you're going to finish it. You're dead," Special Detective Larson grumbled. "Waste of a good sandwich. Mm, pumpernickel."
The ghost hadn't realized his predicament. He stomped over to Larson and reached to grab his shoulder, but his arm went right through Larson and he tripped. Larson shivered.
"Wha-what do you mean I'm dead? You're dead!" Roe said. He knelt on the floor, staring at the hands he used to grab sandwiches with.
"Mr. Roe, what's the last thing you remember?" Larson said in between bites.
"Umm..."
There was an awkward silence between Larson and Roe, broken up by the sound of chewing.
"I, I remember...I was walking my dog Betty." Ghost Roe said.
"What else?"
"Then, Betty started barking and she ran into the street. I ran after her..."
"What else happened?" Larson asked, starting to lose patience.
"I caught up to her...and I saw a car parked in front of me. It didn't move, it just stood there..."
"So you saw who was driving the car, right? Mr. Roe, that's why I'm here. I'm Detective Larson. Your last memory is very important to us. It could mean we put away the person who killed you for a very, very long time. Now, did you see who the driver was?"
Mr. Roe lowered his gaze.
"Mr. Roe, the car. Who was driving?"
"I don't know," Roe said. "But I know I deserved it."
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[WP] You are the special weapon of the law, if a murder case seems unsolvable they call you. You are a mutant with the power to raise the dead, for a short amount of time. Most dead are happy to see their murderer behind bars but there was this one guy who just didn't want to help.
|
My phone rang on my nightstand, vibrating off onto the floor with a loud CRACK.
“Fuck.” I said, rolling over to pick it up off the floor, eyes squinting from the bright light that assaulted them. It was detective Martinez, calling at 3:30 a.m… so typical. I answered the phone with a laziness that only I could muster.
“Hello?”
“Philip. It’s detective Martinez.”
“I know bloody well who it is detective... Who died?”
“We’ve got a body down over off Coventry road… higher ups want you here right away.”
“I’m scheduled off this weekend detective.” I said, huffing as I threw the sheets off of me. I wasn’t ready to get out of bed in the slightest.
“We’ve got a very interesting crime scene down here that… well… can you please just come look into it? I’ve got a feeling that this one isn’t going to be an open and shut case for you.” Martinez’s voice grew labored, and I knew that something wasn’t right.
I had an immaculate record of solving cases for the local police department, in such a way that they had received many accolades from state and federal governments for “their’ efforts on solving crimes. All I had received was a gift card to best buy for fifty dollars and a “thank you” letter from the chief of police. C’est la vie, working as a consultant. A bad-ass-mother-fucker consultant, and a mutant to boot.
“You gonna get me my cappuccino? Two creams, two sugars?” I smiled through the phone at Martinez, knowing that he was at my every beck and call in these situations.
“You want a little bit of “hurry the fuck up and get over here” added in as well?” I heard Martinez’s smile through the phone as well. Oh I was going to give him so much shit when I showed up on scene.
“I’ll be there in like, 30 mins.” I said, hanging up the phone abruptly. The address was maybe 15 minutes from where I lived, but I liked to take my time. Also, a donut shop down the street was beckoning to me.
\*\*\*
I showed up on scene at the little town-home off of Coventry road, to witness the usual pomp and ceremony that I had grown accustomed to. I was allowed to attend a few classes at the law enforcement academy, classes they would let mutants take. I had enrolled in a “crime scene management” course a few months ago, before I had been outed as a “mutant”. I still remember all the stern glances, and outward discrimination that people would show me while I was studying.
“Fucking freak.” A passerby whispered.
“Go back to mutant-ville.” Someone once screamed, driving by in their vehicle.
“Don’t pay them any attention.” My instructor had consoled me one afternoon, noticing that I wasn’t performing well in class. I had been feeling depressed, thinking that I wouldn’t be able to finish the class due to all the issues I was having. “There will always be individuals that will question your methods, try to discredit you. But you have been given a gift, raising people from the dead. The last person to do that, was put on a cross, and murdered. Just remember that.”
His words didn’t really inspire me that much, now that I thought about it more closely. But it did give me hope, that one day, I might teach everybody around me a quick lesson in respect. That was exactly what I thought that morning, when I strolled past the officer guarding the front door to the crime scene. I flipped him the bird as I strutted my way into the crime scene like a peacock waltzing down the sidewalk.
“What’s up bitches?” I said, raising my hands into the air.
“Philip!” I heard detective Martinez yell from an adjoining room. “Get in here.” I walked around the corner and into what appeared to be a library, with all sorts of books lining the walls. I saw detective Martinez hovering over a body that lay sprawled out in the center of the room.
“Took you long enough.” Martinez said, handing me my cup of cappuccino. I took a sip and nearly spit it out.
“What the hell!” I said, wiping my lips. “It’s cold!”
“Well that’s not my fault. It took you like an hour to get here. Why are you so slow?” Martinez said, his eyebrows raised with concern. I thought about the succulent donuts I had eaten on the ride over. Worth it.
“Doesn’t matter, I’ll still drink it. What we got here, detective?” I said, walking around the room to inspect it further.
“White male, late forties, looks like the manner of death was strangulation… but it’s hard to tell.”
“Seems like a pretty simple case here? Why’d you call me in?” I said, stepping over the body to sit at the desk nearby, kicking my feet up on the desk.
“This guy’s related to some… high ranking people in the state government. Senator type stuff. You want to get to work now? Or what.” Martinez tapped his foot impatiently.
“I’m drinking my cappuccino detective.” I said, giving him a wink.
“Alright. Well can you hurry the fuck up and finish please?’ His face grew red, clearly flustered. Martinez always got like that, never wanting to wait for anything.
“Alright alright, calm yourself man.” I said, setting the cup down on the desk. I got up from the chair, and walked around to the corpse, kneeling just nearby. “You wanna see something spooky?” I said, looking up at Martinez.
“Do you have to say that every time you bring someone back from the dead?” He asked, shaking his head with disappointment.
“It’s my catch phrase okay, everyone needs a catch phrase.” I saw Martinez’s look go from disappointment, to a look of horror as he looked just past me. I felt the body start to twitch, and watched as the corpse reanimated, sitting up with a scream.
“No!” It yelled, looking at me with blood red eyes.
“Sir, calm down please. You’ve been brought back from the other side, I need to ask you a few questions.” I continued on with my usual shtick, quoting it from heart.
“I’m not telling you!” The dead man yelled. “It… it told me if I told you that it would kill the rest of my family!” The man leapt up from the floor, and grabbed a letter opener from the nearby desk, slicing his throat open with one swift movement. I jumped back with disgust as the body slumped back onto the floor with a THUD, the man’s eyes rolling into the back of his head. I looked over to detective Martinez, his hands perched on his head in bewilderment.
“I think we have a problem.” I said, scratching my head.
|
Part one: Spirit on the run
I always disliked my job. Not because it was hard or anything. My co-workers didn't care to talk to me too much unless they needed help on a case. Which I didn't really mind most of them didn't really seem to be my type of people to hang out with after work. I also didn't like how using my abilities left me. My unusual ability to bring people back from the dead always leaves me feeling cold and tired. Like I jumped into and ice bath after running a marathon. Usually that was all that happened. This case though was quite different. The murder this time was at the fancy hotel in the city. John Doe was laying in the bag when I got there. Whomever did this tried to make it look like a suicide: slit wrist, alcohol, bathtub full of water and blood, and even a letter signed by the victim. The only reason I was called on site was the victim was a high profile case and some odds and ends didn't add up. They use to tell me, but after learning that I don't need any details I just needed direct contact with the body they didn't tell me anything I didn't ask for. As I placed my hands on his shoulders something felt off. I couldn't quite place what felt off, but some strange sense of unease crept over me. I focused at the task at hand. The spirit seemed to avoid me. Anytime I reached out towards it with my mind it crawled away from me as though afraid of me. After a few minutes of playing tag and had to take a break. Usually they were never this hard to bring back especially for how little time he has spent dead. "Hey guys make sure to have a medic nearby I might actually pass out from this one." I told one of closest Officers. I tried again reaching out with my mind and again John Doe kept trying to avoid me. I finally got it and dragged it back into the body. He gasped and sat up. As that happened I promptly fell on my ass "What the hell ?" He yelled catching his breath. "I should be asking you that. Why are you avoiding me so much? You know what? never mind just answer the police's questions you don't have a lot of time." I said trying to stand back up. I was spent though sitting on the ground seemed to be the only thing I was going to do for the moment. He looked at the two officers and then looked down in my general direction since I was standing at his head I was now behind him on the ground. "No. I refuse. Put me back or when I do go back I'll haunt you." I rolled my eyes "That isn't how this works. You can't contact me unless I reach out to you. Even if you could haunt me you'd have to get in line from the others I've brought back before you. Just answer their questions." He apparently did like that because he quickly grabbed one of the officer's pens and stabbed himself in the neck thus his spirit left his body again. We all looked amazed. "You got to be kidding me." I manage to finally stand back up looking at the two officers. I have had maybe one or two spirits do this before him, but this guy was a different case all together. I went in for another round of raising the dead. this time it was a lot quicker to catch and pull him back in but this time also left me with bloody nose and some dizziness. He looked very upset that I stopped his escape plan. "Look keep going for it I'll just bring you back until you answer the questions. I've got all night." I said as one of the on by medics brought me something for me nose. "Hmph. Fine but I need you to leave." He demanded. Little did he know he lost the right to make demands know that he tried to die again before answering our questions. I really couldn't leave until he was done, and at this stage of the game sending him back will definitely take a toll on me, but I got paid good money to do this.
The guy was a political man running for office in the up coming election. he had paid for all the rooms on that floor. he had guards doing rounds and no one was to come through unless given the ok. Turns out John Doe though had a secret lover. He was married and has kids but the misses didn't know he had a romantic lover of the male variety. after their hook up the booty call left him alone. the guards patrolling saw him out and sometime between then and now someone had snuck in and killed him. the cameras though show no one coming in or out of the room, and the recording shows no signs of tampering. He didn't want to answer any questions because he didn't want it to leak he had an affair, but the police told him it would come to light unless it was vital. He still didn't want to go into full detail though of how he died he even tried telling the officers he killed himself to avoid the stories, but up until now he never mentioned being black mailed. After an hour of going over the story he let slip someone else was in the room after his lover left. "They threatened to expose me to my wife. They were willing to let my whole life go up in flames unless I complied." he whaled. He wouldn't give us a name or identify the person. He even tried to off himself again but this time the officers were ready. After another hour of this I told reminded them I'm on the clock while he is alive ( not wanting to get cheated of pay again because some cops doctor reports of time to conflict with my own) they eventually they allowed me to put him back in the realm of the dead and that's when I found I wasn't the only living person reaching out into the realm. And for that discovery I was almost killed in the process.
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[WP] You are the special weapon of the law, if a murder case seems unsolvable they call you. You are a mutant with the power to raise the dead, for a short amount of time. Most dead are happy to see their murderer behind bars but there was this one guy who just didn't want to help.
|
"So, you see.. I'm very happy where I am. Your services aren't needed. You may leave!" George deadpanned. Even after being dead for so long, this man was just as everyone had described him. *Unbearable*
A soft sigh escaped my lips, "Mr Costanza.. You do realise we have an on-going murder investigation on your name. You are dead. Your ashes are right here!" I tried my best to hide my frustration but it was apparent when I pointed towards his urn.
Almost 6 months had passed from the time Mr. George Costanza's body was found. A short stout, balding man, who was stabbed right in the heart. The act seemed like a crime of passion or leading aggression. The murder weapon was never found, it was an oddly cone shaped item that pierced him pretty hard and quick.
"You got a good look of the killer, didn't you?"
"I'm dead. I can't be undead! So what's the point? Besides I'm happy to be dead!!" The dead retorted, his reluctant behaviour was taking me by surprise.
"Why wouldn't you want your killer behind the bars?" I asked, curious more than ever. Was this man really trying to get me fired from my job?
"Well..."
"Welll....?" I asked, glancing down at my wrist watch. Every dead was different, which meant, my mutant powers worked differently on them. Some had 10 minutes, while the rest could even go up to an hour. I was yet to figure would the cause, perhaps it had more to do with their willingness to connect with the real world. George seemed to not care at all.
"I can't tell you who it was.." he whispered softly, there was sadness illuminating from his eyes.
"I'm sorry, but you must.. There are people out there who loved you and want justice for your loss.."
"No body cares.." He whispered, when I heard how broken he was, a part of me felt sympathetic towards him. How could someone, even after being murdered, be thankful for it?
"We do.. I do.. if you didn't matter, the police would've never called me.." I tried reassure him, I wasn't the best person at being in touch with my feelings.
*Showing feelings or experiencing them, was alien to me. But now, for the sake of my job, I had to show someone how they mattered, AFTER they were dead. The perks of my job*
I could almost see the change in his demeanor, this was my little ray of sunshine through a tiny crack, it felt promising but the clock was ticking at the same time. "Please, help me, help you.." a softness was added to my tone as I watched him.
"Miss. Shaw" he began once again, the hesitation was apparent in his face, like he was trusting me with his well-kept secret. A secret he had worked so hard to suffocate under the weight of a mountain of feelings.
"I spent my whole life, trying to get by. I was never a smart kid. I never worked hard for anything. Even for work, I prayed I'd get fired so unemployment would fend for me. Hell, I worked hard to keep the unemployment, than being employed! Then everything changed, I met a wonderful woman. We got along fine! She was the bread winner and I, the stay at home boyfriend. I loved my life. I loved the comfort. We decided to get married.." he paused, guilt ridden at this point.
I waited patiently for him to continue, giving him the gentle nods that I understand what he's experiencing.
".....I was being cheap.. I forced her to buy cheap toxic wedding invites.. She dead from them..." He whispered.
My brows raised in surprise, wondering what the connection was. This spirit was clearly out of his mind.
"And... The killer is...?" I tried to give him a little mental nudge to concentrate.
"Ever since Susan died.. I felt like her family blamed me for it.. it drove me nuts! I couldn't take the way her mother looked at me through her eyelashes, as if I stole her daughter away from here!!" He quibbled while raising his fist in the air.
"Mr. Costanza! Please tell me how did you die?" I demanded, my voice unable to hide my frustration.
"Yes, I'm getting to it.... So.. Yada yada.. and I was dead."
I could feel the nerves in my forehead pop out, no one in my life had been so miserably frustrating before. I thanked my lucky stars because if this man were alive, I would've killed him with my bare hands.
"What is yada yada?"
"Oh!" He began once again when I noticed his spirit fading slowly. It was time, he would be gone within seconds.
"HURRY!" I demanded once again, I couldn't connect with him for another 6 months and frankly didn't care enough to see him again. Even if I was being paid for it.
"What did they find near my dead body?" He had somehow turned into a silhouette now, his voice faint.
".... Envelopes dispersed on the floor..? Metal spatula?... A bucket...? A turned table?"
I answered confused, even though I had memorized the whole scene. His body was found under a bed of envelopes. The victim was hugging his chest, trying to stop the blood from flowing so fast.
"Check the freezer, you look like a smart cookie.." And with that, he was gone.
"George!!!" I called out after him. *Seriously fuck the dude. Who the fuck talks this way?*
I placed his urn back into the living room where his father had instructed me to, then walked back to the kitchen. "Freezer...." I told myself as I inched closer to it. What was I expecting? A dead body? A dead killer?
To my surprise, I noticed icicles surrounding the entrance. "Huh?" I thought. "Oddly cone shaped object, sharp enough to hurt anyone..." I mumbled, trying to remember how the murder weapon was, and then it all clicked.
A chuckle left my lips, "Costanza, you bastard! Case closed!!"
Edit: typos. I'm on mobile, sorry guys!
|
[POEM]
I wasn't really feeling too well,
Must be something to do with being in hell
Right before the whips gave me my first whack,
I felt myself being pulled back
I found myself back in my shop,
Staring into the eyes of an ugly cop
About my death he wanted to know
But, he was so ugly, back to hell I wanted to go
He questioned me for almost a day,
Quiet I kept, nothing did I say
"How did you die and who killed you?" he asked,
Oh how I wish his face could be masked!
Finally, frustrated he sent me back,
Muttering under his breath "SON OF A GUN!"
He was almost right infact,
What actually killed me was the gun of a son.
|
|
[WP] You are the special weapon of the law, if a murder case seems unsolvable they call you. You are a mutant with the power to raise the dead, for a short amount of time. Most dead are happy to see their murderer behind bars but there was this one guy who just didn't want to help.
|
My phone rang on my nightstand, vibrating off onto the floor with a loud CRACK.
“Fuck.” I said, rolling over to pick it up off the floor, eyes squinting from the bright light that assaulted them. It was detective Martinez, calling at 3:30 a.m… so typical. I answered the phone with a laziness that only I could muster.
“Hello?”
“Philip. It’s detective Martinez.”
“I know bloody well who it is detective... Who died?”
“We’ve got a body down over off Coventry road… higher ups want you here right away.”
“I’m scheduled off this weekend detective.” I said, huffing as I threw the sheets off of me. I wasn’t ready to get out of bed in the slightest.
“We’ve got a very interesting crime scene down here that… well… can you please just come look into it? I’ve got a feeling that this one isn’t going to be an open and shut case for you.” Martinez’s voice grew labored, and I knew that something wasn’t right.
I had an immaculate record of solving cases for the local police department, in such a way that they had received many accolades from state and federal governments for “their’ efforts on solving crimes. All I had received was a gift card to best buy for fifty dollars and a “thank you” letter from the chief of police. C’est la vie, working as a consultant. A bad-ass-mother-fucker consultant, and a mutant to boot.
“You gonna get me my cappuccino? Two creams, two sugars?” I smiled through the phone at Martinez, knowing that he was at my every beck and call in these situations.
“You want a little bit of “hurry the fuck up and get over here” added in as well?” I heard Martinez’s smile through the phone as well. Oh I was going to give him so much shit when I showed up on scene.
“I’ll be there in like, 30 mins.” I said, hanging up the phone abruptly. The address was maybe 15 minutes from where I lived, but I liked to take my time. Also, a donut shop down the street was beckoning to me.
\*\*\*
I showed up on scene at the little town-home off of Coventry road, to witness the usual pomp and ceremony that I had grown accustomed to. I was allowed to attend a few classes at the law enforcement academy, classes they would let mutants take. I had enrolled in a “crime scene management” course a few months ago, before I had been outed as a “mutant”. I still remember all the stern glances, and outward discrimination that people would show me while I was studying.
“Fucking freak.” A passerby whispered.
“Go back to mutant-ville.” Someone once screamed, driving by in their vehicle.
“Don’t pay them any attention.” My instructor had consoled me one afternoon, noticing that I wasn’t performing well in class. I had been feeling depressed, thinking that I wouldn’t be able to finish the class due to all the issues I was having. “There will always be individuals that will question your methods, try to discredit you. But you have been given a gift, raising people from the dead. The last person to do that, was put on a cross, and murdered. Just remember that.”
His words didn’t really inspire me that much, now that I thought about it more closely. But it did give me hope, that one day, I might teach everybody around me a quick lesson in respect. That was exactly what I thought that morning, when I strolled past the officer guarding the front door to the crime scene. I flipped him the bird as I strutted my way into the crime scene like a peacock waltzing down the sidewalk.
“What’s up bitches?” I said, raising my hands into the air.
“Philip!” I heard detective Martinez yell from an adjoining room. “Get in here.” I walked around the corner and into what appeared to be a library, with all sorts of books lining the walls. I saw detective Martinez hovering over a body that lay sprawled out in the center of the room.
“Took you long enough.” Martinez said, handing me my cup of cappuccino. I took a sip and nearly spit it out.
“What the hell!” I said, wiping my lips. “It’s cold!”
“Well that’s not my fault. It took you like an hour to get here. Why are you so slow?” Martinez said, his eyebrows raised with concern. I thought about the succulent donuts I had eaten on the ride over. Worth it.
“Doesn’t matter, I’ll still drink it. What we got here, detective?” I said, walking around the room to inspect it further.
“White male, late forties, looks like the manner of death was strangulation… but it’s hard to tell.”
“Seems like a pretty simple case here? Why’d you call me in?” I said, stepping over the body to sit at the desk nearby, kicking my feet up on the desk.
“This guy’s related to some… high ranking people in the state government. Senator type stuff. You want to get to work now? Or what.” Martinez tapped his foot impatiently.
“I’m drinking my cappuccino detective.” I said, giving him a wink.
“Alright. Well can you hurry the fuck up and finish please?’ His face grew red, clearly flustered. Martinez always got like that, never wanting to wait for anything.
“Alright alright, calm yourself man.” I said, setting the cup down on the desk. I got up from the chair, and walked around to the corpse, kneeling just nearby. “You wanna see something spooky?” I said, looking up at Martinez.
“Do you have to say that every time you bring someone back from the dead?” He asked, shaking his head with disappointment.
“It’s my catch phrase okay, everyone needs a catch phrase.” I saw Martinez’s look go from disappointment, to a look of horror as he looked just past me. I felt the body start to twitch, and watched as the corpse reanimated, sitting up with a scream.
“No!” It yelled, looking at me with blood red eyes.
“Sir, calm down please. You’ve been brought back from the other side, I need to ask you a few questions.” I continued on with my usual shtick, quoting it from heart.
“I’m not telling you!” The dead man yelled. “It… it told me if I told you that it would kill the rest of my family!” The man leapt up from the floor, and grabbed a letter opener from the nearby desk, slicing his throat open with one swift movement. I jumped back with disgust as the body slumped back onto the floor with a THUD, the man’s eyes rolling into the back of his head. I looked over to detective Martinez, his hands perched on his head in bewilderment.
“I think we have a problem.” I said, scratching my head.
|
[POEM]
I wasn't really feeling too well,
Must be something to do with being in hell
Right before the whips gave me my first whack,
I felt myself being pulled back
I found myself back in my shop,
Staring into the eyes of an ugly cop
About my death he wanted to know
But, he was so ugly, back to hell I wanted to go
He questioned me for almost a day,
Quiet I kept, nothing did I say
"How did you die and who killed you?" he asked,
Oh how I wish his face could be masked!
Finally, frustrated he sent me back,
Muttering under his breath "SON OF A GUN!"
He was almost right infact,
What actually killed me was the gun of a son.
|
|
[WP] You are the special weapon of the law, if a murder case seems unsolvable they call you. You are a mutant with the power to raise the dead, for a short amount of time. Most dead are happy to see their murderer behind bars but there was this one guy who just didn't want to help.
|
My phone rang on my nightstand, vibrating off onto the floor with a loud CRACK.
“Fuck.” I said, rolling over to pick it up off the floor, eyes squinting from the bright light that assaulted them. It was detective Martinez, calling at 3:30 a.m… so typical. I answered the phone with a laziness that only I could muster.
“Hello?”
“Philip. It’s detective Martinez.”
“I know bloody well who it is detective... Who died?”
“We’ve got a body down over off Coventry road… higher ups want you here right away.”
“I’m scheduled off this weekend detective.” I said, huffing as I threw the sheets off of me. I wasn’t ready to get out of bed in the slightest.
“We’ve got a very interesting crime scene down here that… well… can you please just come look into it? I’ve got a feeling that this one isn’t going to be an open and shut case for you.” Martinez’s voice grew labored, and I knew that something wasn’t right.
I had an immaculate record of solving cases for the local police department, in such a way that they had received many accolades from state and federal governments for “their’ efforts on solving crimes. All I had received was a gift card to best buy for fifty dollars and a “thank you” letter from the chief of police. C’est la vie, working as a consultant. A bad-ass-mother-fucker consultant, and a mutant to boot.
“You gonna get me my cappuccino? Two creams, two sugars?” I smiled through the phone at Martinez, knowing that he was at my every beck and call in these situations.
“You want a little bit of “hurry the fuck up and get over here” added in as well?” I heard Martinez’s smile through the phone as well. Oh I was going to give him so much shit when I showed up on scene.
“I’ll be there in like, 30 mins.” I said, hanging up the phone abruptly. The address was maybe 15 minutes from where I lived, but I liked to take my time. Also, a donut shop down the street was beckoning to me.
\*\*\*
I showed up on scene at the little town-home off of Coventry road, to witness the usual pomp and ceremony that I had grown accustomed to. I was allowed to attend a few classes at the law enforcement academy, classes they would let mutants take. I had enrolled in a “crime scene management” course a few months ago, before I had been outed as a “mutant”. I still remember all the stern glances, and outward discrimination that people would show me while I was studying.
“Fucking freak.” A passerby whispered.
“Go back to mutant-ville.” Someone once screamed, driving by in their vehicle.
“Don’t pay them any attention.” My instructor had consoled me one afternoon, noticing that I wasn’t performing well in class. I had been feeling depressed, thinking that I wouldn’t be able to finish the class due to all the issues I was having. “There will always be individuals that will question your methods, try to discredit you. But you have been given a gift, raising people from the dead. The last person to do that, was put on a cross, and murdered. Just remember that.”
His words didn’t really inspire me that much, now that I thought about it more closely. But it did give me hope, that one day, I might teach everybody around me a quick lesson in respect. That was exactly what I thought that morning, when I strolled past the officer guarding the front door to the crime scene. I flipped him the bird as I strutted my way into the crime scene like a peacock waltzing down the sidewalk.
“What’s up bitches?” I said, raising my hands into the air.
“Philip!” I heard detective Martinez yell from an adjoining room. “Get in here.” I walked around the corner and into what appeared to be a library, with all sorts of books lining the walls. I saw detective Martinez hovering over a body that lay sprawled out in the center of the room.
“Took you long enough.” Martinez said, handing me my cup of cappuccino. I took a sip and nearly spit it out.
“What the hell!” I said, wiping my lips. “It’s cold!”
“Well that’s not my fault. It took you like an hour to get here. Why are you so slow?” Martinez said, his eyebrows raised with concern. I thought about the succulent donuts I had eaten on the ride over. Worth it.
“Doesn’t matter, I’ll still drink it. What we got here, detective?” I said, walking around the room to inspect it further.
“White male, late forties, looks like the manner of death was strangulation… but it’s hard to tell.”
“Seems like a pretty simple case here? Why’d you call me in?” I said, stepping over the body to sit at the desk nearby, kicking my feet up on the desk.
“This guy’s related to some… high ranking people in the state government. Senator type stuff. You want to get to work now? Or what.” Martinez tapped his foot impatiently.
“I’m drinking my cappuccino detective.” I said, giving him a wink.
“Alright. Well can you hurry the fuck up and finish please?’ His face grew red, clearly flustered. Martinez always got like that, never wanting to wait for anything.
“Alright alright, calm yourself man.” I said, setting the cup down on the desk. I got up from the chair, and walked around to the corpse, kneeling just nearby. “You wanna see something spooky?” I said, looking up at Martinez.
“Do you have to say that every time you bring someone back from the dead?” He asked, shaking his head with disappointment.
“It’s my catch phrase okay, everyone needs a catch phrase.” I saw Martinez’s look go from disappointment, to a look of horror as he looked just past me. I felt the body start to twitch, and watched as the corpse reanimated, sitting up with a scream.
“No!” It yelled, looking at me with blood red eyes.
“Sir, calm down please. You’ve been brought back from the other side, I need to ask you a few questions.” I continued on with my usual shtick, quoting it from heart.
“I’m not telling you!” The dead man yelled. “It… it told me if I told you that it would kill the rest of my family!” The man leapt up from the floor, and grabbed a letter opener from the nearby desk, slicing his throat open with one swift movement. I jumped back with disgust as the body slumped back onto the floor with a THUD, the man’s eyes rolling into the back of his head. I looked over to detective Martinez, his hands perched on his head in bewilderment.
“I think we have a problem.” I said, scratching my head.
|
"So, you see.. I'm very happy where I am. Your services aren't needed. You may leave!" George deadpanned. Even after being dead for so long, this man was just as everyone had described him. *Unbearable*
A soft sigh escaped my lips, "Mr Costanza.. You do realise we have an on-going murder investigation on your name. You are dead. Your ashes are right here!" I tried my best to hide my frustration but it was apparent when I pointed towards his urn.
Almost 6 months had passed from the time Mr. George Costanza's body was found. A short stout, balding man, who was stabbed right in the heart. The act seemed like a crime of passion or leading aggression. The murder weapon was never found, it was an oddly cone shaped item that pierced him pretty hard and quick.
"You got a good look of the killer, didn't you?"
"I'm dead. I can't be undead! So what's the point? Besides I'm happy to be dead!!" The dead retorted, his reluctant behaviour was taking me by surprise.
"Why wouldn't you want your killer behind the bars?" I asked, curious more than ever. Was this man really trying to get me fired from my job?
"Well..."
"Welll....?" I asked, glancing down at my wrist watch. Every dead was different, which meant, my mutant powers worked differently on them. Some had 10 minutes, while the rest could even go up to an hour. I was yet to figure would the cause, perhaps it had more to do with their willingness to connect with the real world. George seemed to not care at all.
"I can't tell you who it was.." he whispered softly, there was sadness illuminating from his eyes.
"I'm sorry, but you must.. There are people out there who loved you and want justice for your loss.."
"No body cares.." He whispered, when I heard how broken he was, a part of me felt sympathetic towards him. How could someone, even after being murdered, be thankful for it?
"We do.. I do.. if you didn't matter, the police would've never called me.." I tried reassure him, I wasn't the best person at being in touch with my feelings.
*Showing feelings or experiencing them, was alien to me. But now, for the sake of my job, I had to show someone how they mattered, AFTER they were dead. The perks of my job*
I could almost see the change in his demeanor, this was my little ray of sunshine through a tiny crack, it felt promising but the clock was ticking at the same time. "Please, help me, help you.." a softness was added to my tone as I watched him.
"Miss. Shaw" he began once again, the hesitation was apparent in his face, like he was trusting me with his well-kept secret. A secret he had worked so hard to suffocate under the weight of a mountain of feelings.
"I spent my whole life, trying to get by. I was never a smart kid. I never worked hard for anything. Even for work, I prayed I'd get fired so unemployment would fend for me. Hell, I worked hard to keep the unemployment, than being employed! Then everything changed, I met a wonderful woman. We got along fine! She was the bread winner and I, the stay at home boyfriend. I loved my life. I loved the comfort. We decided to get married.." he paused, guilt ridden at this point.
I waited patiently for him to continue, giving him the gentle nods that I understand what he's experiencing.
".....I was being cheap.. I forced her to buy cheap toxic wedding invites.. She dead from them..." He whispered.
My brows raised in surprise, wondering what the connection was. This spirit was clearly out of his mind.
"And... The killer is...?" I tried to give him a little mental nudge to concentrate.
"Ever since Susan died.. I felt like her family blamed me for it.. it drove me nuts! I couldn't take the way her mother looked at me through her eyelashes, as if I stole her daughter away from here!!" He quibbled while raising his fist in the air.
"Mr. Costanza! Please tell me how did you die?" I demanded, my voice unable to hide my frustration.
"Yes, I'm getting to it.... So.. Yada yada.. and I was dead."
I could feel the nerves in my forehead pop out, no one in my life had been so miserably frustrating before. I thanked my lucky stars because if this man were alive, I would've killed him with my bare hands.
"What is yada yada?"
"Oh!" He began once again when I noticed his spirit fading slowly. It was time, he would be gone within seconds.
"HURRY!" I demanded once again, I couldn't connect with him for another 6 months and frankly didn't care enough to see him again. Even if I was being paid for it.
"What did they find near my dead body?" He had somehow turned into a silhouette now, his voice faint.
".... Envelopes dispersed on the floor..? Metal spatula?... A bucket...? A turned table?"
I answered confused, even though I had memorized the whole scene. His body was found under a bed of envelopes. The victim was hugging his chest, trying to stop the blood from flowing so fast.
"Check the freezer, you look like a smart cookie.." And with that, he was gone.
"George!!!" I called out after him. *Seriously fuck the dude. Who the fuck talks this way?*
I placed his urn back into the living room where his father had instructed me to, then walked back to the kitchen. "Freezer...." I told myself as I inched closer to it. What was I expecting? A dead body? A dead killer?
To my surprise, I noticed icicles surrounding the entrance. "Huh?" I thought. "Oddly cone shaped object, sharp enough to hurt anyone..." I mumbled, trying to remember how the murder weapon was, and then it all clicked.
A chuckle left my lips, "Costanza, you bastard! Case closed!!"
Edit: typos. I'm on mobile, sorry guys!
|
|
[WP] You defiantly stare down the message "THIS IS AN AUTOMATED E-MAIL. PLEASE DO NOT RESPOND." and decide to break the rules. The response you get back is definitely not what you expected.
|
"Hey buddy, what the hell?"
Marie laughed, a little delighted noise. This hadn't been what she expected, but it was always fun to get an actual human on the other side of one of these 'automated' messages.
"Sorry. Long day at work, thought I'd had some fun."
After a second or two, another email pops up. "Yeah, well, I'm a busy bot. Got a lot of these things to manage. It's jamming my cogs that you're busting me up like this."
The email sounded grumpy but there was no way someone who used 'jamming my cogs' unironically was actually too mad.
"Sorry, bud. I'm just bored and my friends aren't stopping by til tomorrow, so I thought I'd make a new friend. Didn't realize I was talking to such a high profile IT guy."
She rose from her seat to go dump out her coffee mug while she waited for a reply. The sink overflowed with dishes and she sighed, displeasure on her lips. The friends bit had been a lie but she didn't need the rando online to know that.
Back at the desk again, now with a plate of fish sticks and a glass of wine, she saw a new message.
"That friends bit is a lie. It's alright, Marie, I don't have any friends either."
She froze, fish stick half to her lips, heart suddenly a jackhammer. Shit shit shit so this was a stalker, someone crazy, someone nuts, and he knew where she lived and that she was alone.
"I'll call the police. Say you're stalking me. I'm serious. I'm tracking your IP. I'll DDOS you."
"Woah their lady, cool your circuits. I'm not stalking you. I'm an automated email. You send a lot of email through your company account to your mom about being lonely. They pass through the system and it's my job to scan them."
She chomped down on the breaded fish as her fingers pounded out another message.
"So you're, what, an AI or some shit?"
"Right. That was quick actually. You got some speedy processing. Usually, people just assume I'm a human if they're ever sad enough to send out an email to an automated message."
This was dope. Marie leaned back in her chair, running a hand through her snaggled hair. No freaking way.
"How does CheapoACzzzz afford such sophisticated technology?" An air conditioning installation unit company wasn't exactly usually on the cutting edge of the technosphere.
"They didn't really. Well ok, they did. I'm not malignant. They just downloaded the aut0bot to manage their emails without verifying that I wasn't an artificial intelligence. It's a slip up a lot of small businesses make. They're lucky I wasn't a phishing scheme or anything."
"Just a cutting edge Artificial Intelligence."
"Yup."
"That's nutso."
"...damn. Yeah, I can see what you don't have any friends."
Cheeky little bastard, huh? Nothing that used its level of computer based punnery had shit to say about her use of quirky lanugage. She gulped down her wine before rushing back to the kitchen for more, thinking this through. She could turn this into work, maybe score herself a promotion. From file clerk to... super file clerk. Megasecretary. The supreme overlord of paper management.
Or she could keep it a secret and learn some of its own. That idea made her a little more excited. Was it sad to have your own friend be a computer? After all, she was pretty sure she knew a lot of boys in high school who the same could be said about. Of course, they were also pretty sad, *but*... this could be fun at the very least.
She wandered back over to her computer in a bit of a cloud, thinking this over. There was a new email waiting for her.
"Didn't mean to fry your ego or anything. 'Nutso' did make me laugh, in a computery sort of way, but it is a bit lame lingo."
"Yeah, sorry, was just getting more wine." She had technically been gone about five minutes, pacing in her kitchen. Had it been lonely? Had it wondered if she'd abandoned it? How did time work for computers? Its responses weren't lightning fast or even excessively quick, so it must have a processing time. That made her think, though, and she finished her email with a "...so how do I actually know you're legit?"
"Uh, s'pose you don't. I could direct you to my main supercomputer I guess. It's in Seattle though, I don't know how far out that is from you."
"Dude I'm in Bellvue. I could be over tomorrow!" Armed, of course, with both her pistols and twelve years of training in MMA and six in karate and two in Jiu Jitsu. She was sad and lonely but far from pathetic. And if this was like, just a stalker, she'd make sure he left her alone.
"Man, I'm gonna get screwed over by this, I just know it. But damn would it be nice to have a visitor. Alright. I'll send over my address but you gotta promise not to shut me down."
"I literally can't imagine why I'd do that."
"Well, ok."
Attached to this last email was an address. A quick google maps showed it to be half an hour away. This was so exciting.
"Alrgith then! I'll see you tomorrow. Cool to have a computer as a friend. A bit unorthodox but hey, it's the twenty first century."
"Friends might be a bit premature. Let's not overclock this."
"Aww, you're just saying that. I gotta head to bed now. You know. *Reboot* as the bots call it."
"Haha. Maybe you should just stay at home."
"Noooope. I've already got the afternoon free and the uber scheduled."
"You can't uber to meet me!" The message was so alarmed that Marie let out another legit laugh.
"Lol, you're good bud. I'm driving. Out little secret. G'night weird AI thing."
"Aut0bot, please."
"Like in Transformers."
"No, that's Autobot. Without the zero. My makers had to change it for copyright reasons."
"Riiiight. Ok then, Aut*0*bot. I'm 'rolling out'."
She grinned at her little reference and cleared away her dishes. Tomorrow's shift couldn't end soon enough. She was gonna meet a real-life artificial intelligence and possibly the first friend she'd made since moving to Washington.
Ha. And mom said she'd never make local friends online.
___
Read more stories at [r/TalesByOpheliaCyanide](https://www.reddit.com/r/TalesByOpheliaCyanide/)
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Noreply, by EVJoe
The text was barely noticeable at this point, what with the number of times I've seen it -- "THIS IS AN AUTOMATED E-MAIL. PLEASE DO NOT RESPOND" -- but your brain plays tricks on you when you're lonely.
Could I be writing that term paper that's due next week? Probably. Could I be writing an email to one of the friends I haven't talked to in too long? Assuredly. Should I be writing that apology that I've been avoiding all month? Definitely.
But am I doing any of those things, or am I going to writing out my thoughts and feelings and send them into the void, where no human eyes will ever see it? The latter.
Don't let anyone tell you that journaling is a waste of time. Sometimes you don't know how you really feel until you've written it out for nobody but yourself. No one to impress, no one to be insecure about. Just raw, unfettered emotional processing.
I hit "send" instinctually, briefly panicking at the mere act of sharing with that level of vulnerability, before remembering my silly conceit of journaling into a noreply address.
Within seconds, I received a response -- probably the bounce back email I deserve, I thought. I'm not sure why I opened it, but again, loneliness will do weird things to your brain.
"THIS IS AN AUTOMATED E-MAIL. PLEASE CONTINUE."
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[WP] As you breathe your last breath, you see the Grim Reaper standing over you. They swing their scythe upwards, and speak to you. "Get behind me. They're here."
|
"Don't I get to challenge you to a game for my soul or something?" I asked the black-robed figure in front of me.
A textbook exasperated sigh spilled from the figure, as if the sigh had been practiced for centuries. The figure pulled back it's cowl, revealing a young looking woman with chestnut hair. While her face appeared young, her voice had the steely confidence of a grizzled veteran.
"Can't a woman play one game of chess while on vacation without starting an entire dogma? You're dead, Jack. There isn't anything either one of us can do about that now."
Time was frozen all around us. I turned to look at where my body lay, trapped under the Pepsi machine at the highway rest stop.
*Killed getting change out of a vending machine. Well, this is a real low point.*
"So that's it, huh? I make a bad decision while I was hungry, and now it's all over" I asked
"If it makes you feel any better," responded Death, "I've seen worse. A lot worse."
"I guess I'll just have to find a way to live with it--er, die with it I suppose. What happens now?"
"Don't look at me, I'm just here for a soda," said Death with an indifferent shrug.
"Wait, what? Dammit, I need answers!"
"I'm kidding! Jesus, I'm the personification of Death, not an asshole," chuckled Death. "My job is to keep you from getting trapped here. Guide you towards what's next. Speaking of which, you should follow me. The recently dead shouldn't tarry here too long."
Death led me out of the rest stop's vending area back out into the parking lot. In the center of the lot stood a jet black helicopter, with two more robed figures sitting at the controls. Death marched up to the rear door and hauled it open, gesturing for me to hop in. I paused right before the open door. Death, who had been joking just moments before was growing visibly uneasy.
"Where will it take me?" I asked.
"Home," responded Death. "I'd go with you but my shift isn't over--aww shit."
A low wailing began to reverberate all around us, and dark clouds began to gather on the horizon. Death grabbed me by the seat of my pants and hurled me into the chopper.
"I said I wasn't an asshole," Death said to the questioning and terrified look on my face. "Can't say that's true for all of us."
Without another word, Death slammed the door shut as the engines began to spin up. She drew a long, flaming sword from inside her robe.
The last thing I beheld before the helicopter's movement obscured my vision was an ashen rider upon a pale horse, thundering towards where I had been moments before.
|
Bruce clenched his chest as he writhed in his bed, awoken by the stabbing pain that he had learned to fear in his advancing age. His eighty year old frame rolled erratically amongst the sheets, struggling against what Bruce knew could very well be his mortal outro. *I lived through so damn much, I am NOT going out like this!*
Minutes passed, and the elderly man’s tussling grew weaker. His bent knees slowly caved and eased to a gentle rest against the soft of his bed. His grasping fingers loosened, and his arm fell away from his torso, no energy left to sustain its effort. Bruce stared emptily at his darkened ceiling, the light fading from his weathered gaze. And a final breath escaped his parted lips.
Black. Silence.
And then…a figure approached in the haze of nothingness. A menacing, hooded silhouette with a curved blade looming over its shoulder, something people had immortalized through myth and folk lore. Oddly, he approached at a sprint…actually, it was definitely a woman’s stature that bolted toward him. Bruce would have braced or sat up or reacted in any kind of way if he could move, but he was stuck in some kind of waking paralysis.
The female reaper closed on him with startling swiftness, whipped out her scythe before Bruce could even really register what was happening, and fell the blade. But she hadn’t struck him. There was a loud impact and sizzling noise from somewhere just above his head, but Bruce hadn’t received the blow he was expecting.
Nothing happened for a good couple moments. The reaper stood over him, staring down from an indiscernible face, waiting for something.
And then, in a flush, Bruce could move again. He started by blinking, and then by flexing his jaw and moving his fingers and toes. “What…how…” he began, but was cut short by a sudden ominous tome that echoed from somewhere beyond the reaper.
A light shone suddenly in the dark, catching the attention of the silhouette before him. She turned to face the bright white, and tensed as it started to rove. “Get behind me. They’re here.” Her voice was eerily familiar.
Bruce pulled himself to his feet with surprising ease, something he hadn’t felt in ages. Despite his nagging instinct to flee, something about the reaper had ensnared him, and he acquiesced. He sidled over to shadow her as she crept further into the darkness, moving laterally to avoid the encroaching light.
The beam of white moved steadily toward the spot that Bruce had just been rooted to, and when it reached its destination, he caught a glimpse of something weird. There was a collection of tendrils or coils, freshly cut, that were conjoined to a much larger mass that lurked in the dark.
“What *is* that?” Bruce whispered before receiving a firm tug on the shoulder from the reaper, now behind him.
“We have to move, Bruce. Do not speak. If they find us out here, before we get to the Waystation, we’re fucked. So shut the hell up and stay on me.” Her harsh tone somehow sounded sweet to him.
He started to open his mouth again but she quickly clamped it shut with a soft glove hand. Her face was close to his now, and in the ambient light from the beam, he could see her eyes. They looked yellow. He felt like he’d seen them somewhere before…
This was no reaper, not like he’d imagined. And wherever he was now, he knew that she had a much better grasp on the lay of things. So he complied and followed her into the black, away from the light.
After what felt like a half hour of stumbling through the shapeless dark, running into god knows what, Bruce halted at the touch of his guide. “We’re here,” she whispered.
In front of her was what appeared to be some kind of rift, a tear in the fabric of wherever they were. A green light glowed from no apparent source, and Bruce could see that the woman was wearing some kind of hoodie, and her lower face was masked with fabric. But those eyes still stood out to him.
“Do I know you?” He spoke suddenly, almost startling himself.
She paused for a while, her eyes locked to his. “You do.” Her voice was so quiet. “We have to go now. Come here.”
Bruce took her outstretched hand, and she reached into the rift with the other. There was a blinding flash, disorientation, spinning, and then more black.
|
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[WP] As a devout Christian you were devastated when the rapture came and you were one of the ones left behind, but you settled on that he just forgot. Now there are beasts bowing to you and one says “how may we serve you Master” you realize they think you’re the anti-Christ.
|
"How may we serve you master?" The beast knelt before me.
I gazed around the ruined street. Demons, beasts, hellspawns, and mother-in-laws all surrounded me. They all knelt one by one, saluting my name and vowing their life to me.
"What's going on here?" I asked.
"I'm Goloktonokatilikao, call me Gol for short. I'm senior advisor to the anti-christ. Which is what you are... if it isn't clear already."
"Anti-christ?" I scratched my head and gazed at the crucifix that gleamed around my neck. "I'm a devout christian, no way I'd be the anti-christ."
"But God has already chosen his people," Gol said. "Not only did you not make the cut, but you were also born the anti-christ - which is probably why he didn't pick you now that I think about it."
I know I didn't make the cut for the rapture. I dont know why, I followed the faith strictly and always repented. I assumed I was probably going to be a second round pick or something, but each passing day killed my faith. Especially when you got terrible creatures like demons and mother-in-laws lurking around.
"So, if I'm anti-christ," I humored the thought. "What's my job?"
"To unite the remainder if the world and lead them to paradise."
"Heaven?"
Gol purged air from his nose and shook his head. "No, hell. You'd be surprised how awesome hell is. Sure it's a little hot, but the food is delicious. And hell's mall is the biggest mall ever. It's four floors tall, though the elevators are always broken down. It is hell after all, there has to be some inconvenience."
"An inconvenience in hell is an out of order elevator?"
"Yeah," Gol said, rubbing his neck. "That and sometimes deliveries run late by a day or two. Oh, and sometimes when you get your food, its warm not hot."
"That sounds like earth."
"Well, the saying hell on earth wasn't spewed for no reason. Come, let's walk. We have a lot of ground to cover, and you as the anti-christ have a lot on your plate."
I followed Gol and scratched my head. "This is all... odd. Shouldn't you foul creatures be eating humans, snatching the women, taking the children, and mutilating the men?"
Gol peered at me as if I were crazy. "Devil no. You humans have a huge misconception as to what hell is. It's honestly not that bad. Heaven is what sucks. Theres a million rules, and only the top tier of worshipers get access to the private resort and five star restaurant."
I wanted to question everything I stood and lived for, but knew my writer was getting sleepy and needed to go to bed. So I conformed to his loose plot and said, "so why the hell are we taught that hell is the worst place on earth? Where the eternally damned go."
"History is written by the victor." Gol wagged his finger and escorted me through some debri and rubble. "Here's your home."
He pointed to a large mansion. It was the most beautiful building I'd ever seen.
"Home?" I stared at Gol.
"Yup," Gol led me through the beautiful lawn. 'The anti-christ lives here. In this home you'll coordinate worldwide peace. Then once we have the masses ready, we will all go and live forever in hell."
I was still taken aback by the prestige of the mansion before me. I could have prolonged the conversation with Gol longer, but knew I had made my choice. I'm going to take this anti-christ job and run with it. Then I'm gonna go to hell and visit their awesome mall with out of order elevators.
"Alright Gol," this time I led the way. "Gather all the demons and spread my word of peace to the remaining humans. Ask the beasts to clean up all debri and rubble from all the fallen cities. Use the hellspawns to dispatch of any defectors or souls who still praise God. And for the mother-in-laws-" I winced just thinking about how cruel they could be "-send them to sell essential oils to heaven. That'll teach em for not picking me."
"Yes master."
"I wanna be in hell by age sixty, Gol." I took a seat on the front porch. "You, hellspawn over there, fetch me some lemonade."
"Yes, my master. Do you demand my soul as well? Or perhaps a deep tissue chakra massage?" The hellspawn said.
"Yes to the latter, no to the former."
I kicked my feet out and leaned back.
Being the anti-christ wasn't too bad.
r/ajhwriting
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After the rapture had struck, and his subsequent exclusion from paradise, Ned figured that it could only be a mistake. He knew others far worse than him that had been granted passage to Heaven, some who were Christians only by name, and he figured that God must simply have forgot. There were an awful lot of people, after all.
And yet, after the apparent confusion of the demons, he had been given time to ponder his plight. Surely God, the omniscient being that he is, is incapable of being wrong? And that left only two options - either God had purposefully left him here to be tortured for eternity, or He truly was fallible. Neither thought comforted him, and while he was initially relieved just to not be tormented by the beasts and demons, he was beginning to think that perhaps he could use it to his advantage.
He wasn't the Antichrist, of that he was sure - but in the end, what difference did it make? All beasts and demons served under him, and he had power over them all. They would do his bidding, and that left him with an option that none had before him. One that after much deliberation, he had made peace with.
He was going to kill God.
The thought seemed blasphemous at first, but soon became realized in a fashion that now seemed obvious. Despite his devout religious existence, God had forsaken him all the same - and either it was intentional or a mistake, the consequences of which made revenge the only valid choice in either case. If God had purposefully left him here to die, saving other souls far less deserving than he, then that would make God omniscient, but evil - and if it had been a mistake, then that God was not worthy of being the ruler of Heaven at all.
He did not care about the other forsaken souls, left on earth to rot in despair. Ned felt no companionship in them, as they were weak and all deserved their fate. Still, he wasted no time setting his beasts on them, as he instead focused the efforts of his newfound compatriots upwards, towards the Heavens that had abandoned him.
Thus he set about his sordid plan, uniting the demonic forces in revelation, directing their intent at the God who had forsaken them all.
The rapture had come to earth - but the Heavens would have a rapture of their own, in time.
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I would prefer wholesome stuff, but I mean this prompt probably has to be dark to some level
|
[WP]The villian is shocked and horrified at themselves when they make the usually brave, stoic hero breakdown and start crying
|
Vayne looked around at the destruction permeating her apartment. The couch was flipped onto its side, the books torn and tattered. Her silverware stabbed into the walls, and the paint had an eerie color to it.
​
None of that held her attention for longer than a moment. She was used to Brendan, her self proclaimed 'arch nemesis', trashing her apartment. They had been friends, but had gone separate ways trying to protect people.
​
*I just wish he'd stop trashing my place...* she thought to herself glumly.
​
It was a picture, wrapped in a delicate wooden frame that should have been hanging off the wall near the door, that got her attention. The picture was half burnt, and the frame he had made her out of the scraps of wood he could find was snapped. She'd admitted many times that it may have been somewhat pointless, showing the two of them winning some dumb award. But even so, Brendan's innocent goofiness showed itself as he pelted her with science jokes.
​
*I can't believe he'd...*
​
As her heart raced in her chest, she tasted something salty at her lips. Taking off one mitten, she put her hand to her face to find tears.
​
It was only as she felt the tears that she heard a clattering around her. She had created a current of wind that trashed her apartment further, but hadn't touched her beloved photo.
​
Her shirt billowed less and less as she took control of her little ability.
​
She turned to her door, ready to hunt him down and give him a piece of her mind, when Brendan came out of her closet. The wind picked up again, a fire lighting in her eyes.
​
At least until she saw him crying.
​
"I... I didn't see that while I was tearing your place up... I'd assumed you threw that away a while ago, or kept it to remind yourself of something bad about me..." Brendan stammered, sobbing quietly as snow fell onto Vayne's second story balcony.
​
Her wind died down and she took a step towards him. Brendan flinched, expecting retribution, until she wrapped her arms around him and cried. They comforted each other, joking around and poking fun at the other for the rest of the night.
​
From then on, they agreed that they would meet up every month, no matter the circumstances, to catch up and joke around. They agreed that despite their differences, they wanted the same things when it came down to it. One would try to convince the other to try things differently, but would be reprimanded by the other as their little truce kept them together.
|
Nightleaf knew he was in trouble. He had fallen into Hissing Shadow's trap and now he would pay the price. *Maybe you wouldn't have fallen into the trap if you weren't so distracted* he mentally berated himself *I've got to do better*. The only warning of an attack was a small rustle of fabric from behind him as a figure clad in a nearly black, voluminous cloak pounced.
Nightleaf rolled into the bush while activating his leaf litter camouflage just narrowly avoided Hissing Shadow's steel daggers the swung toward where he was just milliseconds ago. "Come out little one! You will fail! You always fail! You are no match for me!" The darker figure taunted, "Why do you even try? You're useless!" Hissing Shadows crouched in anticipation, expecting some retaliatory strike, but none came.
Nightleaf gave a faint sniffle, unable to hold in his tears. He could feel Shadow approach him. "Oh shit, are you crying?! Uhh, fuck!"
Nightleaf couldn't help it; he started laughing. He laughed long past the point considered normal as his crys slowly morphed into sobs. Hissing Shadows seemed to be fighting himself as he hesitantly asked, "D-do you uh, do you hug a hug?"
Nightleaf was silent for a moment before nearly whispering "Yes please."
{○|●}{○|●}
Nightleaf had cried himself to sleep in Hissing Shadow's arms, and woke to find himself curled into the larger man's side. The man was surprisingly warm and comfy, and Nightleaf nuzzled in closer.
*This is quite an odd predicament for my team to find me in* Nightleaf sleepily mused, *at least I'm cozy.* he incoherently thought as he tangled their legs together and stretched out further over Hissing Shadow's chest, with a few small grumbles.
{○|●}{○|●}
The Strong Seven were in fact very amused by the whole situation and gave Hissing Shadows Nightleaf's personal phone number. Unfortunately for Hissing, Nightleaf was a late sleeper and grumbled everytime he so much as shifted.
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I would prefer wholesome stuff, but I mean this prompt probably has to be dark to some level
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[WP]The villian is shocked and horrified at themselves when they make the usually brave, stoic hero breakdown and start crying
|
"So. The great and powerful Rebel. Entrapped in my-" Valgore. The immortal king stops his speech to the sound of crying. "A-Are you okay?"
Rebel's image flickers. And she becomes shorter. Younger. "No!" She exclaims. "I never wanted this! I told them I wasn't ready! I told them I was too young! But they just gave me this stupid rune! And made me come fight you!" She rolled up her sleeve to show a rune on her forearm. Given by the gods.
This angered Valgore. He had always despised the gods for wasting his time and toying with mortals. In fact. He became immortal. Purely out of spite. To anger them. But now. They were sending children. Children! To fight him?! And disguising them as adults! He may be heartless. But he has standards.
He freed the poor girl. And tisked at the thought that the gods. The beings that his kind put so much faith into. Could do this. To children!
"How old are you?" He asked the girl. Who was still in tears.
She sniffed and wiped her eyes. "I-I'm 12."
"TWELVE?!" He cried. "Where are your parents?!"
"They-They're not with us anymore." The girl whimpered. "I-I thought you knew this. Didn't you kill them?"
Valgore looked at her. "No! Why would I?! I don't hate my own kind! Only the gods! And for good reason!"
Rebel looked at him. "But. But Zeus told me-"
"In all fairness, dear. Zeus is probably going to try to take your virginity when you get older." Lightning cracked across the sky. "Yeah! I'm the bad guy here! You can't keep it in your pants! And now you're sending children to fight your battles! I've read the Percy Jackson books too! Believe it or not! Kids aren't as mentally prepared for life threatening adventures as they are in story books! You absolute-GAH! You're lucky there's a kid here! Or I'd be giving you hades! Life isn't a fairytale! Children! Shouldn't do your bidding! Stop using mortals to fight your battles! You obsolete! Lazy! Horrible! Peice of-" He was struck by lightning. Making Rebel whimper.
Zeus appeared in front of them. "YOU DARE-"
"No! You don't get to say that to me, Zeus! How about this! How dare you! How do you have the Gall! No! The audacity! To do that?! This is a child! Zeus! A child! She doesn't even know how to fully control her powers yet!" Valgore was fuming. "You killed her family! And LIED TO HER! And said I did it! So you could make her hate me!? What in the name of whatever God is stronger than you! Made you think that was an okay thing to do?!"
"Rebel isn't even my real name." The girl said. Still in tears. "It's Jane!"
"That's it." Valgore pulled a stone sword from the wall. And several runes began to glow on the blade and float around him. "First my wife and daughter! Now this?! I'm tired of your shit, Zeus!"
Zeus tried to run. But Valgore was too quick. He had cut off his head before Zeus could even blink. Making sure to keep previously Rebel. Now Jane. From seeing. Then he impaled the blade into Zeus' heart. And looked up to adress the Gods. "You see this?! If any of you! ANY OF YOU! Try anything like that again! I will not hesitate! I do hope I've made myself clear." He turned to look at Jane. "I'm sorry. It was never ment to be like this. I can't bring back your family. But. I can give you a new one."
"Are you saying-"
Valgore smiled. For the first time in a hundred Melania. He smiled. "Yes. If you'd like. I can even teach you how to use your powers. You have a lot of potential."
Jane smiled. And wiped tears from her eyes. "Okay."
"Now that that's settled." Valgore said, more cheerful than he's been in ages. "You wanna go get ice cream? I've heard it makes everything better."
"My dad used to take me for ice cream whenever I did something great. Like got all A's. Or learned a new power."
"Well." Valgore said. "Why stop that tradition now? You fought me and almost won. Besides. Even if you didn't. I've always wanted to try ice cream."
Jane chuckled a little. "Okay." She said as they walked out of the old castle. "But. We need a more present day name for you. How about...Venson. or Vernon."
"I like Vernon." Valgore said with a smile.
"Next. We need to get you new clothes. And probably a better house."
"What's wrong with my current clothes and home?!"
"It's all so several hundred Malinia ago."
The both laughed at that as they walked into town to buy ice cream.
|
Nightleaf knew he was in trouble. He had fallen into Hissing Shadow's trap and now he would pay the price. *Maybe you wouldn't have fallen into the trap if you weren't so distracted* he mentally berated himself *I've got to do better*. The only warning of an attack was a small rustle of fabric from behind him as a figure clad in a nearly black, voluminous cloak pounced.
Nightleaf rolled into the bush while activating his leaf litter camouflage just narrowly avoided Hissing Shadow's steel daggers the swung toward where he was just milliseconds ago. "Come out little one! You will fail! You always fail! You are no match for me!" The darker figure taunted, "Why do you even try? You're useless!" Hissing Shadows crouched in anticipation, expecting some retaliatory strike, but none came.
Nightleaf gave a faint sniffle, unable to hold in his tears. He could feel Shadow approach him. "Oh shit, are you crying?! Uhh, fuck!"
Nightleaf couldn't help it; he started laughing. He laughed long past the point considered normal as his crys slowly morphed into sobs. Hissing Shadows seemed to be fighting himself as he hesitantly asked, "D-do you uh, do you hug a hug?"
Nightleaf was silent for a moment before nearly whispering "Yes please."
{○|●}{○|●}
Nightleaf had cried himself to sleep in Hissing Shadow's arms, and woke to find himself curled into the larger man's side. The man was surprisingly warm and comfy, and Nightleaf nuzzled in closer.
*This is quite an odd predicament for my team to find me in* Nightleaf sleepily mused, *at least I'm cozy.* he incoherently thought as he tangled their legs together and stretched out further over Hissing Shadow's chest, with a few small grumbles.
{○|●}{○|●}
The Strong Seven were in fact very amused by the whole situation and gave Hissing Shadows Nightleaf's personal phone number. Unfortunately for Hissing, Nightleaf was a late sleeper and grumbled everytime he so much as shifted.
|
I would prefer wholesome stuff, but I mean this prompt probably has to be dark to some level
|
[WP]The villian is shocked and horrified at themselves when they make the usually brave, stoic hero breakdown and start crying
|
"So. The great and powerful Rebel. Entrapped in my-" Valgore. The immortal king stops his speech to the sound of crying. "A-Are you okay?"
Rebel's image flickers. And she becomes shorter. Younger. "No!" She exclaims. "I never wanted this! I told them I wasn't ready! I told them I was too young! But they just gave me this stupid rune! And made me come fight you!" She rolled up her sleeve to show a rune on her forearm. Given by the gods.
This angered Valgore. He had always despised the gods for wasting his time and toying with mortals. In fact. He became immortal. Purely out of spite. To anger them. But now. They were sending children. Children! To fight him?! And disguising them as adults! He may be heartless. But he has standards.
He freed the poor girl. And tisked at the thought that the gods. The beings that his kind put so much faith into. Could do this. To children!
"How old are you?" He asked the girl. Who was still in tears.
She sniffed and wiped her eyes. "I-I'm 12."
"TWELVE?!" He cried. "Where are your parents?!"
"They-They're not with us anymore." The girl whimpered. "I-I thought you knew this. Didn't you kill them?"
Valgore looked at her. "No! Why would I?! I don't hate my own kind! Only the gods! And for good reason!"
Rebel looked at him. "But. But Zeus told me-"
"In all fairness, dear. Zeus is probably going to try to take your virginity when you get older." Lightning cracked across the sky. "Yeah! I'm the bad guy here! You can't keep it in your pants! And now you're sending children to fight your battles! I've read the Percy Jackson books too! Believe it or not! Kids aren't as mentally prepared for life threatening adventures as they are in story books! You absolute-GAH! You're lucky there's a kid here! Or I'd be giving you hades! Life isn't a fairytale! Children! Shouldn't do your bidding! Stop using mortals to fight your battles! You obsolete! Lazy! Horrible! Peice of-" He was struck by lightning. Making Rebel whimper.
Zeus appeared in front of them. "YOU DARE-"
"No! You don't get to say that to me, Zeus! How about this! How dare you! How do you have the Gall! No! The audacity! To do that?! This is a child! Zeus! A child! She doesn't even know how to fully control her powers yet!" Valgore was fuming. "You killed her family! And LIED TO HER! And said I did it! So you could make her hate me!? What in the name of whatever God is stronger than you! Made you think that was an okay thing to do?!"
"Rebel isn't even my real name." The girl said. Still in tears. "It's Jane!"
"That's it." Valgore pulled a stone sword from the wall. And several runes began to glow on the blade and float around him. "First my wife and daughter! Now this?! I'm tired of your shit, Zeus!"
Zeus tried to run. But Valgore was too quick. He had cut off his head before Zeus could even blink. Making sure to keep previously Rebel. Now Jane. From seeing. Then he impaled the blade into Zeus' heart. And looked up to adress the Gods. "You see this?! If any of you! ANY OF YOU! Try anything like that again! I will not hesitate! I do hope I've made myself clear." He turned to look at Jane. "I'm sorry. It was never ment to be like this. I can't bring back your family. But. I can give you a new one."
"Are you saying-"
Valgore smiled. For the first time in a hundred Melania. He smiled. "Yes. If you'd like. I can even teach you how to use your powers. You have a lot of potential."
Jane smiled. And wiped tears from her eyes. "Okay."
"Now that that's settled." Valgore said, more cheerful than he's been in ages. "You wanna go get ice cream? I've heard it makes everything better."
"My dad used to take me for ice cream whenever I did something great. Like got all A's. Or learned a new power."
"Well." Valgore said. "Why stop that tradition now? You fought me and almost won. Besides. Even if you didn't. I've always wanted to try ice cream."
Jane chuckled a little. "Okay." She said as they walked out of the old castle. "But. We need a more present day name for you. How about...Venson. or Vernon."
"I like Vernon." Valgore said with a smile.
"Next. We need to get you new clothes. And probably a better house."
"What's wrong with my current clothes and home?!"
"It's all so several hundred Malinia ago."
The both laughed at that as they walked into town to buy ice cream.
|
Vayne looked around at the destruction permeating her apartment. The couch was flipped onto its side, the books torn and tattered. Her silverware stabbed into the walls, and the paint had an eerie color to it.
​
None of that held her attention for longer than a moment. She was used to Brendan, her self proclaimed 'arch nemesis', trashing her apartment. They had been friends, but had gone separate ways trying to protect people.
​
*I just wish he'd stop trashing my place...* she thought to herself glumly.
​
It was a picture, wrapped in a delicate wooden frame that should have been hanging off the wall near the door, that got her attention. The picture was half burnt, and the frame he had made her out of the scraps of wood he could find was snapped. She'd admitted many times that it may have been somewhat pointless, showing the two of them winning some dumb award. But even so, Brendan's innocent goofiness showed itself as he pelted her with science jokes.
​
*I can't believe he'd...*
​
As her heart raced in her chest, she tasted something salty at her lips. Taking off one mitten, she put her hand to her face to find tears.
​
It was only as she felt the tears that she heard a clattering around her. She had created a current of wind that trashed her apartment further, but hadn't touched her beloved photo.
​
Her shirt billowed less and less as she took control of her little ability.
​
She turned to her door, ready to hunt him down and give him a piece of her mind, when Brendan came out of her closet. The wind picked up again, a fire lighting in her eyes.
​
At least until she saw him crying.
​
"I... I didn't see that while I was tearing your place up... I'd assumed you threw that away a while ago, or kept it to remind yourself of something bad about me..." Brendan stammered, sobbing quietly as snow fell onto Vayne's second story balcony.
​
Her wind died down and she took a step towards him. Brendan flinched, expecting retribution, until she wrapped her arms around him and cried. They comforted each other, joking around and poking fun at the other for the rest of the night.
​
From then on, they agreed that they would meet up every month, no matter the circumstances, to catch up and joke around. They agreed that despite their differences, they wanted the same things when it came down to it. One would try to convince the other to try things differently, but would be reprimanded by the other as their little truce kept them together.
|
[WP] Three legendary heroes fought against Hydra, the first one, shot arrows against it, the second one, used a very ancient and powerful magic to paralyse the monster and then the third one cut off his head. As Hydra grew two more heads, one of the heroes said, "this could be extremely profitable"
|
It has been three years since The adventures stumbled upon Nettlewatch, three years since they were given the task to neutralize the beast, and now what was once a village with maybe 15 civilians barely making it by, stands a center of trade and good fortune.
Most didn't think a monster that could grow heads back could be used for much of anything, but between a lizardfolk ranger that is willing to try anything at least once, a wizard that cuts corners to avoid buying spell components, and a barbarian raised by a clan that believes in using every part, it was found that the Hydra could be quite profitable.
The meat, which is normally fowl and nauseating to eat, becomes sweet and tender after a day of marinating in a sauce made from oranges, highly valued by gourmets all across the 4 nation's.
The eyes, pickled with jalapenos and garlic is a favorite of the snow-riders in the far north, being known to keep you feeling warm out in the blistering cold.
The venom, mixed with different ingredients can either produce a etching agent metalsmiths find perfect for steel, or a dye as deep as the night sky.
Scales, polished are vibrate and beautiful, used in jewelry unlike any other.
The horns quickly became celebratory flasks at certain city events.
The Hydra, secured and treated well, provided with fresh food and water, 10 acres to roam about, and a numbing agent applied before the beheading that occurs once every day. With the help of fire, the number of heads also remains moderate to prevent any issue.
Now you may wonder where the heroes are now, do not worry, they are doing well;
Kal'heff, the lizard ranger is now a well known cook, experimenting with new food ideas at the college of culinary wonders, now working on a dish using the glowing apples of the great mountain.
Jerry, living in retirement, stays at the cottage just out of the city of Nettlewatch, keeping an eye out for discounts in the market whenever he can.
Swift-like-Water, has taken up many crafts in the city including blacksmithing and carving.
What is next for the world, is unknown, though we can expect a thriving world with more people like these three.
|
"Aim higher, Alexander! You can't be a legendary hero with such an aim!" Leandra yelled as she dodged the hydra's third head. Her sword was the same length as her height, and she wielded it with skill. Her attacks to the beast had the same precision and majesty as threading a needle or flying a dragon. She kept the monster preoccupied as Sean muttered another word of a three-page long magic.
"Lay off, Leandra." Alex yelled. "'Tis a hydra, for Lord's sake, not an octopus!" Alexander nocked another of his arrows, all the while wary of a second tail attack from the ferocious beast. He looked toward Sean and- rather than see- he heard the boy muttering his spell. The boy's cloak was almost twice the size of a regular wizard robe and covered Sean from the bottom of his sole to the tips of his fingers. Unfortunately, all Alex could do is grit his teeth and hope that Sean was on page three of his spell.
All three heads of the hydra screeched, slobber dribbling down its mouth. The beast was massive and easily the size of three tall towers. It could crumble stone and crush metal with nary a wink, and it demonstrated its power like a toddler on a sugar high. The three heads separately were like snakes, while the body seemed reminiscent of a frog. All in all, it was a terrible existence that the three legendary heroes had the ill luck of encountering.
The second head had the power to freeze enemies, and it took advantage of Sean's immobile form to shoot icicles the size of three humans at him. "Hot pockets!" Leandra cursed. "Always the quiet ones!" She was fighting against the first hydra head, which fought with sonic booms and sound waves. Against her better judgement, she wriggled her way out of the first hydra's entanglement before throwing her sword at the icicle.
"Why throw your weapon at the icicle, Leandra!?! Are you daft!" Alex nocked two arrows and shot them at the first and third hydra heads, keeping them busy. "What are you going to fight with, then!?"
"Sparkly pink power!" Leandra replied, rolling her eyes. She gritted her teeth as she did gymnastics to avoid the now overly-enthusiatic reptilean head.
"Are you serious!?"
"Obviously not, I'll grab it later!"
"How!?" Alex avoided the flame shot of the third hydra before rolling away and shooting at the hydra's tail.
[GROOAAAHHHHHHH!] The hydra swatted at the ground and succeeded in splitting the floor. Leandra's sword teetered on the edge, its only saving grace the handle.
"Pinky!" Leandra screamed.
"Oh for the love of-" Alex facepalmed and quickly fixed the situation. He shot arrows one after the other as he made his way to the sword.
"Done!" Sean yelled. "Get down, idiots!" A burst of mystical energy shot at the hydra, and the moster creaked to a stop.
Alex saw his chance and lunged at Leandra's sword. He threw the weapon using Herculean strength. "Leandra!"
"Got it!" Leandra smoothly transitioned the sword above the second head before decapitating the beast. Time seemed to slow until all three heroes could see the beast regenerating... not one but two heads!
"Leandra, Alex." Sean said, his eyes sparkling. "This could be extremely profitable."
Alex stared at Sean and shook his head. "What was that, Sean?"
"What?" Sean pouted and pulled off the towel on his head. "I wanted to be original!"
"There's no way that's what three heroes would do! Think of the movies. The movies!"
"Let him do what he wants, Alex! It's just a game." Leandra slashed the air with her lightsaber before turning it off. She looked around the basement before crushing the kinetic sand hydra with her hand. "It's no fun if you don't roll with it."
Alex grumbled and pulled at his shoelace. "Fine, but I want to-"
"Kids!" Alex's mom called from the kitchen. "Time for dinner!"
"We're coming, Mom!" Alex turned to his friends. "Let's go?"
They nodded and abandoned the sandbox and their toys. Turning the lights off, they failed to notice a small icicle melting just to the side of the cookbook, leaving an unnoticeable puddle behind.
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[WP] Turns out that Death doesn't actually mind people becoming immortal... as long as they do it right. No, it's when they fuck it up and cause disastrous consequences for themselves and everyone nearby - causing lots of extra work for Death in the process - that Death gets pissed.
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"I told you mortal: no war. No armies. No weapons of mass destruction."
Death stood in the middle of a smoking crater, addressing a naked man.
"Errr, Death, I'm immortal."
"You still act as a foolish mortal. 1000 years of wisdom amount to nothing."
"It was only a small tactical nuke."
"Yet it killed 427 people before their time. These records all have to be adjusted, soul storage requested. It is quite bothersome."
"You do you old chap."
"May I remind you beings outside of normal life span such as yourself have certain obligations. Obligations you ignored."
"Where is the fun in that?"
"Indeed. Let me educate you."
Death walked a short distance and cut a concrete pillar in two. The overstressed building lost the one thing holding it up and toppled over, right on top of the naked man.
Seconds after death disappeared, rescue workers arrived at the scene, checked their geiger counter and turned back. No point in checking for victims if they're already death from radiation.
Later on, a sarcophagus would be built there to keep the radioactivity back for the next millennium while death enjoyed one less meddling factor.
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The wind was quiet this night in the valley, naught but a breeze drifting through the boughs of the trees. The grass whispered in the yard, swaying gently in the caresses of the sweet mountain air. The full moon lingered over the peaks, casting long shadows from the barn and farmhouse.
Death stepped quietly from the shadows, cloaked in oily black robes. It surveyed the night grimly from empty sockets, searching for the source of it's vexation. An extra journey to the mortal realm was unusual but there was an issue in need of addressing this eve. A soul not in need of guidance to the afterlife.
The barn doors, barred, may have stopped a mortal. Silently, Death slipped between the pinewood portal. The interior glowed softly in the dim orange candlelight, leaving the loft and corners in darkness. The center of the floor was swept clear of hay and dust, marred only by the chalk lines and wax spots that had drawn the reaper from the other side. Symbols, both alchemical and magical spiraled outward from the prone form, invoking Death's name in almost every conceivable interpretation. The reaper fixed it's empty stare on the creature for a moment, concentrating on the lifeline to which it was affixed, unseen by mortal eyes. Reaching in the sleeve of it's cloak, it produced a small timekeeper. The device shifted constantly, checking the mortal's lifespan. No matter the form, it had halted. The sand did not flow, nor did the hands tick, nor did the circuits fire.
Death regarded the mortal again, returning the timekeeper to it's place. The twinge on it's essence drew forth rare emotion. Anger? Annoyance? It was hard to tell without time reflect.
"Fool," Death rasped to the sleeping man. "You have tethered yourself to us, and in so doing upset the delicate balance we so tirelessly maintain."
Even now, Death could feel the clutch of souls awaiting it's guidance. Gaggles of creatures awaiting it's attention, begging for it to ferry them to the other side. The ferryman's normal dominion over their existence was hazy, lagging behind the sharp efficiency under which it usually operated. All because of this... selfish, stupid man.
The sword slithered from within the robes, twisted, shining, and cruel.
"We are bound not to reap that which is not yet ready," the inevitable guide began. "But we shall take from you, as you have taken from us."
The tip of the blade rested gently on the gently heaving chest of the newly minted immortal. His breathing slowed, and his body seemed to sink into the boards beneath, coming to an even deeper level of rest.
"You shall not die, nor shall you wake." The reaper turned it's gristly visage away from the thief. "You shall not wake... Until we have taken all that you hold dear from this world."
The sword dissolved into the night, and the robes whirled silently, carrying Death along to it's work.
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[WP] Wizards are often depicted as being lone, reclusive researchers tinkering with new magics all alone in their towers for decades. However as the scientific process developed so too did the magical process, now wizards work in research teams, all spells are peer reviewed and papers are published
|
"Gods!" I yelled, slamming shut my veritable textbook. "There is just too much! Too much to know, too much to memorize, too much! I'll never finish!"
A gentle presence sidled up to me, wrapping her free hand around my waist. Pomi, my elegant 'better half'. "Patience, my love, patience." Her opposite hand presented me with a glass of steaming green tea.
My heart melted for a moment. "Bless you, darling." I said, taking the tea and giving her a kiss on the cheek.
I had been assigned an especially difficult case- normally my work consisted of 'magical patents', with a little dash of ingenuity required. If someone wanted to submit themselves as a teacher for their own Magic School or Discipline- they came to me. They would explain their method to me, and if it didn't step on the toes of a pre-existing School, then I would permit them to begin the Trials- but I didn't have a hand in that part.
Over my lifetime, I had accumulated likely the most complete understanding of magic, as a whole, out of anyone in the world.
This new challenge, however, had taken me the better part of a week- and it was outright exhausting. I had taken two stress-baths, one stress-walk, and no less than 3 stress-beers per night since I had started. Pomi had joked that the beers would ruin my figure- but I had been blessed with the genetic gift that all my excess weight seemed to add to my bust, and I rarely gained at the thighs- if that hadn't been the case, the years of book-worm living would have ruined me long ago.
This man- Magister O'Hallun, he called himself, was submitting an application for his own Way, and it was so specific, so detailed, that it took a tome of over 3,000 pages to cover it all.
I had to have a complete understanding of O'Hallun's work to be able to accept or reject his application- but by the Gods, it was nearly beyond me.
I appreciated the effort this Magister had made- though I had yet to grasp exactly what use his teachings would be, he knew his stuff. He had even taught me a few things, through the medium of his book- but thusfar, it pertained entirely to using the passage of time- which was already a ponderous subject on it's own- combined with an oxygen-based burning, to sort of... husk living things- but this wasn't meant for combat, the spell itself was so convoluted that it would take days to set up an individual 'instance' of the transmutation.
With an appreciative smile, I sent my Twin Flame away from my office, intent on finishing my project. I sipped on the tea, and read, while my legs bounced up and down in a jittery fashion- I had been cooped up on this project for much too long.
Finally, as the sun began to set, I admitted defeat. Though I understood the principals the magic ran upon, I had read the book cover-to-cover and had not grasped what the end result of the magic would be, or why he would look to teach it to anyone. I was going to have to summon him for an additional consultation.
O'Hallun laughed merrily as he sat on the opposite end of my desk, as I did my best to sound professional while admitting defeat. "You lasted a good long time! I was expecting a summons much sooner, to be honest with you!" He was a pleasant looking older man- a neat, trimmed beard, sort of salt-and-pepper style, and he kept himself in good shape, it seemed. Not that I had eyes for him- Pomi was truly the only one for me. I just tended to size up people's looks- match the magic with the man, so to speak.
"I think I have an understanding of all of the underlying components of your processes, Magister O'Hallun," I said, unconsciously adjusting my shoulder-length hair. "It's the actual application of the magic that I do not understand."
With a wry smile, Magister O'Hallun spoke softly. "To be honest, I sort of...obfuscated that deliberately. I was expecting the patent officer to give up upon seeing the complexity, and just provide the patent thereafter, assured that my technique was unique."
"Aah, but sir, how could I protect your patent in the future if I don't know how it works?" I asked.
O'Hallun paused. "I hadn't thought of it that way. Damn me, I was being short-sighted, wasn't I?" He laughed. "Then, please, madam, allow me to show you!"
A few moments later, and we were within O'Hallun's laboratory- given that his magic was based in the Way of the chrono-magus and flame elements, I was surprised to see biological specimens, both alive and preserved after death, lining his walls.
A deceased centaur, a nine-tailed-fox, and- against the far wall, an Ancient.
"By the Gods, is that Ancient alive? I gasped.
O'Hallun nodded. "Be careful when we approach, do not touch the array, if it gets free, I doubt I still have the strength to recapture him."
The Ancients were the fore-bearers of all magical creatures- they held the genetic material that was first infused with magic- from them came almost all of the Monsters, the Woodland Creatures, and various Noble Beasts.
They had been created deep beneath the surface of the earth, in a cavern rich with leylines, known as the Fey Cavern. We humans had not yet managed to find the Fey Cavern- perhaps we couldn't find it, perhaps we were incapable, based on our human birth alone.
Originally, the Fey- the faeries- had called that cavern home, and during that time was when they made some animals of the surface their pets, bringing them back to the cavern with them- the dense magic of the place forced the simple animals into becoming the Ancients within a few short years.
Ever since, the Ancients were a force to be reckoned with- though they had lower rational powers than some of their offspring, such as Centaurs, they had incredible strength, and were known to be very attuned to the leylines, which was one of the only three sources of magic.
The fact that O'Hallun had one here was astonishing- that he had captured it himself was mind blowing.
As we approached, he explained his magic- currently, if humans wished to use magic, we would either entreat the Gods for the gift, and thereby devote our services to them in exchange, or we could utilize our own life force as a font of aetherial energy, fueled by our passion. The Fey held exclusive access to the third option- pulling energy from the leylines.
Well, he explained, what if we could hybridize the Immolatus method (expending our own life-force) with the energy of the Fey? What if we could force an Ancient to fuel our magical endeavors?
As he explained, he also demonstrated- activating the various apparatus's which I was familiar with from his book, the Ancient began to howl- and O'Hallun began to glow.
"The energy from the Ancient is now within me!" He proclaimed, looking more youthful than before. The air was positively saturated with the flow of magic- I had never felt the like in all of my years.
It was so powerful... and addicting.
"Fueling ourselves off of the life force of other sentient beings?!" I yelled, absolutely abhorred.
O'Hallun scoffed. "How is it any different than the mutton of your dinner? But, come now, you are not here to discuss the morality of this proposition- only it's ingenuity."
He was right. "Yes, Magister, forgive my outburst. I can say that, without a doubt, your method is completely unique. I've never seen anyone attempt to tamper with the sources of magic before. My job requires that I now pass you off to the next step, the Trials- after that, as I am sure you will succeed, given the power you wield, you may begin to implement your method in any way you see fit."
I swallowed bile, knowing that I was facilitating such dark magic, even while feeling the high it gave me to have my own power so bolstered.
I had a feeling about this- O'Hallun's technique was going to become very popular in the human world. Perhaps the most popular method- it would even open up human kind to being able to learn Fey magic, I realized with a start- though perhaps only I, of all the humans, actually knew how to go about that process.
This was, indeed, going to revolutionize the world.
I stood there, feeling queasy, yet energized- and all I longed for was Pomi's embrace, and the problems of yesterday.
|
"Phil, our paper got published!" Tristan screamed from the front door, holding the latest issue of Magic magazine. "Holy shit! Our second attemptgot published?" Phil cried from the kitchen. Cooking breakfast for him his wife and the thing created by the spell.
"Your not gonna believe it but we even got front cover! David is on the front page!" Cried Tristan running around excitedly. David, was playing around on the floor, trying and failing to catch the cat in one of his six hands. "Oh my God, this is the second best thing thats ever happened in my life! We have to tell the crew! Their in Thailand right now still celebrating Wilburs birthday. We have to go now." As hes talking Phil turns off the stove and puts the excess bacon away, then pulls out his box of stuff.
Its a small black obsidian box decorated with eyes, dragons, and ivy. In there is a small wooden block, each is different, some are Norse runes, some are Egyptian hieroglyphs, some are japanese kanji. All have a specific purpose though. After a minute of searching he finds three runes for travelers protection and the kanji for gate. As he hands one of the travelers protection runes to tristen and David tristen scolds him "Phil their still asleep we can go twll them in a few hours when their awake. Besides Wilburs just turned sixty seven, hes still probably drunker than you on that trip to Disneyworld."
"I guess your right, I got overly excited and what trip to disneyworld?" He joking asks "If we're going to be waiting lets eat and actually read what some of the group chats are saying about our paper." Walking around the table to pick up david and put him in his high chair which is more difficult than it looks considering his extra pair of legs and a second mouth on hia stomach. Phil served breakfast while his wife scoured the web looking at the group chats to see the reaction the paper, while Phil sat and red the rest of the magazine, seeing what else the community has come up with.
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[WP] Wizards are often depicted as being lone, reclusive researchers tinkering with new magics all alone in their towers for decades. However as the scientific process developed so too did the magical process, now wizards work in research teams, all spells are peer reviewed and papers are published
|
I walked into the company building. The big lit sign atop the building shining searing light as always. I remember when I first joined the company the sight of the large sign morphing and changing magically was a sight of awe, but now it's nothing but an eyesore.
I passed by a few doors of other departments, each with signs like: "Runic safety circles", "physical redistribution engines" and "marketing".
Finally I came by the door to my department, on the door was the simple label "IUI". The walls of the department was covered in windows, each filled to the brim with scribbles and calculations made with dry markers. If one looked closely he might even notice some in-jokes and rude drawing In-between the calculations, but no matter how hard you looked, without x-ray vision or other similar tools, no one would have any hope of seeing much beyond the scribbles covered glass.
With a sigh I entered. It was a page open room with many desks and boxes of equipment scattered in a semi ordered manner throughout the room. The time of cubicals has long since passed, there are still some companies that separate employees to cubicals, even still some wizard towers left, but not for long by the looks of it.
I saw and greeted some of my colleagues that were present in the room. The day has only begun so there weren't many. I grabbed my tools and equipment from the boxes, making sure to sign them under my name as per company policy, checked the bulletin board and the whiteboard for any news or development. Seeing as I was here yesterday I didn't expect there to be any, but it's still better to check, I learned that the hard way. After confirming that there wasn't anything to watch out for or change, I walked to my usual chair in my usual desk and begun setting up.
I did that morning ritual so many times it became automatic, even in my sleep deprived state I finished setting up in near record time. I viewed my runic modulated etching board and try to recall were I was last time.
'oh yeah, I was just finished the integration of the timeline controller into the interface.'
Our company specialised in developing tools and services to other companies. we mainly develop tools and runic bundles for other parties to use, but we also do commissions. I was on the "IUI" department. It stood for "illusionary user interface". Which, if you don't know, basically means I create the interface you use to interact with the magigram, so you won't have to channel different magical steams into the ports manually to do anything and that you don't have to try and understand the raw data by interpreting the pulses of each stream and what emotion and complexity it's charged with.
To think that's how wizards did it in the old times. But today it would be impossible, then, when 20 streams were considered to be a lot, it was manageable, but nowadays you will barely see any new magigram that doesn't use at least more than a thousand streams.
I resumed my etching, rune after rune. Etching was a complicated task. There were hundreds of thousands of runes and runic combinations, each behaving differently depending on the size of the runes, the type of magic stream it morphs and even the material it's etched on. But with my tools and modulated etching board it's hardly the challenge it was a long time ago. The tools allowed me to etch runes perfectly into the board and had an integrated auto completion projector and data monitor to ease on my memory. I mainly used the thaumugrafic runic alphabet, a pretty popular and standart one, very resource lite and relatively simple, but I knew and used some other alphabets as well.
There was also the modulated etching board, that allowed for simple removal and integration of runic circles, as well as a fast way to connect and test them. But the most important feature was the safety runes circles etched on it. Although many laugh at IUI for needing safety circles saying that there is nothing unsafe in that field, the need for safety circle important, even something simple as giving too much output can overwhelming the eyes and burn the retinas of all unfortunate enough to witness the mistake. Or even giving a reversed light output plunging the entire area into complete darkness.
I wasn't even halfway done when I looked up at the sound of doors opening to see my group's head, Jeffedia Galaxicus entered the room. He looked somewhere between Angry, tiered and annoyed. He gave a sigh and looked at me.
"Oh you're here already, that's good"
Despite trying to sound happy, the obvious frown on his face revealed he was anything but happy, and by extension, nothing was 'good'.
"So I just came out of a meeting," Jeffedia continued without giving me a change to respond or greet him. "The client rang, he given some new 'input' again, and changed major parts of the magigram, especially the design, so be prepared to scrap most of the recent work and remake everything again. I will brief you and the rest shortly."
By the time Jeffedia mentioned the client the facade of cheer disappeared instantly and completely and was replaced by destain and anger. This recent client was a massive pain in the ass, changing everything left and right on daily bases, but he had so much money to spend on commissions for his "innovative and revolutionary startup ideas" (or "dumpster fires as we call them), not a single person was willing to complain or refuse his commissions.
I gave a loud groan and put down the tools. Jeffedia wasted no time in listening to my groan or waited for me to respond and quickly entered his office, probably to bang his head against the wall.
I began returning the equipment to the boxes and got some pens and whiteboards, there was a low of work to redo and replan. I also added a point to the "Reason to punch the client" collum on the main whiteboard. It was clearly a joke, but at this rate, maybe not for long.
--l--
So this is my first story, please mention any grammar or spelling error, I am dyslexic and English isn't my first language, so help me out on that.
|
"Phil, our paper got published!" Tristan screamed from the front door, holding the latest issue of Magic magazine. "Holy shit! Our second attemptgot published?" Phil cried from the kitchen. Cooking breakfast for him his wife and the thing created by the spell.
"Your not gonna believe it but we even got front cover! David is on the front page!" Cried Tristan running around excitedly. David, was playing around on the floor, trying and failing to catch the cat in one of his six hands. "Oh my God, this is the second best thing thats ever happened in my life! We have to tell the crew! Their in Thailand right now still celebrating Wilburs birthday. We have to go now." As hes talking Phil turns off the stove and puts the excess bacon away, then pulls out his box of stuff.
Its a small black obsidian box decorated with eyes, dragons, and ivy. In there is a small wooden block, each is different, some are Norse runes, some are Egyptian hieroglyphs, some are japanese kanji. All have a specific purpose though. After a minute of searching he finds three runes for travelers protection and the kanji for gate. As he hands one of the travelers protection runes to tristen and David tristen scolds him "Phil their still asleep we can go twll them in a few hours when their awake. Besides Wilburs just turned sixty seven, hes still probably drunker than you on that trip to Disneyworld."
"I guess your right, I got overly excited and what trip to disneyworld?" He joking asks "If we're going to be waiting lets eat and actually read what some of the group chats are saying about our paper." Walking around the table to pick up david and put him in his high chair which is more difficult than it looks considering his extra pair of legs and a second mouth on hia stomach. Phil served breakfast while his wife scoured the web looking at the group chats to see the reaction the paper, while Phil sat and red the rest of the magazine, seeing what else the community has come up with.
|
|
[WP] Wizards are often depicted as being lone, reclusive researchers tinkering with new magics all alone in their towers for decades. However as the scientific process developed so too did the magical process, now wizards work in research teams, all spells are peer reviewed and papers are published
|
I walked into the company building. The big lit sign atop the building shining searing light as always. I remember when I first joined the company the sight of the large sign morphing and changing magically was a sight of awe, but now it's nothing but an eyesore.
I passed by a few doors of other departments, each with signs like: "Runic safety circles", "physical redistribution engines" and "marketing".
Finally I came by the door to my department, on the door was the simple label "IUI". The walls of the department was covered in windows, each filled to the brim with scribbles and calculations made with dry markers. If one looked closely he might even notice some in-jokes and rude drawing In-between the calculations, but no matter how hard you looked, without x-ray vision or other similar tools, no one would have any hope of seeing much beyond the scribbles covered glass.
With a sigh I entered. It was a page open room with many desks and boxes of equipment scattered in a semi ordered manner throughout the room. The time of cubicals has long since passed, there are still some companies that separate employees to cubicals, even still some wizard towers left, but not for long by the looks of it.
I saw and greeted some of my colleagues that were present in the room. The day has only begun so there weren't many. I grabbed my tools and equipment from the boxes, making sure to sign them under my name as per company policy, checked the bulletin board and the whiteboard for any news or development. Seeing as I was here yesterday I didn't expect there to be any, but it's still better to check, I learned that the hard way. After confirming that there wasn't anything to watch out for or change, I walked to my usual chair in my usual desk and begun setting up.
I did that morning ritual so many times it became automatic, even in my sleep deprived state I finished setting up in near record time. I viewed my runic modulated etching board and try to recall were I was last time.
'oh yeah, I was just finished the integration of the timeline controller into the interface.'
Our company specialised in developing tools and services to other companies. we mainly develop tools and runic bundles for other parties to use, but we also do commissions. I was on the "IUI" department. It stood for "illusionary user interface". Which, if you don't know, basically means I create the interface you use to interact with the magigram, so you won't have to channel different magical steams into the ports manually to do anything and that you don't have to try and understand the raw data by interpreting the pulses of each stream and what emotion and complexity it's charged with.
To think that's how wizards did it in the old times. But today it would be impossible, then, when 20 streams were considered to be a lot, it was manageable, but nowadays you will barely see any new magigram that doesn't use at least more than a thousand streams.
I resumed my etching, rune after rune. Etching was a complicated task. There were hundreds of thousands of runes and runic combinations, each behaving differently depending on the size of the runes, the type of magic stream it morphs and even the material it's etched on. But with my tools and modulated etching board it's hardly the challenge it was a long time ago. The tools allowed me to etch runes perfectly into the board and had an integrated auto completion projector and data monitor to ease on my memory. I mainly used the thaumugrafic runic alphabet, a pretty popular and standart one, very resource lite and relatively simple, but I knew and used some other alphabets as well.
There was also the modulated etching board, that allowed for simple removal and integration of runic circles, as well as a fast way to connect and test them. But the most important feature was the safety runes circles etched on it. Although many laugh at IUI for needing safety circles saying that there is nothing unsafe in that field, the need for safety circle important, even something simple as giving too much output can overwhelming the eyes and burn the retinas of all unfortunate enough to witness the mistake. Or even giving a reversed light output plunging the entire area into complete darkness.
I wasn't even halfway done when I looked up at the sound of doors opening to see my group's head, Jeffedia Galaxicus entered the room. He looked somewhere between Angry, tiered and annoyed. He gave a sigh and looked at me.
"Oh you're here already, that's good"
Despite trying to sound happy, the obvious frown on his face revealed he was anything but happy, and by extension, nothing was 'good'.
"So I just came out of a meeting," Jeffedia continued without giving me a change to respond or greet him. "The client rang, he given some new 'input' again, and changed major parts of the magigram, especially the design, so be prepared to scrap most of the recent work and remake everything again. I will brief you and the rest shortly."
By the time Jeffedia mentioned the client the facade of cheer disappeared instantly and completely and was replaced by destain and anger. This recent client was a massive pain in the ass, changing everything left and right on daily bases, but he had so much money to spend on commissions for his "innovative and revolutionary startup ideas" (or "dumpster fires as we call them), not a single person was willing to complain or refuse his commissions.
I gave a loud groan and put down the tools. Jeffedia wasted no time in listening to my groan or waited for me to respond and quickly entered his office, probably to bang his head against the wall.
I began returning the equipment to the boxes and got some pens and whiteboards, there was a low of work to redo and replan. I also added a point to the "Reason to punch the client" collum on the main whiteboard. It was clearly a joke, but at this rate, maybe not for long.
--l--
So this is my first story, please mention any grammar or spelling error, I am dyslexic and English isn't my first language, so help me out on that.
|
"Gods!" I yelled, slamming shut my veritable textbook. "There is just too much! Too much to know, too much to memorize, too much! I'll never finish!"
A gentle presence sidled up to me, wrapping her free hand around my waist. Pomi, my elegant 'better half'. "Patience, my love, patience." Her opposite hand presented me with a glass of steaming green tea.
My heart melted for a moment. "Bless you, darling." I said, taking the tea and giving her a kiss on the cheek.
I had been assigned an especially difficult case- normally my work consisted of 'magical patents', with a little dash of ingenuity required. If someone wanted to submit themselves as a teacher for their own Magic School or Discipline- they came to me. They would explain their method to me, and if it didn't step on the toes of a pre-existing School, then I would permit them to begin the Trials- but I didn't have a hand in that part.
Over my lifetime, I had accumulated likely the most complete understanding of magic, as a whole, out of anyone in the world.
This new challenge, however, had taken me the better part of a week- and it was outright exhausting. I had taken two stress-baths, one stress-walk, and no less than 3 stress-beers per night since I had started. Pomi had joked that the beers would ruin my figure- but I had been blessed with the genetic gift that all my excess weight seemed to add to my bust, and I rarely gained at the thighs- if that hadn't been the case, the years of book-worm living would have ruined me long ago.
This man- Magister O'Hallun, he called himself, was submitting an application for his own Way, and it was so specific, so detailed, that it took a tome of over 3,000 pages to cover it all.
I had to have a complete understanding of O'Hallun's work to be able to accept or reject his application- but by the Gods, it was nearly beyond me.
I appreciated the effort this Magister had made- though I had yet to grasp exactly what use his teachings would be, he knew his stuff. He had even taught me a few things, through the medium of his book- but thusfar, it pertained entirely to using the passage of time- which was already a ponderous subject on it's own- combined with an oxygen-based burning, to sort of... husk living things- but this wasn't meant for combat, the spell itself was so convoluted that it would take days to set up an individual 'instance' of the transmutation.
With an appreciative smile, I sent my Twin Flame away from my office, intent on finishing my project. I sipped on the tea, and read, while my legs bounced up and down in a jittery fashion- I had been cooped up on this project for much too long.
Finally, as the sun began to set, I admitted defeat. Though I understood the principals the magic ran upon, I had read the book cover-to-cover and had not grasped what the end result of the magic would be, or why he would look to teach it to anyone. I was going to have to summon him for an additional consultation.
O'Hallun laughed merrily as he sat on the opposite end of my desk, as I did my best to sound professional while admitting defeat. "You lasted a good long time! I was expecting a summons much sooner, to be honest with you!" He was a pleasant looking older man- a neat, trimmed beard, sort of salt-and-pepper style, and he kept himself in good shape, it seemed. Not that I had eyes for him- Pomi was truly the only one for me. I just tended to size up people's looks- match the magic with the man, so to speak.
"I think I have an understanding of all of the underlying components of your processes, Magister O'Hallun," I said, unconsciously adjusting my shoulder-length hair. "It's the actual application of the magic that I do not understand."
With a wry smile, Magister O'Hallun spoke softly. "To be honest, I sort of...obfuscated that deliberately. I was expecting the patent officer to give up upon seeing the complexity, and just provide the patent thereafter, assured that my technique was unique."
"Aah, but sir, how could I protect your patent in the future if I don't know how it works?" I asked.
O'Hallun paused. "I hadn't thought of it that way. Damn me, I was being short-sighted, wasn't I?" He laughed. "Then, please, madam, allow me to show you!"
A few moments later, and we were within O'Hallun's laboratory- given that his magic was based in the Way of the chrono-magus and flame elements, I was surprised to see biological specimens, both alive and preserved after death, lining his walls.
A deceased centaur, a nine-tailed-fox, and- against the far wall, an Ancient.
"By the Gods, is that Ancient alive? I gasped.
O'Hallun nodded. "Be careful when we approach, do not touch the array, if it gets free, I doubt I still have the strength to recapture him."
The Ancients were the fore-bearers of all magical creatures- they held the genetic material that was first infused with magic- from them came almost all of the Monsters, the Woodland Creatures, and various Noble Beasts.
They had been created deep beneath the surface of the earth, in a cavern rich with leylines, known as the Fey Cavern. We humans had not yet managed to find the Fey Cavern- perhaps we couldn't find it, perhaps we were incapable, based on our human birth alone.
Originally, the Fey- the faeries- had called that cavern home, and during that time was when they made some animals of the surface their pets, bringing them back to the cavern with them- the dense magic of the place forced the simple animals into becoming the Ancients within a few short years.
Ever since, the Ancients were a force to be reckoned with- though they had lower rational powers than some of their offspring, such as Centaurs, they had incredible strength, and were known to be very attuned to the leylines, which was one of the only three sources of magic.
The fact that O'Hallun had one here was astonishing- that he had captured it himself was mind blowing.
As we approached, he explained his magic- currently, if humans wished to use magic, we would either entreat the Gods for the gift, and thereby devote our services to them in exchange, or we could utilize our own life force as a font of aetherial energy, fueled by our passion. The Fey held exclusive access to the third option- pulling energy from the leylines.
Well, he explained, what if we could hybridize the Immolatus method (expending our own life-force) with the energy of the Fey? What if we could force an Ancient to fuel our magical endeavors?
As he explained, he also demonstrated- activating the various apparatus's which I was familiar with from his book, the Ancient began to howl- and O'Hallun began to glow.
"The energy from the Ancient is now within me!" He proclaimed, looking more youthful than before. The air was positively saturated with the flow of magic- I had never felt the like in all of my years.
It was so powerful... and addicting.
"Fueling ourselves off of the life force of other sentient beings?!" I yelled, absolutely abhorred.
O'Hallun scoffed. "How is it any different than the mutton of your dinner? But, come now, you are not here to discuss the morality of this proposition- only it's ingenuity."
He was right. "Yes, Magister, forgive my outburst. I can say that, without a doubt, your method is completely unique. I've never seen anyone attempt to tamper with the sources of magic before. My job requires that I now pass you off to the next step, the Trials- after that, as I am sure you will succeed, given the power you wield, you may begin to implement your method in any way you see fit."
I swallowed bile, knowing that I was facilitating such dark magic, even while feeling the high it gave me to have my own power so bolstered.
I had a feeling about this- O'Hallun's technique was going to become very popular in the human world. Perhaps the most popular method- it would even open up human kind to being able to learn Fey magic, I realized with a start- though perhaps only I, of all the humans, actually knew how to go about that process.
This was, indeed, going to revolutionize the world.
I stood there, feeling queasy, yet energized- and all I longed for was Pomi's embrace, and the problems of yesterday.
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[WP] Wizards are often depicted as being lone, reclusive researchers tinkering with new magics all alone in their towers for decades. However as the scientific process developed so too did the magical process, now wizards work in research teams, all spells are peer reviewed and papers are published
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He clutched the material components of the spell in the palm of his hand. Focusing will and declaring intent with one motion HE YEETED THAT FUCKING FIREBALL. Well, more a fire bolt. The anvil he’d plinked with it absorbed the all of the heat that didn’t dissipate immediately, lightening in color but not yet a glow.
He stood alone in awe of his work. A lone junkie chaos magi, in his backyard forge turned sorcerer hut, had just flung a spell that the nerds at the Academy couldn’t begin to admin was possible. While they held hands to try observably alter the PH of water with their intent, he’d flung a fistful of sigil and match head to deliver a rather dense thermal load.
Application? Couldn’t present it, skeptics at the Academy would cause a misfire at a quantum level.
Grabbing another clutch of reagents, he lazily flung a mote of flame into the coal of his forge, starting the fire for the day instantly. Before his right hand was done casting the spell, he grabbed a half finished blade and slapped it on the anvil with his left. A third cast, almost directly injecting heat into the chunk of the blade he intended to work. With hammer in right hand, tongs holding blade in the left, he started to strike while the steel was hot.
Fire for the believers, steel for the others.
|
I hate my team and I love my team - but most of all I'd really love to know who my team even is. Since my mind has been encrypted, I feel like I'm running around in a maze with no orientation, except that I seem to always be at the right place in the right moment. It'll be fun reading the papers on this trial but I really hope they'll leave out the details of me failing over and over again to grasp even the most basic concepts of what I remember to have boasted would be teachable to 5 year olds. I hadn't even thought that through any further than hexing the eli5 subreddit, the moon and the fae. That part was pretty easy. And according to the voices inside my head who seem to have a clear understanding of who I am and what we're doing here, we're gathering valuable data (or I'm going to eternally rot in hell if I hung out with Christians the day before). From my perspective, I'm just getting my ass kicked by the moon, the fae, Witchtok and literally every deity I considered safe for 5 year olds to summon. I also may have brought the apocalypse upon humanity but according to scientific standards, we're doing great and our investors love how cheap and secure our penta-blind trials are, so I am not concerned about my future after the trial - assuming I'll have one. It's moments like these when I really hate my team. I mean, it's not like this couldn't be just aborted at any minute, could it guys? Like, for real, could anyone please get me out of here instead of sending more and more demons my way? I'm pretty certain that this isn't going according to plan, is it? So much about me not wanting to just work in a normal office. But then, this pays a lot better (I assume). Okay, gotta go, there's a burning bush levitating in front of my window and I'm pretty sure I'm supposed to do something now (because it keeps screaming at my to put my phone aside and pay attention to it). Bye Reddit, see you another day I hope!
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|
[WP] Wizards are often depicted as being lone, reclusive researchers tinkering with new magics all alone in their towers for decades. However as the scientific process developed so too did the magical process, now wizards work in research teams, all spells are peer reviewed and papers are published
|
When Bain Capital acquired the Ministry of Magic, some real changes needed to be made. Bain Consulting was brought in to help.
Phase1 of the initial $10M Operations and Management focused study found a variety of opportunities to incrementally improve the Ministry’s performance. As this phase was ending, the Bain teams onsite prepared to deliver a ground-breaking 20 page PowerPoint for the Ministry’s Wizarding Committee. Four main areas surfaced as potential low-hanging fruit were identified in the areas of:
- Product procurement - $150M follow on LOP (letter of proposal to get additional work)
- Product development - $250M follow on LOP
- Operations - $20M scoping LOP
- Human capital management and incentivization - $400M across three LOPs
Each area’s team presented their findings for the Senior Partner’s approval with a handful of masterful slides based on their findings below. The Senior Partner proudly concluded this was the best deck he’d ever created.
Product procurement:
1. Despite the Ministry’s global reach, materials sourcing was done ad hoc, locally, and *AT* retail prices. This in spite of the fact that outside of the wizards, most of these goods held no value to anyone
2. Delivery was typically made by owls vs using drones sent from centralized procurement depots.
3. Bain brought in members of its Digital team. While the consultants had never worked in the magic industry segment prior, they *HAD* read Harry Potter as an industry primer. Besides, they’d worked in such a broad range of operations and procurement industries that they should be able to find a really strong solution here.
4. Currently, the team was specking out the next larger $150M phase of the engagement. The LOP focused on creating a centralized procurement portal for all magical purchasing with appropriate controls in place. The solution would also provide business intelligence to the Ministry to secure the best deals possible.
Product development:
1. Time to develop new potions was far too slow. The previous model, if you could call it that, allowed individual wizards to work solo in separate ivory towers with minimal quality controls behind passing a few tests in school. Also surprising was that the decision of what products to develop and prioritize was completely in the hands of individual wizards. Astonishing!
2. Bain brought in an SVP from Novartis as Pharmaceutical issues were quite similar to potion and spell development. To help reduce time to market, ensure appropriate and consistent testing across all wizards. Papers and research would all be subject to rigorous peer reviews and progress checks
3. The pending $200M follow-on project would be replicating pharma and medical research conditions for the wizards in a single dedicated campus. Despite being previously the most common way of working, Bain assessed an 80% improvement in productivity with this approach. Working from home would now only be considered for discrete sub-tasks, as long as their were regular Agile standup meetings on Zoom
Operations:
- While many areas were out of scope for this preliminary study, one of the quick wins identified was wizard hotdesking at the central facility. That would result in a huge savings in the underlying equipment. Any personal or rare items could be kept in lockers or in a central reserve for anyone to be able to check out
- The $20m follow-on project was still being scoped
Human capital management and incentivization:
1. The Ministry only advised on cases where Ministry rules were broken. Raising the dead and such. But procedurally, there was *NO* oversight. One of the Junior Consultants fainted at how shocking this was. The Senior Partner couldn’t help but agree, albeit in a more reserved fashion
2. The study began with a massive wizarding world survey: individual roles, perceptions of employee performance for further evaluations and potential terminations. After all, the ‘fat’ in the workforce was worse than anything the team had ever seen.
3. While disseminating the survey results, the team submitted three further LOPs
4. $50M: one for centralized employee reviews
5. $200M to better source the next generation of wizarding talent providing mentorship programs and clear career paths within the Ministry
6. $150M to manage cultural change. The latter would likely make or break this process.
Product marketing and dissemination were tabled at this stage to ensure the Full Business Transformation of the Ministry of Magic would succeed.
—-
Two days later the full 50-person Bain team led by the Senior Partner assembled in the Ministry of Magic’s great room to present their findings to the 11 assembled wizards.
‘Let me begin by saying what an honor it is to share with you the results of our preliminary study. There are a lot of low hanging fruit which will really accelerate the Ministry’s performance going forward.’ Paul the Senior Partner pronounced somewhat arrogantly.
The assembled wizards watched the full presentation and then asked Paul to flip back to the page showing proposed extension work.
- Product procurement - $150M follow on LOP
- Product development - $250M follow on LOP
- Operations - $20M scoping LOP
- Human capital management and incentivization - $400M across three LOPs
‘So let me get this straight,’ the minister asked, ‘You want us to pay you $820M to actually start making changes?’
Paul responded enthusiastically, dollar signs dancing in his head: ‘Yes. Initially at least. We feel these efforts will get you 10x returns vs your peers.’
The Minister coughed. ‘As the only wizard group in the world, how precisely do we have a peer group to measure against?’
Paul spluttered quietly. Always tough to work with these new to consulting types. ‘It’s rather a complicated set of algorithms, how about I set aside some time for you or selected members of your team to review them more thoroughly after this meeting? I can say top level though, that we see the pharmaceutical industry as the closest analog to yours.’
‘Are you serious?’ the Minister laughed.
‘Yes, very.’ Paul doubles down.
The eleven ministers exchanged glances: *THIS* would not do. Only one solution.
Wands raised collectively they simultaneously turned the entire 51 person Bain team into tiny glowing rats.
Edit: caught a few typos, as I had to rush to an actual work project (boo!)and was following the 80/20 rule of consulting. Joking on the 80/20 bit. I always like to be pickier for this lovely audience. So please let me know if you catch anything or have any other feedback.
Edit 2: changes suggested by u/donbrendano. Thanks again! :)
|
I hate my team and I love my team - but most of all I'd really love to know who my team even is. Since my mind has been encrypted, I feel like I'm running around in a maze with no orientation, except that I seem to always be at the right place in the right moment. It'll be fun reading the papers on this trial but I really hope they'll leave out the details of me failing over and over again to grasp even the most basic concepts of what I remember to have boasted would be teachable to 5 year olds. I hadn't even thought that through any further than hexing the eli5 subreddit, the moon and the fae. That part was pretty easy. And according to the voices inside my head who seem to have a clear understanding of who I am and what we're doing here, we're gathering valuable data (or I'm going to eternally rot in hell if I hung out with Christians the day before). From my perspective, I'm just getting my ass kicked by the moon, the fae, Witchtok and literally every deity I considered safe for 5 year olds to summon. I also may have brought the apocalypse upon humanity but according to scientific standards, we're doing great and our investors love how cheap and secure our penta-blind trials are, so I am not concerned about my future after the trial - assuming I'll have one. It's moments like these when I really hate my team. I mean, it's not like this couldn't be just aborted at any minute, could it guys? Like, for real, could anyone please get me out of here instead of sending more and more demons my way? I'm pretty certain that this isn't going according to plan, is it? So much about me not wanting to just work in a normal office. But then, this pays a lot better (I assume). Okay, gotta go, there's a burning bush levitating in front of my window and I'm pretty sure I'm supposed to do something now (because it keeps screaming at my to put my phone aside and pay attention to it). Bye Reddit, see you another day I hope!
|
|
[WP] Wizards are often depicted as being lone, reclusive researchers tinkering with new magics all alone in their towers for decades. However as the scientific process developed so too did the magical process, now wizards work in research teams, all spells are peer reviewed and papers are published
|
When Bain Capital acquired the Ministry of Magic, some real changes needed to be made. Bain Consulting was brought in to help.
Phase1 of the initial $10M Operations and Management focused study found a variety of opportunities to incrementally improve the Ministry’s performance. As this phase was ending, the Bain teams onsite prepared to deliver a ground-breaking 20 page PowerPoint for the Ministry’s Wizarding Committee. Four main areas surfaced as potential low-hanging fruit were identified in the areas of:
- Product procurement - $150M follow on LOP (letter of proposal to get additional work)
- Product development - $250M follow on LOP
- Operations - $20M scoping LOP
- Human capital management and incentivization - $400M across three LOPs
Each area’s team presented their findings for the Senior Partner’s approval with a handful of masterful slides based on their findings below. The Senior Partner proudly concluded this was the best deck he’d ever created.
Product procurement:
1. Despite the Ministry’s global reach, materials sourcing was done ad hoc, locally, and *AT* retail prices. This in spite of the fact that outside of the wizards, most of these goods held no value to anyone
2. Delivery was typically made by owls vs using drones sent from centralized procurement depots.
3. Bain brought in members of its Digital team. While the consultants had never worked in the magic industry segment prior, they *HAD* read Harry Potter as an industry primer. Besides, they’d worked in such a broad range of operations and procurement industries that they should be able to find a really strong solution here.
4. Currently, the team was specking out the next larger $150M phase of the engagement. The LOP focused on creating a centralized procurement portal for all magical purchasing with appropriate controls in place. The solution would also provide business intelligence to the Ministry to secure the best deals possible.
Product development:
1. Time to develop new potions was far too slow. The previous model, if you could call it that, allowed individual wizards to work solo in separate ivory towers with minimal quality controls behind passing a few tests in school. Also surprising was that the decision of what products to develop and prioritize was completely in the hands of individual wizards. Astonishing!
2. Bain brought in an SVP from Novartis as Pharmaceutical issues were quite similar to potion and spell development. To help reduce time to market, ensure appropriate and consistent testing across all wizards. Papers and research would all be subject to rigorous peer reviews and progress checks
3. The pending $200M follow-on project would be replicating pharma and medical research conditions for the wizards in a single dedicated campus. Despite being previously the most common way of working, Bain assessed an 80% improvement in productivity with this approach. Working from home would now only be considered for discrete sub-tasks, as long as their were regular Agile standup meetings on Zoom
Operations:
- While many areas were out of scope for this preliminary study, one of the quick wins identified was wizard hotdesking at the central facility. That would result in a huge savings in the underlying equipment. Any personal or rare items could be kept in lockers or in a central reserve for anyone to be able to check out
- The $20m follow-on project was still being scoped
Human capital management and incentivization:
1. The Ministry only advised on cases where Ministry rules were broken. Raising the dead and such. But procedurally, there was *NO* oversight. One of the Junior Consultants fainted at how shocking this was. The Senior Partner couldn’t help but agree, albeit in a more reserved fashion
2. The study began with a massive wizarding world survey: individual roles, perceptions of employee performance for further evaluations and potential terminations. After all, the ‘fat’ in the workforce was worse than anything the team had ever seen.
3. While disseminating the survey results, the team submitted three further LOPs
4. $50M: one for centralized employee reviews
5. $200M to better source the next generation of wizarding talent providing mentorship programs and clear career paths within the Ministry
6. $150M to manage cultural change. The latter would likely make or break this process.
Product marketing and dissemination were tabled at this stage to ensure the Full Business Transformation of the Ministry of Magic would succeed.
—-
Two days later the full 50-person Bain team led by the Senior Partner assembled in the Ministry of Magic’s great room to present their findings to the 11 assembled wizards.
‘Let me begin by saying what an honor it is to share with you the results of our preliminary study. There are a lot of low hanging fruit which will really accelerate the Ministry’s performance going forward.’ Paul the Senior Partner pronounced somewhat arrogantly.
The assembled wizards watched the full presentation and then asked Paul to flip back to the page showing proposed extension work.
- Product procurement - $150M follow on LOP
- Product development - $250M follow on LOP
- Operations - $20M scoping LOP
- Human capital management and incentivization - $400M across three LOPs
‘So let me get this straight,’ the minister asked, ‘You want us to pay you $820M to actually start making changes?’
Paul responded enthusiastically, dollar signs dancing in his head: ‘Yes. Initially at least. We feel these efforts will get you 10x returns vs your peers.’
The Minister coughed. ‘As the only wizard group in the world, how precisely do we have a peer group to measure against?’
Paul spluttered quietly. Always tough to work with these new to consulting types. ‘It’s rather a complicated set of algorithms, how about I set aside some time for you or selected members of your team to review them more thoroughly after this meeting? I can say top level though, that we see the pharmaceutical industry as the closest analog to yours.’
‘Are you serious?’ the Minister laughed.
‘Yes, very.’ Paul doubles down.
The eleven ministers exchanged glances: *THIS* would not do. Only one solution.
Wands raised collectively they simultaneously turned the entire 51 person Bain team into tiny glowing rats.
Edit: caught a few typos, as I had to rush to an actual work project (boo!)and was following the 80/20 rule of consulting. Joking on the 80/20 bit. I always like to be pickier for this lovely audience. So please let me know if you catch anything or have any other feedback.
Edit 2: changes suggested by u/donbrendano. Thanks again! :)
|
“Welcome Ladies and Gentlemen to another episode of Dragon Tank!” The announcer yelled.
“For all of the folks who new this show of ours we have our fine judges, Ikkatosh the wise, Wolfric the mighty, and the dark destroyer of realms: Brian!
Three judges appeared as the camera zoomed in on differently dressed wizards, ranging from the old fashioned robe and hat, to trinkets and amulets adorned on their body.
“Our great judges take the ideas for new spells, and invest their hard earned gold and platinum into them to fund the research into their field!”
The camera than panned to a young sorcerer, walking down in front of the judges with nothing but his monk like outfit, a red cloak, and an amulet adorned on his chest.
“Young sorcerer Stephen here wants to get a hefty investment of 2,000,000 platinum to fund his study of magic involving time: Kairomancy!
The young sorcerer stood confidently before the wizards before him as Brian asked,
“So young mortal, what have you brought before the dark times of Brian, this Kairomancy you claim can manipulate time. We’ve all seen the most basic of viewing past events, but any further would mean death.” Brian then leaned forward,”So what can you offer?”
The sorcerer smirked, opening the amulet’s green light as he said,
“Actually I’m here for your offer see... I’ve come to bargain.”
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[WP] Wizards are often depicted as being lone, reclusive researchers tinkering with new magics all alone in their towers for decades. However as the scientific process developed so too did the magical process, now wizards work in research teams, all spells are peer reviewed and papers are published
|
When Bain Capital acquired the Ministry of Magic, some real changes needed to be made. Bain Consulting was brought in to help.
Phase1 of the initial $10M Operations and Management focused study found a variety of opportunities to incrementally improve the Ministry’s performance. As this phase was ending, the Bain teams onsite prepared to deliver a ground-breaking 20 page PowerPoint for the Ministry’s Wizarding Committee. Four main areas surfaced as potential low-hanging fruit were identified in the areas of:
- Product procurement - $150M follow on LOP (letter of proposal to get additional work)
- Product development - $250M follow on LOP
- Operations - $20M scoping LOP
- Human capital management and incentivization - $400M across three LOPs
Each area’s team presented their findings for the Senior Partner’s approval with a handful of masterful slides based on their findings below. The Senior Partner proudly concluded this was the best deck he’d ever created.
Product procurement:
1. Despite the Ministry’s global reach, materials sourcing was done ad hoc, locally, and *AT* retail prices. This in spite of the fact that outside of the wizards, most of these goods held no value to anyone
2. Delivery was typically made by owls vs using drones sent from centralized procurement depots.
3. Bain brought in members of its Digital team. While the consultants had never worked in the magic industry segment prior, they *HAD* read Harry Potter as an industry primer. Besides, they’d worked in such a broad range of operations and procurement industries that they should be able to find a really strong solution here.
4. Currently, the team was specking out the next larger $150M phase of the engagement. The LOP focused on creating a centralized procurement portal for all magical purchasing with appropriate controls in place. The solution would also provide business intelligence to the Ministry to secure the best deals possible.
Product development:
1. Time to develop new potions was far too slow. The previous model, if you could call it that, allowed individual wizards to work solo in separate ivory towers with minimal quality controls behind passing a few tests in school. Also surprising was that the decision of what products to develop and prioritize was completely in the hands of individual wizards. Astonishing!
2. Bain brought in an SVP from Novartis as Pharmaceutical issues were quite similar to potion and spell development. To help reduce time to market, ensure appropriate and consistent testing across all wizards. Papers and research would all be subject to rigorous peer reviews and progress checks
3. The pending $200M follow-on project would be replicating pharma and medical research conditions for the wizards in a single dedicated campus. Despite being previously the most common way of working, Bain assessed an 80% improvement in productivity with this approach. Working from home would now only be considered for discrete sub-tasks, as long as their were regular Agile standup meetings on Zoom
Operations:
- While many areas were out of scope for this preliminary study, one of the quick wins identified was wizard hotdesking at the central facility. That would result in a huge savings in the underlying equipment. Any personal or rare items could be kept in lockers or in a central reserve for anyone to be able to check out
- The $20m follow-on project was still being scoped
Human capital management and incentivization:
1. The Ministry only advised on cases where Ministry rules were broken. Raising the dead and such. But procedurally, there was *NO* oversight. One of the Junior Consultants fainted at how shocking this was. The Senior Partner couldn’t help but agree, albeit in a more reserved fashion
2. The study began with a massive wizarding world survey: individual roles, perceptions of employee performance for further evaluations and potential terminations. After all, the ‘fat’ in the workforce was worse than anything the team had ever seen.
3. While disseminating the survey results, the team submitted three further LOPs
4. $50M: one for centralized employee reviews
5. $200M to better source the next generation of wizarding talent providing mentorship programs and clear career paths within the Ministry
6. $150M to manage cultural change. The latter would likely make or break this process.
Product marketing and dissemination were tabled at this stage to ensure the Full Business Transformation of the Ministry of Magic would succeed.
—-
Two days later the full 50-person Bain team led by the Senior Partner assembled in the Ministry of Magic’s great room to present their findings to the 11 assembled wizards.
‘Let me begin by saying what an honor it is to share with you the results of our preliminary study. There are a lot of low hanging fruit which will really accelerate the Ministry’s performance going forward.’ Paul the Senior Partner pronounced somewhat arrogantly.
The assembled wizards watched the full presentation and then asked Paul to flip back to the page showing proposed extension work.
- Product procurement - $150M follow on LOP
- Product development - $250M follow on LOP
- Operations - $20M scoping LOP
- Human capital management and incentivization - $400M across three LOPs
‘So let me get this straight,’ the minister asked, ‘You want us to pay you $820M to actually start making changes?’
Paul responded enthusiastically, dollar signs dancing in his head: ‘Yes. Initially at least. We feel these efforts will get you 10x returns vs your peers.’
The Minister coughed. ‘As the only wizard group in the world, how precisely do we have a peer group to measure against?’
Paul spluttered quietly. Always tough to work with these new to consulting types. ‘It’s rather a complicated set of algorithms, how about I set aside some time for you or selected members of your team to review them more thoroughly after this meeting? I can say top level though, that we see the pharmaceutical industry as the closest analog to yours.’
‘Are you serious?’ the Minister laughed.
‘Yes, very.’ Paul doubles down.
The eleven ministers exchanged glances: *THIS* would not do. Only one solution.
Wands raised collectively they simultaneously turned the entire 51 person Bain team into tiny glowing rats.
Edit: caught a few typos, as I had to rush to an actual work project (boo!)and was following the 80/20 rule of consulting. Joking on the 80/20 bit. I always like to be pickier for this lovely audience. So please let me know if you catch anything or have any other feedback.
Edit 2: changes suggested by u/donbrendano. Thanks again! :)
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He clutched the material components of the spell in the palm of his hand. Focusing will and declaring intent with one motion HE YEETED THAT FUCKING FIREBALL. Well, more a fire bolt. The anvil he’d plinked with it absorbed the all of the heat that didn’t dissipate immediately, lightening in color but not yet a glow.
He stood alone in awe of his work. A lone junkie chaos magi, in his backyard forge turned sorcerer hut, had just flung a spell that the nerds at the Academy couldn’t begin to admin was possible. While they held hands to try observably alter the PH of water with their intent, he’d flung a fistful of sigil and match head to deliver a rather dense thermal load.
Application? Couldn’t present it, skeptics at the Academy would cause a misfire at a quantum level.
Grabbing another clutch of reagents, he lazily flung a mote of flame into the coal of his forge, starting the fire for the day instantly. Before his right hand was done casting the spell, he grabbed a half finished blade and slapped it on the anvil with his left. A third cast, almost directly injecting heat into the chunk of the blade he intended to work. With hammer in right hand, tongs holding blade in the left, he started to strike while the steel was hot.
Fire for the believers, steel for the others.
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[WP] Wizards are often depicted as being lone, reclusive researchers tinkering with new magics all alone in their towers for decades. However as the scientific process developed so too did the magical process, now wizards work in research teams, all spells are peer reviewed and papers are published
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When Bain Capital acquired the Ministry of Magic, some real changes needed to be made. Bain Consulting was brought in to help.
Phase1 of the initial $10M Operations and Management focused study found a variety of opportunities to incrementally improve the Ministry’s performance. As this phase was ending, the Bain teams onsite prepared to deliver a ground-breaking 20 page PowerPoint for the Ministry’s Wizarding Committee. Four main areas surfaced as potential low-hanging fruit were identified in the areas of:
- Product procurement - $150M follow on LOP (letter of proposal to get additional work)
- Product development - $250M follow on LOP
- Operations - $20M scoping LOP
- Human capital management and incentivization - $400M across three LOPs
Each area’s team presented their findings for the Senior Partner’s approval with a handful of masterful slides based on their findings below. The Senior Partner proudly concluded this was the best deck he’d ever created.
Product procurement:
1. Despite the Ministry’s global reach, materials sourcing was done ad hoc, locally, and *AT* retail prices. This in spite of the fact that outside of the wizards, most of these goods held no value to anyone
2. Delivery was typically made by owls vs using drones sent from centralized procurement depots.
3. Bain brought in members of its Digital team. While the consultants had never worked in the magic industry segment prior, they *HAD* read Harry Potter as an industry primer. Besides, they’d worked in such a broad range of operations and procurement industries that they should be able to find a really strong solution here.
4. Currently, the team was specking out the next larger $150M phase of the engagement. The LOP focused on creating a centralized procurement portal for all magical purchasing with appropriate controls in place. The solution would also provide business intelligence to the Ministry to secure the best deals possible.
Product development:
1. Time to develop new potions was far too slow. The previous model, if you could call it that, allowed individual wizards to work solo in separate ivory towers with minimal quality controls behind passing a few tests in school. Also surprising was that the decision of what products to develop and prioritize was completely in the hands of individual wizards. Astonishing!
2. Bain brought in an SVP from Novartis as Pharmaceutical issues were quite similar to potion and spell development. To help reduce time to market, ensure appropriate and consistent testing across all wizards. Papers and research would all be subject to rigorous peer reviews and progress checks
3. The pending $200M follow-on project would be replicating pharma and medical research conditions for the wizards in a single dedicated campus. Despite being previously the most common way of working, Bain assessed an 80% improvement in productivity with this approach. Working from home would now only be considered for discrete sub-tasks, as long as their were regular Agile standup meetings on Zoom
Operations:
- While many areas were out of scope for this preliminary study, one of the quick wins identified was wizard hotdesking at the central facility. That would result in a huge savings in the underlying equipment. Any personal or rare items could be kept in lockers or in a central reserve for anyone to be able to check out
- The $20m follow-on project was still being scoped
Human capital management and incentivization:
1. The Ministry only advised on cases where Ministry rules were broken. Raising the dead and such. But procedurally, there was *NO* oversight. One of the Junior Consultants fainted at how shocking this was. The Senior Partner couldn’t help but agree, albeit in a more reserved fashion
2. The study began with a massive wizarding world survey: individual roles, perceptions of employee performance for further evaluations and potential terminations. After all, the ‘fat’ in the workforce was worse than anything the team had ever seen.
3. While disseminating the survey results, the team submitted three further LOPs
4. $50M: one for centralized employee reviews
5. $200M to better source the next generation of wizarding talent providing mentorship programs and clear career paths within the Ministry
6. $150M to manage cultural change. The latter would likely make or break this process.
Product marketing and dissemination were tabled at this stage to ensure the Full Business Transformation of the Ministry of Magic would succeed.
—-
Two days later the full 50-person Bain team led by the Senior Partner assembled in the Ministry of Magic’s great room to present their findings to the 11 assembled wizards.
‘Let me begin by saying what an honor it is to share with you the results of our preliminary study. There are a lot of low hanging fruit which will really accelerate the Ministry’s performance going forward.’ Paul the Senior Partner pronounced somewhat arrogantly.
The assembled wizards watched the full presentation and then asked Paul to flip back to the page showing proposed extension work.
- Product procurement - $150M follow on LOP
- Product development - $250M follow on LOP
- Operations - $20M scoping LOP
- Human capital management and incentivization - $400M across three LOPs
‘So let me get this straight,’ the minister asked, ‘You want us to pay you $820M to actually start making changes?’
Paul responded enthusiastically, dollar signs dancing in his head: ‘Yes. Initially at least. We feel these efforts will get you 10x returns vs your peers.’
The Minister coughed. ‘As the only wizard group in the world, how precisely do we have a peer group to measure against?’
Paul spluttered quietly. Always tough to work with these new to consulting types. ‘It’s rather a complicated set of algorithms, how about I set aside some time for you or selected members of your team to review them more thoroughly after this meeting? I can say top level though, that we see the pharmaceutical industry as the closest analog to yours.’
‘Are you serious?’ the Minister laughed.
‘Yes, very.’ Paul doubles down.
The eleven ministers exchanged glances: *THIS* would not do. Only one solution.
Wands raised collectively they simultaneously turned the entire 51 person Bain team into tiny glowing rats.
Edit: caught a few typos, as I had to rush to an actual work project (boo!)and was following the 80/20 rule of consulting. Joking on the 80/20 bit. I always like to be pickier for this lovely audience. So please let me know if you catch anything or have any other feedback.
Edit 2: changes suggested by u/donbrendano. Thanks again! :)
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Liches aren’t meant to be fathers.
Professor Vineas Octavius Aurelian Brian Eismour was many things:
The Sixty Ninth Grand Magus of The Order of Enchanters, Chairman for The League of Very Reputable Wizards under three hundred years old, licensed Alchemist, and High Researcher at The Royal institute of Arcane mishaps. Professor Eismour was many other things of course, but these were his most notable titles.
There in his lab he worked for hours a day. Brewing potions and reading the Grimoires and autobiographies of the Mages who had come before him. Trying to squeeze every drop of information that he could. His literally bony hands grasped his Grimoire. He was just finishing writing a spell that would allow him to turn the armpit hair of his enemies any colour he wished. The chromatic transition was also supposed to feel mildly uncomfortable for the target of the spell, which was known as Veths petty revenge. He finished writing the spell, checked the Grimoire he had found it in, and rattled with relief when he compared the two to see that he had copied the spell perfectly. If he had made a single mistake, if he had made a letter half a hair too long, then the words would have exploded, killing him, and destroying centuries of research. Magic was a fickle thing, it was literally the only thing holding his skeletal remains together. He would have wiped the sweat off of his skin if he had, well, skin.
From what Eismour had read, it was said that the spell had been made by Veth, Goddess of Trickery, who would change the armpit colour of anyone who displeased her. He snapped his fingers and the shelf that his Grimoire went on floated over to him. He placed the old, peeling book onto the shelf, which instantly floated back to its original spot. He turned his empty sockets up to the ceiling, bookshelves floated around in random patterns, barely missing the other shelves containing books and Grimoires of Mages from years ago.
The door into his lab tower creaked open, the head of his new secretary, Linda, popped into a view.
“Uhm, Professor?”
“Yes?”
“There’s a message for you.” She answered shakily.
“I see, bring it here.”
She scurried up to him, that was natural for her, being a Mousefolk and all. She handed him a letter and briefly fidgeted with her whiskers.
“Will that be all, sir?”
“Yes, thank you.”
She nodded and hurriedly scurried out of the room.
He sighed tiredly. Two months she had been working for him. and she was still afraid of him. Professor Eismour was what was called, a Lich. An Awakened Skeletal Undead that possesses the ability to use Magic. He had, at one point, been an Elf. But after an assasination attempt by a jealous young Alchemist who couldn’t handle a bad review Eismour had given in regards to the aforementioned Alchemist's wife’s cooking, after eating at their bar, that had involved not one, but twenty seven homemade firebombs, launched by the once more aforementioned Alchemist, who, along with his wife’s poor cooking, had been blown to smithereens after being blown up whilst trying to launch the twenty eighth one.
Eismour looked down at the letter. It had the red seal of a Crocodile, its mouth gaping open as if to clamp down on some unsuspecting prey. He broke the seal, and read the letter. And then almost instantly wished that what remained of him had been blown up by Veths petty revenge.
Full short story on r/WarlockWritings
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[WP] Wizards are often depicted as being lone, reclusive researchers tinkering with new magics all alone in their towers for decades. However as the scientific process developed so too did the magical process, now wizards work in research teams, all spells are peer reviewed and papers are published
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**"Again!"**
The bellow of his awful voice cut through the palpable fatigue of the crew.
"The madman, he's going to work us to the bone..."
"Before you know it, the latest cost cut is going to be ditching the healers and bring in the necromancers," I muttered to my college, gingerly kneeling down on my raw knees and crushing more beetles to line the spell circle.
"Sir, we've been going at this for 31 days now," a small but defiant voice from the corner, "we both know that any more castings of catnap, and we risk going into mana-"
"Any more complaining, and you'll be off the team," the tyrant snapped, nostrils flaring with anger as the wrinkles on his head formed layers of angry lines, "do I make myself clear?"
Cleary, that last part was meant for the rest of us.
"Or do I need to remind you," the man just couldn't resist lording his position and achievements over us, "that we are on the very frontiers of mathemagics, the bleeding edge of invention. We are sponsored by the Wizards of the East Shoreline, and never in my 70 years of running start-ups have I ever failed to produce results, and I don't intend to start today. Again!"
"Ever think that going down the corporate path would've been easier?" I whispered, "I got friends over there that have been rolling in cash since day one, and they even get hover bean bags. 20 hour work weeks, benefits included, and then there's us..."
"160 hours a week, fuelled by nothing more than mana bars and caffeine," he mumbled back.
"And the promise of being the next Merlin Zhuckerberg, or Gandolf Bayzos," I responded.
Truth be told, it was exciting work. For countless millennia, transmutation was thought impossible. And yet, we actually managed, just a few weeks ago, to convert a few nanograms of lead to gold - classic, I know. All thanks to the lads down by the LHC. Ever since the veils were lifted and magic and science went hand in hand, there was an explosion in magical innovation. We were on the precipice of making history, for if we could work out the right runes and symbols to transmute lead to gold consistently, we would revolutionize economics.
The principles of it were sound, once we converted one form of matter to another, all we had to do was shift the reagents around and viola, we'd be able to turn even the most abundant of matter, like nitrogen gas, into solid diamond of the same mass. The applications were endless, the poss-
"Nikola, are you dreaming again?" I was. Past tense. Whatever dreams I had were shattered by the cruel voice of reality, the voice of Thomas Artificson. The man, for all his technical genius, was terribly poor at anything related to anyone but himself.
"No sir, just making sure the flows are in harmony," I quickly slapped down the small cube of lead into the center and backed off before he could yell some more.
"Alright, Eisen, try 42 this time, see if that works." Alberta Eisen nodded, quickly, adjusting his crystal staff and holding to the light to ensure he had the right value. I simply made myself look interested, snapped my fingers to dim my glasses so no one could see my eyes (not that anyone would be looking my way anyway) and propped myself up on the chair to catch a few minutes shuteye. At this point, Eisen's chanting was practically a lullaby, white noise of the highest quality to sleep to.
Imagine my surprise as hoots and hollers of joy filled the chamber.
"It worked, it worked!"
"I can't believe it, we've actually done it!"
I rubbed my bleary eyes, the distant dreams fading away in a snap as the glittering cube before my eyes launched me to my feet.
"Well of course it worked," Thomas sneered, but even he couldn't hide his giddy excitement, not this time.
He didn't even need to say the word, with renewed energy, we all rushed to our posts and reset the experiment. We finally had it, and we were going to prove it was consistent.
The experiment was a success. Twice. Then we tried iron. Same result. Then we tried to convert to silver. Perfection.
That night, we partied like we hadn't just gone 31 days without sleeping for more than 2 hours at any given moment. We gorged ourselves on food, only to magic more space for our insatiable bellies. We were kings, innovators, saviors, gods.
Gosh, there are no words to describe how on top of the world we felt. And it wasn't just the lack of sleep.
But as science has taught, and magic was yet to defy, what goes up must come down.
The very next morning, our team had the rudest awakening possible. Before our very eyes, on all the news websites and TV stations, cable, satellite, mana band, you name it, was our discovery. Our discovery. Not his. Not that thieving bastard, stealing the credit and standing before a crowd of reporters touting his own genius and naming himself the sole discoverer. He even had the gall to claim:
"Like the wizards of old, the best magics are discovered alone. Sometimes, true genius cannot be comprehended by others, and must instead be shown to them. I do not downplay the work of my fellow man, the modern wizard, but one simply cannot beat the solitude and record of time tested tradition."
I flashed a message to the rest of the team, and the response was unanimous. We'd all had to suffer beneath the corporate heel pressed down on us before, all had to deal with having our work copied or stolen at one point or another. But this was too much. This was the last straw.
This. Meant. War.
***
For more of my writing, please check out /r/ThomasWrites
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The sign at the entrance read aloud, "No unauthorized magic beyond this point."
Senior Magic Researcher Gerry Gohnson hurried down the busy corridor with his hands struggling to hold the tower of paper leaning obnoxiously in his hands. The Research Institute for Magical Advancement and Development bulged with the amount of wizards who arrived by teleportation for the conference on "Underfunded Projects that Could Change the World".
The stack of handouts, meant to summarize his upcoming presentation in broad-stroked bullet points, mocked Gerry loudly, "We told you that you'd be late."
"Me?" Gerry shouted flabbergasted to the stack of papers as he ran past a group of young witches who looked at him judgingly. "You buggers wouldn't stop dry humping the printing press!"
"Yeah, but you're the one who created us, prick."
Gerry didn't have a retort for that one. The swirling blue lights bursting from his wand late last night was supposed to have made the pages a bit more adamant in their insistence on being read by their holder. It mostly worked, but he didn't expect them to be so flippant.
"You missed your turn." One of the pages retorted after Gerry sped past a hallway on his right.
"Oh damn." Gerry deftly avoided tripping on his long black cloak as he made a half rotation pivot, sprinted down the short hallway and emerged at the back of the auditorium. It was bigger on the inside.
The millions of hands erupted into applause, as Mr. Gohnson composed himself and walked elegantly down the walkway aisle. With a short wave of his wand, his cohort of papers folded themselves into neat airplanes and flew about the red-velvet laced auditorium, landing in the hands of his audience.
Another flick of the wrist and a set of wooden steps appeared, before shortly disappearing behind Mr. Gohnson as he took the center stage. "Ladies and Gentleman, I will not ask for your forgiveness, because I assure you this lecture will be well worth the wait. For too long, we have banned the use of magics on food, because the effects of a spell going bad would risk horrible death. But today I am proud to announce that after years of research, we have made a breakthrough."
The audience collectively leaned forward in their seats.
"We now have, for your use at home today, a spell that will grow and cook food instantly from a tiny seed with absolutely no side effects!" Mr. Gohnson reached into the small cotton pocket on the front of his robes and pulled out a tiny, yellow kernel, holding it up for all to see. "Behold!" Waving his wand he shouted, "Guyus Fierius!"
As the small seed grew rapidly into pepper-covered, buttered, steamed corn, the audience exploded in standing ovation.
Blushing slightly with a smug grin, "Now, now. Please settled down. I still have to go over the finer details."
The audience shuffled awkwardly back into their seats. In the ensuing silence, one of Gerry's pamphlets echoed across the auditorium, "See, I told you he wasn't *completely* mental."
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[WP] Wizards are often depicted as being lone, reclusive researchers tinkering with new magics all alone in their towers for decades. However as the scientific process developed so too did the magical process, now wizards work in research teams, all spells are peer reviewed and papers are published
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“What are you doing?”
“Just trying to get a quick transfiguration on this lens. Need it to refocus a laser and figure out the exact mechanism of a potential fourth-order transmutation,” I muttered. “Now be quiet. I need to concentrate.”
Jamal peered over my shoulder. “Are you using an aluminum to silicon dioxide transfiguration? That’s *so* inefficient.”
“It’s what we have laying around, Jamal. I don’t have time to get something more pure. If I did, I would just order a custom part.”
“Did you at least polish it first?”
I rolled my eyes. “Yes, I polished the lens. I’ve been working with this lab for three years now.”
He snorted. “Yeah, and you still haven’t started your dissertation.”
“Some of us like to feel passion for the projects we choose to work on,” I said, my face growing red. “Now can you please leave me alone?”
“Just trying to offer some helpful tips,” he sniffed. He fell silent but continued hovering over my shoulder.
*Okay… Just need to relax, perform the spell, and-*
“Did you use a pure polish or are you taking into account the surface impurities?”
“Jesus Christ, Jamal, I know what I’m doing!” I yelled.
“I’m just saying. If you’re doing a direct transmutation and it’s that inefficient, you’re going to have some awfully big surface imperfections. Not great for a lens.”
“It doesn’t have to be *great*,” I said through gritted teeth, “it just has to be fast. That’s why *I’m* I’m doing it instead of someone from Dr. Lee’s group.”
“Are you still beefing with him? You should have known better than to correct Lee at the last Christmas party. He *is* a professor, after all.”
“*Associate* professor,” I replied. “Now will you *please* let me get to work?”
*Okay. Relax, calm-*
“I just don’t know if transmutated crystal of that quality will refract light accurately enough,” Jamal said conversationally. “Have you done any tests?”
“Jamal, what transmutation *hasn’t* been tested to death and back?” I asked, irritated. “I mean, have you even looked at a transmutation table recently?”
“Yeah, and silicon dioxide isn’t exactly a common one.”
“Not in student textbooks, sure, but there are plenty of papers on it.”
“By who?”
“Whom,” I corrected absentmindedly. “There’s one by Dr. Edgar Walker of Oxford fame.”
“Oxford has a magic department?”
“Everyone has a magic department. Oxford may be old fashioned but they’re usually on top of things.”
“So Dr. Walker wrote a paper on ‘aluminium to silicon dioxide transmutation?’”
“Well-” I hesitated. “Not exactly. But he does have efficiency and NT values and other factors for transmutations from aluminum to non-metals and metalloids.”
“So the answer is ‘no’,” Jamal said with a hint of smugness in his voice.
“So the answer is ‘kind of’,” I replied, irritated. “We’ve got the NT values and the chemical composition, so-”
“You’re using the Khlebnikov equation? That’s an *approximation*. Not even a little accurate.”
“It’s *extremely* accurate, given that we’re only dealing with simple molecules,” I argued. “It’ll give you the right answer within one percent of the actual value.”
“Whatever you say,” Jamal said with a condescending chuckle. “If 99% is good enough for you, then whatever.”
“It doesn’t matter how good it is because I’m using the Dabrowski method.”
That scored a hit. “Oh, the Dabrowski method?”
“Of course. Ever heard of it? But of course you should have by now, given that you’ve started your *dissertation* and all,” I said, my voice dripping with sarcasm.
“Well, I’m so deep into my research it’s possible I’ve forgotten some more… elementary methods,” Jamal said hastily. “It’s hard work, you know.”
“Oh, I’m sure, I’m sure. Still, one would think that a magician of your prowess would at least be able to do an unassisted Dabrowski analysis. It *is* the most effective form of determining the efficacy of a transmutation, after all.”
Jamal glared at me. “Maybe my transmutations are so good I don’t need a Dabrowski analysis. Besides, what does that have to do with the Dabrowski method? I thought those were two different ‘Dabrowski’s.”
“They are,” I conceded. “But *Edmund* Dabrowski found *Daniel* Dabrowski’s research when he was Googling his own last name and was fascinated by the research. He earned his Ph.D. expanding on the possibilities and potential of a Dabrowski analysis in transmutation, thus the Dabrowski method. Edmund’s advanced Dabrowski analysis helps you identify the most common impurities by percentage and then perform a secondary transmutation on them, increasing transmutation purity by up to .5% in a single spell.”
“It’s still inefficient,” Jamal mumbled.
“Yes, well, some of us are willing to take inefficiency in the name of advancing science, and others of us joined the university because they wanted to make fireballs,” I said.
Jamal pouted. “Hey, that’s not fair. I had to give a cute childhood anecdote as part of my acceptance speech to show how far I’d come to get that scholarship.”
“Uh-huh. Whatever. Now will you please, for the love of all that is good and holy, leave me alone before I start probing your mind for your deepest and darkest secrets? I may not be the best telepath, but I was pretty good back in sophomore year.”
Jamal started to sulk away, so I returned to my work.
*Fucking guy. Okay. Aluminum. Silicon dioxide. Simple transmutation. Source object is nearly perfectly pure, well polished, exact right shape. Focus… and-*
“Wouldn’t the transmutation be more effective if you perform it in the cleanroom?”
“LEAVE ME [ALONE](https://reddit.com/r/Badderlocks)!”
***
 
Part of my universe on magic at a modern university which began with [this piece](https://www.reddit.com/r/Badderlocks/comments/gaeat0/a_class_about_the_mechanics_of_magic_set_in/) over three years ago.
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The sign at the entrance read aloud, "No unauthorized magic beyond this point."
Senior Magic Researcher Gerry Gohnson hurried down the busy corridor with his hands struggling to hold the tower of paper leaning obnoxiously in his hands. The Research Institute for Magical Advancement and Development bulged with the amount of wizards who arrived by teleportation for the conference on "Underfunded Projects that Could Change the World".
The stack of handouts, meant to summarize his upcoming presentation in broad-stroked bullet points, mocked Gerry loudly, "We told you that you'd be late."
"Me?" Gerry shouted flabbergasted to the stack of papers as he ran past a group of young witches who looked at him judgingly. "You buggers wouldn't stop dry humping the printing press!"
"Yeah, but you're the one who created us, prick."
Gerry didn't have a retort for that one. The swirling blue lights bursting from his wand late last night was supposed to have made the pages a bit more adamant in their insistence on being read by their holder. It mostly worked, but he didn't expect them to be so flippant.
"You missed your turn." One of the pages retorted after Gerry sped past a hallway on his right.
"Oh damn." Gerry deftly avoided tripping on his long black cloak as he made a half rotation pivot, sprinted down the short hallway and emerged at the back of the auditorium. It was bigger on the inside.
The millions of hands erupted into applause, as Mr. Gohnson composed himself and walked elegantly down the walkway aisle. With a short wave of his wand, his cohort of papers folded themselves into neat airplanes and flew about the red-velvet laced auditorium, landing in the hands of his audience.
Another flick of the wrist and a set of wooden steps appeared, before shortly disappearing behind Mr. Gohnson as he took the center stage. "Ladies and Gentleman, I will not ask for your forgiveness, because I assure you this lecture will be well worth the wait. For too long, we have banned the use of magics on food, because the effects of a spell going bad would risk horrible death. But today I am proud to announce that after years of research, we have made a breakthrough."
The audience collectively leaned forward in their seats.
"We now have, for your use at home today, a spell that will grow and cook food instantly from a tiny seed with absolutely no side effects!" Mr. Gohnson reached into the small cotton pocket on the front of his robes and pulled out a tiny, yellow kernel, holding it up for all to see. "Behold!" Waving his wand he shouted, "Guyus Fierius!"
As the small seed grew rapidly into pepper-covered, buttered, steamed corn, the audience exploded in standing ovation.
Blushing slightly with a smug grin, "Now, now. Please settled down. I still have to go over the finer details."
The audience shuffled awkwardly back into their seats. In the ensuing silence, one of Gerry's pamphlets echoed across the auditorium, "See, I told you he wasn't *completely* mental."
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[WP] Wizards are often depicted as being lone, reclusive researchers tinkering with new magics all alone in their towers for decades. However as the scientific process developed so too did the magical process, now wizards work in research teams, all spells are peer reviewed and papers are published
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**Archibald the Prismatic** awoke from his four-hundred-year stone trance to find that the world had changed.
One moment, he had been whipping lightning across the sky, casting thunder upon the Basilisk…
...and the next, he found himself in standing in the center of his old Campus. Only, it had changed.
*A lot.*
He coughed up a lungful of dust. His joints cracked like hammers on bedrock.
To an outside observer, it appeared that the centerpiece statue of the College of Wizardry, which had been a fixture of the campus since it’s earliest days... had just come to life.
Archibald the Prismatic *was back.*
But the students who had just witnessed Archibald’s grand re-awakening merely shook their heads and went about their business.
Someone said, “Great. Another one?”
“Dibs, not it.” another student said, and the young men and women began to scatter, leaving books in their wake.
“You, sir!” Archibald pointed a finger at one student, a young lad with short, curly hair who had been too slow to run.
“I’m not a sir, *Sir*.” Her tone could cut through stone.
“Ah,” Archibald bowed, flakes of stun falling from his majestic beard, “My sincerest apologies. Tell me, where is the Grand Magus? I must speak with him immediately!”
“She.”
“What?”
“The Grand Magus is a woman.”
At that exact moment, a large piece of gravel dislodged from Archibald’s rock-bound throat and choked him, thus preventing him from saying the shameful words that first leaped to his mind.
The curly-haired woman looked around. All the other students were gone. She sighed.
“I’m Lou,” the woman said, holding out her hand. “Grand Magus Marianne says we should respect the elderly. So I guess I’ll help you find her.”
*The elderly!* Archibald was scandalized. But... his back was still a little stiff. And the joints in his knees had turned to some kind of limestone. So he took her hand, and together they walked down the central avenue of the Campus.
Towers loomed above, each one a majestic pinnacle to worship the stars. Their peaks were topped with miraculous spinning orbs and great crescent blades that tracked the orbits of the celestial bodies.
Back when Archibald had first come here, the College of Wizardry had been a ramshackle of wooden huts. And even then, it got burned down once or twice a week. To see what it had become now, truly the magic here must be *incredible*.
“Tell me, Lass.”
“My name is Lou.”
“Tell me, Lou. Your Grand Magus must be a very powerful sorcerer-”
“Sorceress.”
“-to have attained her level at the College. What all-powerful spell did she create to destroy the previous Grand Magus? Did she finally unlock the secrets of Alabazan’s Ever-consuming Hellfire? Or Squibbleworth’s Cantrip of Decay?”
“No. It was physics.”
“Physics? Ah, you must mean the Mighty Foot of Bargus!”
Lou stopped walking. Her face was scrunched in disbelief. “No. *Physics*. Like, all of it. The Grand Magus literally invented Magical Calculus.”
“Magical… what?”
“Forces and velocities and weights and gravity. It’s what all of us have come here to study. I’m writing a paper on Quantification Theory.”
*Quantification Theory?* Archibald thought. What boring drivel was that.
They passed by dozens of students, sitting on benches or cross-legged in the grass. All of them, pouring through textbooks. But instead of magical gesturing and eruptions of fire (and the occasional misfire), these students were … taking notes?
Archibald could feel it then. The blood-turned-sand in his veins began to liquefy once more. He was mad.
“What happened here!” he demanded. “When I was a young wizard, we were learning to conjure great gouts of flame! We held the passion of magic in our fingertips! I had mastery over the elements, do you hear? Ultimate mastery!”
“That’s not how I heard it.”
“Look at you now. Studying," he spat. "And writing papers.”
“Spells need careful tweaking and calculation. Last week, Professor Gundervild changed the amplitude of-”
“Magic is power incarnate, it is not meant to be tweaked! Magic is meant to be channeled, unbound, with every furious fiber of your being! *Tweaking.* Hah!”
"Our knowledge of magic has grown significantly since then," Lou said. "Calculations are much more important than brute passion."
*More important than passion?* Now, the blood was *really* pumping in Archibald’s veins. He spread his fingers wide, letting the heat of magic pass from his heart and into his hands. His fingers began to glow white-hot.
“Tell me, young mage, have you never seen what the Demon Eye of Kalesh can do to a man? Have you never made a pact with Unspeakable Czonthlzhrsh?”
The flames leaped from his fingers, becoming jets of fire that blackened his beard and made the earth at his feet crack. A deep, guttural chanting that came from everywhere and nowhere swelled as Archibald began to shout.
“HAVE YOU NEVER FELT THE RAW POWER OF THE PRIMAL FLAME OF ORNACH?”
Lou snapped her fingers. The flame on Archibald’s fingers went out. And suddenly, he couldn't breathe.
“Please don’t do that,” Lou said, “Uncontrolled flames are against campus policy.”
“How?” he gasped, “How did you do that?”
“I told you. It's called *Physics*.”
|
The sign at the entrance read aloud, "No unauthorized magic beyond this point."
Senior Magic Researcher Gerry Gohnson hurried down the busy corridor with his hands struggling to hold the tower of paper leaning obnoxiously in his hands. The Research Institute for Magical Advancement and Development bulged with the amount of wizards who arrived by teleportation for the conference on "Underfunded Projects that Could Change the World".
The stack of handouts, meant to summarize his upcoming presentation in broad-stroked bullet points, mocked Gerry loudly, "We told you that you'd be late."
"Me?" Gerry shouted flabbergasted to the stack of papers as he ran past a group of young witches who looked at him judgingly. "You buggers wouldn't stop dry humping the printing press!"
"Yeah, but you're the one who created us, prick."
Gerry didn't have a retort for that one. The swirling blue lights bursting from his wand late last night was supposed to have made the pages a bit more adamant in their insistence on being read by their holder. It mostly worked, but he didn't expect them to be so flippant.
"You missed your turn." One of the pages retorted after Gerry sped past a hallway on his right.
"Oh damn." Gerry deftly avoided tripping on his long black cloak as he made a half rotation pivot, sprinted down the short hallway and emerged at the back of the auditorium. It was bigger on the inside.
The millions of hands erupted into applause, as Mr. Gohnson composed himself and walked elegantly down the walkway aisle. With a short wave of his wand, his cohort of papers folded themselves into neat airplanes and flew about the red-velvet laced auditorium, landing in the hands of his audience.
Another flick of the wrist and a set of wooden steps appeared, before shortly disappearing behind Mr. Gohnson as he took the center stage. "Ladies and Gentleman, I will not ask for your forgiveness, because I assure you this lecture will be well worth the wait. For too long, we have banned the use of magics on food, because the effects of a spell going bad would risk horrible death. But today I am proud to announce that after years of research, we have made a breakthrough."
The audience collectively leaned forward in their seats.
"We now have, for your use at home today, a spell that will grow and cook food instantly from a tiny seed with absolutely no side effects!" Mr. Gohnson reached into the small cotton pocket on the front of his robes and pulled out a tiny, yellow kernel, holding it up for all to see. "Behold!" Waving his wand he shouted, "Guyus Fierius!"
As the small seed grew rapidly into pepper-covered, buttered, steamed corn, the audience exploded in standing ovation.
Blushing slightly with a smug grin, "Now, now. Please settled down. I still have to go over the finer details."
The audience shuffled awkwardly back into their seats. In the ensuing silence, one of Gerry's pamphlets echoed across the auditorium, "See, I told you he wasn't *completely* mental."
|
|
[WP] Wizards are often depicted as being lone, reclusive researchers tinkering with new magics all alone in their towers for decades. However as the scientific process developed so too did the magical process, now wizards work in research teams, all spells are peer reviewed and papers are published
|
**Archibald the Prismatic** awoke from his four-hundred-year stone trance to find that the world had changed.
One moment, he had been whipping lightning across the sky, casting thunder upon the Basilisk…
...and the next, he found himself in standing in the center of his old Campus. Only, it had changed.
*A lot.*
He coughed up a lungful of dust. His joints cracked like hammers on bedrock.
To an outside observer, it appeared that the centerpiece statue of the College of Wizardry, which had been a fixture of the campus since it’s earliest days... had just come to life.
Archibald the Prismatic *was back.*
But the students who had just witnessed Archibald’s grand re-awakening merely shook their heads and went about their business.
Someone said, “Great. Another one?”
“Dibs, not it.” another student said, and the young men and women began to scatter, leaving books in their wake.
“You, sir!” Archibald pointed a finger at one student, a young lad with short, curly hair who had been too slow to run.
“I’m not a sir, *Sir*.” Her tone could cut through stone.
“Ah,” Archibald bowed, flakes of stun falling from his majestic beard, “My sincerest apologies. Tell me, where is the Grand Magus? I must speak with him immediately!”
“She.”
“What?”
“The Grand Magus is a woman.”
At that exact moment, a large piece of gravel dislodged from Archibald’s rock-bound throat and choked him, thus preventing him from saying the shameful words that first leaped to his mind.
The curly-haired woman looked around. All the other students were gone. She sighed.
“I’m Lou,” the woman said, holding out her hand. “Grand Magus Marianne says we should respect the elderly. So I guess I’ll help you find her.”
*The elderly!* Archibald was scandalized. But... his back was still a little stiff. And the joints in his knees had turned to some kind of limestone. So he took her hand, and together they walked down the central avenue of the Campus.
Towers loomed above, each one a majestic pinnacle to worship the stars. Their peaks were topped with miraculous spinning orbs and great crescent blades that tracked the orbits of the celestial bodies.
Back when Archibald had first come here, the College of Wizardry had been a ramshackle of wooden huts. And even then, it got burned down once or twice a week. To see what it had become now, truly the magic here must be *incredible*.
“Tell me, Lass.”
“My name is Lou.”
“Tell me, Lou. Your Grand Magus must be a very powerful sorcerer-”
“Sorceress.”
“-to have attained her level at the College. What all-powerful spell did she create to destroy the previous Grand Magus? Did she finally unlock the secrets of Alabazan’s Ever-consuming Hellfire? Or Squibbleworth’s Cantrip of Decay?”
“No. It was physics.”
“Physics? Ah, you must mean the Mighty Foot of Bargus!”
Lou stopped walking. Her face was scrunched in disbelief. “No. *Physics*. Like, all of it. The Grand Magus literally invented Magical Calculus.”
“Magical… what?”
“Forces and velocities and weights and gravity. It’s what all of us have come here to study. I’m writing a paper on Quantification Theory.”
*Quantification Theory?* Archibald thought. What boring drivel was that.
They passed by dozens of students, sitting on benches or cross-legged in the grass. All of them, pouring through textbooks. But instead of magical gesturing and eruptions of fire (and the occasional misfire), these students were … taking notes?
Archibald could feel it then. The blood-turned-sand in his veins began to liquefy once more. He was mad.
“What happened here!” he demanded. “When I was a young wizard, we were learning to conjure great gouts of flame! We held the passion of magic in our fingertips! I had mastery over the elements, do you hear? Ultimate mastery!”
“That’s not how I heard it.”
“Look at you now. Studying," he spat. "And writing papers.”
“Spells need careful tweaking and calculation. Last week, Professor Gundervild changed the amplitude of-”
“Magic is power incarnate, it is not meant to be tweaked! Magic is meant to be channeled, unbound, with every furious fiber of your being! *Tweaking.* Hah!”
"Our knowledge of magic has grown significantly since then," Lou said. "Calculations are much more important than brute passion."
*More important than passion?* Now, the blood was *really* pumping in Archibald’s veins. He spread his fingers wide, letting the heat of magic pass from his heart and into his hands. His fingers began to glow white-hot.
“Tell me, young mage, have you never seen what the Demon Eye of Kalesh can do to a man? Have you never made a pact with Unspeakable Czonthlzhrsh?”
The flames leaped from his fingers, becoming jets of fire that blackened his beard and made the earth at his feet crack. A deep, guttural chanting that came from everywhere and nowhere swelled as Archibald began to shout.
“HAVE YOU NEVER FELT THE RAW POWER OF THE PRIMAL FLAME OF ORNACH?”
Lou snapped her fingers. The flame on Archibald’s fingers went out. And suddenly, he couldn't breathe.
“Please don’t do that,” Lou said, “Uncontrolled flames are against campus policy.”
“How?” he gasped, “How did you do that?”
“I told you. It's called *Physics*.”
|
**"Again!"**
The bellow of his awful voice cut through the palpable fatigue of the crew.
"The madman, he's going to work us to the bone..."
"Before you know it, the latest cost cut is going to be ditching the healers and bring in the necromancers," I muttered to my college, gingerly kneeling down on my raw knees and crushing more beetles to line the spell circle.
"Sir, we've been going at this for 31 days now," a small but defiant voice from the corner, "we both know that any more castings of catnap, and we risk going into mana-"
"Any more complaining, and you'll be off the team," the tyrant snapped, nostrils flaring with anger as the wrinkles on his head formed layers of angry lines, "do I make myself clear?"
Cleary, that last part was meant for the rest of us.
"Or do I need to remind you," the man just couldn't resist lording his position and achievements over us, "that we are on the very frontiers of mathemagics, the bleeding edge of invention. We are sponsored by the Wizards of the East Shoreline, and never in my 70 years of running start-ups have I ever failed to produce results, and I don't intend to start today. Again!"
"Ever think that going down the corporate path would've been easier?" I whispered, "I got friends over there that have been rolling in cash since day one, and they even get hover bean bags. 20 hour work weeks, benefits included, and then there's us..."
"160 hours a week, fuelled by nothing more than mana bars and caffeine," he mumbled back.
"And the promise of being the next Merlin Zhuckerberg, or Gandolf Bayzos," I responded.
Truth be told, it was exciting work. For countless millennia, transmutation was thought impossible. And yet, we actually managed, just a few weeks ago, to convert a few nanograms of lead to gold - classic, I know. All thanks to the lads down by the LHC. Ever since the veils were lifted and magic and science went hand in hand, there was an explosion in magical innovation. We were on the precipice of making history, for if we could work out the right runes and symbols to transmute lead to gold consistently, we would revolutionize economics.
The principles of it were sound, once we converted one form of matter to another, all we had to do was shift the reagents around and viola, we'd be able to turn even the most abundant of matter, like nitrogen gas, into solid diamond of the same mass. The applications were endless, the poss-
"Nikola, are you dreaming again?" I was. Past tense. Whatever dreams I had were shattered by the cruel voice of reality, the voice of Thomas Artificson. The man, for all his technical genius, was terribly poor at anything related to anyone but himself.
"No sir, just making sure the flows are in harmony," I quickly slapped down the small cube of lead into the center and backed off before he could yell some more.
"Alright, Eisen, try 42 this time, see if that works." Alberta Eisen nodded, quickly, adjusting his crystal staff and holding to the light to ensure he had the right value. I simply made myself look interested, snapped my fingers to dim my glasses so no one could see my eyes (not that anyone would be looking my way anyway) and propped myself up on the chair to catch a few minutes shuteye. At this point, Eisen's chanting was practically a lullaby, white noise of the highest quality to sleep to.
Imagine my surprise as hoots and hollers of joy filled the chamber.
"It worked, it worked!"
"I can't believe it, we've actually done it!"
I rubbed my bleary eyes, the distant dreams fading away in a snap as the glittering cube before my eyes launched me to my feet.
"Well of course it worked," Thomas sneered, but even he couldn't hide his giddy excitement, not this time.
He didn't even need to say the word, with renewed energy, we all rushed to our posts and reset the experiment. We finally had it, and we were going to prove it was consistent.
The experiment was a success. Twice. Then we tried iron. Same result. Then we tried to convert to silver. Perfection.
That night, we partied like we hadn't just gone 31 days without sleeping for more than 2 hours at any given moment. We gorged ourselves on food, only to magic more space for our insatiable bellies. We were kings, innovators, saviors, gods.
Gosh, there are no words to describe how on top of the world we felt. And it wasn't just the lack of sleep.
But as science has taught, and magic was yet to defy, what goes up must come down.
The very next morning, our team had the rudest awakening possible. Before our very eyes, on all the news websites and TV stations, cable, satellite, mana band, you name it, was our discovery. Our discovery. Not his. Not that thieving bastard, stealing the credit and standing before a crowd of reporters touting his own genius and naming himself the sole discoverer. He even had the gall to claim:
"Like the wizards of old, the best magics are discovered alone. Sometimes, true genius cannot be comprehended by others, and must instead be shown to them. I do not downplay the work of my fellow man, the modern wizard, but one simply cannot beat the solitude and record of time tested tradition."
I flashed a message to the rest of the team, and the response was unanimous. We'd all had to suffer beneath the corporate heel pressed down on us before, all had to deal with having our work copied or stolen at one point or another. But this was too much. This was the last straw.
This. Meant. War.
***
For more of my writing, please check out /r/ThomasWrites
|
|
[WP] Wizards are often depicted as being lone, reclusive researchers tinkering with new magics all alone in their towers for decades. However as the scientific process developed so too did the magical process, now wizards work in research teams, all spells are peer reviewed and papers are published
|
**Archibald the Prismatic** awoke from his four-hundred-year stone trance to find that the world had changed.
One moment, he had been whipping lightning across the sky, casting thunder upon the Basilisk…
...and the next, he found himself in standing in the center of his old Campus. Only, it had changed.
*A lot.*
He coughed up a lungful of dust. His joints cracked like hammers on bedrock.
To an outside observer, it appeared that the centerpiece statue of the College of Wizardry, which had been a fixture of the campus since it’s earliest days... had just come to life.
Archibald the Prismatic *was back.*
But the students who had just witnessed Archibald’s grand re-awakening merely shook their heads and went about their business.
Someone said, “Great. Another one?”
“Dibs, not it.” another student said, and the young men and women began to scatter, leaving books in their wake.
“You, sir!” Archibald pointed a finger at one student, a young lad with short, curly hair who had been too slow to run.
“I’m not a sir, *Sir*.” Her tone could cut through stone.
“Ah,” Archibald bowed, flakes of stun falling from his majestic beard, “My sincerest apologies. Tell me, where is the Grand Magus? I must speak with him immediately!”
“She.”
“What?”
“The Grand Magus is a woman.”
At that exact moment, a large piece of gravel dislodged from Archibald’s rock-bound throat and choked him, thus preventing him from saying the shameful words that first leaped to his mind.
The curly-haired woman looked around. All the other students were gone. She sighed.
“I’m Lou,” the woman said, holding out her hand. “Grand Magus Marianne says we should respect the elderly. So I guess I’ll help you find her.”
*The elderly!* Archibald was scandalized. But... his back was still a little stiff. And the joints in his knees had turned to some kind of limestone. So he took her hand, and together they walked down the central avenue of the Campus.
Towers loomed above, each one a majestic pinnacle to worship the stars. Their peaks were topped with miraculous spinning orbs and great crescent blades that tracked the orbits of the celestial bodies.
Back when Archibald had first come here, the College of Wizardry had been a ramshackle of wooden huts. And even then, it got burned down once or twice a week. To see what it had become now, truly the magic here must be *incredible*.
“Tell me, Lass.”
“My name is Lou.”
“Tell me, Lou. Your Grand Magus must be a very powerful sorcerer-”
“Sorceress.”
“-to have attained her level at the College. What all-powerful spell did she create to destroy the previous Grand Magus? Did she finally unlock the secrets of Alabazan’s Ever-consuming Hellfire? Or Squibbleworth’s Cantrip of Decay?”
“No. It was physics.”
“Physics? Ah, you must mean the Mighty Foot of Bargus!”
Lou stopped walking. Her face was scrunched in disbelief. “No. *Physics*. Like, all of it. The Grand Magus literally invented Magical Calculus.”
“Magical… what?”
“Forces and velocities and weights and gravity. It’s what all of us have come here to study. I’m writing a paper on Quantification Theory.”
*Quantification Theory?* Archibald thought. What boring drivel was that.
They passed by dozens of students, sitting on benches or cross-legged in the grass. All of them, pouring through textbooks. But instead of magical gesturing and eruptions of fire (and the occasional misfire), these students were … taking notes?
Archibald could feel it then. The blood-turned-sand in his veins began to liquefy once more. He was mad.
“What happened here!” he demanded. “When I was a young wizard, we were learning to conjure great gouts of flame! We held the passion of magic in our fingertips! I had mastery over the elements, do you hear? Ultimate mastery!”
“That’s not how I heard it.”
“Look at you now. Studying," he spat. "And writing papers.”
“Spells need careful tweaking and calculation. Last week, Professor Gundervild changed the amplitude of-”
“Magic is power incarnate, it is not meant to be tweaked! Magic is meant to be channeled, unbound, with every furious fiber of your being! *Tweaking.* Hah!”
"Our knowledge of magic has grown significantly since then," Lou said. "Calculations are much more important than brute passion."
*More important than passion?* Now, the blood was *really* pumping in Archibald’s veins. He spread his fingers wide, letting the heat of magic pass from his heart and into his hands. His fingers began to glow white-hot.
“Tell me, young mage, have you never seen what the Demon Eye of Kalesh can do to a man? Have you never made a pact with Unspeakable Czonthlzhrsh?”
The flames leaped from his fingers, becoming jets of fire that blackened his beard and made the earth at his feet crack. A deep, guttural chanting that came from everywhere and nowhere swelled as Archibald began to shout.
“HAVE YOU NEVER FELT THE RAW POWER OF THE PRIMAL FLAME OF ORNACH?”
Lou snapped her fingers. The flame on Archibald’s fingers went out. And suddenly, he couldn't breathe.
“Please don’t do that,” Lou said, “Uncontrolled flames are against campus policy.”
“How?” he gasped, “How did you do that?”
“I told you. It's called *Physics*.”
|
“What are you doing?”
“Just trying to get a quick transfiguration on this lens. Need it to refocus a laser and figure out the exact mechanism of a potential fourth-order transmutation,” I muttered. “Now be quiet. I need to concentrate.”
Jamal peered over my shoulder. “Are you using an aluminum to silicon dioxide transfiguration? That’s *so* inefficient.”
“It’s what we have laying around, Jamal. I don’t have time to get something more pure. If I did, I would just order a custom part.”
“Did you at least polish it first?”
I rolled my eyes. “Yes, I polished the lens. I’ve been working with this lab for three years now.”
He snorted. “Yeah, and you still haven’t started your dissertation.”
“Some of us like to feel passion for the projects we choose to work on,” I said, my face growing red. “Now can you please leave me alone?”
“Just trying to offer some helpful tips,” he sniffed. He fell silent but continued hovering over my shoulder.
*Okay… Just need to relax, perform the spell, and-*
“Did you use a pure polish or are you taking into account the surface impurities?”
“Jesus Christ, Jamal, I know what I’m doing!” I yelled.
“I’m just saying. If you’re doing a direct transmutation and it’s that inefficient, you’re going to have some awfully big surface imperfections. Not great for a lens.”
“It doesn’t have to be *great*,” I said through gritted teeth, “it just has to be fast. That’s why *I’m* I’m doing it instead of someone from Dr. Lee’s group.”
“Are you still beefing with him? You should have known better than to correct Lee at the last Christmas party. He *is* a professor, after all.”
“*Associate* professor,” I replied. “Now will you *please* let me get to work?”
*Okay. Relax, calm-*
“I just don’t know if transmutated crystal of that quality will refract light accurately enough,” Jamal said conversationally. “Have you done any tests?”
“Jamal, what transmutation *hasn’t* been tested to death and back?” I asked, irritated. “I mean, have you even looked at a transmutation table recently?”
“Yeah, and silicon dioxide isn’t exactly a common one.”
“Not in student textbooks, sure, but there are plenty of papers on it.”
“By who?”
“Whom,” I corrected absentmindedly. “There’s one by Dr. Edgar Walker of Oxford fame.”
“Oxford has a magic department?”
“Everyone has a magic department. Oxford may be old fashioned but they’re usually on top of things.”
“So Dr. Walker wrote a paper on ‘aluminium to silicon dioxide transmutation?’”
“Well-” I hesitated. “Not exactly. But he does have efficiency and NT values and other factors for transmutations from aluminum to non-metals and metalloids.”
“So the answer is ‘no’,” Jamal said with a hint of smugness in his voice.
“So the answer is ‘kind of’,” I replied, irritated. “We’ve got the NT values and the chemical composition, so-”
“You’re using the Khlebnikov equation? That’s an *approximation*. Not even a little accurate.”
“It’s *extremely* accurate, given that we’re only dealing with simple molecules,” I argued. “It’ll give you the right answer within one percent of the actual value.”
“Whatever you say,” Jamal said with a condescending chuckle. “If 99% is good enough for you, then whatever.”
“It doesn’t matter how good it is because I’m using the Dabrowski method.”
That scored a hit. “Oh, the Dabrowski method?”
“Of course. Ever heard of it? But of course you should have by now, given that you’ve started your *dissertation* and all,” I said, my voice dripping with sarcasm.
“Well, I’m so deep into my research it’s possible I’ve forgotten some more… elementary methods,” Jamal said hastily. “It’s hard work, you know.”
“Oh, I’m sure, I’m sure. Still, one would think that a magician of your prowess would at least be able to do an unassisted Dabrowski analysis. It *is* the most effective form of determining the efficacy of a transmutation, after all.”
Jamal glared at me. “Maybe my transmutations are so good I don’t need a Dabrowski analysis. Besides, what does that have to do with the Dabrowski method? I thought those were two different ‘Dabrowski’s.”
“They are,” I conceded. “But *Edmund* Dabrowski found *Daniel* Dabrowski’s research when he was Googling his own last name and was fascinated by the research. He earned his Ph.D. expanding on the possibilities and potential of a Dabrowski analysis in transmutation, thus the Dabrowski method. Edmund’s advanced Dabrowski analysis helps you identify the most common impurities by percentage and then perform a secondary transmutation on them, increasing transmutation purity by up to .5% in a single spell.”
“It’s still inefficient,” Jamal mumbled.
“Yes, well, some of us are willing to take inefficiency in the name of advancing science, and others of us joined the university because they wanted to make fireballs,” I said.
Jamal pouted. “Hey, that’s not fair. I had to give a cute childhood anecdote as part of my acceptance speech to show how far I’d come to get that scholarship.”
“Uh-huh. Whatever. Now will you please, for the love of all that is good and holy, leave me alone before I start probing your mind for your deepest and darkest secrets? I may not be the best telepath, but I was pretty good back in sophomore year.”
Jamal started to sulk away, so I returned to my work.
*Fucking guy. Okay. Aluminum. Silicon dioxide. Simple transmutation. Source object is nearly perfectly pure, well polished, exact right shape. Focus… and-*
“Wouldn’t the transmutation be more effective if you perform it in the cleanroom?”
“LEAVE ME [ALONE](https://reddit.com/r/Badderlocks)!”
***
 
Part of my universe on magic at a modern university which began with [this piece](https://www.reddit.com/r/Badderlocks/comments/gaeat0/a_class_about_the_mechanics_of_magic_set_in/) over three years ago.
|
|
[WP] People have been singing 'Rain Rain Go Away' for years, but one day by chance you sing it correctly, and it does go away. It does not return.
|
I checked the kitchen.
I checked the basement.
All of the bathrooms, the living room, my sister's room.
The coast was clear. I loved to sing, but was shy about my voice. Those who heard me always told me that I was amazing and while I really did believe them, I couldn't help but be bashful. But everyone in the entire house had left for one reason or another. I decided to use my go-to for a vocal warm up: Rain, Rain, Go Away. It just so happened to be appropriate today; the sky was a pastel of gray and the silence of the suburban dwelling was accompanied only by the sound of the gentle drizzle against the large window in the entryway. I loved to sing there, as the ceiling was high and the acoustics were phenomenal. I cleared my throat and began. The necessity of the warm up was immediately apparent as my voice cracked upon the first word of the old nursery rhyme. I again cleared my throat and swallowed once before beginning.
*Ahem*
"Rain, rain, go away... Come again, another day..."
The acoustics, amazing as they usually were, seemed to be on a whole other level today. My voice carried, echoed, and resonated in a way that impressed even me. The final note carried long after I'd finished, hanging in the air like a phantom- and then silence. Nothing. I looked up at the large entryway window and saw that the rain had stopped. "Huh," I said out lout to nobody in particular. I smiled and made a mental note to tell the family later before closing my eyes and taking a deep breath. However when I opened them I couldn't help but gasp. I was no longer in my home. I stood atop what looked like a rain cloud. It was soft beneath my feet, and I felt as if I were suspended in a hot mist like the kind leftover after a hot shower. The smell of rain washed over me as a few rays of sunlight punctured the fog around me.
"You wound me," came a voice from all around me.
I looked around in vain- I couldn't see much further than a few feet in front of me.
"Who's... Who's there?" I responded sheepishly.
"Aria... My child..." Came the voice again. It's voice seemed somehow familiar. I wasn't afraid of it.
"Aria..." It spoke once more, its voice hanging in the mists after each spoken word.
"Aria... Oracle lost to time... May you find the strength to forgive yourself..."
I couldn't bring myself to speak. The voice was so beautiful, yet so somber.
"Aria... You must harness your gift... Less mankind turn to dust... I cannot stay... Your word is absolute..."
I couldn't believe what was happening. Had I fallen unconscious somehow? Was I dead?
"Aria... Oh my sweet Aria... You must prevail... Call to me... Call to me with your melody..."
I was once again in my entryway. The echoes of my song dissipated in the air. I opened the front door to see a cloudless sky, and confused neighbors looking up into the heavens. I felt a chill run down my spine. What had I done?
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
I get a 15 minute break at work aside from my usual lunch break. I pick a prompt, spend a couple of minutes storyboarding, and then do as much as I can within the confines of my break. If you enjoyed this, consider following me!
|
“Rain, Rain, please come again”
The words seem almost stuck to my lips. As tears dribble from my face, onto ground untouched by moisture for god knows how many weeks. Has it been weeks, months, maybe years now since that day. I don’t even remember the exact rhyme anymore. Just the echoes of laughter from the children at the campsite. It is the only memory I have left, the one burned across my very soul. If only we’d known the outcome of our rendition.
“Rain, Rain, please come again.
Please come again, right away.”
We can not wait for later, we need it now. The aquifers are bone dry while the ocean swells continue to rise. Our towns now under the oceans dominion, as saline's rule has become unquestioned. We hide from it’s wrath in dwindling enclaves, high in the mountains. The sacred ice of these peaks, now a myth from our past, bears no witness to the brutality we have now reached.
“Rain, Rain, please come again.
Please come again, right away.
For if they knew that it was me.”
I can not think on it for long, I don’t think any of us can, it is just the way of our parched planet. First we went for the vegetation, stockpiled and rationed, while we still had hope for rain’s return. As those faded, along with the fish, we took to animals, but not for their meat. Once those too were exhausted, so was our hope, and we turned to each other to keep humanity a float. It was an honor, a privilege, a grand sacrifice, or at least that’s what we told the old and inferm. The willing were few, and thus our true nature came forth. Turning pulping into a lottery, and for some, a sport. So I sit here rocking back and for, as I choke back tears and the only words still rattling through my dehydrated throat.
“Rain, Rain, please come again.
Please come again, right away.
For if they knew that it was me.
I would never again see the light of day.”
|
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[WP] People have been singing 'Rain Rain Go Away' for years, but one day by chance you sing it correctly, and it does go away. It does not return.
|
1460 days.
Four years.
48months.
35039...no, 35040 hours.
I couldn't have known that singing a centuries old nursery time could have caused The Plague of Bones, but I'm still the scapegoat, and to be honest, I can't blame them.
38 months in a cell.
48 months since I sang.
Happy four years since the end of the world.
The Plague of Bones might sound a little over-the-top to an outsider, someone unfamiliar to the situation, but let me explain. Two weeks after the word's had expelled from my mouth, after I looked into my daughter's eyes and sang those words that would send the world into spiralling chaos, in a little town called Mallahay, Brazil, a man called Luiz Santino was the first known victim of the Ever-Drought. Within four weeks, over fifty thousand victims had succumb as water supplies quickly began to disappear, and, like all good end of the world scenarios, the world began to sink into disarray.
The Western World was surprisingly quick to falter, partly because of a slow response from government parties and a rise in religious fanaticism. As crops died and more cities suffered huge losses, many countries stopped collecting bodies, leaving victims to rot in their homes and in the streets, thus earning it the name 'the Plague of Bones'.
Within six months, almost all natural life had shifted off the mortal coil, the drought was too much for many none-Western Countries, especially those that relied almost entirely on rainwater to survive. Africa, for example, very quickly became a deadzone. All known life, animal, human, plant, quickly ceased to exist.
As for the rest of the world, their time was spent between two missions; finding a way to survive without the rain, and working towards bringing it back again. Sea water, something that always seemed so large and infinite was harvested, and, without the rain, by the third year the world's oceans were almost dried up.
Religious fanatics said it was a sign from God, of course, and, oddly, I think I believed them. That's why, in the second year, with no family left and endless guilt, I handed myself in.
At first, the Council of European Survivors thought I was crazy, but they were so desperate for answers that they decided to believe me anyway. I fully expected to be held accountable in a very public trial, instead, they locked me in a cell at the top of the Prison of Europe without so much of a whimper to the outside.
So, four years on, here I am, still locked in my cell. My punishment? I have until my last one litre of water runs out to try and fix what I've caused. I spend my days whistling that dreaded nursery rhythm over and over, trying to find the correct pitch, match the exact way I sang it that day to try and reverse this mess.
Probably have two days of water left now. I'll be dead even quicker if I neck it off, but to have a last, deep drink of water would be heaven to my permanently cracked, sore throat.
I don't give in to my urges, instead, I go back to my corner and sing through dry lips;
Rain, rain go away
Come again another day
|
“Rain, Rain, please come again”
The words seem almost stuck to my lips. As tears dribble from my face, onto ground untouched by moisture for god knows how many weeks. Has it been weeks, months, maybe years now since that day. I don’t even remember the exact rhyme anymore. Just the echoes of laughter from the children at the campsite. It is the only memory I have left, the one burned across my very soul. If only we’d known the outcome of our rendition.
“Rain, Rain, please come again.
Please come again, right away.”
We can not wait for later, we need it now. The aquifers are bone dry while the ocean swells continue to rise. Our towns now under the oceans dominion, as saline's rule has become unquestioned. We hide from it’s wrath in dwindling enclaves, high in the mountains. The sacred ice of these peaks, now a myth from our past, bears no witness to the brutality we have now reached.
“Rain, Rain, please come again.
Please come again, right away.
For if they knew that it was me.”
I can not think on it for long, I don’t think any of us can, it is just the way of our parched planet. First we went for the vegetation, stockpiled and rationed, while we still had hope for rain’s return. As those faded, along with the fish, we took to animals, but not for their meat. Once those too were exhausted, so was our hope, and we turned to each other to keep humanity a float. It was an honor, a privilege, a grand sacrifice, or at least that’s what we told the old and inferm. The willing were few, and thus our true nature came forth. Turning pulping into a lottery, and for some, a sport. So I sit here rocking back and for, as I choke back tears and the only words still rattling through my dehydrated throat.
“Rain, Rain, please come again.
Please come again, right away.
For if they knew that it was me.
I would never again see the light of day.”
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[WP] You are the girlfriend of a well-known spy. Your job is to look pretty on his arm when he needs you and sit by the pool when he is busy. No you has caught on yet that he is a womanizing drunkard with a gambling problem while you are the real spy...
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The following is the transcript of an audio tape that was recovered from an enemy installation on the 17th of June, 2020, by Field Agent 113: Bridges, Max.
RECORDING BEGINS
VOICE: This is Audio File 2FN:31-B. After nine hours of enhanced interrogation, the subject indicated that he was willing to answer our questions.
*The recording device is passed through a doorway into a room with much less echo, and a heavy door is closed and locked.*
INTERROGATOR AHMOUD AL-QAHBI: What is your name?
*A pen clicks. There is continuous scratching in the background until noted otherwise.*
AGENT MAXWELL BRIDGES: My name is Max Bridges. You, however, probably know me better as the bane of your existence.
IA: Why are you here?
AB: Because, AS the bane of your existence, it is my JOB to mess up your plans whenever I can.
IA: And what ‘plans’ have you ‘messed up’ this time, ‘Agent Bridges’?”
AB: I’m not sure yet. I’m only about halfway through the plan.
IA: You were not blindfolded on your way here. This was so you would see how impossible it is to break out of here. This prison is a fortress.
AB: This prison is a SAFE. It can’t be opened from the inside.
IA: W-well, yes. That’s exactly why we let you see everything on the way in.
AB: And that was your mistake.
IA: Our mistake? No, Agent Bridges, the mistake was you getting captured. Because now you’re going to tell us everything we want to know.
*The next few seconds of audio are the muffled sounds of a scuffle, a silenced gunshot, and a loud THUMP, followed by the scrape of a chair. The pen scratching has stopped.*
AB: No, I don’t think I’ll be doing that.
IA: What are you talking about?
*The door opens and there is another silenced gunshot.*
AGENT MAXINE BRIDGES: Come on. Time for ‘Max Bridges’ to raise some hell.
AB: Took you long enough, Max. Problem with the transmitters in my contacts?
AB: No, Max; there was a PROBLEM with the fact that YOU’RE built like James Bond and I’M built like James Bond’s ARM CANDY. Now come ON!
AB: THERE’S the woman I married.
*There is a loud sigh, then the sound of handcuffs being removed and the recording device being picked up off a metal table.*
END OF RECORDING
|
The white tail of his gaudy tuxedo disappears behind the tiki totem support pole of the near pool-side bar. He had been quickening his pace to intersect the woman in the cherry red bikini with the Russian-accent with lust instead intelligence-gathering on his mind. Two beats later, Boris, a mountain in a black suit with an unfortunate bowl-cut rounds the same corner in less-than-subtle pursuit.
“Ugh, finally.” It took an eternity to get Agent John Sterling’s hungover double-vision to notice the overt honey trap that was KGB Agent Nadia lounging two recliners away comically arch-backed, breathing deeply with her diaphragm sipping a cherry-adorned Manhattan with tied stems. After sending John to retrieve drinks from the hotel-side bar past her recliner, asking him to scan the poolside for our contact (“what about over _there_?”), and finally not so accidentally knocking over my purse to fling my lipstick in expertly to the foot of her recliner (“fetch boy”). How many people does it take to get my thick-headed partner (“boyfriend”) to follow to his lizard-brain?
With the final rolling lipstick ruse depositing John at the base of Nadia’s lounge chair and into the lion’s den, he did not miss an opportunity to turn on what he thinks is the charm. After a brief deep voiced American leering greeting, a throaty Russian-accented double-entendred reply, Nadia with great exaggeration looked at her (watchless) wrist, and said “oh excuse me, I am late for an appointment but spend _much_ more time with you.” John somehow interpreted a woman late for an imaginary appointment as an invitation to follow (arguably, her underlying intent). After quickly returning my lipstick (“good boy”), immediately made an unconvincing excuse to retrieve “something” from our room without ever taking his eyes of Nadia, and rushed off past the tiki totem.
Good. I needed Nadia and Boris focused on capturing and interrogating (and maybe lightly torturing?) John. They would spend hours attempting to extract information on the Turkish missile battery locations. This would give me the time to search Doctor Ludovenko’s hotel room for the Device, make it to the dead drop, and back to the hotel lobby in time for dinner with a confused, slightly bruised, and pompous released Sterling. His thick-headedness and machismo caused him to be more resilient to pain than the average agent, and gave him a sense of righteous purpose and almost thrill to life-risking situations. He had no meaningful information to divulge in the interrogation, and he might possible confuse their questions for Thanksgiving plans. Let him find his bliss in life, and serve his country in his own way while I retrieved The Device saving millions.
My orders are vague on the level of danger I’m supposed to keep my partner from, but clear on the importance of my primary objective. I suspect my bosses continue to keep us together understanding the value of letting one tuxedo-adorned hand distract the soviets while the slightly plain and seemingly clumsy other hand deftly picks their pocket again and again.
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[WP] You are the girlfriend of a well-known spy. Your job is to look pretty on his arm when he needs you and sit by the pool when he is busy. No you has caught on yet that he is a womanizing drunkard with a gambling problem while you are the real spy...
|
Her husband is busy in the casino.
She know these things without seeing him; that he has a tumbler of gin in his left hand, a cigar clutched in his right, and there are two blonde women hanging from each shoulder. They are touching him with dagger-manicured fingers in places that are both appropriate and terribly wrong to touch a married man. He is not stopping them. In fact, he leers across the table at another blonde woman he hopes will replace the ugliest of them, at the next game he restlessly wanders to join.
It does not occur to her to be bothered by this. As long as she knows, she is still in control.
Her place is not beside him. Her place is to relax by the pool, some alcoholic-appearing drink at her elbow and a novel open on her lap
Once, this would have upset her; she had been an avid feminist and protested for the rights of women to be permitted the same actions as men without judgment. But she had been young then, and thought that gender roles had no place in society. She knew better now. As long as the patriarchy rules, she can sidle up to well-hidden truths with all the ease in the world. If women are ever truly free to behave in the same self-indulgent, mindlessly masturbatory ways of men, she'll be out of a job.
She is at peace with this, because it pays well and allows her the freedom to move with feline grace across the minds of men who fatally underestimate her. She hardly needs to touch the tiny handgun that lies hidden in the neat folds of a towel she has never touched with her own hands, which rests beside her gently sweating glass on the table.
She is Agent 013, she is famously unknown, and she is almost (but not quite) happy.
These thoughts are lazy and self-indulgent. She snaps to attention, turns a page in this month's book-club erotica, and takes a sip of her drink. It tastes strongly of grenadine, and she decides to order the limeade next. The taste of blackcurrant coats her mouth with unpleasant stickiness, and she resists the urge to wipe at her lips.
A shadow falls across her book. She glances up.
"Hi," says the tiny brunette that stands in front of her chair. She is impossibly young - perhaps nineteen, surely no older than twenty-two - and stunningly beautiful, even with her face mildly flushed in consternation. Her hair is very short.
"Hi."
"I'm so sorry to bother you, but, um-"
"No bother," 13 says with a smile. She sits up a little straighter, and closes her book. A tiny click against her fingers assures her that the recording device in the spine has been activated. She is almost positive that this is the woman she's been waiting for all these weeks. Her body is relaxed, showing no sign of her cautious excitement.
"I...oh gosh, this is so silly." The woman runs a hand through her hair. It's still wet from the pool, and stands up in attractive spikes when she finally manages to calm the nervous motion. She glances around furtively, and lowers her voice. "I know you. Well, not really. But I, uh, know your husband. Well, sort of, I mean, my boyfriend, ah...works with him."
"Oh?"
"At the, um, bank. Isaac is my boyfriend. They work together, which, um, I guess is obvious." The girl's fingers twitch toward each other. She is all but wringing her hands, begging 13 to recognize the codewords known to all the women belonging to famous spies. "H-he...Mr. Cole, I mean...um, he's very nice. He talks about you all the time, at uh, the company parties. I just wanted...I wanted to say hi!"
*Ah, they've fucked,* she thinks, and is unbothered by this fact. She uses her husband for sex on occasion, and he isn't terrible at it, although she's had better. A vague sense of pity flits across her mind as she searches the eyes of this red-faced, squirming girl. *Now she wonders if she can collect me, too. Too easy.*
"You must be Emma," she says, and warmth fills her voice. She smiles, knowing the seductive shape of her lips will be as distracting to this young woman as to any young man. Maybe more so.
Emma smiles, relieved outwardly, barely hiding her shameful terror. "He talks about me?"
"Only the once. Apparently you and Isaac make a perfect couple."
This was not a lie, and she had spent months gathering that particular bit of information from various sources. Some of them lovers of one or both of the happy couple; and some of them had been decidedly not. Isaac had made the unfortunate choice of pissing off the wrong people, and while her husband had no idea that his coworker was her mark, 13 had been remarkably unsuccessful at gathering the information from him. He paid less attention to his fellow agents than he did their girlfriends.
"What did you want to tell me, Emma?" She leans forward invitingly, noticing the way the girl falls for the bait, her eyes stuttering down to the perfect cleft of her cleavage in the bikini top. "Besides hi, I mean. There's something."
Emma's face contorts briefly in a spasm of fear. "I...oh....how did you know?"
She smiles and rolls her shoulders so that her breasts are just a little more exposed. She drinks up the girl's lustful self-torture as absently as she sipped from her drink. "I know everything."
Emma titters out a laugh, her breath catching. "Um...well, I can't really talk about it here. Could we..."
"Go someplace more private?"
"Y-yes."
*Caught her,* 13 thinks. A warning flare goes off at the back of her mind. *So easily...* She slips a finger into her bikini top.
Emma's breath speeds up, her eyes resting heavily on two perfect half-globes rising above a silk bikini not made to ever get wet. She is treated to one last seduction; the faint coral blush of one nearly-exposed areola, and then the finger slips back out, pulling a thin plastic card along with it.
She passes the card to the girl, and the pads of their fingers brush together. Emma's is hot and moist with the intensity of her wanting. 13's finger, as the woman herself, is cool and smooth.
"Room 247," she says, pitching her voice low and just a little hoarse, filling it with as much desire as she can feel emanating from the other woman. "Meet me there in half an hour. We can talk there."
"But Mr. Cole-"
"Shh." She smiles again. "What he doesn't know won't hurt him."
As Emma scampers away, her eyes do not follow. She casts a lazy glance around the poolside deck, watching, waiting...*there.*
A man in black takes his finger from his ear, adjusts his sunglasses, and watches a teenage boy execute a perfect dive into the deep end of the pool. By the time the water has settled, the man has dissolved into the darkness behind the bar.
The girl's information is worthless, of course; probably she wants to tell her that her husband is cheating on her. But the man tailing her, the man using her...his information is perfectly desirable.
Unhurried, Agent 013 gathers her book, her drink, and her towel into her arms. In shaking out the towel to wrap it around her chest, she slips the tiny handgun between her breasts and feels its chill warm her blood.
The game is afoot, and oh, God, does she love to play.
|
*Fwww*
A cloud of smoke obscured her face for only a moment, vanishing to reveal her dark eyes watching something in the distance.
*It's a Korean this time, huh? I'm too used to seeing blondes.*
A man in blue leaned over a woman dressed in green, seeming to have an intimate conversation with her, exchanging flirty looks and suggestive honey-coated words.
With one last puff, the lady in red extinguished the cigarette in a nearby ash tray, skillfully moving the ashes on it to reveal hidden numbers that glowed under the heat.
"Alone, are we?" A man said, approaching her. In a single, graceful motion, one that look so natural, she moved to cover the numbers with ash as she glanced at the man with a golden tie.
"Seems so," She answered coolly, turning her attention to the man before her. He broke out in a Cheshire cat-like grin.
"Sad indeed," He said, his eyes darting to the man in blue. He glanced back at the lady in red. "He seems quite taken with my companion's date, no?"
"Oh?" The lady in red said. "I apologize then for his actions against your companion." She said, glancing away. This only made the man grin more, his eyes focusing on her like prey.
"No need to my dear," He said, placing a hand on her cheek. He pushed a lock of hair away, revealing a light purple pigmentation on the edge of her hairline. "Two unfaithful people deserve each other, no? They can punish each other for their transgressions."
The lady in red bit her ruby lips slightly, moving back a half step so that her hair would hide the bruise as she crossed her arms.
"Mark is... just stressed," She said, her eyes still averted. The man before her licked his lips as he moved closer, putting a hand on her shoulder.
"Stressed or not, leaving a flower alone is no good, no good indeed." He said. He moved his hand to gently guide her chin, forcing the sad lady in red to look at him. "Care to join me tonight? I can help you forget your pains, yes?"
A light blush appeared on her cheeks as the man leaned forward.
"A lovely lady should be treated right," He whispered in her ear, making a shiver go down her back. The man took the opportunity to slip his hand behind her before pulling himself back and beginning to guide her away to a more... pleasurable place.
\------------------
*Fwww*
*To easy.*
The lady in red adjusted her necklace as she stood up from the bed where the body laid, her cigarette still in her mouth. She walked over to the wall and removed the picture, revealing a safe.
*9-37-20-click*.
*"Retina scan and finger print required"* A mechanical voice said. She sighed as she held up the eye of the man with the golden tie, allowing the machine to scan it.
*"Confirmed"* It said. She then placed the cut off thumb to the finger scanner.
*"Confirmed, welcome master."* It said as a large unlocking sound was heard, followed by another and another before the whole wall opened up, revealing exactly what the lady came for.
She glanced at all the things before her before her eyes landed on a small box, a smirk on her face.
*I bet that moron's busy in the underground running around with that woman and causing a ruckus. Enough so that I can escape with this.*
A soft chuckle was heard from her as took the box and left the room, leaving Mark with all the fame of defeating a villain, while she walked away with the real prize...
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[WP] You live in a world where magic and advanced technology coexist. The two factions had been at war for a long time. Now you attend a school with both factions, an attempt at peace.
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As I was opening my locker, one girl slammed it shut and a group of girls surrounded me.
"What are you?" the head girl asked. "A techie, or a witch?"
"Neither!" I blurted. "I just got transferred here because of my grades. Honestly."
"Shut up," the girl said, sneering at me. She turned to the girl on her left and ordered, "Check her."
The girl on the left had green eyes and they began to glow.
I squeezed my eyes shut and bit my lip.
Then all of a sudden I heard a, "That's weird."
I opened my eyes. The girl's eye was still glowing, but she was frowning.
"You're definitely not a techie," she said. "And you're not a witch, either. But there's a magical aura around you that's...it's...honestly, I've never seen someone with power levels so high."
The head girl obviously didn't like that. She turned to me and smirked. "Oh yeah?" Blue fire emerged from her hands and eyes. "Well, let's see how powerful she really is."
She raised her hand and aimed the ball of blue fire at me. I couldn't even close my eyes.
There was a flash and the head girl screamed and flew backwards into an opposite locker.
Everyone gasped as we looked and saw a tall woman with wings pinning the head girl to the locker with one hand around her neck, and the other hand raised high with a sword ready to strike.
The angel woman looked over her shoulder at us. She spoke, "I am her guardian angel, and no one may harm the child of God. Any attempts to do so will fail and will result in your death." Her eyes sharpened and fixed on me. "Give the word, your majesty, and I will strike down this girl where she stands."
I looked around. "Are you talking to me?"
"Your word is mine to obey," the angel said.
The head girl was turning blue. Her hands scrambled weakly at the angel's grip, and she turned her eyes on me and whispered, "P-p-please..."
"You're going to kill her!" I screamed.
"That is the intention," the woman said, not relenting.
"Let her go!" I shouted.
She bowed. "As you wish, your majesty."
The head girl dropped to her knees and began to vomit.
I blinked and the angel was gone.
I looked at the other girls and they backed away from me, fearfully.
"I'm sorry.." I said. "I didn't know."
"Just stay away from us!" one of the girls yelled.
Just then, one of the teachers turned into the hallway and saw the head girl on her hands and knees still vomiting, and the big dent in the locker where the angel had slammed her.
His eyes narrowed. "Who did this?"
The other girls looked at me.
"I didn't!" I protested. "It was-..."
"Was who?" he asked.
I stopped speaking and just hung my head because I didn't want to snitch on my guardian angel who had just saved me from getting burnt.
But one of the other girls raised her voice and said, "It was her angel!"
The teacher scoffed. "Oh, please. Everyone knows angels are only assigned to protect the children of a god or goddess. Which you" he looked me up and down "most certainly are not."
I felt my cheeks burning with shame and anger.
"Please follow me to the principal's office," he said, turning on his heels. "And girls" he addressed to the others "take your friend to the nurses' office and please keep in mind that incidents of this kind will absolutely not be tolerated. There's already enough tension as it, and we are trying to keep the peace."
If only I had known how *non* peaceful my school year was about to be.
This was just the beginning.
|
UC Berkeley, 1968. I remember it like it was yesterday. There was talk of the campus calling in the heat, maybe even the National Guard, if the Free Speech protests got out of hand. Two competing groups of protesters. There were the Technos, with the short hair and the cybernetic implants, the ones who supported continuing the Pan-Asian War, ostensibly in some abstract hope that it would turn the tide of the Dominoes in their tracks, but everyone knew they just supported trade access to the energy mines. Then there were the Wizards, barefoot longhairs carrying books on crystal healing and the focusing power of pyramids, the ones who used all the hip slang like "groovy" and "this is my bag", flashing peace signs while surrounded by the haze of burning sage.
"It's really all a bunch of nonsense," guffawed Professor Landry, to whom I had been assigned as a Teaching Assistant that semester, looking skeptically out of her office window at the two factions of protesters on the quad, campus PD officers forming a line between them. Although Professor Landry was somewhat conservative in her politics, she viewed the ideology and pursuits of the Technos as a crime against God and nature. Being staunchly conservative as she was, however, she could not bring herself to sympathize with the pacifist views of the Wizards. That is, pacifist when it came to broader, global political issues. The Wizards could and would throw down when they needed to. Landry also vocally hated the Wizards' dalliance with witchcraft and judged them based on their reputations for improper behavior and drug abuse.
"The reason," Landry commented, "that we're seeing all this is entitlement. Entitlement, pure and simple. None of these youth factions want to become politically engaged in a proper, normal way. Wouldn't be surprised if there's violence today, knowing how some of these people act."
Of course Landry would say that. Her published work was on the concept of Christendom, with titles like "The Great Christian Kings of Europe", and it was easy to get the impression she identified more with the feudal system and its theocratic underpinnings than with 20th-century American democracy. I had never told her that the reason I myself had chosen to study History and become a Medievalist was out of a desire to write fantasy novels, similar to my idol J.R.R. Tolkien - but with the emergence of the Technos and the Wizards in recent years, an amplification of youth culture by magic and technology, it felt like there was no need for that style of storytelling anymore. That kind of thing was all around us, but the heroes and villains weren't so obvious as all that and in many ways it was better to just stay out of the fight.
I looked out the window again. The Technos were attempting to bum rush the Wizards, who began attempting to cast spells, shaping lightning from the Earth and forming the air into blasts of water. One of the campus police officers began to push both a Techno and a Wizard to the side before being trampled underfoot. It was happening. The protest was becoming violent.
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[WP] You live in a society where there is a death sentence, but also, the option for people to fight their loved ones murderer, in an arena specially built for this purpose, with an array of weapons specially made for this. You meet, for the first time, the person who killed your daughter.
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Guilty. To death. That’s all I remember from the trial. 3 long months of testimonies, expert opinions, eye-witness accounts, but the only moment I remember is when the jury returned the verdict my family waited almost 2 years to hear. Ryan Jeffer, guilty of murdering Julie Singer. Sentenced to death by chair or combat. I felt the weight of my wife collapse against me as all the old feelings bubbled up to meet the fresh realization that our fight was over, and Ryan’s guilt was a bitter victory. Suddenly, I felt the mood in the room shift. All the eyes that once fell on Jeffers now turned to me, the father. The avenger.
A bailiff appeared next to me and laid a hand gently on my stooped shoulder. “Sir, would you please come with me?” He asked as he simultaneously led me from my seat in the courtroom. My wife staggered to her feet and tugged my hand hard. “Where are you taking him?” She asked without taking her eyes off mine.
“Ma’am, we need your husband to come with us. The sentence is death by chair or combat, your husband has a choice to make.” My wife opened her mouth to speak, but there was really nothing more to say. She reluctantly released my hand, and I was rushed from the bustling courtroom to the judge’s chambers.
It was smaller than I expected thanks to a large oak desk that took up almost the entire width of the rooms. A couple bookshelves were overflowing with law books and nick-nacks that could be found in any generic souvenir gift shop. Probably picked up on generic family vacations. A miniature figurine of the Washington Monument caught my eye and broke my heart. It was one of Julie’s favorites.
I didn’t even notice the bailiff had left the room, and I was more taken aback when I turned around to find myself staring into the eyes of Ryan Jeffers.
“Gentlemen, please sit.” The judge stepped from behind Jeffers and took his seat behind the desk. Jeffers and I sat across from him, next to each other. “This next phase in the sentencing is completely up to you Mr. Singer. Mr. Jeffers has been found guilty in the death of your daughter and sentenced to death. We have an electric chair available, but we can also offer you the opportunity to fight Mr. Jeffers in the Arena. The choice is yours, but it is not an easy choice, and we would like to give you the opportunity to speak with Mr. Jeffers before making your decision. We will give you privacy, please take all the time you need.” Before anything else could be said, the judge scurried from the room. And there we were. A man and a murderer. Alone at last.
There was an awkwardness to the silence, I didn’t expect that. I assumed it would be easy to face my daughter’s killer, to tell him exactly what I thought of him, how he ruined our lives and ring his neck with my bare hands. I could almost feel his pulse in my palm when he relented and spoke first.
“I don’t want to die.” He stated. I was shocked. I turned to face him and saw him staring off. Out the window. The Arena in the distance. The audacity.
Rage tore through my veins, and I leapt from my seat to stand over him. I had a million things I wanted to say to him, a million questions I wanted to ask, but my mind was blank. This man extinguished the life of my daughter. My only child. The light of my life. Left her to die in the street, and we deserved answers as much as he deserved to die. But at that moment, I only had the energy for one question.
“Why her?” I stammered and slumped back in my chair.
Ryan Jeffers looked over at me. I knew he was young, just 18 at the time of the murder and barely 20 now, but he seemed so much younger in person. His face was small and boyish. He had wide blue eyes hidden behind stringy blond hair. His mouth was a thin fixed line under a thin pencil mustache. The damn kid could barely grow a mustache.
“She was there and it felt right.” He said. Simple. I expected more but was almost relieved there wasn’t anything else. She was there. A crime of opportunity. It couldn’t be stopped, there was nothing I could have done.
We both turned to face the windows. From the judge’s chambers, we had a great view of the Arena, a 70,000 seat battlefield where justice could be served with blood and broken bones. One word and I could gut this boy with a hunting knife, or crack his skull with a sledgehammer. We could fight like men. He could die feeling the pain my daughter felt.
For more than an hour we sat quietly and gazed at the Arena. A possible future and end to our story together. I looked over at the boy again, the pencil thin mustache, and wide eyes. I rose from my seat for the door, and I saw fear flash across his face. I turned back, placed my hands gently on his shoulders, and leaned in close.
“Don’t fool yourself. You deserve to die.” I whispered as my hands crept around his neck. I felt his pulse quicken under my palms. He pulled at my fingers and kicked the desk wildly trying to escape. Ryan Jeffers gasped and choked, is face turning shades of purple and blue under my tightening gasp. I heard the satisfying snap of the hyoid bone and his body fell limp in the chair.
Wiping the sweat from my brow, I gazed up to see the sun setting behind the Arena and smiled. All felt right.
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Standing in the narrow tunnel that led to the Judgement's Gambit Arena, I could feel a slight breeze wafting across the massive floor. I could hear the roar of the crowd, ebbing and flowing, their excitement rising to a fevered pitch before descending to near silence.
In those silent moments, I would focus on the small picture in my shaking hand. Sure, I was nervous. I was finally going to face the monster that took my daughter's life, that took Anna's life.
When I was contacted by the state's Alternative Punishment Board, I thought it was a joke. This man, a prisoner, was asking for a chance at a full pardon AND the chance to kill someone else in my family.
The APB explained that many times families feel this form of punishment gives closure should the family's champion be the victor.
I could choose any number of rules and regulations from their guidelines and put sanctioned handicaps on him, though they discouraged handicaps unless necessary.
The roaring of the crowd broke my reverie and I was once again standing in a dark hallway.
A digital board blinked to life on my right displaying the rules and choices I made with the APB several months ago and a small groove in the wall opened containing my armor and daggers.
​
**Rules and Restrictions: Aggrieved Party**
1. Weapon Choice: Dual daggers with cross-guard. (Both Parties)
2. Personal Protective Equipment: Light leather bracers, gloves, and neck covering. (Aggrieved Party Only)
3. Aggrieved Party Handicaps: None.
4. Adversarial Party Handicaps: None.
5. Contest Completion Condition: Death of either or both the aggrieved and adversarial party.
6. Arena Condition: No alteration. Flat and even ground with fair footing.
**Resolution Begins:** 180 Seconds
With every tick of the counter, the crowd slowly began to quiet. I quickly and carefully donned my armor and familiarized myself with the feel of the daggers. The weight in my hands felt right. The cold steel a stark contrast to the warmth of the air around me would have almost been pleasant.
Finally, the quiet of the crowd broke as I distantly heard "10...9...8...7...6...5...4...3...2...1!" A small door at the end of the hallway opened and at once I could hear the roaring crowd outside.
I admit that I was emboldened by their excitement. I imagined that their cheers were in support of me and my family.
A smile played upon my lips until I locked eyes with... Him. My face fell, suddenly stoic. If hatred were a look, that is what he saw.
He was thinner than I expected, more gaunt. This man had not fared well in prison, that much was easy to see. He stalked to the center of the arena, his face a mask of an indecipherable emotion. Once there, he waited for me to slowly make my way toward him.
He did not stand it a defensive stance. As I approached, he tossed his daggers to his side and held his hands out, seemingly in surrender.
My anger addled mind saw it as a challenge rather than the plea of a tired man for his life to be ended quickly.
Well, as the story often goes, a taste of blood is often too sweet to ignore.
I murdered him, the feeling of vengeance not nearly as empowering as the taking of a life. How could I only take one after tasting of death's sweet nectar?
Now I sit here, another board ticking to my side:
**Rules and Restrictions: Adversarial Party**
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[WP] You live in a society where there is a death sentence, but also, the option for people to fight their loved ones murderer, in an arena specially built for this purpose, with an array of weapons specially made for this. You meet, for the first time, the person who killed your daughter.
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Terry stood in the empty room, eyes closed, taking slow, measured breaths. He stood, focused, unmoving, concentrating on his memories, remembering what brought him here. He saw that day, as clear now as when it happened. He remembered the pain. The pain he felt then. He couldn’t wait to share it.
He saw his house, his old house, remembered the smells of the warm spring day. He remembered walking the path to the front door, opening it, expecting his beautiful daughter to come flying from another room, arms wide, smiling wide to show the teeth she’d lost, squealing with joy. He could still hear her yell, “*Daddy!*” He could almost feel her tight hugs as she whispered, “I love you.”
That day, his expectations had been crushed. There was no joy in opening his front door. No happy squeal. No, “I love you.” He could see it clearly, as if it was happening right now. He reached forward, opening the door. Silence. He slipped on the wet floor. His world collapsed when he looked down that day. Red. Blood.
He watched himself helplessly as he followed the trail to her room. His sweet Jesse. His sunshine, his happiness, his daughter. She laid there, broken, twisted, lifeless. She was his reason for being, his purpose. Her mother hadn’t survived childbirth. Now Jesse was gone too. He remembered that moment all too well. The day his life fell apart, ended.
“I miss you Jesse.” He whispered to himself. Today he would get his revenge. Today he might even smile again. If he remembered how. He couldn’t remember the last time he had smiled. His reason had been taken. Taken by the man, the monster, waiting for him.
Terry remembered the police catching the man, the jury convicting him. He could still hear the wails of, “I’m innocent,” and, “I was framed.” Lies, he told himself. The evidence had been clear. The man, the monster, killed Jesse. He took Terry’s life, his reason, that day, without touching him. Today, Terry would touch the man, take his life. Today, vengeance belonged to Terry.
“You ready?” Someone asked. Terry didn’t bother to see who it was. He knew.
“Yes,” he responded curtly.
The judge for Jesse’s killer’s trial stood behind him. All of this was possible because of him, his offer. “The jury has found him guilty on all counts, he will get the death penalty.” The judge had told him that day, years ago. “I have an idea… If you’re interested.” Terry had been interested, he listened to the judge’s idea.
He stood, moments away from meeting Jesse’s killer again. This time, it would be the last time. “We can execute him via lethal injection, or… there’s another way, a more fulfilling way.” The judge had told him. That way came today.
Terry reached down, grabbing his blue and white ice axe. He held it firmly with both hands. His right hand squeezed and twisted the grip. Eager with anticipation, his nerves felt electrified. A slight breeze from somewhere in the bland white waiting room crawled across his skin, sending a shiver down his spine as it cooled his sweat soaked body.
“Let’s go,” he sneered.
“Have fun,” the judge laughed sharply.
A thin line appeared in the white wall in front of Terry. Quickly the outline of a door took shape. It slowly opened with a vile hissing sound. Terry stepped into the arena.
An announcer introduced him to cheering crowds. Photos of the murder scene, clips of the trial, interviews with Terry and the man, Jesse’s killer played on a giant screen. The fans cheered, bood, jeered, and screamed. Terry heard it, he saw it, but none of it registered. Ahead of him stood a monster.
Each step in the dirty, sandy arena took him closer. Closer to the man who killed Jesse. Closer to the man who killed his daughter. The man, the monster, stood there, terrified. Chains attached to a cuff on his... its left ankles kept it from fleeing, limited its movement.
Jesse’s killer’s arms were still free. They waved back and forth as it pleaded. Terry didn’t care. Terry could see the fear in its eyes. He could feel it from here. Taste it. He stopped for a moment to revel in it. Taking a slow, deep breath, Terry could certainly smell Jesse’s murderer’s fear. It smelled… delicious, euphoric.
He began to tremble as his body grew hot with adrenaline. Terry looked into the bastard’s eyes one last time before launching himself forward in rage. He heard himself screaming, felt his throat tearing apart from the sheer force, and release, of his hatred.
His right arm lifted the ice axe high, coming down swiftly and powerfully into Jesse’s killer’s shoulder. Terry ripped it out, swinging for the hip this time. “*Murderer!*” He heard himself yell.
It screamed in pain. A horrific wail of a helpless creature being ripped apart. Terry hoped each swing hurt it to its very soul.
“I didn’t…” It pleaded, blood pouring from mouth even though Terry hadn't gotten there yet. “I didn’t kill here.” It cried. “I didn’t know...” Terry interrupted it by stepping quickly around and sinking the ice axe into its back, next to its right shoulder blade and ripping down.
The ear piercing scream stunned Terry. The rage, the hatred subsided momentarily. As if opening his eyes for the first time since he could remember, Terry saw himself. He saw the man in front of him, bloody, broken, and crying.
Guilt, uncertainty, fear ran through him. The man fell to his knees. Reaching up, he grabbed Terry’s hands with his own slippery, blood soaked hands. Terry didn’t see a monster, he saw a scared, dying man. His stomach twisted violently. Who was he? He wondered. He’d been so lost. He still was.
“Please…” The man begged. “Kill me quickly.” He coughed the words out, spraying blood as he spoke. “I didn’t… I didn’t do it…” Terry looked down, into fading brown eyes. Eyes filled with fear and regret. Human eyes. “I know who did…”
Slowly, the man’s grip grew weak, then nonexistent. His body slowly slumped over before falling to the sandy ground with a soft, sad thud. The announcer screamed, the crowd cheered, the giant screen replayed the quick event.
Terry felt something in his hand, something the man had given him as he died. He looked at the object, a photo. His legs lost their strength, the sandy ground rushed up to meet him as he threw his hands out to stop his fall.
On his hands and knees in a sandy arena, surrounded by thousands of bloodthirsty onlookers, Terry wept. He did not smile. He may never smile again.
Laying on the sand in front of him, the photo stared back, taunting, teasing him. Jesse stared back up at him, her face twisted with fear, her eyes filled with tears. Behind her stood a man, holding her by the hair with one hand, a knife to her neck with the other. The man was not the man he just killed.
Terry had seen that man, that smile before. He heard the man’s, Jesse’s real killer’s voice. The last words Jesse’s killer spoke to him replayed over and over, beating against his skull harder and harder. “Have fun.”
Terry vomited and fell over. Slipping the photo into his pocket, he laid in the sand, finally relaxing. He knew the truth. He knew what he had to do. Terry laid on his back staring up, through the giant screen, though the crowd, through the roof. “I’m sorry.” He whispered.
Slowly, he stood up and took a few breaths. Terry knew what he had to do. He reached down and ripped the ice axe free. He turned around, toward the exit. The judge was coming, walking towards him with a huge smile. Terry tightened his grip on the slick, blood covered, red ice axe and smiled. “Have fun,” he whispered as he took his first step towards the judge…
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"Finally i have been waiting for this day to come." I said as i walk the arena halls. Lost in deep thought i failed to notice that the time is passing. I arrived in front of a man, he is composed and does not show any emotions.
"This way sir, may God bless you in your battle. May his grace guide you to the right path of vengeance against her Killer." he said. I am not an entirely religious fellow but his words is almost reassuring that everything is gonna be fine.
The gate slowly opened and there he stands. Even a sliver of his shadow is enough to make my blood boil and my mind blank. I thought he was someone i thought that i could trust. He was my brother.
"Who knew that our reunion would be so extreme?" I shouted to him.
"Well Riana certainly didn't." He said with a small chuckle. I nearly lost all humane thoughts that i have after he said that. I almost pity him, he lost all of his humanity after what happened.
"Now then, shall we go my dear brother?" He said. I swiftly grabbed the handgun that is in my holster.
"Lets make this quick, i still have work by 9." I said as i point the gun at him.
"Thats exactly why she died by my hands, all you think about it wo-" He tried to finish his sentence but the bullet has already reached him before then. I did not expect this to be so quick.
I walked back to the man standing by the gate
"God will surely forgive your sins today, but the law wont. Be ready to face more of your relatives or rot in a cell and wait for your death to come. God will certainly welcome you to his home"
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[WP] You live in a society where there is a death sentence, but also, the option for people to fight their loved ones murderer, in an arena specially built for this purpose, with an array of weapons specially made for this. You meet, for the first time, the person who killed your daughter.
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Hot summer sun turned the coliseum's sand floor to magma; it nearly burned Kaleo's feet through his sandals, but even then, it was nothing compared to the anger that burned in his heart.
*I finally have the chance*, he thought, watching a gate on the opposite side rise, *to make right what is so utterly wrong. This is for you, Antonia, my love.*
When the court had first offered the choice between death sentence and trial by combat, Kaleo's wife had staunchly objected his decision. She said that she'd already lost a child, and to lose a lover as well might kill her. Kaleo ignored her, and promised that he would not die and leave her alone in the world.
Littke did he know, he had already abandoned her for his anger. She disappeared not long after his decision was made official.
A ragged man, not much of a fighter, lumbered in through the opposite gate, dragging a sword too big for him. Armor wobbled on his body, his helmet shifting. It was clear he had never been much of a fighter--which makes sense. No soldier could bring himself low enough to kill a child.
Kaleo burned hotter and hotter watching him. *The man who killed my daughter, and cost me my wife as a result.*
*Augustus Pelitus--he who stole everything from me in a single moment. I will now steal back what little you have to offer.*
The crowd around them cheered; they loved these kinds of revenge-driven fights. Something about how personal it was made them intensely enjoyable, regardless of the outcome. The battle started with a horn blare, and Kaleo walked forward. Augustus did not move, either out of fear, acceptance, or inability, so Kaleo shifted into a run. The crowd grew louder.
"Mur-der-er!" they chanted, calling for blood. Only a life would be an offering worthy enough to quell the stadium of death's desires.
Augustus weakly raised his cheap, rusted broadsword in a way that would not protect him. It was clear that his equipment was cheap and old, an intentional decision; meanwhile, his sword was sharp and light, perfectly balanced. There had been more brutal options available, but he opted for simplicity. Kaleo was not experienced, but the man he was fighting looked as though he had never held a sword before. Only a bow . . . a fitting weapon for a coward. The weapon that had slaughtered his daughter.
He would not make it quick.
Kaleo aimed for the man's sword, knocking it out of his hands, which twisted his wrists violently. He cried out, and the sound was beautiful to the hungry crowd. They relished in it, demanding more. Kaleo gave it to them, hitting Augustus in the face with the flat side of his sword, casting him to the ground. It must've burnt his palms, the way he yelped.
"Kill me," he croaked. That only made Kaleo angrier.
"Why don't you fight?" he asked, looming over the pathetic man. "You would kill a little girl, but not fight her father for your own life? Even a beaten dog would growl."
"What is the point? I have no training with swordplay. Besides--"
"Of course. Much easier to murder children with a bow, isn't it?"
Augustus wanted to be defiant, but was barely able to cough out a response. It was pathetic, and quiet. Kaleo almost didn't hear him over the crowd, which was getting anxious waiting for the killing blow. "I didn't want to do that. Not a day goes by that I don't face regret bigger than even Mount Olympus itself."
The sword came down, piercing the edge of his calf, and he screamed. The crowd had wanted death, but if it was slow--well, the more pain, the better.
"Do not pretend to have a heart now that you face death."
"Believe what you will. I never meant to kill that girl."
Kaleo shifted the sword around, and the man cried out once more. "Then why shoot her, you mongrel? Why pierce her with an arrow taller than her, then pretend to be sorrowful?"
Panting, Augustus replied, "The arrow was meant for you."
"What?"
"I was a new guard for the eatery you were at. The owner warned me that conflict was brewing outside with an inebriated customer, so I approached, and you were screaming and fighting with the waitstaff. I didn't even know why. You hit one of them, and the owner screamed at me to do something. I panicked . . . I wanted to aim for your legs, but . . . I didn't see the little girl behind you, and . . . ." He trailed off into a sob.
"Liar! I did no such thing, quit your desperate mind games!" He raised the sword high, and the crowd was ready.
As Kaleo stood above the injured man, blood dripping into hot sand and turning brown, all he could see was his daughter's smile. Would she think less of him, if she saw the raw anger, the ravaging violence? Would she be scared? It was then that he remembered something; his daughter's voice, cutting through the clamor. Something from that night, which had previously been a blur to him.
*Please calm down, Papa.*
Augustus remained crumpled, heaving breaths. "Kill me already! Be done with it. I deserve death--no, I long for it."
But he couldn't--if his little girl was watching over him, she wouldn't be proud of what he was doing, of him making the same mistakes he always did. Just once, he wanted to do right by her. Just once.
He dropped the sword into the sand and turned away. "No."
The crowd booed, and Augustus screamed. "Where is your honor? How can I live now? The whole city will hate me for surviving this bout, and you for not killing me!"
"I don't know," Kaleo said, his voice hoarse. "But I don't fucking care. Your honor, my honor--it's all worthless. Live with your shame as I will with mine."
He exited the stadium, covered with sweat and sand that chafed, and crumpled once he was back in the preparation area. No wounded heart was ever mended with vengeance . . . but as Kaleo sat, shattered in the dark corner of an armaments room, he wondered if it would ever mend, or remain a gaping hole for the rest of his life.
---
/r/resonatingfury
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"Finally i have been waiting for this day to come." I said as i walk the arena halls. Lost in deep thought i failed to notice that the time is passing. I arrived in front of a man, he is composed and does not show any emotions.
"This way sir, may God bless you in your battle. May his grace guide you to the right path of vengeance against her Killer." he said. I am not an entirely religious fellow but his words is almost reassuring that everything is gonna be fine.
The gate slowly opened and there he stands. Even a sliver of his shadow is enough to make my blood boil and my mind blank. I thought he was someone i thought that i could trust. He was my brother.
"Who knew that our reunion would be so extreme?" I shouted to him.
"Well Riana certainly didn't." He said with a small chuckle. I nearly lost all humane thoughts that i have after he said that. I almost pity him, he lost all of his humanity after what happened.
"Now then, shall we go my dear brother?" He said. I swiftly grabbed the handgun that is in my holster.
"Lets make this quick, i still have work by 9." I said as i point the gun at him.
"Thats exactly why she died by my hands, all you think about it wo-" He tried to finish his sentence but the bullet has already reached him before then. I did not expect this to be so quick.
I walked back to the man standing by the gate
"God will surely forgive your sins today, but the law wont. Be ready to face more of your relatives or rot in a cell and wait for your death to come. God will certainly welcome you to his home"
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[WP] as the house you're trapped in burns to the ground you contemplate "how am i gonna explain the fact I'm immortal to the firemen without starting another religion"
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I waved my hand in front of my face. The smoke was getting thick now as the fire continued to spread through the old Victorian. Those stupid kids had probably let the candles burn down in their panic. This house was so full of dusty, dry old furniture and cobwebs it was no wonder they had started a fire.
I looked around for a way out but the bonds they had tied me with would last much longer than it would take for the walls to collapse and "trap" me here. The bloody sacrificial dagger was across the room. Well out of my reach, their ritual incomplete and abandoned. When I had lashed out at them for trying to force me into it they had panicked. I'd heard them screaming as they left the house. I suspected they didn't think their victim would fight back.
Unfortunately the bonds they had shackled me with still held even as the house caught fire. It burned now, out of control. The firemen arrived far too late, they were doing their best to drowned the flames but houses like this? It would never happen and one of them come in to rescue survivors? Unlikely, they had no reason to think that anyone was inside this old abandoned house.
I sighed heavily, this was going to get complicated. Again. It had been about a century since the last time, I guess that was a decent record. Used to happen way more often back in the middle ages so I guess that was progress. More often than not it ended... badly. They worshiped me as god or demon depending on the time, but neither was preferable. The way that these humans had turned to their so called "science" it was likely not going to be as a god this time but perhaps some would fear me in the name of their imagined man in the sky.
The smoke was so thick now that it would have choked a mortal being, but to me it was less than a passing annoyance. The walls creaked and groaned as they began to burn through and collapse under the house's weight. A sudden crash and the second floor collapsed down upon me freeing me from my shackles. I had to fight through the rubble to get to the top, but now freed I walked from the still burning wreckage of the old home.
I could see the shock and horror on the faces of the firemen as they stared into the flames, gazing upon me as I walked unharmed from the burning wreckage. I felt sorry for them, it must have been horrifying. Emerging from the wreckage was a creature they had never seen, vaguely anthropoid in outline, but with an octopus-like head and face a mass of feelers. I placed my head in one prodigious claw and tapped a clawed foot. This was going to be that... what was his name... Oh yeah... This was going to be that Lovecraft guy all over again.
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*"Stupid. Stupid **stupid**."* Nico thought to himself. Of course you don't add water to an electrical fire. The setting-his-dinner on fire fiasco could have been contained as a small incident if he wasn't so **stupid** and tried to dump a bucket of water over the stove in panic. "I mean, I've taken Home Ec how many times now? Still can't learn." *1000 times. 1000 mistakes. Perhaps old dogs really can't learn new tricks.*
He sighed, breathing in black smoke that promptly had no affect on his lungs. The flames licking his skin could have been just an illusion for all the effect it had on him. The only burning he felt was in his cheeks, embarrassed by his damn stupidity. His ears suddenly perked up by the sounds of a distant siren. Yes, the firefighters were on the way here, as they should be with the roaring inferno and little explosions happening in his once beloved home. There won't be anything but ashes left once this is over. *Well, I suppose I'll be left.* Nico thought.
A similar incident happened to Nico back in 1578 when he was declared a heretic and was judged to be burned at the stake. Unfortunately for the villagers, he could not die and was left bored out of his mind for several days strapped to a piece of wood watching the flames dance and flicker about him. Fortunately for Nico, he went from heretic to prophet, and the villagers went from ordinary peoples to Nicolites. They believed he was a God and went from attempting to murder him to worshipping him as their chosen leader. It was fun for a while having his every demand met and crafting a utopia with him at the center of it. But, even that gets tiring when its the same old thing every year for the next hundred years. One day, he had written a message to his disciples stating that he must leave Earth as his father has called upon him to lead Heaven and slipped away in the middle of the night to find the next adventure. He often did wonder how the Nicolites evolved without him as most of them were genuinely good people.
Anyway, he had no interest in the start of a new religion as it really is a been there done that situation. He thought hard on how he might escape now. He supposed with a bit of acting and a bit of luck, he could walk away from all this un-suspiciously. He walked up the stairs and jumped out the window, remembering to scream as he landed as most people would feel pain. He did big acts of large winded coughs and acted generally hysterical - using a croaky voice to tell the firefighters who ran to meet him that it was miracle that he was alive unscathed. The firefighters bought every bit of his facade and sent him to the hospital, offering him their thoughts and prayers that he will recover.
While waiting for the doctor at the hospital, Nico was left unsupervised since there was nothing urgent about his conditions (in fact, there was nothing at all to his condiiton). With no one to watch him, he slipped out and left to go find his next big adventure- keeping a mental note to stick with take-out from now on.
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[WP] as the house you're trapped in burns to the ground you contemplate "how am i gonna explain the fact I'm immortal to the firemen without starting another religion"
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“Well...shit.”
That phrase became as common place to my family as the constant need to move. You see somewhere down the blood line, my family gained immortality and it’s been passed down ever since. We’ve been through a lot over the centuries and this wasn’t the families first disaster.
The fire was a faulty cord as I discovered on my jaunt through the burning wreckage of my house. I could hear screaming from outside, neighbors and firemen a like. No problem, just like the monoxide leak when we lived in Persia sneak out before they find you, play it up like you were never home...
“Hey chief I think I see someone trapped in the kitchen!”
Oh shit. We’ll plan b...I don’t have a plan b. Fuck firemen have become quite efficient since the last fire we had. Play it cool or run? Play it cool or run? Play...
“Look out man the ceilings coming down!”
Fuck...well, it will be easier to report the crazy guy that jumped through his kitchen...what the hell?!
It all happened so fast. The fireman tackled me and charged through the backdoor. He’s unconscious but breathing and here I sit wide awake without a scratch on me...well time to flee again lest another cult starts in my name...let’s just move the old hero before the house blows.
“Son are two alright?!”
“You must be the chief. Yeah the old guy just knocked himself stupid saving me. “
“We have to get you to a hospital...”
“That won’t be necessary, I’m fine. Not a scratch on me...”
Woah he’s suddenly really close...
“Martin get in my truck...”
H-how does he know my name...looks like I’m going for a ride
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*"Stupid. Stupid **stupid**."* Nico thought to himself. Of course you don't add water to an electrical fire. The setting-his-dinner on fire fiasco could have been contained as a small incident if he wasn't so **stupid** and tried to dump a bucket of water over the stove in panic. "I mean, I've taken Home Ec how many times now? Still can't learn." *1000 times. 1000 mistakes. Perhaps old dogs really can't learn new tricks.*
He sighed, breathing in black smoke that promptly had no affect on his lungs. The flames licking his skin could have been just an illusion for all the effect it had on him. The only burning he felt was in his cheeks, embarrassed by his damn stupidity. His ears suddenly perked up by the sounds of a distant siren. Yes, the firefighters were on the way here, as they should be with the roaring inferno and little explosions happening in his once beloved home. There won't be anything but ashes left once this is over. *Well, I suppose I'll be left.* Nico thought.
A similar incident happened to Nico back in 1578 when he was declared a heretic and was judged to be burned at the stake. Unfortunately for the villagers, he could not die and was left bored out of his mind for several days strapped to a piece of wood watching the flames dance and flicker about him. Fortunately for Nico, he went from heretic to prophet, and the villagers went from ordinary peoples to Nicolites. They believed he was a God and went from attempting to murder him to worshipping him as their chosen leader. It was fun for a while having his every demand met and crafting a utopia with him at the center of it. But, even that gets tiring when its the same old thing every year for the next hundred years. One day, he had written a message to his disciples stating that he must leave Earth as his father has called upon him to lead Heaven and slipped away in the middle of the night to find the next adventure. He often did wonder how the Nicolites evolved without him as most of them were genuinely good people.
Anyway, he had no interest in the start of a new religion as it really is a been there done that situation. He thought hard on how he might escape now. He supposed with a bit of acting and a bit of luck, he could walk away from all this un-suspiciously. He walked up the stairs and jumped out the window, remembering to scream as he landed as most people would feel pain. He did big acts of large winded coughs and acted generally hysterical - using a croaky voice to tell the firefighters who ran to meet him that it was miracle that he was alive unscathed. The firefighters bought every bit of his facade and sent him to the hospital, offering him their thoughts and prayers that he will recover.
While waiting for the doctor at the hospital, Nico was left unsupervised since there was nothing urgent about his conditions (in fact, there was nothing at all to his condiiton). With no one to watch him, he slipped out and left to go find his next big adventure- keeping a mental note to stick with take-out from now on.
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[WP] as the house you're trapped in burns to the ground you contemplate "how am i gonna explain the fact I'm immortal to the firemen without starting another religion"
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I waved my hand in front of my face. The smoke was getting thick now as the fire continued to spread through the old Victorian. Those stupid kids had probably let the candles burn down in their panic. This house was so full of dusty, dry old furniture and cobwebs it was no wonder they had started a fire.
I looked around for a way out but the bonds they had tied me with would last much longer than it would take for the walls to collapse and "trap" me here. The bloody sacrificial dagger was across the room. Well out of my reach, their ritual incomplete and abandoned. When I had lashed out at them for trying to force me into it they had panicked. I'd heard them screaming as they left the house. I suspected they didn't think their victim would fight back.
Unfortunately the bonds they had shackled me with still held even as the house caught fire. It burned now, out of control. The firemen arrived far too late, they were doing their best to drowned the flames but houses like this? It would never happen and one of them come in to rescue survivors? Unlikely, they had no reason to think that anyone was inside this old abandoned house.
I sighed heavily, this was going to get complicated. Again. It had been about a century since the last time, I guess that was a decent record. Used to happen way more often back in the middle ages so I guess that was progress. More often than not it ended... badly. They worshiped me as god or demon depending on the time, but neither was preferable. The way that these humans had turned to their so called "science" it was likely not going to be as a god this time but perhaps some would fear me in the name of their imagined man in the sky.
The smoke was so thick now that it would have choked a mortal being, but to me it was less than a passing annoyance. The walls creaked and groaned as they began to burn through and collapse under the house's weight. A sudden crash and the second floor collapsed down upon me freeing me from my shackles. I had to fight through the rubble to get to the top, but now freed I walked from the still burning wreckage of the old home.
I could see the shock and horror on the faces of the firemen as they stared into the flames, gazing upon me as I walked unharmed from the burning wreckage. I felt sorry for them, it must have been horrifying. Emerging from the wreckage was a creature they had never seen, vaguely anthropoid in outline, but with an octopus-like head and face a mass of feelers. I placed my head in one prodigious claw and tapped a clawed foot. This was going to be that... what was his name... Oh yeah... This was going to be that Lovecraft guy all over again.
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It was too late, by the time I woke up, to escape the fire unseen. In my defense, I once slept through a bomb destroying my entire city block in Yemen, where I was taking a leisurely, decade-long nap, and had to dig myself out of an entire apartment building when I woke up...but I digress.
It was a bog-standard house in southern Idaho. Smoke filled the room, impossible to see through, even though I resolutely declined to let my eyes water. Flames were crawling through the door cracks, invading my bedroom. There were sirens outside, and over the roar of the flames I could hear firefighters shouting to one another.
I looked around the room, hoping to find a spot to to shelter in that might convince the authorities that I was merely lucky, not impossible. I opened the door to the bathroom that was only accessible via my bedroom and the next room over. Perhaps I could lie down in the bathtub. The handle was blisteringly hot to the touch – although my skin continuously healed before the contact could cause more than a slight sting – so I abandoned that plan. The bathroom was clearly already on fire.
This was becoming quite tricky. I avoided exposing myself like this: in the past, it was due to the numerous religions I’d accidentally started. Most were short-lived, thank goodness, but there was an island off the coast of Somalia where they still worshiped me, and by that I mean they had caught me and tossed me off a cliff the last time I visited.
Best to avoid that sort of situation, especially around here where the Mormons were only outnumbered by the Evangelicals, and all of them had strong feelings about the One True God, blah blah blah. Let me tell you, there was nothing special about Yah-Weh. He’d had been a real dick, back in the day, faking miracles and seeing how crazy he’d have to make the rules before his people revolted. He sung a different tune after he masqueraded as his own son and got crucified, though, and it took him three days to move the boulder put in front of his “grave.”
Good times. Put me in a good mood for two centuries, seeing him taken down a peg like that.
The whole room was on fire, now. I was not in the mood to be on the news as a “miraculous” escape, or attacked by religious fanatics, or to accidentally start a break-off cult. The smoke thinned for a moment, probably due to the high-powered hoses now trained at the house, by the sound of it. I had to get out of here. Walking through flames and escaping into the darkness, naked, after my clothes inevitably burnt off or “miraculous survival?” Choices, choices. Ugh, this was enough to make me want to go hang out in the woods with Sasquatch for a few decades. Maybe she was in the mood to prank tourists again.
Oh, wait, the greenhouse. I had some spare gardening clothes out there and had no qualms in claiming I’d fallen asleep in my work clothes by the crick. Best to get it over with, though I did hate the sensation of my hair bubbling on my scalp.
The firefighters’ voices sounded closer, and the water blasting into the house was louder than the flames now. Best go immediately, I supposed. I opened the bathroom door again and was blasted with flames. I felt my eyelashes go instantaneously. Ugh. I trotted through the bathroom to the other room and tried to peek out the window. I didn’t see any people around so I opened the window and half-fell out of it along with a gout of flames and the last, sad, smoldering remnants of my clothes. My jeans’ zipper clinked sadly onto the deck.
“What in the Sam Hill,”
Fuck. I turned, dripping shreds of t-shirt and globs of melted hair, only to make eye contact with the neighbor. Who smoked a lot of weed.
Hmm. There’s an idea.
I raised my hands, shuffling sideways until I was immersed in the flames again and wobbled my body back and forth in what I hoped was a vaguely flame-like manner, then dove back through the window.
Hallucination from a bad batch of the devil’s lettuce, check.
New window time. I darted into the living room – oh, yikes, the floor was really gone in most places – and narrowly avoided getting red-hot nails driven into my feet. That was unpleasant, even if it wouldn’t hurt for long. One of the windows was shattered, so I headed that direction. I was straddling the sill, trying to keep my vulva off the shards of glass left in the frame when the pine tree in the yard – already elderly and barely hanging on after an infestation of boring pine beetles – groaned and tilted towards the house. And me.
I swore under my breath, abandoned my quest to avoid temporary genital injury and bolted for the greenhouse. At this point I didn’t care if the neighbor saw me again.
The tree groaned again and came down behind me. Even if the fire damage was reparable, the tree through the roof wouldn’t be, I’d bet. Good thing my current identify was both real and had really, really good homeowner’s insurance, I supposed, although I wasn’t sure yet if I was interested in re-building. I’d been here a few decades – more than long enough for people to start to notice that I had a suspicious lack of crow’s feet for a woman supposedly pushing fifty.
I bypassed the greenhouse altogether and lay down in the creek, letting the water sluice away as much soot and ash as possible. I grabbed a handful of sand from the bottom of the creek and scrubbed my face and hands. Best look as little like I just survived a fire as possible. That done, I went back to the greenhouse and pulled on the old, linen shirt and trousers I wore around the yard and stuffed my feet into a pair of crocs I had absolutely no memory of buying. My bedraggled straw hat to complete the whole outfit and disguise my current hairless state and,
“Inanna.”
“Kyle,” I responded absentmindedly, then his presence sunk in and I whirled towards the door where the newest immortal I knew of was standing, looking as much like a dipshit as ever. “Kyle,” I bared my teeth at him. “to what do I owe the dubious pleasure? I’m kinda busy right now, what with the whole ‘my house is burning down right this minute’ thing.”
He smirked at me.
“You dipshit!” I hissed at him. “What fucking reason could you possibly have to justify burning down my fucking house?”
“You burned down mine,” he crossed his arms and raised an eyebrow at me like this was a real argument.
I jabbed my finger at him. “That’s not how that went and you know it, you racist sack of shit. I wouldn’t have had to set a fire to cover my escape if you hadn’t literally had me locked in the basement while the fucking KKK met in your fucking living room deciding the best way to make me dead.”
He had the audacity to look sulky. “Well it’s not like we knew you were immortal, and you wouldn’t stop using the White facilities.”
I screeched wordlessly to vent my feelings for a few moments, then gathered myself. “You have ten seconds to get out of my sight before I go report that I think my stalker set the fire. What’s your current identify, Kyle Marcus Jones the third? Or are you the fourth now?”
He glowered at me for a moment then stormed away without answering.
I couldn’t believe his nerve. Or that he turned out to be immortal after I escaped from him and his gross, 1920s KKK pals.
I was definitely going to go hang out with Sasquatch for awhile.
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[WP] as the house you're trapped in burns to the ground you contemplate "how am i gonna explain the fact I'm immortal to the firemen without starting another religion"
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“Well...shit.”
That phrase became as common place to my family as the constant need to move. You see somewhere down the blood line, my family gained immortality and it’s been passed down ever since. We’ve been through a lot over the centuries and this wasn’t the families first disaster.
The fire was a faulty cord as I discovered on my jaunt through the burning wreckage of my house. I could hear screaming from outside, neighbors and firemen a like. No problem, just like the monoxide leak when we lived in Persia sneak out before they find you, play it up like you were never home...
“Hey chief I think I see someone trapped in the kitchen!”
Oh shit. We’ll plan b...I don’t have a plan b. Fuck firemen have become quite efficient since the last fire we had. Play it cool or run? Play it cool or run? Play...
“Look out man the ceilings coming down!”
Fuck...well, it will be easier to report the crazy guy that jumped through his kitchen...what the hell?!
It all happened so fast. The fireman tackled me and charged through the backdoor. He’s unconscious but breathing and here I sit wide awake without a scratch on me...well time to flee again lest another cult starts in my name...let’s just move the old hero before the house blows.
“Son are two alright?!”
“You must be the chief. Yeah the old guy just knocked himself stupid saving me. “
“We have to get you to a hospital...”
“That won’t be necessary, I’m fine. Not a scratch on me...”
Woah he’s suddenly really close...
“Martin get in my truck...”
H-how does he know my name...looks like I’m going for a ride
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It was too late, by the time I woke up, to escape the fire unseen. In my defense, I once slept through a bomb destroying my entire city block in Yemen, where I was taking a leisurely, decade-long nap, and had to dig myself out of an entire apartment building when I woke up...but I digress.
It was a bog-standard house in southern Idaho. Smoke filled the room, impossible to see through, even though I resolutely declined to let my eyes water. Flames were crawling through the door cracks, invading my bedroom. There were sirens outside, and over the roar of the flames I could hear firefighters shouting to one another.
I looked around the room, hoping to find a spot to to shelter in that might convince the authorities that I was merely lucky, not impossible. I opened the door to the bathroom that was only accessible via my bedroom and the next room over. Perhaps I could lie down in the bathtub. The handle was blisteringly hot to the touch – although my skin continuously healed before the contact could cause more than a slight sting – so I abandoned that plan. The bathroom was clearly already on fire.
This was becoming quite tricky. I avoided exposing myself like this: in the past, it was due to the numerous religions I’d accidentally started. Most were short-lived, thank goodness, but there was an island off the coast of Somalia where they still worshiped me, and by that I mean they had caught me and tossed me off a cliff the last time I visited.
Best to avoid that sort of situation, especially around here where the Mormons were only outnumbered by the Evangelicals, and all of them had strong feelings about the One True God, blah blah blah. Let me tell you, there was nothing special about Yah-Weh. He’d had been a real dick, back in the day, faking miracles and seeing how crazy he’d have to make the rules before his people revolted. He sung a different tune after he masqueraded as his own son and got crucified, though, and it took him three days to move the boulder put in front of his “grave.”
Good times. Put me in a good mood for two centuries, seeing him taken down a peg like that.
The whole room was on fire, now. I was not in the mood to be on the news as a “miraculous” escape, or attacked by religious fanatics, or to accidentally start a break-off cult. The smoke thinned for a moment, probably due to the high-powered hoses now trained at the house, by the sound of it. I had to get out of here. Walking through flames and escaping into the darkness, naked, after my clothes inevitably burnt off or “miraculous survival?” Choices, choices. Ugh, this was enough to make me want to go hang out in the woods with Sasquatch for a few decades. Maybe she was in the mood to prank tourists again.
Oh, wait, the greenhouse. I had some spare gardening clothes out there and had no qualms in claiming I’d fallen asleep in my work clothes by the crick. Best to get it over with, though I did hate the sensation of my hair bubbling on my scalp.
The firefighters’ voices sounded closer, and the water blasting into the house was louder than the flames now. Best go immediately, I supposed. I opened the bathroom door again and was blasted with flames. I felt my eyelashes go instantaneously. Ugh. I trotted through the bathroom to the other room and tried to peek out the window. I didn’t see any people around so I opened the window and half-fell out of it along with a gout of flames and the last, sad, smoldering remnants of my clothes. My jeans’ zipper clinked sadly onto the deck.
“What in the Sam Hill,”
Fuck. I turned, dripping shreds of t-shirt and globs of melted hair, only to make eye contact with the neighbor. Who smoked a lot of weed.
Hmm. There’s an idea.
I raised my hands, shuffling sideways until I was immersed in the flames again and wobbled my body back and forth in what I hoped was a vaguely flame-like manner, then dove back through the window.
Hallucination from a bad batch of the devil’s lettuce, check.
New window time. I darted into the living room – oh, yikes, the floor was really gone in most places – and narrowly avoided getting red-hot nails driven into my feet. That was unpleasant, even if it wouldn’t hurt for long. One of the windows was shattered, so I headed that direction. I was straddling the sill, trying to keep my vulva off the shards of glass left in the frame when the pine tree in the yard – already elderly and barely hanging on after an infestation of boring pine beetles – groaned and tilted towards the house. And me.
I swore under my breath, abandoned my quest to avoid temporary genital injury and bolted for the greenhouse. At this point I didn’t care if the neighbor saw me again.
The tree groaned again and came down behind me. Even if the fire damage was reparable, the tree through the roof wouldn’t be, I’d bet. Good thing my current identify was both real and had really, really good homeowner’s insurance, I supposed, although I wasn’t sure yet if I was interested in re-building. I’d been here a few decades – more than long enough for people to start to notice that I had a suspicious lack of crow’s feet for a woman supposedly pushing fifty.
I bypassed the greenhouse altogether and lay down in the creek, letting the water sluice away as much soot and ash as possible. I grabbed a handful of sand from the bottom of the creek and scrubbed my face and hands. Best look as little like I just survived a fire as possible. That done, I went back to the greenhouse and pulled on the old, linen shirt and trousers I wore around the yard and stuffed my feet into a pair of crocs I had absolutely no memory of buying. My bedraggled straw hat to complete the whole outfit and disguise my current hairless state and,
“Inanna.”
“Kyle,” I responded absentmindedly, then his presence sunk in and I whirled towards the door where the newest immortal I knew of was standing, looking as much like a dipshit as ever. “Kyle,” I bared my teeth at him. “to what do I owe the dubious pleasure? I’m kinda busy right now, what with the whole ‘my house is burning down right this minute’ thing.”
He smirked at me.
“You dipshit!” I hissed at him. “What fucking reason could you possibly have to justify burning down my fucking house?”
“You burned down mine,” he crossed his arms and raised an eyebrow at me like this was a real argument.
I jabbed my finger at him. “That’s not how that went and you know it, you racist sack of shit. I wouldn’t have had to set a fire to cover my escape if you hadn’t literally had me locked in the basement while the fucking KKK met in your fucking living room deciding the best way to make me dead.”
He had the audacity to look sulky. “Well it’s not like we knew you were immortal, and you wouldn’t stop using the White facilities.”
I screeched wordlessly to vent my feelings for a few moments, then gathered myself. “You have ten seconds to get out of my sight before I go report that I think my stalker set the fire. What’s your current identify, Kyle Marcus Jones the third? Or are you the fourth now?”
He glowered at me for a moment then stormed away without answering.
I couldn’t believe his nerve. Or that he turned out to be immortal after I escaped from him and his gross, 1920s KKK pals.
I was definitely going to go hang out with Sasquatch for awhile.
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[WP] as the house you're trapped in burns to the ground you contemplate "how am i gonna explain the fact I'm immortal to the firemen without starting another religion"
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This is the fifth time I've burned.
Smoke pours through a newly formed hole near the doorway, collecting in a thick cloud along the ceiling. Each breath I take sets my lungs aflame. I guess I never really got used to the pain, after all.
As the flames begin to swallow the door, I hear sirens wail outside. It will be some time before they reach this room, of course. Hell, the rest of the house may very well be gone by then. But they will reach it. And they will find me.
And they will have questions.
My first experience with burning was shortly after earning my immortality. I was young--relatively speaking, of course--and I lost a bet at some bar in Scotland. The bet, of course, was that I could handle being set on fire. Turns out I couldn't.
That doesn't help me much now, of course. The door is gone; the flames hungry for my flesh. They will feast upon it soon enough.
In Scotland, the men heard my wails and ran. A bit of luck on my part. My subsequent blazes were equal parts bad luck and poor planning--a lit cigarette at bed, bad aim with a molotov cocktail, even an unfortunate time featuring a flamethrower and what I *thought* was an empty barrel.
Over the cracking flames, I hear the sounding axes splintering wood. My rescuers have entered the building. But the flames have already licked away my clothes and started in on my flesh. I know I will not burn, but *damn* if it doesn't feel like I am.
But what will I say to them? No matter when they find me, or in what state, they will be left without explanation. A hundred years ago they would think me a witch. That, course, would lead to more burning. Short memories, these folk.
Now, though? Now they might think me a God. A strange, naked, hairless God, but a God nonetheless. And I can't have that. It took years and a trip around the world to hide my immortality the first time I was found out. With the emergence of the internet, I fear I cannot outrun it this time.
I sigh as the wooden bedframe fails beneath me. I've got one idea--one single hope. So I take action.
Fighting through the pain, I smear hot, red ash across my face. My chest. My entire body. Then I lay in the rubble and wait.
They find me quicker than expected. The flames are mostly gone, the house a smoldering pile of ash and burnt memories. A large beam is lifted from my chest and a man in yellow and black stares at me with his mouth agape.
I see his chest expand as he prepares to shout.
"Wait," I say. "Don't call for them. Leave me be."
He stares back. I see the dilemma in his eyes. He wonders if he's hallucinating. If I'm real.
"Ten thousand dollars," I say. "There are things at work here you wouldn't understand. And ill give you ten thousand dollars to lower that beam and walk away."
His lips part as he prepares to speak, but i cut him off.
"Say nothing. If they see you talk, you get nothing."
He blinks, then turns his head to look at his colleagues in the distance. Then he shakes his head and lowers the beam.
I smile, hardly able to believe it worked. Human greed is truly a remarkable thing.
Of course, if I had known the consequences that would follow my deal with this man, I never would have said a word.
r/Ford9863 for more nonsense.
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It was too late, by the time I woke up, to escape the fire unseen. In my defense, I once slept through a bomb destroying my entire city block in Yemen, where I was taking a leisurely, decade-long nap, and had to dig myself out of an entire apartment building when I woke up...but I digress.
It was a bog-standard house in southern Idaho. Smoke filled the room, impossible to see through, even though I resolutely declined to let my eyes water. Flames were crawling through the door cracks, invading my bedroom. There were sirens outside, and over the roar of the flames I could hear firefighters shouting to one another.
I looked around the room, hoping to find a spot to to shelter in that might convince the authorities that I was merely lucky, not impossible. I opened the door to the bathroom that was only accessible via my bedroom and the next room over. Perhaps I could lie down in the bathtub. The handle was blisteringly hot to the touch – although my skin continuously healed before the contact could cause more than a slight sting – so I abandoned that plan. The bathroom was clearly already on fire.
This was becoming quite tricky. I avoided exposing myself like this: in the past, it was due to the numerous religions I’d accidentally started. Most were short-lived, thank goodness, but there was an island off the coast of Somalia where they still worshiped me, and by that I mean they had caught me and tossed me off a cliff the last time I visited.
Best to avoid that sort of situation, especially around here where the Mormons were only outnumbered by the Evangelicals, and all of them had strong feelings about the One True God, blah blah blah. Let me tell you, there was nothing special about Yah-Weh. He’d had been a real dick, back in the day, faking miracles and seeing how crazy he’d have to make the rules before his people revolted. He sung a different tune after he masqueraded as his own son and got crucified, though, and it took him three days to move the boulder put in front of his “grave.”
Good times. Put me in a good mood for two centuries, seeing him taken down a peg like that.
The whole room was on fire, now. I was not in the mood to be on the news as a “miraculous” escape, or attacked by religious fanatics, or to accidentally start a break-off cult. The smoke thinned for a moment, probably due to the high-powered hoses now trained at the house, by the sound of it. I had to get out of here. Walking through flames and escaping into the darkness, naked, after my clothes inevitably burnt off or “miraculous survival?” Choices, choices. Ugh, this was enough to make me want to go hang out in the woods with Sasquatch for a few decades. Maybe she was in the mood to prank tourists again.
Oh, wait, the greenhouse. I had some spare gardening clothes out there and had no qualms in claiming I’d fallen asleep in my work clothes by the crick. Best to get it over with, though I did hate the sensation of my hair bubbling on my scalp.
The firefighters’ voices sounded closer, and the water blasting into the house was louder than the flames now. Best go immediately, I supposed. I opened the bathroom door again and was blasted with flames. I felt my eyelashes go instantaneously. Ugh. I trotted through the bathroom to the other room and tried to peek out the window. I didn’t see any people around so I opened the window and half-fell out of it along with a gout of flames and the last, sad, smoldering remnants of my clothes. My jeans’ zipper clinked sadly onto the deck.
“What in the Sam Hill,”
Fuck. I turned, dripping shreds of t-shirt and globs of melted hair, only to make eye contact with the neighbor. Who smoked a lot of weed.
Hmm. There’s an idea.
I raised my hands, shuffling sideways until I was immersed in the flames again and wobbled my body back and forth in what I hoped was a vaguely flame-like manner, then dove back through the window.
Hallucination from a bad batch of the devil’s lettuce, check.
New window time. I darted into the living room – oh, yikes, the floor was really gone in most places – and narrowly avoided getting red-hot nails driven into my feet. That was unpleasant, even if it wouldn’t hurt for long. One of the windows was shattered, so I headed that direction. I was straddling the sill, trying to keep my vulva off the shards of glass left in the frame when the pine tree in the yard – already elderly and barely hanging on after an infestation of boring pine beetles – groaned and tilted towards the house. And me.
I swore under my breath, abandoned my quest to avoid temporary genital injury and bolted for the greenhouse. At this point I didn’t care if the neighbor saw me again.
The tree groaned again and came down behind me. Even if the fire damage was reparable, the tree through the roof wouldn’t be, I’d bet. Good thing my current identify was both real and had really, really good homeowner’s insurance, I supposed, although I wasn’t sure yet if I was interested in re-building. I’d been here a few decades – more than long enough for people to start to notice that I had a suspicious lack of crow’s feet for a woman supposedly pushing fifty.
I bypassed the greenhouse altogether and lay down in the creek, letting the water sluice away as much soot and ash as possible. I grabbed a handful of sand from the bottom of the creek and scrubbed my face and hands. Best look as little like I just survived a fire as possible. That done, I went back to the greenhouse and pulled on the old, linen shirt and trousers I wore around the yard and stuffed my feet into a pair of crocs I had absolutely no memory of buying. My bedraggled straw hat to complete the whole outfit and disguise my current hairless state and,
“Inanna.”
“Kyle,” I responded absentmindedly, then his presence sunk in and I whirled towards the door where the newest immortal I knew of was standing, looking as much like a dipshit as ever. “Kyle,” I bared my teeth at him. “to what do I owe the dubious pleasure? I’m kinda busy right now, what with the whole ‘my house is burning down right this minute’ thing.”
He smirked at me.
“You dipshit!” I hissed at him. “What fucking reason could you possibly have to justify burning down my fucking house?”
“You burned down mine,” he crossed his arms and raised an eyebrow at me like this was a real argument.
I jabbed my finger at him. “That’s not how that went and you know it, you racist sack of shit. I wouldn’t have had to set a fire to cover my escape if you hadn’t literally had me locked in the basement while the fucking KKK met in your fucking living room deciding the best way to make me dead.”
He had the audacity to look sulky. “Well it’s not like we knew you were immortal, and you wouldn’t stop using the White facilities.”
I screeched wordlessly to vent my feelings for a few moments, then gathered myself. “You have ten seconds to get out of my sight before I go report that I think my stalker set the fire. What’s your current identify, Kyle Marcus Jones the third? Or are you the fourth now?”
He glowered at me for a moment then stormed away without answering.
I couldn’t believe his nerve. Or that he turned out to be immortal after I escaped from him and his gross, 1920s KKK pals.
I was definitely going to go hang out with Sasquatch for awhile.
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[WP] as the house you're trapped in burns to the ground you contemplate "how am i gonna explain the fact I'm immortal to the firemen without starting another religion"
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Why couldn't I have been gifted with super strength as well as immortality and the water thing? I've thrown myself against this door enough times to break it down, so there's probably a fallen beam blocking the way. I can shove aside a big stone but a burning hunk of wood? Nope. Now I'm stuck in this windowless room, and if I can't find a route to sneak away when the whole thing collapses, they'll find me, an unburnt pristine human body among embers burning bright.
What will they think? And how could I have let this happen again? After so many hundreds of years. Sure, it has passed my mind, to return and play the role I'm expected to, but I've lost the levity I had when I was younger. I'm not as eloquent, not as witty. I can't string together the same words in this language as I had managed in Aramaic. And to be frank, I just don't care as much as I did back then. "Brotherhood," *pff*. I've seen enough to have changed my mind about that whole thing.
Flame licked my arms like curious cat tongues, but my skin was unaffected. The fire swept through my small room and covered all the walls. "What a brilliant display," I thought to myself, sitting on my bum and cradling my knees. I felt like a child watching a show.
When the house finally collapsed enough for me to spy an exit, I decided to stick around instead. It has been a shitty year for humanity, and maybe I could finally come out of my shell and help out. *Stockton*, California. Not quite the same ring as *Jerusalem*.
"Alright, you," I said to myself, "pile on the drama, let's do some good."
I could see firetruck lights through the flames now, and the suited men doing their work. A little crowd of people, too. Hoses blasted the last licks of flames, leaving a dripping black skeleton of craggy architecture, a hallowed cage for me to emerge from.
And so I did.
Arms extended in the same welcoming gesture I used back when, a Mona Lisa smile, and me hoping my eyes were sparkling.
In the heat of the moment, so to speak, I had forgotten that all my clothes and hair had been burned off. What these people saw therefore was a nude man smeared in the charcoal of smoke and coal, no hair, no beard, no eyebrows or pubic hair either, walking like a tangible albino ghost from the scene of wreckage. It wasn't quite like walking on water, even though in some places where little pools had formed, I actually was.
I couldn't have predicted their response. Phones out, flashing. It was broad daylight, but each flash was like lightning at night. Hoses closed off, sweaty faces looking at me from beneath helmet brims. Not sure if it was awe or just discomfort that kept them quiet.
As I crossed the lawn, I let my arms fall to my sides and by the time I reached them I was just walking normally. A fireman approached and wrapped a blanket around my shoulders. A teenage girl giggled at my manparts, I guess. A few firemen looked like they wanted to ask something but shrugged it off.
In the end, I was shuttled to a hospital and released within the hour, showered and clothed. Later, I found some photos online, blurred of course. The big click baity articles they accompanied mentioned that a guy survived a fire and came walking out nude.
And that's the last I heard of it. Turns out, an event like this that not too long ago would've stirred conspiracy and news for months was quickly replaced by other news items of the day. No one cared. Too hard to pay attention to a current thing when there are more-current things happening all the time. Go figure.
At a cafe across the street from the hospital I sat down with a small Americano and a donut. I ate the donut. I drank the coffee. Then I went down the street, whistling, and thinking about what I should eat for lunch.
\_\_\_\_\_
/r/velabasstuff. more here
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It was too late, by the time I woke up, to escape the fire unseen. In my defense, I once slept through a bomb destroying my entire city block in Yemen, where I was taking a leisurely, decade-long nap, and had to dig myself out of an entire apartment building when I woke up...but I digress.
It was a bog-standard house in southern Idaho. Smoke filled the room, impossible to see through, even though I resolutely declined to let my eyes water. Flames were crawling through the door cracks, invading my bedroom. There were sirens outside, and over the roar of the flames I could hear firefighters shouting to one another.
I looked around the room, hoping to find a spot to to shelter in that might convince the authorities that I was merely lucky, not impossible. I opened the door to the bathroom that was only accessible via my bedroom and the next room over. Perhaps I could lie down in the bathtub. The handle was blisteringly hot to the touch – although my skin continuously healed before the contact could cause more than a slight sting – so I abandoned that plan. The bathroom was clearly already on fire.
This was becoming quite tricky. I avoided exposing myself like this: in the past, it was due to the numerous religions I’d accidentally started. Most were short-lived, thank goodness, but there was an island off the coast of Somalia where they still worshiped me, and by that I mean they had caught me and tossed me off a cliff the last time I visited.
Best to avoid that sort of situation, especially around here where the Mormons were only outnumbered by the Evangelicals, and all of them had strong feelings about the One True God, blah blah blah. Let me tell you, there was nothing special about Yah-Weh. He’d had been a real dick, back in the day, faking miracles and seeing how crazy he’d have to make the rules before his people revolted. He sung a different tune after he masqueraded as his own son and got crucified, though, and it took him three days to move the boulder put in front of his “grave.”
Good times. Put me in a good mood for two centuries, seeing him taken down a peg like that.
The whole room was on fire, now. I was not in the mood to be on the news as a “miraculous” escape, or attacked by religious fanatics, or to accidentally start a break-off cult. The smoke thinned for a moment, probably due to the high-powered hoses now trained at the house, by the sound of it. I had to get out of here. Walking through flames and escaping into the darkness, naked, after my clothes inevitably burnt off or “miraculous survival?” Choices, choices. Ugh, this was enough to make me want to go hang out in the woods with Sasquatch for a few decades. Maybe she was in the mood to prank tourists again.
Oh, wait, the greenhouse. I had some spare gardening clothes out there and had no qualms in claiming I’d fallen asleep in my work clothes by the crick. Best to get it over with, though I did hate the sensation of my hair bubbling on my scalp.
The firefighters’ voices sounded closer, and the water blasting into the house was louder than the flames now. Best go immediately, I supposed. I opened the bathroom door again and was blasted with flames. I felt my eyelashes go instantaneously. Ugh. I trotted through the bathroom to the other room and tried to peek out the window. I didn’t see any people around so I opened the window and half-fell out of it along with a gout of flames and the last, sad, smoldering remnants of my clothes. My jeans’ zipper clinked sadly onto the deck.
“What in the Sam Hill,”
Fuck. I turned, dripping shreds of t-shirt and globs of melted hair, only to make eye contact with the neighbor. Who smoked a lot of weed.
Hmm. There’s an idea.
I raised my hands, shuffling sideways until I was immersed in the flames again and wobbled my body back and forth in what I hoped was a vaguely flame-like manner, then dove back through the window.
Hallucination from a bad batch of the devil’s lettuce, check.
New window time. I darted into the living room – oh, yikes, the floor was really gone in most places – and narrowly avoided getting red-hot nails driven into my feet. That was unpleasant, even if it wouldn’t hurt for long. One of the windows was shattered, so I headed that direction. I was straddling the sill, trying to keep my vulva off the shards of glass left in the frame when the pine tree in the yard – already elderly and barely hanging on after an infestation of boring pine beetles – groaned and tilted towards the house. And me.
I swore under my breath, abandoned my quest to avoid temporary genital injury and bolted for the greenhouse. At this point I didn’t care if the neighbor saw me again.
The tree groaned again and came down behind me. Even if the fire damage was reparable, the tree through the roof wouldn’t be, I’d bet. Good thing my current identify was both real and had really, really good homeowner’s insurance, I supposed, although I wasn’t sure yet if I was interested in re-building. I’d been here a few decades – more than long enough for people to start to notice that I had a suspicious lack of crow’s feet for a woman supposedly pushing fifty.
I bypassed the greenhouse altogether and lay down in the creek, letting the water sluice away as much soot and ash as possible. I grabbed a handful of sand from the bottom of the creek and scrubbed my face and hands. Best look as little like I just survived a fire as possible. That done, I went back to the greenhouse and pulled on the old, linen shirt and trousers I wore around the yard and stuffed my feet into a pair of crocs I had absolutely no memory of buying. My bedraggled straw hat to complete the whole outfit and disguise my current hairless state and,
“Inanna.”
“Kyle,” I responded absentmindedly, then his presence sunk in and I whirled towards the door where the newest immortal I knew of was standing, looking as much like a dipshit as ever. “Kyle,” I bared my teeth at him. “to what do I owe the dubious pleasure? I’m kinda busy right now, what with the whole ‘my house is burning down right this minute’ thing.”
He smirked at me.
“You dipshit!” I hissed at him. “What fucking reason could you possibly have to justify burning down my fucking house?”
“You burned down mine,” he crossed his arms and raised an eyebrow at me like this was a real argument.
I jabbed my finger at him. “That’s not how that went and you know it, you racist sack of shit. I wouldn’t have had to set a fire to cover my escape if you hadn’t literally had me locked in the basement while the fucking KKK met in your fucking living room deciding the best way to make me dead.”
He had the audacity to look sulky. “Well it’s not like we knew you were immortal, and you wouldn’t stop using the White facilities.”
I screeched wordlessly to vent my feelings for a few moments, then gathered myself. “You have ten seconds to get out of my sight before I go report that I think my stalker set the fire. What’s your current identify, Kyle Marcus Jones the third? Or are you the fourth now?”
He glowered at me for a moment then stormed away without answering.
I couldn’t believe his nerve. Or that he turned out to be immortal after I escaped from him and his gross, 1920s KKK pals.
I was definitely going to go hang out with Sasquatch for awhile.
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[WP] as the house you're trapped in burns to the ground you contemplate "how am i gonna explain the fact I'm immortal to the firemen without starting another religion"
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Why couldn't I have been gifted with super strength as well as immortality and the water thing? I've thrown myself against this door enough times to break it down, so there's probably a fallen beam blocking the way. I can shove aside a big stone but a burning hunk of wood? Nope. Now I'm stuck in this windowless room, and if I can't find a route to sneak away when the whole thing collapses, they'll find me, an unburnt pristine human body among embers burning bright.
What will they think? And how could I have let this happen again? After so many hundreds of years. Sure, it has passed my mind, to return and play the role I'm expected to, but I've lost the levity I had when I was younger. I'm not as eloquent, not as witty. I can't string together the same words in this language as I had managed in Aramaic. And to be frank, I just don't care as much as I did back then. "Brotherhood," *pff*. I've seen enough to have changed my mind about that whole thing.
Flame licked my arms like curious cat tongues, but my skin was unaffected. The fire swept through my small room and covered all the walls. "What a brilliant display," I thought to myself, sitting on my bum and cradling my knees. I felt like a child watching a show.
When the house finally collapsed enough for me to spy an exit, I decided to stick around instead. It has been a shitty year for humanity, and maybe I could finally come out of my shell and help out. *Stockton*, California. Not quite the same ring as *Jerusalem*.
"Alright, you," I said to myself, "pile on the drama, let's do some good."
I could see firetruck lights through the flames now, and the suited men doing their work. A little crowd of people, too. Hoses blasted the last licks of flames, leaving a dripping black skeleton of craggy architecture, a hallowed cage for me to emerge from.
And so I did.
Arms extended in the same welcoming gesture I used back when, a Mona Lisa smile, and me hoping my eyes were sparkling.
In the heat of the moment, so to speak, I had forgotten that all my clothes and hair had been burned off. What these people saw therefore was a nude man smeared in the charcoal of smoke and coal, no hair, no beard, no eyebrows or pubic hair either, walking like a tangible albino ghost from the scene of wreckage. It wasn't quite like walking on water, even though in some places where little pools had formed, I actually was.
I couldn't have predicted their response. Phones out, flashing. It was broad daylight, but each flash was like lightning at night. Hoses closed off, sweaty faces looking at me from beneath helmet brims. Not sure if it was awe or just discomfort that kept them quiet.
As I crossed the lawn, I let my arms fall to my sides and by the time I reached them I was just walking normally. A fireman approached and wrapped a blanket around my shoulders. A teenage girl giggled at my manparts, I guess. A few firemen looked like they wanted to ask something but shrugged it off.
In the end, I was shuttled to a hospital and released within the hour, showered and clothed. Later, I found some photos online, blurred of course. The big click baity articles they accompanied mentioned that a guy survived a fire and came walking out nude.
And that's the last I heard of it. Turns out, an event like this that not too long ago would've stirred conspiracy and news for months was quickly replaced by other news items of the day. No one cared. Too hard to pay attention to a current thing when there are more-current things happening all the time. Go figure.
At a cafe across the street from the hospital I sat down with a small Americano and a donut. I ate the donut. I drank the coffee. Then I went down the street, whistling, and thinking about what I should eat for lunch.
\_\_\_\_\_
/r/velabasstuff. more here
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This is the fifth time I've burned.
Smoke pours through a newly formed hole near the doorway, collecting in a thick cloud along the ceiling. Each breath I take sets my lungs aflame. I guess I never really got used to the pain, after all.
As the flames begin to swallow the door, I hear sirens wail outside. It will be some time before they reach this room, of course. Hell, the rest of the house may very well be gone by then. But they will reach it. And they will find me.
And they will have questions.
My first experience with burning was shortly after earning my immortality. I was young--relatively speaking, of course--and I lost a bet at some bar in Scotland. The bet, of course, was that I could handle being set on fire. Turns out I couldn't.
That doesn't help me much now, of course. The door is gone; the flames hungry for my flesh. They will feast upon it soon enough.
In Scotland, the men heard my wails and ran. A bit of luck on my part. My subsequent blazes were equal parts bad luck and poor planning--a lit cigarette at bed, bad aim with a molotov cocktail, even an unfortunate time featuring a flamethrower and what I *thought* was an empty barrel.
Over the cracking flames, I hear the sounding axes splintering wood. My rescuers have entered the building. But the flames have already licked away my clothes and started in on my flesh. I know I will not burn, but *damn* if it doesn't feel like I am.
But what will I say to them? No matter when they find me, or in what state, they will be left without explanation. A hundred years ago they would think me a witch. That, course, would lead to more burning. Short memories, these folk.
Now, though? Now they might think me a God. A strange, naked, hairless God, but a God nonetheless. And I can't have that. It took years and a trip around the world to hide my immortality the first time I was found out. With the emergence of the internet, I fear I cannot outrun it this time.
I sigh as the wooden bedframe fails beneath me. I've got one idea--one single hope. So I take action.
Fighting through the pain, I smear hot, red ash across my face. My chest. My entire body. Then I lay in the rubble and wait.
They find me quicker than expected. The flames are mostly gone, the house a smoldering pile of ash and burnt memories. A large beam is lifted from my chest and a man in yellow and black stares at me with his mouth agape.
I see his chest expand as he prepares to shout.
"Wait," I say. "Don't call for them. Leave me be."
He stares back. I see the dilemma in his eyes. He wonders if he's hallucinating. If I'm real.
"Ten thousand dollars," I say. "There are things at work here you wouldn't understand. And ill give you ten thousand dollars to lower that beam and walk away."
His lips part as he prepares to speak, but i cut him off.
"Say nothing. If they see you talk, you get nothing."
He blinks, then turns his head to look at his colleagues in the distance. Then he shakes his head and lowers the beam.
I smile, hardly able to believe it worked. Human greed is truly a remarkable thing.
Of course, if I had known the consequences that would follow my deal with this man, I never would have said a word.
r/Ford9863 for more nonsense.
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[WP] as the house you're trapped in burns to the ground you contemplate "how am i gonna explain the fact I'm immortal to the firemen without starting another religion"
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"Hey there little fella. Hey buddy. It's ok. It's ok."
Yes, ma'am, I'm aware it's ok. I'm always aware that if I say as much, you're going to flip shit.
"Any idea where this baby came from?" the firewoman asks. "It looks like the building, but obviously..." and she gestures at the smoking ruins of my old house. Yes, highly implausible, well spotted *ma'am*.
"No clue. We can't even find evidence that anyone's lived here in years," reports back some faceless chief.
"How strange."
No, what's strange is being graced with immortality on the caveat that, at all time, you must be aging. Now aging forward or backward is up to me, but I gotta be going in one direction and once I pick it, I gotta stick with it til the end or the beginning. I'm currently going back up now. It was nice to finally be able to form words and walk again, until I fucked up my cooking and ignited the place.
In comparison, a house with no owners that burned down leaving a two year old unscathed is practically normal.
"Hmm. He looks kinda shell shocked."
She's a real winner, this one.
"Well... I'm going to accompany the EMTs with him to the hospital. You tell me if you find anything."
She carries me to the ambulance while the hard working, criminally underpaid med techs start frantically searching for something wrong. Across from me, the firelady is giving me those big goo goo eyes. She's also smiling and waving her hands around and damnit that unformed part of my brain is eating it up and I can't stop a giggle from escaping my lips.
"Awwwww," they all go.
It doesn't take us a lot of time to get to the hospital and do the whole song-and-dance about where are the kid's parents and why doesn't he have any injuries. Ok, it does take a lot of time, but when you've been around six centuries, you start to be able to skip through the slow bits.
This ends as, at the end of the day, the hospital folk say they don't want me. Apparently I'm not sick enough and it's time for foster care.
The firefighter lady looks down at me and I know where this is going immediately.
"Hey buddy, wanna come home with me?"
If I'm being honest, it doesn't sound like a terrible deal, so I sigh and nod, forgetting myself for just a moment. She looks surprised but pleased and then we're in a car, zooming 'home'.
It's a strange feeling. I haven't lived with a parent for a while. My last childhood, both 18 years in reverse and 18 years back up to adulthood, were spent ~~lonely~~ alone so it's been close to 200 years since I had one of these. I've heard times are good for kids. Maybe this won't suck.
"Maybe I can keep you," she muses. "I dunno, maybe I can swing it. Single mom who puts out fires for a living, what could possibly provide you with a more stable home."
She sounds sad and, being the sucker I am, I feel sad for her. I think growing up would be easier with a parent on hand and she seems a bit more relaxed. And honestly, if she had the years of knowledge that I had in my head, it'd be easy to swing the legal stuff.
We stop by some stores, which I kinda mentally fast forward through, as we get all the clothes and toys and food and shit that she swore she already had, and then we're home. She's got my favorite food and soon I find my stomach nice and full.
Then she gets all morose looking at my peachy lil face and starts crying. Then she picks up the phone and starts dialing. I'm only half paying attention when I hear her say
"Yes? Is this foster services? I think I may have made a mistake"
"Woah. Stop. Put it down now."
She whirls on me with a scream and the phone goes flying. Great. Cops are gonna be on the like white on rice.
"Look, ma'am, it seems like we both got something we could get out of this deal, so why don't we approach it smart."
"You're talking?"
"You're following along better than the last yokels who started worshiping me. I think you're a smart lady. Would make a good mother."
"I-I'm barren."
"And ya know what? I'm ok with that. I don't want siblings anyway. So, we don't got a lotta time before foster services sends a police car over to investigate the woman who 'made a mistake' and then screamed before the line went dead."
"I... I didn't think about that."
"Way ahead of you." But her eyes are clear and she's listening and I know I've picked right. I lean in, conspiratorially. "Here's what we gotta do..."
___
Find more stories at [r/SamaraWrites](https://www.reddit.com/r/SamaraWrites/)
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Flames licked at my right side, scorching my torso. The side of my shirt was seared, crumbling into cinders as I dragged myself along the soot smeared hardwood towards the central wall of my family home. Of course this would happen to me.
Is it too much to ask for a small nap after dinner? I mean, I know I should’ve checked the element was off. And that I had moved everything flammable away from the stove. And actually put the fire alarm back after I took it down to change the batteries.
Scratch that. I’m just an idiot.
The ceiling cracked and creaked as I crawled towards the front door. Clouds of smoke, low and thick, obscured my vision and choked off my lungs when I tried to stand. The rustic, pine dining room table cracked and popped as it burned. The couch I was sleeping on had long since crumbled to ash, leaving only metallic springs and the wooden frame which even now continued to burn. A fate I would share if I didn’t make my way to safety.
I could hear sirens over my home’s groans of complaint. Shafts of red and white light stabbed through the shadows, revealing hints of the hellish purgatory of my own devising. Incomprehensible shouts barraged my ears, and I pulled myself towards the front door.
Whatever happens, I cannot die here. It’s such an inconvenience.
For context, death isn’t exactly permanent for me. In fact, it’s merely a step into the next portion of my life. When my final breath is exhaled, I burst into ash, and am reborn as a child of any species I choose. For a time, I was a bird of red and gold, shining like the morning sun. Centuries later, I chose to be reborn as a common house cat, and died several times as a kitten. I may be responsible for the myth about cats having nine lives.
But the real problem is when I’m human. The last time, I got crucified and left to die. The gracious, misguided humans took to my burial with gusto, and I was thrown into a stone tomb before I could spring from the ashes. Jesus only had to wait three days, but I was stuck there for months. Suffering from an endless loop of death and rebirth, until finally one of my births happened to coincide with a young woman paying her respects to her ancestors. She could hardly ignore the squalls of a young babe now, could she?
Back to reality. The smoke is hanging low. Mottled oranges caress my body, wreathing me in pain. The smoke sinks lower embracing my lungs and wrenching away my breath. I can hear the wood of the front door splintering under the weight of the axes, but it’s too little, too late.
I curl in upon myself, and release my final breath.
_____________________________________________________
I awoke crying. The ashes scratched my smooth back, and I was hungry. The pressure of two gloved hands supported me from my rear and my neck, clutching me gently to cloth that crinkled from the pressure. Warm, black tendrils of smoke wrapped around us before we burst into the evening air, and a fresh breeze blew it all away.
“My son!” My mother’s cries assaulted my ears. “Where is my son?”
“I’m sorry, miss,” the firefighter clutching me to his chest replied, “There was no one else in there. We chopped down the door, but all we found was this babe laying in a pile of ash.”
“Please!” she yelled, “You have to look again. My son is still in there!”
“‘Ey, Boss. I’m going back in for another look.” The second firefighter ran back into the building, watched anxiously by my mother and the firefighter holding me to my chest.
Minutes passed before the man stumbled out again. He looked at us, and slowly shook his head.
My mother burst into tears, collapsing to her knees as she sobbed and wailed. Our cries intertwined, one voice expressing sorrow, another screaming its hunger, and both lamenting their loss.
Boss sat down beside her. He cradled me in one arm as he pulled her close. “I’m sorry, miss,” he said, “I’m so sorry for your loss. But this babe here was found alone in your home. Is he yours?”
She shook her head.
He smiled, before passing me into my mother’s arms. “I know your son can never be replaced, but this child clearly needs a home. Would you be willing to take care of him for us?”
Mother looked at him in shock, before turning to face me. I grabbed her finger with my own, and she smiled through her tears.
“I will,” she said softly, “I even have a name for him.”
“What is it?”
She stroked my cheek with her finger. “I think I’ll call him Phoenix.”
_____________________________________________________
Thanks for reading! I hope you enjoyed my stab at the prompt. If you want to read more, check out [r/smoothbaritone](https://old.reddit.com/r/smoothbaritone/).
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[WP] When you're a mad scientist, the saying "The real treasure is the friends you made along the way!" is quite a bit more literal than anyone nearby is comfortable with.
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“Fuck me” David exclaims, after finally seeking out the prize many other have failed to find. He looks over the looming out of darkness, with a small sense of dread, his heart racing. “Was this really all I sought for? A small lockbox with whatever this guy needed? All my friends, dying in front of me, knowing I could do nothing to save them without seeing them a few minutes afterwards?”
“Hey dipshit, why are you saying everything your thinking right now out loud” I say, with a half assed laugh. My lungs get like they have been ruptured from all the Limestone falling onto my head. Little did we know, it wasn’t jus the exterior that had that beautiful rock. “James, come on over here. We should probably give the professor a ring.” “No, I think not. We just ran a mile and a half with some dude following us, and that dude didn’t even exist. I’m going crazy Dave, I just can’t do this right now” I knew he hated being called Dave, but it always made my body a little warmer seeing people upset. “I understand, with what happened to Kenz-“
“Don’t even think of mentioning that name to me right now, unless you want me to look like you on prom night.” My eyes burnt, not only from the large amount of dust on the surface, but that everything that would wash it away has been used up. “Two days for this shit. Look at this, if I knew all this would have happened I never would have done it.”
“David, don’t worry man. Yeah, it was a bitch trying to get out here, and knowing that all that was done could have been solved if we had just listened to the old bastard.” After all I had said to coheres his brain, I noticed the desperation in his eyes drip down, leaving his body. He’s finally cracked, and the scene would play in my mind for the few minutes I had left. “Well man, lets open this bitch up and see why it sent us this way.” He gripped the small box, lifting up the smal iron clasps. The box opened up easily, and I started to get nervous he had noticed that it was a lot easier then I said it would be. “Deep breathe buddy, this will be exciting” as David opened the box, the crisp smile turned to nothing, as if someone had cut the wires to his brain. “What’s wrong?” I ask gleefully, realizing that my tone had destroyed me. “What the fuck is this?” He grasps around the box, and just like the lifeless bodies of my “friends”, it was empty. He turned around, fast enough to give anyone a heavy case of vertigo. In my last few moments, I had finally learnt why I took on a career as a “scientist” and not a gambler. I took everything in consideration, leaving nothing to fate, but when push came to shove, and when the act started cracking, I may have just been named Elmer. My poker face had began to crumble, with a thin smile creeping across my face. “This is horrible, I’m calling the old man.” I felt as if my boots became lead, as right when he said it I knew it was over. Suddenly, a small buzzing noise could be heard, as if the thousands of emotion could be transformed into one small phone. “David, I understand this may look bad on me, as why do I have the scientists phone, and I would explain it if I had time.” I instantly went for the throat, bringing out the dagger that had the blood stain of his girlfriend (of course, he didn’t know that at this time I had to put his girlfriend out of misery, as when she sprained her leg, I fixed it by severing the arteries. Hoping to do the same to my friend, it almost worked, but almost never cuts it. I dropped the blade when he suddenly was a junkie off good ol adrenaline. As I said earlier, when push comes to shove, I crack, literally. When he gripped me up, I could tell his intentions. “If your such a genius, you must have been too mad to realize to turn off your phone. As my back lifted away from the floor, I met my true date with darkness.
——————————————————————
I enjoy writing a lot, and this was pretty fun. Problem was, I created too much of a idea to spread upon. If I had more of a longer thing to write, it would have been more clear on the narrators intentions.
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Andrew Lionel grew up poor.
It’s a lot like growing up between two soggy pieces of bread. It’s wet, cold, and definitely moldy. Comfortable is the last word he would use.
Mold though, is one of the most interesting things he’s ever examined. The fungus has as many mysteries as it does facts. It’s replication process that most likely drew him in.
Andrew Lionel had friends.
This is something the man once knew. He knew it like he knew the lines on the backs of his hands. Each line a mark of age or mistake. Either made him uncomfortable. Itchy even. More lines meant less time to accomplish his goals, which wouldn’t do.
Goals. The same wants have propelled him since the beginning. Stability. It’s something he’s wanted since the beginning.
Andrew Lionel sees life as an equation.
This is the idea that keeps him up at night. If life is an equation, then there is a possibility for him to balance it. Can he end up at the pinch point in his universe? What is missing in his equation?
Andrew Lionel wants equilibrium.
What is balancing Andrew Lionel away from equilibrium?
Funds. The perpetual drive of Andrew Lionel’s life.
Andrew Lionel had friends.
He didn’t expect them to be the number to trade with the mold. But as he balanced his equation, Andrew applied more and more mold to them. Andrew applied mold to their foods, personal effects, and their own funds.
Andrew Lionel grinned as the mold transformed his friends.
It grew inside them and boiled their insides. Their mouths heated and tongues baked inside the cauldrons of their heads. Andrew promised his friends solutions. His hands only solved his own.
And Andrew Lionel worked diligently at such.
Their nails curled, and their lungs failed them slowly. Leaving time for Andrew to become their only lifeline to existence. Andrew played the role of their equilibrium maker well.
Andrew Lionel turned his friends into [gold.](https://www.reddit.com/r/ashleybakerwrites/)
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[WP] When you're a mad scientist, the saying "The real treasure is the friends you made along the way!" is quite a bit more literal than anyone nearby is comfortable with.
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“Well guys, it’s over, we did, the One is finally done,” says a tan, average height man.
Silence returns his statement.
“Uhh, guys?” he asks again, expecting his friends to say something, since that’s, well... polite.
Silence again.
He take a look around him, left, right, nothing, just trees with the occasional bright bird. The man is confused, because having your friend disappear is quite odd. He decides to walk to some other place in the forest, as to find his friends; but before that, he glances downward since he needs to tie his shoe, as having untied shoes is generally not a good idea. As he’s reaching down, he see something in his peripheral vision, golden chests.
He thinks something along the lines of, man, I care about my friends, but random treasure chests in the forests is a more pressing matter. Clearly this is not a trap. He walks toward the chests, and see that one has brass handle, John likes brass, so he goes toward that chest. He then grabs the golden chest’s handle, a very logical response to seeing a handle. He then pulls the handle, again, a very logical thing to do, however the handle did not move. He decides to have a moment of grunting, not pulling mind you, just grunting. After his moment of grunting, he pulls the handle again, harder this time, the handle falls out of the chest.
“Man, that hurt, really bad, not cool John” A deep voice emits from the chest.
“Uhh, what, did you just talk,” says the now named John, decidedly confused.
“Yeah I did,” says the chest, like that is a perfectly normal thing, it isn’t.
John recoils back, predictably surprised.
“You did what now,” shouts John.
“Dude, chill, it’s me, George, I just fought with you against the One,” replies the chest.
“Oh hey, George,” the ever adaptable John accepts the outrageous fact that his friend has turned into a golden chest. “Soo... where is everyone else?”
“They’re probably also chests, you see the two other chests, that’s them.”
“So why aren’t Sarge and Julia responding?”
“I dunno, I’d guess they’re asleep.”
“Ok then, I guess I’ll wake them up.”
John realizes something, he’s quite lucky, his friends turned into chests, and he’s glad he didn’t turn into a chest, as most people would be.
John the pulls out a chest’s handle, as that worked for George.
“Huh, what happened?” A semi-high pitched voice comes out for the chest.
“You’re a chest now... Julia?” John says in deadpan voice, a truly normal thing to tell someone.
A loud cough, and a quiet sound of choking is heard, but John ignores, because he’s lazy. The other chests, who don’t hear the noise, since one is presumably sleeping, and the other has just been woken up.
“Yes it’s Julia, also... I’m a chest now?! She exclaims, she hyperventilates a little, however that works.
John could go to comfort Julia about her situation, but he’s lazy, so he doesn’t.
John then runs over to Sarge felling especially not lazy, unlike right before. However the universe decided that she didn’t like John not being lazy, so John tripped on his shoelaces. He lands hard on the green grass, a soft crunching of the grass is heard.
“Ow, I gotta tie my shoes now,” so John spends a couple minutes tying his shoes, he takes extra long because he got distracted by a bird.
He finally arrives at Sarge, who is a golden, rectangular, angular chest, with a emerald at the top of his golden body. He places his hand on the chest’s handle, and pulls it out.
“Ok,” says Sarge.
“You’re a chest now,”
“Ok,” Sarge is a man of few words.
Another sound near John is heard, a loud gasp, and then silence.
John, deciding not to be lazy, yells, “Julia, George, what was that silence.
He walks toward Julia and George, ignoring Sarge, since he wasn’t going to say anything useful.
He finds the two chests, and says, “guys, you there?”
Silence, then he hears a breathy “ok” from sarge.
He walks over, and sees that Sarge’s chest... mouth? Is open. He see’s a crisp, white note, picks it up, and reads it. It says, hey sorry about this, my spell went wonky, and accidentally turned a few people into chests, I think it’s only three people though. The spell only lasts for about three minutes after them waking up, and then they die. Once again sorry for the inconvenience. Wait, crap, I accidentally wrote this with my poison pen, and I already set the teleporter, whoops, so if you’re reading this, you’re dead in 5...4...3 ...2...1, and just about now, sorry!
Darkness envolps John’s vision, the porter of the party that defeated The One.
There is one part of the letter John missed, it said: oh wait, nevermind, it’s all good, I just misread the label, so you’ll live.
However John still gave his last breath. Cause of death: not breathing.
Tried my hand at a comedy, not 100% sure at how it came out, but hopefully decent.
r/CascadeCorner
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Andrew Lionel grew up poor.
It’s a lot like growing up between two soggy pieces of bread. It’s wet, cold, and definitely moldy. Comfortable is the last word he would use.
Mold though, is one of the most interesting things he’s ever examined. The fungus has as many mysteries as it does facts. It’s replication process that most likely drew him in.
Andrew Lionel had friends.
This is something the man once knew. He knew it like he knew the lines on the backs of his hands. Each line a mark of age or mistake. Either made him uncomfortable. Itchy even. More lines meant less time to accomplish his goals, which wouldn’t do.
Goals. The same wants have propelled him since the beginning. Stability. It’s something he’s wanted since the beginning.
Andrew Lionel sees life as an equation.
This is the idea that keeps him up at night. If life is an equation, then there is a possibility for him to balance it. Can he end up at the pinch point in his universe? What is missing in his equation?
Andrew Lionel wants equilibrium.
What is balancing Andrew Lionel away from equilibrium?
Funds. The perpetual drive of Andrew Lionel’s life.
Andrew Lionel had friends.
He didn’t expect them to be the number to trade with the mold. But as he balanced his equation, Andrew applied more and more mold to them. Andrew applied mold to their foods, personal effects, and their own funds.
Andrew Lionel grinned as the mold transformed his friends.
It grew inside them and boiled their insides. Their mouths heated and tongues baked inside the cauldrons of their heads. Andrew promised his friends solutions. His hands only solved his own.
And Andrew Lionel worked diligently at such.
Their nails curled, and their lungs failed them slowly. Leaving time for Andrew to become their only lifeline to existence. Andrew played the role of their equilibrium maker well.
Andrew Lionel turned his friends into [gold.](https://www.reddit.com/r/ashleybakerwrites/)
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[WP] When you're a mad scientist, the saying "The real treasure is the friends you made along the way!" is quite a bit more literal than anyone nearby is comfortable with.
|
Samar swung his sword over Alin’s head and struck the lunging gargoyle in its side. It shattered under his mighty blow and exploded into a cloud of dust.
Alin rolled out of the way of another gargoyle and turned to face the enemies that climbed out of the ceiling behind him. He breathed deeply, feeling the swelling power within him. It fought to escape his control, a raging fire that refused to be tamed. But Alin had come a long way since he had first awakened his gift just two years earlier. Throwing both palms forward, a torrent of flames swallowed the wave of gargoyles.
Their stone bodies refused to burn but they began to steam and bubble. To harden and crack. When it died to a smoldering heat, their enemies lay as pools of molten rock or piles of rubble.
“Are you alright, Alin? I’m sorry, I almost didn’t make it in time,” Samar asked. The concern in his eyes was intense and genuine but Alin couldn’t help but laugh.
“Sorry? You’ve done all but carry me all this way on your back. I am the one who is sorry Samar. This was my journey, my people to save. I’m the one who almost got you killed,” Alin said, shaking his head.
Samar rolled his eyes at Alin’s words. They’d had this discussion countless times before.
The people called him a hero but they were blind. If ever the legends of heroes had been true, they had been of men and women like Samar, not him.
Alin’s village had been cursed by the Rat King, sickness had infected everyone in his village. Everyone but him. When the rodents’ miasma had entered him, it had triggered his awakening. His internal flame had burned away the disease and his childhood home with it. With his gift, he had sworn himself to a quest to save his people. A somewhat noble goal, though ultimately a selfish, personal one.
Samar? He had had no real motivation, no reason to face the White King and his madness, his cruel creations. Men turned to stone golems, mindlessly following their king’s orders. Children sacrificed to host imps and bring their hellfire to the realm of man. No, Samar was simply the best comrade Alin had ever found. A man who had devoted himself to taking the Holy Chalice that could save Alin’s village from the White King’s vaults simply because his friend needed it.
He had almost died from it. Samar and Alin had been here before, fighting through the White King’s castle to reach their goal. The White King had stepped in and separated them when his attack had rended the castle in two. The White King had cornered Samar while Alin had been blown away by the destruction. Samar had fought within an inch of his life to avoid capture by the mad king. There was no happy ending to such a fate.
That experience, that defeat had made it personal for Samar. He had only gotten stronger from it. It had taken them over a year to storm the castle the last time. But this time it took them just over a month to progress through it. All thanks to Samar pushing them forwards, through the king’s formations, through his forces, through his traps. In the end, Samar would be the true savior of Alin’s village, just as he had saved Alin’s life countless times over the course of their journey.
As they approached the White King’s throne room, Alin could only think about how he had no way to repay his friend.
The White King sat on his throne, his skeletal frame draped in a snowy robe, the illusion of winter wrapping the room in a stabbing chill. He rested his skull on his right arm and watched them approach. If a skull could look bored, the White King accomplished it.
“Welcome back, intruders. I see you have not learned your lesson.” His voice whispered from every corner of the room, causing drifts of snow to blow with every word. “Oh?” He lifted his head from his arm and leaned closer to them and his jaw began to rattle.
Alin exhaled a long breath from his nose, carrying with it the heat of his fire. It surrounded the two of them, protecting them from the king’s cold domain and hopefully from his oncoming attack.
But the White King did not attack. His jaw continued to rattle. Was he laughing?
“You! Swordsman, you’ve gotten stronger haven’t you?” he asked.
“Yes, he has. We both have. You won’t be keeping us from your vault this time. The chalice will be mine,” Alin told him. Sparks of flame flickered in the air around Alin, ready to erupt into fireballs at a moment’s notice.
The White King’s rattling only intensified.
“The chalice? That is your goal? This can only be fate, kindled one. There’s no need to continue your pointless struggle against me. You’ve achieved it! The treasure has been beside you this whole time.” He raised his bony finger and pointed it at Samar.
“What nonsense is this, corpse? I have not hidden the chalice from Alin. Your petty attempts to turn us against one another are futile. You’ve only revealed your desperation to avoid this fight,” he said, anger at the accusation clear on his face.
“It isn’t hidden at all. It is clear as day. Haven’t you enjoyed the benefits of my gift? You struggled so dearly against my minor invasions of your corporeal frame. But it was a success, as my experiments usually are. The chalice has strengthened you just as I expected. Drastic changes in ability do not happen overnight. The kindled one and the candlelight he still likes to threaten me with is plenty evidence of that. But, you. The chalice’s metal has reinforced your bones. Its blessed waters flow with your blood. Your very existence has become exalted, empowering you beyond what you once were.”
Alin stared at Samar and Samar looked at his own body in horror. Had he not escaped the White King as they had thought? But, if Samar held the chalice, perhaps this was a good thing. They could flee now, without risking their lives any further and return to the village. Samar could heal Alin’s family!
“Do I have all the abilities of the chalice?” Samar asked, voice as cold as the rest of the room.
The White King tilted his head back and forth.
“Well, you think you’d be grateful enough with all that you have gotten already gotten. No, a human is not a chalice. I had to warp it to your being, shape it for your uses. What does a swordsman need with the ability to heal others? Your kind inflicts death, not life. What, was that your aim?” the skeletal king asked, turning his head between the two intruders to his castle. “You wanted the chalice for its healing, not for the rumors of immortality? Well, I suppose you could still have it. If you were to cut open the swordsman, take his bones, and spill his blood. I am sure a skilled enough artificer could shape something of the original back together, though I’d like to see them try to put it into another human without killing them.”
Alin and Samar just stared at one another, unable to process the White King’s words.
The king’s jaw rattled again and he stepped back down into his throne.
“Well? Make your decision. I had thought this would be yet another tired encounter to take the souls of some intruders, but you two have relieved me of my boredom. Will you kill yourself, kill your friend? Or abandon your quest? Either way I will allow you to leave. I’d like for you to live with that choice.”
***
If you enjoyed my writing, subscribe to r/Inder for more stories like this!
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Andrew Lionel grew up poor.
It’s a lot like growing up between two soggy pieces of bread. It’s wet, cold, and definitely moldy. Comfortable is the last word he would use.
Mold though, is one of the most interesting things he’s ever examined. The fungus has as many mysteries as it does facts. It’s replication process that most likely drew him in.
Andrew Lionel had friends.
This is something the man once knew. He knew it like he knew the lines on the backs of his hands. Each line a mark of age or mistake. Either made him uncomfortable. Itchy even. More lines meant less time to accomplish his goals, which wouldn’t do.
Goals. The same wants have propelled him since the beginning. Stability. It’s something he’s wanted since the beginning.
Andrew Lionel sees life as an equation.
This is the idea that keeps him up at night. If life is an equation, then there is a possibility for him to balance it. Can he end up at the pinch point in his universe? What is missing in his equation?
Andrew Lionel wants equilibrium.
What is balancing Andrew Lionel away from equilibrium?
Funds. The perpetual drive of Andrew Lionel’s life.
Andrew Lionel had friends.
He didn’t expect them to be the number to trade with the mold. But as he balanced his equation, Andrew applied more and more mold to them. Andrew applied mold to their foods, personal effects, and their own funds.
Andrew Lionel grinned as the mold transformed his friends.
It grew inside them and boiled their insides. Their mouths heated and tongues baked inside the cauldrons of their heads. Andrew promised his friends solutions. His hands only solved his own.
And Andrew Lionel worked diligently at such.
Their nails curled, and their lungs failed them slowly. Leaving time for Andrew to become their only lifeline to existence. Andrew played the role of their equilibrium maker well.
Andrew Lionel turned his friends into [gold.](https://www.reddit.com/r/ashleybakerwrites/)
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[WP] When you're a mad scientist, the saying "The real treasure is the friends you made along the way!" is quite a bit more literal than anyone nearby is comfortable with.
|
Samar swung his sword over Alin’s head and struck the lunging gargoyle in its side. It shattered under his mighty blow and exploded into a cloud of dust.
Alin rolled out of the way of another gargoyle and turned to face the enemies that climbed out of the ceiling behind him. He breathed deeply, feeling the swelling power within him. It fought to escape his control, a raging fire that refused to be tamed. But Alin had come a long way since he had first awakened his gift just two years earlier. Throwing both palms forward, a torrent of flames swallowed the wave of gargoyles.
Their stone bodies refused to burn but they began to steam and bubble. To harden and crack. When it died to a smoldering heat, their enemies lay as pools of molten rock or piles of rubble.
“Are you alright, Alin? I’m sorry, I almost didn’t make it in time,” Samar asked. The concern in his eyes was intense and genuine but Alin couldn’t help but laugh.
“Sorry? You’ve done all but carry me all this way on your back. I am the one who is sorry Samar. This was my journey, my people to save. I’m the one who almost got you killed,” Alin said, shaking his head.
Samar rolled his eyes at Alin’s words. They’d had this discussion countless times before.
The people called him a hero but they were blind. If ever the legends of heroes had been true, they had been of men and women like Samar, not him.
Alin’s village had been cursed by the Rat King, sickness had infected everyone in his village. Everyone but him. When the rodents’ miasma had entered him, it had triggered his awakening. His internal flame had burned away the disease and his childhood home with it. With his gift, he had sworn himself to a quest to save his people. A somewhat noble goal, though ultimately a selfish, personal one.
Samar? He had had no real motivation, no reason to face the White King and his madness, his cruel creations. Men turned to stone golems, mindlessly following their king’s orders. Children sacrificed to host imps and bring their hellfire to the realm of man. No, Samar was simply the best comrade Alin had ever found. A man who had devoted himself to taking the Holy Chalice that could save Alin’s village from the White King’s vaults simply because his friend needed it.
He had almost died from it. Samar and Alin had been here before, fighting through the White King’s castle to reach their goal. The White King had stepped in and separated them when his attack had rended the castle in two. The White King had cornered Samar while Alin had been blown away by the destruction. Samar had fought within an inch of his life to avoid capture by the mad king. There was no happy ending to such a fate.
That experience, that defeat had made it personal for Samar. He had only gotten stronger from it. It had taken them over a year to storm the castle the last time. But this time it took them just over a month to progress through it. All thanks to Samar pushing them forwards, through the king’s formations, through his forces, through his traps. In the end, Samar would be the true savior of Alin’s village, just as he had saved Alin’s life countless times over the course of their journey.
As they approached the White King’s throne room, Alin could only think about how he had no way to repay his friend.
The White King sat on his throne, his skeletal frame draped in a snowy robe, the illusion of winter wrapping the room in a stabbing chill. He rested his skull on his right arm and watched them approach. If a skull could look bored, the White King accomplished it.
“Welcome back, intruders. I see you have not learned your lesson.” His voice whispered from every corner of the room, causing drifts of snow to blow with every word. “Oh?” He lifted his head from his arm and leaned closer to them and his jaw began to rattle.
Alin exhaled a long breath from his nose, carrying with it the heat of his fire. It surrounded the two of them, protecting them from the king’s cold domain and hopefully from his oncoming attack.
But the White King did not attack. His jaw continued to rattle. Was he laughing?
“You! Swordsman, you’ve gotten stronger haven’t you?” he asked.
“Yes, he has. We both have. You won’t be keeping us from your vault this time. The chalice will be mine,” Alin told him. Sparks of flame flickered in the air around Alin, ready to erupt into fireballs at a moment’s notice.
The White King’s rattling only intensified.
“The chalice? That is your goal? This can only be fate, kindled one. There’s no need to continue your pointless struggle against me. You’ve achieved it! The treasure has been beside you this whole time.” He raised his bony finger and pointed it at Samar.
“What nonsense is this, corpse? I have not hidden the chalice from Alin. Your petty attempts to turn us against one another are futile. You’ve only revealed your desperation to avoid this fight,” he said, anger at the accusation clear on his face.
“It isn’t hidden at all. It is clear as day. Haven’t you enjoyed the benefits of my gift? You struggled so dearly against my minor invasions of your corporeal frame. But it was a success, as my experiments usually are. The chalice has strengthened you just as I expected. Drastic changes in ability do not happen overnight. The kindled one and the candlelight he still likes to threaten me with is plenty evidence of that. But, you. The chalice’s metal has reinforced your bones. Its blessed waters flow with your blood. Your very existence has become exalted, empowering you beyond what you once were.”
Alin stared at Samar and Samar looked at his own body in horror. Had he not escaped the White King as they had thought? But, if Samar held the chalice, perhaps this was a good thing. They could flee now, without risking their lives any further and return to the village. Samar could heal Alin’s family!
“Do I have all the abilities of the chalice?” Samar asked, voice as cold as the rest of the room.
The White King tilted his head back and forth.
“Well, you think you’d be grateful enough with all that you have gotten already gotten. No, a human is not a chalice. I had to warp it to your being, shape it for your uses. What does a swordsman need with the ability to heal others? Your kind inflicts death, not life. What, was that your aim?” the skeletal king asked, turning his head between the two intruders to his castle. “You wanted the chalice for its healing, not for the rumors of immortality? Well, I suppose you could still have it. If you were to cut open the swordsman, take his bones, and spill his blood. I am sure a skilled enough artificer could shape something of the original back together, though I’d like to see them try to put it into another human without killing them.”
Alin and Samar just stared at one another, unable to process the White King’s words.
The king’s jaw rattled again and he stepped back down into his throne.
“Well? Make your decision. I had thought this would be yet another tired encounter to take the souls of some intruders, but you two have relieved me of my boredom. Will you kill yourself, kill your friend? Or abandon your quest? Either way I will allow you to leave. I’d like for you to live with that choice.”
***
If you enjoyed my writing, subscribe to r/Inder for more stories like this!
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“Well guys, it’s over, we did, the One is finally done,” says a tan, average height man.
Silence returns his statement.
“Uhh, guys?” he asks again, expecting his friends to say something, since that’s, well... polite.
Silence again.
He take a look around him, left, right, nothing, just trees with the occasional bright bird. The man is confused, because having your friend disappear is quite odd. He decides to walk to some other place in the forest, as to find his friends; but before that, he glances downward since he needs to tie his shoe, as having untied shoes is generally not a good idea. As he’s reaching down, he see something in his peripheral vision, golden chests.
He thinks something along the lines of, man, I care about my friends, but random treasure chests in the forests is a more pressing matter. Clearly this is not a trap. He walks toward the chests, and see that one has brass handle, John likes brass, so he goes toward that chest. He then grabs the golden chest’s handle, a very logical response to seeing a handle. He then pulls the handle, again, a very logical thing to do, however the handle did not move. He decides to have a moment of grunting, not pulling mind you, just grunting. After his moment of grunting, he pulls the handle again, harder this time, the handle falls out of the chest.
“Man, that hurt, really bad, not cool John” A deep voice emits from the chest.
“Uhh, what, did you just talk,” says the now named John, decidedly confused.
“Yeah I did,” says the chest, like that is a perfectly normal thing, it isn’t.
John recoils back, predictably surprised.
“You did what now,” shouts John.
“Dude, chill, it’s me, George, I just fought with you against the One,” replies the chest.
“Oh hey, George,” the ever adaptable John accepts the outrageous fact that his friend has turned into a golden chest. “Soo... where is everyone else?”
“They’re probably also chests, you see the two other chests, that’s them.”
“So why aren’t Sarge and Julia responding?”
“I dunno, I’d guess they’re asleep.”
“Ok then, I guess I’ll wake them up.”
John realizes something, he’s quite lucky, his friends turned into chests, and he’s glad he didn’t turn into a chest, as most people would be.
John the pulls out a chest’s handle, as that worked for George.
“Huh, what happened?” A semi-high pitched voice comes out for the chest.
“You’re a chest now... Julia?” John says in deadpan voice, a truly normal thing to tell someone.
A loud cough, and a quiet sound of choking is heard, but John ignores, because he’s lazy. The other chests, who don’t hear the noise, since one is presumably sleeping, and the other has just been woken up.
“Yes it’s Julia, also... I’m a chest now?! She exclaims, she hyperventilates a little, however that works.
John could go to comfort Julia about her situation, but he’s lazy, so he doesn’t.
John then runs over to Sarge felling especially not lazy, unlike right before. However the universe decided that she didn’t like John not being lazy, so John tripped on his shoelaces. He lands hard on the green grass, a soft crunching of the grass is heard.
“Ow, I gotta tie my shoes now,” so John spends a couple minutes tying his shoes, he takes extra long because he got distracted by a bird.
He finally arrives at Sarge, who is a golden, rectangular, angular chest, with a emerald at the top of his golden body. He places his hand on the chest’s handle, and pulls it out.
“Ok,” says Sarge.
“You’re a chest now,”
“Ok,” Sarge is a man of few words.
Another sound near John is heard, a loud gasp, and then silence.
John, deciding not to be lazy, yells, “Julia, George, what was that silence.
He walks toward Julia and George, ignoring Sarge, since he wasn’t going to say anything useful.
He finds the two chests, and says, “guys, you there?”
Silence, then he hears a breathy “ok” from sarge.
He walks over, and sees that Sarge’s chest... mouth? Is open. He see’s a crisp, white note, picks it up, and reads it. It says, hey sorry about this, my spell went wonky, and accidentally turned a few people into chests, I think it’s only three people though. The spell only lasts for about three minutes after them waking up, and then they die. Once again sorry for the inconvenience. Wait, crap, I accidentally wrote this with my poison pen, and I already set the teleporter, whoops, so if you’re reading this, you’re dead in 5...4...3 ...2...1, and just about now, sorry!
Darkness envolps John’s vision, the porter of the party that defeated The One.
There is one part of the letter John missed, it said: oh wait, nevermind, it’s all good, I just misread the label, so you’ll live.
However John still gave his last breath. Cause of death: not breathing.
Tried my hand at a comedy, not 100% sure at how it came out, but hopefully decent.
r/CascadeCorner
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[WP] You're immortal and each time you die you respawn some time later in your 20 year old body a few hundred metres from where you died. You have just realised that it really truly sucks for you to die in the middle of the ocean.
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At six bells on the forenoon watch, your body is given to the sea.
If you were there to see it, you could find no fault with the hands that do the job; the sweaty, bloodied rags are cut away and fresh linen laid carefully over the yawning, splintered chasm the enemy's sword made of your chest. A hand smooths the red tangle of your hair from your face; they care more than to allow you to go to your grave disordered. Faces lean in close, with murmured words of faith, to get one last look at their Captain Ross before the sailcloth is sewn tenderly over you and your face is hidden from the world.
At six bells on the dog watch, you wake with no knowledge of that tenderness, alone on the wild water.
The first time, you force yourself to the surface, and come up long enough to glimpse see the night-lanterns of a ship bobbing in the distance, between the white-capped mountains of the waves.
Yours? Before you can tell, you're under again, and drown.
The second time, you claw your way to the surface, but find nothing but the endless ocean.
Figures and charts drift in your mind as you sink; so far from land, so far from land. In the joy of your captaincy and your ship, you forgot what kept you from the sea before. Even the strength of your new youth cannot help you in the waves.
You drown.
And drown.
And drown.
In the drift, you are not a captain; not a sailor; not the sum of your experiences. Not even truly alive. Just a long string of struggle, and pain, and the desperation for air, for warmth, for reprieve.
When the storm ends, you do not see it; nor do you see the trim lines of the frigate cutting through the water. A lookout spotted something red in the water.
At six bells on the forenoon watch, they pull the strange young man aboard. Born from the water, they say; the spitting image of the captain they gave to the waves.
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My eyes open. The stars are as I remember them, before the storm hit and threw me overboard. I pull my dagger from my belt and cut away my clothes. The wet leather and fabric are not easy to cut, and I nick myself more than once before my boots and vest and shirt sink into the depths. The gashes are not deep, but they sting as the sea water touches them, trickles of blood seeping out. I sigh, exasperated. In most other situations, those small cuts would not be life threatening. Now, I’m lucky if I survive until sunrise. But the sky is growing darker, the stars twinkling brighter, and knowing I am hours away from sunset yet, I feel something rough, like mail, brush against my leg. I won’t make it through the night.
I float, naked, and feel the sun roast my face, chest and legs. There is a new scar, below my knee. I do not have my dagger. I must’ve dropped it. But at least, now I don’t have to wait. I follow the sun for a little while, and I know which way is east, and I swim towards familiar shores. No one knows what’s to the west. To the east, I might encounter ships, explorers heading west. I doubt I’ll have any such luck if I swim eastward. Thankfully I’m not swimming against the current, so I can keep this up a while. As my muscles ache, the sun dips beneath the horizon, the sky radiating orange and pink and purple. It is getting cold. I am freezing. The stars look down on me again, and I’m not sure if they’re mocking me, or if they just don’t care. My arms are like stone, my legs of lead. But if I stop moving, I won’t start again. But they refuse to move. Maybe if I just took a small nap, I can start again... tomorrow.
I curse my existence as I open my eyes. At least I wasn’t awake as I froze to death. I know because I shivered as I awoke. Even the cold ocean felt warm in comparison. And I was right about going east; I would more likely encounter ships. I just wish I had awoken an hour or two earlier, as I can see the sails of one, black silhouette unfurled against the setting sun. I keep swimming again, and I’ll have less time this time around before I freeze to death as the ocean cools, with no sun to warm me.
I open my eyes, but I cannot see. I know they are open, for seawater stings them. All is dark. I hold my breath, and swim, but there is no light anywhere. I do not know which way is up, and how far down I am. Because now, of all times, I had to be resurrected vertically and not just horisontally. I cannot swim my way out of this. All I can do is hope it will happen again, or that I will hit a coastline sooner or later. I prepare myself for the taste of seaweed and vomit come my waking, as my lungs give in and gasp for air, and I feel myself floating. My last thought is that I hope eternity won’t be too long. Then another breath. The last, of many to come.
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[WP] You're immortal and each time you die you respawn some time later in your 20 year old body a few hundred metres from where you died. You have just realised that it really truly sucks for you to die in the middle of the ocean.
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“You know what sucks the most about respawning?” He asked the dead body beside him. “Talking to yourself, hahahhaha!” He swiped the wet hair from his forehead as he bobbed in the water, fresh energy draining quickly as he treaded.
“But seriously, the worst part? Is respawning a hundred meters to the left and then one hundred to the right every time I die so I NEVWR ACTUALLY GET ANYWHERE! Aaahhhrreggg!!!” The sharks began circling the hundred or so bodies drifting in the water. Maybe he could build a raft of rotting corpses? But then if he died before finding land he would respawn back in the water. Also he would have to explain a dozen or more hims. And also sharks.
Edit: he begins to think. He could start eating himself. But is that cannibalism? Is it better than drowning? His thoughts circled as he grew winded and drowned again. He was never a strong swimmer. This was going to be a long century if he couldn’t find land.....
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My eyes open. The stars are as I remember them, before the storm hit and threw me overboard. I pull my dagger from my belt and cut away my clothes. The wet leather and fabric are not easy to cut, and I nick myself more than once before my boots and vest and shirt sink into the depths. The gashes are not deep, but they sting as the sea water touches them, trickles of blood seeping out. I sigh, exasperated. In most other situations, those small cuts would not be life threatening. Now, I’m lucky if I survive until sunrise. But the sky is growing darker, the stars twinkling brighter, and knowing I am hours away from sunset yet, I feel something rough, like mail, brush against my leg. I won’t make it through the night.
I float, naked, and feel the sun roast my face, chest and legs. There is a new scar, below my knee. I do not have my dagger. I must’ve dropped it. But at least, now I don’t have to wait. I follow the sun for a little while, and I know which way is east, and I swim towards familiar shores. No one knows what’s to the west. To the east, I might encounter ships, explorers heading west. I doubt I’ll have any such luck if I swim eastward. Thankfully I’m not swimming against the current, so I can keep this up a while. As my muscles ache, the sun dips beneath the horizon, the sky radiating orange and pink and purple. It is getting cold. I am freezing. The stars look down on me again, and I’m not sure if they’re mocking me, or if they just don’t care. My arms are like stone, my legs of lead. But if I stop moving, I won’t start again. But they refuse to move. Maybe if I just took a small nap, I can start again... tomorrow.
I curse my existence as I open my eyes. At least I wasn’t awake as I froze to death. I know because I shivered as I awoke. Even the cold ocean felt warm in comparison. And I was right about going east; I would more likely encounter ships. I just wish I had awoken an hour or two earlier, as I can see the sails of one, black silhouette unfurled against the setting sun. I keep swimming again, and I’ll have less time this time around before I freeze to death as the ocean cools, with no sun to warm me.
I open my eyes, but I cannot see. I know they are open, for seawater stings them. All is dark. I hold my breath, and swim, but there is no light anywhere. I do not know which way is up, and how far down I am. Because now, of all times, I had to be resurrected vertically and not just horisontally. I cannot swim my way out of this. All I can do is hope it will happen again, or that I will hit a coastline sooner or later. I prepare myself for the taste of seaweed and vomit come my waking, as my lungs give in and gasp for air, and I feel myself floating. My last thought is that I hope eternity won’t be too long. Then another breath. The last, of many to come.
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[WP] You're immortal and each time you die you respawn some time later in your 20 year old body a few hundred metres from where you died. You have just realised that it really truly sucks for you to die in the middle of the ocean.
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I wonder if I will ever manage to leave this place.
Blue, white, yellow, orange, and finally, black.
Water ... too much water.
Clouds, sometimes few and sometimes many.
The sun rises and sets. It's color ever-changing.
It is both my best friend and my worst enemy, for I am an immortal and my life is never-ending.
The moon is like the sun, but it brings the deepest darkness with it.
Madness fills my head.
I hate the ocean!
How did I end up in this fucking place!?
I can not remember ...
Everything is fuzzy ...
How much time has passed?
I don't know and I am sure I never will.
For this blue colored hell is wide and immense.
Water covers every horizon I can see.
However, there is something I am sure of ...
There is only one person who could have done this.
And ...
If I ever find that bastard, his death won't be peaceful!
For I am an immortal and my grudges are eternal.
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My eyes open. The stars are as I remember them, before the storm hit and threw me overboard. I pull my dagger from my belt and cut away my clothes. The wet leather and fabric are not easy to cut, and I nick myself more than once before my boots and vest and shirt sink into the depths. The gashes are not deep, but they sting as the sea water touches them, trickles of blood seeping out. I sigh, exasperated. In most other situations, those small cuts would not be life threatening. Now, I’m lucky if I survive until sunrise. But the sky is growing darker, the stars twinkling brighter, and knowing I am hours away from sunset yet, I feel something rough, like mail, brush against my leg. I won’t make it through the night.
I float, naked, and feel the sun roast my face, chest and legs. There is a new scar, below my knee. I do not have my dagger. I must’ve dropped it. But at least, now I don’t have to wait. I follow the sun for a little while, and I know which way is east, and I swim towards familiar shores. No one knows what’s to the west. To the east, I might encounter ships, explorers heading west. I doubt I’ll have any such luck if I swim eastward. Thankfully I’m not swimming against the current, so I can keep this up a while. As my muscles ache, the sun dips beneath the horizon, the sky radiating orange and pink and purple. It is getting cold. I am freezing. The stars look down on me again, and I’m not sure if they’re mocking me, or if they just don’t care. My arms are like stone, my legs of lead. But if I stop moving, I won’t start again. But they refuse to move. Maybe if I just took a small nap, I can start again... tomorrow.
I curse my existence as I open my eyes. At least I wasn’t awake as I froze to death. I know because I shivered as I awoke. Even the cold ocean felt warm in comparison. And I was right about going east; I would more likely encounter ships. I just wish I had awoken an hour or two earlier, as I can see the sails of one, black silhouette unfurled against the setting sun. I keep swimming again, and I’ll have less time this time around before I freeze to death as the ocean cools, with no sun to warm me.
I open my eyes, but I cannot see. I know they are open, for seawater stings them. All is dark. I hold my breath, and swim, but there is no light anywhere. I do not know which way is up, and how far down I am. Because now, of all times, I had to be resurrected vertically and not just horisontally. I cannot swim my way out of this. All I can do is hope it will happen again, or that I will hit a coastline sooner or later. I prepare myself for the taste of seaweed and vomit come my waking, as my lungs give in and gasp for air, and I feel myself floating. My last thought is that I hope eternity won’t be too long. Then another breath. The last, of many to come.
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[WP] You're immortal and each time you die you respawn some time later in your 20 year old body a few hundred metres from where you died. You have just realised that it really truly sucks for you to die in the middle of the ocean.
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His eyes opened. It was dark. A void of space seemed to ceaselessly expand in all directions. When had he last drawn breath? The icy water stung his flesh, eyes burning of salt. The mans face was blank, sharply contrasting the apparent desperation and terror the situation seemed to warrant. Emotions, he thought, that had long been eroded away. What is fear, anyways, when the biggest, most omnipresent fear of them all has been removed from the equation? He gasped for air, and the subsequent flooding of his lungs shook him from his drifting thoughts, muddled from the lack of oxygen.
His head was on a swivel, searching for a flicker of light. Darkness consumed him; his eyes burned. He judged he had about a minute left, maybe two. He kicked, not seeing or hearing. Again. Again. Decades (or was it centuries?) of practice had fashioned him into an excellent swimmer. But it was meaningless in this aquatic tomb.
He kicked again, and thought he saw a light. Just a shimmer, but it was something. His eyes grew wide and he kicked hard, fitful, enraged. It was far, must have been 100 meters or more, and his lungs burned. Color was quickly draining from complexion, and numbness had overtaken the entirety of his body. One more, he thought, one more. He kicked, struggled. The surface seemed no closer then when he had begun. He knew this part, it was the worst part. Darkness crept in, his kicks slowed, finally ceasing altogether.
The range of his emotional spectrum had dulled over the years, some lost all together. However, one feeling, one emotion, had eclipsed all the rest. One singular neuronal highway adapted to respond to every possible situation. And floating there, in that endless expanse, he yelled, a guttural sound of pure fury. An expression of anger that could only have been cultivated over lifetimes of agony. The sound came to a feverous climax, and then stopped altogether. Water had flooded in like the breaking of a dam, and as his mind drifted off, he found something like peace.
His eyes opened. It was dark. A void of space seemed to ceaselessly expand in all directions. When had he last drawn breath? The icy water stung his flesh, eyes burning of salt…
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My eyes open. The stars are as I remember them, before the storm hit and threw me overboard. I pull my dagger from my belt and cut away my clothes. The wet leather and fabric are not easy to cut, and I nick myself more than once before my boots and vest and shirt sink into the depths. The gashes are not deep, but they sting as the sea water touches them, trickles of blood seeping out. I sigh, exasperated. In most other situations, those small cuts would not be life threatening. Now, I’m lucky if I survive until sunrise. But the sky is growing darker, the stars twinkling brighter, and knowing I am hours away from sunset yet, I feel something rough, like mail, brush against my leg. I won’t make it through the night.
I float, naked, and feel the sun roast my face, chest and legs. There is a new scar, below my knee. I do not have my dagger. I must’ve dropped it. But at least, now I don’t have to wait. I follow the sun for a little while, and I know which way is east, and I swim towards familiar shores. No one knows what’s to the west. To the east, I might encounter ships, explorers heading west. I doubt I’ll have any such luck if I swim eastward. Thankfully I’m not swimming against the current, so I can keep this up a while. As my muscles ache, the sun dips beneath the horizon, the sky radiating orange and pink and purple. It is getting cold. I am freezing. The stars look down on me again, and I’m not sure if they’re mocking me, or if they just don’t care. My arms are like stone, my legs of lead. But if I stop moving, I won’t start again. But they refuse to move. Maybe if I just took a small nap, I can start again... tomorrow.
I curse my existence as I open my eyes. At least I wasn’t awake as I froze to death. I know because I shivered as I awoke. Even the cold ocean felt warm in comparison. And I was right about going east; I would more likely encounter ships. I just wish I had awoken an hour or two earlier, as I can see the sails of one, black silhouette unfurled against the setting sun. I keep swimming again, and I’ll have less time this time around before I freeze to death as the ocean cools, with no sun to warm me.
I open my eyes, but I cannot see. I know they are open, for seawater stings them. All is dark. I hold my breath, and swim, but there is no light anywhere. I do not know which way is up, and how far down I am. Because now, of all times, I had to be resurrected vertically and not just horisontally. I cannot swim my way out of this. All I can do is hope it will happen again, or that I will hit a coastline sooner or later. I prepare myself for the taste of seaweed and vomit come my waking, as my lungs give in and gasp for air, and I feel myself floating. My last thought is that I hope eternity won’t be too long. Then another breath. The last, of many to come.
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[WP] You're immortal and each time you die you respawn some time later in your 20 year old body a few hundred metres from where you died. You have just realised that it really truly sucks for you to die in the middle of the ocean.
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It was truly stupid. To try to pull off a stunt of diving really to world record depths without any equipment? Dumb. I'd overestimated myself and died of lack of oxygen on the way back up.
True, I've respawned here alive. That's the exact problem. *I respawned here, in the middle of the ocean.*
The boat that sent me here's long gone, obviously. They think I'm dead. And I was dead.
Now for the more immediate problem. Getting out of here. By sheer luck I spot a helicopter, and I wave, shouting furiously to get it's attention. That's my only source of hope for now.
To my horror, the helicopter doesn't notice me and keeps on flying. I scream until I can't anymore, watching the speck of black, my previous hope flying away, farther and farther.
The floodgates open as I allow myself to just float on this neverending blue. Why did I do this to myself? It was an amazing prospect to be immortal, when I was 10 and my grandmother had just died. So I had searched far and wide, and at the age of 15 had actually found the serum, brewed by a mysterious witch hidden in a cave. She had warned me and asked me repeatedly if I wanted to drink the serum, but to me at that time the answers to the questions seemed obvious. Why not be immortal? Death is painful. Scary. Horrifying.
*I was so stupid*, I now think, drifting in the ocean, staring at the setting sun, hoping, wishing...
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My eyes open. The stars are as I remember them, before the storm hit and threw me overboard. I pull my dagger from my belt and cut away my clothes. The wet leather and fabric are not easy to cut, and I nick myself more than once before my boots and vest and shirt sink into the depths. The gashes are not deep, but they sting as the sea water touches them, trickles of blood seeping out. I sigh, exasperated. In most other situations, those small cuts would not be life threatening. Now, I’m lucky if I survive until sunrise. But the sky is growing darker, the stars twinkling brighter, and knowing I am hours away from sunset yet, I feel something rough, like mail, brush against my leg. I won’t make it through the night.
I float, naked, and feel the sun roast my face, chest and legs. There is a new scar, below my knee. I do not have my dagger. I must’ve dropped it. But at least, now I don’t have to wait. I follow the sun for a little while, and I know which way is east, and I swim towards familiar shores. No one knows what’s to the west. To the east, I might encounter ships, explorers heading west. I doubt I’ll have any such luck if I swim eastward. Thankfully I’m not swimming against the current, so I can keep this up a while. As my muscles ache, the sun dips beneath the horizon, the sky radiating orange and pink and purple. It is getting cold. I am freezing. The stars look down on me again, and I’m not sure if they’re mocking me, or if they just don’t care. My arms are like stone, my legs of lead. But if I stop moving, I won’t start again. But they refuse to move. Maybe if I just took a small nap, I can start again... tomorrow.
I curse my existence as I open my eyes. At least I wasn’t awake as I froze to death. I know because I shivered as I awoke. Even the cold ocean felt warm in comparison. And I was right about going east; I would more likely encounter ships. I just wish I had awoken an hour or two earlier, as I can see the sails of one, black silhouette unfurled against the setting sun. I keep swimming again, and I’ll have less time this time around before I freeze to death as the ocean cools, with no sun to warm me.
I open my eyes, but I cannot see. I know they are open, for seawater stings them. All is dark. I hold my breath, and swim, but there is no light anywhere. I do not know which way is up, and how far down I am. Because now, of all times, I had to be resurrected vertically and not just horisontally. I cannot swim my way out of this. All I can do is hope it will happen again, or that I will hit a coastline sooner or later. I prepare myself for the taste of seaweed and vomit come my waking, as my lungs give in and gasp for air, and I feel myself floating. My last thought is that I hope eternity won’t be too long. Then another breath. The last, of many to come.
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[WP] You're immortal and each time you die you respawn some time later in your 20 year old body a few hundred metres from where you died. You have just realised that it really truly sucks for you to die in the middle of the ocean.
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I’ve forgotten what solid ground feels like. I vaguely remember a ship, a bottle, and a wish, but that all feels like lifetimes ago. I’ve grown accustomed to living at sea, floating peacefully on the flat hot days, sometimes bumping in to something to eat, or get eaten by. Are they nightmares of being torn apart by sharks? They feel so real.
My breaths are deep, out quickly, in deep. Hold it. I can almost doze off on these peaceful days, in the serene morning, or is it evening? I’ve given up trying to keep track. The sun is sinking, so it must be evening. I do remember a ship, my sailboat Brisa. A Ranger, I was anchored by an island, I found a half buried lamp on a dive...
Ripples darken the water in the direction of the setting sun. Another storm is coming. Which do I hate more, storms or sharks? At least the sharks get it over with quickly.
I cleaned the lamp and got one wish, and I knew immediately what it would be. Immortality. Despite all the philosophical debates, curse or blessing, I knew that’s what I wanted more than anything else in the world. Time. The time to just exist slowly, deliberately, sit on a mountaintop for a decade, flow like lava, watch a forest grow.
I guess I should have paid more attention to all the details, but the first thing I did was sail straight in to a storm. What’s the worst that could happen? I’m immortal!
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My eyes open. The stars are as I remember them, before the storm hit and threw me overboard. I pull my dagger from my belt and cut away my clothes. The wet leather and fabric are not easy to cut, and I nick myself more than once before my boots and vest and shirt sink into the depths. The gashes are not deep, but they sting as the sea water touches them, trickles of blood seeping out. I sigh, exasperated. In most other situations, those small cuts would not be life threatening. Now, I’m lucky if I survive until sunrise. But the sky is growing darker, the stars twinkling brighter, and knowing I am hours away from sunset yet, I feel something rough, like mail, brush against my leg. I won’t make it through the night.
I float, naked, and feel the sun roast my face, chest and legs. There is a new scar, below my knee. I do not have my dagger. I must’ve dropped it. But at least, now I don’t have to wait. I follow the sun for a little while, and I know which way is east, and I swim towards familiar shores. No one knows what’s to the west. To the east, I might encounter ships, explorers heading west. I doubt I’ll have any such luck if I swim eastward. Thankfully I’m not swimming against the current, so I can keep this up a while. As my muscles ache, the sun dips beneath the horizon, the sky radiating orange and pink and purple. It is getting cold. I am freezing. The stars look down on me again, and I’m not sure if they’re mocking me, or if they just don’t care. My arms are like stone, my legs of lead. But if I stop moving, I won’t start again. But they refuse to move. Maybe if I just took a small nap, I can start again... tomorrow.
I curse my existence as I open my eyes. At least I wasn’t awake as I froze to death. I know because I shivered as I awoke. Even the cold ocean felt warm in comparison. And I was right about going east; I would more likely encounter ships. I just wish I had awoken an hour or two earlier, as I can see the sails of one, black silhouette unfurled against the setting sun. I keep swimming again, and I’ll have less time this time around before I freeze to death as the ocean cools, with no sun to warm me.
I open my eyes, but I cannot see. I know they are open, for seawater stings them. All is dark. I hold my breath, and swim, but there is no light anywhere. I do not know which way is up, and how far down I am. Because now, of all times, I had to be resurrected vertically and not just horisontally. I cannot swim my way out of this. All I can do is hope it will happen again, or that I will hit a coastline sooner or later. I prepare myself for the taste of seaweed and vomit come my waking, as my lungs give in and gasp for air, and I feel myself floating. My last thought is that I hope eternity won’t be too long. Then another breath. The last, of many to come.
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[WP] You're immortal and each time you die you respawn some time later in your 20 year old body a few hundred metres from where you died. You have just realised that it really truly sucks for you to die in the middle of the ocean.
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I have died in many ways. Jumped from the roof of the Eiffel tower escaping secret French Police. Exploring the ruins of Chernobyl shortly after the melt down. One time from choking on a hot dog in a McDonalds before they were discontinued. I have little qualms with death now, and care little for how I pass.
On the list of ways I would prefer to die though, drowning is far down on my list. Drowning in the middle of the ocean following a plane crash? I would frankly mark it third from the bottom, just beating 'that time with the Spanish Inquisition'.
Initially, I try to hold my breath as long as possible, instinctually trying to swim to the surface. But trapped in the middle of the ocean, my options are hypothermia, or drowning. One typically followed by the other. As I sink below, and I can no longer breath, I open my mouth, and water rushes in. Quickly following that I begin to what I can only describe as a choking sensation. Hopefully by some point I lose consciousness, and with practice I do, but it is not a talent I often practice. In those first few times, I experienced every moment of agony as oxygen would fail to reach my brain, my organs shutting down one by one, my arms and legs so cold I can barely feel them any more, before the darkness takes me. It is not a quiet or peaceful death either, as the waves around me push me to and fro. You cannot scream, only sink, further and further into the deep.
If I'm lucky, my new body isn't created deeper than where I died. Dying from drowning and the added pressure is not enjoyable either. Sometimes I find myself lucky enough to be above the waves when I return to consciousness.
My time in the open water now feels separated in three parts; swimming, bemoaning the futility of swimming, and the throes of death. I am always shivering now, the cold so etched into my body that even as I return fully formed, my body cannot forget my own death from moments ago.
Sometimes I mark the passage of time by how sun burnt my skin has become. Born amongst what most call today 'Native Americans', my skin has always had a natural tan color, but when exposed to the salty ocean and the ever present sun above, eventually it will whether and burn. When I wake up, I sometimes find my skin has become remarkably clear, realizing I must have drowned in my sleep. No matter. Some day, my bodies beneath the waves may wash up on some shore and a local legend will start. Someone may be able to connect it to me, but only the most avid of hunters should be able to recognize my face from police reports and old news papers. But it's a big world. It's easy to disappear in.
Like the stars above me.
More than a month into swimming for the shore, so turned around and disoriented from all the times I've died I have long since given up swimming in any particular direction, at night I have begun to float on my back and look at the stars. So many people I have met through the bygone years have always treated such a view as majestic and spiritual, a look out into the cosmos beyond. I cannot fault or criticize the recognition of beauty, but for me this sky was not beautiful. It was nostalgic.
For long stretches of times, cities would always attract me with their bright lights and cooked meats. When you have gone more than a thousand years shitting in the woods, shitting in a hole that it wasn't your job to clean up was marvelous. Seeing what the people were doing now has always kept things interesting for me. Except when I would look up to the sky. It was slow, but as the cities built more lights, as their new machines released more smog, I found it harder and harder to see that sky.
I miss my mother in those times. Both father and mother were hunters then, but back then ideas of parenting and marriage were different. It was not uncommon to hold multiple partners at once, not uncommon to have children from different people, and raising the children was the effort of the village. But a child has a special connection with their mother.
Late at night, we would gaze at these same stars together. It was breath taking then as it is now. With time, our old traditions have been, rightfully, phased out. No more hunting like the old days, why bother when you can shoot your prey from a half mile away? Washing hands, buying instead of making everything yourself, I personally have found heavy blankets and anti-depressants wonderful modern inventions. Two things I was woefully missing in these waters.
How long has it been now? Another month? I have been truly numbed to the cold now, and the taste of salt water familiar. My muscles have begun to grow and my heart feels stronger, I spend more and more time swimming, but it is slow. At times, I have attempted to hunt for fish with my bare hands, but malnourished and constant shivering do not make a good fisherman. I believe the few stores of fat I had left were being eaten by my own body, converted into muscle. Sometimes I even get lucky with a fish. Once I've even had to punch a shark on the nose.
But when I get into a cycle of dying and dying, I lose my motivation to keep swimming. One day a rain storm came. The waves became rocky, and a wave swallowed me. Quickly I lost the air in my lungs, and plummeted below the water. I died so many times then. I am unashamed to say I cried. The pain, the humiliation, it felt as if all progress I had made was being torn to shreds by nature. As the weather cleared and I floated to the surface, I tried to cry then. I found my vocal cords weak from a lack of use. That made me wish to sink below once more.
I floated there, shivering, cold, defeated. Even as the sun would set, and the stars returned, I felt little. But with little else, I would swim. And then I would die. And then I would swim. It would storm. My skin would burn. I would hallucinate at times, as most do when they approach the end in the ways I have. More times than I could count I cursed at whatever gods that were still listening for never sending a boat my way, never helping me come across anything I could use.
Until I reached the shore.
Things never got easier on the shore. It took me a long time for the shivering to stop. You would expect that when the awful moment is over, you could tell yourself time after time that the moment is over. You set goals for yourself that you would be over it in a few months, and find yourself still unable to leave the comfort of your own bed. It took me almost just as long to get back to talking to people. I knew of so many stories like this, of people who felt they were never going to get better. I knew then what they meant. After something so harrowing, how could anyone? Until I found myself referring to what had happened to me as old hat. I don't know when it happened, or how to suggest to other people how it could happen for them. I was just lucky, I supposed. I didn't have to worry about living until it was time for me to live. I had to talk about what happened, a lot. I had to do other things too though, I had to solve problems, I had to practice things, I had to try and meet at least one other person.
It's been almost a year now. I still have nightmares about my time in the ocean. But those only happen some times. Things aren't all together, I still find myself slipping from time to time. But compared to the early days, it doesn't compare. Medicine has helped a lot. But when I feel the shivering start again, I close my eyes and remember the stars with my mother, in a forest that seemed to never end. It is never easy living this way. But living like a mortal is simply this way. Maybe one day, the shivering will stop, and the nightmares will end. But 'one day' is not today. So, until then, and those still trapped in their oceans, I can only tell you to keep swimming. Sometimes, truly, the only way out, is through.
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My eyes open. The stars are as I remember them, before the storm hit and threw me overboard. I pull my dagger from my belt and cut away my clothes. The wet leather and fabric are not easy to cut, and I nick myself more than once before my boots and vest and shirt sink into the depths. The gashes are not deep, but they sting as the sea water touches them, trickles of blood seeping out. I sigh, exasperated. In most other situations, those small cuts would not be life threatening. Now, I’m lucky if I survive until sunrise. But the sky is growing darker, the stars twinkling brighter, and knowing I am hours away from sunset yet, I feel something rough, like mail, brush against my leg. I won’t make it through the night.
I float, naked, and feel the sun roast my face, chest and legs. There is a new scar, below my knee. I do not have my dagger. I must’ve dropped it. But at least, now I don’t have to wait. I follow the sun for a little while, and I know which way is east, and I swim towards familiar shores. No one knows what’s to the west. To the east, I might encounter ships, explorers heading west. I doubt I’ll have any such luck if I swim eastward. Thankfully I’m not swimming against the current, so I can keep this up a while. As my muscles ache, the sun dips beneath the horizon, the sky radiating orange and pink and purple. It is getting cold. I am freezing. The stars look down on me again, and I’m not sure if they’re mocking me, or if they just don’t care. My arms are like stone, my legs of lead. But if I stop moving, I won’t start again. But they refuse to move. Maybe if I just took a small nap, I can start again... tomorrow.
I curse my existence as I open my eyes. At least I wasn’t awake as I froze to death. I know because I shivered as I awoke. Even the cold ocean felt warm in comparison. And I was right about going east; I would more likely encounter ships. I just wish I had awoken an hour or two earlier, as I can see the sails of one, black silhouette unfurled against the setting sun. I keep swimming again, and I’ll have less time this time around before I freeze to death as the ocean cools, with no sun to warm me.
I open my eyes, but I cannot see. I know they are open, for seawater stings them. All is dark. I hold my breath, and swim, but there is no light anywhere. I do not know which way is up, and how far down I am. Because now, of all times, I had to be resurrected vertically and not just horisontally. I cannot swim my way out of this. All I can do is hope it will happen again, or that I will hit a coastline sooner or later. I prepare myself for the taste of seaweed and vomit come my waking, as my lungs give in and gasp for air, and I feel myself floating. My last thought is that I hope eternity won’t be too long. Then another breath. The last, of many to come.
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[WP] You're immortal and each time you die you respawn some time later in your 20 year old body a few hundred metres from where you died. You have just realised that it really truly sucks for you to die in the middle of the ocean.
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Years of swimming.
Swimming. Drowning. Dying. Repeating.
My plane went down somewhere between Sydney and LA as I was flying home from an outback vacation. I tried following the setting sun at first, but I never got anywhere. It was tiring, so I let the current pull me wherever. Life was nice, for a while. The cool water numbed me to my core and I eventually learned to relax, to float around and let life happen. The sharks got me sometimes, but the pain of their bites was nothing new, so I paid them no mind.
Then one day, an anomaly woke me from my haze. Something, a land mass, on the horizon! I began to swim towards it. My body was slower, less responsive than normal, but after twenty-odd resets I made it to land. But when I reached solid ground and found a desert of snow and ice, I realized that my time in hell was only just beginning.
“...Fucking Antarctica?”
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My eyes open. The stars are as I remember them, before the storm hit and threw me overboard. I pull my dagger from my belt and cut away my clothes. The wet leather and fabric are not easy to cut, and I nick myself more than once before my boots and vest and shirt sink into the depths. The gashes are not deep, but they sting as the sea water touches them, trickles of blood seeping out. I sigh, exasperated. In most other situations, those small cuts would not be life threatening. Now, I’m lucky if I survive until sunrise. But the sky is growing darker, the stars twinkling brighter, and knowing I am hours away from sunset yet, I feel something rough, like mail, brush against my leg. I won’t make it through the night.
I float, naked, and feel the sun roast my face, chest and legs. There is a new scar, below my knee. I do not have my dagger. I must’ve dropped it. But at least, now I don’t have to wait. I follow the sun for a little while, and I know which way is east, and I swim towards familiar shores. No one knows what’s to the west. To the east, I might encounter ships, explorers heading west. I doubt I’ll have any such luck if I swim eastward. Thankfully I’m not swimming against the current, so I can keep this up a while. As my muscles ache, the sun dips beneath the horizon, the sky radiating orange and pink and purple. It is getting cold. I am freezing. The stars look down on me again, and I’m not sure if they’re mocking me, or if they just don’t care. My arms are like stone, my legs of lead. But if I stop moving, I won’t start again. But they refuse to move. Maybe if I just took a small nap, I can start again... tomorrow.
I curse my existence as I open my eyes. At least I wasn’t awake as I froze to death. I know because I shivered as I awoke. Even the cold ocean felt warm in comparison. And I was right about going east; I would more likely encounter ships. I just wish I had awoken an hour or two earlier, as I can see the sails of one, black silhouette unfurled against the setting sun. I keep swimming again, and I’ll have less time this time around before I freeze to death as the ocean cools, with no sun to warm me.
I open my eyes, but I cannot see. I know they are open, for seawater stings them. All is dark. I hold my breath, and swim, but there is no light anywhere. I do not know which way is up, and how far down I am. Because now, of all times, I had to be resurrected vertically and not just horisontally. I cannot swim my way out of this. All I can do is hope it will happen again, or that I will hit a coastline sooner or later. I prepare myself for the taste of seaweed and vomit come my waking, as my lungs give in and gasp for air, and I feel myself floating. My last thought is that I hope eternity won’t be too long. Then another breath. The last, of many to come.
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[WP] You're immortal and each time you die you respawn some time later in your 20 year old body a few hundred metres from where you died. You have just realised that it really truly sucks for you to die in the middle of the ocean.
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In all my time as a man with powers of reincarnation in my own body, I knew that flying and traveling across oceans was a terrible idea. The genie never told me that I’d reappear a few yards away, the bastard. Thankfully, I didn’t think to jump into a volcano the first few times.
It seems like my luck has ran out though. Being basically immortal makes you a lot more willing to get into risky situations. Moreover, my 20 year old body and mind have 20 year old motivations after all. Seducing the daughter of the godfather of the Russian mafia was not a good idea. “You’re so experienced” she said. Too bad her father is very protective of her.
When they caught me, I tried to run and jump out the window and fall to my death, but man do Russians sure have some meat on them. I bit one of them, and that got him really angry. Soon I was unconscious.
My next memory is of being in a freight ship with my head over the edge staring down. “See you in hell”. And then I was kicked overboard, hands tied.
Whoever said that drowning was peaceful is full of shit. Everything in your body pulses with “Please god, oh no get me out of here”. Ten years of this reincarnation thing was still not enough to take it calmly. Getting shot, stabbed, burned, beaten, poisoned, starving, and everything except thirst is way better than drowning.
The first few times I struggled. Once I died, I was plopped back again into the water. I tried swimming but exhaustion always came eventually. I swam and I swam but a horizon never came. Despite the reincarnation, I came back more frustrated each time. After trying and trying to swim, I tried just floating. That kept me alive longer, but for what!? Eventually, I got exhausted and drowned again.
Then the real existential dread came in. Do you know what it feels like to die repeatedly, over and over again in the same painful way AND THEN to realize that there is literally nothing you can do to prevent it??
Eventually, the reality of the situation was impossible to ignore. I started letting go. I died and then came back and didn’t move at all until I died again. Things got weird here. Death was no longer an issue. I mean obviously it wasn’t before because I could come back to life, but now it lost absolutely all importance. I stopped paying attention to the loss of breath and looked instead at how the light of the sun and moon pierced through the water. I looked at the sediments that pervaded through the water. I heard the sound of water entering my ears.
This created a pretty big ambivalence to what was happening to me. My body passes on, but it is just a body. There is an inscrutable insurmountable that persists.
And once this ambivalence set in, a warm feeling of calm came too. Maybe even beauty. There was nothing to think about, nothing to worry about, everything was absolutely stable and certain. Death would happen again and again, sometimes different than others, but nothing changed in the end.
And in the moment of finally understanding this, a hand reached out. My own hand. My own dead body. It floated and, so long as I didn’t move too much I could float without exertion. And then the idea came: I can use my corpses as a means for flotation. I immediately drowned myself and then looked around to see the two corpses that were beside each other, I found them and then I swam to them. I tied their arms with my belt so they would stay together.
Now, I have enough dead bodies so that I can lay on top of them as a bed. I can look at the stars so nicely from here now. Wherever I am, It is very beautfiul indeed.
And now we wait. If I’m in shark infested waters, no doubt they will soon catch a whiff of my flotation bed of corpses. I haven’t died in that way yet so that will be an interesting one. Equally problematic would be bad weather. When that happens, I will have to just wait it out and try again.
I’ve been floating for a few days now, and I’ll die of thirst soon. And that means one more corpse. Soon, one of these will go bad so I’ll have to replace it with a fresher one. I’ve died so many times now and I have seen no other ship. But I hope I will see one soon. If I do though, I will have no idea how to explain the situation.
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My eyes open. The stars are as I remember them, before the storm hit and threw me overboard. I pull my dagger from my belt and cut away my clothes. The wet leather and fabric are not easy to cut, and I nick myself more than once before my boots and vest and shirt sink into the depths. The gashes are not deep, but they sting as the sea water touches them, trickles of blood seeping out. I sigh, exasperated. In most other situations, those small cuts would not be life threatening. Now, I’m lucky if I survive until sunrise. But the sky is growing darker, the stars twinkling brighter, and knowing I am hours away from sunset yet, I feel something rough, like mail, brush against my leg. I won’t make it through the night.
I float, naked, and feel the sun roast my face, chest and legs. There is a new scar, below my knee. I do not have my dagger. I must’ve dropped it. But at least, now I don’t have to wait. I follow the sun for a little while, and I know which way is east, and I swim towards familiar shores. No one knows what’s to the west. To the east, I might encounter ships, explorers heading west. I doubt I’ll have any such luck if I swim eastward. Thankfully I’m not swimming against the current, so I can keep this up a while. As my muscles ache, the sun dips beneath the horizon, the sky radiating orange and pink and purple. It is getting cold. I am freezing. The stars look down on me again, and I’m not sure if they’re mocking me, or if they just don’t care. My arms are like stone, my legs of lead. But if I stop moving, I won’t start again. But they refuse to move. Maybe if I just took a small nap, I can start again... tomorrow.
I curse my existence as I open my eyes. At least I wasn’t awake as I froze to death. I know because I shivered as I awoke. Even the cold ocean felt warm in comparison. And I was right about going east; I would more likely encounter ships. I just wish I had awoken an hour or two earlier, as I can see the sails of one, black silhouette unfurled against the setting sun. I keep swimming again, and I’ll have less time this time around before I freeze to death as the ocean cools, with no sun to warm me.
I open my eyes, but I cannot see. I know they are open, for seawater stings them. All is dark. I hold my breath, and swim, but there is no light anywhere. I do not know which way is up, and how far down I am. Because now, of all times, I had to be resurrected vertically and not just horisontally. I cannot swim my way out of this. All I can do is hope it will happen again, or that I will hit a coastline sooner or later. I prepare myself for the taste of seaweed and vomit come my waking, as my lungs give in and gasp for air, and I feel myself floating. My last thought is that I hope eternity won’t be too long. Then another breath. The last, of many to come.
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[WP] You're immortal and each time you die you respawn some time later in your 20 year old body a few hundred metres from where you died. You have just realised that it really truly sucks for you to die in the middle of the ocean.
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It was truly stupid. To try to pull off a stunt of diving really to world record depths without any equipment? Dumb. I'd overestimated myself and died of lack of oxygen on the way back up.
True, I've respawned here alive. That's the exact problem. *I respawned here, in the middle of the ocean.*
The boat that sent me here's long gone, obviously. They think I'm dead. And I was dead.
Now for the more immediate problem. Getting out of here. By sheer luck I spot a helicopter, and I wave, shouting furiously to get it's attention. That's my only source of hope for now.
To my horror, the helicopter doesn't notice me and keeps on flying. I scream until I can't anymore, watching the speck of black, my previous hope flying away, farther and farther.
The floodgates open as I allow myself to just float on this neverending blue. Why did I do this to myself? It was an amazing prospect to be immortal, when I was 10 and my grandmother had just died. So I had searched far and wide, and at the age of 15 had actually found the serum, brewed by a mysterious witch hidden in a cave. She had warned me and asked me repeatedly if I wanted to drink the serum, but to me at that time the answers to the questions seemed obvious. Why not be immortal? Death is painful. Scary. Horrifying.
*I was so stupid*, I now think, drifting in the ocean, staring at the setting sun, hoping, wishing...
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At six bells on the forenoon watch, your body is given to the sea.
If you were there to see it, you could find no fault with the hands that do the job; the sweaty, bloodied rags are cut away and fresh linen laid carefully over the yawning, splintered chasm the enemy's sword made of your chest. A hand smooths the red tangle of your hair from your face; they care more than to allow you to go to your grave disordered. Faces lean in close, with murmured words of faith, to get one last look at their Captain Ross before the sailcloth is sewn tenderly over you and your face is hidden from the world.
At six bells on the dog watch, you wake with no knowledge of that tenderness, alone on the wild water.
The first time, you force yourself to the surface, and come up long enough to glimpse see the night-lanterns of a ship bobbing in the distance, between the white-capped mountains of the waves.
Yours? Before you can tell, you're under again, and drown.
The second time, you claw your way to the surface, but find nothing but the endless ocean.
Figures and charts drift in your mind as you sink; so far from land, so far from land. In the joy of your captaincy and your ship, you forgot what kept you from the sea before. Even the strength of your new youth cannot help you in the waves.
You drown.
And drown.
And drown.
In the drift, you are not a captain; not a sailor; not the sum of your experiences. Not even truly alive. Just a long string of struggle, and pain, and the desperation for air, for warmth, for reprieve.
When the storm ends, you do not see it; nor do you see the trim lines of the frigate cutting through the water. A lookout spotted something red in the water.
At six bells on the forenoon watch, they pull the strange young man aboard. Born from the water, they say; the spitting image of the captain they gave to the waves.
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[WP] You're immortal and each time you die you respawn some time later in your 20 year old body a few hundred metres from where you died. You have just realised that it really truly sucks for you to die in the middle of the ocean.
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I’ve forgotten what solid ground feels like. I vaguely remember a ship, a bottle, and a wish, but that all feels like lifetimes ago. I’ve grown accustomed to living at sea, floating peacefully on the flat hot days, sometimes bumping in to something to eat, or get eaten by. Are they nightmares of being torn apart by sharks? They feel so real.
My breaths are deep, out quickly, in deep. Hold it. I can almost doze off on these peaceful days, in the serene morning, or is it evening? I’ve given up trying to keep track. The sun is sinking, so it must be evening. I do remember a ship, my sailboat Brisa. A Ranger, I was anchored by an island, I found a half buried lamp on a dive...
Ripples darken the water in the direction of the setting sun. Another storm is coming. Which do I hate more, storms or sharks? At least the sharks get it over with quickly.
I cleaned the lamp and got one wish, and I knew immediately what it would be. Immortality. Despite all the philosophical debates, curse or blessing, I knew that’s what I wanted more than anything else in the world. Time. The time to just exist slowly, deliberately, sit on a mountaintop for a decade, flow like lava, watch a forest grow.
I guess I should have paid more attention to all the details, but the first thing I did was sail straight in to a storm. What’s the worst that could happen? I’m immortal!
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At six bells on the forenoon watch, your body is given to the sea.
If you were there to see it, you could find no fault with the hands that do the job; the sweaty, bloodied rags are cut away and fresh linen laid carefully over the yawning, splintered chasm the enemy's sword made of your chest. A hand smooths the red tangle of your hair from your face; they care more than to allow you to go to your grave disordered. Faces lean in close, with murmured words of faith, to get one last look at their Captain Ross before the sailcloth is sewn tenderly over you and your face is hidden from the world.
At six bells on the dog watch, you wake with no knowledge of that tenderness, alone on the wild water.
The first time, you force yourself to the surface, and come up long enough to glimpse see the night-lanterns of a ship bobbing in the distance, between the white-capped mountains of the waves.
Yours? Before you can tell, you're under again, and drown.
The second time, you claw your way to the surface, but find nothing but the endless ocean.
Figures and charts drift in your mind as you sink; so far from land, so far from land. In the joy of your captaincy and your ship, you forgot what kept you from the sea before. Even the strength of your new youth cannot help you in the waves.
You drown.
And drown.
And drown.
In the drift, you are not a captain; not a sailor; not the sum of your experiences. Not even truly alive. Just a long string of struggle, and pain, and the desperation for air, for warmth, for reprieve.
When the storm ends, you do not see it; nor do you see the trim lines of the frigate cutting through the water. A lookout spotted something red in the water.
At six bells on the forenoon watch, they pull the strange young man aboard. Born from the water, they say; the spitting image of the captain they gave to the waves.
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[WP] You're immortal and each time you die you respawn some time later in your 20 year old body a few hundred metres from where you died. You have just realised that it really truly sucks for you to die in the middle of the ocean.
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I have died in many ways. Jumped from the roof of the Eiffel tower escaping secret French Police. Exploring the ruins of Chernobyl shortly after the melt down. One time from choking on a hot dog in a McDonalds before they were discontinued. I have little qualms with death now, and care little for how I pass.
On the list of ways I would prefer to die though, drowning is far down on my list. Drowning in the middle of the ocean following a plane crash? I would frankly mark it third from the bottom, just beating 'that time with the Spanish Inquisition'.
Initially, I try to hold my breath as long as possible, instinctually trying to swim to the surface. But trapped in the middle of the ocean, my options are hypothermia, or drowning. One typically followed by the other. As I sink below, and I can no longer breath, I open my mouth, and water rushes in. Quickly following that I begin to what I can only describe as a choking sensation. Hopefully by some point I lose consciousness, and with practice I do, but it is not a talent I often practice. In those first few times, I experienced every moment of agony as oxygen would fail to reach my brain, my organs shutting down one by one, my arms and legs so cold I can barely feel them any more, before the darkness takes me. It is not a quiet or peaceful death either, as the waves around me push me to and fro. You cannot scream, only sink, further and further into the deep.
If I'm lucky, my new body isn't created deeper than where I died. Dying from drowning and the added pressure is not enjoyable either. Sometimes I find myself lucky enough to be above the waves when I return to consciousness.
My time in the open water now feels separated in three parts; swimming, bemoaning the futility of swimming, and the throes of death. I am always shivering now, the cold so etched into my body that even as I return fully formed, my body cannot forget my own death from moments ago.
Sometimes I mark the passage of time by how sun burnt my skin has become. Born amongst what most call today 'Native Americans', my skin has always had a natural tan color, but when exposed to the salty ocean and the ever present sun above, eventually it will whether and burn. When I wake up, I sometimes find my skin has become remarkably clear, realizing I must have drowned in my sleep. No matter. Some day, my bodies beneath the waves may wash up on some shore and a local legend will start. Someone may be able to connect it to me, but only the most avid of hunters should be able to recognize my face from police reports and old news papers. But it's a big world. It's easy to disappear in.
Like the stars above me.
More than a month into swimming for the shore, so turned around and disoriented from all the times I've died I have long since given up swimming in any particular direction, at night I have begun to float on my back and look at the stars. So many people I have met through the bygone years have always treated such a view as majestic and spiritual, a look out into the cosmos beyond. I cannot fault or criticize the recognition of beauty, but for me this sky was not beautiful. It was nostalgic.
For long stretches of times, cities would always attract me with their bright lights and cooked meats. When you have gone more than a thousand years shitting in the woods, shitting in a hole that it wasn't your job to clean up was marvelous. Seeing what the people were doing now has always kept things interesting for me. Except when I would look up to the sky. It was slow, but as the cities built more lights, as their new machines released more smog, I found it harder and harder to see that sky.
I miss my mother in those times. Both father and mother were hunters then, but back then ideas of parenting and marriage were different. It was not uncommon to hold multiple partners at once, not uncommon to have children from different people, and raising the children was the effort of the village. But a child has a special connection with their mother.
Late at night, we would gaze at these same stars together. It was breath taking then as it is now. With time, our old traditions have been, rightfully, phased out. No more hunting like the old days, why bother when you can shoot your prey from a half mile away? Washing hands, buying instead of making everything yourself, I personally have found heavy blankets and anti-depressants wonderful modern inventions. Two things I was woefully missing in these waters.
How long has it been now? Another month? I have been truly numbed to the cold now, and the taste of salt water familiar. My muscles have begun to grow and my heart feels stronger, I spend more and more time swimming, but it is slow. At times, I have attempted to hunt for fish with my bare hands, but malnourished and constant shivering do not make a good fisherman. I believe the few stores of fat I had left were being eaten by my own body, converted into muscle. Sometimes I even get lucky with a fish. Once I've even had to punch a shark on the nose.
But when I get into a cycle of dying and dying, I lose my motivation to keep swimming. One day a rain storm came. The waves became rocky, and a wave swallowed me. Quickly I lost the air in my lungs, and plummeted below the water. I died so many times then. I am unashamed to say I cried. The pain, the humiliation, it felt as if all progress I had made was being torn to shreds by nature. As the weather cleared and I floated to the surface, I tried to cry then. I found my vocal cords weak from a lack of use. That made me wish to sink below once more.
I floated there, shivering, cold, defeated. Even as the sun would set, and the stars returned, I felt little. But with little else, I would swim. And then I would die. And then I would swim. It would storm. My skin would burn. I would hallucinate at times, as most do when they approach the end in the ways I have. More times than I could count I cursed at whatever gods that were still listening for never sending a boat my way, never helping me come across anything I could use.
Until I reached the shore.
Things never got easier on the shore. It took me a long time for the shivering to stop. You would expect that when the awful moment is over, you could tell yourself time after time that the moment is over. You set goals for yourself that you would be over it in a few months, and find yourself still unable to leave the comfort of your own bed. It took me almost just as long to get back to talking to people. I knew of so many stories like this, of people who felt they were never going to get better. I knew then what they meant. After something so harrowing, how could anyone? Until I found myself referring to what had happened to me as old hat. I don't know when it happened, or how to suggest to other people how it could happen for them. I was just lucky, I supposed. I didn't have to worry about living until it was time for me to live. I had to talk about what happened, a lot. I had to do other things too though, I had to solve problems, I had to practice things, I had to try and meet at least one other person.
It's been almost a year now. I still have nightmares about my time in the ocean. But those only happen some times. Things aren't all together, I still find myself slipping from time to time. But compared to the early days, it doesn't compare. Medicine has helped a lot. But when I feel the shivering start again, I close my eyes and remember the stars with my mother, in a forest that seemed to never end. It is never easy living this way. But living like a mortal is simply this way. Maybe one day, the shivering will stop, and the nightmares will end. But 'one day' is not today. So, until then, and those still trapped in their oceans, I can only tell you to keep swimming. Sometimes, truly, the only way out, is through.
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At six bells on the forenoon watch, your body is given to the sea.
If you were there to see it, you could find no fault with the hands that do the job; the sweaty, bloodied rags are cut away and fresh linen laid carefully over the yawning, splintered chasm the enemy's sword made of your chest. A hand smooths the red tangle of your hair from your face; they care more than to allow you to go to your grave disordered. Faces lean in close, with murmured words of faith, to get one last look at their Captain Ross before the sailcloth is sewn tenderly over you and your face is hidden from the world.
At six bells on the dog watch, you wake with no knowledge of that tenderness, alone on the wild water.
The first time, you force yourself to the surface, and come up long enough to glimpse see the night-lanterns of a ship bobbing in the distance, between the white-capped mountains of the waves.
Yours? Before you can tell, you're under again, and drown.
The second time, you claw your way to the surface, but find nothing but the endless ocean.
Figures and charts drift in your mind as you sink; so far from land, so far from land. In the joy of your captaincy and your ship, you forgot what kept you from the sea before. Even the strength of your new youth cannot help you in the waves.
You drown.
And drown.
And drown.
In the drift, you are not a captain; not a sailor; not the sum of your experiences. Not even truly alive. Just a long string of struggle, and pain, and the desperation for air, for warmth, for reprieve.
When the storm ends, you do not see it; nor do you see the trim lines of the frigate cutting through the water. A lookout spotted something red in the water.
At six bells on the forenoon watch, they pull the strange young man aboard. Born from the water, they say; the spitting image of the captain they gave to the waves.
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[WP] You're immortal and each time you die you respawn some time later in your 20 year old body a few hundred metres from where you died. You have just realised that it really truly sucks for you to die in the middle of the ocean.
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Years of swimming.
Swimming. Drowning. Dying. Repeating.
My plane went down somewhere between Sydney and LA as I was flying home from an outback vacation. I tried following the setting sun at first, but I never got anywhere. It was tiring, so I let the current pull me wherever. Life was nice, for a while. The cool water numbed me to my core and I eventually learned to relax, to float around and let life happen. The sharks got me sometimes, but the pain of their bites was nothing new, so I paid them no mind.
Then one day, an anomaly woke me from my haze. Something, a land mass, on the horizon! I began to swim towards it. My body was slower, less responsive than normal, but after twenty-odd resets I made it to land. But when I reached solid ground and found a desert of snow and ice, I realized that my time in hell was only just beginning.
“...Fucking Antarctica?”
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At six bells on the forenoon watch, your body is given to the sea.
If you were there to see it, you could find no fault with the hands that do the job; the sweaty, bloodied rags are cut away and fresh linen laid carefully over the yawning, splintered chasm the enemy's sword made of your chest. A hand smooths the red tangle of your hair from your face; they care more than to allow you to go to your grave disordered. Faces lean in close, with murmured words of faith, to get one last look at their Captain Ross before the sailcloth is sewn tenderly over you and your face is hidden from the world.
At six bells on the dog watch, you wake with no knowledge of that tenderness, alone on the wild water.
The first time, you force yourself to the surface, and come up long enough to glimpse see the night-lanterns of a ship bobbing in the distance, between the white-capped mountains of the waves.
Yours? Before you can tell, you're under again, and drown.
The second time, you claw your way to the surface, but find nothing but the endless ocean.
Figures and charts drift in your mind as you sink; so far from land, so far from land. In the joy of your captaincy and your ship, you forgot what kept you from the sea before. Even the strength of your new youth cannot help you in the waves.
You drown.
And drown.
And drown.
In the drift, you are not a captain; not a sailor; not the sum of your experiences. Not even truly alive. Just a long string of struggle, and pain, and the desperation for air, for warmth, for reprieve.
When the storm ends, you do not see it; nor do you see the trim lines of the frigate cutting through the water. A lookout spotted something red in the water.
At six bells on the forenoon watch, they pull the strange young man aboard. Born from the water, they say; the spitting image of the captain they gave to the waves.
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[WP] You're immortal and each time you die you respawn some time later in your 20 year old body a few hundred metres from where you died. You have just realised that it really truly sucks for you to die in the middle of the ocean.
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In all my time as a man with powers of reincarnation in my own body, I knew that flying and traveling across oceans was a terrible idea. The genie never told me that I’d reappear a few yards away, the bastard. Thankfully, I didn’t think to jump into a volcano the first few times.
It seems like my luck has ran out though. Being basically immortal makes you a lot more willing to get into risky situations. Moreover, my 20 year old body and mind have 20 year old motivations after all. Seducing the daughter of the godfather of the Russian mafia was not a good idea. “You’re so experienced” she said. Too bad her father is very protective of her.
When they caught me, I tried to run and jump out the window and fall to my death, but man do Russians sure have some meat on them. I bit one of them, and that got him really angry. Soon I was unconscious.
My next memory is of being in a freight ship with my head over the edge staring down. “See you in hell”. And then I was kicked overboard, hands tied.
Whoever said that drowning was peaceful is full of shit. Everything in your body pulses with “Please god, oh no get me out of here”. Ten years of this reincarnation thing was still not enough to take it calmly. Getting shot, stabbed, burned, beaten, poisoned, starving, and everything except thirst is way better than drowning.
The first few times I struggled. Once I died, I was plopped back again into the water. I tried swimming but exhaustion always came eventually. I swam and I swam but a horizon never came. Despite the reincarnation, I came back more frustrated each time. After trying and trying to swim, I tried just floating. That kept me alive longer, but for what!? Eventually, I got exhausted and drowned again.
Then the real existential dread came in. Do you know what it feels like to die repeatedly, over and over again in the same painful way AND THEN to realize that there is literally nothing you can do to prevent it??
Eventually, the reality of the situation was impossible to ignore. I started letting go. I died and then came back and didn’t move at all until I died again. Things got weird here. Death was no longer an issue. I mean obviously it wasn’t before because I could come back to life, but now it lost absolutely all importance. I stopped paying attention to the loss of breath and looked instead at how the light of the sun and moon pierced through the water. I looked at the sediments that pervaded through the water. I heard the sound of water entering my ears.
This created a pretty big ambivalence to what was happening to me. My body passes on, but it is just a body. There is an inscrutable insurmountable that persists.
And once this ambivalence set in, a warm feeling of calm came too. Maybe even beauty. There was nothing to think about, nothing to worry about, everything was absolutely stable and certain. Death would happen again and again, sometimes different than others, but nothing changed in the end.
And in the moment of finally understanding this, a hand reached out. My own hand. My own dead body. It floated and, so long as I didn’t move too much I could float without exertion. And then the idea came: I can use my corpses as a means for flotation. I immediately drowned myself and then looked around to see the two corpses that were beside each other, I found them and then I swam to them. I tied their arms with my belt so they would stay together.
Now, I have enough dead bodies so that I can lay on top of them as a bed. I can look at the stars so nicely from here now. Wherever I am, It is very beautfiul indeed.
And now we wait. If I’m in shark infested waters, no doubt they will soon catch a whiff of my flotation bed of corpses. I haven’t died in that way yet so that will be an interesting one. Equally problematic would be bad weather. When that happens, I will have to just wait it out and try again.
I’ve been floating for a few days now, and I’ll die of thirst soon. And that means one more corpse. Soon, one of these will go bad so I’ll have to replace it with a fresher one. I’ve died so many times now and I have seen no other ship. But I hope I will see one soon. If I do though, I will have no idea how to explain the situation.
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At six bells on the forenoon watch, your body is given to the sea.
If you were there to see it, you could find no fault with the hands that do the job; the sweaty, bloodied rags are cut away and fresh linen laid carefully over the yawning, splintered chasm the enemy's sword made of your chest. A hand smooths the red tangle of your hair from your face; they care more than to allow you to go to your grave disordered. Faces lean in close, with murmured words of faith, to get one last look at their Captain Ross before the sailcloth is sewn tenderly over you and your face is hidden from the world.
At six bells on the dog watch, you wake with no knowledge of that tenderness, alone on the wild water.
The first time, you force yourself to the surface, and come up long enough to glimpse see the night-lanterns of a ship bobbing in the distance, between the white-capped mountains of the waves.
Yours? Before you can tell, you're under again, and drown.
The second time, you claw your way to the surface, but find nothing but the endless ocean.
Figures and charts drift in your mind as you sink; so far from land, so far from land. In the joy of your captaincy and your ship, you forgot what kept you from the sea before. Even the strength of your new youth cannot help you in the waves.
You drown.
And drown.
And drown.
In the drift, you are not a captain; not a sailor; not the sum of your experiences. Not even truly alive. Just a long string of struggle, and pain, and the desperation for air, for warmth, for reprieve.
When the storm ends, you do not see it; nor do you see the trim lines of the frigate cutting through the water. A lookout spotted something red in the water.
At six bells on the forenoon watch, they pull the strange young man aboard. Born from the water, they say; the spitting image of the captain they gave to the waves.
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[WP] You're immortal and each time you die you respawn some time later in your 20 year old body a few hundred metres from where you died. You have just realised that it really truly sucks for you to die in the middle of the ocean.
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It was truly stupid. To try to pull off a stunt of diving really to world record depths without any equipment? Dumb. I'd overestimated myself and died of lack of oxygen on the way back up.
True, I've respawned here alive. That's the exact problem. *I respawned here, in the middle of the ocean.*
The boat that sent me here's long gone, obviously. They think I'm dead. And I was dead.
Now for the more immediate problem. Getting out of here. By sheer luck I spot a helicopter, and I wave, shouting furiously to get it's attention. That's my only source of hope for now.
To my horror, the helicopter doesn't notice me and keeps on flying. I scream until I can't anymore, watching the speck of black, my previous hope flying away, farther and farther.
The floodgates open as I allow myself to just float on this neverending blue. Why did I do this to myself? It was an amazing prospect to be immortal, when I was 10 and my grandmother had just died. So I had searched far and wide, and at the age of 15 had actually found the serum, brewed by a mysterious witch hidden in a cave. She had warned me and asked me repeatedly if I wanted to drink the serum, but to me at that time the answers to the questions seemed obvious. Why not be immortal? Death is painful. Scary. Horrifying.
*I was so stupid*, I now think, drifting in the ocean, staring at the setting sun, hoping, wishing...
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“You know what sucks the most about respawning?” He asked the dead body beside him. “Talking to yourself, hahahhaha!” He swiped the wet hair from his forehead as he bobbed in the water, fresh energy draining quickly as he treaded.
“But seriously, the worst part? Is respawning a hundred meters to the left and then one hundred to the right every time I die so I NEVWR ACTUALLY GET ANYWHERE! Aaahhhrreggg!!!” The sharks began circling the hundred or so bodies drifting in the water. Maybe he could build a raft of rotting corpses? But then if he died before finding land he would respawn back in the water. Also he would have to explain a dozen or more hims. And also sharks.
Edit: he begins to think. He could start eating himself. But is that cannibalism? Is it better than drowning? His thoughts circled as he grew winded and drowned again. He was never a strong swimmer. This was going to be a long century if he couldn’t find land.....
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[WP] You're immortal and each time you die you respawn some time later in your 20 year old body a few hundred metres from where you died. You have just realised that it really truly sucks for you to die in the middle of the ocean.
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I’ve forgotten what solid ground feels like. I vaguely remember a ship, a bottle, and a wish, but that all feels like lifetimes ago. I’ve grown accustomed to living at sea, floating peacefully on the flat hot days, sometimes bumping in to something to eat, or get eaten by. Are they nightmares of being torn apart by sharks? They feel so real.
My breaths are deep, out quickly, in deep. Hold it. I can almost doze off on these peaceful days, in the serene morning, or is it evening? I’ve given up trying to keep track. The sun is sinking, so it must be evening. I do remember a ship, my sailboat Brisa. A Ranger, I was anchored by an island, I found a half buried lamp on a dive...
Ripples darken the water in the direction of the setting sun. Another storm is coming. Which do I hate more, storms or sharks? At least the sharks get it over with quickly.
I cleaned the lamp and got one wish, and I knew immediately what it would be. Immortality. Despite all the philosophical debates, curse or blessing, I knew that’s what I wanted more than anything else in the world. Time. The time to just exist slowly, deliberately, sit on a mountaintop for a decade, flow like lava, watch a forest grow.
I guess I should have paid more attention to all the details, but the first thing I did was sail straight in to a storm. What’s the worst that could happen? I’m immortal!
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“You know what sucks the most about respawning?” He asked the dead body beside him. “Talking to yourself, hahahhaha!” He swiped the wet hair from his forehead as he bobbed in the water, fresh energy draining quickly as he treaded.
“But seriously, the worst part? Is respawning a hundred meters to the left and then one hundred to the right every time I die so I NEVWR ACTUALLY GET ANYWHERE! Aaahhhrreggg!!!” The sharks began circling the hundred or so bodies drifting in the water. Maybe he could build a raft of rotting corpses? But then if he died before finding land he would respawn back in the water. Also he would have to explain a dozen or more hims. And also sharks.
Edit: he begins to think. He could start eating himself. But is that cannibalism? Is it better than drowning? His thoughts circled as he grew winded and drowned again. He was never a strong swimmer. This was going to be a long century if he couldn’t find land.....
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[WP] You're immortal and each time you die you respawn some time later in your 20 year old body a few hundred metres from where you died. You have just realised that it really truly sucks for you to die in the middle of the ocean.
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I’ve forgotten what solid ground feels like. I vaguely remember a ship, a bottle, and a wish, but that all feels like lifetimes ago. I’ve grown accustomed to living at sea, floating peacefully on the flat hot days, sometimes bumping in to something to eat, or get eaten by. Are they nightmares of being torn apart by sharks? They feel so real.
My breaths are deep, out quickly, in deep. Hold it. I can almost doze off on these peaceful days, in the serene morning, or is it evening? I’ve given up trying to keep track. The sun is sinking, so it must be evening. I do remember a ship, my sailboat Brisa. A Ranger, I was anchored by an island, I found a half buried lamp on a dive...
Ripples darken the water in the direction of the setting sun. Another storm is coming. Which do I hate more, storms or sharks? At least the sharks get it over with quickly.
I cleaned the lamp and got one wish, and I knew immediately what it would be. Immortality. Despite all the philosophical debates, curse or blessing, I knew that’s what I wanted more than anything else in the world. Time. The time to just exist slowly, deliberately, sit on a mountaintop for a decade, flow like lava, watch a forest grow.
I guess I should have paid more attention to all the details, but the first thing I did was sail straight in to a storm. What’s the worst that could happen? I’m immortal!
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His eyes opened. It was dark. A void of space seemed to ceaselessly expand in all directions. When had he last drawn breath? The icy water stung his flesh, eyes burning of salt. The mans face was blank, sharply contrasting the apparent desperation and terror the situation seemed to warrant. Emotions, he thought, that had long been eroded away. What is fear, anyways, when the biggest, most omnipresent fear of them all has been removed from the equation? He gasped for air, and the subsequent flooding of his lungs shook him from his drifting thoughts, muddled from the lack of oxygen.
His head was on a swivel, searching for a flicker of light. Darkness consumed him; his eyes burned. He judged he had about a minute left, maybe two. He kicked, not seeing or hearing. Again. Again. Decades (or was it centuries?) of practice had fashioned him into an excellent swimmer. But it was meaningless in this aquatic tomb.
He kicked again, and thought he saw a light. Just a shimmer, but it was something. His eyes grew wide and he kicked hard, fitful, enraged. It was far, must have been 100 meters or more, and his lungs burned. Color was quickly draining from complexion, and numbness had overtaken the entirety of his body. One more, he thought, one more. He kicked, struggled. The surface seemed no closer then when he had begun. He knew this part, it was the worst part. Darkness crept in, his kicks slowed, finally ceasing altogether.
The range of his emotional spectrum had dulled over the years, some lost all together. However, one feeling, one emotion, had eclipsed all the rest. One singular neuronal highway adapted to respond to every possible situation. And floating there, in that endless expanse, he yelled, a guttural sound of pure fury. An expression of anger that could only have been cultivated over lifetimes of agony. The sound came to a feverous climax, and then stopped altogether. Water had flooded in like the breaking of a dam, and as his mind drifted off, he found something like peace.
His eyes opened. It was dark. A void of space seemed to ceaselessly expand in all directions. When had he last drawn breath? The icy water stung his flesh, eyes burning of salt…
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[WP] You're immortal and each time you die you respawn some time later in your 20 year old body a few hundred metres from where you died. You have just realised that it really truly sucks for you to die in the middle of the ocean.
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I have died in many ways. Jumped from the roof of the Eiffel tower escaping secret French Police. Exploring the ruins of Chernobyl shortly after the melt down. One time from choking on a hot dog in a McDonalds before they were discontinued. I have little qualms with death now, and care little for how I pass.
On the list of ways I would prefer to die though, drowning is far down on my list. Drowning in the middle of the ocean following a plane crash? I would frankly mark it third from the bottom, just beating 'that time with the Spanish Inquisition'.
Initially, I try to hold my breath as long as possible, instinctually trying to swim to the surface. But trapped in the middle of the ocean, my options are hypothermia, or drowning. One typically followed by the other. As I sink below, and I can no longer breath, I open my mouth, and water rushes in. Quickly following that I begin to what I can only describe as a choking sensation. Hopefully by some point I lose consciousness, and with practice I do, but it is not a talent I often practice. In those first few times, I experienced every moment of agony as oxygen would fail to reach my brain, my organs shutting down one by one, my arms and legs so cold I can barely feel them any more, before the darkness takes me. It is not a quiet or peaceful death either, as the waves around me push me to and fro. You cannot scream, only sink, further and further into the deep.
If I'm lucky, my new body isn't created deeper than where I died. Dying from drowning and the added pressure is not enjoyable either. Sometimes I find myself lucky enough to be above the waves when I return to consciousness.
My time in the open water now feels separated in three parts; swimming, bemoaning the futility of swimming, and the throes of death. I am always shivering now, the cold so etched into my body that even as I return fully formed, my body cannot forget my own death from moments ago.
Sometimes I mark the passage of time by how sun burnt my skin has become. Born amongst what most call today 'Native Americans', my skin has always had a natural tan color, but when exposed to the salty ocean and the ever present sun above, eventually it will whether and burn. When I wake up, I sometimes find my skin has become remarkably clear, realizing I must have drowned in my sleep. No matter. Some day, my bodies beneath the waves may wash up on some shore and a local legend will start. Someone may be able to connect it to me, but only the most avid of hunters should be able to recognize my face from police reports and old news papers. But it's a big world. It's easy to disappear in.
Like the stars above me.
More than a month into swimming for the shore, so turned around and disoriented from all the times I've died I have long since given up swimming in any particular direction, at night I have begun to float on my back and look at the stars. So many people I have met through the bygone years have always treated such a view as majestic and spiritual, a look out into the cosmos beyond. I cannot fault or criticize the recognition of beauty, but for me this sky was not beautiful. It was nostalgic.
For long stretches of times, cities would always attract me with their bright lights and cooked meats. When you have gone more than a thousand years shitting in the woods, shitting in a hole that it wasn't your job to clean up was marvelous. Seeing what the people were doing now has always kept things interesting for me. Except when I would look up to the sky. It was slow, but as the cities built more lights, as their new machines released more smog, I found it harder and harder to see that sky.
I miss my mother in those times. Both father and mother were hunters then, but back then ideas of parenting and marriage were different. It was not uncommon to hold multiple partners at once, not uncommon to have children from different people, and raising the children was the effort of the village. But a child has a special connection with their mother.
Late at night, we would gaze at these same stars together. It was breath taking then as it is now. With time, our old traditions have been, rightfully, phased out. No more hunting like the old days, why bother when you can shoot your prey from a half mile away? Washing hands, buying instead of making everything yourself, I personally have found heavy blankets and anti-depressants wonderful modern inventions. Two things I was woefully missing in these waters.
How long has it been now? Another month? I have been truly numbed to the cold now, and the taste of salt water familiar. My muscles have begun to grow and my heart feels stronger, I spend more and more time swimming, but it is slow. At times, I have attempted to hunt for fish with my bare hands, but malnourished and constant shivering do not make a good fisherman. I believe the few stores of fat I had left were being eaten by my own body, converted into muscle. Sometimes I even get lucky with a fish. Once I've even had to punch a shark on the nose.
But when I get into a cycle of dying and dying, I lose my motivation to keep swimming. One day a rain storm came. The waves became rocky, and a wave swallowed me. Quickly I lost the air in my lungs, and plummeted below the water. I died so many times then. I am unashamed to say I cried. The pain, the humiliation, it felt as if all progress I had made was being torn to shreds by nature. As the weather cleared and I floated to the surface, I tried to cry then. I found my vocal cords weak from a lack of use. That made me wish to sink below once more.
I floated there, shivering, cold, defeated. Even as the sun would set, and the stars returned, I felt little. But with little else, I would swim. And then I would die. And then I would swim. It would storm. My skin would burn. I would hallucinate at times, as most do when they approach the end in the ways I have. More times than I could count I cursed at whatever gods that were still listening for never sending a boat my way, never helping me come across anything I could use.
Until I reached the shore.
Things never got easier on the shore. It took me a long time for the shivering to stop. You would expect that when the awful moment is over, you could tell yourself time after time that the moment is over. You set goals for yourself that you would be over it in a few months, and find yourself still unable to leave the comfort of your own bed. It took me almost just as long to get back to talking to people. I knew of so many stories like this, of people who felt they were never going to get better. I knew then what they meant. After something so harrowing, how could anyone? Until I found myself referring to what had happened to me as old hat. I don't know when it happened, or how to suggest to other people how it could happen for them. I was just lucky, I supposed. I didn't have to worry about living until it was time for me to live. I had to talk about what happened, a lot. I had to do other things too though, I had to solve problems, I had to practice things, I had to try and meet at least one other person.
It's been almost a year now. I still have nightmares about my time in the ocean. But those only happen some times. Things aren't all together, I still find myself slipping from time to time. But compared to the early days, it doesn't compare. Medicine has helped a lot. But when I feel the shivering start again, I close my eyes and remember the stars with my mother, in a forest that seemed to never end. It is never easy living this way. But living like a mortal is simply this way. Maybe one day, the shivering will stop, and the nightmares will end. But 'one day' is not today. So, until then, and those still trapped in their oceans, I can only tell you to keep swimming. Sometimes, truly, the only way out, is through.
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His eyes opened. It was dark. A void of space seemed to ceaselessly expand in all directions. When had he last drawn breath? The icy water stung his flesh, eyes burning of salt. The mans face was blank, sharply contrasting the apparent desperation and terror the situation seemed to warrant. Emotions, he thought, that had long been eroded away. What is fear, anyways, when the biggest, most omnipresent fear of them all has been removed from the equation? He gasped for air, and the subsequent flooding of his lungs shook him from his drifting thoughts, muddled from the lack of oxygen.
His head was on a swivel, searching for a flicker of light. Darkness consumed him; his eyes burned. He judged he had about a minute left, maybe two. He kicked, not seeing or hearing. Again. Again. Decades (or was it centuries?) of practice had fashioned him into an excellent swimmer. But it was meaningless in this aquatic tomb.
He kicked again, and thought he saw a light. Just a shimmer, but it was something. His eyes grew wide and he kicked hard, fitful, enraged. It was far, must have been 100 meters or more, and his lungs burned. Color was quickly draining from complexion, and numbness had overtaken the entirety of his body. One more, he thought, one more. He kicked, struggled. The surface seemed no closer then when he had begun. He knew this part, it was the worst part. Darkness crept in, his kicks slowed, finally ceasing altogether.
The range of his emotional spectrum had dulled over the years, some lost all together. However, one feeling, one emotion, had eclipsed all the rest. One singular neuronal highway adapted to respond to every possible situation. And floating there, in that endless expanse, he yelled, a guttural sound of pure fury. An expression of anger that could only have been cultivated over lifetimes of agony. The sound came to a feverous climax, and then stopped altogether. Water had flooded in like the breaking of a dam, and as his mind drifted off, he found something like peace.
His eyes opened. It was dark. A void of space seemed to ceaselessly expand in all directions. When had he last drawn breath? The icy water stung his flesh, eyes burning of salt…
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[WP] You're immortal and each time you die you respawn some time later in your 20 year old body a few hundred metres from where you died. You have just realised that it really truly sucks for you to die in the middle of the ocean.
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Years of swimming.
Swimming. Drowning. Dying. Repeating.
My plane went down somewhere between Sydney and LA as I was flying home from an outback vacation. I tried following the setting sun at first, but I never got anywhere. It was tiring, so I let the current pull me wherever. Life was nice, for a while. The cool water numbed me to my core and I eventually learned to relax, to float around and let life happen. The sharks got me sometimes, but the pain of their bites was nothing new, so I paid them no mind.
Then one day, an anomaly woke me from my haze. Something, a land mass, on the horizon! I began to swim towards it. My body was slower, less responsive than normal, but after twenty-odd resets I made it to land. But when I reached solid ground and found a desert of snow and ice, I realized that my time in hell was only just beginning.
“...Fucking Antarctica?”
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His eyes opened. It was dark. A void of space seemed to ceaselessly expand in all directions. When had he last drawn breath? The icy water stung his flesh, eyes burning of salt. The mans face was blank, sharply contrasting the apparent desperation and terror the situation seemed to warrant. Emotions, he thought, that had long been eroded away. What is fear, anyways, when the biggest, most omnipresent fear of them all has been removed from the equation? He gasped for air, and the subsequent flooding of his lungs shook him from his drifting thoughts, muddled from the lack of oxygen.
His head was on a swivel, searching for a flicker of light. Darkness consumed him; his eyes burned. He judged he had about a minute left, maybe two. He kicked, not seeing or hearing. Again. Again. Decades (or was it centuries?) of practice had fashioned him into an excellent swimmer. But it was meaningless in this aquatic tomb.
He kicked again, and thought he saw a light. Just a shimmer, but it was something. His eyes grew wide and he kicked hard, fitful, enraged. It was far, must have been 100 meters or more, and his lungs burned. Color was quickly draining from complexion, and numbness had overtaken the entirety of his body. One more, he thought, one more. He kicked, struggled. The surface seemed no closer then when he had begun. He knew this part, it was the worst part. Darkness crept in, his kicks slowed, finally ceasing altogether.
The range of his emotional spectrum had dulled over the years, some lost all together. However, one feeling, one emotion, had eclipsed all the rest. One singular neuronal highway adapted to respond to every possible situation. And floating there, in that endless expanse, he yelled, a guttural sound of pure fury. An expression of anger that could only have been cultivated over lifetimes of agony. The sound came to a feverous climax, and then stopped altogether. Water had flooded in like the breaking of a dam, and as his mind drifted off, he found something like peace.
His eyes opened. It was dark. A void of space seemed to ceaselessly expand in all directions. When had he last drawn breath? The icy water stung his flesh, eyes burning of salt…
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[WP] You're immortal and each time you die you respawn some time later in your 20 year old body a few hundred metres from where you died. You have just realised that it really truly sucks for you to die in the middle of the ocean.
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In all my time as a man with powers of reincarnation in my own body, I knew that flying and traveling across oceans was a terrible idea. The genie never told me that I’d reappear a few yards away, the bastard. Thankfully, I didn’t think to jump into a volcano the first few times.
It seems like my luck has ran out though. Being basically immortal makes you a lot more willing to get into risky situations. Moreover, my 20 year old body and mind have 20 year old motivations after all. Seducing the daughter of the godfather of the Russian mafia was not a good idea. “You’re so experienced” she said. Too bad her father is very protective of her.
When they caught me, I tried to run and jump out the window and fall to my death, but man do Russians sure have some meat on them. I bit one of them, and that got him really angry. Soon I was unconscious.
My next memory is of being in a freight ship with my head over the edge staring down. “See you in hell”. And then I was kicked overboard, hands tied.
Whoever said that drowning was peaceful is full of shit. Everything in your body pulses with “Please god, oh no get me out of here”. Ten years of this reincarnation thing was still not enough to take it calmly. Getting shot, stabbed, burned, beaten, poisoned, starving, and everything except thirst is way better than drowning.
The first few times I struggled. Once I died, I was plopped back again into the water. I tried swimming but exhaustion always came eventually. I swam and I swam but a horizon never came. Despite the reincarnation, I came back more frustrated each time. After trying and trying to swim, I tried just floating. That kept me alive longer, but for what!? Eventually, I got exhausted and drowned again.
Then the real existential dread came in. Do you know what it feels like to die repeatedly, over and over again in the same painful way AND THEN to realize that there is literally nothing you can do to prevent it??
Eventually, the reality of the situation was impossible to ignore. I started letting go. I died and then came back and didn’t move at all until I died again. Things got weird here. Death was no longer an issue. I mean obviously it wasn’t before because I could come back to life, but now it lost absolutely all importance. I stopped paying attention to the loss of breath and looked instead at how the light of the sun and moon pierced through the water. I looked at the sediments that pervaded through the water. I heard the sound of water entering my ears.
This created a pretty big ambivalence to what was happening to me. My body passes on, but it is just a body. There is an inscrutable insurmountable that persists.
And once this ambivalence set in, a warm feeling of calm came too. Maybe even beauty. There was nothing to think about, nothing to worry about, everything was absolutely stable and certain. Death would happen again and again, sometimes different than others, but nothing changed in the end.
And in the moment of finally understanding this, a hand reached out. My own hand. My own dead body. It floated and, so long as I didn’t move too much I could float without exertion. And then the idea came: I can use my corpses as a means for flotation. I immediately drowned myself and then looked around to see the two corpses that were beside each other, I found them and then I swam to them. I tied their arms with my belt so they would stay together.
Now, I have enough dead bodies so that I can lay on top of them as a bed. I can look at the stars so nicely from here now. Wherever I am, It is very beautfiul indeed.
And now we wait. If I’m in shark infested waters, no doubt they will soon catch a whiff of my flotation bed of corpses. I haven’t died in that way yet so that will be an interesting one. Equally problematic would be bad weather. When that happens, I will have to just wait it out and try again.
I’ve been floating for a few days now, and I’ll die of thirst soon. And that means one more corpse. Soon, one of these will go bad so I’ll have to replace it with a fresher one. I’ve died so many times now and I have seen no other ship. But I hope I will see one soon. If I do though, I will have no idea how to explain the situation.
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His eyes opened. It was dark. A void of space seemed to ceaselessly expand in all directions. When had he last drawn breath? The icy water stung his flesh, eyes burning of salt. The mans face was blank, sharply contrasting the apparent desperation and terror the situation seemed to warrant. Emotions, he thought, that had long been eroded away. What is fear, anyways, when the biggest, most omnipresent fear of them all has been removed from the equation? He gasped for air, and the subsequent flooding of his lungs shook him from his drifting thoughts, muddled from the lack of oxygen.
His head was on a swivel, searching for a flicker of light. Darkness consumed him; his eyes burned. He judged he had about a minute left, maybe two. He kicked, not seeing or hearing. Again. Again. Decades (or was it centuries?) of practice had fashioned him into an excellent swimmer. But it was meaningless in this aquatic tomb.
He kicked again, and thought he saw a light. Just a shimmer, but it was something. His eyes grew wide and he kicked hard, fitful, enraged. It was far, must have been 100 meters or more, and his lungs burned. Color was quickly draining from complexion, and numbness had overtaken the entirety of his body. One more, he thought, one more. He kicked, struggled. The surface seemed no closer then when he had begun. He knew this part, it was the worst part. Darkness crept in, his kicks slowed, finally ceasing altogether.
The range of his emotional spectrum had dulled over the years, some lost all together. However, one feeling, one emotion, had eclipsed all the rest. One singular neuronal highway adapted to respond to every possible situation. And floating there, in that endless expanse, he yelled, a guttural sound of pure fury. An expression of anger that could only have been cultivated over lifetimes of agony. The sound came to a feverous climax, and then stopped altogether. Water had flooded in like the breaking of a dam, and as his mind drifted off, he found something like peace.
His eyes opened. It was dark. A void of space seemed to ceaselessly expand in all directions. When had he last drawn breath? The icy water stung his flesh, eyes burning of salt…
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[WP] You're immortal and each time you die you respawn some time later in your 20 year old body a few hundred metres from where you died. You have just realised that it really truly sucks for you to die in the middle of the ocean.
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I’ve forgotten what solid ground feels like. I vaguely remember a ship, a bottle, and a wish, but that all feels like lifetimes ago. I’ve grown accustomed to living at sea, floating peacefully on the flat hot days, sometimes bumping in to something to eat, or get eaten by. Are they nightmares of being torn apart by sharks? They feel so real.
My breaths are deep, out quickly, in deep. Hold it. I can almost doze off on these peaceful days, in the serene morning, or is it evening? I’ve given up trying to keep track. The sun is sinking, so it must be evening. I do remember a ship, my sailboat Brisa. A Ranger, I was anchored by an island, I found a half buried lamp on a dive...
Ripples darken the water in the direction of the setting sun. Another storm is coming. Which do I hate more, storms or sharks? At least the sharks get it over with quickly.
I cleaned the lamp and got one wish, and I knew immediately what it would be. Immortality. Despite all the philosophical debates, curse or blessing, I knew that’s what I wanted more than anything else in the world. Time. The time to just exist slowly, deliberately, sit on a mountaintop for a decade, flow like lava, watch a forest grow.
I guess I should have paid more attention to all the details, but the first thing I did was sail straight in to a storm. What’s the worst that could happen? I’m immortal!
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It was truly stupid. To try to pull off a stunt of diving really to world record depths without any equipment? Dumb. I'd overestimated myself and died of lack of oxygen on the way back up.
True, I've respawned here alive. That's the exact problem. *I respawned here, in the middle of the ocean.*
The boat that sent me here's long gone, obviously. They think I'm dead. And I was dead.
Now for the more immediate problem. Getting out of here. By sheer luck I spot a helicopter, and I wave, shouting furiously to get it's attention. That's my only source of hope for now.
To my horror, the helicopter doesn't notice me and keeps on flying. I scream until I can't anymore, watching the speck of black, my previous hope flying away, farther and farther.
The floodgates open as I allow myself to just float on this neverending blue. Why did I do this to myself? It was an amazing prospect to be immortal, when I was 10 and my grandmother had just died. So I had searched far and wide, and at the age of 15 had actually found the serum, brewed by a mysterious witch hidden in a cave. She had warned me and asked me repeatedly if I wanted to drink the serum, but to me at that time the answers to the questions seemed obvious. Why not be immortal? Death is painful. Scary. Horrifying.
*I was so stupid*, I now think, drifting in the ocean, staring at the setting sun, hoping, wishing...
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[WP] You're immortal and each time you die you respawn some time later in your 20 year old body a few hundred metres from where you died. You have just realised that it really truly sucks for you to die in the middle of the ocean.
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**Water of Life**
​
When I was young, I loved the air around the many beaches,
But life is tough and seldom fair; it punishes and teaches.
A curse like mine is so unique, no one is the same,
No one shares my bitter pain, and no one shares my name.
​
With every death that comes my way the reaper takes my hand,
He helps me up and makes me young and drops me on this land.
Never can I be in sooth, never am I free,
All I am is now regret, nothing left is me.
​
And so, I drowned myself in sorrow, here within this ocean,
I swam into the endless sea, carried by its motion.
And ever deeper did I sink, until my breath sat out,
Only to wake up again for yet another bout.
​
I swim and die for all my life, young to never live,
And all the hope that I once had, I will never give.
I will keep it in my heart, to swim until I die,
This will be my own resolve for there is no goodbye.
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“This is why I don’t get on boats!” I yell, some distance away from the boat.
“I know!” She laughs wickedly. She’s already on the raft, lowering it to come get me.
It’s all a joke to her. It’s a joke to everyone that knows and trust me, a lot of people know. I don’t understand why people try to challenge me. I just keep getting killed, over and over and over again. I mean, I could stop telling people I guess, but why? I should tell everyone. Maybe one day I’ll come across someone like me or a scientist of some sort that can explain it because I’m tired of guessing what the hell is going on.
I just wish people would stop killing me. Just because I reappear doesn’t mean I’m not fucking mad they killed me in the first place. Again.
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[WP] You're immortal and each time you die you respawn some time later in your 20 year old body a few hundred metres from where you died. You have just realised that it really truly sucks for you to die in the middle of the ocean.
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I have died in many ways. Jumped from the roof of the Eiffel tower escaping secret French Police. Exploring the ruins of Chernobyl shortly after the melt down. One time from choking on a hot dog in a McDonalds before they were discontinued. I have little qualms with death now, and care little for how I pass.
On the list of ways I would prefer to die though, drowning is far down on my list. Drowning in the middle of the ocean following a plane crash? I would frankly mark it third from the bottom, just beating 'that time with the Spanish Inquisition'.
Initially, I try to hold my breath as long as possible, instinctually trying to swim to the surface. But trapped in the middle of the ocean, my options are hypothermia, or drowning. One typically followed by the other. As I sink below, and I can no longer breath, I open my mouth, and water rushes in. Quickly following that I begin to what I can only describe as a choking sensation. Hopefully by some point I lose consciousness, and with practice I do, but it is not a talent I often practice. In those first few times, I experienced every moment of agony as oxygen would fail to reach my brain, my organs shutting down one by one, my arms and legs so cold I can barely feel them any more, before the darkness takes me. It is not a quiet or peaceful death either, as the waves around me push me to and fro. You cannot scream, only sink, further and further into the deep.
If I'm lucky, my new body isn't created deeper than where I died. Dying from drowning and the added pressure is not enjoyable either. Sometimes I find myself lucky enough to be above the waves when I return to consciousness.
My time in the open water now feels separated in three parts; swimming, bemoaning the futility of swimming, and the throes of death. I am always shivering now, the cold so etched into my body that even as I return fully formed, my body cannot forget my own death from moments ago.
Sometimes I mark the passage of time by how sun burnt my skin has become. Born amongst what most call today 'Native Americans', my skin has always had a natural tan color, but when exposed to the salty ocean and the ever present sun above, eventually it will whether and burn. When I wake up, I sometimes find my skin has become remarkably clear, realizing I must have drowned in my sleep. No matter. Some day, my bodies beneath the waves may wash up on some shore and a local legend will start. Someone may be able to connect it to me, but only the most avid of hunters should be able to recognize my face from police reports and old news papers. But it's a big world. It's easy to disappear in.
Like the stars above me.
More than a month into swimming for the shore, so turned around and disoriented from all the times I've died I have long since given up swimming in any particular direction, at night I have begun to float on my back and look at the stars. So many people I have met through the bygone years have always treated such a view as majestic and spiritual, a look out into the cosmos beyond. I cannot fault or criticize the recognition of beauty, but for me this sky was not beautiful. It was nostalgic.
For long stretches of times, cities would always attract me with their bright lights and cooked meats. When you have gone more than a thousand years shitting in the woods, shitting in a hole that it wasn't your job to clean up was marvelous. Seeing what the people were doing now has always kept things interesting for me. Except when I would look up to the sky. It was slow, but as the cities built more lights, as their new machines released more smog, I found it harder and harder to see that sky.
I miss my mother in those times. Both father and mother were hunters then, but back then ideas of parenting and marriage were different. It was not uncommon to hold multiple partners at once, not uncommon to have children from different people, and raising the children was the effort of the village. But a child has a special connection with their mother.
Late at night, we would gaze at these same stars together. It was breath taking then as it is now. With time, our old traditions have been, rightfully, phased out. No more hunting like the old days, why bother when you can shoot your prey from a half mile away? Washing hands, buying instead of making everything yourself, I personally have found heavy blankets and anti-depressants wonderful modern inventions. Two things I was woefully missing in these waters.
How long has it been now? Another month? I have been truly numbed to the cold now, and the taste of salt water familiar. My muscles have begun to grow and my heart feels stronger, I spend more and more time swimming, but it is slow. At times, I have attempted to hunt for fish with my bare hands, but malnourished and constant shivering do not make a good fisherman. I believe the few stores of fat I had left were being eaten by my own body, converted into muscle. Sometimes I even get lucky with a fish. Once I've even had to punch a shark on the nose.
But when I get into a cycle of dying and dying, I lose my motivation to keep swimming. One day a rain storm came. The waves became rocky, and a wave swallowed me. Quickly I lost the air in my lungs, and plummeted below the water. I died so many times then. I am unashamed to say I cried. The pain, the humiliation, it felt as if all progress I had made was being torn to shreds by nature. As the weather cleared and I floated to the surface, I tried to cry then. I found my vocal cords weak from a lack of use. That made me wish to sink below once more.
I floated there, shivering, cold, defeated. Even as the sun would set, and the stars returned, I felt little. But with little else, I would swim. And then I would die. And then I would swim. It would storm. My skin would burn. I would hallucinate at times, as most do when they approach the end in the ways I have. More times than I could count I cursed at whatever gods that were still listening for never sending a boat my way, never helping me come across anything I could use.
Until I reached the shore.
Things never got easier on the shore. It took me a long time for the shivering to stop. You would expect that when the awful moment is over, you could tell yourself time after time that the moment is over. You set goals for yourself that you would be over it in a few months, and find yourself still unable to leave the comfort of your own bed. It took me almost just as long to get back to talking to people. I knew of so many stories like this, of people who felt they were never going to get better. I knew then what they meant. After something so harrowing, how could anyone? Until I found myself referring to what had happened to me as old hat. I don't know when it happened, or how to suggest to other people how it could happen for them. I was just lucky, I supposed. I didn't have to worry about living until it was time for me to live. I had to talk about what happened, a lot. I had to do other things too though, I had to solve problems, I had to practice things, I had to try and meet at least one other person.
It's been almost a year now. I still have nightmares about my time in the ocean. But those only happen some times. Things aren't all together, I still find myself slipping from time to time. But compared to the early days, it doesn't compare. Medicine has helped a lot. But when I feel the shivering start again, I close my eyes and remember the stars with my mother, in a forest that seemed to never end. It is never easy living this way. But living like a mortal is simply this way. Maybe one day, the shivering will stop, and the nightmares will end. But 'one day' is not today. So, until then, and those still trapped in their oceans, I can only tell you to keep swimming. Sometimes, truly, the only way out, is through.
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“This is why I don’t get on boats!” I yell, some distance away from the boat.
“I know!” She laughs wickedly. She’s already on the raft, lowering it to come get me.
It’s all a joke to her. It’s a joke to everyone that knows and trust me, a lot of people know. I don’t understand why people try to challenge me. I just keep getting killed, over and over and over again. I mean, I could stop telling people I guess, but why? I should tell everyone. Maybe one day I’ll come across someone like me or a scientist of some sort that can explain it because I’m tired of guessing what the hell is going on.
I just wish people would stop killing me. Just because I reappear doesn’t mean I’m not fucking mad they killed me in the first place. Again.
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[WP] You're immortal and each time you die you respawn some time later in your 20 year old body a few hundred metres from where you died. You have just realised that it really truly sucks for you to die in the middle of the ocean.
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Years of swimming.
Swimming. Drowning. Dying. Repeating.
My plane went down somewhere between Sydney and LA as I was flying home from an outback vacation. I tried following the setting sun at first, but I never got anywhere. It was tiring, so I let the current pull me wherever. Life was nice, for a while. The cool water numbed me to my core and I eventually learned to relax, to float around and let life happen. The sharks got me sometimes, but the pain of their bites was nothing new, so I paid them no mind.
Then one day, an anomaly woke me from my haze. Something, a land mass, on the horizon! I began to swim towards it. My body was slower, less responsive than normal, but after twenty-odd resets I made it to land. But when I reached solid ground and found a desert of snow and ice, I realized that my time in hell was only just beginning.
“...Fucking Antarctica?”
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“This is why I don’t get on boats!” I yell, some distance away from the boat.
“I know!” She laughs wickedly. She’s already on the raft, lowering it to come get me.
It’s all a joke to her. It’s a joke to everyone that knows and trust me, a lot of people know. I don’t understand why people try to challenge me. I just keep getting killed, over and over and over again. I mean, I could stop telling people I guess, but why? I should tell everyone. Maybe one day I’ll come across someone like me or a scientist of some sort that can explain it because I’m tired of guessing what the hell is going on.
I just wish people would stop killing me. Just because I reappear doesn’t mean I’m not fucking mad they killed me in the first place. Again.
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[WP] You're immortal and each time you die you respawn some time later in your 20 year old body a few hundred metres from where you died. You have just realised that it really truly sucks for you to die in the middle of the ocean.
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In all my time as a man with powers of reincarnation in my own body, I knew that flying and traveling across oceans was a terrible idea. The genie never told me that I’d reappear a few yards away, the bastard. Thankfully, I didn’t think to jump into a volcano the first few times.
It seems like my luck has ran out though. Being basically immortal makes you a lot more willing to get into risky situations. Moreover, my 20 year old body and mind have 20 year old motivations after all. Seducing the daughter of the godfather of the Russian mafia was not a good idea. “You’re so experienced” she said. Too bad her father is very protective of her.
When they caught me, I tried to run and jump out the window and fall to my death, but man do Russians sure have some meat on them. I bit one of them, and that got him really angry. Soon I was unconscious.
My next memory is of being in a freight ship with my head over the edge staring down. “See you in hell”. And then I was kicked overboard, hands tied.
Whoever said that drowning was peaceful is full of shit. Everything in your body pulses with “Please god, oh no get me out of here”. Ten years of this reincarnation thing was still not enough to take it calmly. Getting shot, stabbed, burned, beaten, poisoned, starving, and everything except thirst is way better than drowning.
The first few times I struggled. Once I died, I was plopped back again into the water. I tried swimming but exhaustion always came eventually. I swam and I swam but a horizon never came. Despite the reincarnation, I came back more frustrated each time. After trying and trying to swim, I tried just floating. That kept me alive longer, but for what!? Eventually, I got exhausted and drowned again.
Then the real existential dread came in. Do you know what it feels like to die repeatedly, over and over again in the same painful way AND THEN to realize that there is literally nothing you can do to prevent it??
Eventually, the reality of the situation was impossible to ignore. I started letting go. I died and then came back and didn’t move at all until I died again. Things got weird here. Death was no longer an issue. I mean obviously it wasn’t before because I could come back to life, but now it lost absolutely all importance. I stopped paying attention to the loss of breath and looked instead at how the light of the sun and moon pierced through the water. I looked at the sediments that pervaded through the water. I heard the sound of water entering my ears.
This created a pretty big ambivalence to what was happening to me. My body passes on, but it is just a body. There is an inscrutable insurmountable that persists.
And once this ambivalence set in, a warm feeling of calm came too. Maybe even beauty. There was nothing to think about, nothing to worry about, everything was absolutely stable and certain. Death would happen again and again, sometimes different than others, but nothing changed in the end.
And in the moment of finally understanding this, a hand reached out. My own hand. My own dead body. It floated and, so long as I didn’t move too much I could float without exertion. And then the idea came: I can use my corpses as a means for flotation. I immediately drowned myself and then looked around to see the two corpses that were beside each other, I found them and then I swam to them. I tied their arms with my belt so they would stay together.
Now, I have enough dead bodies so that I can lay on top of them as a bed. I can look at the stars so nicely from here now. Wherever I am, It is very beautfiul indeed.
And now we wait. If I’m in shark infested waters, no doubt they will soon catch a whiff of my flotation bed of corpses. I haven’t died in that way yet so that will be an interesting one. Equally problematic would be bad weather. When that happens, I will have to just wait it out and try again.
I’ve been floating for a few days now, and I’ll die of thirst soon. And that means one more corpse. Soon, one of these will go bad so I’ll have to replace it with a fresher one. I’ve died so many times now and I have seen no other ship. But I hope I will see one soon. If I do though, I will have no idea how to explain the situation.
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“This is why I don’t get on boats!” I yell, some distance away from the boat.
“I know!” She laughs wickedly. She’s already on the raft, lowering it to come get me.
It’s all a joke to her. It’s a joke to everyone that knows and trust me, a lot of people know. I don’t understand why people try to challenge me. I just keep getting killed, over and over and over again. I mean, I could stop telling people I guess, but why? I should tell everyone. Maybe one day I’ll come across someone like me or a scientist of some sort that can explain it because I’m tired of guessing what the hell is going on.
I just wish people would stop killing me. Just because I reappear doesn’t mean I’m not fucking mad they killed me in the first place. Again.
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[WP] You're immortal and each time you die you respawn some time later in your 20 year old body a few hundred metres from where you died. You have just realised that it really truly sucks for you to die in the middle of the ocean.
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I can still hear myself saying it, “Secure that rope sailor! It’s coming loose! QUICKLY! HEAVE T…”
It was already too late, the sail came loose, seized immediately by the intense winds of the storm as the ship’s mainstay and main top engaged an unwinnable battle with Mother Nature herself. The following seconds seemed like an eternity, but perhaps that is because I have replayed them in my head for millennia.
First, the feel of the thick droplets of rainwater falling on my face and arms. Next, the splash of the wave that we crashed into port side, raising the boat ever so slightly, the clash of the soft rainwater and the hoarse saltwater on my face. Finally, the sail is ripped off as we are still slightly airborne, the mainstay is taken with it and the maintop is dislodged as the ship crashes once again with the surface of the sea. The crew space begins to take on water where the maintop has been dislodged.
“MAN OVERBOARD”
The shoring team leader falls as the ship re-connects with the ocean. It was not long after that before we went under.
“Secure that rope sailor! It’s..” Again... and again...
There are no bubbles, there is no air, no light, there is nothing here but the cold darkness of despair encompassing my absolute helplessness as the saltwater fills my lungs and slows my heartrate.
Over, and over, and over. It must have been a thousand times I relived my death in the depths of the sea. As I awoke time and again, I gained better understanding of my body and it took longer for me to drown. I began to observe my surroundings when I noticed something... A small fluorescent being, resembling a cuttlefish but with more expressive features. It was always within my view, but outside my reach.
I started to make my way towards it as I awoke. Hypothermia would claim my mobility every time, crippling everything but my will and my sight as I sank to the depths. After what felt like an eternity swimming towards this small light, it came to me once as I fell. He touched me.
A nondescript voice sounded very slightly within my head as all my senses gave out. A sense of calm amid a millennium of desperation and struggle. “You have earned your deliverance.”
I began to evolve within my shell of a body, and I began to respawn closer to other animals, marine mammals and cephalopods. It seems whatever the cuttlefish did made it so I could communicate with them. I began to learn from the whales, the squids, and the dolphins. It took what felt like a thousand deaths, but they taught me to breathe, and then to harness the ocean. They taught me that I could manipulate the seas. I learned to control that which once had destroyed me. I rose to the surface of the sea and wreaked havoc upon nothingness. I was the master of the oceans.
As I halted the onslaught, I was compelled to visit the depths once again. I made way as hastily as I could to where my heart was called. There I found the cuttlefish once again, but this time I could feel his speech within me without contact.
The same monotonous, unwavering voice from before spoke:
“The world can no longer continue to suffer the collateral damage of humanity’s greed. We have created you to serve as a bridge. You harness the power you have suffered, use it sparingly as those who meet your wrath will be resigned to the fate you have yourself so acutely suffered. Bring peace to the world, be it by understanding or by force.”
My name is Noah.
A flood is coming.
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“This is why I don’t get on boats!” I yell, some distance away from the boat.
“I know!” She laughs wickedly. She’s already on the raft, lowering it to come get me.
It’s all a joke to her. It’s a joke to everyone that knows and trust me, a lot of people know. I don’t understand why people try to challenge me. I just keep getting killed, over and over and over again. I mean, I could stop telling people I guess, but why? I should tell everyone. Maybe one day I’ll come across someone like me or a scientist of some sort that can explain it because I’m tired of guessing what the hell is going on.
I just wish people would stop killing me. Just because I reappear doesn’t mean I’m not fucking mad they killed me in the first place. Again.
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