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General Mark Jones sat down in the

General Mark Jones rounded the table and sat down in the chair opposite to me. He opened the file and flipped through the pages. "Break it down for me, Cpt. Lokowicz," he said and put the file down. I shifted in my chair. The video of the final stages of the mission had been leaked and then gone viral. "I don't know what else there is to say, sir. The press says the video speaks for itself." "I don't give a shit about the press; I want to know what happened that day." I sighed and took another sip of coffee. "It was cloudy. The operation started off smoothly with an aerial insert deep inside enemy territory. We blew up the pipeline twenty minutes after landing. Apart from a few long distance pick offs by Ace, we didn't run into any trouble until we reached the third quadrant for extraction..." **** *It was supposed to be a quick in and out*. I knew those words were on the minds of all five members of my team. We were traveling light and barely had any extra ammo with us. "What's the status on that chopper, Trip?" I said and slammed another mag into my rifle. Heavy machine gun fire ripped into the other side of the wall that we were hunkered down behind, causing the old building to tremble and cough mortar dust. Getting pinned down this far into enemy territory could quickly turn into a race against the clock. More bodies were on the way - a lot more than we had bullets for. "...says he can't land if we don't clear out their heavies," came Trip's response over the intercom. "All right, what you got, Ace?" "I've got eyes on four by the fountain... two plus two approaching on your left... there's another convoy coming up the hillside." "Where's that heavy, Ace?" "I don't see it... the dust..." "All right, boys, you heard Trip - we got to work for our ride home today," I said and pulled up the mask over my face again. "Forest, Biz, with me. Give your extra mags to Trip; he'll hold the main street from here. Ace, you make sure the fuckers in that convoy get their daily exercise. Let's go." Crouching, I exited the building on the right side and followed a narrow alley between two mud structures. "Wait for it," I said and held up my hand. A bang echoed across the hillside and up over the roofs of the village. Shouts and gunfire erupted in the distance. "Those guys have some climbing to do," Ace said over the intercom. "I hit them pretty good. They think I'm close. I'll stay here for a while and see what else I can get." Two quick bursts rang through the building behind us. "First two down, second two hiding in the-" Trip said before another salvo of machine gun fire drowned out his voice. I turned around and motioned for Biz to cover left and Forest to cover right as we crossed the street. Then I stuck my head out and checked both directions. There were enemies on both sides, but they were all focusing on Trip. "Conserve ammo," I said and hurried across the dirt road with the others in tow. "Three plus three, main street," said Ace and a shot thundered over the rooftops. "Make that two plus three, and pinned. My address is now public." We hurried down another dusty alley, carefully checking every nook and cranny with our index fingers ready. "We're going for a 'round town sightseeing," I said. "They still think we're with Trip. Ace, see if you can find that heavy." "On it." We circled around, all the way behind the market place with the fountain. We crouched down inside a wooden stable. At least four enemies were talking on the other side of the wall. "We're inside a wooden structure behind them," I whispered. "Shit, I'm hit!" Trip cried over the intercom. "I'm hit. I'm hit." I heard Forest cursed quietly behind me. Outside, the metallic sound of a ricocheting bullet burst the scene into life. The rapid fire from the enemy AKs and shouting in a foreign language. "Target neutralized," Ace said in my ear. "Five in a row, knocking on your front door. I need to reload. Do you hear me? Five in a row." "Affirmative," I whispered and shouldered my rifle. I turned to Forest and Biz. "Save your ammo for when they enter." "Right by the door," Ace said. "In a straight line - I wish I wasn't horizontal right now." Fuck it, I thought, and unloaded my entire mag, straight into the thin wooden wall. Smoke oozed from the muzzle of my gun, but no gunshots came from the other side - which could only mean one thing. "Holy shit, Loki," Ace said. "Save some for the rest of us." "Get good," I mumbled, despite myself, a smile creeping up on my face. "All clear, as far as I can see," Ace said. "Trip, you okay?" "Yeah, leg's a bit sore, though. Chopper's here in T minus two." **** The general, who had been fidgeting with the mission file throughout my entire story, finally put the folder down on the table. "The press thinks that comment was way out of line," he said. "They say that's *inappropriate*, given the situation." "I know, sir." Now comes the discharge, I thought. We both knew the comment wasn't an issue normally, but when something like this came under public scrutiny, someone had to take the fall. His gray eyes looked me up and down, a stiff smile cracked his face open. "The press is calling for your head." "I understand, sir." "You're a far too valuable asset, though, and so is everyone on your team. We'll try to put a spin on it in the official statement. *'Our best team has zero respect for the enemy, even in a pressed situation.'* We'll try to make an appeal to patriotism or something." "Thank you, sir." "Dismissed." **** r/Lilwa_Dexel

The main lights switched off overhead,

I held my breath, listening to the employee's footsteps fade. I thought this was it - I had done it! My friends were going to be astonished - they all believed I would get caught. The main lights switched off overhead, leaving only the dim emergency lights on. That was alright - I had spent the day exploring, and I knew where everything was. I waited for twenty more minutes and then slowly crept out of my hiding spot behind the collection of drapes. Time to explore! Man, this store was huge. Ikea had always seemed a little weird to me - too big, weird names for things, weirdly addictive Swedish meatballs - but a dare was a dare, and I was going to spend the night here. I thought it was a stupidly reckless dare, but my asshole friend Barry had asked me in front of Katrina. She had seemed impressed, so I had found myself nodding - and here I was. I wasn't going to lie, I was a bit creeped out. I tried not think about it, though - scaring myself with thoughts of ghosts and funny noises wasn't going to help now. Barry had driven me here at 2 in the afternoon - I had told my mom I was going to his house. There were beds in the next room, I could knock out for a few hours and still have time to explore. I made my way out of the garish children's room I had hid in and into a kitchen set. Wait - was that a noise? I heard a rustling in the office setup. Was it just my imagination? I switched on the flashlight on my phone. I could only see the ALGOT chair slowly swiveling. A chill ran up my spine. Someone else - something else - was here. Just then, I felt a hand grab my shoulder. I spun, the beam of my phone-flashlight wheeling, and let out a very manly scream (it was just a scream, ok?). "Whoa, whoa, kid, calm down. I'm not gonna hurt ya." The man behind me was tall and burly, with a giant beard. He was wearing what looked suspiciously like a set of the clothes that Ikea keeps in their display closet. Around his neck, he had a yellow and blue lanyard. "Look, I just snuck in here for the night, just like you - I'm guessing on a dare?" I swallowed and nodded. He had been grinning the whole time - it was creepy. "The name's Nick. Nice to meet ya. What do ya say we explore together?" I didn't want to piss him off, so I nodded - I could always ditch him later, I guess. "What do ya say we hit up the food court? Maybe they left some a' those meatballs around." Without waiting for me to introduce myself or agree, he turned and set off through the display rooms at a clip. I was frozen. After a few steps, he turned around. "Well, come on, kid. We've got lots to see." His voice was gruff, despite the smile still plastered on his face, so I stumbled forward. Sitting at the sparse metal tables in the food court, I watched as Nick rooted around behind the counter and produced two cartons of Swedish meatballs. He grinned at me, but I didn't smile back. Something wasn't right. I wanted to text Barry and ask him to come pick me up, but I wasn't sure if I could get out without sounding the alarm. Plus, I didn't want to wuss out over nothing. Nick brought over the meatballs and started eating. I stared at him. He was smiling, even while he was eating - it was creepy. I ate my meatballs quickly and then pushed the carton aside. "Say, kid, do ya wanna go explore the top level? No one gets to go there except the bosses. Let's take a look!" Nick leaped up from his seat, still grinning, and grabbed my hand, leaving the empty containers on the table. "Look, Nick, I appreciate the meatballs, but... I'm not sure if I wanna go up there. I just came to, like, sleep on the display beds for the night. But you do whatever, man." Nick looked at me for a second and then smiled. He turned around and started towing me after him, his hand like a vise on my grip. This was really weird. We got to the escalator, but as we approached, the steps ground into motion. Nick pulled me onto it, ignoring my protests. With my free hand, I unlocked my phone and texted Barry - **Come, please. Now. Not joking.** Hopefully he was awake - he had promised to be. We got off the elevator - the door at the top was just, open. Nick pulled me through. I tried to wiggle my hand away, but he held fast. We passed glass-walled offices, very modern and expensive, all deserted. He pulled me into the last door, what looked like a boardroom. "What is this place, Nick?" I asked. He didn't answer, just kept smiling. I made a move toward the glass door. He didn't move. I pulled the handle - it wouldn't move. How could it be locked? We had just walked in here. "Nick?" "Welcome, Justin." The cool male voice with an accent seemed to come from the TV. I was shocked. I tried not to cower, but I pressed against the far wall. "I am Mr. Agnefjall, but you can call me Peter. Thank you for coming tonight." I frantically tried the door handle again. Nick stood immobile against the wall. "Calm down, Justin. Nick, give him the lanyard." Nick pushed away from the wall and came toward me. I tried to back away, but there were too many office chairs in the way. He grabbed my shoulder with one hand and took off his garish lanyard with the other. He looked at me - he seemed sympathetic. "I'm sorry about this, kid." He looped the lanyard over my head, ignoring my attempts to fend him off. "Thank you, Nick," said the voice - Peter? Nick nodded once and then opened the door and sprinted out. Glancing at the TV, I darted through the door while it was open and ran after him. He was racing down the escalator - I took the stairs two at a time. I was in a flat out sprint to the second escalator, my breath and panic tearing at my throat. This was so weird - I just needed to get out. As I rounded the corner, I saw Barry's beat-up pickup truck in the parking lot and tasted relief. I could just get out of here and forget this weird night. Nick, ahead of me by only about twenty feet, sprinted out of the sliding doors. But the doors, weirdly open, slammed shut after him. I pushed up against them, pounding on them, trying the emergency exit bar - they wouldn't budge. I sucked in a breath and punched them - they were glass, they should have broken - they didn't even vibrate. Outside, Nick had slammed to a stop. He and Barry were embracing? "Barry!" I yelled, hoping he could hear me. Nick and Barry both turned toward me and walked closer toward the door. Nick said something to Barry. "Sorry about this, kid," Nick said. I could hear him clearly through the glass. "Ikea is too huge and complicated of a place to keep running just through organization and money. Each store has a spirit - it keeps the shelves stocked, the meatballs cooking, the escalators running. But," he smiled, "it needs something alive to feed it. Ikea stores trap people who linger too long. You're the next resident poltergeist. I'm sorry, but I couldn't spend a minute longer in there - I've been here for three years! Fortunately my nephew Barry," he tousled my best friend's hair, "came shopping here a few weeks ago. Best a' luck, kid. Ya need it." Barry looked at me. I tried to beg him with my eyes to help me, but he just turned around and walked away, his uncle's hand on his back. I hit the glass door one more time. The tv behind me crackled to life. "As I was saying..."

Jake's parents called it a phase

In a world without people, Jake had thought he would miss Reddit the most. After all, between that, video games, and sleeping, he didn't do much else. He had a sister, a mother, and a father, but the only time he ever saw them was to grab food before returning into his room. His parents called it a phase and his sister, Valerie, simply rolled her eyes when he came by. "It's the hormones," his parents had claimed, absolving themselves of all responsibility. "He's just at that age." Jake had admitted that he was sixteen, but couldn't comprehend how that defined everything that he did. Feeling grumpy? Must be because of his age. Don't want to eat with the family? Age. Sometimes, he had wanted to scream at them that he had a shitty day (like all his days) and his family's attempts to *understand* him only made his days shittier. But they wouldn't understand that he was better off without them. How could they? So he had kept to himself, day in and day out, until one day, he had peeked out of his room and found himself alone. That in itself wasn't too strange. It got strange when two days later, he had still been alone and a day after that, he had wandered outside to find his entire neighborhood--his entire city to be abandoned. Jake stared at his TV. Back when his parents had been around, he had dreaded the knock on the door that would interrupt his videogames. Now, he kept his door opened, listening for even the slightest footstep. None ever came. He brought out his phone. It displayed to him fifty unanswered calls to his mom, his dad, and Valerie. He went into his phone's gallery and found dozens of family photos he had often thought about deleting. They had lacked authenticity. His smile had been brought out only through his mother's command. But now, he didn't care that it was fake. They looked so happy together. Tears welled up inside his eyes. He went into his phone and typed out a text through misty eyes. *I miss you guys*. The phone dropped from his hand and a stuttered breath escaped him. At last, his tears spilled. Then, his phone buzzed. Jake froze mid-breath. He glanced down. For days now, he had felt phantom vibrations, but he had never heard one before. Perhaps he was finally going crazy. He picked up his phone and nearly dropped it again. A text from his Valerie. *What are you talking about? Stop being weird, Jake.* His fingers disappeared in a flurry of clicks. *Valerie, where are you? Where's mom and dad?* *Right next to you, weirdo. We're watching a movie.* "What?" Jake stared at her response. He knew it was the real deal. Nobody else would call him a weirdo so fast. That used to piss him off too. His phone buzzed, but this time lit up green. One call pending from his own number. Jake answered it. "Hello?" "Jake," a familiar voice said back. It was his own voice. "What the fuck? Who are you?" "I bet you're pretty confused," the voice said and chuckled. "What's going on? Where's my family?" Jake screamed into his phone. "Your family? You mean the family you wished would disappear and leave you alone forever? The world you wished would vanish?" A crackling noise sounded from the other end and then Jake heard his Valerie's voice. "Jake, get out of the bathroom. You're missing the good part." "Don't rush him," his mom replied in the same muffled voice. Jake found his eyes wetting once again. He pressed his phone to ear, praying for just a few more words. Perhaps even his dad could say something. But the crackling noise came back and the voice returned. "Took you off speaker," the voice said. "Your family's doing fine. We're enjoying a movie. Have you watched the Avengers? We got it on Blue Ray." "What did you do?" Jake asked. "I simply answered your prayers, Jake. You welcome." "Give me back my family!" The voice snickered. "Sorry, Jake, but it seems to me that I'm a better you than you are. Nobody suspects a thing and you know why? Because they're happier because I'm here instead of you. Would you really take that away from them? Sorry, but I'm here until the day I die." Jake's jaw fell and he lowered his phone. On it was still a picture from their Alaskan hike. He had complained all the way uphill and all the way downhill. But in that moment, they all looked so happy. And if that fake happiness was good enough, what about a fake son? He swallowed a breath and with a shaky thumb, ended the call. Of course, it would take the literal end of the world for him to finally admit, but he loved his family and he just wanted them to be happy. He peeled his eyes away from his phone and back toward his TV where he could shoot more virtual bad guys with virtual bullets. His phone buzzed. A text from Valerie outside of the group. *Look weirdo, I don't pry, but are you okay? You've been acting weird, like a weird type of weird.* Jake pressed his lips together. "I'm sorry," he whispered to Valerie, his parents, and himself. *Sorry about that text, it was just a joke.* And with that, they could continue being happy. *I'm not talking about the text.* His breath caught. *I don't know how to describe it. Mom and dad's worried too. You're not you.* A wave of heat flushed through Jake's body. He had been wrong. His family didn't want happiness. They wanted him. Because of course it would take the literal end of the world to finally convince him, but his family loved him too. His nails dug trenches into his palms. The fake Jake had claimed that they would be stuck this way until the fake had died. Though he had meant it as a taunt, Jake now saw it as a chance, the only one that he had. He would have to convince his family to kill the fake him. He gripped his phone, the only weapon he had. The chances of that happening was laughably small. But he had to try. His family deserved a real son. --- --- /r/jraywang for 5+ stories weekly and 100+ stories already written! ---

Time isn't a river: it

They say the only permanent things in life are death and taxes. But really, the lack of change in your life makes this a questionable hypothesis; sometimes you think life is really just a series of the same cycles, no matter what choices you make or what pitfalls you swerve to avoid. Time isn't a river: it's an oceanic current swirling lazy circles over years. You stumble through the back door in your kitchen. You don't bother to look around the scene that fills your peripheral vision. Bland yet tasteful decor, the figure in the painting on the wall judging the pile of crudded-up dishes in the sink, the dim half-broken light... You'll deal with it tomorrow. Or next week. Or the week after. You have enough dishes to set a table for one; you can wash the rest later. You cough. The sound is ragged, ugly and wet, drowned out by inattention as you stare across the monochrome, lightless kitchen at the painting on the wall. There's only a painting - no photos of other people, no gifts from friends and family. You flip on the second light switch, flooding the room with blanched fluorescent light. Unleash the hounds. *YOU'RE HOME, YOU'RE HOME!* Frantic yipping fills the room around you a second before two blurred shapes barrel through the hallway in front of you, slip-sliding on the yellowed old-tooth linoleum with their enthusiasm. Jowls flapping, eyes glittering, the hurtling welcome committee skids and jump-dances in messy circles of overflowing happiness around you. If there's anything you still care about in this life, it's the two best parts of it and not how much they scratch up a rented apartment floor. *WE MISSED YOU, WE'VE MISSED YOU! YOU WERE GONE FOREVER!* Left is big enough to wag a shaggy mop of a grizzled tail while standing over Right like a four-legged umbrella. Not that Right notices. The scrappy little dog never seems to realize he's the smallest putz in the house. As if on cue, the mutt complains with a whining, baying howl, insisting on a little more personal space so he could claim his kingly right of first head pats. He seems preoccupied today, and jumps up and down with the boundless energy of a perpetual motion pogo stick, trying to sniffle at your face. Sometimes, you think as an expression pulls itself across your face, so alien you take a second to remember that it's a smile, you're pretty sure the meaning of life is coming home to the two best friends you've ever had in it. Your life is a three-piece puzzle with none of the pieces missing from the box; a security deposit's a small price to pay for that. Not everyone's as lucky as you are. You're okay with that part never changing. You wander over towards the couch. Remind yourself vaguely to feed the dogs later, taping it up in the corridors of your brain like a neon sticky note whose blaring note of *'this matters'* cuts through the fog of anhedonia. The walls in there are pretty bare, too. You slump down on the lumpy sofa, scooping a couple handfuls of kibble out of the tattered bag of dog food next to it and slinging the pellets across the floor like rattling marbles. In a flash the dogs are crouched down, lick-chewing them up, and you appreciate the first intermission between fussing that Right's given you since you walked in the door. If only you could catch your breath. You dad used to berate you for complaining about little shit like that. "Try getting old," he groused. "Then come to me bitching about growing pains." *I'm old for my age,* you think to yourself, and laugh out loud. It sounds weird and stale in the silence of the apartment otherwise broken only by the snuffling of the dogs at the last bit of their distraction snack. You don't do it again. You should probably call a doctor, really. You can't catch your breath. You were going to call in last night, if it was an issue, but then nobody could cover your shift. You were going to call in this morning, but you can't afford the clinic anyways. You were going to call in after work, but your cabinet's already cluttered with the crumpled-up prescriptions of meds you've been meaning to pick up; why nod and smile and pretend this time's going to be different? You sit down on the couch and lick around your teeth, tasting the residue of the cigarette you had for lunch. "I don't feel so well, y'all," you tell Left and Right, who by now had hunted down and crunched out the last canine cocoa puff from whatever nook and cranny it'd fallen into; you had to crane your neck down at the mutts who'd fiercely nestled into your sides, muffling the coughs that broke apart your words like irregular punctuation. "Don't be a pain in the ass tonight, doggo-dogs. I'm tired." Shortness of breath sings down into your bones and makes your limbs tingle and ache. What if something ever happened to you? Nobody's around forever. And nobody else knows that Right doesn't like carriers and drools unless he's allowed to ride in the backseat of the sedan. Nobody knows that Left's scared of getting her nails done, so you have to sing "Bridge Over Troubled Water" to her, long and slow, just like she likes it, while you clip each toe. Some glimmer of truth seeps through the dam of denial as the tightness in your chest convulses. Without thinking too hard about what you're doing, you reach out and slide the pad of notebook paper across the coffee table towards yourself. You scribble a ballpoint pen over it until the indented lines draw out ink, then begin to pen out a meticulous list in shaky but legible handwriting. > 1) 2/3 cup of food twice a day for both of them. Left's going to steal half of Right's food. It's okay. > 2) Left don't like thunderstorms. Keep her in the bathroom for those and fireworks and feed her hotdogs. Make sure to cut them in half so she don't choke. > 3) Right chews up everything. He loves wood so be careful. Soup bones are ok. > 4) ...you make it to 10, then 15, trying to pick every instruction out of the increasingly foggy corners of your brain. You're aware on some level of Left licking furiously at your chin, but you're not sure for how long she's been doing that. You wonder, in the back of your mind, who would even end up being the one who found this note if you left it here, walked out the door, and kept walking. What if you just did that? There's nothing left for you here. You could bring the pups with you. What did you have to lose? One of the dogs is crying low in their throat, warbling yelps of distress staggered by attempts to chew at your hand and rouse you, but you must've closed your eyes at some point, because you're not sure which one is making a fuss this time. You think you're still on the sofa. You stop wondering where you are. *We miss you already,* they would say, if they could. *You've been gone forever.* The light is still bright in the apartment, but it's silent now, and nothing has moved for hours, including the three forms that have nestled together close enough to all but merge fur with skin. Where one ends, the others begin. *It's not always like this. We promise.* *We'll wait for you again. We always will. We tried to make it a happy one this time. We're sorry.* *We'll do better next time.* * * * - - - - - - - - - - This was my first post in this sub. Thank you so much.

He'd been charming and beautiful enough

He'd glamoured countless humans to see him as extraordinary. The most enchanting, the most charming of creatures to walk the Earth, and accepted it as the truth himself. They'd clung willingly to him as he drained their life, after all, and he'd thought there was more to it than the glamour that naturally cloaked every vampire. He'd been charming and beautiful enough as a human - common sense would dictate that immortality should enhance his features. Hell, even the silly movies and books about their kind that permeated pop-culture these days subscribed to the idea. But this infernal mirror showed the truth. His face was sunken in on itself, fangs protruding prominently from cracked and swollen lips. Purple-black shadows bruised the skin under his eyes, which were stained with blood. He wasn't merely ugly - he did not recognise the handsome human face he once had at all. It was bad enough to make him want to meet the sun. He managed to drag his eyes away from the new mirror to reach for another modern invention, the cellphone tucked in his pocket. He dialled Lucine, his oldest friend - 889 years going on 890 this month. "My dear," he said, eyes drawn irresistibly back to his horrifying reflection. "Have you tried these new aluminium mirrors? Have you looked into them? What did you see?" There was a long pause, before he heard her speak in a dream-like, drawling voice. "Of course, darling. Extraordinary, aren't they? I mean, I always knew I was beautiful, from what the mortals told me, but it was something else to see it with my own eyes." She chuckled softly. "Why do you ask?" she said, but he couldn't find the strength to reply. He snapped the phone shut. Was she mocking him? But no...he recognised the detached tone of her voice: she must have been glamoured to forget something. Lucine was the most beautiful vampire he knew - full lips, perfect, heart-shaped face, with those luminous blue eyes piercing your soul, if you had one. He had never even considered whether that might only be a side-effect of her glamour. But that sound in her voice - Lucine was old, and powerful. Only one person could have put that glamour upon her. He felt a spark of hope as he looked deeper into his own eyes. Perhaps there was another use for the mirror. "You are Alistair Laqer," he said slowly, making his eyes spin at himself. He felt his muscles grow lax, his brain absorbing the words and accepting them as truth. "You are the most beautiful of them all." His cheeks filled out, the shadows creeping back from his eyes. The fangs shrank, and his eyes sparkled with life. He smiled at his reflection in the mirror: truly, he was extraordinary. He should get more of these mirrors at once, the better to see himself. ---------- "Was that Alistair? What did he want?" Salavar drawled, sighing with pleasure as he stretched out in their new mirror room. Seeing their beauty reflected back at them was a pleasure surpassed only by the taste of fresh blood. "Asking about the mirrors, my pet. He sounded rather dazed - I mean, imagine being *Alistair* and seeing yourself for the first time. Can you imagine?" Lucine said, stretching out next to her husband on the couch and sighing with pleasure at the sight of her face. It still took some getting used to, being able to see themselves in all their glory. "Ah, dear Alistair," Salavar said. "What a wonderful shock that must have been. I do envy him, nothing is better than the first look in the mirror." He lapsed into silence, staring deeper into the mirror. His own eyes seemed to hypnotise him, glowing an impossibly bright silver. An unsettling thought occurred to him, preying on the corner of his mind like a nightmare he struggled to remember completely. "Or who knows?" he whispered, daring to speak the strange thought aloud. "Perhaps we truly do resemble the monsters we are, and have glamoured ourselves to forget with the help of these mirrors. Who could tell us otherwise? Whoever we meet is affected by glamour, too. What an interesting philosophical concept. If no-one can recognise your true face, including yourself, can you be called a monster? It's like that saying - if a tree falls in a forest and no-one is around to hear it, does it make a sound?" Lucine looked from the mirror to her husband's flawless face, and burst into laughter. "Be silent with your silly rambling, my dear, and kiss me," Lucine breathed, pressing her full lips against his. The door opened without them noticing, their human servant, Humphrey, bringing their evening goblets of blood. His wrists were heavily wrapped in bandages. Humphrey paused for a moment, eyes snagging on the mirrors and shuddering as he caught a brief glimpse of two shrunken, grey bodies writhing on the couch, cracked and dry limbs clutching at one another. Then he looked at them, blinked, and the image faded from his mind as he was confronted by the truth. He shivered with pleasure at the sight of their perfection. They had a few friends who almost matched them in beauty - that recluse, Alistair, was one - but he thought his masters were truly the most beautiful of the Old Ones. And soon, if he continued to serve them well, he would be turned into one of them. He had always been ugly, rejected by most people he met. But surely even he might become something beautiful as a vampire, it was the very reason he had worked so hard to enter their world. He had abandoned his family, his work, his very health to do it - but when he looked at Lucine and Salavar, he knew he had made the right choice. Beauty was worth even more to him than the immortality, and the power. It would be worth all he had sacrificed to remain at their side. ----------- Hope you enjoyed my story! You can find more of my work on /r/Inkfinger/.

I was a prime candidate for the

I had tried working out. I had tried dieting, I had tried pills, and so many other things and in the end, I could never get the body I wanted. Sure, I got "better", in that I wasn't morbidly obese, and sure, I had friends and family assure me that I looked "okay" and "better" and that "what matters is that you're healthy". And I was very healthy. I walked a lot, I had slightly low blood pressure instead of high (a very important variable for the study). Nobody had asked me out on a date in the past 10 years (and I'm only counting that one because it was valentine's day of grade 7), but between the insulating fat, the low blood pressure, the high IQ, knowing five languages, and being able to hike a few miles without issue, I was a prime candidate for the experiment. Not having abs or defined muscle tone wasn't an issue. Of course I agreed. I didn't exactly have quite the life. If all went according to plan, I would wake up in a new century as a living time capsule. If it didn't... I wouldn't need antidepressants anymore. Everything looked different when I woke up. The capsule opened, as it was supposed to. I was disoriented for the first few minutes, but as the various drugs finished waking me up, I noticed the foggy grey of the sky, and the bright redness of the sun. At noon. "The fuck?" I muttered, and climbed out. The capsule had opened automatically, and there was nobody there to greet me. Nor anybody just... Hanging out at the facility. I walked around in the white scrubs I had been given for a while until I noticed some hikers. "Hey! Hey, the research centre is empty, did something happen?" The two men stared at me mesmerized. They were clearly disfigured by something, one had one arm far smaller than the other, both of their jaws looked infested by tumours, and they were both using strange robotic crutches to walk. They stared at me, their mouths open, their eyes filled with fear and awe and lust and all these weird emotions at once that I can't remember ever eliciting. My head swiveled for a moment, but there was nothing right behind me. "Hey? Guys? How long have I been out?" The one with the disfigured arm fainted. The other continued to stare. "Um... Alo?" He squeaked at me. "Hello, yes? Research centre? Over there? Empty? What year is it?" "It-it-it-it--" he babbled and stuttered for a moment. "Dude, chill," I said, putting my hand on his shoulder. He passed out too. With no other immediate source of information, I sat on the ground cross-legged and waited until the one with the shrunken arm woke up. "Hello. My name is Ana. I just woke up from a cryogenic chamber. What year is it?" "Twenty-two fourteen." "Okay. That's good. For a moment I wondered if you guys spoke intelligible English." "What are you?" "Um... I just said--" "No cryogenic chamber could have survived the wars. Everything was destroyed. And... And you're so beautiful..." He extended his small arm towards me. It was a little creepy but I did my best not to pay attention to that, because I didn't want to be ableist and also because if I reacted poorly he might collapse again. "...Right... Anyway, is there like, a nearby town?" "Yes. Yes of course. We can take you there." He touched his friend's neck, and in a moment he woke up. "Why did you not wake us earlier, um... Ana?" He asked me as his friend rubbed his eyes. "I thought you weren't supposed to try to wake up people who had passed out," I said. "A simple stimulation of the vagus nerve and the six-two-four points in the Lasega map do it." "...'kaaay." I said with a nod. He alternated between staring at the ground and staring at me. "So, you have a name?" I asked. "Yes. Yes, I am Laeroeak." "Leroek?" "Laeroeak." "Laroak?" He repeated his name some four times, and we settled on me calling him "Lay". "I am sorry I fainted." His friend said. "I could not handle your touch." I frowned, and he stared. The staring was becoming a problem. "Your hands are so soft..." "Can we get back to the part where I get to a town or something?" "Yes, of course! Everyone must see you!" "And your name?" "Ghantenebhurita." I rubbed my temples. We settled on Ghan. After some walking, they became perplexed. "You are not tired." "...That was like... Two hundred metres." I said. "We came with camping gear, but you... How are you not tired? Is your acetylcholine synthesis infinite? Do you have superior lactic acid? Are your muscle fibres made of carbon nanotubes?" "What the fuck? No, I'm just walking! Is everyone in the future like this?" We stopped as a small river hindered our path. I jumped onto a rock, then from the rock across to the other side. They watched in awe. "What are you?" "...How did you guys make it before...?" "Biodegradable preprogrammed assemblybots." Ley had his robot-assisted arm fetch a ball from his pocket, and threw it in the river. Within seconds a bridge appeared, and they crossed it. "Nice." "You like it?" He asked with a smile. "I changed the design to resemble old bridges, Ana of the Past." I frowned. "...How? You... You literally just threw it in." "I programmed it before." "Before coming, you mean." "No, as I got it from my bag." My eyes grew, but I simply nodded. Even with their robotic crutch aid, they got tired by the second km, and I had to wait for them. "I am literally just coming out of cryostasis. I have not eaten in two hundred years. How are you the tired ones?" I didn't tell them about the adrenaline shots I'd gotten to wake up, but... Still. Ghan looked at me in admiration. "How are you still breathing?" He asked between gasps. "We're walking at the pace of grandmas, how would I not?" By the time we arrived at the nearby town, there was a crowd waiting with food and water and curious eyes. Apparently, Ley had taken the liberty of thinking at them to do that. Everyone stared at me like I was Aphrodite incarnate. PART 2: https://www.reddit.com/r/WritingPrompts/comments/6r9hy1/wp_as_an_average_looking_genius_with_a_weak/dl4jvh8/ PART 3 /r/Eager_Question_Writes/comments/6rfp4k/wp_as_an_average_looking_genius_with_a_weak/dl4sah1/ PART 4 /r/Eager_Question_Writes/comments/6rfp4k/wp_as_an_average_looking_genius_with_a_weak/dl592du PART 5 /r/Eager_Question_Writes/comments/6rfp4k/wp_as_an_average_looking_genius_with_a_weak/dl6psql/ PART 6 /r/Eager_Question_Writes/comments/6rfp4k/wp_as_an_average_looking_genius_with_a_weak/dl7wikw/ PART 7 https://www.reddit.com/r/Eager_Question_Writes/comments/6rfp4k/wp_as_an_average_looking_genius_with_a_weak/dl9ds9m/

Some nights I'm back in my

Some nights I'm back in my old self, at my desk at 2 AM as my stack of files piles on and the coffee in my mug runs dry. My old lamp had flickered for weeks now, the shitty thing. Always thought it'd ruin my eyes, but I was too lazy to replace the bulb while it still worked. I'm not what most would describe as a lazy person. Obsessed, maybe. I'd pore over the case files like a fanatic over holy tomes, day in and day out. Surely there's something I'd missed. And every time I found even the slightest chance of a possible lead, I'd clutch it close, hold it tight, and find another red herring, another dead end. But failure only served to remind me of the man I was tracking. How dangerous he was. And how I was the only one who still believed his arrest possible. It was a hazy night, when the day had been warm, but not warm enough to turn on the AC. My open window drew no breeze to chase out the stifling air, and beads of sweat dotted my forehead. The city was quiet, at peace, save for the noise of an overworked cop turning pages. *Bzzt Bzzt* The buzz of a new text. Unknown number. "342 Elm Drive. 3:00 AM" Half an hour from now. I wasn't getting paid for this. I had no backup. It could've been anyone for any reason. I grabbed my keys. It was an overpriced home in an overpriced neighborhood. The house was large, but inelegant, as if an architect had stitched together the failed designs in his trash bin. Windows far too high for anyone to see from yet shielded from sunlight, useless overhangs with fake marble pillars, mismatched shutters- a real McMansion. I pulled up onto the curb and walked up the concrete steps. The porch light turned on. The front door opened and a man stepped out. He was a short, Hispanic man with short, greasy hair. A curl of chest hair peeked out through his flannel shirt. A scar ran from his left ear down to his neck, one he'd gotten from a shady drug dealing. It gave his face a dangerous look, one I knew all too well. He carried a glock in his left hand. Of course. I'd been tracking him for years. That it would end in one of our deaths was inevitable. I barely had time to draw my weapon before the first bullet caught me in the chest. I woke up in smooth silk bedsheets in a four-poster bed. Stared into the mirror at my bedside. A young mexican girl, around 8 or 9 stared back. The first time I'd had the dream, I'd woken up the house with my screaming. He- my father- had stormed into my bedroom with a gun and two bodyguards, fearing the worst. Then he'd hugged me. The mixed feelings of revulsion, anger and vulnerability were indescribable. I longed to pull away, or grab his gun and shoot him in the head. I hated his smell, I hated this feeling, this life. For any innocent child, it would be a dream come true, but for me it was all wrong. I was no longer the cop he had shot. No more than I was fully his daughter, but some bizarre mix of the two, a child that thought too big, an adult that felt too small, a freak of nature that had no place in this world. He'd been what I'd lived for. He'd been what I'd died for. And now he had raised me. I sobbed into my father's shoulder as he caressed my hair, dismissed his guards, and whispered that everything was fine. When they left, he would cry with me. He was so much older than I remembered. Why I ended up this way, I'll never know. Perhaps it was some punishment for something I'd done. Perhaps a chance at revenge. Or a chance for his redemption. But I think, at the core of it all, the universe is just run by some very sick fucks. I've had some nights where I'd tried to kill him, but I could never find the many firearms he'd stored around the house, and I was hardly strong enough to overpower his guards with a butter knife. And even then, I had second thoughts. It seemed he harbored some sense of shame about his business, and took great pains to hide the skeletons in his closet. He was rarely home these days and kept his room under lock and key. When he did visit, he would bring me a gift, usually a doll or a plush. Sometimes fine clothes. But I found a solution locked in my bathroom with the knife I'd filched. It was so simple I'm surprised I hadn't done it sooner. Whether this was my punishment or his, would hardly matter. I was his princess, his pride, his *hija* that he raised from birth with all the love and care he could muster. I had a classroom full of friends and my teachers adored me. Never once had he denied me any request. No matter how tired he was, he would always find time to spend with me. He was a bad person but a good father. Losing me would hurt. I never expected to die twice for one man. But as warm water filled the tub, I sliced deep into my wrists, cutting through skin muscle, and connective tissue until I hit an artery. Even soothed by the warm water, it stung, but no more so than the bullet. The blood ran into the water, mixing like my favorite fruit drinks he'd made on my birthday. The deep red wisps swirled around and around as the water level rose, smothering me in warmth in my grave that smelled and tasted of iron. I'd forgotten how large bathtubs could feel to a kid. My last thoughts were of uncertainty. Whether I should've just lived out the second life I'd been given. Whether I could forgive him for the atrocities he'd committed. Was I more of a monster for what I'd just done? Was this the last chance at life on this earth that I had? Was I acting from justice? Spite? Selfishness? I don't know. But as I lay dying alone for the second time with nothing but my thoughts, in my last few moments of consciousness, I cried. ____________________________

Some nights I'm back in my

Some nights I'm back in my old self, at my desk at 2 AM as my stack of files piles on and the coffee in my mug runs dry. My old lamp had flickered for weeks now, the shitty thing. Always thought it'd ruin my eyes, but I was too lazy to replace the bulb while it still worked. I'm not what most would describe as a lazy person. Obsessed, maybe. I'd pore over the case files like a fanatic over holy tomes, day in and day out. Surely there's something I'd missed. And every time I found even the slightest chance of a possible lead, I'd clutch it close, hold it tight, and find another red herring, another dead end. But failure only served to remind me of the man I was tracking. How dangerous he was. And how I was the only one who still believed his arrest possible. It was a hazy night, when the day had been warm, but not warm enough to turn on the AC. My open window drew no breeze to chase out the stifling air, and beads of sweat dotted my forehead. The city was quiet, at peace, save for the noise of an overworked cop turning pages. Bzzt Bzzt The buzz of a new text. Unknown number. "342 Elm Drive. 3:00 AM" Half an hour from now. I wasn't getting paid for this. I had no backup. It could've been anyone for any reason. I grabbed my keys. It was an overpriced home in an overpriced neighborhood. The house was large, but inelegant, as if an architect had stitched together the failed designs in his trash bin. Windows far too high for anyone to see from yet shielded from sunlight, useless overhangs with fake marble pillars, mismatched shutters- a real McMansion. I pulled up onto the curb and walked up the concrete steps. The porch light turned on. The front door opened and a man stepped out. He was a short, Hispanic man with short, greasy hair. A curl of chest hair peeked out through his flannel shirt. A scar ran from his left ear down to his neck, one he'd gotten from a shady drug dealing. It gave his face a dangerous look, one I knew all too well. He carried a glock in his left hand. Of course. I'd been tracking him for years. That it would end in one of our deaths was inevitable. I barely had time to draw my weapon before the first bullet caught me in the chest. I woke up in smooth silk bedsheets in a four-poster bed. Stared into the mirror at my bedside. A young mexican girl, around 8 or 9 stared back. The first time I'd had the dream, I'd woken up the house with my screaming. He- my father- had stormed into my bedroom with a gun and two bodyguards, fearing the worst. Then he'd hugged me. The mixed feelings of revulsion, anger and vulnerability were indescribable. I longed to pull away, or grab his gun and shoot him in the head. I hated his smell, I hated this feeling, this life. For any innocent child, it would be a dream come true, but for me it was all wrong. I was no longer the cop he had shot. No more than I was fully his daughter, but some bizarre mix of the two, a child that thought too big, an adult that felt too small, a freak of nature that had no place in this world. He'd been what I'd lived for. He'd been what I'd died for. And now he had raised me. I sobbed into my father's shoulder as he caressed my hair, dismissed his guards, and whispered that everything was fine. When they left, he would cry with me. He was so much older than I remembered. Why I ended up this way, I'll never know. Perhaps it was some punishment for something I'd done. Perhaps a chance at revenge. Or a chance for his redemption. But I think, at the core of it all, the universe is just run by some very sick fucks. I've had some nights where I'd tried to kill him, but I could never find the many firearms he'd stored around the house, and I was hardly strong enough to overpower his guards with a butter knife. And even then, I had second thoughts. It seemed he harbored some sense of shame about his business, and took great pains to hide the skeletons in his closet. He was rarely home these days and kept his room under lock and key. When he did visit, he would bring me a gift, usually a doll or a plush. Sometimes fine clothes. But I found a solution locked in my bathroom with the knife I'd filched. It was so simple I'm surprised I hadn't done it sooner. Whether this was my punishment or his, would hardly matter. I was his princess, his pride, his hija that he raised from birth with all the love and care he could muster. I had a classroom full of friends and my teachers adored me. Never once had he denied me any request. No matter how tired he was, he would always find time to spend with me. He was a bad person but a good father. Losing me would hurt. I never expected to die twice for one man. But as warm water filled the tub, I sliced deep into my wrists, cutting through skin muscle, and connective tissue until I hit an artery. Even soothed by the warm water, it stung, but no more so than the bullet. The blood ran into the water, mixing like my favorite fruit drinks he'd made on my birthday. The deep red wisps swirled around and around as the water level rose, smothering me in warmth in my grave that smelled and tasted of iron. I'd forgotten how large bathtubs could feel to a kid. My last thoughts were of uncertainty. Whether I should've just lived out the second life I'd been given. Whether I could forgive him for the atrocities he'd committed. Was I more of a monster for what I'd just done? Was this the last chance at life on this earth that I had? Was I acting from justice? Spite? Selfishness? I don't know. But as I lay dying alone for the second time with nothing but my thoughts, in my last few moments of consciousness, I cried. _____________________________________ Here's a repost of my story that got taken down because I tried to link my patreon. I was unaware of the rule and will no longer link it in this subreddit. I am very sorry for the inconvenience I caused. Instead, you can find my stories and the link in this .

An old man, dressed in r

"Go away!" I looked up from my phone to see an old man, dressed in rags, making a shooing motion at empty air several feet away. He didn't even seem to notice my presence. "Go! S-stay awa--aaaah!" He collapsed in mid-tirade, clutching his chest. It was almost midnight; the streets around campus were empty at this hour. I gulped, looking around for someone else to take responsibility for this, but I was out of luck. "Mister, are you okay?" I said, inching towards the homeless fellow. He didn't answer, but continued to wave at something only his mind could perceive. His eyes looked ready to pop from their sockets as he struggled to draw breath. "Hold on, okay? I'm calling 911." "N--no," he said. "Too ... late." "Don't talk," I said, wincing at his visibly purpling face. "Come here," he said, sounding lucid for the first time since the beginning of our encounter. That was the last thing I wanted to do, but I'd read in some magazine that the only thing the dying wanted was company. Figuring that he couldn't do much harm, I knelt beside him. Wordlessly, he took off his glasses and handed them to me with a significant look. With a frown, I took them. The moment they left his hands, he fell back. A single tear dripped from the corner of his left eye. "Hello, 911? Some homeless guy just died in front of me, on 16th Avenue. Could you send an ambulance?" After the operator assured me help was on the way, I retreated a little further from the body to wait. His thin, wire frame glasses were surprisingly clean unlike the rest of him. I held them up to my face to look through them, wondering just how bad his vision was, and that was when I saw the figure. I yelled in surprise, dropping them in the process, and looked wildly around. The area remained deserted, except for a cat slinking in the shadows across the road. The nearby traffic light blinked yellow, and then red. Nothing was out of the ordinary--there were no spectral silhouettes in sight. So what had I seen? A smudge, perhaps? A glare from the streetlight? My hands shook as I stooped to retrieve the glasses. The homeless man's eccentric last moments came back into my memory, and I felt an urge to throw this strange inheritance into the bushes and hurry on home. But a morbid curiosity arose as well ... was I going mad, as he had? Heart pounding, I raised the glasses again. Before they'd even reached the level of my eyes, I saw it again. The figure stood about three feet in front of me, humanoid, its outline gray and blurry, as though it was vibrating excessively. It wasn't very tall; maybe four feet tops. I licked my suddenly dry lips, and wondered if I should run. It made no move towards me; just stood there. And then I realized why. It was staring at the old man. "Er, hello?" I said. The figure's head swiveled toward me, and it jumped. The suddenness elicited a similar response from me, but I suddenly chuckled. Perhaps it was the adrenaline, or maybe it was the idea that we'd both been spooked by each other. While standing next to an old man. With me holding a pair of glasses like a pair of binoculars. Things did start to feel silly. "You can hear me?" I said. It nodded, and I thought I saw a small hole open in its face. However, I heard nothing except the rustle of plastic trash being blown across the sidewalk. The figure cocked its head, and then signaled for me to put the glasses on. Hell, what could go wrong? I did as it indicated, and abruptly heard a childish voice speaking as though right next to my ear. "You've taken Don's eyes," it said. I shook my head. "He gave it to me. Do you have a name?" The creature paused for a while before saying, "Don calls me Peter." "Peter. What are you?" I said, and added, "Pardon me if I'm being rude." A soft laugh came from him. "I'm a boy! I'm Don's son--well, he says so, anyway. I don't know who my mummy is." My head was beginning to throb, both from adrenaline and confusion. "Well ... you're not--you don't look human to me." The boy shrugged. "Don said that's nothing. People don't talk to me anyway. Only Don does." His brows furrowed. "Don's been lying there for a while now. Has he been drinking again? Can you wake him up, sister? He said he's taking me to the carnival tomorrow." I looked at the homeless man, and then back at Peter. "Peter, Don's ... Don's dead. I think it was a heart attack or something." Something about Peter changed then; I wasn't sure what gave me the impression. Maybe it was a subtle change in his pale hue. Maybe there was an irregular tremor in his shifting form. Either way, his voice was tiny when he next said, "Not him, too?" From the darkness came a faint wail of sirens. The ambulance must be close by. "Too?" I said. "Yeah." Peter squatted beside the old man's body. "Before him, it was Sally. And James, and Miguel, and ..." The boy sighed. "So many." A thought sent a shiver down my spine. "Did you ... did you kill them?" It was hardly unusual in fiction. Somehow, he managed to project incredulity at me even without eyes. "They loved me. We were family." "Sorry." Relief flooded through me when the ambulance parked by the roadside. Two paramedics got down and hurried over with a stretcher. I told them what had happened, though I sensed that they weren't listening with full attention as they examined the body. Throughout it all, Peter rested his head on Don's head. "We'll contact you if we need to talk to you," one of them said, just before they hoisted the body onto the stretcher. Peter backed away then, watching them silently. I nodded. They carted the body off. Soon, the ambulance had started once more. A tingle shot up my left arm. Yelping, I turned to see that Peter had slipped his hand through mine. "Will you take care of me now?" he said. My lips worked soundlessly for several seconds before I dipped my head once. And then I felt it: a pure, profound sensation of joy, like sunshine cutting through the chill of winter--spreading up my arm. I couldn't help it then--tears began pouring from my eyes. *** *I hope you liked that. Check out my for more stories!*

The alcohol stung his throat,

The alcohol stung his throat. He had never quite come to grips with that feeling. Like an unpleasant shiver down the esophagus it reminded him that he drank for the effect and not the taste, and recently he had been drinking more and more. Still, that guttural distaste for his drink remained. He had ordered bourbon this time. It was one of his favourites. Its taste he didn't much care for. What taste was that? It was hard to put your finger on. That slightly nauseating shiver he experienced upon swallowing had the effect of overriding any potential flavour, though he was beginning to think the presence of alcohol in a fluid rid it of all flavour anyway, sacrificing the pleasures of taste for its other effects. And how wonderful were they? That it seemed to brighten the dimly lit bar (though he thought this less of a widening of the pupil and more of some psychological lighting up) was one, but more importantly it let him forget. He took another sip, but rather than replacing the glass on the table, he finished it, every stomach-renching drop. He already felt the room growing lighter. For forgetfulness he would have to wait a while longer, and what a painful while that would be. He looked down at the wrist of his left hand. It was splattered with black ink. Everyone's had some such decoration, but his was less of a decoration and more of a inky explosion that had lost any resemblance to its original form. But he remembered. "You want another one of those Cimi?" He did. The bartender filled his glass, and he stared at its brown content. It had begun to shake and quiver in its glass as if it were as uncomfortable being drunk as he were drinking it. The low hum of the bar and become a louder drone. It wasn't uncommon. In fact, most of the regulars had come to zone it out. You had to if you intended to frequent a bar only a few dozen metres from a train track. Though Cimi had started drinking more frequently, the noise still got to him. When the train passed (a rather short one it must have been. Few carriages) he returned to the mess of ink on his wrist. People often asked him what it was; what it had been. Through the web of black lines he thought he could still tell, still perceive the original marking, but maybe that was the force of memory insisting his eyes did what in truth was the work of his subconscious. Still, he believed he could see it: two thick parallel lines ran down his wrist, spanning a length of 3 inches. Intersecting both of them perpendicularly were three thinner lines. It looked almost like a ladder he thought. But that ladder was hardly visible now. By the age of sixteen, when the senior summer dance had come, and so many of his friends had attended with their mark's match, he had gone alone. It wasn't necessarily expected for everyone to have found their mark's match by then, he certainly wasn't the only attendee to have spent the evening alone, but he was in the minority. A fact he noted with the expected melancholy. That night he had added his first inky addition. Though he abhorred dancing, his pen had pirouetted along his wrist in the shape of a treble clef. When he had graduated two years later, having attended the Graduating Ball alone (this time one of only three to have done so), he had etched on a small decal resembling an Oxford cap. Four years after that, when his mother had first had her diagnosis, he wrote her initials in bold black ink over the Ladder. And 5 months after that, when she had died and he attended her funeral alone (and had been alone in so doing) he had drawn a solid black square over where once the initials had lain. He continued to stare at his drink, its stillness interrupted at first by small ripples, and soon after by increasingly violent undulations. They then turned into micro tsunamis lashing against the inside of the glass until the entire glass, overcome by the momentum of its contents, tipped onto its side and spilled the bourboun messily onto the bartop. But no one took any notice. Their eyes were glazed over, their ears had assumed control of their mind. The familiar rumble of the train which would have disturbed no one was present, but over its rumbling bassline the train's brakes screamed like the final ululation of a wounded animal. They screamed and screamed, Cimi's fingers came to his ears but still that wail called to him. As the scream rose faces morphed into worry and concern, until it stopped. The scream fell silent as if a door had been closed on it. But the concern was loud as ever. First the barman, then the regulars, and then Cimi ran outside to see what had elicited so horrific a sound. The train had stopped outside their bar. It was no surprise they had heard that sound so clearly. That blood curdling scream of metal on metal had happened outside their very window. But why? Cimi didn't know, but he thought that the huddle of bar goers might have some idea now. Approaching them he saw only the backs of their heads, but even with so little to see he could read their horror. They had clumped together like a prayer circle, and Cimi felt that that might not have been so much a coincidence. He barged into the the group, and let his head fall to see that at which they stared. He wished that he hadn't. He felt the alcohol he had forced himself to swallow rise up in revulsion, and he turned his head to let it out. A shame, it hadn't even had a chance to take effect, and he felt he would need it to now more than ever. She was still as the red puddle in which she lay. In which a part of her lay, the part above the hips. Her legs were elsewhere. Perhaps they had been flung about or simply disintegrated by the impact. Her face looked kind, it didn't bear any regret. Cimi thought he could even see the shadow of a smile, but who knows what shape the face takes after an impact like this. He had felt sad and revolted when he had first seen her, but it wasn't until now when he felt something more. He felt bruised and winded, as if some part of him had stood on those tracks while the train had screamed its way forward. He knelt down and grabbed her hand. It was warm as if it hadn't yet been told that blood no longer flowed down its pale digits. But it wasn't her hand he had bent down to check. He turned it over and saw her wrist. It had been scratched over. Not with ink, but with her finger nails. Deep gashes and scabs had obscured its image, but Cimi saw through them. Whether it was his eyes or his subconscious that saw, it mattered not. He could see the two parallel lines, and the three lines which intersected them. He saw this as clearly as he saw his own. He was still as she. She who lay on the the tracks. She with whom he would have lain, and lived, and died, but who had beaten him to that final point. Her heart was still, her face (with her phantom grin) was still. The night was still. Cimi's mind had set on stillness, and stillness had set on him. Soon it would take him as it had taken her, and with her he would be united in that stillness to which all men eventually belong.

Kara invited her friends to a pool

Pool party. I'm an idiot, right? For someone like me, wouldn't a big body of water by the prime place to avoid? Most of the time, my brain's thinking clearly, and I would have declined the invitation. Hell, I've gotten really good at thinking about all the twists and turns of any sort of social interaction - will there be booze, and I might lose control? Will people be getting wet? Is there rubbing alcohol around? Will my secret remain safe? But when Kara looked at me, those big eyes of hers glimmering in the flickering light of our college graduation bonfire, my brain turned off. She grinned as she informed the rest of us that her parents had a pool in their backyard, that she was "watching their house" and could "totally get us in." She leapt up to her feet, body parts jiggling in delightful ways that made my hindbrain applaud, and waved at us to follow her. And twenty minutes later, I found myself staring down at the shimmering water, lit from beneath by lights, trying to shake off the calls from the rest of my friends. "C'mon, Tom, the water's great!" called out Danny, bobbing up and down beside Kara. He grinned up at me - although that wasn't anything special, Danny basically always grinned whenever he was around Kara. After all, they'd found each other. Perfectly matching symbols on their wrists, down to the tiny, intricate pattern of stippled dots surrounding the main diagram. They were meant to be together, and anyone could see it from the way they got lost in each other's eyes. The others hooted and hollered, gesturing for me to take the leap. We'd been friends practically since the first day of college, and I knew them all so well. Elaine, with her interlocking triangles. Danny and Kara, who fell in love even before they revealed their symbols. Rick, who insisted that his shape looked like an "alien smiley face". Only Sasha hung back, as usual. I still didn't know how she'd become a part of her group, with her reserved nature, shy withdrawal from most conversation, and refusal to participate in anything unless we begged. In any other world, her baggy sweatshirt and big eyes peeping out from beneath waves of black hair would make her an outcast. But we'd welcomed her. She sat behind me, on a deck chair, barely hovering on the periphery of our circle. That was usual, for Sasha. That was where I should have been. I didn't belong here, wavering on the edge of this pool, feeling my wrist burn with the lie that I'd carefully traced on with Sharpie this morning, like I did each morning. I belonged back in the shadows, with Sasha - an outcast. I turned away. "I'm sorry, guys, I can't!" I called out, eliciting a round of groans from the others. "I'm too drunk to get wet! You all have fun - I'll keep Sasha company." "Nuh uh!" Quick as a striking snake, Rick rose up from the water, his hand flying out towards me. I scrambled backward, but not quite fast enough; his fingers wrapped around my arm, sliding down towards my hand as he fell back and attempted to haul me into the pool. His fingers slid over my wrist. Oh god, the symbol - would the pen resist the water? Panicking, I shook Rick off, my hand now sodden and dripping from the transferred water. It was too dark. I couldn't see the symbol clearly, but I couldn't risk being exposed. I backpedaled, away from the fun and frolicking, back towards Sasha and withdrawal. Ignoring the boos from my friends, I dropped onto the deck chair beside Sasha. Kara's parents had outfitted the whole backyard like a resort, with palm trees and a corner bar. Sasha, pulled in on herself, didn't seem to notice any of it. Her big, pale eyes, however, fastened on me as I sat down beside her. I wanted to check my wrist, see if the ink had smeared, but I couldn't do it next to her. "Hi," I said, feeling awkward. "Hi." She kept watching me, and the silence stretched out. I scrambled for something else to say. "So what do you have planned now? Now that you're graduating?" The words felt hollow, but it beat out the silence. She shrugged, a pale, small shoulder briefly appearing from inside the oversized sweatshirt. "Dunno. You?" "I don't really know, either," I admitted. I shook my hand, trying to get some of the water off. "Travel, maybe. Or just try to find a job. Not that anyone's hiring much, as far as I can tell." Sasha nodded, and then suddenly, for no reason at all, a terribly stupid suggestion sprang into mind. "We could go together," I went on, my mouth plunging ahead as my brain recoiled in shock. "Travel together. Go someplace new." For just an instant, I thought I saw a flare of something in those big eyes, a look of... surprise? Need? Desperate hunger? What were those emotions doing on her face? She lifted a hand, almost unconsciously, reaching out towards me. "I don't think so." The words seemed to be all but ripped from her, but she shook her head. A blink, and we were back to ourselves, that strange moment now past. "I... I don't really do well around people." "Yeah, I've noticed." I tried to give her a wry smile, show her that I didn't mean the words to hurt. "I feel that way too, a lot of the time." She shook her head again. "Not like this." If I'd been a little more sober, I might have wondered what she meant. Instead, however, a new idea sparked in my head. "Well, let me at least make you a drink," I called out, standing up. As I did so, however, blood suddenly rushed to my head, and I felt a wave of wooziness hit me. Vision swinging, I reached out to catch something to steady myself. Before Sasha could say anything, my hand closed on hers - and the sleeve of that oversized, baggy, ratty sweatshirt that she always wore slid up. And I felt a bolt of lightning run up my spine to burn out all conscious thought in my brain. Her wrist was bare. She didn't have a symbol. She was like me- Sasha was up, tearing her hand away from me. Her eyes burned, tears glimmering at their edges even as her mouth opened in a hiss. "Get away!" But she paused, torn between fight or flight. I only had a second to react, before she would be gone - forever, I knew. But somehow, for the first time in my life, I knew what to do. I turned my wrist, displaying it to her - and drew one finger down, over the symbol that I so painstakingly traced out each morning. The ink bled, ran, slipped away under my wet fingers. I looked back up at Sasha, and saw her mouth hanging open. For a long minute, neither of us spoke. The party burbled on in the nearby pool, but we were in our own world. I finally cleared my throat, fighting the hoarseness that made me feel like I hadn't spoken aloud in years. "So, about that drink..." I began. She nodded, even as she self-consciously tugged the sleeve back down to cover her wrist. "Okay." And even as Dan and Kara splashed happily together, and Rick and Elaine flirted (because even if two symbols didn't match, that didn't mean you couldn't have a little fun, right?), we drew away. Neither of us knew what this meant, but we'd both realized the same conclusion. We weren't the only ones. ****** *Read other writings at /r/Romanticon*

We are taught from young never to

"I relinquish this life." Just four words, six syllables, but what power they hold! We are taught from young never to utter them, intentionally or otherwise, and we are shown books, pictures, videos of the consequences. Most people are so fearful that they have probably never even said the first two words together, not even for practice. Sometimes, people say the words accidentally, like when reckless teenagers get caught up in a game of drink-or-dare, and one goes overboard by actually completing the sentence. And then, of course, there are those who say the words intentionally. Like my wife did, fifteen years ago. I thought about those four words again when the doorbell rang, and I steeled myself mentally. In all likelihood, it wasn't going to be any of my friends, not when almost all of them had already passed on their lives to others in need. Odds were that it would be the government representatives again, here to remind me gently that I had lived far longer than most people, and that perhaps it was time for me to share. "Mr Dawson?" the young man asked through the door as I looked through the peephole. He was middle-aged, with thinning hair and a protruding gut. "We were told you would be at home. They said our chances were higher if we asked you in person. Please, could we talk to you for a minute?" "Go away," I said. "I'm not free." "Please, Mr Dawson," said the lady next to him, presumably his wife. I could tell from the subtle way she had nudged her husband aside, planted herself directly in front of my door. "Just ten minutes? We just wanted to... ask if you would hear us out. I'm Lucy, this is my husband Rodrigo. Please?" I sighed, then unlatched the door. I managed surly easily, and I did a unique blend of grumpy, but I was not very good at heartless. "Five minutes," I said. "You're leaving after that. Trust me, lady, you ain't got what I want." They settled onto my sofa. I didn't offer them any coffee, tea or biscuits. I nestled into the armchair, swivelled it slightly to face them better. "Your time was running since you stepped in," I said. "Mr Dawson," Rodrigo began, "would you tell us how much your last offer came to? I think... I think we may be able to top it. We're serious about this." "I don't need the money," I said. "Look around you. This is the penthouse unit. Plus, I have no family to pass it on to." I saw Rodrigo's face sink. For good reasons too - money was the primary reason why people spoke the words, gave up their lives. If not for the fleeting material comforts they otherwise would never get to experience, then for the wealth to pass on to family members who may have needed it more. I read that the market rate was a million dollars, though of course there were bargains to be had if one were hard-nosed enough. "Perhaps, we could give you something else?" asked Lucy. "Say, company? Is there anyone you want to spend time with? We could arrange for that too, we know people, have connections." A tiny smile took root at the corners of my mouth, but it died before it could blossom. There was a time, for sure, that I threw myself into the arms of others, sought company wherever it was offered. But the void Emily left was too gaping, too yawning a chasm to fill. Perplexingly, I found myself even more lonely every morning that I woke up next to a woman who wasn't Emily. Loneliness, and discontent, tiny eggs that burrowed into my heart, festering there, too potent to ignore, my constant, unfailing companions. I often wondered if that was how Emily felt when she decided that the sweet nothingness of the void was better than whatever she had with me. "As I told the Ministry of Assignment, I want for nothing," I said. "Only to be left alone, really. I'm not ready to go." "I know it is a lot to ask for, Mr Dawson," Rodrigo said. "But we... we are not young anymore. The doctors, they tell us that Lucy's best chance of having a child is sometime in the next year or so. We only met late, so we're way down the queue at the Ministry, way down. They can't assign us any lives for the next few years at least. So please, Mr Dawson, would you consider giving us your spot? We... the child, it really will mean a lot to us." "That's got nothing to do with me," I said. "But what do you live for?" Lucy asked. "None of your business," I replied, as calmly as I could. There was no use explaining it to them. I had tried with the government representatives, but they didn't understand too. They thought I was selfish, that I was another one of the greedy ones, too self-centred to pass on the flames of life to the new generation. Some of them had even tried badgering me, telling me that the world didn't even know I existed, so why even bother to struggle through one dreary day to the next? How could I have made them see, that it was all for Emily? That if I were to go, that she would be forgotten, utterly, completely? I was the last tether she had to this world, the last living memory of who she was, what she stood for, what she excelled at. "Show him, show him," said Lucy, as Rodrigo fumbled in his briefcase. He fished out a number of pamphlets, laid them on the coffee table between us. "You must forgive me," Lucy continued, "your private life is your own. But we are desperate, so you can understand that we did a bit of digging into your life. If money and company are not what you seek, then perhaps... we can offer something else?" "What's this?" I asked. The images on the pamphlets seemed so alien, yet so familiar, at the same time. "We know how your wife... suffered after the accident," said Rodrigo, who had the decency to drop his voice an octave. "It's been some time, but it was big news then. They had to reschedule all the big shows after your wife could no longer dance." "And that's why we will send our child to the same schools your wife went to," Lucy said, spreading out the pamphlets in turn. "Boy or girl, doesn't matter. We will have them complete the same courses, train under the very best dancers. We will make sure our child becomes as famous a dancer as your wife was, and then more." My fingers brushed the pamphlets, and I heard those familiar tones again, the musical routines Emily would put on as she practiced. I felt her hand, heard her laugh, smelled the sweet cigarette smoke which followed her from room to room. The flood of memories continued, drowning me in a sea of nostalgia. The empty bed in the morning, because she was already up, tickling me, laughing at me for oversleeping again, when she had already worked in her morning run... The sweat as it beaded down her back, as she pushed herself again and again, twirling in neverending pirouettes in our studio, boring marks into the parquet... The vacant desolation in her eyes when the doctors told her she would never dance again, the fear that all that she had worked for, all that she had accomplished would be forgotten... "If it's a boy, he will be Emile," said Rodrigo. "And if it's a girl... you know what we will name her," added Lucy. "Please, will you give us this chance? We will never forget it, I promise." I closed the pamphlets, pressed them back into their hands. I retrieved my wallet, took out the donor card I had tucked away at the back. I filled in my name, the date, the time, and left the "recipient" field blank. I signed it with a flourish, then handed it to them. "If he or she doesn't like to dance," I said, "it's alright. Don't force them to do it. But if you don't mind, would you please let them know where their name came from? I think my wife would have liked it to know that, at the least, someone remembered her craft enough to be inspired by it." They nodded. That was enough for me, and I said what they came to hear. "I relinquish this life." --- /r/rarelyfunny

YS-974 3rd

Edit: Thank you all for the kind words. There's now a part 2 in the comments from the perspective of humanity. The planet designated as YS-974 3rd was chosen to give the council a foothold in this section of the galaxy. No single world government, no intergalactic capacity, with high pollution in the calculated known habitable portions. The short lifespans of barely 10 Intergalactic Cycles for their oldest specimens would make the inhabitants good fodder for experiments and dangerous work. The initial invasion was standard procedure of identify the third largest continent then attack a centralized settlement. The spotty intelligence was based on long distance preliminary scans of the geography and climate. Using more valuable resources was unnecessary for such an underdeveloped world. This spotty intelligence returned information on the largest and most powerful countries indicating that the continent referred to as "North America" would be the best for initial invasion since it was dominated by only 3 primary countries. The target was decided, a frontier settlement called "Bismark" in a terribly inhospitable part of the continent. Based on telemetry, it was going to be tolerable at 292 degrees, so forces would have to move quickly to secure a foothold closer to the planet's equator before winter set in. 10,000 allied forces from 150 ships landed just outside the settlement and quickly attacked. The first volley killed hundreds of what are now called "earthlings". They were shocked and disabled with fear as we reloaded our weapons for the second volley. This settlement would fall by the end of this planet's day and serve as a central staging point for dominating the third largest continent on this mostly inhospitable planet. That's when things stopped going to plan. As the smoke from the first volley subsided, the generals realized this was not a temporary summer settlement, but an established and thriving city. Individual earthlings began firing small arms that were un-explainable on Alliance lines. Uniformed and armed forces began to respond in minutes with larger more deadly weapons and allied losses began to mount. Within hours, even greater forces from the air unleashed ever more terrifying weaponry, and a full retreat was sounded. A full retreat had never once been sounded for Alliance warriors, and the confusion over what to do lead to even greater losses. Of the initial force, only 2,500 survived and escaped on 80 of the initial ships. The worst losses the alliance had ever experienced prior was 8% for an entire war. Allied command decided swift action was necessary. A force of 1 million was being prepared, in the unprecedented time span of a single intergalactic cycle. The "earthlings" were considered a grave threat and were to be eradicated. However, allied command did not expect the earthlings to strike back before the force was completely assembled. What was considered to be an unprecedented build up of military might was over-shadowed because the earthlings had unified their governments, mastered the Faster Than Light drives on the abandoned ships, armed them with more unheard of weapons, and began attacking the outer colonies. One colony after another fell to the earthlings, and the galaxy learned a new phrase - Warpath. Ten Cycles Later The alliance has learned that YS-974 3rd, now called "Earth", did not follow the standard model of unified government, civilization, FTL, weaponry. The earthlings had started with weaponry, then established civilization, and had never established a unified government until the alliance failed spectacularly at invasion. Then they gained FTL from the failed invasion. In ten cycles the earthlings had attacked and destroyed 15% of allied military installations, taking territory that the alliance spent 100 cycles conquering. Then the earthlings just stopped advancing. Alliance spies that had spent the last 10 cycles training, half the time of their normal training due to the urgency of the situation, were sent to the conquered worlds to gather information, and the information that returned was confusing at best. The earthlings were only attacking military bases and as such civilian casualties were at a minimum. This un-fathomed tactic allowed them to move from installation to installation with such speed defense protocols could not be carried out. They built fleets of impossibly large, interstellar ships that were equipped with massive weapons of their own, something that left the earthlings with a terrifying advantage in space as more than one assault group had been annihilated before even reaching the planet they were to attack. They had terrifying shock troops, called Marine Mobile Infantry, that would lead many initial attacks causing destruction and devastation in their path, and after that a larger army would occupy the area and do something none of the allied warriors would ever think of. They would build places called hospitals to treat the wounds of everyone, alliance and earthling, and these places could return soldiers to combat from mortal wounds after no more than a few days of healing. Alliance Warriors that had been treated and sent home with others said this was called "humanitarian efforts". The spies also learned of other agencies, like the KGB and CIA, that would gather information for the earthlings through a variety of unspeakable means. It is now suspected that they have infiltrated the entire allied government, but none can prove those theories as the earthlings have been impossible to detect and seem capable of breaking into every advanced system that has been developed. Adding insult to injury, Alliance cut warrior training back to a single intergalactic cycle, and these warriors stood no chance against forces that intelligence revealed were in the military for less than half a cycle. That same intelligence showed that a long career, entitling and earthling to full "retirement", was only 2 cycles, 4 at most for their longest serving military officers. The earthlings could, and already did, field an entire new military in the same amount of time it took the Alliance to finish what was now called basic training. This is clearly a species bred for war and destruction the likes of which the galaxy could not survive against. Even in these ten cycles, where the alliance has reverse engineered some captured weapons, the earthlings have advanced their weapons further, making their own equipment obsolete. There are still rumors that they have not even used their most devastating weapons. Surrender was being considered, but that would take at least 5 cycles to be ratified by the whole alliance. One Cycle Later The alliance soon discovered that the earthlings could survive anywhere on their planet, from the hottest desserts at 327 degrees to the coldest pole at 183 degrees. They built and thrived everywhere. Many of their colony installations were built in such extreme environments that it prevented retaliation attacks since Alliance troops could not endure the extreme heat and cold. It was clear they knew how to press every advantage they held, and they would field experimental equipment with no regard to their own safety. A truly reckless and dangerous species willing to destroy itself for victory. The entire Alliance had begun to crumble as the member planets' economies were unable to support the continued war effort. The earthlings once again went on the warpath and had destroyed another 20% of the Alliance military. Desertion, a new word and unheard of before in the Alliance, continued to empty the ranks. Recruits began to flee from conscription and installations would surrender without instruction as the earthlings began to announce their next targets. Installations fell without firing any weapons. Fear and terror were the earthling's primary weapon now. The next insult was that the earthlings began to educate all of the planets they seized. Former alliance civilians would volunteer for the earthling military. Alliance spies said this was due to earthling propaganda about freedom from tyranny and having a say in their own destiny. More and more species are believing the earthlings to be liberators. Soon the Alliance won't have a choice or a debate in surrendering. The Alliance will simply collapse in the dawn of the earthlings dominating this galaxy. Edits: Fixed wording and punctuation throughout.

Michael tried to decide if he should

"Who are you?" Michael yelled at the approaching silhouette that seemed to be dragging itself through the spiralling cloud of red, desert dust, toward them. He raised a hand to his eyes and squinted, trying to get a better look at the figure - trying to decide if he should grab his little sister's hand and run far away from here, never turning, never looking back. But he knew they couldn't run. They'd *probably* die if they stayed, but he was certain they would die if they ran. It had been so long since they'd seen someone else - *anyone* else. He had thought they were the last. The figure was tall - even hunched over as it was, struggling to walk, Michael guessed it must have been at least seven foot. It clutched something long and curved in its right hand. "Michael, Cibby is scared," whispered Isabella, clutching her beloved, no-legged doll tightly in the crook of her good arm. Michael looked at his little sister, sighed, then crouched down until he was eye level with her. Sweat was pouring out from her burning forehead and dribbling down to her torn, lilac tee. It was a sweat that they couldn't replace; there was no water here. There seemed to be no water left on Earth. He gently ran the back of his fingers down Isabella's cheek. "Me too, Izzy. But we all need to be brave right now. Whoever is coming, we need their help. You're still not better - although, I'm sure you will be soon," he added, "and, well, we've not seen *anyone* since..." His voice trailed off as he thought of their parents. Isabella bit her lip, looked up at the swirling, tombstone sky above and nodded. "We'll be brave." "Good girl. Make sure you stay behind me, okay? Let me talk to him," Michael commanded, stepping in front of his sister. "And if... anything happens to me. Anything bad, I want you to run as fast as you can, back the way we came." Michael turned to face the approaching figure. He could now make out the ragged cloak that hung loose around the thin body; the pointed blade that trailed on the desert floor, biting into the earth as it dragged along. But he couldn't see the features of the face hidden in the brooding shadow of the hood. "Hello!" said Michael, raising a hand. The figure didn't respond; it continued trudging toward them. "We- we don't mean you harm. My sister's sick and we've not had water for-" Michael's mouth dropped open when he saw the skeletal feet poking out from the bottom of the cloak. "Oh, Jesus." Now he was ready to run. He'd rather die on the radiation plains, his skin peeling and his heart dripping, than let this monstrosity come any closer. But his curiosity had never been greater; it took hold of his body and froze it in place. "*What the fuck are you?*" he mouthed. The figure stopped a few feet from him. It tilted its head to the side, raised a bony hand to its face and peeled back its hood. "*Oh, shit.* Izzy," he said, as he reached behind him, fumbling for his sister's hand, "get ready to run. Okay?" "Pleaaase," came the terrible, pleading voice; it sounded as if it was being dragged through broken glass, as it rose up through the creature's throat. Isabella poked her head out from behind her brother. She gasped. "Pleaaase," came the voice again. The creature raised a hand, its fingers reaching toward them. Then, it collapsed onto its knees, its scythe dropping to the ground. "Let's go, okay sis?" said Michael, trying not to show the fear in his voice. "...we can't go. I think it needs our help," said Izzy. "It's in pain." "Izzy! What are you doing?" Michael hissed, as his sister slowly walked toward the creature, until she stood only a foot away from it. "My name is Izzy," she said, before bursting into a cough that ripped her throat and tore at her lungs. It took her a moment to recover; she wiped the blood from her lips onto her arm. "This - this is Cibby, and that's my brother Michael," said the girl. "We don't have any water, but we have a little food. Would you like some?" The creature stared at Izzy for a moment, before, with what looked like great effort, stretched a hand out toward her. "Don't!" shouted Michael, but it was too late. Izzy had already taken the pale hand in hers. It took only a second for her to fall limply to the ground, doll by her side. "Izzy!" Michael screamed, running toward his sister and skidding to the ground next to her. "Oh God, Izzy," he said, as snot and hot tears mixed in his mouth. Her eyes were shut and her chest was perfectly still. "Please don't be dead. *Please please please.*" He shook her gently at first, then more firmly, then urgently. But his sister didn't respond. She didn't move. Michael picked up Izzy's doll, and placed it into her limp, open hand. Then, he buried his head into her chest and wept. The cloaked figured slowly got back to its feet. It bent down and picked up its scythe. "What did you do to her, you- you *monster!*" Michael asked, his voice trembling as he turned to the creature. "She was just a little girl and you-" He saw her left arm move first. The arm that hadn't moved since the mines. "*What?* Izzy?" Her eyes slowly opened. The trace of a smile curved over her lips. "Izzy!" he repeated through sobs and laughter. "Oh God, Izzy, you're alive. Please - *please,* don't ever do that to me again." He kissed her cheeks a dozen times, and her forehead nearer a hundred, before hugging her tightly. "He... he made me better," she said, as her brother finally released her, raising her neck and looking up at the creature. Michael stared anew at the cloaked figure. It looked stronger now. Taller, too. It took Michael a few moments to be able to whisper: "*thank you*." The creature nodded, before lifting his scythe high into the air. "What are you..." The creature brought the instrument down fiercely, tip first, burying it deep into the dry earth. A fountain of clear liquid erupted from the hole as he withdrew it. It didn't take long for a soft blanket of grass to begin sprouting underneath Izzy, quickly spreading out as if it was a puddle of water. It didn't take long for her to find the first tulip that had grown in a hundred years. Then, the first apple tree. Izzy whispered to her brother and pressed something into his hands. When the cloaked figure was finally satisfied by the sparkling oasis, he pointed a finger toward Michael and gestured for him to step forward. He did so. "My sister wanted you to have this," Michael said, offering out a hand. Death paused for a moment, unsure, before reaching out and taking the doll. He looked at it curiously, turning it over twice. Then, he dropped it into a deep, dark pocket on the side of his cloak. "There are others," he said, in a soft rumble. "Only a few. You must bring them here." "How - how will I find them?" "You will," it replied. "She will be safe, here. Nothing evil can step foot into my garden." It turned and took three steps away from him, before pausing. "I will see you again, someday," it whispered, not quite loud enough for Izzy to hear. Then, it continued its slow walk into the dancing dust of the desert. "Thank you," Michael whispered, as the figure drifted out of sight. --- more on /r/nickofnight

"Papa!" she said and

"Papa!" she said and threw her arms around me as I came in the door. "Oof," I exclaimed and hugged her back. "How was school, Martina?" I asked. She untangled herself from me, and looked up at me, smiling. Her long dark hair, and those almond eyes...she was only nine, but she looked so much like her mother that it hurt. "School was great! We learned about World War II today." "Oh yeah?" I said as I counted the Pesos again. "...and then the Allies found him slumped over in his bunker, a bullet in his head, but Ms. Rodriguez said that they didn't actually find - papa are you listening?" "Wha-, ah, I mean...no. Sorry," I said. I would never lie to my baby. She rolled her eyes in the same way her mother and sent another pang through my heart. I turned away so she wouldn't see the tears in my eyes. "How was it with the German, papa?" she asked; she hadn't noticed, thank god. "Martina," I said, "I told you not to talk about that man." There was something seriously wrong about that situation, even I could tell. But I got pesos, and I didn't complain. "I *don't,* papa," she whined, "not to anyone else. I'm just asking you!" "Well, he was fine, same as usual, you know. Didn't talk much, thanked me for the food, and sent me on my way," I said. "I want to meet him, papa." I whirled towards her, "Absolutely, not," I said. "Please, I want to-" "No." "Just once! I just want to ask if he was there, you know, when the war happened? You said he was old," she said. "Why would you possibly need to know that?" I asked. "Uhm, I'll do better on my exam, I'm sure," she said, "I'll remember the material better!" I hesitated. I'd promised Susana that her daughter wouldn't be like us, that she would be educated, that she would leave this farm, this country and go out into the world. "Please, papa," she said, her eyes wide as saucers. "*Fine*" I said, "I'll take you tomorrow. But just once you understand! Never again." "Oh thank you, thank you, thank you," she said and threw her arms around me again. I hugged her back, hoping I hadn't made a mistake. *** **The Next Morning** The guard blocked our way. He was tall and well built with pale skin and golden hair. "Who's this?" the man asked. He wasn't unkind, but he was not cordial either. "Just my daughter, sir, that's all," I said. The man peered at Martina who stared right back at him, as if daring him to try something. Stupid girl, defiance like could get you killed. I made a note of it - I would talk to her about it later. The guard nodded, "no problems. Got the food?" I held up my bag and nodded. "Go right in," he said and moved out the way. We walked forward towards the what looked like a shack. It looked as if it were made of crumbling wood, with rotting window hinges. But when we got inside, there was a metal door laden on the floor. I put down the bad and pulled, moving the heavy door with some effort. Martina looked at the whole thing with wonder. "Papa, doesn't this seem a bit...suspicious?" she asked. I shrugged, "we get the pesos, and I give him, food, I don't ask," I said, "and you shouldn't either." Martina didn't say anything as we descended the steps, our steps echoing through the metal structure. After about a minute we came into the room. It was a simple layout - a bed in the corner, a door leading to a fully working bathroom, and a dining table in the center. "Ah, Pedro, you've arrived!" The German came out of the bathroom, wearing his normal black pants and buttoned shirt. He walked with a cane in his right hand and flinched with every step. His silver white hair was in dissaray, dropping well below his ear. But one look at his eyes and I knew, his body may be failing, but his mind was not, not yet. He sat down at his usual spot on the table, and only then seemed to notice Martina. "Oh," he said, "you've brought a guest, Pedro," he said. Martina smiled and gave him her hand, "I'm Martina, Pap- I mean, Pedro's daughter," she said, blushing slightly at her mistake. "You have lovely daughter, Pedro," he said, and started taking out the food from the bag. Nothing special, but it was food. "What's your name, sir," Martina asked. I shot her a glare, but she shrugged it off. The German chuckled, "she's already bolder than you, Pedro," he said. "My name, Martina," he took a deep breath and smiled, "is Adolf Hitler. You may have heard of me." I coughed to cover my open-mouthed gasp. I hadn't gone to school, but I knew full well who this man was. Killer, villain. Talking to my daughter. For her part, Martina just nodded, taking it in stride. "I thought so," she said. The German, Hitler, smiled. "Bold and smart, a dangerous combination." "Martina," I said, "we're going." We'd have to move, quick, far away. i had a knife in my back pocket, I could probably take the guard outside. "No need, Pedro, no need," Hitler said, "I doubt I'll live for more than a couple more days anyways, you have nothing to fear from me." "Martina!" I said, and she finally looked at me, "We're leaving. Now!" "Papa-" "No buts," I said, and took her hand. "Why'd you do it, do you hate me?" I blinked, and gaped at Martina. It took me a moment to realize she wasn't talking to me, but Hitler. He looked down at his food, his shoulders slumped. "I could tell you some story about political scapegoats, insanity, or pressure. But that wouldn't be the truth Martina," he sighed. "Why does evil happen at all, Martina? I don't know, no one knows." He shook his head. "All these decades...no. I don't hate you Martina." I tugged at her arm and dragged her up the stairs. I looked back at the German, Hitler, one last time, and he didn't look like the greatest villain the world had known, he looked like an old man, filled with regret, waiting to die. *** (minor edits) If you enjoyed, check out

The writer was locked away behind the

The emboldened bedsprings tunnelled into my back as I lay gazing at the grey and clouded ceiling. My three compadres in the cell around me chattered idly; they knew the wrongs they had wrought, often wilfully, sometimes negligently - yet how I came to be shut away behind the cliched stainless steel 10-foot bars remained elusive. I had seemingly been locked away for as long as my memory permitted, yet my crime was not so manifested in my head as the punishment for which I was experiencing - a lapse of memory not so implausible with such little mental stimulation. Such is the nature of this 'paradise' of the damned - cold, cinderblock walls that yield no solace to the destitute, the desperate and the despised. A guard tapped his keys on the bars and looked at me knowingly. I arose from my bunk - as a top-bunker I enjoyed sliding down the ladder and being reminded of my once-victory over "Slim Jim", a recently paroled 6'11 African-American behemoth from the cell next door, following an arm wrestling match. Slim Jim actually turned out to be an informant - or a snitch, hence the early parole - but this didn't stop me from earning top-bunker status in light of my victory. Though not built by any means, I was athletic. How I was athletic still I was unsure, for my prison days were all groundhog days that I had spent indoors, and the groundhog days blended together until they too fell apart in my ailing memory. I idly sauntered over to the bars of the cell, not wanting to appear too eager to meet the uniformed gentleman stood outside. He thrust a key into the lock and opened the cell gate, an unusual circumstance given that it was 5pm on a Friday and dinner is served at 7pm, usually without all the pomp and circumstance attributed to some key tapping. This was different, somehow. The guard took my left arm somewhat roughly, and led me outside. ................................... "Free?" I nearly choked. "You are serious?" The warden stared through me piercingly from his mahogany throne. Slowly his eyes scanned me down from head to toe, and continued moving onto the reams of paper scattered over his desk. He nodded slowly, tersely almost, as if he was forcing his neck muscles to move by focussing every ounce of his being into doing so. I arose from my chair. "Thank you Warden, for giving me this opportunity." I beamed, extending my hand. The guard almost reflexively yanked my extended arm with casual roughness away from the warden and began ushering me to the door. I watched as the warden's eyes watched me rigidly. His body language spoke volumes of his stance on what he was doing - paroling a convict. Whether this was the same for all prisoners or just for me, I was not entirely sure, but I had the distinct impression he was displeased with the new lease on life I had been granted. .................................... I didn't think the outside world was much different from the prison courtyard. Same smells in the air, same sky, same people around me; all seeking direction and purpose. The courtyard gates slammed behind me and I felt unexpectedly little liberation. My first port of call was the bank, as currency was deposited for the recently paroled to ease the transition period. Somewhat bizarrely, I almost instinctively knew that the nearest bank was directly opposite the prison, either a miscalculation by city planners or an intended feature to some degree, I wondered. I had to hold back from swaggering into the bank with such light-heartedness in my soul. The line was deep, and the wait savage, but my spirits remained unimpeded. I began admiring the architecture of such a building - even the waiting area was grandiose, with high arches and golden paintwork that truly symbolised the free world. I was rudely interrupted by the doors slamming open, and four persons charging into the lobby, armed to the teeth with weaponry and rudely wearing balaclavas to obstruct vision of their faces. No expert on guns, I deduced the weapons they held were similar to those I had noticed the prison border guards carrying. My first reaction was to run, but before I could begin moving, the room erupted in noise. "GET ON THE FLOOR" screamed one of the men, firing three rounds into the lights of the bank above. I froze, contrary to the command but instinctively, and watched as the remaining patrons obeyed wilfully and fell onto their chests. The men swiftly moved towards the bank clerks, firing rounds into the ceiling to affirm their authority. One of the men approached the now-terrified bank teller and yelled incoherently through the bulletproof glass, gesturing wildly. Two men circled the room, yelling at people to lay flatter whilst somehow completely ignoring my presence. "HEY" the fourth man spoke. I realized I had been statuesque since the first command, allowing the fourth, a tall, balaclava'd giant of a man, to flank me, whom now stood menacingly to my left. I edged my head counter-clockwise and came face to face with this hulk. "You want in on this?" he quietly gestured to his gun. I stared, speechless, unable to react to the strangely familiar voice that was now addressing me directly. The man edged his balaclava away from his face, a bushy black beard falling out and I caught a glimpse of a man who I didn't think I'd see again but was all too familiar. "... Jim? Slim Jim?" I spluttered, unsure of what I was seeing. Everything was happening so quickly. The man moved in towards me. "Yeah, look man just take this, we'll sort you out aight?" he whispered loudly over the noise, and thrust a cold metal instrument into my hands. A quick pat on the shoulder and Jim had flung himself back into the fray of patrons whilst yelling, despite many being immobilised on the floor in terror. I looked down at the dark, heavy machination in my grasp and instinctively held it tightly, but correctly. I knew nothing about guns. If I didn't hold it correctly, what's to stop it going off if I dropped it? I was shaking from the adrenaline and fear that pulsed within me when the bank doors slammed open again, hitting the walls. Uniformed police officers with riot shields began piling into the bank - I counted six but it seemed like a thousand. I heard more gunshots than I have ever heard in my life, a helicopter rotor, and the screams of a hundred people in unison before my eyes glazed over with darkness, and all faded to nought. ............................................... I stirred, and opened my eyes to bright lights and a white-coated man standing over me, as a mask was placed over my mouth and nose. I felt a cold gas surround my face, and the slumber returned. ............................................... It feels like only yesterday since I had been discharged from the medical bay. The emboldened bedsprings tunnelled into my back as I lay gazing at the grey and clouded ceiling. My three compadres in the cell around me chattered idly; they knew the wrongs they had wrought, often wilfully, sometimes negligently - yet how I came to be shut away behind the cliched stainless steel 10-foot bars remained elusive. I had seemingly been locked away for as long as my memory permitted, yet my crime was not so manifested in my head as the punishment for which I was experiencing - a lapse of memory not so implausible with such little mental stimulation. Such is the nature of this 'paradise' of the damned - cold, cinderblock walls that yield no solace to the destitute, the desperate and the despised. A guard tapped his keys on the bars and looked at me knowingly. ------------------------------------------------------------------------- Apologies, this deviated from the experiencing time backwards slightly, but I wanted to keep the manipulation of time as a theme. I hope this is suitable, thanks for reading!

The Dark One, Overlord of

The Dark One, Overlord of the Fifteen Worlds, had kidnapped the oracle years ago. It was best to keep prophecy-spewing maidens close to the den, after all. So when the aforementioned oracle made the "Great Prophecy" that foretold of his reign's end by the hand of a farm girl, the Dark One was the first to hear of it. In response, he did the logical thing. He marched over to the squalid hut that the baby lived in, gave the parents enough money to be comfortable, and kept his second-best regiment posted by their newly-furnished house. After all, the Dark One assured the parents, their child was destined for great things. You could never be too careful. There were plenty of people who'd want to take advantage of a gifted child. Look, he might have gotten the title of "Dark One" thanks to his mastery of black magic, but he wasn't evil. Unlike what those rebellious bands of terrorists thought, he had a reason for everything he did. It rankled a bit to rule over the realms with an iron fist, but *come on.* Until the populace was educated and advanced enough to govern itself, the people had to be united by force. The centuries of civil war before him just proved his point. Speaking of education, he also ensured that Little Miss Chosen One had access to the best teachers. Dammit, if he was going to be overthrown by someone (though he was still holding out on that), it better be by someone smart--not some lunk with a sword. Of course, the drooler extraordinaire seemed more interested in slobbering over the books than reading them. Once the kid actually learned how to read, however, that changed. The Dark One would visit her in between crushing insurrections with a new bundle of books in hand. She had an insatiable curiosity, devouring books faster than he could throw them at her. Her parents, though good people, didn't know the answers to anything. And though her tutors were the best, their knowledge paled in comparison to the master himself.... which is why he got the short end of the stick. "Uncle Dark," she'd chirp, persisting in calling him by that stupid name, "why can't we make more magic? Why do the elves and orcs hate each other? Why are there two suns?" Why, why, *why.* If he never heard that phrase again, he'd die happy. If he ever died, that was. However, the Dark One had to admit that there was something satisfying about teaching someone and watching them thrive. He wondered why he hadn't done it sooner, honestly. (Oh, right. Students tended to overthrow their teachers to an alarming degree.) The years seemed to pass faster than usual. He visited the girl, developed the economy, killed copycat "Chosen Ones," vanquished chaos demons, and before he knew it, the child was no longer a child. Her knowledge began to outpace that of the tutors he sent, and soon, she was a skilled mage in her own right--a fully-developed *person*, too. With his immortality, the Dark One had forgotten how quickly mortals grew. He could forget no longer, though. "Did you do it?" she asked, standing as tall as his physical body. "Did you massacre all those Reedlings?" The Dark One paused in his eightieth reread of *The Elements of Magic.* He remembered the massacre very well. It was what had given him his name. The Reedlings had kept rebelling and rebelling, and he'd just cast the immortality spell so his control had been unstable, and... he could think of a thousand excuses, but that wasn't what she'd asked. "Yes," he said instead. "I did." "Why?" The Dark One could hear the echo of her childish squeak, but the steel in her voice was anything but. "I have never lied to you. I will not start now." And so, he began to talk. He started at the very beginning, back when he was still a mortal child in a different world. He talked about his discovery by a master wizard, his accidental use of the dimensional-portal spell, his rise to power... and everything in between. For the first time, he explained everything--what he did, how he did it, and most importantly, *why.* The sun had set by the time he'd finished. The Chosen One was silent for what felt like too long. "I understand," she said finally. "What you did wasn't right, but I understand." A weight had been lifted from his shoulders, and the Dark One knew that he'd done something right. "I think you should join the rebellion." "What?" She stared at him. "You want me to join a disparate, silly gaggle of terrorists that want to kill you?" "That's what they are right now. But with you at the helm, they'll be a force to reckon with." It took her quite some time to agree, but the Chosen One wasn't stupid. He'd made sure of that. She understood what he was asking, and so, she set off to fulfill her end of the prophecy. On his part, the Dark One encouraged rumors of the Chosen One's rise. He'd already loosened his grip over the empire in the last few decades, and it mostly functioned without his direct intervention, leaving him as just a figurehead. Everything was in place. All he had to do was wait. Years later, the Chosen One faced him again. The ragtag band of rebels had become a united force, and she led them as an accomplished mage and skilled tactician. They exchanged a show of magic for the masses before the Dark One allowed himself to be cornered inside his own castle. Everyone else was kept out by the barriers. "This realm is ready for you," he said, sitting at the foot of his throne. "The economy about to industrialize, the populace is educated, and best of all, everyone is united in their hatred of me." "You really did plan this all, didn't you?" The Chosen One laughed before taking her seat beside him. "I've always been in awe of your foresight, but one question has bothered me through all these years: why did you do it?" She paused and continued in a much softer tone. "And why me?" He smiled. "During my long life, I've learned that prophecies come true whether you like them or not. I hate them on principle, of course. They're too deterministic for my taste, but even prophecies let you choose how they come true. If my reign has to end, then I'd rather it be by someone who knows what they're doing. Someone like you." "I'm sorry that--" "Don't be. I've been needing a break. Besides, I haven't visited the other worlds in a long, long time. One of them probably needs an evil overlord to overthrow, right?" She wiped away her tears and gave him a watery smile. "I'll make you proud, Uncle Dark." The Dark One patted her head, and as he disintegrated into dust, he said, "You already have."

Prisoner J was in a cell

The guard's boots sloshed in the icy water as he stomped down the abyss-black passageway. The thin beam of his flashlight sliced through the darkness and revealed slithers of damp rock wall. He could hear the gurgling of running water beneath him - the underground river that led to the body of water surrounding the island. At least the musty odour of the tunnel was hidden by the gift the guard held; the content of the steaming mug was like a cross keeping evil at bay. There was only one cell in the lowest dungeon, and only one prisoner in that cell. Prisoner J. "Hey, wake up - I've got you something, J," said the guard, as he arrived at the unlit cell, banging the heel of his flashlight against the door. The guard lifted the metal plate that allowed for food to be passed through; J's eyelids followed suit. "Is that- you brought me-" he fell into a fit of coughing, releasing the dust and dried phlegm that caked his throat. "Sip this, it'll help," said the guard, hiding the concern in his face. The coughs came from the prisoner's chest; it sounded like J had an infection. The guard chewed his lip as he considered the logistics that would be involved in smuggling antibiotics down to the prisoner the following day. J took the mug of coffee, grasping it between two shaking hands. "Holy shit, I ain't sipping this yet," said J, wiping an arm across his mouth and letting the scent of the cheap coffee intoxicate him. "You insane, boss? What a waste that'd be. I'm going to save it for a *very* rainy day. And until then," he leaned into the mug and closed his eyes, "I'm going to let it take me away to somewhere a little more pleasant." The guard shone his flashlight through the food hatch and examined J; the prisoner recoiled like a vampire. "Ey, cut it out, will ya?" The man's grey hair was like dirty dishwater, and his face was so pale that it was becoming translucent - thin blue lines ran like dried up streams under the skin on his forehead. His teeth were chipped and looked like fragments of broken, jagged glass. He looked like something out of a horror movie. "Why'd you get me this?" J asked. "I'm not ungrateful, you understand," he sniffed, "I know how much you risked to bring it here. Hell, you could be the next man in this cell because of it. But I just kinda need to know - *why?*" "I don't really have an answer for that," the guard confessed. "You always talk about coffee and what you'd give for the taste of it one last time, and all that shit. So, well, I just felt sorry for you, I guess." The guard scratched his head and the prisoner laughed. "What?" asked the guard. "Oh. I'm sorry, it's nothing." "Come on, why'd you laugh?" "It's just... you feeling sorry for me. It's strange, you know?" "Because I'm a guard? Because I'm meant to have no soul?" "No," said J, lowering his voice to a whisper as he crept toward the food hatch. He glanced behind him, up at the roof of his cell. "*It's because you've got it backwards. You're a good man, boss. You don't deserve to be trapped here. You need to get out.*" "*What?* I'm not trapped," said the guard, frowning. "I do this job because it pays well. I do it for my family - to put my daughter through college." "How long have you been working here?" "Since... shit, I don't know. Ten years, maybe." "You remember when you started?" "I..." "When's the last time you saw them?" "Who? My family?" "Yeah." "You know that visitors are prohibited from coming to the island." "What color are your daughter's eyes, boss?" "... blue." "You sure about that?" "Of course I'm fucking sure. What are you trying to pull? I brought you some coffee and now you're trying to piss me off?" J raised his hands and slunk back to the corner of his cell. "I should've said nothing." It was on the guard's way back out of the tunnel that he thought he noticed something on the passageway roof - something moving ever so slightly. Something he'd caught accidentally with a twitch of his wrist in the beam of his flashlight. Something that reflected the light that had been fired across it. But when he shone the flashlight at the roof a second time, making a slow, thorough search, he couldn't see anything but dripping rock. He must have imagined it. The guard came to see J again the next day, stolen medicine in his inside jacket pocket. But he was too late. J had hanged himself sometime during the night, his thin cotton blanket a makeshift noose. A mug of untouched coffee sat cold and lonely on the stone floor next to the bed. Suicides weren't unusual - prisoners often killed themselves here - although, it was the first he had personally found. Maybe, the guard thought, it was better than living in these conditions for the rest of his life. He didn't blame J for his choice. The guard carried on with his duties as usual that week, but all the while two thoughts nagged at him. They tapped at the door of his mind, demanding to be let in, demanding his attention. The first thought was this: *what colour are my daughter's eyes?* He wasn't all that certain they were blue. He'd stayed up for hours after his conversation with J, lying in bed and trying to picture them clearly in his mind's eye. But he couldn't. Maybe he was just getting old. Forgetful. But it was the second thought that had burrowed fully into his brain and released a poison at its very core. A thought that was changing him and how he looked at the warden, his fellow guards and the other prisoners. It altered where he looked as he walked down passageways - always the roof now, looking for almost imperceptible movements - and it made him shiver as he lay awake at night. It was a thought that made him realise he couldn't quit - ever. That instead, *he* needed to escape. *Why had the mug of coffee still been full?*

"Can anyone tell me what the

"Can anyone tell me what the value of the acceleration in this problem would be?" My voice rang out over the lecture hall. Almost immediately, hands began shooting up from around the room, and I smiled. Physics 101. I'd been teaching at the college for a decade now, but I insisted on always having at least one class with the incoming students. They were so impressionable, so earnest. There was something appealing about setting a new student on the right path that you just couldn't get from a class of hung-over, barely conscious seniors or the slightly-desperate, fixated grad students. I may be God, but it's important to put in the time for people. I nodded towards a girl in the front row, Katie, whose hand had *not* gone up. The blood drained from her face instantly, but I smiled encouragingly at her. Hesitantly, she began stammering her way through an answer. I nodded encouragingly as she pieced it together. Good girl, Katie. I'd been worried about her. She'd nearly failed out of her math classes in High School. She'd really been putting in the effort, though. "Exactly right!" I announced, and was rewarded with the flash of a smile across her face before I turned back to the rest of the class. We worked our way through the rest of the lesson, basic topics on mechanics and physical qualities, without any great disturbance beyond one student forgetting to turn off the audio on his phone before he opened a game. I wrapped up a good four minutes early, which set a sparkle in all of the students' eyes. As I opened my mouth to dismiss them, though, another hand shot up. I sighed. Dustin, three rows back. Dustin was...he was a good kid. He was. He was just *that* student, the one who argues with the teacher if they put a movie on instead of lecturing them. The one who complains if there's a snow day because they've lost class time. And, the one who always has one more question, when the class would rather leave. But, I put on my best smile, and nodded. "Got a question, Dustin?" The rest of the class sighed, little murmurs of conversation breaking out. "What's your favorite physics mystery?" He piped up. The class settled down. They hadn't expected *this*. This sounded halfway *interesting*. I smiled. "Well, all right, I guess we've got a minute anyway. I find the concept of Dark Matter fascinating - We just know so little about it. Or, we could talk about universal constants, and what *exactly* they may be. Why is the speed of light, well, the speed of light? Why is it set at that limit?" "Do you think we'll ever know some of this stuff?" Sam chimed in, a row from the back and all the way on the side. I was impressed. Sam almost never engaged, and had remained aloof from his friends, family and most of his classes since his father had walked out four years back. Asking a question in class unprompted was a big step for him. "I think we will, it'll just take a lot of time. A *lot* of time. But there's no magic in it. It's all just numbers and models and equations. We just need to find the *right* numbers and models and equations." All right, there was a little magic in it. How was I supposed to get particle physics to work properly, *and* make it scale up? It just refused to work out. So, yeah, I fudged some stuff. But, it would just remain one of those problems that physicists strived to solve. Hey, I wasn't going to feel guilty about keeping scientists engaged and employed. The class nodded sagely. "So what about God, then?" My eyes flicked to the speaker. Cassandra, smack dab in the middle. I blinked at her, nonplussed. "Beg your pardon?" "God. You say there's no magic. I'm assuming you don't believe in god?" She jerked her head towards the exit to the lecture hall, and the windows beside it. I knew what she was talking about. All that week, people from the local church had been on and around campus, handing out brochures and trying to tempt the new students to come to their services. Several were visible even now, snagging the few students travelling between classes. "It's all just numbers and equations, right? So why not prove this whole deal wrong, once and for all?" She grinned, and the students around her were laughing. "Shouldn't be that hard." I chuckled along with the class. I was a *little* irritated - those students handing out brochures were putting in a *lot* of hours on my behalf - but my grin was more sardonic than tense. Because I *did* exist, of course. But, physics worked because it was a set of rules about the universe. It didn't need me there in it to work, for the most part. *For the most part*. But, these were first years, not professional physicists with doctorates researching fringe scientific topics. "Well, Cassandra, that's a great topic for discussion." I turned to her, the class falling quiet again. "And, hey, I could draw a bunch of scary symbols on the board, or lecture for an hour about the fundamental properties of the world. I could *also* direct you to some philosophy teachers who'd have a lot to say on the matter." A bunch of hacks, the lot of them, but no matter. "But we only have, oh, 30 seconds left in the class, so I will instead choose to point out that the world isn't 10,000 years old, it wasn't created in seven days, and as far as I'm aware there's no old man floating in the sky watching you *do your homework you all are assigned problems 20 through 45 on page 250*!" The words came out in a rush, as the bell began to chime. The students leapt to their feet and rapidly vanished through the double doors. I grinned to myself, in the empty lecture hall. That book had been the best idea ever. Gets your name out enough that people are *thinking* about being good little humans, but then throw in some basic inaccuracies. Everyone focuses on *that* instead of on the places where you really are. Gets them thinking about their *own* lives, instead of grovelling in front of some altar. And, hey. I get dizzy in high places. No way I would ever be chilling in the clouds. And I'm not that old. I take offense to that. I gathered my notes into my briefcase. Time to get a move on. Assignments wouldn't grade themselves. Then I needed to check in on that North Korea business. And I had the Physics 415 lab at 7. I sighed. Full night. The doors to the hall never opened, but when the next class began filing in, the room was empty. (/r/inorai, critiques always welcome!)

There were 50 questions in total .

My hands were shaking. I couldn't figure out what, exactly, I was expecting, but I knew he took his time with each question and answered them in detail. From time to time, he raised his hand with a begging look in his eyes. "Can I please skip this one?" I felt a smugness, thinking I had stumped him, but attempted to still play the caring teacher. "Just answer to the best of your ability." And he did. I dismissed it, thinking that the answer would just be a guess, or some fluff response, like other students try when they don't know an answer. Some questions were obvious ones, purely based in fact and logic. Is time travel possible? Is there a way to cure cancer? I even added questions just for the sake of humoring myself. Who was buried in the tomb of the unknown soldier? What are the lottery numbers for the Mega Millions Jackpot? What is the meaning of life? 50 questions in total. When I asked him to try this unorthodox test, he seemed excited. I had built this expectation that it was just a smart kid playing an elaborate prank. The thrill was quickly replaced with dread, and when he handed in the test, he was trembling. He wouldn't look me in the eyes. "You alright?" "Please, don't ask me to do this again." "We're the questions too difficult?" Silence. For the first time I actually felt nothing but pure guilt. If this was a prank, he deserved an Oscar for his performance. Opening my mouth to speak again, he looked up at me and I couldn't find the words. He looked broken, hopeless, and I felt the blame in his eyes. "I didn't like the answers." His head dropped down again, and the room was dead quiet. I tried to think of what to say, even considered throwing away the test and saying that we can just forget about it, but some part of me still wanted to read the answers, to see that it really was just a prank. It was the only thing that kept me from feeling like a monster. "Can I go now?" I had no reason to ask him to stay. "Go ahead. Thank you." He left, head hung low the entire way. Excitement and fear rushed through me as the door closed. I turned and sat down, my eyes scanning the first page, not sure which question I wanted to see first. I settled on question 4. 4) Was the moon landing real? "Yes." Simple enough. If only it could be enough to silence the conspiracy theories online. I still expected this to be a joke, so I scanned again. Some answers were simple, just a yes or no. Some had elaborate answers. One caught my eye though. 17) What is the meaning of life? Nothing. It was blank. My shoulders dropped at the same time I felt my mood deflate. I knew it was a humorous question but I wanted to see the answer, regardless of what it was. I moved to the next question. 18) What are the Mega Million numbers? "9 15 18 29 33, and 3" Ah, there we go. Smiling to myself, I knew buying a ticket was well worth the risk. If it was wrong, then I had my proof. If it was right... 25) Is time travel possible? "Not currently. In 2109, Dr. Perlmitter and Dr. Reed will discover it on accident when attempting an experiment with teleportation. We don't have any way of producing it at this time due to the power needed. However, they will only be able to go forward in time, and come back to an anchor point. Traveling backwards in time before then is impossible. At no point in our history will we discover a way to go back." So, if he was right, then not in my lifetime. Disappointing, but fascinating to see. I wanted to find a more personal one. One that I could confirm without question. Flipping to the third page, I found the question I was looking for. 38) What did I enjoy drawing in my notebook as a child. "Bunnies." I couldn't contain the audible gasp that escaped my lips. It could be a lucky guess. Maybe I had mentioned my favorite animal during class and he remembered it. It still felt unsettling to see. I flipped back to the first page. 1) How does the world end? "War." I couldn't take my eyes off that one word. War. What a horrible way to go. Could that be why he looked so broken? He knew that's how the world ended? Maybe he only knew it ended in war, but...maybe he saw it. I put the paper down and stepped away from my desk, catching my breath. I felt uneasy. The questions held far more weight now, and I couldn't bring myself to treat them with any sense of humor. It took a few minutes but I forced myself to pick up the paper again. Curiosity mixed with terror as I tried to not read answers, only looking for certain questions. I was afraid of the answers to my own questions. 49) Is there a god? "No." Again, no explanation, just a single word. The idea that I may have the answer in my hands of one of life's greatest mysteries felt underwhelming, just by how simple the answer was. 32) Are we alone in the universe? "No. There are endless amounts of life in the universe." I felt my heart skip a beat. "Endless amounts of life". The idea was too hard to even comprehend. I was looking at yet another answer that could change life as we know it, and it was handled with such simplicity that it's delivery was on par with someone giving an order for coffee. I felt overwhelmed and hollow at the same time. Before now I couldn't even imagine that was possible. 41) How will I die? "When you--" I turned away. I couldn't bring myself to see it. Taking a black marker out from my desk drawer, I furiously marked it out using only the corner of my eye. Every part of me screamed to just read it and know, but I couldn't. I was relieved when it was done, though part of me still questioned what the answer was. It seemed to be a longer answer as well. I turned the page quickly to get it out of my head. 11) What is the cure for cancer? This time he hadn't written out an answer, but instead drew numerous shapes on the page. While I wasn't a science teacher, I understood what they were: chemical makeups. Decades of research, millions if not billions in research, and it could be over with this one paper. My mind was racing at the possibilities. I noticed a commotion from the hallway, some kids running and talking loudly. Not uncommon but it broke my concentration and snapped me back to reality. I felt a flood of doubt rush back into my head. For all I knew, all of these were made up, and the only proof I had that it was true was "bunnies". I should know better than to get wrapped up in this, and give it any weight. Another quick glance, and I stopped on a second personal question. 27) What is-- More commotion. Sirens in the distance too. I needed to take a break and maybe this was a welcome distraction. I put the test upside down on my desk and headed into the hallway. An ever-growing group of students rushed by, heading towards our front entrance. I put my hand on the shoulder of a younger girl. "Hey, hold on!" She paused, concerned looks on her face as she turned. "What's going on?" "There was an accident outside. I think someone got hurt..." I wanted to reassure her that I'm sure everything was fine but she turned and disappeared into the crowd. More sirens and people screaming. "Excuse me!" I pushed through mass of students, needing to get an answer. Nothing felt right and that guilty feeling had returned. Before I could get to the door, our Vice Principal rushed in to stop people from going outside. "Please return back to your classrooms! Please! For everyone's safety, we need you all to go back!" Confusion, frustration, and questions could be heard from the students, but little by little they turned around and began to disperse. My eyes caught his and he came to me, asking me to help. "One of our students just walked in front of a truck driving by. Paramedics are here but they've said he's already passed. I need you to--" He continued speaking but I heard none of it. I knew I asked for which student it was but this ringing in my head drowned it out. I saw his lips move, and caught the name. In horror, I tried to keep myself upright. My student. The one who looks at me like I was a monster, had killed himself. Why? Why would he... Racing back to my classroom, I flung the door open and grabbed at the test on my desk. My eyes went back to the one question. 17) What is the meaning of life? Empty. Blank. He didn't skip it because he didn't know the answer. It wasn't because it was just too difficult. There was no meaning. This gifted, beautiful mind had asked the void what the meaning to life was...and there was no answer. There was no purpose. We had a man...a child...a young boy that could be the greatest mind of our modern time, and I just forced him to face the reality of life having no meaning. I began to sob uncontrollably. In my hand I held the information answering life's biggest questions...but the question that answered the most was answered with nothing. Life was meaningless.

Teacher talks to Smith about his cap

"Mr. Smith! Please sit down. How are you doing this eternity?" Teacher said, motioning to a single chair in front of his own. "Fine, I guess. A little nervous about why you asked to talk privately." Smith sat down and looked around at the classroom with anxiety. Did Teacher know about how he bent natural laws in the last assignment? Is this about his outburst at Mason? "I wanted to talk to you about your capstone project. I am going to have to terminate the universe early. There are some... concerns that I and other faculty have." "I thought my interpretation was approved. All of the preliminary work showed the universe would fall into normal acceptable levels of development while minimizing entropy." Smith pulled out his notes and papers on the project, paging through them to look for any mistake he had missed. "It isn't that." "Did I not put enough matter? Was there too much matter? Oh no... Was it anti mater? Did my interpretation result in too much anti-matter?" Teacher just shook his head and frowned a little."Not at all. I have to terminate it because everyone is dead." "Dead?" "Well, mostly dead." "I don't understand. That universe had trillions upon trillions of planets, with roughly a tenth of those inhabitable. How could they be mostly dead? I checked on it before our last class it looked healthy." "Well, to start, it wasn't necessarily your fault. Even if you had personally managed and watched over it every moment you will still see random variances that could create larger issues. Your own interpretation of natural laws for your universe ended up allowing more variances to occur, and while initially it looked as if they would beneficial in the end they proved to be a destructive force. I also believe your own direct interference may have created series of events that triggered our initial concern." Smith pulled out a glass slate and tapped a few points on it. After some waiting the universe status application was up and he was able to see what Teacher was talking about. "The genetic drift..." Smith said with a hint of confusion. He was pretty sure he should only be seeing one fully sentient and complex lifeform on each inhabited planet, but each planet developed multiple, sometimes even dozens. "And the loosening on the various restraints we often put in place to prevent mortals from accessing greater power too quickly." "Wait... This looks like the universe committed suicide. Or tried to at least." Entropy had set in. Stars were purposefully extinguished. Whole systems were destroyed. "Yes. That brings us to how self-aware it became." Teacher carefully reached over to the tablet and tapped a couple places on it. "They knew?" "Yes." "How?" "You told them. Which brings me to why I will be giving you a D- on this assignment." Teach said with a long pause afterwards. Smith was speechless and looked around the classroom in an attempt to understand what had happened. He thought through the project, the calculations, the start up, the guidance he gave it. He couldn't think of how he could have told the universe it was just a simulation and not an actual fully realized creation. "If I understand correctly, you have a hobby of fantasy role playing game?" Teacher slowly asked, wanting Smith to connect the dots. "Well, I understand fully realized simulations based on speculative fiction with magic that break the laws of nature are banned. Only partial... Oh no..." "Yes." "I must have...." "You did." "The group I have been playing with, I was the only one with knowledge of how to create custom simulations to play in. There were a few worlds in my universe that I thought would be great to play in and explore so I create a copy and made adjustments. I put in all the restraints and settings meant for a speculative universe. It was only supposed to be just that one world." "And yet?" Teacher said motioning for Smith to keep figuring it all out. Smith taped a few points on the tablet and groaned when he saw it. "I never made a copy. I made changes to the base universe, and played in it directly with my friends thinking it was a limited simulation when it was actually a fully functioning one." "Looking at the logs it appears you and your friends went into the simulation to play, got severely inebriated, and believing the residents wouldn't be able to understand, told them all about this project. The knowledge was quickly spread because your introduction of ridiculous types of magic allowed a free travel and communication throughout the universe. It also allowed them to test and prove that it was a simulation. They tried to contact you before the suicide, but they missed the time difference and didn't realize they would need thousands of years to gain a proper response. They threatened to kill themselves unless they were handed full control of the simulation, and believing a non response was a denial of their terms they used the magic to horrific effect. To be fair, this is actually one of the better results. I have rejected countless proposals to allow simulations like this because often, when they are allowed, we have other universes infected or worse. I would have hated to see your simulation be the end of the enter classes, fortunately they never figured out how to hop around. And I know you would have hated to see them leap into an actual creation." "Wait... this would normally fail me." "Yes. We felt, however, that this was a simple mistake. We realized what you meant to do and didn't want to punish you for forgetting a step or two in what is, honestly, a complicated process. We also saw that while you accidentally changed the fundamental laws of your universe, you also accidentally isolated it from causing harm outside of its bounds." "Thank you sir." Smith sighed and looked at his notes. All the work for little reward. He would still be graduating but the GPA would hurt enough that he might not be able to gain access to full creation. "I know you are the end of your education, but you really should take a class in speculative fantasy. The orcs were really the more aggressive ones in the suicide plan." Smith nodded and sighed. He was pretty disappointed in himself. It shouldn't have ended like that. "Don't worry. I'm sure you won't do it again. In the meantime," Teacher passed over a small disk, "I am sure you could enjoy my old RPG world. I'll admit it isn't nearly as free as your own but you should be able to still enjoy it with out risking the other student projects." *Edit: Names*

Dr. James Murdock sat in

**Parts , , and are both on my sub. More updates to come. Thanks for reading!** *** **Trial 39** Dr. James Murdock sat in the interrogation room, jiggling his knee anxiously. Though the agents had been kind enough to remove his cuffs and offer him a coffee, he knew he was not here for a nice chat and a cuppa. The two agents sitting opposite him introduced themselves as Cooper and Hayes. Cooper placed a tape recorder on the middle of the table. Hayes dropped a heavy folder on the table and removed a single photograph. She slid it across the table to him. "Have you seen this girl before, Dr. Murdock?" James flickered his eyes over the photograph and seethed through his teeth. "I'm afraid so." "Can you identify her for us, please?" "Her name is protected under HIPAA. She is a minor." Cooper leaned forward, his eyes a sharp, seething blue. "Sir, we are past the jurisdiction of HIPAA, at this point. This is a matter of national security." James removed his glasses and wiped at his eyes. "Her official name is Trial 39." He smiled at the darkness swirling in his coffee cup. "We call her Daisy." "Approximately how long ago did she escape from your facility?" "Five weeks." Hayes interjected, "Did you see her again during that time?" "No. Absolutely not. She would not be at large still if I had." He paused. "You understand, these things are not just overgrown zygotes to me. I raise them like my own children. All of them. Daisy and I had a deep and meaningful bond." "Then why would she run away?" James shrugged, baffled. "Why do teenagers do anything?" "What exactly is your artificial human capable of, Doctor?" Cooper stared him down like he was Victor Frankenstein himself, a monster crafting monsters. "For the safety of the nation, we must know what to prepare for." The doctor smiled despite himself. "Officers, she is capable of anything she puts her mind to." Hayes scowled. "What does that mean specifically?" James leaned forward, grasping his coffee cup. He felt dizzy with the kind of immutable excitement he always felt when it came to his research. "It took thirty-eight unremarkable lab-grown children to arrive at Trial 39. The first dozen did not even survive childhood. Most of them suffered from crippling epilepsy so severe they had to be euthanized out of concern for their quality of life. And Daisy--Trial 39--she is the first to live. Not only live, but succeed." He looked up at the ceiling. "She is unrepeatable. If you kill her I can't go back to the lab and make another." "That's good news," Hayes said. "Now what can she do, exactly?" James licked his lips, dryly. "Dr. Murdock," Cooper cautioned, "is it worth federal prison to lie for a test tube person? She has killed dozens already." "Police who were trying to kill her." "And civilians. Your girl is not golden." "If you choose not to cooperate," Hayes said, "we can simply book you for aiding and abetting and move along to our next suspect. So please, make your choice. Quickly." Dr. Murdock rubbed his messy hair. He had the look of a classic absent-minded professor. He did not belong in a place like this. "I was trying to understand how we were before. What human DNA used to look like. And I found something unprecedented. Something no one had ever seen before." He folded his fingers together. "It appears that at one point in our species's history, we could *see* particulate matter. Not just see it but shape it. We could sculpt the world to our liking, to a certain extent. We could change matter with a single directed thought. I have a theory that the humans most advanced at this must be the source of so many myths of gods--" "And what does this have to do with Trial 39?" James grinned. "I told you. She can do anything she puts her mind to." "How did she escape?" "How do you think?" James pointed at the picture on the desk. "This was in Manhattan, right? Before she turned Wall Street into a forest once more?" The agents exchanged uneasy glances. "Do you think that a girl who can change steel into wood needs help escaping her cell? She even short-circuited my surveillance system to prevent us from following her escape." "If she's really so powerful," Hayes asked, "why did she wait until now to escape?" James could only offer another helpless shrug. "Your guess is as good as mine." He downed the rest of his coffee. "Do you have any more questions for me, or am I free to go?" "We will call you if you need further information. As I'm sure you can understand, we have already had your home, office, and research space searched." "Of course. I am grateful for your thoroughness. I'm honestly terrified of her returning one day. I am, after all, the man responsible for her imprisonment." James Murdock held his breath as he left the interrogation room, trying to maintain his look of relieved composure. Blood gathered hot in his ears as he walked as normally as he could down the hallway. When the scientist finally emerged out into cool sunshine, he laughed in disbelief. If he had not destroyed his cameras and the records from that night, the agents would have seen Dr. Murdock disabling the silent security system that would have stopped Daisy if she ever tried to escape herself. They would have seen him unlocking Daisy's cell door late that night, a backpack slung over his back, his look tentative and hopeful. They would have seen Daisy burst from her mattress and hold him fiercely, kissing his cheek again and again, whispering things the camera could not hear but James would always remember. *Thank you thank you thank you.* But James was the only one who watched Daisy walk out the door and flee into the night. And he would keep that secret to himself until the day he died. Some things, he thought, are not meant to be caged. Even if they were born in one. *** /r/shoringupfragments ~~Part two coming later, in my sub. Too busy today to update until this evening sorry friends :(~~ More: , , and , with more to come. :)

Johann tried to drown my dislike with

I didn't want to go to to the stupid concert; my boyfriend did. Who would want to watch a duel that clearly had no competition? The metal band would likely be shitty but they would drown out the banjoist nonetheless, overpowering whatever magic he could wreak. Johann tried to drown my dislike with ballad, but I was having none of it. I was playing piano, though, when he bought the stupid pay-per-view instead and it started. I bristled and turned to him. "Did you seriously pay for that bullshit? You realize we haven't bought the cat food yet and she'll be out soon, right? And you want to listen to this waste of time instead?" I snarled. Forget cat food, we had rent and electricity due soon, too. "I saw this guy play once live. Seriously, I've never been the same since. Come watch it with me- we'll figure out the cat's food." he said. "You always think of yourself!" I got angry. "What's fun now,-what will entertain you-but who takes care of things, huh? Who washes your dishes and makes sure we all eat? Jesus Christ." I hung my head down so low I ended up slamming a bunch of discordant keys and making a god awful racket that made us both shiver with unease. Everyone knew music without intention could and probably would cause unintended harm. I backed away and stalked around the room, too annoyed to to play, and anyways not wanting to clash music with an unknown element. The stupid show kept going in the background. The metal band went first, after some bullshit announcing done in a key so old we had all grown immune to its once-powerful charms. Big stations were the last to learn what was out of date, it seemed. Johann was rapt, watching it, caught up in the angry, fuck-you song they had decided to begin with. He was stomping his foot and making fists. I put on some headphones and played some Ella Fitzgerald, loudly, to drown it out. I was still restless but I figured I might as well get some stuff around the house done. I started a load of laundry, danced my way to the kitchen, swayed through some dishes being washed. Even though I could have asked the bot to do it, I liked to do it myself sometimes, just to remind myself I could. I was here, in my shitty apartment, but now it seemed a magical place, the more I listened to the music in my ears. I could be in one of the old-fashioned songs I loved. As my playlist went through and I was sweeping and tidying, the music's magic began to fade. I was angry anyways. Why was I sweeping and shit when he was watching a fucking show we couldn't afford? The longer I swept the angrier I became, until I finally ripped the headphones off and stomped into the living room. Once the music hit my ears, I was lost. my anger swept away, leaving not a trace. It was a song I'd never heard; finally a spell I'd never been put under. I stood still in the doorway and listened to the stupid banjo player I'd dismissed earlier. Tears swam in my eyes. I remembered an incident as a child, when I was playing with a new airplane my father had sent me for my birthday. He never visited, but I always looked forward to his presents on my birthday every year. That year it had been that airplane- one that flew of its own accord in whatever direction your threw it, would do loops and barrel rolls on demand when you yelled out at it, come back when you sang its song. It was the best gift of my young life. I remembered feeling angry at my mother. Why did I have to make do with one nice present a year? I bet if I lived with my father I'd get amazing presents all the time. The 'calming' babysitting music played in the background but I drowned it out with my anger. So I threw it at her vase. I didn't tell it to avoid, to do anything. I was angry. I was happy when the toy knocked it off its stupid shelf and the dumb thing fell and shattered into a million pieces. The airplane kept whizzing around the room as I looked at the pieces scattered on the floor. The music stopped. I was so grateful for the silence that I cried at first. Silence was to feel your true self. Sweet silence was so rare, even as a child, but I'd always loved it. But then I cried because of what I had done. My mother's vase. Oh god, I thought, her only favorite thing. The only thing that didn't sing in the whole house- that let you feel what you would feel about it, and didn't try to change it. My mother heard the silence and came in to put the babysitting music back on so she could get back to work in the office, answering phones and singing all day to stupid people who didn't matter. Without music, I cried. I saw the pieces on the linoleum, looked at the sad street outside, the old worn couches where strange people would sleep sometimes, passed out with my mother's beautiful songs. All of it was so ugly. I had broken her vase, the only beautiful thing she owned. She saw. I cried harder. Now she would put on a sleeping song only I could hear, or a song that made me want to scream and tear my eyes out in shame. Instead, I remember, she rocked me to sleep. Without any music. The old-fashioned way. I was back in my shitty apartment. The banjo player had stopped playing. There was only silence. Johann turned and saw me, tears in both our eyes. I knew what he meant. I was never the same. --- This is my first ever story on WP, constructive criticism welcome, please!--

The Half-Clown was probably

They called him the Half-Clown though he had never used such a name. He already had one, Derek. It wasn't like the nickname bothered him, it just seemed sad that the media refused to even fathom that a normal Derek could be as cruel as himself. Though he couldn't fathom anyone being as cruel as their idols--those god damn heroes. The Half-Clown was probably, at first, an insult at the futility of a weak old man resisting the all-powerful heroes. It was a jab at how ridiculous he looked with half his face smothered in foundation and mascara. But beneath the beauty products lay veiny, candlewax skin from when a hero had saved him from his burning house and left his teenage daughter to die within it. They claimed she was an arson because historically, she had been a pyromaniac. They claimed she had set the house on fire to kill him because that's what she had threatened to do. Though none of those bastards knew Anna. She had been an emotional girl dealing with a single-father that always berated her for having such strong emotions. "You're just like your mother," this single-father fucker would tell her. "You know that heroes would hate you, don't you?" Though he had known she wouldn't care. She hadn't shared his love of their warriors for justice. All they ever shared were eyes and crescent birthmark above her eyebrow. She had cared even less about him than he had cared for her. But when she had dropped the matches on her father's favorite painting and the flames had caught an accidental gas leak, she had a second's look of surprise on her face before pushing her father out of the way. Derek had screamed and ran back toward her. He had grabbed collapsing beams of wood, most still on fire, digging his way to his daughter. For the first time in over a decade, he had felt tears on his cheeks. The embers had seared his fingers, but his entire body had become numb to pain. There had been another pain, looming just around the corner, one that had drowned out all the rest. "Sweetie!" That word was another first in over a decade. "Sweetie! Talk to me, sweetie. Anna!" He would've reached her too, but a hand had grabbed him from behind and dragged him away. He had been *rescued*. Two seconds later, in the backdrop of his burning house, his daughter in a literal hell, he had simply sat safe on his lawn, a caped crusader smiling down at him. "Don't worry, citizen." The hero had told him, his eyes glistening. "No need to thank me." --- "Of all the heroes I've ever faced," the Half-Clown said, laughing through his words. "You are by far the weakest." This one was a nameless hero, probably one out to make a name for herself by defeating the Half-Clown. Unfortunately, that kind of naivety only worked in the movies. In the real world, a beginner hero had no place coming close to a serial hero murderer. Even her outfit screamed amateur. A black jumpsuit and motorcycle helmet, nothing fancy, nothing combat-oriented. Perhaps with more time, she could've been a great hero. Her power certainly was strong. She controlled fire, but she controlled it poorly. She could barely stop flames from burning herself. Every flame she tossed withered before turning to a smoke that wafted over the Half-Clown. Truly wasted talent. Though that was the price of naivety. "Did you think you can save them?" the Half-Clown asked with an exaggerated frown. Already, he had killed the two far more experienced heroes sent here to stop him. Saint Helen, the explosion-based blonde-haired bombshell, and The Shield, the steely-eyed, steely-bodied giant, lay dead on the floor of this abandoned factory. The nameless hero slowly backed off from the Half-Clown, clutching the shoulder he had shot. With Saint Helen, the Half-Clown had to entrap her in tungsten and trick her into a max power explosion. She had killed herself with her own shockwaves. With The Shield, the Half-Clown had forced a super-fast redox reaction throughout his body--he had rusted from the inside out. But with this girl, all he needed to do was shoot her. "Aren't you going to ask?" the Half-Clown said, advancing toward her with a smoking gun. "Why I do it all? You heroes love to ask those sorts of questions." The nameless hero gathered some more flames and the Half-Clown pulled the trigger. The bullet ripped through her stomach and she crumpled onto all fours. "You heroes are far too confident," the Half-Clown said, advancing toward her. "You parade around as if you're literal gods, like you can do no wrong. And even when faced by the monster you birthed, you still claim innocence. Such confidence. Such overwhelming, stupid, naive confidence!" He bent down so he could talk face-to-face with this nameless hero. "Tell me, girl, why are you a hero?" The girl slowly slid up her hand. The Half-Clown shot it and she collapsed onto an elbow. She raised her head and slowly slid up her other hand. Though it was strange, she didn't seem to be attacking. The Half-Clown stared at her, trying to decipher her plan, he stared all the way until her hand touched his face and cupped his cheek. A small cry escaped her and tears dripped down her neck, out of her helmet. "Admire," her raspy voice said. Derek's heart nearly stopped. Beneath the scratchy, hoarseness of her voice, he caught a familiar tone. He dug his fingers beneath her helmet and ripped it off. And for the second time in nearly a decade, tears crawled down his cheeks. The nameless hero had a face just like his. She had eyes just like his. She had a birthmark just like his. "You always admired heroes," she croaked. "I do too. I just wanted..." But she blood spilled from her mouth, drowning the rest of her words. Derek didn't need to hear them. He knew what she would say. He had always known. *I just wanted you to admire me too.* "Sweetie," he whispered. "This isn't right at all. This can't be right. No... I'm sorry, sweetie. I'm so sorry." --- --- /r/jraywang

Two lines, red and green,

You know, I really couldn't say when I first saw the lines. I mean, sure, I know it was sometime around my tween years when I saw them for *sure*. I was 13 when I saw the brightly colored lines cutting straight across the gravel parking lot, leading me back to my parents after I had gotten lost on that road trip. But before that? I really couldn't say. Maybe I had seen them before, mistaking them for pavement lines and supermarket markings. Regardless. After I noticed them, I couldn't help it. I saw them *everywhere*. Two lines, red and green, etched into the ground like they were marked in paint. No one else could see them. I'd commented on them once, to my mother, and she looked at me like I was crazy. I was old enough at that point to know to keep my mouth shut. But I watched, as they wove their way in and out of my life. And, as one does, I inevitably found myself overwhelmed with the *need* to investigate them, to see where they led. The curiosity was more than I could take. The memory of that first time was too fresh in my mind, of the green line leading me straight back to safety. And so, when I was 14, I grabbed a botle of water and a snack, and I followed them. The green line, of course. Green is good and red is bad, right? It just seemed smarter that way. It had taken me on a winding, twisting path, deeper and deeper into the city, until at last I found myself at a robotics tournament being held that afternoon. It was *thrilling*. I had no idea that something like that was even a thing, but my interest was piqued. I decided - I wanted to do something like *that* with my life. And I looked at that little green line with newfound respect. So I followed it again. Over and over, I followed it. And time after time, my life was rewarded for it. It took me to the front door of a prep school where I met Mr. Graves, whose tutoring I hold directly responsible for getting me into college a few years down the road. It led me out of danger, as a kitchen fire burned out of control in my school. And, it crossed my path with that of the woman of my dreams. Literally. We smacked into each other in a crosswalk. So, here I was. I was 30, and the world was at my fingertips. I sat in my leather gaming chair, in front of the desk holding all of my equipment. I looked out the window of my top-floor penthouse, gazing down at the city below. The walls were covered with the awards I had won, in automation and robotics and system design. My lovely, smart, beautiful wife was in the other room, reading a book as she brewed coffee. It was perfect. Really perfect. All thanks to that little green line. But I couldn't help it. I was *bored*. My whole adult life, I'd relied on that invisible line to guide my steps. It hadn't bothered me when I was younger. I was just a kid, and this line opened doors for me I didn't even know *existed*. I'd followed it without hesitation, trusting it to take my life where it needed to go. Now that I was older, now that I had time to stop and think about it, I wondered if this had all really been for the best. Had I just taken the easy path? Had I gone with the flow, and given up on taking my life into my own hands? It kept me up at night, I'll be honest. And through it all, it burned, in the corner of my vision. That red line. It seared into my sight like it was on *fire*. It demanded attention, begging for me to give it the shot I'd only ever given its green brother. That old curiosity was back. And so I grabbed an old messenger bag out of the closet, a remnant from my college days. I threw in bottles of water, and a pocket knife. A charge cable for my phone, and a granola bar. I laughed to myself, as I saw it. It looked so much like the bag I had packed, all those years ago, when I first walked the green line. But that felt right, you know? I slipped out the door, with a quick goodbye to my wife. She accepted my excuses of taking a walk without hesitation, pressing a kiss to my cheek and wishing me a good day. I smiled to myself, as I left the house. She was the best thing that the green line had ever gotten me. And then I stepped onto the red line. Once again, it led me into the city, deeper and deeper. But where the green line had taken me straight towards the center of activity, leading me towards schools and conference centers, the red line seemed to be taking me right to the worst part of town. I flinched away from seedy glares, eyeing my bag and the make of my coat, as I hurried onwards. I hoped this wasn't going to be the last mistake I ever made. The buildings around me loomed higher, the roads and streets giving way to narrow alleys. I was *about* to give up, to declare this a fool's errand and turn back. And then I heard her crying. "Please. Please, no. I swear I won't say anything. I don't have any money, I- I don't have *anything*. Please just let me go and I swear I won't ever-" "Shut it." The woman's voice was high, reedy with fear, and her tears threatened to overwhelm her words entirely. It stopped me in my tracks, before I even had a chance to hear *him* speak. The voices were coming from ahead. The red line burned, inviting me onwards. Almost against my will, I found my feet moving fowards. And then I saw her, huddled on the ground in a mass of scarf and hair. A man was in front of her, kneeling, with her purse torn open in front of him. He dug through it, tossing receipts and makeup cases aside carelessly as he looked for anything valuable. In his other hand, he held a gun. It pointed at her lazily, weaving back and forth as he eviscerated the bag. They were right there, no more than twenty feet in front of me. Neither of them saw me. The man's back was to me, and the woman was in no state to notice. My hand plunged into the bag slung over my shoulder, latching reflexively around the familiar shape of my knife. I didn't know what I was going to do with it, but having it in my hand made me feel a *little* better. I needed to call the cops. This was all wrong. There was no way I could do anything to help her. I was just going to end up getting her killed, or myself, or both of us. He had a *gun*. What could I *possibly* do against- His hand swayed, the barrel pointing back at her. His finger tensed on the trigger. Before I had time to think, I was running. The knife was out of the bag now, gleaming in my hand as I thrust it towards him. Towards his neck. If I could knock him over, if I could get that gun pointed *away* from her- I swore colorfully as I stumbled. The man grunted in surprise and pain, as my knife dug into his wrist. I winced, even as I ran headlong into him. Turns out my aim with a knife *sucked*. But it got the job done. He fell, cursing and screaming, as blood flowed from his wrist. The gun clattered to the cold pavement, forgotten, as he stumbled back. His eyes were locked onto my knife, through the mist of pain I could see in his expression. "What the *fuck*?" He cursed again, clutching his wrist. "Dude, fuck *off*." I swiped the knife at him clumsily, more threatening than actually intending to hit him. He swore one last time, jumping back. "Fuck this. Keep your shitty purse, lady." With one last parting jab, he spun on his heel and vanished rapidly down the alleys. The woman was a mess, eyes all red and sniffling desperately. But she pulled herself together as I approached her, beginning to tuck her belongings back into her bag. "Are...are you ok, ma'am?" I asked tentatively, my voice low. She glanced up at me, smiling. "I am now. That asshole. I- I was so *scared*. Thank you *so* much. Thank you. I don't know what would have happened if you-" "Don't worry about it. I'm glad I was here. We should get you to the police." I cut her off before she could go on. I knew the signs of an incoming meltdown, and figured I needed to get her somewhere safe before her emotions finally caught up with the shock. She nodded, accepting my offered hand with a grateful nod, and we stumbled onwards down the alley. I glanced dowards. The red line glowed brightly ahead of us. My stomach roiled. *More*? The noise of the city was returning to normal around us, as we returned to some semblance of civilization. I began to relax, just a hair. And then, as we turned towards the main street, I hesitated. The red line was turning, down a different alley. It led half a block down, and then cut straight up to the front door of a little shack. I could see a tiny, hazy tendril of smoke, rolling out from under the side door. The line *burned*, screaming red in its urgency. It seared a line into my vision as I looked down the alley. I paused, caught deep in thoughts. Questions, that had been lingering in my head for years, and answers that had suddenly become apparent. The green line took me where *I* needed to go. It showed me the easy path. The path that I needed to take. What if...What if the red line showed me the hard path? Not the path that I needed, but the path that other people needed me to take? What if it took me to where other people needed me to go? "Can you manage from here?" I heard my voice say, ringing distant in my own ears. The woman glanced back to me, smiling faintly. "I think so. Do you have to go?" "I..I think I do, yeah." I didn't look back at her. My eyes were still locked onto that little building. The smoke was growing, swelling by the second. I half turned, releasing the woman's hand and giving her a reassuring smile. She returned it shyly, waving as she merged back into the flow of pedestrians and made for the police station. I turned back to the red line. And then I broke into a run. --- (/r/Inorai, critiques always welcome!)

It was meant to be a vacation

My eyes open to a stinging darkness and it takes a moment for my legs and arms to begin thrashing. I realise I'm drowning. I spin around until I see a weak web of light swaying far above me; my strokes are lumbered and my head pounds, but somehow, I make it to the surface, spitting out stagnant water and swallowing huge helpings of air. I clamber out of the lake and lie still by its side, trying to remember... It was meant to be a vacation - that much I'm sure of. I'd been saving up for months. But *something* must have gone wrong. I can't remember where, or when, I aimed for, but I highly doubt it was for a stagnant lake, or anywhere, for that matter, in this inhospitable, mountainous jungle around me. My chest fights against me and my breathing is raspy and laboured. Each time it rises, the bruises on it scream in protest. Another hour passes and the dizziness finally lessens its hold. I take out the device from my jacket pocket - relieved it's still working - and check the date. I laugh a little; I cry a lot. A hundred and twenty million years. I've far exceeded the length of any previous jump. Something must have gone terribly wrong. I can't be detected this far back, or helped - and worst of all, I can't do a return jump. The device will charge in the sun, but it could take years to build up enough energy to make even half the time I need. *Shit* Desperate to find a water source and some type of shelter, I begin my trek through a lush, jungle valley surrounded on each side by mountainous cliffs. The place is alive with the cawing of birds and the taunting, distant trickle of running water. I try to follow the sound, my mouth salivating at the thought of a cool drink, but no matter how far I walk, the noise of the stream never grows. After a couple of intense, sweat-dribbling hours, I realise I've been going in circles, and I'm near the stagnant green lake where I began. Clenching my fists and doubling my resolve, I start over. The sun is overhead and there is a gap in the covering of the trees; *it* sees me, before I see it. The pterodactyl is diving down toward me from the cliff on my left-hand side, claws extended and sharp teeth a blinding white in the sun. I fumble in my jacket until I feel the reassuring cold of the lazer. I send three shots toward it, intentionally missing. It worked; the creature soars upward, high above my head and finds a new perch up on the other side of the valley. A familiar *beep* cuts through the sounds of nature. Figuring my phone is low on battery, I'm all the more surprised when I pull it out and see the *actual* reason: it had found a wifi network. The name of the network is: Jonathan. *My name.* My breath hitches as I watch it auto-connect, the password already saved on my phone. Thoughts flood my mind. Have I been set up? Was I sent here for a reason? Am I on some kind of *mission*? *I just can't quite remember...* What I do know is that there is someone out there - maybe more than one person - and that just maybe, they can help me get back. I create my own wifi network - letting them know I'm here, and to help them find me in case anything happens. Then, using my wifi signal as a kind of makeshift compass, I make slow, trial-and-error progress toward the source of their signal. It eventually takes me up a steep, craggy cliff, and out of the thick, jungle floor. It's almost evening by the time I find the flat, jutting plate of rock that the body is lying on. It takes me a moment to work up the courage to turn the body over, but I recognise the clothes well enough. I kneel down at the side of this other *me*. His eyes are open and he looks in shock. Almost alive. But his chest isn't moving, and I know he's dead. I also know what killed him. This was the cliff the pterodactyl had been swooping down from. The angle at which I had aimed my three warning shots. Accidentally, I had violated the most sacred law of jumping - and murdered myself in the process. For a while, I sit and contemplate my situation. How had a future me gotten here? Did it mean that I was going to die soon, too? I can't bear looking at the dead me for any longer - I only see my own mortality in its glazed features - and I drag him to the side of the cliff. A body of water lies below me; I roll him off and turn away. Did I hear something, before the splash of the body reaching water? Like... the scream of a pterodactyl. I finally decide; I have to go back in time, and save the dead *me*. If I don't, *I* will soon be dead. It doesn't matter how many laws I break - I *have* to do it. The device has enough charge, thanks to the blistering Jurassic sun. The jump is painless, and I feel like nothing has happened at all. I should only be back a few hours - just before *me* dies - but he's not yet here, on the cliff ledge. My only proof the jump even worked, is the glaring sun high above me. I walk over to the spot where I found *my* body and slowly run my hands down my face, frustrated and anxious. The pterodactyl comes out of nowhere, startling me as it flies almost over my shoulder - I can feel the breeze of its huge, pumping wings. It swoops down toward the jungle floor, eyes locked on some prey or another. "Oh shi-" I mumble, as the lazer hits me in the chest and I collapse in a pile I'm still stunned when he finally arrives. I try to tell him - try to force my lips to move: "you had it on *stun*," but he doesn't hear. I don't make a sound. I can't even close my eyes. He drags me toward the cliff edge, and finally as I'm falling, I manage to make a sound. The air - the shock - awakens my body. I force a hand to my pocket; to the device. Too late. Blackness. My eyes open to a stinging darkness and it takes a moment for my legs and arms to begin thrashing. I realise I'm drowning. --- More on /r/nickofnight Audio version kindly narrated by /u/cstrife16 : https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=gwjRbbpqGyg&feature=youtu.be

Alex was bored out of his mind

Usually he left the TV alone in the later hours. He wasn't really interested in following the more *private* details of his new friends' personal lives. Besides, he wouldn't even be home normally. Every day for the past two weeks he had been out partying and the channels hadn't been watched much - only a glance here and there to keep on top of things. He'd been able to prevent a few pranks on him as he had known what they were up to. They'd been getting a little suspicious of his clairvoyance and seemed to have dropped their attempts trying to trick him. And tonight, for the first time in a few weeks, Alex was home, completely alone. And he was bored out of his mind. He didn't really know what happened. They had all been making plans at Tim's place last night about seeing that new Marvel movie then heading into the city after. But when he woke up this morning he already saw two friends calling it off, and by the time he had dinner everyone had cancelled. He had reached out to a few of them in private whether they were interested in doing something, but they all had new plans. Alex had been wondering through the house trying to figure out what to do. Drinking alone was lame, he didn't have any fun games to play and the past year he didn't really develop any other hobbies than partying. After graduating high school he'd have the time of his life overseas in Europe and then came back for college, and he had dived right into it. He'd met a group of cool guys over the first few days and they had alright formed a tight group. Alex picked up the remote and zapped through the channels. *Boring, boring, boring, ads, ads*, he thought as he switched through them, until he arrived at 401. 401 was the first in the list of channels of personalized feeds. Every person he considered a friend would be listed from that point onwards, and right now he was watching through Jack's eyes. As he walked to the kitchen he glanced at the TV and thought he noticed something familiar, but it wasn't before he heard an echo from outside the house repeated on the TV before he turned suspicious. Still carrying a bag of vegetables he walked back to the living room and looked at the feed. He was looking at his own house. The patio, the wooden front door, the windows, everything fit. He only lived about 5 minutes away from college and his parents were almost always upstate, so at least he wouldn't have to explain why someone was sneaking up on his house. Alex hurried to the wall on his left and turned on the light in the living room. He ran back to the feed: the light had turned on. *The hell is going on here*, he thought. Curious he switched to 402, 403, and every channel he changed to was his own house from a different angle. And all of the angles had the same noticable black barrel in the corner of the screen. They were all carrying guns, and were sneaking closer and closer. He could hear faint whispers under their breath but he couldn't distinguish what they were saying. As soon as Alex figured out what was happening he sprinted upstairs, the bag with vegetables swinging in his hands. He wouldn't have any other use for the TV feed from this point onwards and he'd rather prepare for the fact they were about to storm his house. *The police?*, he thought, but dismissed it quickly. There was always the odd chance these idiots were pulling a prank on him and he wasn't really in the mood to explain some police officers as to why he called them for no proper reason. The wooden floorboards cracked from under his window. And then he slowly heard the handle turn and the door creaked open. He could hear them walk into the house. Another door creaked open. They had passed the hallway into the living room. Silently he turned off the lights in his room and walked over to his desk, hiding behind it. He heard sounds on the stairs. And then his bedroom door slowly opened. "Aleeeexx", he heard, "where are youuuu?" He guessed it was Danny as he could hear a faint grin through the attempted spookiness. Alex inhaled, counted to three and stood right up as he reached inside the grocery bag. With all his might he threw a tomato right towards the door. He heard a pleasing *thud* as someone yelled: "What the hell was that?" He had thrown three more tomatoes before they had spotted the direction he was throwing from, and he quickly hid behind the desk again as he heard *splats* and air pops a few feet away from him. "You guys really suck at this, you know", he taunted with a smile on his face. *Bunch of tools*, he thought. "Look", someone yelled back, "at this point you should be happy if you leave with just a few bruises, you dick". Alex rose up a little to see who had entered his room until red splashed over his head. "Shit", he muttered under his breath as he ducked again, "that hurt". "Come out and play, Alex", someone taunted back. "Oh yeah, you want a piece of me, dumbass?" Alex roared back as the shooting had stopped. He reached inside the bag and took the last piece of fruit in his hand, and as he flicked on the lights he rolled it towards the group. In front of him were his friends all covered in black suits with red stains, each carrying a paintball gun. And in the middle of them, on the floor, the pineapple Alex had just rolled towards them came to a halt. "What's that even supposed to mean?", Tim asked. "That's a grenade", Alex replied. "That's right, losers. You guys lost. Again."

The Universal Coordinates System indicates authentication

"Number One, confirm that this is Alt-Earth." "Confirmed General. The Universal Coordinates System indicates authentication to 7 decimal points of certainty. Further, spectrum emissions analysis originating from Alt-Earth confirms humanoid presence. SEA also confirms Xeno presence in numbers in the tens of millions." "Thank you Number One. Give the order to Supplies and Industry to establish infrastructure on Alt-Ceres, maximum stealth. Oh and give Master Chief Russell the go ahead. Tell him the SSEALS mission is paramount." "Yes General. Field Marshal Balck confirms capture of Alt-Gliese 832 c." "All of it?" "Yes General." "Damn that's well done." "Shall I share that sentiment with the Field Marshal Sir?" "Yes, yes by all means." That was good news. Humanity in the Altverse had a toehold. A place that was ours, free of Xeno subjugation It could become meaningless depending on what the future held, but right now at least, Humanity had a space. "Nelson, now that we are closer, are there changes in intelligence on the Xeno fleet?" "None of significance General. The Xenos fleet composition around Alt-Earth has not altered a great deal since initial surveillance from our side. Very large armoured battleships emanating E-levels of fusion power, with a screen of light cruisers and destroyers at B-levels of emanation." "No chance of cloaking or stealth technology hiding more ships?" "There is always a chance General, but Quantachrono-scans show nothing now and they have yet to detect cloaking technology present in the Alt-galaxy." "Good news all around." The Xenos were a peculiar race. Reptilian and warm blooded, like the Joraks back in Universe Prime. If there were further similarities it meant that the Xenos here would be masters of focused energy weapons. It would be bootstrapped to their carnivorous nature. Modern kinetics tended to destroy organics, energy weapons meant their dead enemies were ready to eat after battle. Master Chief Russell's SSEAL teams would stealth drop to Alt-Earth and confirm where the Xeno's C&C centre was on Alt-Earth. Once that was determined, we would advance, sever all comms, cut the head off the dragon and destroy the body. The Xenos didn't deserve any diplomatic overtures. Not now. Electromagnetic emissions from Alt-Earth showing breeding pens and massive sweat shops and open pit mines took that option off the table. This wasn't going to be even close to a fair fight we had them out manned and out gunned, and apparently our technology didn't have the gaps in it that the Xenos apparently had, but this was just the first move. The Xenos had an empire, we had a toehold. We were terribly out numbered and outmatched in materials production. Universe Prime can't help us for a very long time. We are on our own for the next thousand years. "Fuck it. Humanity first." "General?" Damn. I had said that out loud, "Nothing Number One, just musing about my memoirs." There were soft chuckles around the bridge. ................................................................................................................... "ALRIGHT NAVIGATION, KEEP EVERYONE IN THE TASKFORCE UNDER CLOAK. COMMS, TELL ENGINEERING I AM COMING UPSTAIRS. Tell the flight deck I am taking my shuttle to Alt-Gliese 832 c. Give my pilot the ready-20 notification. Also Comms, I want the Alert Status Reports of the Carriers to my personal tablet when you are done establishing a secure link with Alt-Ceres - use as many relay points as you feel necessary." As I turned and exited the bridge via the personnel lift, I heard two "yes Generals" almost in unison. I got along with Marine Engineer Officer Novae very well. We understood each other, and the responsibilities each other had. She kept all mechanical and bio-electrical systems, both in fleet and on planet, working and resilient. I ensured she got what she needed. Officer Novae knew my role well enough to anticipate any follow-up questions I might have to our meetings and her reports - she understood the importance of my time. Our meeting ended early. MEO Nova had her challenges ahead of her. She had to set up 12 geosynchronous satellites around Alt-Earth in 30 minutes after the Xeno fleet was eliminated and their planet side anti-satellite capability suppressed. AND THEN she had to establish highly secured comms with over 13 million semi-sentient antipersonnel drones, Vespulas, which would be dropped over the planet, cluster bomb style after the satellite network was established. Vespulas, or as the Planet side Marine Force called them, FCWWs, were eagle sized quadcopters equipped with a hellishly powerful, small calibre gauss rifle. They had a sophisticated sensor suite that along with their semi-sentience allowed them to track and neutralize with high efficacy anything they were asked to go after. They would soon be the Xenos worst nightmare. "I would love to stay and admire your organizational skills Novae, but I have to debrief Field Marshall Balck. Apparently he rolled over Alt-Gliese 832 c. in its entirety in under 3 days. I am curious how he did it in half the time that the most optimistic sims said was possible." "Knowing Balck Sir, he probably ran his Planet side forces night and day and overclocked his equipment past the failsafes." "I hope not. Downtime is going to be the rarest of commodities for the next month or so. I can't imagine that these Xenos are not going to just accept the loss of two habitable planets." "I don't think they will either General, but their communications appear to be non-quantum, c- multiplier tech. It will take weeks for their messages to reach the next Xeno inhabited planets. Comms from Alt-Gliese 832 c won't reach Alt Earth for 5 more days. The Xenos on Alt-Earth have no idea we're here and it should all be over by the time the signal reaches Alt-Earth. That's quite the safety margin General." "You and your mathematically constrained thinking. Don't get too comfortable with it, life always finds ways to evolve and adapt around constraints. These Xenos seem to be top dog in the Via Lactea galaxy and they wouldn't have been able to do it accepting limitations. The Jackos in Universe Prime are enviable in their creativity at being adaptable and elegantly nasty. " If I wasn't smiling when I said it, Novae would have felt chided, but she understood the message and gave me the 4Q2 look. As I was leaving for the heavy flight deck, Marine Engineer Officer Novae retorted, "We still kicked their ass General, all the way back to their home system." I mused on Novae's words all the way to the Heavy Flight deck and into the Vice Admiral Shuttle. Something tweaked with what she said and I needed to give it some thought. I gave the order to my pilot to make the jump once clear of the Carriers and started thinking of Jackos, these Xenos and the concept of home worlds. Humans had a genesis planet, a home world. The psychological/spiritual birthplace of all humanity regardless of where an individual was physically born - it provided a universal rallying point for all humanoids. Earth the blue planet. This was why we were here in Alt-Universe. It was our duty, our obligation. Alt-Earth was our Earth. Jackos did not have a spiritual geographical center, they had dozens of home worlds, and their bio-psychological makeup was more like hunter-gatherers and tribalism. Bonds were not to place, but to clan. I was musing with such focus, I had missed the jump to Alt-Gliese 832 c. Not an easy thing to do with the quantum linking process to the arrival point being so similar in sound signature to a train rail yard. I heard the pilot's sharp intake of breath once clear of the warp channel wake. "General, we are in the middle of it, deep and wide." I flipped on the wall display. Taskforce 2 was in the early stages of a major engagement, a holyshit epic engagement. From the deployment of the opposition forces, it looked like they had jumped into the system and unexpectedly found Taskforce 2. The newly arrived ships were defensive, moving into formations that would bring more arms to bear. Taskforce 2 would have had arriving jump signature readings 4-5 minutes before the opposing forces arrived. Not much but we had the initiative. IFF and energy signatures started to be incorporated onto the sitcom table. We were badly out heavied, but we had the numbers and Balck had two of my carriers, the Nelson and the Roosevelt. Balck, the best Planet side commander I have ever known, was now going to have to put his Fleet cap on. It was not outside the realm of possibility that this could end very badly. Balck had not been in command of a major Fleet action before and there were many Xeno fleet unknowns. "Lieutenant, keep us out of the way. Major ship killer kinetics will be going off very soon and right after, the birds will be launched and it'll be auto gauss and beam everywhere. If there's a nice big asteroid somewhere, land us on the far side. If a deflected mass comes our way I want more than shuttle walls between us and it. I hate this with all my being, but without a STRATLink we are going to have to settle for a ringside accommodation. Send message to Balck - "I trust that it is not too high an expectation that this "fleet exercise" be over with prior to the Officer's Mess on the flight deck of the Nelson tonight. I did have a witticism or two to share with you and your officers. Rather unfortunate scheduling on your part." No screw that! Just message Balck, "Don't make me come over there and show you how it's done you dirt-loving, goose-stepping, son of an Alderian whore." There was a pause, and then the pilot responded, "I think Balck will like the second one much better Sir."

Police Comissioner Jake tips his

As far as I know, I've never been a woman of God. But I guess in some faraway past life I must've been a Saint because the Lord knows I'm far beyond deserving reincarnation. At any rate, I thank him for giving me another lifetime to indulge. The previous one was far too conflicted; far too confusing. The crimson-specked knife glints in the pale moonlight as it rips through the man's throat, tearing his jugular and putting an end to his sorry life. In the throes of death his body twitches violently before collapsing forward, drowning him in a pool of his own blood. I lean forward, wiping the knife on his jacket before turning my back on the scene. It was nothing personal between him and I -- simply cutting up loose ends. After all, how could I live in this city with a fresh mind if the father of a past life was looming over me? --- "I'm sorry, we don't know who did it, Sabetha. We'll catch them, I swear it. It's only a matter of time." Police Comissioner Jake tips his hat, placing a firm hand on my shoulder. Although he's likely being genuine, the last thing I need right now is his comisseration. I shrug him off, ignoring the look of hurt that forms across his face. "I guess I'll leave you to it," he continues, his eyes downcast. "Just call if you need anything, alright?" He turns to leave, taking a few steps before halting, cocking his head back. "Oh, Doctor Larswitch asked me to tell you to visit him tommorow morning. With regards to your condition -- he believes in light of what happened it might worsen if untended to." "Thank you, Comissioner," I tell him, urging him to leave. He gets the memo, and exits promptly. As soon as the door shuts I slump against the wall, my head falling into my hands. The half-empty pill bottle on the wardrobe tumbles to the ground, its contents scattering across the floor. I eye it with disdain. Whoever did this -- whoever killed my father in cold blood -- will pay in equal measure. I crawl on the floor, feeling for a loose floorboard before prising it open. Reaching inside, I pull the handgun my father used to have as a safety measure. I unlock the safety, running my hand along its edge. "Whoever you are, I will find you." ---- I swirl the glass of gin in my hand -- at this point more water than alcohol -- as the light sound of chatter fills the bar. I have to suppress a grin at the fact that bloody murder is on everyone's lips. Talk of the town, I am. On everybody's minds. *James Trenton, throat slit in an alley. Suspect not found.* They never find me until it's too late; it was always like that. Not like the man had anything to live for, though. His daughter died in a hospital sometime ago, after all. Overdosed. In some perverse way, I was probably doing him a favour. "Tragic. Heard he has a daughter as well." A man to my left leans over to his friend, loudly confiding in him. I scoff, turning to the pair. "Trenton didn't have a daughter. She died months ago." I'd know. I was her, after all. The pair look confused. Their brows furrow simaltaneously as the one on my left spins his chair to face me. "You having a laugh? She works down the road in the Fix-It store. I stopped by to get my phone repaired the other day." "Dropped it down the toilet, you did," the other man chuckles. Now it's my turn to be confused. I bite my lip, reclining into my chair. "Sabetha Trenton, right? She's fucking dead, I know it." "What makes you so confident? It's not like you killed her." *Well, that's not far from the truth.* The man laughs, downing the rest of his drink. "Go look for yourself if you don't believe me." He orders a new drink at the bar. "Careful though," he adds. "I've heard she's right bonkers. Has some mental issues; really not quite fun to talk to." "Yeah, I tried to hit on her once," his friend muses. "Didn't go too well." *Oh, that's where he was from.* "Come to think of it, you look a bit like her." I consciously pull my hood further up, burying myself deeper into the confines of my clothes. "Must be a coincidence," I mutter. "Yeah, I was pretty drunk. Still, if you really don't believe us, the shop's open right now. Check it out." Standing up, I brush my hair back and manage a grim smile. "I guess I'll pay her a visit." ------ "Sabetha, you know it's my job to report you to the police if you plan to follow through with this?" The Doctor punches something into his phone, his dark eyes flicking up to look at me. "So much for confidentiality," I mutter, ignoring the sound of the door to the shop opening. "That doesn't apply in the instance of *planned* murder. Hell, you don't even know who you're looking for! Not even the police do!" "I'll find them," I assert, rapping my hands impatiently against the desk. "And I'll fucking kill them." "Sabetha," the Doctor says, his expression softening as he moves closer towards me. His voice drops to a meek whisper. "You're sounding less like yourself -- more like *her.* We got rid of her, remember? 5 years of work. Don't do this to yourself again." I open my mouth to respond, but an unfamiliar voice cuts me off. "Sabetha Trenton, I presume?" I turn to the front of the desk, where a woman around my age stands. The Doctor's eyes widen as he looks to her, and I know he sees it as soon as I do: she has the same face as me, the same eyes as me, the same tattoos as me. The only difference is she has a knife in her hand. Before the Doctor can move her knife finds itself lodged in his throat, blood spurting as he falls back to the ground. I can only watch in horror as the life drains from him, his face paling and his eyes bulging. His lips twitch open, and he manages to gasp out one last message. A warning. "*Run...*" ----- She's not running. The woman I once was simply stands there, slack-jawed and wide-eyed like a toddler that just learned to walk. I'm just as shocked, although I'm better at concealing it. "Who are you?" We say simaltaneously. She inches back, groping her dress nervously as her eyes flit up and down -- around the room, to my own matching orbs, analysing my clothes. "You're me," she says. "I'm you," I echo. "And you're a loose end that needs to be snipped." I grasp the knife tighter, take a step forward, and pause. "Can't be two of us, can there?" There are tears forming at the edges of her eyes, the colour draining from her face. She hugs herself, looking at me with a palpable mix of disgust and despair. *That's the look.* "Why? Why would you do it?" I tilt my head, opting to delay the kill. Some clarity couldn't harm me. "Do what?" "Kill him." She falls to her knees. "My father. *Our* father. Did he mean nothing to you?" "Well, no." I approach her, and crouch before her so that our heads are level. "How could I entertain the possibility of co-existing with the man that made me suffer? He tried to rid you of me -- the selfish prick." "No, he didn't!" She shakes her head violently. "He didn't!" She screams. "He was just trying to help!" "Help *you.* Not me." I draw my finger along the blade, smiling at the cowering reflection of myself. "Still on your meds, I guess. Still fighting. You can't escape me; just look, even in death, even when you killed me off, I'm still here." I flash her a toothy grin, propping up her chin with the handle of my knife, exposing the soft flesh of her vulnerable throat. "I'll always be a part of you." "I killed you once," she whispers between sobs. "I'll do it again. You're just in my mind, like you always were." I grip her hair, tugging it down, making her scream in pain. "No, I'm your painful reality. And now I'll be your end." "*I'll kill you*..." She repeats, her voice cracking. "I'd like to see you try." She pushes back against me, causing me to stumble as her hand reaches for something inside her dress. She pulls out her gun and squeezes the trigger as I clench my knife. Two sides of a coin, birds of a feather -- one of us has to die for the other to realise themselves. I dash forward, feeling the blade press into her soft flesh. The gunshot goes off, ringing out across the store. ------ /r/coffeeandwriting

I'm a writer. That's

I'm a writer. That's the beginning and the end of my story. I'm a writer. I write. I have stories. I have *things to say*. I am *not* a Refinance Document Analyst 1. Maybe you are, but not me. My wife - bless her - is an honest, earnest woman. A doctor. She works hard. She's very smart. But still, smart people can be blinded by their own logic sometimes. Happens to the best of us. Sometimes smart people see the world in black and white - where you're either making money or you're "unemployed." Not realizing that there's a middle path. The path to enlightenment. The path of the Writer. So she tells me to get a job. Is my making money truly necessary? I would say no. I would suggest that my words - as seemingly monetarily valueless as they may presently appear - are greater than any paycheck. I would suggest that she's a *fucking doctor*, so let's be real for a moment. This is not about a paycheck - this is about the creative process. And a boat. She wants to buy a boat. I don't even *like* the water. So when I apply to jobs, I do so out of marital duty. To show that I am trying, even though I am not. I am a writer, after all. Writers can only be counted on to try during moments of great inspiration and/or the waning hours of a deadline. I understand this. *You* understand this. Why Barry Blankenshop of First Fourth National Bank of Wattsborough doesn't understand this is anyone's guess. You see, I applied to the position of Refinance Document Analyst - which is exactly the Lovecraftian nightmare it sounds like - knowing full well that I was neither qualified nor capable. But my wife checks on these things and it's good to have references - or, more accurately, the names of sample HR directors to curse out over the dinner table. These days I curse the name of Barry Blankenshop, though for significantly different reasons than usual. For starters, how in the world was my application ever picked out of the pile to begin with? I have a number of tactics that I employ with regularity to prevent just such a calamity. In this case, I: *Provided no prior employment history *Intentionally misspelled my own name repeatedly *Listed only deceased celebrities as my references *And left no personal contact information Perhaps Barry Blankenshop is illiterate? Perhaps he loathes his job as much as I loathe the idea of working? Who can know? He tracked me down somehow, apparently through some combination of Google searching and yellow page cold calling. My wife was present when I answered the phone and I was so caught off guard I didn't think to pretend that Barry had reached the wrong number. We agreed to a time and place for an interview. I did not show up. I have to assume this happens often. But I also assume this is the sort of thing that usually disqualifies someone from the offered post. No such luck. Barry called back. I ignored him. He called my wife and offered to reschedule. I was trapped. There was no avoiding the interview then. I went, my wife watching me as I slouched out to the car. It was a dire situation. Fortunately, I had not exhausted my tried-and-true tactics. Unfortunately, I had deeply underestimated the otherworldly lunacy of Barry Blankenshop. He was a smallish man, perma-sunburned with curly hair the color of uncooked rice noodles. He smiled as he greeted me, smacking his lips and saying something to the effect of, "Aha! Here is the man! The man of the hour!" We sat down. He offered me a coffee. I requested a Coke Lemon. "Ah! Another lemonhead?" he exclaimed. Apparently he had stockpiled the long-since discontinued drink. I received my can, which I opened but did not drink. "How did you hear about First Fourth National?" he asked. "My weed dealer banks here." Blankenshop laughed. "We *are* very discreet! I see you've no experience in document analysis, right?" I nodded. "Screen blindness. I can't look at a computer screen for more than five minutes at a time without going temporarily blind." "Pity," said Blankenshop solemnly. "Lucky for you, we are entirely computer-free here at First Fourth. All hard copies, all the time." "How...is that even possible?" I asked. "Much safer," said Blankenshop. "No cyber terrorists this way. Saves money, too - a ream of paper costs less than any laptop!" "That's not...quite comparable." "Now," pressed Blankenshop, leaning across the desk, conspiratorially. "What would you consider to be your biggest weakness?" I considered myself. I considered the man. "...cocaine?" Blankenshop laughed, slapping his hands on the desk. "A sense of humor! I love it. No, no, I *know* the effects of cocaine. Firsthand. Lost my grandmother that way. Tried to fight a city bus. She was special. Cherish your loved ones. Anyway, I can tell you're a straight shooter. How do you deal with turmoil in the workplace?" The man was insane. The usual tactics were powerless. I was swinging wildly now, just looking to make contact. "Segregate out all the Jews?" Blankenshop's brow furrowed deeply. He looked angry for a moment. I had a glimmer of hope. "They *are* a clever bunch...I need to be careful with you! You'll be gunning for my job in no time!" "I would literally rather throw myself in front of your grandmother's bus," I replied. Blankeshop hooted. "Gallow's humor! It's a difficult industry, certainly. You seem well-suited to it." "What *is* this job?" I half-shouted. "What the hell does a Refinance Document Analyst even do?" "You know...I'm not sure," said Blankenshop. "Training Department should be able to give you the layout. I'm just tasked with finding a good fit." "A good fit for a job you know nothing about?" "Attitude is everything at First Fourth," said Blankenshop. "And you've got the right attitude." "I hate you." "Ah hahaha! You can't turn it off! I love it. You'll be very popular. If I'm being honest, morale is not what it ought to be. No idea why." Blankenshop stuck out a feeble little paw. "What do you say? Join the team?" Now, obviously I said yes, and I said yes because I love my wife and don't enjoy being yelled at. The work is awful. I do very little of it. I manage every interaction with enormous, open disdain. I do not even clean up the office microwave after I am done. I am a monster. I am also, likely by no coincidence, now a Refinance Document Analyst *2*. Because the world is a dark satire, much stranger and crueler than anything I could ever write.

Ariel, the owner of the shop

Part 1 of 2 "How, by the gods, am I supposed to wear this into battle, Dustin?" Ariel breathed wearily. She lofted the sturdy bone plate in one slight, delicate hand with a pretense of effort, and a sigh. A subtle fragrance of lilies drifted toward me then vanished. It was a nice change from the leather and oil scents that permeated my shop. I'm not particularly short, not particularly tall, but I still looked up just a bit to meet her eyes. "I've seen you in battle, dear. You've tossed men 40 yards... by accident... with your backswing. Besides, gold coin only gets you griffon bone. Best innate wards you can get for mere money." I let a small, ironic smile grace my tanned, weathered features. She pursed her lips, then curled them back into a shy smile. She inhaled slightly and a soft breeze was drawn through the shop window. She seemed to become somehow more present and vital for a moment. Wisps of her long, straight, strawberry hair stirred gently against the pale milky skin of her bare arms. "Surely we can come to an arrangement." She had the class not to bat her eyelashes. Though her bosom billowing just a touch was a nice flourish. I chuckled, "Pleasant as that would be, dear, my wife would kill me, then kill you, then raise me and kill me again for spite, then lay waste to the whole town. Besides, were I a single man I'd want to win you with my wit not my wares." I didn't mention my wife was an immortal polymorph. I got to love the fragile core of her being, and she mine. I didn't need five minutes of embarrassment with the likes of Ariel, beautiful and desirable as she was. She laughed a tinkling, genuine laugh. "You can't blame a sylph for trying. Seriously though, I need to move and breathe. That griffon bone might've been fine when I was merely fencing with Firbolgs, but I need some serious defenses. I'm dealing with wraiths and void mages, there's even rumor of a lich down in the barrows a mere twenty leagues west of here." She furrowed her brow and continued, "I need the good stuff, really. Please." Sad puppy eyes... Now she was trying sad puppy eyes. I ruffled my dark curly hair and let out a huff. "Liches. I hate liches. But if you can only afford gold or wiles, you don't have what it takes to fight the likes of them." "What do you mean?" I began to answer but before I could, a stunning woman of lean muscle, graceful curves, full bust and towering height burst into the shop. Her long, platinum blonde hair was worked into a sturdy yet soft-looking braid. Ariel was tall, six feet and then some on tip toes. Brenna stood a head taller than Ariel. Her ice blue eyes shone with triumph. I'll note for the record that she was wearing my finest griffon bone armor, modified to give her a much needed measure of comfort. My eyes widened a bit to see some hairline fractures chasing down the left side of her breastplate. Three strides of Brenna's long, powerful legs carried her to within an arms length. She followed my eyes down to her chest and grinned. "Ballista bolt. Three of them at close range. Good stuff." She slapped the armor fondly. "But I have the final payment! Twenty more as agreed." Brenna the Valkyrie thrust a silk bag big enough to hold a large bunch of grapes at my chest, stopping just short of rapping me over the heart with it. I took the sack with my left hand and extended my right to offer a handshake in greeting. Her slim but strong fingers clasped my forearm, and my warm, callused hands grasped her forearm and a bit of the wrist guard she wore. "Well fought! You really ought try dodging the bolts next time, though. Brenna, Ariel... Ariel, Brenna." I nodded toward Ariel who had been watching Brenna's entrance with mild awe. "Well met," said Brenna soberly, nodding to Ariel. It was fun to see Ariel so flustered. Brenna had put down two wraiths in the last month, and was fast becoming something of a legend around our little hamlet. Ariel stammered a bit, "I... Well met." She curtsied. I shook the little silk bag lightly and a slightly muffled, ethereal chiming rose from the bag. I turned back to Brenna and asked, "Would you mind if I show her what it takes?" Brenna flicked her eyes from the bag to Ariel, then back to me. She gave me a sad smile. "Aye, go ahead." I opened the drawstring on the bag and drew out a small sphere the size of a large grape. I held it up to eye-level and allowed it to catch some of the late afternoon sun. It wasn't the opaque, featureless black that first glance would suggest. Whorls of smoke, shades of black within black twisted and turned within. There was depth, a feeling of falling if you looked at it for too long. "It's watching me. Put it away!" Ariel panted, her eyes wide. I did and she searched my eyes. "What was that?" she asked. I pulled the drawstring tight again and answered, "Animarum." "Souls," Brenna intoned. "Souls of fallen enemies." She gazed levelly at Ariel for a few moments. Ariel looked away. With a deep breath Brenna patted her armor happily "I'll not get anymore use out of this. Time for finer wards." She began to shuck her armor off right then and there. I coughed, "I have your new set in the back, perhaps you'd care to change there. I'll need to fit them to you..." I took a step toward the back room, trying to keep my eyes from drifting down from her ice blue eyes. She briefly flashed an expression of mild puzzlement and dangled her breastplate at her side as she strode purposely to the back room. I shook my head... Magnificent. Ariel emitted a slight "hmmph" and folded her arms across her chest, as though she had been the one to drop her armor. I followed Brenna back into my fitting area. It was a large room with a number of tools, benches, spare materials, a writing desk in one corner, an alchemist's bench along the far wall, and enough room to swing and lunge with a sword. One needs to see if the armor moves properly, of course. I caught up to Brenna as she was completing the process of discarding her set of griffon bone armor into a neat pile beside her. She stood gloriously naked and with no shame or embarassment in her bearing. "Did she not know of the true currency?" she asked, somehow fully clothed in spite of herself. I let myself look, but not leer. I smiled and turned my attention to pulling a large drawer open from one of my workbenches. "She wanted 'the good stuff' but only had gold to pay. She hinted at something skimpier than griffon bone, but I don't think she knows what she was asking or why." I lifted two small, flat, transparant sapphire wedges roughly the size of my hands from the open drawer and set them on the desk. They hummed faintly. Brenna considered for a moment and then called out loudly to Ariel, "Ariel. Come here. You should understand." After a few moments, Ariel leaned her head through the doorway, and blushed a little on seeing the six foot nine valkyrie. Heh. A sylph blushing, I've seen everything now. "You want me to come back here?" she asked. Brenna spoke calmly and firmly, as if to a student, "Dustin tells me you asked for the elite armor, yet were not even aware of the price required. You should see, and understand." I pulled two more half-moon shaped tiles of sapphire the size of a flattened orange peel out to rest near the wedges. Finally five long narow strips the width of my thumb made from the same material. The faint humming grew louder as they lay in proximity to one another. Brenna looked at them and frowned, "They could not be made smaller?" "Not with this material. These are the smallest I can get without losing harmonic integrity. If you want smaller, you're talking phoenix glass or dragon eggshell." I shrugged. "Those are hard to come by, harder to work with. I could do it, but we're talking Animarum by the thousands." Now Brenna's eyes widened, then her face gained a thoughtful look. She gazed back at me and said, "I have work to do then." Ariel looked on mildly bewildered. ... [continued in part 2]

Charles looked up into the purple sky

Charles looked up into the purple sky, before creeping down the subway stairwell. He carried his shoes in his hands, and pressed his bare feet slowly against the concrete steps. Even the slightest sound might be too much. When he reached the bottom, he switched on his flash-light, wincing at the *click*. The beam spilled out over a subway wall, revealing streaks of green and red graffiti: > Death to the Iron Maiden. Justice. Justice. *Justice*. He moved the light lower and lit a depiction of the winged superhero with a noose around her neck. Her eyes were two lifeless crosses and her arms and legs had been severed at the joints. Charles took a deep breath as he manoeuvred the beam away from the wall and shone it down the tunnel. The arched walls around him made him feel like he'd been swallowed by an ancient demon. As he pressed on, he passed abandoned blankets and crumpled cardboard boxes that stunk of urine and vodka. They had belonged to people like him not so long ago - people that had sought refuge. They *had* been people like him. Now, they were the dust that danced around his feet. He came to a second set of stairs and paused a moment, before descending. He thought he could hear a distant murmur rising from below. It took him another ten minutes to find the door that was marked with a vertical slosh of red paint. Charles knocked four times, paused and then knocked once more. The door creaked open. Charles could see eyes peering out of the darkness. "You got an invite?" the darkness whispered. Charles rummaged in his jeans until he found the card. He held it out; a hand shot through the gap and snatched it. "Hmm. Okay. Final chance. Once you're in here, you're *in* here. You certain about it?" Charles thought of his wife. Of how she collapsed, overworked. Of how the Iron Maiden had forced him to dig her grave whilst she was still breathing. He raised his left hand and looked at the - *suddenly painful* - scar, that ran down it. An unshakeable souvenir of the final day his wife had been alive. "I'm certain." The door opened wide. Charles stepped through. "Welcome, friend," said the man who had taken his card. "I'm Calvin. And these are," he gestured behind him, at the large open space filled with twenty or so men and women, "a few, uh, like minded individuals." He quietly closed the door behind Charles. Dim candlelight lit the room, sending reams of shadows dancing on the walls and darkening the faces of the people within. A lady with long hair walked over to him. "Say, I remember you," she said. "Yeah, yeah - you're that cute guy I met at O'Reilly's. You're the chemist, right?" It was the woman who had given him the card. Whom he had explained everything to, his heartache and - by accident - his hatred of the superhero. She had not only listened to him, but she truly seemed to understand. "Margaret, right?" "Sure," she replied, frowning. "Listen, I'm glad you came." She bit her lower lip and leaned in conspiratorially, lowering her voice to a whisper. "We needed you here." "Me? For what?" "We think we've found a way to *kill* the Iron Maiden." Charles laughed. "You can't be serious." "I am absolutely serious," she replied, her face deadpan. "But..." Charles began, his smile dropping "so many have..." "Tried? Died?" She sighed. "They were the real heroes, you know. The unsung heroes, with no church to worship them, or grave for them to rest. But their efforts were not in vain." She paused for a moment. "There was a man, a few years ago. His name was Carlos Stamost and he, like many before him, had suffered greatly under the Maiden. He rather stupidly attempted to take her out by himself. Needless to say, he failed. But... he was in a way, more successful than any other who had tried before." "That doesn't really say much," Charles retorted. He noticed that a crowd of shadowy faces had gathering around the two of them. "Carlos was a sniper," Margaret continued, ignoring Charles. "He shot a dart - that we later recovered - tipped with a particular chemical mixture, into her neck. Now, whilst he wasn't successful in injuring her, the dart did have some *interesting* effects." "What effects?" Charles asked, curiosity slowly rising. "We believe that it weakened her, very briefly. It was an almost imperceptible drop, but nevertheless, we are almost certain that it lessened the force of her powers." "*Almost* certain," Charles said, shaking his head. "So... you need me to recreate the mixture? Is that why you invited me?" "No. We can do that on our own. We need *you* for something much more important, Charles." "..." "We need you to get close to her. To apply the poison to her on a regular basis, without her knowledge. To weaken her to the point where we can harm her. Where we can *kill* her." "You want me to... infiltrate her circle? Is that it?" He laughed again. "You've got the wrong guy! How would I even get close to her? I'm not a spy or... or even an actor! I'm a *chemist*." "Charles. You didn't *choose* to be a chemist. You were *made* to be. Forced. What you were... that doesn't define you. What you do, your *actions*, that's what makes you *you*." Charles felt dizzy. The candles were becoming a smoky blur. He dragged a hand down his face as he thought again of his wife; of the spade as it bit into the frozen dirt. His scar seemed to burn his hand like it was a fresh branding. "She murders *children*, Charles," Margaret said, her voice pleading. "Babies. If they're born with defects - weaknesses." "*I'll* be killed if they find out. No," he corrected himself, "they'll do *much* worse than just kill me." Margaret said nothing. "Why me?" he asked eventually. "We all have our own roles to play in this." Charles took a deep breath. "What do you need me to do?" --- I asked one of my favourite writers here if she'd like to write this as a colab, taking it in turns. She very kindly agreed. So: Thanks for reading. I thought part thriller, part superhero story would make for a fun mix. Hope you enjoyed it.

It was, more often, the

It was, more often than not, the smiley ones I watched out for. While I checked their IDs, their gazes would frequently flicker over to their friends for support. The more jittery among them would chatter away with quotes plucked directly from the latest Fortune magazine or how "buying their own place was the best thing to happen to them". If only they knew they weren't the only ones saying those things ... Inevitably, after about fifteen seconds of my careful, silent scrutiny of their spotless plastic cards, the first tracks of sweat would begin to appear on their foreheads. Their conversations would die down, and the fidgeting multiply. The desperate ones would say, with frequent glances over my shoulder at doorway through which pulsing lights and throbbing music emerged, "Could we, uh, hurry up? Our friends are waiting for us inside." "I'm sorry, but you're underage. This ID isn't valid," I said. Sometimes, I wished I could just tell them the truth--that I could identify crap-all about them from the card. The printed numbers meant little against the large , glimmering digits floating above their heads. It'd taken me several childhood years and the help of a mirror to figure them out, but they made me damned good at my job. "This can't be right," the young man said, jaws tightening even as a visible, nervous shudder coursed through his body. "I'm guessing, seventeen?" I almost laughed at his shocked expression. Jerking my thumb toward his older male companion, I said, "Your brother'll just have to take you elsewhere." "C'mon, let's go," the other man said, pulling him out and shooting me one last dirty look. Such was the life of a street-level NYC bouncer. As I was writing down the ID's details on a register, I heard the clicking of heels approach. Next moment, a slim, small hand slid an ID card onto my podium. I looked up and did a double-take--literally jumping back a step. She was pretty, more girl-next-door than supermodel, with loose auburn hair hanging to her shoulders framing a lean face. About five feet tall, she wore a tight-fitting black dress that terminated at mid-thigh, though her figure wasn't anything more spectacular than I'd been seeing for the past hour or so. So, your typical college girl lookalike ... but for the number above her head. Three thousand and nine. What. The. Hell. "There might be an issue with your age," I blurted before I could stop myself. "Excuse me?" she said in a faintly European accent. Other than her mouth, the rest of her hadn't moved at all--even the fingers clutching the purse in front of her were like cold marble. I could feel goosebumps popping up on my arms as I reached for her ID. "Sorry, just give me a moment to check," I said, darting furtive looks at the age number above her head as though I expected it to change at any time. I'd never been wrong before; perhaps this was the first time? Her name was Helena Ricci. Born here in the US twenty-two years ago. I ran the scanner over it. Clean. Shit. "Er, I'll need just a moment to register you into our system," I said. "Take your time. I've got plenty," she said. Her eyes remained cold above her smile. Once the process was complete, I handed the card back to her. "Have a pleasant evening." She took the card and stalked off into the club. I felt tempted to go after her--so many questions were in my head--but that would mean revealing my gift. And one didn't go around spouting such nonsense so easily, so my dad had warned me. So I threw my attention back to the impatient and growing line of patrons waiting for me. *** The hours flew by. I kept an eye out for Helena among the clubbers trickling out. Once, I thought I saw her in the midst of a small group of men, who went and lounged by a Levante parked not far away. They smoked for a while before returning to the club. At about four in the morning, when activity was visibly slowing down, she left the club, flashing me a grin on the way. That, more than anything, helped make up my mind. "Helena," I called, jogging from my post to catch up to her. "I've got something I want to ask you." She paused in her step, but maintained her distance out of my arm's reach. "Yes?" I tore my eyes away from her numbers and met her searching gaze. "How old are you?" She snorted. "Really? We're still not over this?" "I can see people's ages, above their heads," I said in a rush. "I've always been able to--since I was a child. And I see that you're--" "Quiet!" she snapped, looking around almost fearfully. "You must be dreaming, or imagining things. I'm only twenty-two, recently graduated--" "That's bullshit," I said. "I've never been wrong. I know what I see. And I'm most definitely not high or anything." She scoffed. "Stay away from me, mister. I've got Mace here in my purse." With that, she hurried away. "I told you my secret. Don't I deserve a little truth from you?" I said. She stopped in her tracks and turned her head halfway. "I never agreed to a trade." "I won't say anything to anyone, I promise," I said. "I just--seeing you is almost the same as NASA revealing that alien life exists on the Moon or something. Can't you imagine what it's like for me?" For a long time, she remained quiet. I could almost see the gears turning in her head. At last, she said softly, "Fine. Come, I'll show you." Elated, I followed. She didn't speak to me as we traversed the silent, shadowy streets, but I held my tongue as well. If I asked one question too many, she could turn me away. About fifteen minutes later, we arrived at an unmarked red door in a back alley, sandwiched between two dumpsters. I frowned at our surroundings, suddenly realizing that if she wanted to rob me--or worse--I wouldn't be discovered until the next week probably. She knocked on the door, but instead of a rapping sound, musical notes floated from somewhere inside. Then, it swung open to reveal a heavily bearded giant of a man. His fierce gaze took one look at Helena before his expression melted with warmth, and he wrapped his arms around her. "Who is this?" he said. "With luck, someone smart enough to keep his life," she said. I tried not to gulp as the man held out a brick-like hand for me to shake. "I'm Olander," he said. "I'm Jeff, pleased to--holy crap, you're over a thousand years old," I said. He blinked in astonishment. "How did you know? Oh, Helena, what have you brought us?" "He might be useful. Shall we go in?" she said. Olander led us into a long, stone tunnel with an arched ceiling. It looked extremely cramped for the big man, but he hunched his shoulders in a manner that indicated familiarity. The two of them spoke in a language I didn't know. Somewhere in the distance, there was a constant gush of water--perhaps we were near one of the city's waterways? Moments later, we reached another door, this one made entirely of solid, carved wood. I had only begun to marvel at its surface when Olander pushed it in and revealed the chamber within. I gaped, open-mouthed, at the twelve Roman columns supporting a ceiling of painted frescoes, spaced around the cavernous place lit by huge chandeliers and colorful wall-mounted lanterns. In the center of the room was a fountain almost ten feet tall, crystalline water spilling from the top into three descending circular pools and sparkling with light. People of various races and attire filled the room, mingling in small groups; eating from the buffet tables, drinking, admiring paintings hanging on a section of wall, or listening to an orchestral quartet on a small stage. And above all, I was stunned at the numbers everywhere. Two thousand and eighty-two. One thousand five hundred. One thousand and six. Three--freaking three--thousand, seven hundred and forty-four. "How?" I stammered. "What is this?" Helena didn't answer except to point at the fountain. And then it dawned one me. Before I could inquire further, she pulled me back out of the chamber into the tunnel. "Would you be interested in a new job here at our club?" she said. "I, er ... what job?" "Doorman." She sighed. "You see, we can't have too many of ... us ... running around the world. Defeats the purpose of actively staying out of the history books, if you know what I mean. Anyone below a thousand must not be allowed in--sometimes, it's really hard to tell. But you already know that with your current job." "I'll have to think about it," I said. My head felt like it was about to split apart. Those people ... some of their clothes looked like they predated writing. "Are there ... younger people ... trying to get in, too?" "More than you know," she said in a grave tone. "Olander takes care of them, usually, but it's really insulting if you turn away the wrong patrons. And grudges can last for a long time with us." "Well, you already know we have a great healthcare package, networking opportunities, insurance and investment returns. I won't pressure you to give me an answer tonight," she said, going to stand in the doorway. "Take your time. I'm in no hurry." *** *Thanks for reading, hope you enjoyed it. Check out my if you'd like to continue the story. Start for a rewritten first chapter.*

Marcy was sobbing uncontrollably

I looked around at all of my loved ones at my literal deathbed. I could see their love, their pain, and their held back tears as i breathed my last few breaths. My little granddaughter could hold it in any longer and threw herself on me, sobbing uncontrollably. I smiled weakly and stroked her hair. "Hush now, my little bobcat." I lifted her chin gently, her puffy red eyes meeting mine. "Will I ever see you again?" She asked between sniffles, her brown hair long and matted from the countless days she sat at my bedside. I weakly reached out and touched her chest. "I will be right there. I will always be with you." This brought on a fresh bout of tears. She was now truly sobbing uncontrollably, her face buried in my chest. I went back to stroking her hair. "I know. I know." I said gently. Eventually, she got a hold of herself, the tears held back by an iron will. For a six year old, Marcy was pretty strong. I chuckled to myself. She was just like her mother. I felt my life slipping away, and I looked in my granddaughters big eyes one last time. "Just remember, sweetie..." I struggled for another breath, but i had to give her closure. If she didn't have it, it would destroy her. "That I will always love you." With that I closed my eyes, and faintly heard her starting to cry again. I wanted more than anything to hold her, to tell her everything was going to be alright. But i couldn't. It was my time to go. I felt my body relax, and everything sank into blissful oblivion. ___________________________________________________________________________________________ Troivan? Trovian! TROVIAN! I groaned and attempted to sit up. I surrounded by strange beings. They all had spikes instead of hair, and dots on their faces, and pale skin. One of them caught me and eased me back onto the mat I had been lying on. "Not so fast there, my man. You took a pretty big hit of those wastions. Give it a few, alright?" I nodded weakly and laid still, trying to ignore the throbbing in my head. My vision was hazy, but I could sort of make out where I was. I was in some sort of cavern. The mat I was lying on felt like a sleeping bag. I was dimly aware of a warmth coming from my right side. Was I... camping? My eyes started to clear, and my hearing was coming back. "...be alright. He took *waaay* more than he should have for his first time, but he took it like a champ." That voice. I know that voice. Who was it. I racked my foggy mind, trying to remember who that was. "You sure? He looks... well... like he got hit by a Trynagog." I knew that voice too. It was decidedly different, but full of motherly concern. It sounded female. Was she my girlfriend? Friend? Fuck. I can't remember. "Hey..." I said in a hoarse whisper. There was immediate movement, and the second voice floated into my head. "Yes? What is it?" She asked. He face swam above my head. She was decidedly pretty. She had amber eyes, extremely pale skin, and the dots on them made a lovely pattern. Her thin mouth and brow were textbook expressions of concern. "My...my..." My voice failed me, so i gestured weakly to about where my throat would be. Her eyebrows shot up. "Oh! I am so sorry honey. Rythor, do have that energy drink?" "Shit, I forgot about that. Hold on." I heard a dragging sound, and some stuff being pushed around, and then the clinking of a canteen." "Here. Drink up, my man." The female... it was coming back... Prilana. That was her name. Prilana. She held the canteen to my lips and i drank deeply. I felt a tingle go through my body, and my head started to clear. With a groan, I pulled myself up, gently pulling the canteen from my girlfriends hands and draining the lot of it. I blinked a couple times and took in my surroundings more clearly. We were indeed in a cave, or cavern of some sort. It I was indeed on a green sleeping bag, and a fire flickered warmly in the center of the place. Immediately in front of me was Prilana, her eyes still full of concern. A little behind her to my left sat Rythor, watching me intently with sharp green eyes. On the far side of the fire sat his girlfriend, Dyenta. He sat there passed out on a mat like I was. "Well? Do you know who we are?" asked my girlfriend. I nodded slowly, and relief filled her face. "Oh good. That's very good." Rythor spoke up in a cautionary tone. "He might not remember everything yet. We need to keep an eye on him. He should be good in about an hour." I was suddenly aware that I was holding something in my other hand. I turned to look at it. It was a green glass bong, filled with a rocky substance and a glowing liquid. I looked at Rythor and he grinned. "Yeah man. You were on a *biiig* trip. You took a double hit of wastion and started twitching out, babbling incoherently. Then you passed out for like, 3 hours." He hooked a thumb behind him at is girlfriend. "She also took a double hit about an hour ago. She didn't want to be outdone. You know how she is." I dimly remember her being extremely competitive. I looked at the bong again. "So... what does this stuff do again?" I eyed Rythor, and a fake, dreamy sage-like expression came over his face. "It frees your soul from the constraints of space and time, and allows it to fly unbound on the wings of eternity." He snorted and dropped the expression. "At least that's what my dealer told me. So... How was it?" A sudden surge of emotions roared through me. Pain, love, happiness, anger... but above all was a sense of bitter emptiness, and an indescribable feeling of loss. For some reason, I pushed all of that down and grinned at him. "Its indescribable man. You gotta take a double hit." He raised his eyebrows at me. "You're on, dude." I passed him the bong, and he took the double hit. Almost immediately he started twitching, and, after a bit, he laid down with a sigh. He passed out cold. I turned to my girlfriend, and held out my arms. She came and snuggled into them. I her for awhile, and then suddenly realized I was shaking uncontrollably. She turned her face to mine. "Hey... are you ok?" And I just broke right there. I stared sobbing, great waves of grief and confusion tearing through my body. It all felt so *real*. The love. My family. My childhood. So I sat there, under alien sky, weeping for the life I never lead. For the granddaughter I never had. Or... had it been real? The sobs slowly started to ease, and I blinked the tears out of my face. I held my girlfriend tighter, and made a decision. It was real to me, and that was all that mattered. __________________________________________________________________________________________ Edit: Fixed some formatting, and put a slightly more hopeful ending that I was going to originally put. (Was pressed for time)

Oddmund the Wise was the greatest

** is now up!** *** **Part One** Oddmund the Wise was the greatest killer of inner demons this side of the Tenebrous Sea. He had made a lofty name for himself in four of the five kingdoms--he did not build much of a reputation in the Midnight Isles, mostly because he could not bear the climate--and had a long and weary resume to prove it. He had felled at least a hundred different variations of the horrors bloodlust and war from the shell-shocked soldiers who entered his care. At least a thousand times over he had seen that poisonous and many-formed creature called self-hate. Usually this sort of soul-rot took on the form of one's greatest regret or trauma, which more often than not manifested as the root cause of self-loathing. In his old age, Oddmund grew weary. He settled in a nice cottage in the Magocracy of Erelion--a land where magic was practiced freely and viewed as an inextricable force of nature itself rather than a weapon--and officially retired. From the day he moved in, Oddmund saw no more adult patients. But he had a hard time turning children away. His whole career roving the countryside, offering adult behavioral services, he had lectured any parents who would listen on the key to early intervention. His primary goal had not only been to exorcise his clients of their demons, but to teach them to notice their children's loaded silences. Their inexplicable torment. "Behavior," he often told them, "the things we do, always happens for a *reason*. It's a way of talking without words. This is particularly true for children, who don't yet know the terms to express what they're feeling. If the behavior goes unacknowledged, the feeling won't go away. It will only fester, and sicken." Few believed him. But those who did spread word like a spark in a dry field of wheat. He received his first post-retirement client, a little girl who had grown to resent her little baby sister. This demon was small, a little skittering spider, but when Oddmund caught it in a jar he heard it whisper how much better life would be without that child around. How easily the parents would believe she simply suffocated in her sleep. He showed the child the jar and the spider circling its walls madly, searching for a way out. She stared in astonishment. "The things you think and feel," Oddmund had told her, "are not just clouds in your mind. They become real things." He tapped the glass and the spider tried to attack his finger. "They become things that can kill you, sweet girl." When the girl was gone, he squished the spider with one of his shoes. They continued in a steady stream after that. At least once a new moon, Oddmund had a new visitor on his step. Some parent with their blank-eyed, bewildered child, hoping Oddmund could offer them answers at last. This family came late in the harvest moon, when the nights were so long that Oddmund hardly had time to hike to town and back to his comfortably isolated cottage before the sun disappeared once more. This time when he arrived at his cottage, two figures sat outside it, apparently waiting. From far away they appeared to be a young mother with her daughter, surely no more than five or six years old. Oddmund lowered his handcart when he reached his front garden. He hauled out the sack from the back and raised his hand in greeting. "I hope I haven't left you waiting too long." "I'm so sorry I came without announcement. My cousin said you go by appointment--" "I'm retired." He smiled at her with a jovial gleam in his eye. "I don't do appointments anymore. Please, come inside. I have pastries and tea." The two followed him in. The mother clutched the girl's thin shoulders and rubbed her thumb in slow, reassuring circles. Fortunately the fire had not quite gone out. The wizard's cottage was cast in a deep dying red. The girl stared at the brands as if she wanted to reach out and touch them. Oddmund put a few narrow birch sticks and a handful of wizard's beard moss on the embers. The lichen caught, spreading a warm lapping heat to the sticks. The sticks creaked and groaned as the heat tore through them. After the fire caught the wizard murmured fire spells to his lanterns, lighting them one by one. He could of course ignite them all with a lazy wave of his hand, but there was no need to startle the girl. Her eyes were oceans of sorrow. He could not bear to look into them for long. He dreaded to know what beast lurked within her mind's depths. Oddmund invited them to sit in the armchairs before the fire. The mother introduced herself as Eira. Her child, who sat in the chair as far from Oddmund as she could be, was called Gunnr. Eira explained the story with a face as cold and unmoving as a stone, as if she could not allow herself to feel if she was to speak of it. "Six months ago I found my daughter's father in her bed. Forcing himself upon her. Three days ago I was released from my imprisonment for his murder." Her eyes met with Oddmund's. They were lightless and unnatural, like a sky devoid of stars. "I have been told you can kill such demons of the mind." Gunnr stared into the fire. Orange death danced in her eyes. The wizard said, "I believe I mentioned I retired." "I killed my demon six months ago. I need you to help with hers." She looked at him severely. "If you can't do this, tell me now. Please. My child has suffered enough." Both of them looked at Gunnr, who did not seem to even be aware that they were there. But Oddmund knew better. She looked like a child who listened, who could do nothing now but listen. Her words were broken and stolen and hidden away, deep under her tongue, where she could not find them herself. He had seen this before. It filled his stomach with black bile. Oddmund nodded and reached out to clasp Eira's hands. She held onto him like they were the oldest friends in the world. He said, "You help yourselves to anything in the kitchen. I cannot imagine the journey that has brought you here. Excuse my poor hosting, but I must prepare my things." Eira looked up, wet gathering for the first time in her eyes. "You can do it tonight?" Oddmund inclined his head toward the girl. "Only if Gunnr wants to." The girl did not look away from the fire. Her hands were balled into tight shuddering fists at her sides. She nodded once, firmly. The wizard smiled like he was not afraid. "Then tonight it shall be." He winked at the girl. "Gunnr is in control now." *** /r/shoringupfragments ** is now up. :)** Etymology, cause I did this shit and you should notice: * Eira: "mercy" * Gunnr: "warrior", name of a valkyrie in Norse legend * Oddmund: *odd* means "tip of the spear" and "mund" is derived from the word meaning "protector" All three names are old Norse, because Gandalf is old Norse, and I'm a little basic.

The moon will be geometr

A board room, filled with people in suits. The room is empty of furniture however. "Rogers, is everything in place?" "Yes sir. The candles with exactly 1 inch of dribbley wax are placed exactly 72 degrees around the circle." "Excellent. Kingston?" "Right on schedule sir. The moon will be geometrically aligned with Venus in exactly 124 seconds." "Very good. Very good. Maxwell?" "The circle is drawn to precise measurements. It was easy with laser pointers. One of the interns threw up though. Mixing ash with virgin blood is particularly smelly. Hopefully killing the virgin in the process is not a prerequisite. That would be a nightmare to litigate." "You're rambling Maxwell, just tell me are we ready?" "Sorry sir, yes sir." "Good. Finally, Litworth, is it ready?" "Certainly sir, we've translated the text perfectly into a verbal phonetic listing. Just read it as it is written, and it will work." "Great. Can I get a count down to the alignment?" "Certainly. Alignment in 10 seconds." A hush falls over the room, and the suitably dribbley candles flicker, almost as if they rehearsed. "5 seconds." The fluorescent lights in the room darken. A brown out perhaps. Not uncommon at night in the city. "4." The wind howls. Typical midwinter weather. "3." A bolt of lightning hits a nearby skyscraper. "2." Somewhere nearby a dog barks. "1." Silence descends on the room. "Now." "Liabereth narctuku somlimnitos kianiarchu omberanos." Nothing happens. "Oh well. A vague instruction in a dusty old book. Superstition right?" "I guess so." "Oh wait, I forgot to carry the one. The alignment should be right now." A large flash of light fills the room, causing many of the people in suits to cover their eyes. The light from the candles flare and spark, reaching out to each other with lines of power. They connect, forming bars of light and sparks across the room. A perfect five pointed star fills the room with an eery red glow. In the middle of the glow, stands a being. It's long horns scrape the ceiling, causing the monster to stoop a little. It's leathery wings folded against it's back. It's shoulders stooped a little, avoiding the power keeping it contained. Long robes barely mask the long sinewy muscles that line it's body. It's hoofed, goat-like feet shuffle nervously. It extends one of it's long taloned claws upwards, adjusting the half moon spectacles to better see it's summoners. The other claw clutches a couple of books carefully across it's chest, protecting them. The spine reads "The Hobbit." "Oh great and mighty Hellington. I beseech thee." "Wellington." the demon replies. "What?" With an english accent and a slight nasal twang the demon says "My name is Wellington. You know, like the boot." "Uuuh, okay. Oh great and mighty .. Wellington. We beseech the for ancient knowledge, terrible and powerful!" "Ummm, okay. What kind of knowledge?" "The knowledge to conquer the world, and to defeat our enemies!" "Oh, this again. Very well. If you take some sulfur, charcoal, and potassium nitrate, mix it just right, you can get an almighty bang. I'll leave it up to you to figure out the rest. Just don't blow your fingers off." the demon starts wheezing in and out, in a weird laugh. "You mean, like gun powder?" "Well, it's black powder, I don't know what a gun is." "You have got to be kidding me. No, I want dangerous secrets, like what this book says!" "Oh, then you want the SECRET knowledge." says the demon, winking at the head suit. "Then I shall teach you the power of math omat ix. Trigg erno metrie. And the dreaded cal culus." The head suit blinks a couple of times, not sure what is happening. Some of the other suits are murmuring to each other. "No no no, we already know those! We want to know spells of death, destruction, the power to destroy our enemies. To conquer entire countries effortlessly!" "Well, yeah, that's all you mortals want to do. Listen, if you learn math omat ix, you will learn the sy ens that you seek that will help you here." "I don't want to learn science. We already know science. We want to know magic!" The demon starts to wheeze again, but after a few seconds composes himself. "Magic isn't real. Magic is just what we told you people back when you first started trying to contact us." "Then how did you just appear here?" "Oh, that. We keep an eye on you, and when you guys use the right spell, we just use our teleporter to pop down and give you a bit of a fright and maybe teach you a couple of things. But that must have been about five hundred years ago now. A guy called .. vinchi .. leonard vinchi .. I can't remember. But it looks like you've done quite well. I'm in a concrete room, three hundred feet above ground, and I can see your whole city through the glass. Conquered electricity, nice. Flight? Very cool. Radio waves, very nice. Oh, and the internet. Well done. I'm going to cash in tonight. Greg said you guys wouldn't have telecommunications for another thousand years." "But, how?" "Oh, we're demons, but we're not stupid. We've had this stuff for millenniums. So, you've probably split the atom, and discovered sub atomic particles, and maybe even dark matter. Hmmmm. What to give you next?" "Uuh, what?" "Well, you said you wanted more knowledge, more power, here it comes. Cold fusion is a dead end. Hydrogen doesn't work like that. If you can finally get enough magnetism to constrict the plasma fluid dense enough, you CAN achieve a stable fusion reaction. Which means ..." "Infinite free energy." "That's right. Which is energy enough to destroy everyone you hate. But I think by the time you get there, you won't want to. Anyways, I gotta get back to my dungeons and dragons game. Good luck and see you in a hundred years!" The flash of light goes out with a pop and the room is back to the same empty, fluorescent lit board room it was before. Although the candles are a little more dribbley now. "What was that? Did that even happen?" "Shut up, magic isn't real, we have work to do."

Her Dalmatian was one of

"How long does he have?" "Mabel," I said, easing the girl back onto the chair, "you've been very brave to bring your friend in by yourself. I'm not going to lie, and I'm going to treat you like an adult, ok?" I watched her nod, lips pursed tightly. Jesus, I'd seen adults twice her age with half her guts. "Two, maybe three weeks, at the most. But he'll suffer all that time through, so you did the right thing, bringing him to me." Her Dalmatian was one of the largest I had ever come across. He was old now, shrunken, but I could tell he had once weighed in at the very end of the scale. He lay on the examining table, eyes closed, head between his paws. The fur had fallen away in patches, unevenly, such that there were pink spots poking out amongst the whites and blacks. "I... I don't want him to suffer," Mabel said, hands clenched upon her lap. "I know," I said, "and that's why I am going to put him to sleep. Make sure that he goes peacefully." "He's been with me my whole life," she continued, though I wasn't sure if she was addressing me. "I want him to rest now. He's done... too much for me." "I'm sure he has. He's probably been looking out for you, hasn't he?" Mabel looked up, met my eyes, and a certain steeliness entered her gaze. "Yes, he has," she said. "From monsters. All sorts of monsters. Big ones, small ones, the invisible, the horrible. Terrance has kept them all away from me." I turned away, kept my eyes trained on Terrance. It wouldn't do to tear in front of Mabel, so instead I focused, concentrated, and laid my hand on his head. The least I could do was to ease his passage, let him know that his duty was done. For that was my ability, my hidden talent. I could communicate with animals, and not in the animal-trainer way. I could speak to them, literally, though it all happened in my head, where there were no recordings to be made, no way to prove I was right. But I knew I was, and that was enough. I had kept it a secret. Of course I did - I'd read my fair share of comics, consumed a healthy amount of Marvel and DC and Vertigo and Dark Horse. I know what happened to people with powers, and who were not careful about keeping it quiet. At best, they got sidelined by society, labelled as kooks and cranks, relegated to the sidelines and never allowed to re-enter the arena of life. At worst, they got examined, hunted, dissected. I wanted none of that. I only wanted to be with the animals I loved, and to care for them. "Hey buddy," I said, psychically, willing my thoughts into Terrance's head. I saw one of his ears perk up then. "You've been a good boy. You've done all you could for her, so I'm going to reward you with some well-deserved res-" *"Holy crap you're a Shifter too!"* My hand flinched away, and I almost lost my footing in my haste to back away. Terrance was reacting too, huffing and puffing as he struggled to get up. He started whining with the effort, and that was when Mabel rushed forward and threw herself over him. "It's OK Terrance it's OK! He's the doctor, he's here to make you feel better!" she cooed in his ear, calming him down. After he settled, she turned to me, beckoned to me. "Doctor, please," she said, voice lowered to a whisper. "He still thinks there's danger here, but there's none. All the monsters here, gone because of him. Please, help him rest?" I moved Mabel away, gave her strict instructions to sit still and give me time, then interposed my body between her and Terrance so that she wouldn't see the expression on my face. How could I have explained it? How could I have told a little girl of eight that when it came to hearing the thoughts of normal animals, it was like listening to a song playing off an iPod, with tinny music pumped through little earbuds, but when *he* had spoken to *me*... ... it was like being at a Nirvana concert, front row, in the centre sweet spot, melting under the acoustic barrage from the 200 megawatt speakers? "Now that you know I'm human," Terrance said, the words delivered right to my brain, "you know you can't put me down, right? I don't know what you're going to tell her, but you have to fob her off. Then patch me up as best as you can, I've got to head back. Duty calls, and I can't rest until my replacement comes in." I cleared my throat, although there was no need to. "You... can hear me?" Terrance narrowed his eyes, as best as a Dalmatian could, and gave me the distinct impression that he was trying not to snort at me. "You're not unique, buddy. I chose this form to Shift into because it's the easiest way to keep close to her, keep her safe. Please tell me you know how to Shift?" "Er... no?" "So you can hear animals' thoughts and you never wondered why?" "I thought... I was gifted?" Terrance raised a paw to scratch at his neck, and I noticed the lack of coordination in the movements. Fine his mind may have been, but his body was failing him. "Well, I suppose I could teach you a thing or two, but you're going to have to give me a boost here. You could even help me take the morning shifts, watch over her while I sleep." "She said... something about monsters..." Terrance laughed, or at least tried to. "Don't be a wuss! I took care of all of them, cleared every single one out from this nest. You have nothing to worry about, but it never hurts to keep an ey-" Mabel screamed then, and I whirled around. I thought she had perhaps cut herself on one of the instruments I had left on my table, or maybe she had come across one of the autopsy photographs on my laptop. Instead she was sitting right where I had left her, but with hands clamped tightly around her temple. "It's back, Terrance!" she yelled. "The basilisk!" I thought I had misheard her, but at that exact moment, I heard a loud crash from the street below, then a medley of car alarms swirled together in a maddening crescendo. I threw the blinds aside, and I saw a giant serpent, almost fifty feet in length, slither right across traffic. Its scales, dark and glossy, drank in the afternoon sun. It was hissing, a giant forked tongue darting through the air, trying to scent its prey. I had a pretty good idea what it was looking for. Terrance hoisted himself up, and I heard his nails scratch on my tabletop. The exhaustion still ringed his eyes, but there was a spine of purpose, a backbone of duty, which now ran through his body. Where his muscles had been flaccid before, they were taut now, humming with power. Even his coat had taken on a new sheen. "You," he said, gesturing with his snout at me. "Come with. Watch and learn, and maybe you will be able to Shift today." "We're going to fight that thing?" I asked out loud, not even bothering with the psychic link anymore. "My replacement's not going to get here in time," he barked. "You'll have to do." I wanted to cry, such was the blind fear stoking the depths of my belly. I wanted to sigh, such was the utter hopelessness of the situation before me. But instead I shrugged off my coat, then plucked a scalpel or two off the rack on my table. Something about Terrance inspired action, and something about Mabel inspired hope. "You've got a lot of explaining to do when this is over," I said, though to Mabel or Terrance I was not sure. Mabel finally stopped screaming, then she sidled up to me, gave me a tight hug around my leg. She looked up with shimmering eyes, still too stoic to let the tears flow properly. "Take care of Terrance, doctor," Mabel said. "And I hope you Shift into something useful." --- Continued below in the comments, will link when I'm off my phone! --- /r/rarelyfunny

Traffic and choking are the two most

The problem was just that there were so many fucking people! So many people to check on and then so many after that, time and again with each new thing that I thought of. Traffic and choking are the two most common, so I always start with those. Check the nearby streets for children playing, people texting, that kind of thing. Pull people onto the sidewalk, bing bang boom, time starts up again and everyone goes on their merry way. Not this time. It wasn't until month two that I just decided to drag everyone's stupid asses up onto the sidewalk, just to make sure I had missed not hing A few minutes is usually all it takes. Find the stranger, push him out of the way of the bus, car, train, falling piano (actually has happened twice), you name it! I once knocked someone out from beneath a falling fucking anvil at a Renaissance Fair. 10 seconds was my quickest save. The dude was right in front of me. My longest before this was 95 minutes, only because it took forever to find a guard that actually had keys to let me up to the scaffolding above the shark tank. I think I may have gone insane in these past 10 years. I never should have come to New York. Like I said, it started normally. Pulling people out of the street, knocking food out of hands at food carts, looking around for any air conditioning units falling out of windows, that kind of crap. I stopped 137 crimes. Pickpockets in Times Square, muggings in Central Park, even an unreasonable amount of domestic abuse behind closed doors. I did commit a crime of my own, which was stealing a clock off of the wall in an office. I hung it around my neck like Flavor Flav. I wanted to be the first to hear time start up again. Like I said, I moved everyone out of the street and on to the sidewalk. I later took this to a much higher degree. I pulled everyone out of the restaurants, homes, office buildings, shops, and museums. I pulled actors out of shows in mid monologue on Broadway. I arranged everyone into neat columns along the street and just worked my way down. Fuck it, I had time. I pulled food out of people's mouths with my bare hands. I turned off everything with any kind of components that could explode and if I wasn't sure, I just threw them away. Eventually, I just shut off all of the electricity and gas to the city, once I found a public works truck. I spent months organizing a 3 mile radius of city with Wall-E-like efficiency into something that could be safely catalogued and lived in. No fucking dice. I had no idea who I hadn't saved. It is really hard to tell time when time is stopped, but I estimate that around the 2 years 4 months mark was when I caught a case of the fuck-its. I spent whole weeks exploring art museums, 15 days in a single exhibit in the Metropolitan Museum of Art. I explored as much of Central Park as I could reach without leaving my radius. I went to the tops of buildings and looked down at the system of the world and marveled at my own power. I became a god in my own mind. This is right about when my case of the fuck-its escalated into a case of the crazies. I was still pulling everyone I ran into outside and lining them up, just in case. Only now I was just creating stories for them. I was playing with human beings like they were dolls. I acted out scenes from the famous works of Shakespeare on Broadway stages with homeless men and CEOs. I wrote, directed starred in, and choreographed a dozen plays of my own. I created an arena of bleachers in Rockefeller Plaza out of the still unmoving bodies of the Rockettes and the Saturday Night Live writing staff, crew, and cast. I sat a thousand children on them in tiers around me, each with bended ear and giving me their full attention and I performed a 3 day long ukulele concert for them. The acoustics were terrible. I then indulged in a marathon read-a-long of The Cryptonomicon, The Name of the Wind, Where the Sidewalk Ends and Aesop's Fables, all for them and using Jimmy Fallon as a lectern. I broke into Penguin Books main office and sifted through a hundred thousand book manuscripts before finding and reading (to my crowd of appreciative children) the first 1500 pages George R R Martin submitted as a draft of The Winds of Winter. It was only OK. I completed my sweep of the sewer system after finding a work crew with an open manhole. It was there that I discovered that those myths of alligators in the sewers are not myths. They were fucking enormous. They also gave me the best idea for the greatest on-stage rendition of Peter Pan ever witnessed by human eyes. I dragged his massive ass through the sewer and out using a forklift, a jackhammer and the longest, most elaborately complicated system of pulleys you have ever seen. At the end, it was like lifting a baby. The play was a masterpiece. I used the entire kitchen and wait staff of the Time's Square Applebee's as my actors/actresses and it all went beautifully according to plan. The 'actors' were flying through the air with the grace of the Magnificent Frigatebird. The lines delivered beautifully through a series of Walk-ie Talk-ies. The sword fights did leave something to be desired. However, the climax was the most incredible part. This beautiful, prehistoric creature was hauled up on stage and the Maitre d'applebee's, playing the terrified Captain Hook, cowered in his corner. I pulled him over to the alligator and opened its mouth-- And there it was. Inside of this great monstrosity of a reptile was a small boy-child. Eyes frozen open in startled terror. I narrowed my own eyes in disbelief, not quite sure if I could trust them after this long. I grabbed him by the ankle and pulled as hard as I could and then I heard it: With my head and torso still mostly inside of this beast's gaping mouth, I heard the clock start to tick, sluggishly at first, like it was ticking through a barrel of cranberry sauce and hand sanitizer. I pulled again, hard, and ran. The string the clock was on got caught on one of its teeth, ripping it from around my neck as the ticking sped up and I sprinted off of the stage as thousands of voices cried out in terror and the world came to life around me. I'm moving to fucking Canada. Edit: thanks for reading and I hope you all enjoyed it! Any constructive criticism would be greatly appreciated! I'm still new to this whole 'letting people read my writing' shindig, so I often forget to make sense and I make plenty of mistakes.

For one day's life, a

For one day's life, a lifetime of dark. The falling stars surround the dead. The fading light twinkles, but it cannot, and will not ease the cold. A lifetime of dark, in a life that has already ended. They face an endless black, all consolation going slowly, thinning out like a loved blanket. Then they are naked and alone. But all is not wholly gone, not immediately at least. I give some hope. A rag to replace that distant blanket. It is the best I can do. I give them one day's life. One more day of warmth. His name was Samuel, and that was all he had. I saw him spiraling down, going to the endless depths, far from any world he knew. He was young and dead before his time. For looking at him, I am sure he had no time. Samuel drifted amidst tears and confusion. I came to him in the dark, that rough sea of the dead. It is like a home to me but a hell to others. I came to him and held him, though he slinked and cried in the vacuum. "Be quiet child." He settled himself and looked at me. "Are you God?" he asked. "No," I said. "But I pretend to be." I held him as I would any child. His body was cold and going, going to feed the living things of the light world, piece by piece, atom by atom. I looked at his face and stroked his hair. "It is dark here," I said. "And it will get darker I'm afraid. These distant lights will go. Even the stars fade when death takes its hold. Give it time and you will be among the endless." He whimpered. "I do not want to be in the dark. Please. I do not want to be alone." They always beg. They always plead. I felt sorry for him, but there was little I could do. Pretending to be God is one thing, but I yet haven't the power to become such. One day I too will face the dark, naked and helpless. "I cannot give you the life that you've lost," I said. "But there is some comfort. A small thing only, but it is something. One day. I can give you one day to breathe again." "One day?" "One day amongst the living. A day to say goodbye. A day of endings." He looked at me and began to cry again. They were not tears of joy, but of sadness. "Please," he begged. "I do not want to die. Please! Please save me." "I cannot do anything else. One day is what I offer. It is the best I can do." He was quiet then. "But who will I say goodbye to?" he asked, finally. "I wouldn't know. Your family. Your relations. Whoever you wish to. You will be free to go as you please." "But I have no one. I have no one! I have..." He began to sob. I felt his memories drift up like smoke from a chimney. The dark stretches you, pulling you apart until nothing is left. For now his memories stuck, allowing me only a touch. In that touch I saw the great sadness I had guessed. He was alone. The rains poured or the sun beat down in its pulsing heat. It did not matter. He walked endless, aimless roads. At nights he slept beneath the overpasses, and at day he begged with a scavenged cup. He did not look disabled, but life had been hard, pelting what malice it had at him. "We don't care for your kind here!" someone shouted. "Go back home!" And his thoughts he screamed back: "But I have none! Can't you see?!" Then the touch left me and we were in the dark again. "Please save me," he said. "There is nothing I can do," I said. "I can only give a day. But that day will do you no good, I suspect." He clung to my robes, holding on for support and hope. The fear in his eyes swam in the deep tears of despair. "Help me. Please." "What do you want? My power can only give a day. And that day would not treat you kinder than those before." I could see the reality hit him. There was no hope. A day of life; a lifetime of dark. "Yes," he said. "Give me the day then." I looked at him and at those eyes. "Why? Why would you want the day? The dark is scary, but it is not hostile. In the living they call you slurs and pelt you with stones." "They tell me to go home and to kill myself as well." "Then why would you want to go back?" "To go home once more. If there is any goodbye to be said, it is there." "Where is your home?" As he said the words my mind could picture it. I saw it clearly, as though I lived there. But no one could live there. "There is an overpass near Highway 61. There are trees nearby that shade the sun and the wall is thick so that it is cool and clean. I come to there often when I wander the middle country." "Why would you like to go there?" "You will not understand. But it is home and hope to me. There, I can think my big thoughts and dream my deluded dreams. There, where the sun does not hit as hard as in other places, I can feel like a man and not a dog." I saw him there in life. I felt sorry for him. "Would the dark not be better? You can dream here, for a while still." "I would prefer the light, if you would give it to me. You cannot understand, maybe, but I love living. When my mother was alive, it was something she stressed. The gift of living has stuck with me, though it left her. And though I may be a beggar to you, I enjoy every strained breath I take..." Then death's reality hit him, I suppose, and his words changed to the past. In the moment he had forgotten the dark that surrounded him and his eyes were strong and bright and alive. But that moment had passed and he was quiet and afraid once more. Yet he continued nonetheless. "I enjoyed every meal I ate," he said, "though hunger would never truly go. Please, if you would, give me the light once more. As you say, it is only one day. I will dream in the dark forever more after." And so I brought him back to the light. Slowly the sounds crept in and the warmth hit him and then he was there. The country was forested with a highway running alongside, far off into that horizon which so many vagabonds pilgrimage to. There were few cars then, and nearby was the overpass, a large grey thing, blackened from exhaust and graffiti. As a ghost I watched him as early morning dawned. There were birds and other morning creatures awakening. The dew sparkled far in a fading glint. Samuel walked to his home, his favorite home, and he sat on the ground leaning on the concrete support. Some cars passed by. One slowed and cursed him. "Go home!" they said. I saw the pain bounce off him and he stretched his feet and arms and closed his eyes. Death's cloud was still over him, but I knew his thoughts were light and free. He thought of living in a house. He thought of having a wife and wearing a suit and eating food slowly, with a knife and fork. In his thoughts he ate for pleasure, not to stave off the hunger which he was a vassal to. *I will have that one day,* he thought. I could feel his thoughts even then, and when he slipped into a dream, I saw the images pass by. He slept on a soft bed in his dream, sleeping like a man with no fears of the world, surrounded by some unknown serenity. In those shifting dreams he lay beside the wife he would never have, beneath the roof of a hopeless fantasy. He believed it all, I know. I know that for sure, as sure as I know anything. *Tomorrow, it will happen,* he told himself, even in sleep. *Tomorrow will be different.* The overpass trembled from the building traffic. When he awoke it was near night and near death. It did not deter him. *Tomorrow, with the sun, I will find someone who will hire me. I will get a job and save up for a house. Tomorrow, everything will change.* And the reality of the endless dark crossed his face for a moment, but it was passing and he pushed it away. *Tomorrow,* he thought. And in his last moments, he was happy. EDIT: Hey everyone, I created a subreddit called r/PanMan. It's empty right now, but I'm working on posting my stories on it. I'll also cross post all future WritingPrompts stories there as well.

Timothy cried out in fear as the

Timothy cried out in fear as the bearded man leapt forward, presents spilling from his arms. The man bellowed as his robes caught on an ornament and the tree toppled over, crashing to the floor with a noise like a demented windchime. Timothy sprinted back up the stairs, eyes tearing in terror, and noted, with incongruous calm, that he really should have gone to the bathroom *before* checking to see his presents, and that at eleven he had no excuse for wetting himself. He made it to the landing just as the man below screamed a string of strange curses in an unknown language, a terrible sound made all the worse by the tinkling cracks of the christmas tree's demise. Dad burst out of the master bedroom, wild-eyed, clad only in white briefs and hurriedly inserting shells into his shotgun. "What the hell, Tim?" Dad shouted, as Mom poked her head out blearily, cinching shut her robe. "There's a man downstairs!" Tim shouted back, turning away to hide the wetness on his pajama pants. A wild yell like a bull steer being castrated belted up the stairs, and Dad cursed. "Call the cops!" Dad shouted, at no one in particular, and then stomped down the stairs three at a time, brandishing the shotgun in a pseudo-tactical display. Mom glanced down the stairs and then at Timothy, shaking her head. She beckoned him over and made shushing noises. "I'm sorry, Mom," Timothy whimpered, tears welling up. He waddled to his mother's embrace and buried his head in her chest. "It's all right," Mom whispered soothingly. An loud shouting match had broken out downstairs, and Tim popped his head up. "Didn't Dad say to call the cops?" "Yes," Mom said, biting her lip. "But all our phones are downstairs." "I think we need to go get them," Tim said, hoping his voice sounded braver than he felt. He thought he heard his Dad yelling "jesus mary and joseph" over and over again, which indicated that he had reached an apoplectic Dad-rage state where coherent thought was no longer possible, and knew deep down that his father was out of his depth. "Change your pants," Mom said. She stood and started down the stairs. "I'll go call." Timothy ran into his room, quickly changed into a pair of dry shorts and then ran back to the landing. He paused there, and listened. The sounds of verbal combat had dimmed below where he could make out the individual words, but the tension was still evident. After a moment's hesitation, he took a deep breath and padded down the stairs. Dad was standing in the kitchen, shotgun trained on the bearded man, barking a low stream of threats. The living room was a disaster, lights and ornaments and fragments of the tree strewn about and hanging from every conceivable catch point, the bearded man trapped in the middle as if in an enormous LED-lit spiderweb. Somehow the sofa had been upended and a large gash torn in the drywall, insulation sticking out like cotton candy. Presents lay scattered about the kitchen and the living room, lost as the bearded man had fallen in the initial scramble, wrapping paper torn and crisp corners dented. Mom was hiding in the front hallway, speaking urgently into her cellphone. Tim edged past her and into the kitchen, trying to make out what the bearded man was saying. "Every year," the bearded man grated. "Every year. You've all forgotten what this day is about. What it all *means*. Santa Claus? A freaking tree?" "Uh huh," Dad said. The shotgun did not waver. "What does that make you, the Grinch?" "Oh, fffuck that," the bearded man said, blowing out his cheeks on the *f*. "Some asshole writes a story about roast beast and heart enlargement disease and you all think you understand the spirit of Christmas? I'll tell you something, I'll tell you what - ever heard 'put the Christ back in Christmas'? Huh? Ever hear that?" "Yeah," Dad said. "Well *I'm Christ* you idiot! I'm putting *myself* back in Christmas, what do you think about that?" "Uh huh," Dad sighed. "Honey, how long until the cops get here?" "Oh, it's the little bitch that peed himself," the bearded man sneered, seeing Timothy. Timothy stopped and peered out from behind his father, still blinking back tears. Dad glanced down and cursed. "Son, get out of here," he said sternly. The bearded man took the opportunity to lunge forward, trailing tinsel and a string of lights, clawing for the shotgun. Dad took a step backward, shouting and tripping over Timothy. Timothy dove out of the way as Dad and the bearded man crashed to the floor, the shotgun skittering across the kitchen tiles. The bearded man got his hands around Dad's throat and bore down, mouth open in an insane grin. "I will judge the living and the dead!" he shrieked, the veins in his neck bulging out. Timothy scrambled over to the shotgun and grabbed it in shaking hands. He knew how it worked, but had never held or fired it before. It was heavier than he thought, and it was a challenge to bring it up to his shoulder in an unsteady point. Dad made choking sounds and pried at the bearded man's hands, but his face was turning purple and the bearded man showed no signs of letting go. Timothy sighted down the barrel and pulled the trigger. The bearded man's face disintegrated and his body fell limply on top of Dad in a shower of blood and chunks of bone. The recoil knocked the gun out of Timothy's hands, sending him toppling back against the cabinets, and the blast half-deafened him. He blinked rapidly and worked his jaw, a sick feeling rising in his stomach as the enormity of what he had done began to surface. "Shit," Dad coughed, pushing the corpse to the side and scrambling to his feet. "Shit. Tim, are you ok?" Timothy nodded once, but did not stand. His eyes were focused on the remnants of the bearded man's face, and he could not look away. Had he done that? "Don't look, son," Dad said, crouching down in front of Timothy and wrapping him up in a big bear hug. "You did the right thing." Timothy began shivering uncontrollably, and Dad hugged him tighter, whispering softly. The ringing in Timothy's ears drowned most of it out, and he hugged his father tightly. He closed his eyes but behind the lids all he saw was the spray of blood. Had he done that? "That was *not* the right thing," lisped the bearded man through broken teeth. Dad grabbed the shotgun and whirled. Timothy caught a glimpse of the bearded man, face a rapidly recomposing mass of mottled pink flesh, veins and bones appearing like a figurine melting in reverse, before Dad blocked his view once more. "Think not that I am come to send peace on earth," the bearded man intoned. Dad racked the shotgun and brought it to his shoulder, but too late. The bearded man punched the gun from Dad's grasp and Timothy cried out in fear, his pants once again wet. The bearded man grabbed Dad's neck again and shoved him on to the counter-top, eyes regenerating to reveal a frenzied glare. "I came not to send peace, but a sword!"

The fire had burnt to hot that

The dense smoke filled the air, completely blotting out the high noon light of the sun and leaving only the light of the dancing flames below. Those flames, which only ten minutes ago were a failed attempt at a fireball spell by a foolish young sorcerer's apprentice. And yet the devastation was unimaginable. This forest went for such lengths that entire countries of elves lived within and housed some of the most dangerous and vicious beasts and monsters known to man. Even as the apprentice looked upon the land he could tell what was what despite the fact that the flesh was horrifically burnt and melted on each creature he saw. There was the unmistakable visage of elves, giants and hydras as he walked, even several adamantoises. The fire had burnt to hot that even monsters widely believed to be *immortal* had succumbed to the heat. And yet, in the completely burnt-out center of the forest the apprentice stood, both completely horrified and *awed* about what he saw. As well as the climbing number within his vision. *389*... *436*... *497*... With each second the number grew higher and he felt everything hurt. Was it a punishment from the gods for his actions? *601*... *678*... *702*... But as his body was horrifically twisted, forcing him to his knees he never felt any more incredible. 'Wh... What is this?' he cried out, his voice now far deeper than before, as if he had suddenly aged from prepubescence to adulthood. *767*... *834*... *888*... His entire frame of body was forced outward, growing in both form and power. His loose cloak had been burnt in the fire as well to show only his near-naked form aside from a cotton cloth he had wrapped around his nethers. His giant hands swam through the ashes and dirt like water as he tried to get a grip on something, his hulking frame easily splintering both unburned and charcoaled wood with ease. *912*... *945*... *992*... But his magical power... the power he was trying to build up, which his teacher had compared to a newborn chick against the might of a dragon... It was more than willing to force its way out of his eyes, blasting out lightning whenever they were open. His mere breaths swelled with pure, raw magic which was spreading an oasis of forest life outward and beyond. When the number reached *999*, he felt that power exploding as he screamed, his body thrown upward and floating in the air. It felt like the pain was suddenly gone, a sun bursting from within his skin. As he floated down, he contemplated what to do next. 'My master will be most furious with me, won't he?' the apprentice asked himself. No doubt this devastation had caused some sort of disaster for the elves. No... That wouldn't happen, he somehow assumed. There were three primary reasons he assumed so. 1; His master *hated* the elves. A species of pretentious, self-serving fools he called them. They'd rather allow the humans, dwarves and other intelligent species die rather than fight against the Dark Lord who supposedly devastated the world a thousand years ago. 2; His personal manta was, "Power for Power's Sake". It made him rather unpopular with others of his caliber, to the point that he was exiled from the human's capital cities and forced to build a tower deep within the Black Forest. 3; He was probably *dead* by this point. The young lad, no more than twelve, had no idea what he would even do now. He had ideas, as suddenly he felt like he knew things that simply shouldn't be there. Powerful spells of all manner of effects, fighting styles with weapons he had never touched or seen before outside of a few of his master's books. But he also noticed, during his trail of thought, that the figure was still climbing and was now well over *1500*. 'Well, haven't we put ourselves in a pickle,' a voice had said within his mind. He knew instantly what it was and had tried to ensnare the mind of whomever had invaded his own. 'I know where you are,' he declared. 'Show yourself.' 'Well, aren't we confident?' the stranger asked as he walked out of a portal directly before the lad. 'Xavier, right?' 'Who are you?' the boy asked. But something told him he already knew the answer, and he didn't need his impressive new seer powers or telepathy to tell him that. He was clearly a human like Xavier but was of similar size, similar power both physical and magical. 'What, did you think you were the first person who accidentally set a forest alight and massacred untold numbers of beings?' the stranger asked. 'I did it a thousand years ago.' '...You're the dark lord,' Xavier said in fear. 'A completely unjustified title, albeit not rightfully feared,' the stranger said as his adamantoise-scaled armor jostled with each of his enormous footfalls. 'But still, none had ever believed my pleas of innocent ignorance. But, child, I do not wish to be your enemy. As your level is so high you are no doubt the only other immortal being of human origin. At least I don't have to share immortality with those foolish elves.' 'Because I...' I began to say with severe regret. 'Perk up, Xavier,' he stated with a smile as he put an enormous hand upon my shoulder. 'You have surely seen that you can revive this devastated forest. The same is true of those within. I've already been casting the resurrection spells and made sure to have them follow the flames, so none of them have remained dead for long.' I merely sighed in relief. 'And my master?' 'You don't need me to tell you of that fool Balthazar,' he said. 'Sending a boy to train in fire magic in forestland... Foolish bastard.' In fact, I did know. He was perfectly fine, albeit scarred by the sensation of his death and trying to understand what had happened. And he wasn't the only one... 'An army is coming for me,' I said in shock. 'Thousands of elves.' 'Is that all?' the stranger asked in a bored voice. 'They'll not avenge their own murders, they'll simply be sending good men to die.' 'Then what am I to do?' I asked him. 'Fight them?' 'If you so choose,' the stranger said as he handed me an enormous blade. 'Or flee or... Dare I say it, enslave them by either force of will or by dominating their minds with magic. It is entirely your choice. Whatever you choose, allow me to offer you my support of friendship. You know where I live and you are always welcome.' He then disappeared through another portal as I pondered my next move. Surely this couldn't go well for anyone involved... --- **Chapter 2 coming soon**

Ramses woke up to damp hands

I woke up to damp hands fretting over my forehead. A woman's face hovered above, her dark eyes filled with worry and fear. Scattered rays of sunlight pierced the reed-woven roof, making my eyeballs water. I rubbed the moisture away and tried to sit up, but the woman forced me down. "Who are you?" I asked. My tongue felt thick in my mouth. She gasped. "I'm your mother." I blinked. "Oh. What's my name?" My question made tears fall from her face. "Ramses, my dearest Ramses, what's the matter with you? Was it the sun? Did you hit your head?" Those words brought a phantom hammer blow upon my skull, but Ramses--or rather, I--suffered no such thing. Then I remembered. Wriggling out from beneath her and before she could catch me, I darted across the yard to peer over a low mud-brick wall. In the distance lay, partially obscured by hazy heat, lay a gigantic structure, a sharp-cornered mountain made by human hands. About one-third of its top was still missing, the titanic stone blocks used to build it still being ferried to the site by thousands of builders. And just today, one of them had had the unfortunate luck of being underneath a loose, tumbling block from the building. Seb was no more. Ramses, however, still had a full life ahead of him. "Son, you really should lie down." My mother came to my side and held up a sheet of papyrus filled with hieroglyphs. "And I found this under you. When did you learn to write? Even I cannot read half of this strange ... contract." I put on the biggest smile I could muster and took it from her hands. "Only a child's toy." *** The crowd below jeered as the soldier dipped a sponge into a jar of soured wine, the sort they sometimes splashed upon the wounds of prisoners they really hated. Lucky for me, they hadn't bothered to do anything more than to nail my hands to a wooden cross. The pain wasn't nice, but I had to tolerate it for only a few hours more, by my estimation. And then I'd be sitting in the lap of some fat midwife, or running around with children in a dusty desert market. Despite my general indifference to the idea of death, having seen more civilizations die through the years than I could remember, the man beside me was dealing with it a lot better than I'd expected. Sure, I'd heard the stories, but most of these prophet types broke down just like the next man when it came stoning time or something. I called out to him, "Anyone you'd like me to look after once you're gone? Not meaning to brag or anything, but I'll still be here next week, in the body of a five year old." He turned one bruised eye toward me. "Thank you, but that won't be necessary. My people are in good hands. In fact ... I know all about your gift, Gideon Bar-Machum. All the way back to when you were Seb. Be grateful and do better in your next life." Icy sweat trickled down the back of my neck. "You're lying. Who do you think you are, talking to me that way? If you're really as they say you are, save yourself. Save us too, while you're at it." "Quiet!" The other thief snapped, before striking up a conversation with the dying prophet. I drowned out their voices, thinking over what I'd just been told. He'd known. Somehow, he'd known. *** Not all my lives ended in wretched dishonor, of course. Gasping for breath, I pried at the arrow shaft sticking out of my chest. The pain was incredible, even for someone accustomed to it as to an old friend. Lying there on the forest floor, I suddenly thought back to a previous life, when I'd befriended an elephant and lived almost my whole life in the depths of a rainforest. It had been peaceful. I'd been happy. My companion dashed up to me, stricken with horror. He threw his bow aside and bent to clasp my hand. "Benedict, I'm so sorry, I thought you were the deer!" I coughed, blood pouring from my lips. "Thomas ... look after ..." Sometimes, I died from entirely preventable accidents. *** "Who are you?" Thomas cried, shying away in his hovel, his dirty grey hair and beard almost perfectly disguising his face. But I remembered. "An old friend, come to settle a debt," I said, sweeping my feathered hat from head as I dropped a clinking bag onto his bed. "I have come to know that my dear sister Mary has grown up to be a beautiful, graceful, kind and loving woman, soon to be wed to a good man in her hometown, all because her foster father had been all those things to her, and more. Thank you." Thomas whispered, "Benedict?" But I swept out of his home without giving an answer. *** Many might think, in the record of my life story, that war, accidents and murder killed me more than any other thing. But those people never quite understood what it was like living during a plague. On occasion, I lived for less than a year after my rebirth. *** "What's that you got there, Davout?" Jacques asked me. With a start, I quickly rolled up the piece of paper I'd been staring at. Of late, during the evening lulls when the cannon-fire died down, and the regiments could finally give in to their exhaustion, I had taken to reading it again, even though I knew the words by heart. "A letter to me," I said simply. "From whom?" A sly grin grew on his face. "Surely not Emmanuelle? She made her mind very clear, last time we saw her in Paris." I frowned at his tone, but my thoughts turned all the same toward a rosy-cheeked girl with hair like gold and eyes the color of a summer sky. She had said she wouldn't wait for a soldier--for sorrow lay that way, and she could never take that path. An urge grew in me, to rip the letter to shreds and scatter it into our campfire. Let it end here. Let me go to Emmanuelle, and we could retreat into the country, and give the rest of the world away to the warring powers. But as always, as though my fingers had their own mind, I tucked the letter safely into my pouch. There had been so many Emmanuelles. I'd had to bury so many of them, even after they'd buried me. *** The offensive began at dawn. I rose from the trench, howling for blood alongside my brethren. Our tanks began rolling out as well, tearing across the gutted terrain with frightening speed, their armaments already in full blast. On the fog-covered horizon, I spied the shifting forms--so many of them--of the British soldiers advancing on us. Tiny flashes of light signaled the discharge of their weapons, and I answered in kind. Then something exploded under my feet and I knew no more. *** "Another one, huh?" I emptied the rest of my coffee in a single pull just before sorting out a pile of documents that my boss had just dumped onto my table. All around me, fingers clacked on keyboards. I shivered as the echo of machinegun fire played in my head, and forced myself to read the applications we'd received. About halfway through the pile, I found a handwritten, crumpled letter addressed to one Sebastian Morris. My knotted hands shook as I held it closer to my face to read. The words had certainly come a long way from the pictures of birds and grass and suns, but the message was the same. I glanced over the top rims of my glasses at a photograph occupying a corner of my desk. Held in a simple wooden frame, it showed a man approaching his fifties with his arms around a similarly aged, somewhat dumpy woman. Standing around them, their four children--from teenaged Emma to uni grad Tommy--were showering them with a pile of rubbish like confetti. Everyone was laughing. I remembered that day at the studio--we'd spent hours trying to clean up the mess which the photographer hadn't known about and hadn't been pleased about. I remembered more than that. My wedding day with Sheila. Each child's birth. Jack's visit to the White House and how he'd met the president--he hadn't stopped talking about that for a week. The family's trip to Switzerland to celebrate Tommy's graduation--I'd almost broken a leg trying to ski after almost five centuries being out of practice. There were painful, heartbreaking moments inside there too, of course. Children falling sick. Being bullied at school. Fights, quarrels. Sheila's brief stay in the hospital after crashing her car. God, so many. Yet I knew nothing would hurt more than standing outside the gates of the cemetery, watching as they put my last baby into the ground. I'd never really had to go through that. And I never want to. "What's that, Seb?" my colleague Paul asked, as I ripped the letter up and threw it into a bin. "Nothing. Just a silly letter someone wrote in," I said. *** *Thanks for reading, hope that turned out ok. If you liked it, check out my for more stories!* *Edit: made a little change in something to maintain consistency*

Santa removed his spectacles and p

Santa removed his spectacles and patted his pockets until he found his favourite handkerchief -- the red one, with S.C lovingly stitched in white at the bottom corner. It was fraying around the edges, just like his relationship with the woman who had given it to him. Where had the excitement gone? They used to fly, snuggled close together, high into the Arctic sky, as the stars above them shone brighter than any city had ever dared. They used to make love on the backseat of the sleigh, as the reindeer lolloped and chewed on the fluffy clouds. But that was long ago. A different life, he sometimes thought. The closest they had come to making love in the last few years, was when Santa had been choking on a turkey bone, and Mrs Claus had had to perform the Heimlich manoeuvre. He hadn't found it in the least erotic back then, but as time pressed on, the memory was becoming increasingly more so. If it wasn't for the damn sherry! That sweet, wonderful sherry. No -- he hadn't touched a drop for two months, and wasn't about to start. He let out a long breath, then with slow precise circles, he wiped away the steam from his spectacles, careful not to leave a single smudge mark. He placed them back above his nose and leaned against his chair. He picked up the letter-opener in one hand, while shuffling through the big black mail bag with the other. He picked one out at random. A soft, white envelope. How unusual. "Oh dear, oh dear," he muttered, as he read the letter it contained. Once finished, he placed it down on the desk and took a few deep breaths. *It couldn't have been. No. Absurd!* He rummaged in the secret cabinet under his desk, until he found the red liquid -- vintage 1892. A fine year. He popped off the cork and took a long swig of the sweet sherry. Then, he replaced the top and put the bottle back. He'd ignore it. That's what he'd do. He picked up another envelope and tore into it. *Transformers*. *Nintendo*. Seemed like things hadn't changed in thirty years. He ticked the letter off and scribbled his signature, before popping it into a glass container and sending it down the chute for the elves to collect. He'd meant to pick up another envelope, but nothing was arriving between his fingers. He looked down, to see his hand hovering over the same, soft-white letter. He chewed on his lower lip for a moment, then suddenly snatched the letter from the table, and read it again. "Oh dear, oh dear," he panted. "What am I going to do?" Mrs Claus, who happened to be walking by at the time, peeked into the office. "Everything okay, dear?" "...just the stress of Christmas, my love. It will be an especially busy one this year." "Are you sure? You don't look well. You're sweating in that way you do when you've eaten one too many minced-pies." She narrowed her eyes and began scanning the room, looking for evidence. Santa dabbed at his forehead with his handkerchief; he was indeed drenched. "It's just from stress. Besides, it gives me a healthy shine," he mumbled, "like the reindeer." He paused for a moment. "Dear, will you come in here -- I could do with your opinion." Mrs Claus frowned, then trotted into the room, her eyes still darting about this way and that, searching for any tell-tale tinfoil. She sniffed. "You better not have been drinking! Or I swear-" "The door, please." "Oh," said Mrs Claus, her frown changing into a salacious smile as she closed the office door. "Is that why you're so hot? Well, about time!" "No, it's not that." "Oh," she said, disappointed but hardly surprised. It's not like he was ever up to the task these days, anyway. "I didn't want to tell you," he said. "I didn't want you to fret. But... well, read this," Santa said, passing the letter to his wife. Her face went pale, as the blood drained from it. When finished, she placed the letter back onto her husband's desk. "Well?" said Santa. "A hoax." "A hoax?" "Well, it must be. Someone pretending it was meant for Satan, someone just trying to scare you." Santa started to run a thoughtful hand through his beard, but it got stuck in a knot half way down. He tried to pull his hand out, but only made things worse and soon half his arm was lost in the bristly jungle. "You know better than to do that," Mrs Claus said, tapping an impatient foot on the ground. "Oh, for Heaven's sake"--she began walking around the table--"here, let me." Together, they slowly worked his arm out of the thick, grey nest. For a moment there was silence. "I think it's real. Feel the paper," said Santa. "I did feel it, I don't--" "It's angel wing." "No... it can't be," replied his wife, now starting to sweat herself. "It is. And the name, the signature. *Belphegor*. That's the name of one of his generals. And then, there's the matter of the red ink..." Mrs Claus hand's trembled as she took the letter again, rereading it very carefully. > Greetings from Heaven, lord Santa. I write to you with wonderful news -- Heaven has finally fallen! Hallelujah and praise the -- oh wait, ahahaha! The Angel's will rot in their cells until you arrive and decide their fate. God is in Hell-Fury chains -- I can hear him rattling them impotently, even as I write. Once you arrive and oversee our great work, I will prepare our army for the final mission: the extermination of humanity. > Greatly anticipating your arrival. > Belphegor Santa reached into the cabinet, pulled out the bottle and handed it to Mrs Claus. She looked at him suspiciously for a moment, then took three long swigs. She wiped her mouth with her sleeve, and clanked the bottle down onto the table. "Heaven has fallen to the Devil. And humanity is next," said Santa. "It's hopeless. It's all over. It's all over!" "Calm yourself, dear," said his wife, slapping his cheek and causing it to become even brighter than before. "...thank you, sweetie," he said, nursing his cheek. "I perhaps overreacted." "This letter," mused Mrs Claus, as she placed it back onto the table, "was meant for Satan." "Yes..." "So, that means he hasn't read it yet. He doesn't *know* Heaven has fallen, yet." "No. Not yet." "Don't you see, sweetheart?" she said, her eyes wide. "See what?" "That gives us *time*! A chance." "You don't mean..." Mrs Claus nodded. "We couldn't possibly!" "Why not? We have the factories. We have the elves. God needs *our* help!" "It would take weeks for the factories to be able to start manufacturing weapons. To train the elves. To ready the reindeer for war. We'd miss Christmas!" "But, it can be done?" "I suppose it can," he agreed, running a hand through his beard again. This time, he made it to the end without it getting snagged. He let out a surprised, satisfied grunt. "There was a time," said Mrs Claus, "when Christmas meant more than spoiled children getting an extra present or two. When *we* meant something." "...hope," he said, his eyes glazing. "We meant *hope*." "Soon -- when those Hell spawns come for them -- children across the globe are going to need *hope* more than ever before. You'll be that shining red star in the sky that they'll be cheering for." They were both silent for a moment. "We might die," he said. "We might not," she replied. Santa looked up at the ceiling, his mouth dropping open slightly. What was the point of him living anyway, if humanity fell? Mrs Claus dropped a hand onto his thigh; he jumped. "Belphegor will write Satan a new letter," said Mrs Claus slyly, "while you prepare the elves." "Belphegor? Why would he write another letter?" "I mean *me*, you handsome, dimwitted dolt. I will pretend to be Belphegor, and inform Satan that the battle was a disaster. To not bother going up there." "My goodness! Did I... did I ever tell you that you're both beautiful and brilliant? That might just buy us the time we need. If we can free Heaven before he arrives..." "Yes," said Mrs Claus, putting a leg over her husband and straddling him, "it's almost time for you to do some real sleighing." She winked. "Almost." Mr Claus' eyes sparked like they hadn't done in years and he felt an odd sensation. He would free the Angels. He would save God and liberate Heaven. He would go to war with the Devil himself! But first... He leaned forward and pressed his lips against his wife's.

The gathered crowd was a ragtag

The rowdy crowd rabbled. They rabbled in a rowdier manner than any rowdy crowd had rabbled before. "Order! Order within this hall!" shouted Mr. Hanner, the mayor of Stubbornsville. His voice reverberating around the rickety old hall. The gathered crowd was a ragtag bunch. Mainly dressed in old potato bags, mud, and, in some cases, old potato bags made of mud. They were also difficult to control and were prone to mob fever. But the rowdiness was quickly put to bed when the doors to the hall burst open. A woman, atop of the tallest horse the villagers had ever seen, entered and slowly trotted towards the front of the hall stopping just short of the stage. The lady unseated and descended from her high horse, slowly walking up the steps to the front of the stage. "Greetings, peasants," said the lady, lifting her arms aloft to greet the crown in a demeaning manner. "I come from the future and I'm here to tell you just how much better I am than you." The crowd didn't react. They just looked on confused. "Thought the whole future thing would have got a bigger reaction but let's move on," said the woman, pacing around the stage. "How can I be a superior person just like you, I hear you ask. Well, I have one word for you: Veganism," said the woman, in an incredibly condescending and preachy tone. "Are you the person who has been putting all those pictures of gross dead animals on the bulletin board?" asked one of the gathered peasants. "The pictures with the words on top and bottom." "Yes, that was I," announced the lady, clearly proud of the fact. "I assume this has already converted hundreds of you to my way of thinking as it is a fool-proof strategy in the year 2017." "The pictures on the bulletin board worked on me," admitted Maureen, fourth row middle of the isle, wearing a muddy potato sack. "I could only stomach half of my dog after seeing one of the pictures." The lady looked towards the Mayor, "Wait, why are your people eating dogs?" "Why are you eating your dogs, Maureen?" asked the Mayor, looking to get to the bottom of this case. "The dog was organic if that makes a difference," said Maureen. "No," said the lady. "No that does not make a difference." "Are cats OK to eat if your veganism?" another voice queried from the crowd. "I tend to eat cats." "He really does eat a lot of cats," added the Mayor. "No. Why would cats be OK if dogs are not? Veganism is about not eating any meat at all thus making you a superior person," explained the woman. "I don't understand," shouted a voice from the crowd. "What part do you not understand?" asked the vegan lady. The peasant woman in the crowd stood up, "I don't understand how not eating meat makes you a better person." "Humans do not need to consume meat," explained the vegan lady. "And by not eating meat, animals get to live free from cages allowing people like me to feel smug and better than others." "Can we eat animal if they are eating us?" asked the peasant lady who was still standing. "A bear stole my child. He knocked at door pretending to be kind neighbour. But it was all lie. A dirty bear lie." "There's just no way that's true," said the woman on stage. "I'm afraid it's true. It was easily a top 5 case of child being eaten by a cunning bear," said the Mayor, following up. "Some actually said top 3 but it was never agreed upon." "Listen, we're getting off track here, the idea is to not eat any animals under any circumstance. That is what separates us vegans from those who are quite clearly below us." "Are there any other ways we can feel superior to others while still eating meat?" asked the Mayor. "I just don't feel like veganism is going to work in this village." The lady on stage began to pace, deep in thought. "The issue is, it's difficult to be smugger than being vegan but there is something else. By a show of hands, how many of you exercise?" Around twenty hands went up in to the air. "So about a quarter of you exercise. That's good. Now, how many of you make sure you tell others about your exercising?" Every hand fell back down. "You see," said the lady, "how do you expect to feel better than others if you're not obnoxiously showing everyone how much better than them you are?" "My name Boris. I feel better after run," said Boris, shouting from the back. "Come on up, Boris," said the vegan lady, with Boris obliging. "When did you go on your run?" "Today," replied Boris. "And how many people are aware you went on your run?" "Zero." "Boris, what is the point of improving yourself if you aren't forcing it down the throats of people who aren't bothered? You're missing a key element of being better than everyone else. Take this piece of paper and write 'Wouldn't be able to live with myself if I didn't get out and run every day. Attack the day!'" Boris wrote the message. "Now pin it to that wall over there." Boris walked over to the wall in the hall next to the stage and pinned up the message. "Everyone look at that message," shouted the lady. Everyone turned to view the message. "Now, Boris, how do you feel knowing all of these people now know you went on your run?" Boris looked at the crowd viewing his message, "It makes me feel above them." "That's it!" shouted the lady, "This is what I'm telling you. It's not the exercise, the unwillingness to eat meat, or the genuine efforts to improve yourself that's important; it's letting other people know you're better than them that is the key." "I get it!" shouted a familiar voice from the crowd. "So all I have to do is let other people know I have eaten their dog." **** I write shitty, silly stories on /r/BillMurrayMovies. Feel free to come along, not laugh at any of them and leave some judgement.

"All in favour of sparing her

"All in favour of sparing her life, step forward!" I looked around the village square, but no one moved a muscle. The seconds rolled by, and the hope I held in my heart crumbled, only to be replaced by a sharp tang of bitterness, resentment. There was Peter, whose fever had yielded to her medicine, but he kept his eyes down, lips tightly pursed. I saw Nathan too, whose son may never have returned from his ventures into the forests if she had not tracked the child down, but he was as silent, unmoving as Peter was. Old Man Bosworth, the twins Jaina and Jerry, Valerie, Daniel... they too, everyone who had ever benefited in one way or the other from her help, all suddenly bereft of courage, unwilling to stand up for their benefactor. The bloody ingrates. "Do you see how everyone fears you, woman?" asked Chief Lanson, shaking his staff at the figure kneeling on the ground, hands tied behind her. "We tolerated you, gave you a place to call home, and this is how you repay us? By bringing this evil magic into our village?" "I am not evil," Matilda said, her voice carrying to the edges of the crowd. "I have done no harm to the village. I have only helped." "Helped? Helped?" said Chief Lanson, his voice rising in anger. He turned to the crowd, stretched out his arms, then said, "Evil fears the light, foul creature. I shall show the village proof, proof of your heresy! I will show them the forbidden evils we found in your hut! Come, show them!" Fred and Richard, two of the strongest farmers in the village, retrieved a wooden chest from within Chief Lanson's hut. They struggled even though the load was shared between them, and after they placed the evidence in front of Matilda, they took hurried steps backwards, leaving Chief Lanson the honour of opening the chest. He rummaged briefly, then retrieved what appeared to be a marble slate, dark and smooth on one side, white and pristine on the other. He held it triumphantly in the air, revelling in the reactions he was getting. "Has anyone ever seen a rock like this?" he asked. "I promise you, no one has!" "It's not right of you to have gone into my hut like that," said Matilda. "Oh? And if we had not done so, if we had not suspected you of carrying out the dark one's work, would we ever have discovered foul things such as this?" "I don't know what you are talking abou- " Chief Lanson squeezed the edges of the slate, and one side of it flared to life, emitting vibrant colours, as if someone had managed to trap a rainbow in stone. The crowd gasped, and I saw some of the adults shielding their children's eyes. "If we had not been suspicious, if we had not known to spy on you, would we have discovered your secrets, witch?" said Chief Lanson. He turned the slate towards us, then said, "Listen! Listen with your own ears! This is her! The devil masquerading as a human! Listen to the unholy mission she is on!" He needn't have commanded us in that manner. We were enraptured, spellbound by the moving images on the slate, of what appeared to a... doppelganger of Matilda, staring out at us, speaking to us. I heard whispers rise up, words like "impossible", "there's two of her", "a soul, trapped in marble". We fell silent though, once the Slate-Matilda began speaking. "42nd entry - no new developments in weeks. The search goes on," Slate-Matilda said. Her unruly hair was tied back, and there was a steadiness to her voice, a clarity to her eyes which wasn't usually there. This was not the Matilda we knew, the soft-minded, chattering and hyperactive Matilda we saw roaming the village from morning to night. It began to dawn on me that it was all an act. "I don't understand!" said Slate-Matilda, throwing up her hands. "The historical records are clear! The Influencer came from these parts, and I have narrowed it down to this village! I did not travel this far back in time in vain! Yet... yet I have met with all of them, talked to each and every one, but no one, no one stands out! I have run my tests, checked my equipment over and over, but still, not a single one displays even a modicum of psychic powe-" "And these are the witch's tools, by her own admission!" yelled Chief Lanson. He kicked the chest over, and its contents spilled across the ground, next to Matilda. An excited hum rose amongst the crowds as they feasted their eyes on the unnatural objects, the shiny, glinty collection of baubles created by the devil's own hands. "Answer me!" Chief Lanson continued, striking his staff into the ground for emphasis. "Tell me why I should not have you burned here, right where you are!" Matilda raised her head, stared straight at the crowd. Most of them still had the decency to shuffle and squirm, but still no one intervened. "I have done no harm to anyone," said Matilda. "It is true, I kept secret the real reason why I was here, and I did not tell anyone why it is that I know what I know. But I have only meant well. I have shared my medicines, I have imparted my knowledge... I only asked for a bit of solace as I conducted my research. I meant no harm." "Enough! Stop your lies, right this instant!" Chief Lanson said. He struck with his staff, hitting Matilda on the shoulder. I saw her tumble forwards, her forehead striking the ground. "To me! Bring the torches! We will burn her where she is!" Fred and Richard complied, and as they inched towards Matilda, torches in hand, blank expressions on their faces, I waited again, hoping someone would do something, anything. I pulled on the sleeves of those around me, begging them to step forward. But they shrugged me off, transfixed. No one was going to listen to a boy who was still too young to shave. More importantly, no one was going to listen to their hearts, their consciences. I heard Matilda cry out, though from pain or fear I was not sure. The torch was inches away, but Matilda could not twist free, as tight as her bonds were. I grit my teeth, then did a quick headcount. Two dozen, maybe more. There were children too, and if I had more time I would have thought twice about whether they were as sturdy as the adults, whether they could recover as quickly. But I was out of time, and so I stepped forward, clenched my eyes, focused on a single word, and poured every shred of energy I had into it. I had never exerted myself so much before. *SLEEP* I knew it had worked when I heard the steady thuds of comatose bodies hitting the floor. I opened my eyes, and I saw that some of Matilda's other possessions on the ground had lighted up, flashing an incandescent array of colours. I pushed past the crowd, pulled Matilda up, shifted her weight onto me. She struggled to keep her eyes open. "I... I was right..." she said, smiling. "It... it is real..." "Later," I said. "We have to go, now. There's a lot we have to talk about." To better cope with Matilda's weight, I borrowed Chief Lanson's staff. From the way he was sleeping peacefully on the ground, it didn't seem like he needed it. --- /r/rarelyfunny

The first peaks of Lankar sh

The miles between them had come and gone, leaving scars and wounds and memories and laughs. The horizon that day was clear, and the world fell into green and yellow, and far away were the mountains, and everything was cloaked in a dream. They had come far. The first peaks of Lankar shimmered in an ephemeral haze. "We've made it," Keldar said. "Not yet." Annastatia was worn, cut and bruised. Her eyes had dimmed some, but even the terrors of the Void had receded for the moment. She was in the present then, looking ahead, same as them all. None had seen the mountain before. Alton had not believed in it. Haldar had said they would die before they ever crossed the river. Now he stared with timeless eyes, eyes which had seen things from the Darkness. Eyes which had seen the birth of his kin from the still mirror waters of the Endless Caves. Those eyes had seen more than Haldar could ever have imagined. "I guess it does exist," Alton said. He clapped Haldar on the back. An uneasy feeling overcame him with the touch. *It feels like him,* he thought. And his thought travelled in the wind of the Void, that invisible world which held all the unknown things, the things that caused madness. "Yes," Annastatia said. She looked at Haldar. "What?" said Keldar. She shook her head. They were weary and made camp on the hill. For the days past they had slept during the day, marched in the night. Their bodies were worn and tired, a piece of them all left behind in the Grey River. *The price was worth it,* Keldar thought. He was an older man, a knight in youth, and now his world had gone and he was alone but for adventure. *Is it?* He could not answer himself and the question lingered, unanswered by even Annastatia. They were quiet there on the hill. Midday came with a scarce lunch and perfunctory talk. "I've never been so far," said Alton. They agreed. Home had sunk away like the dying sun, and this endless night of the unknown still had miles yet to go. "We're alive though," Keldar said. "Yes," Annastatia said. They looked at Haldar. Behind those eyes were the midnight of malice. But that malice reflected the sun, and then it was blue and immediate and true. "I made it," Haldar said. "Barely by the skin of my leather, but I made it." In the Grey River there were ancient cliffs, hills and holes. There amidst that pocked earth lived the unknown things, the things which embraced the Darkness. In that place Haldar had fallen into the murky waters of the Grey River and its currents had taken him. His screams had pierced the Void then, echoing even on the hill they now camped on. Annastatia winced and she saw the time as it floated past in the forever winds of that realm. "Help!" Haldar cried. Her hand held her staff. Every inch of her was prepared to hold it for him to grab on to. She saw it happening, feeling his weight and the rescue. And yet she hesitated. "Help!" She had remembered the times before. His hand caressing hers, teasing some unwanted strength, threatening in the vaguest of ways. And even then his thoughts were certain of his foul desire. And so the river had taken him and they all had watched. They had let it happen as the waters surrounded him in an opaque cover, the burial of some unwanted pest, and they feigned the mourning as all good friends should do. Then they were three. But he had come back. The first trees were tall and skinny and gave little shade. Their slanting shadows were bars as they passed, looking like prisoners in a dream world, and then from that shifting prison, Haldar had come, wet and worn. The Grey River had taken much from him, he said, and he was different, completely different. "I left more of my soul there than you," he said. They looked at him and knew what he was, or what he wasn't. That night they discussed it in secret, and decided they would bide time before doing what must be done. Three days had passed since then, but that time still had not come. Sleep overcame them and they rested awhile. The falling sun awoke them to a red and orange sky and their shadows spilled past the hill. "Statia," Alton said. He was stretching. "Yes?" "I've had a bad dream. Worse than any of the others before." "Was it of your past? The stealing in your mother's house?" "No. No it was..." She saw his face. She touched his head and the after images of the fading dream kindled within her. Haldar stared beneath a blackened sky, alone and afraid. All around a great water rushed him, surrounding him with its endless sound. The dream faded and she recoiled. "I... I have no remedy," she said. She looked at Haldar. The thing which pretended to be him looked at her and smiled. Though shifters like him were not connected as strongly to the Void, she could feel his thoughts in the air, like some distant food that has long been eaten. *He means me no malice. Not like his...* Victim. But she could not say the word. Keldar walked to Haldar and put his hand on his shoulder. "How is your wound?" "Better now," Haldar said. *He feels the same*, Keldar thought. *He really does.* Then they packed their things and prepared for another night of walking. Lankar glittered in the night like some crystal, and yet soft as home's bed sheets on a cold night. "What's there again?" Haldar asked. He looked at them to see if any suspected. He thought they did. He thought he should kill them, but living in the black had not tainted his heart. *Never have I seen such beauty as her.* And in the moonlight Annastatia was some Queen, the kind of which no longer walks this world. Some distant being, ghost-like and tender, and yet strong and hardy with eyes opened into the real world. *But she is Keldar's.* And he felt sad. He felt the light on him and looked up. *I should kill them and have her to myself.* But she would die first before such things could happen. She would kill him then surely. They already considered the deed. He closed his eyes. The light painted him with a warmth the others could not feel. *They have not lived in the dark,* he thought. *They are human. Weak and ignorant of the Dark, for they know not of such things.* "Lankar," Alton said. "The mountain of Dreams. There, as legend goes, is the Spring of Dreaming. One sip of its water will change you. It will make whatever is in your heart come true." "It can change the world physically?" "No," said Annastatia. "But it will change *you*. It will change the spirit so that what you hold dearest will come true in a way of its own. It is not a place of wishes." "It is like the Grey River then?" Haldar asked. "Yes, in a sense. But it does not take. It gives and cleanses." Then they were quiet. In their hearts they were uneasy. Haldar's death weighed immensely on them. *The Spring will clean me,* Keldar thought. Annastatia held him. Her face was pretty in the white light and he looked at her and loved her anew once more. He put his arm around her. *I am an evil man,* he thought. She looked at him with those sad eyes of hers. *If that be true, then so are we all my love.* He squeezed her hand. *What hope is there then? This guilt weighs too heavy on me.* *The Spring, as you've thought. The Spring is our only hope. Haldar was a fool. The River took him of its own choosing. His heart was black, blacker than this imposter.* "I like you," Alton said to Haldar. "I don't know if you understand, but I'll be truthful. I like you." And Haldar, the thing, understood as much. It too had thoughts that raged in an incomprehensible storm. "I like you too," he said. "All of you." "Then may the Spring save us," Keldar said. And they marched in silence as the night slowly passed. - *Hi there! If you liked this story, please consider my subreddit r/PanMan. It has all my WP stories as well as some original ones. I'm slowly working on it and getting it to look nicer, so I promise it will look better soon. Thank you!*

Confoundus tried to appear defeated

"Too bad, Confoundus, looks like my will was again too strong for your feeble powers" said Artillerella with satisfaction, before making a gun gesture with her index finger and thumb and pretending to blow smoke off it. It was her signature move, and Confoundus would happily let himself take a thousand of her easily avoidable inferno bombs to the face just to see it one more time. As he was led away in handcuffs, Confoundus tried to appear defeated and angry, Artillerella loved a bit of anger. He couldn't let her see how happy he really was, it'd break her heart. Artillerella had come around around at a hard time in Confoudus' life, a time when he found himself struggling for purpose, being a terrifying being that the entire world feared had really grown rather boring. He found himself watching "*A Hero Emerges, the Hero Academy Inside Story*" on TV more and more over the years, looking at the new blood, hoping against hope that finally there'd be someone to challenge him. But every time someone looked promising: Cyclonia, Septeroid, even that overhyped windbag Heatwave, they always ended up the same: cocky, drug-addled layabouts who just went for the easy, weak villains, posed for some newspaper photos and backed down the second any villain worth their salt made a challenge. Then came Artillerella. She wasn't particularly strong, her only power other than the standard flight, enhanced reflexes etc. was her ability to create meteor-like orbs between her hands and hurl them at her opponents. They exploded with an impressive flash, and looked dazzling to watch, but unfortunately they took a long time to charge, were easy to dodge and really weren't all that useful in actual combat. Nevertheless she'd captivated Confoundus, she was brave. While Heatwave and his gang of celebrity hangers on partied in a nightclub, she challenged Arachniarch, a villain at least five times her strength, as he threatened to unleash his horde of spiders on an orphanage. Of course she lost the fight, but she'd fought valiantly, and Confoundus was disheartened to see Heatwave wipe the cocaine off his nose and fly in at the last moment to nab the glory, barely managing to defeat the significantly weakened Arachniarch. Artillerella wasn't even mentioned in the news article the next day. He fell in love with her. Her coy smile, her little blowing-smoke-off-the-gun victory move, the way she fought with such passion in battle. She was everything he'd ever dreamed of. And so one day, the long-feared return of Confoundus came, it had been oh-so-satisfying to smack down the pompous upstarts that had risen to international fame as the so-called strongest heroes. He beat the best, then the second best, and before long all the remaining heroes cowered in fear. All but one, Artillerella. Of course Confoundus could have snapped her mind in two in an instant with his psychic powers, but when he looked at that determined grimace framed by that wavy red hair, he just... couldn't bring himself to do it. "NO, how can this BE?" he'd said, theatrically. "My powers" Confoundus had continued, waving his arms like a madman "Your will, it's too strong, my powers can't touch you..." And that was when the inferno bomb hit him. Such sweet pain, the burning fury of such a sweet honest soul coalesced into a scorching, searing agony that only he could love. He wanted it again and again. And so he escaped from prison, and so she, again, "defeated" him. And again. And again and again and again. This was capture number... nine? Confoundus was pretty sure. "Best one yet" he thought to himself "she's honest to goodness putting up a fight now, might be one day I don't have to fake it anymore. His daydream was shattered. "Confoundus, you pathetic old shite" a self-superior sounding British voice yelled from above him. "I've never liked you if I'm honest, but lucky for you we're on the same team, so I'll help you out of this one." Shimmer. A pompous villain who carried two daggers and had the ability to move with astounding speed, even for someone with powers. "Shimmer!" Artillerella's melodic yet firm voice called, as she flew over to protect the police officers escorting Confoundus away. "Get out of here, or do you want a visit to the burn ward, too?" Shimmer laughed. "The burn ward? Oh come on. Maybe I'd have let it slide if I hadn't just heard that *exact* line from Pyrogladiator yesterday. Every fire hero's been using that one, for decades. Seriously, you're a rookie, let Confoundus go and maybe I won't slash you up too badly." Shimmer said threateningly, holding one of his daggers up to the light. "Don't know if you've noticed" Artillerella said with a smile "But my arrest profile doesn't exactly seem too 'rookie' to me. A few years ago even you would be running away from Confoundus, and now I've got him wrapped around my little finger." there was that coy smile Confoundus loved so much. "Now do what you do best, Shimmer" Artillerella said confidently "And run on home" "OK that's it" Shimmer said, turning to Confoundus. "Seriously? You let *her* take you down? Have you heard these lines? Is it possible to kill yourself with psychic powers? Because if I were you I would have tried by now." "Enough!" Artillerella yelled, as a glowing sphere lit up between her hands. Nobody even saw the next move, Shimmer flashed through the air around the orb and slashed at Artillerella with his dagger. Artillerella was by no means a weak hero, but Shimmer was probably the third or fourth most powerful villain in the world, even Confoundus himself wouldn't have found him to be an easy win. Blood spattered across the pavement and Artillerella fell from the sky. Confoundus felt tears form in his eyes as he heard her body thump against the ground, and half-heard some witty retort from Shimmer before he sped away. "My love" Confoundus said, his voice cracking. "My love why did he do this... why?" The police had long since fled when Shimmer showed up, and so no-one was there to watch Confoundus weep as Artillerella's blood seeped out onto the pavement. EDIT: I'm very glad people liked this so much, I'll begin writing the continuation immediately after I finish this edit. I'm so happy to have a post of mine get this much attention on this sub, I don't have a subreddit or anything but my comment history is a few more of my writing prompts (I made this account to post on this sub) if anyone feels like reading them. EDIT 2: Part 2 is up, I replied to the original story with my continuation. Hope it lives up to expectations, I wrote as fast as I could while still trying to maintain quality.

Before her, no hero had never

Part 1 | --- Winning is everything. At least that's what I had thought until I met Sasha. Before her, no hero had never lived past our encounter. Union City had fallen completely under my control and within two days of meeting her, I had given all of that up. Sasha was not powerful. She could move faster, punch harder, and jump higher than most, but so could every other hero I faced. If she had a true superpower, it would be her luck. How else could she find the right words at the right time to save her life? "C'mon," she had growled the first time we met. Thunder had rumbled like God growling with her. I wouldn't have minded. It would've made an even playing field. Mud had clung to her face as rain pattered her hair. Blood had seeped from the stomach wound I had given her. I had never gotten one myself, but I had given plenty. They looked like they really hurt. "It wouldn't take too much for me to just leave, to turn around and let you be," I had told her. At one point, that had been my favorite phrase, a victorious remark at the end of battle. Lately, it had gotten rather tiring. Everyone always responded with different variations of living to fight another day. "You think I'm done?" she had said, one hand pushing against the ground, the other clutching her wound. I had stared at her. Never before had I met such an idiotic hero. "You think you can still fight?" She had glared at me, the edges of her lips curled to a dagger's point. "Who else will?" And those had been the words. I had gotten tired of the same battles with the same heroes and the same victory speeches. No hero had ever stood up to me past this point and I doubted any hero ever would again. So for the first time in my life, I had spared a hero. I had walked away as her life had slowly drained out of her wound and she had crumpled back into the mud. --- The Girl that Survived. That's what the newspapers called her. According to Union Daily, she was transported to a hospital where the doctors had managed to stitch her up. Unfortunately, they didn't think she would make it. I sighed. Perhaps she wasn't so special after all. With nothing else to do, I decided to rob a bank. Metro Bank was Union City's largest bank and the only one I had yet to rob. I had planned on making an event out of this one, saving it for some special hero, but that girl was currently in a hospital dying from wounds I had given her. So might as well cross this one off my list. "Morning," I announced, slamming open the doors. "I'm here to take everything." The security guards froze, their eyes wide and faces pale. There were four of them in total and each held an assault rifle, their fingers itching on the trigger. "Now I wouldn't do that if I were you," I told them. "No hero will save you now." To my surprise, they listened. All four dropped their weapons and put up their hands. For a second, I couldn't breathe. I simply stared. "Sir," the bank teller said, snapping me out of my stupor. "No need to break the vault, I'll open it for you." I followed her as she opened the vault and stepped aside. Inside the vault wasn't just cash, but also security boxes, each one containing the blood, sweat, and tears of a Union City citizen. And they just gave it to me. I turned to question the teller but she was already back on the main floor, hands on her head and nose to the ground. "What the hell?" I muttered, half-heartedly grabbing a brick of cash. The biggest, best guarded bank in Union City and this was what its robbery had become. Pathetic. "Stop!" a familiar voice screamed. My lips curled into a smile and I turned to see Union City's last hero. "If it isn't The Girl who Survived," I said, clapping my hands. "I go by Sasha." She limped toward me, a knife in one hand while balancing against the wall with the other. "You're going to fight me in that state," I said, my brow crunched. "Should I be impressed or insulted?" She returned me the indomitable look that first convinced me to spare her and a crescent grin cut across her lips. "Why not both?" And she charged. Her movements came sluggish. Every strike was telegraphed and seemed to hurt her just to swing it. After a minute, without even fighting back, she was on one knee, her teeth grinding together as she clutched her stomach wound. "You really are a lunatic," I said, stepping up to her. "You have that kind of wound and you want to stop me?" "Yeah, I'm the lunatic," she said, shaking her head. "Not the bank teller who gave you access into these vaults. Not the security guards who refused to lift a finger to protect what Union City had trusted with them. Not you who robs banks even though you never pay for anything in the first place!" She sprung up, blade-first. I dodged the strike and returned one to her stomach. The blow forced a yelp out her throat before she crumpled to the floor, grabbing at her wound. Even I had felt the pain in that one. "You hesitated," she said, shaking. "You've gone soft." I forced a laugh. "I'm just playing with my food." She flung her blade my way. I jerked my head to the side just as its tip grazed by. It stuck into the wall with a metallic thud and ring. A drop of blood crawled down my cheek. "Too bad," she said, standing on trembling legs. "Because I won't hesitate. I promise you that." For the second time today, my breath stopped. It would've taken only a single blow to finish this, to completely rule Union City, but I couldn't do it. If Union City had anything of value left, it was glaring right at me. --- The Girl who Won. Whoever was writing the Union Daily read too much Harry Potter. But it was true. Sasha had forced my retreat and defended the contents of Union Bank. The doctors were still unsure of her recovery, but I was certain she'd be back. She had promised. A girl like her would never break a promise. I took on a disguise and waited. I didn't rob banks, didn't get into fights, I even stopped at crosswalks to wait for the flashing white stick figure. Every now and then, I would pay Sasha a visit. I would peer through hospital windows, listen to the hushed conversations of doctors, and even admitted myself to take the room next to her's. "Mr. Dunley," the nurse said, chart in hand. "You have a special visitor." "Visitor?" Given that Mr. Dunley was a made-up name with made-up friends and family, I doubted anybody would want to see me. "Yeah," Sasha said, stepping into the room and dragging along an IV drip. "Could you give us some privacy?" she asked the nurse. "Of course." The nurse nodded and left. Sasha closed the door behind her. "What is this?" she asked me. "You getting lonely now?" "I'm sorry," I told her in a feeble voice. "I'm not sure you have the right person. I think I've seen you in the papers, though I haven't done much reading lately on account of the glaucoma in the right eye." "Cut the shit." "How'd you know?" "You're not half as clever as you think you are." "Fooled everyone else." "Anyone can fool these idiots," she said. "What are you doing here?" "Though I'd pay The Girl who Won a visit. See how you're healing up." "You stalk all the heroes?" She slipped a knife out of her hospital gown. "Or do you just have a crush?" I chuckled. The girl had an IV drip still plugged into her body and she had the audacity to challenge me. "You know you can't win, right? You never could." "You want me to look away while you do as you please? It would be smart wouldn't it? To be just like the security guards at Union Bank. I'd certainly live longer. But if you're right and I'm losing anyways, I'll do so on my feet." "Wouldn't you rather live to fight another day?" "Then who'll fight today?" A smile stretched through my face. My fingers trembled with excitement. "You're something else." Right then, I understood why villains had rivals. It had nothing to do with a power stalemate. There would always be one more powerful than the other. It was love. --- Part 1 | --- --- /r/jraywang for 200+ stories!

"Well, looks like you finally

Here's the thing about goodies: they tend to lose. It is with that knowledge that I had smirked up at the man who caught me. "Well, looks like you finally got me, David." Flashing my jackal's grin. I had figured out his secret identity long ago, and angering him with his true name pleased me. It was why I had chosen my villain alias: Goliath. "Looks like I did." There had not been a dent in his composure as the agents dragged me away. The responsibility of being the hero. And the weakness. But I knew my smirk had angered him. A smirk can contain many things. Cruelty - God knows I've taken joy in being the sadistic fuck, ever since I was tearing up plush toys in kindergarten. Defiance. As I had always defied Society and its ridiculous merits. Love. Not that David would ever acknowledge it, oh no, not the *great* Steeljaw. But he knew. His chiselled features had given nothing as I stared from the police vehicle, but his eyes always told the truth. Yes, I smirked all the way down the street, long after he was gone from sight. It was at this point that my cellmate interrupted me. "You're saying ye *loved* the bastard?" "Yeah, what's it to ya?" I snarled at him. He backed down quickly. They all knew I had some of my tech hidden away, even here, in jail. Some fuckwad with a high position had seen me put in a male facility. Resentment over a killed family, no doubt... I didn't keep tabs. But it was a pointless revenge. The inmates here would never touch me. Even these buffoons were too clever for that. "Nuthin, Goliath, nuthin." A glint in his eye. "But if ye loved him, why didn't ye join him?" Because I'm fucked up. Because love is, to me, little more than lust and pain, and pain means fighting. But I couldn't say that. "Because heroes lose." My cellmate nodded sagely at that, like he was some armchair philosopher and not the vermin of the street. "Not that outcomes matter to me all that much. I chose this path because I *like* it." I was rotten from the start. "Good and evil aside, when you play the hero, you take on responsibility. And that's where the weakness lies. How I've always been able to play him. How I'm playing him, even now." My cellmate's eyes lit up at that, scummy eagerness in his voice. "You hatchin' an escape, Goliath? You can tell ol' Scrimshaw, he can help." "Your help is the only reason I'm talking to you right now," I said, not bothering to hide my disgust. "Listen, Scrimshaw, I know all about your little gift. I have my tech, you have your... illusions." My cellmate nodded, dumb pride on his scabby face. He had been a painter once, a good one, before he got hooked on the meth. He was well on his merry way to the sewers, to die with the other drugrats... when some opiate experiments unleashed something in him. The ability to draw shadows, breathing, moving... living. "I've smuggled some charcoal in for you, Scrimshaw," I whispered, moving closer to his ear. Seductive. "And crystal, if you do the job right. You'll like that, won't you?" *You meth-head.* Scrimshaw nodded eagerly. "Tonight, you will draw some of your shadows, create some chaos, while I drill away in here. If you behave..." I left the rest unsaid. Druggies don't need more than a hint when it comes to using. -- That night, I headed back to my cell when the alarm started. I quickly used the embedded receivers under my skin, activating the mine-bots below my cell floor to resume their digging. A hole quickly opened up in the stone, unheard over all the noise, my mine-bots crawling out. Strangely, Scrimshaw was nowhere to be seen... but that didn't stop me. I jumped in. "Fuck Scrimshaw," I muttered, smirking my jackal's grin as I crawled on. I hadn't planned on leaving the old fool alive, anyway. He was a loose end that could be cut off. Ah, the conveniences of being a villain. Halfway down the tunnel, I heard the blaring of the alarms stop. No matter, I had already collapsed the part behind me. I continued, moving with ease in the space my mine-bots had created. Finally, I noticed the tunnel started sloping upwards. "About time," I grunted, hoisting myself up from the ground, feeling the grass, the fresh air, the- The hands, grabbing me as I emerged from the ground. Men in protective armour. Shouting voices. Lights, blinding me, fixed on me. I quickly realised that what little combat tech I had hidden on me was useless against such numbers. "Planning an escape, were we, Goliath?" I was blinded but instantly recognised the Warden's dry voice. "Too bad I've made my own little arrangement." And then, a different voice, close to my ear. "Ain't no one told ye I quit the meth, did they?" *Scrimshaw.* "I use *opiates* now, Goli, *opiates*. Ain't the same thing. It shows me things, it does. How to outsmart cunning bitches like you, fer example." A jab in my ribs, making me gasp for air. "Yes," the Warden's voice showed distaste. "Our friend here exchanged information about your escape for his own freedom." A pause. "Normally I wouldn't allow it, but I make exceptions..." His voice lowered to a threat. "Against those who murdered friends of mine." I was still gulping for air, struggling, when Scrimshaw whispered one last thing, close to my ear so only I heard it. "Shouldn't have told me about his real name, should ye, Goli? I wonder what Steeljaw - no, David, will do when he finds out I've killed his family. And that won't be no *illusion*." A punch in my stomach now, driving the air out of me so far I lost consciousness. When I woke up, the defences around me were considerably higher. And my tech was gone. "David," I croaked. "David..." I knew *exactly* what David would do if Scrimshaw got his family. He'd lose that well-controlled temper of his, the famous steel facade would crumble. And he'd start making mistakes. That's why I had never gone that far. My hands pounded against the insulated walls, and with my screams came the inset of realisation and despair. I would have to save him. And I would fail. Because goodies tend to lose. -- r/Writeful_heir

Ambiance made her debut against her

I remember when she came out to the scene, making her debut against my older half-brother, the Mad Hare. He wasn't the most powerful, but he was highly skilled with a special blend of gifts. Even some of the more senior heroes had some difficulty battling against his illusions *and* heightened speed. But not her. Not Ambiance. One of her powers perfectly countered his, as she could blanket the area around her with a soothing aura, making those within it feel at peace. She was the ideal hero, a Special with a unique gift and soon she was world renowned. After a couple years on the scene, the Mad Hare finally had a proper rival, and she was captivating. Then there was me, the younger brother nobody could even remember, as I was gifted with the incredible power to alter the memories of anybody I touched. Even my own brother didn't know of my gift. He thought he was the powerhouse of the family, and I let him - and the world - believe that. I worked better in the shadows. Within a year of my powers manifesting, I had every world leader in my back pocket, and all in secret. I was invincible, unstoppable, and even my own brother barely remembered my existence from time to time. The world was mine, and nobody knew. Ambiance, though, she was something else. She had the "standard" Specials set of powers: increased strength, speed, endurance, and some flight, but nothing spectacular. She could pick up a car, and match could barely reach the speed of sound in flight, but she had extensive training under some of the best heroes in the world. I know, because I asked her, and that was when I fell in love with her. Before you hate me for manipulating the world's favourite heroine, I didn't. I couldn't bring myself to. Not at first. Not directly. We met at college, of all places. Speech. Because, really, when it came down to it, that's what both of our powers revolved around. Talking to others. And of course we talked to each other. We even started dating after a while! Oh, my brother would've been **livid** if he was ever able to find out! The son of one of the greatest villains to have ever lived, dating the world's most beloved heroine! And, here was the real kicker: I led a double life. When my brother was captured, Ambiance didn't have any real villains to fight. Crime in our city was dwindling, save for a small handful of exceptionally deranged villains (including my brother), and so Ambiance would travel further and further away. Seeing my girlfriend travel increasing distances to face a multitude of villains caused me too much stress, so I fabricated a new villain to face her. "Terror" I dubbed him. Born to be Ambiance's anti in every conceivable way, but never able to defeat her. He could whip people into a frenzy, cresting riots, promoting paranoia and uncertainty amongst the common citizens of our home. It took great effort on my part, as I had to carefully plan everything hours, days, sometimes even weeks ahead. As powerful as I was, I still had to touch people for my ability to work. And that was the only time I manipulated my girlfriend, to disguise myself and make sure she would never be able to connect me to "Terror", so long as I was in costume as him. Any other time, I was just me to her. For over a year things went this way. I kept her mostly within the city, as I would always make sure at least one of her rogues gallery were free at a time. Sometimes I felt bad about the deception, but careful planning on my part meant that nobody in the city was ever in any real danger. I took great effort in making sure of that. But I was blinded by my love, and I failed to realize I had turned our city, our home, our safe haven into a gigantic stage play, with I as the director and Ambiance as the star. Until *he* returned. That vile, evil man, who tortured my brother and I, who murdered my mother for trying to take us away from his evil teachings. The worst plague the world has ever known, the *real* terror: Ruin, King of Villains. It was impossible for him to even be here. The first thing I did when my powers manifested was make him forget who he was. I made him forget everything. And yet, here he was, standing in the middle of my university, calling out my name. Luckily, Ambiance wasn't around. She was off helping people recover from a natural disaster as both a college student and her more heroic persona. Good. She wouldn't be a match for Ruin. Only three heroes ever were, and even then, only temporarily. Ruin always came back. He was a blight upon the world. And this time I wasn't going to let him survive. As the school was being evacuated, I slipped away and changed into my Terror costume. If Ambiance came back before I was done with my father, I didn't want her to know the truth of my identity. She might come to hate me, hate my blood, and everything would fall apart. But before I could make it put into the campus center to face my father, she was already there. My heart sank. I sensed an end to the world I had carefully crafted for the last seven years. Ambiance was hovering a few feet in the air above Ruin, pushing her powers to the max. But it was no use. Ruin's power was satanic, it was beyond comprehension, beyond anything. He breathed pain and hysteria. His aura emanated despair and suicidal ideation. Ruin had a number of psychic abilities at his command, chief among them his ability to twist the powers of other Specials. And I could sense the change occurring in Ambiance. Her face contorted, her eyes going wild. Her power wasn't just being turned against her, it was being used to amplify Ruin's own power. He quickly realized this and laughed as he pushed his entire will upon my love. "Enough!" I shouted, charging out into the open, my Terror costume only half on. Ambiance turned, slowly, and saw my face, and the rest of her will disapated as the whole truth came crashing down on her in conjunction with my father's terrifying powers. But it would be fine. I would leave, to go live in the shadows again, alone, Ambiance would be heartbroken, but she would heal in time. I had to give her that much. I loved her, after all. "Father! I'm here. You're after me, not these people, not another hero, only me. Your revenge is with me, and me alone." I challenged. Ruin's attention snapped to me, locking eyes, and fury burned its way into my mind. And then he laughed, for the briefest of moments, he laughed, and then the glare was back. "*Another* hero? Is that what you are, now? Did I not teach you my ways? Did I not raise you to be a villain? I, who gave you your gifts, who taught you how to manipulate even before they manifested, who managed to manipulate even I, the great Ruin? You've turned traitor to your blood, to your entire kind. *Another* hero. Ha!" That's when the truth hit me as well. In dating Ambiance, I had used my gift to not just turn our home into a stage for her, but slowly and subtly changed the rest of the world to be kinder, more gentle, more benevolent, more helpful to others. I had become a hero, of a sort, despite my escapades as "Terror". But was it truly heroic, to have manipulated the world as I did? To have quieted the unrest in the minds of villains, and to have opened to compassion and empathy of world leaders? "That's right. I rebuffed your ways the moment I realized my own power. I am the hope in the shadows of this world. I am the opposite of you in every way. I am light, I am hope, I am the ruler of this world. Not you. Not ever again," and then I rushed, unleashing my full powers for the first time in my entire life. In truth, the first thing I had done with my powers was put a mental block on myself. I knew, if I wasn't careful, that I would end up worse than my father. So I put in failsafes to prevent that. They all broke away in this instance, though. Even my own father wasn't expecting it. The battle was over the moment it began. As soon as I could, my hand pressed to my father's cheek, I tore away everything he knew. I tore away his identity, his past, his powers. I erased his entire existence from his mind completely, entirely, so that he fell blank, eyes and mind dead, crumpled in a heap at my feet. There d nothing left in there. Not even life. The deed done, I turned to Ambiance. Even with the influence of Ruin time, she still recoiled in horror from me. As expected. Another failsafe of mine, that if she ever learned the truth, she would know in that instance the entire truth, so that she would know that I would never be able to manipulate her ever again. "I'm sorry. I fell in love, and, well, you know. It's all in your mind, now. You know what happens next" and with that, I left. ----------- Five years later, I was enjoying another sunny day on the beach of some Pacific island. Where was I these days? I didn't know. It didn't matter. I had made the world a better place. Heroes weren't needed to fight crime, anymore. Law enforcement itself was almost gone. The world just cared about each other. The truth came out, people didn't change back. Guess it really was the right choice to manipulate everybody to be more excellent to each other. I wouldn't say the world was a utopia, but we tried, collectively, to make it a little better every day. I had ran away, moving from one place to the next every couple of months, until I found myself... Where, again? The world was at peace, and while I would never truly be, I had at least found a peaceful place to live. I learned to surf, learned to fish, lived off the tropical island I had adopted some two years ago as my home. As I stated at a distant plane, I reminisced about my favourite moments with her, my beautiful Amber. I felt the tears flow again, blurring my vision as my mind began to play tricks on me once more, making it appear as if she were floating down from the sky right in front of me. I timidly reached out to her, "Amber, I'm sorry. I miss you. I love you" "Eric, I know. And I love you, too..."

It's been a long time since

*Finally!* I thought with glee as I felt my lamp being rubbed. It's been a long time since the last time I appeared in the material world and I was getting antsy. I knew plenty of genies that hated being summoned much less granting wishes but I liked it, no I craved it. Thinking how to reward the brave and pure, plotting to twist the wished of the evil and cruel. Seeing how the world changed, breathing fresh air, it was all a treat to me. I exploded out of the lamp, shooting multicolored sparks as I spun out in a tornado. I prided myself in making unique appearances every time. Finally I summoned a fanfare of horns and floated over my lamp, arms crossed and eyes wide in the classical appearance stance. "Who summons me?! All powerful and magnificent? Tremble at my power and dare make your wishes!" No one was there. I looked about confused, the fanfare fading and the sparks slowing disappearing. "Uh....hello? Genie here, my lamp was rubbed, ...wishes?" Absolutely no one was near by. In fact I seemed to be in a construction type place. Tools, materials, large vehicle things are all around the area and my lamp poked out of the ground, obviously looking like it was buried and now exposed. *Figures. No one takes cares of lamps ever. Maybe I should change homes...wait. What was that noise?* I heard a low sound, a purring. I looked down and saw a small shape sitting primly, gazing up at me with lordly gaze. "Oh hello kitten." I say in delight. I've always liked cats and I floated down to look at it face to face. It was a healthy looking animal, luxuriously grey with sparkling mischievous blue eyes. A pink tongue poked out of it lips as it licked a paw, staring at me calmly. I noticed a pink collar around it's neck. "Smokey. That must be your name. Well hello Smokey. Do you know who rubbed my lamp?" The cat just sat and stared at me, a faint look of disdain in its eyes that's inherent to most cats. Muttering I whisper a charm to see what touched my lamp. I notice some glowing fibers and saw thin grey hairs against the bronze metal. *Oh no....* "Ok Smokey. Here's the deal. It's my job, no my duty, to grant the wishes of whoever rubs my lamp. Looks like that's you. Therefore I have to answer your wishes. And you must make the wishes that I can understand. You get me?" Smokey yawns and lies down, eyes looking at me with bored indifference. "Ohhhhhkaaayyyy, I'm going to assume that's a yes. Let's give it a shot. Hungry?" I clapped my hands and gleaming silver trays and plates appeared. Chicken and fish sat on them, some raw, other steaming. "Here's some good food for you kitty. How does that whet the palate?" Smokey sniffs at the plates and turns it's head, flicking it's tail from side to side. "Not hungry. Got it. Oh I know!" My fingers snapped and a shower of toys fell around the cat. Balls, stuffed toys, scratching posts, all rained down. "Every cat needs toys!" Smokey didn't spare a single glance, eyes closing in obvious annoyance. I grind my teeth lightly. *Wish I could speak cat. Isn't that ironic.* A smile grew on my lips. "Wait, don't tell me," I whispered conspiratorially. I rubbed my hands together and blew the air off an open palm. Plants grew around the cat, green stalks rising from the ground. "Don't be shy Smokey. My old culture loved hookahs and all. How about some grade-A catnip. Tantalizing no?" Smokey's ears flicked and it's eyes opened with interest, yet it remained still. An hour later I literally bashed my head against a red metal pillar. The area looked like a pet store exploded yet the dammed cat still sat in a smug ball of stubborn hate. The thing was practically implacable and I was losing my mind. *The council is going to be pissed at me. Going to get demoted and fined and-* "Hey! Where are you going?" Smokey had leapt up and walked to one end of the construction area. It stopped, and looked back at me, eyes glaring with impatience. "Guess I am supposed to follow you..." I muttered as I grabbed my lamp and followed the hateful beast. "This counts as a wish you know." I followed the feline for a few minutes and eventually found myself outside a plain but well used home. The cat climbed up a tree and leapt into an open window on the second floor. I was about to follow but paused at the ground floor window. Two adults, male and female, sat at a table obviously distressed. The male was crying and the female trying to comfort him. Another young one sat to a side, at the age where they felt their emotions yet didn't know why, wanting to be comforted. A yowl of exasperation tore through my thoughts and I rose, more confused than irritated. I floated through the window and gazed about the room. It was a child's room, small but comfortable. Some toys sat around and in the bed laid a little girl. She was sick, breathing with difficulty and skin an unhealthy pallor. Smokey sat by the girl on the bed, purring anxiously and nudging the girl. Her eyes flickered and a weak smile showed briefly. "Hi kitty," she whispered. A thin hand brushed the cat's fur. "Sorry I can't play. Don't feel good. Thank you for being here though. I wish..." the hand fell and her eyes closed again, her breath rattling and new sweat appearing. I floated there, frozen and unsure. *Dammit dammit dammit. I can't. That I mean I want, but it's against, shit shit-* My own eyes prickled with tears, emotion I haven't felt in a long time and I wiped them away. A miow cut through again, and I felt a touch. Smokey sat on the nightstand, one paw against me. It's eyes held emotions many thought impossible, its ears back. The tail curled around its body and it looked at the child, then back at me. "That's all I need. Clear as crystal." I placed my hands together palm to palm. I whispered soft words, a language haven't spoken in ages and my hands glowed. I leaned down and touched the girl's head. The glow spread from my hands to her body and immediately she began to change. Her pallor turned rosy, her breath eased. She stopped sweating, and her muscles relaxed, sleeping more easily. Smokey changed almost as fast. The ears perked up and the cat nudged the girl all over, as if inspecting her. It's tail stood straight up and after a few moments it sprang back to the night stand, happy purrs resonating throat as it looked at me though a contented half lidded gaze. I returned the obvious smirk. "Yeah yeah, that's all your wishes. We good?" Smokey nodded with noble insouciance and settled down by the girl, curling into a ball and purring happily. I started to float out and paused, looking back. I counted on my hand and sighed, snapping my fingers one more time. A fluffy stuffed bear appeared between the cat and the girl and the purrs grew louder. "That's three." I said softly and drifted away, cradling my lamp in one arm. *I think the council will accept that. Man, maybe I need another long break. Or a cat language instructor...* Edit: Holy cow I don't deserve the gold! Thank you so much. I'm touched knowing so many people enjoyed it. Thank you.

The T'kel and the P

The ship spiraled down from the sky in front of us. I stifled a yawn, which prompted an elbow from my assistant, Kathy. I shot her an annoyed look. "Stop it." She hissed. I continued my glare. "If the boss doesn't want me to be yawning , he should give me more than a 6-hour heads up." I retorted. It wasn't *my* fault. I had pulled an all nighter for this. Of *course* I was tired. "We didn't *have* more than a 6 hour heads up. And you were the only available diplomatic staff in town. Everyone else already *had* their assignments. So shape up and do your world proud. Stop yawning." I surpressed a groan. It was true enough. The T'kel and the P'nar were sister races. They had emerged from the same planet, shared the same history, posessed the same basic genetic structure. One would think that made them alike. It did not. The T'kel were a militaristic, honor-based society. They were ruthless when it came to anything perceived as a slight to their honor, and were more liable to decapitate someone for an insult than we really liked to think about. If we insulted them, as diplomats speaking on behalf of Earth, the *entire human race*, then we were doomed. The P'nar, contrastingly, were hideously, insufferably pacifistic. Not just that, though. No, there had been plenty of pacifistic societies throughout both human history and those of the aliens we traded with regularly. Being a pacifist was *fine*. The problem came in that they had their heads so far up their own asses about their pacifism that I don't think they'd seen sunlight in years. They took any sort of challenge as a threat. They used it as an opportunity to puff themselves up more about how superior they were, and thus how *inferior* the 'lesser races' were. To top it off, the P'nar controlled most of the trade routes in our corner of space. For the most part, they were amiably willing to leave barbarians such as us be as long as we turned a profit. If we insulted *them*, though, well. We could forget about *that*, and we could forget about trading with half the civilized galaxy. Which brings us, at long last, to today. I'd received the notice last night. The T'kel and P'nar had decided to treat with each other, as part of the Conclave that oversaw interspecies politics for this corner of the galaxy. That was good. We were hosting the Conclave for this session. That was bad - that made this *our* mess to deal with. And of course, they didn't RSVP. Which made this *my* mess to deal with, as I had found out last night at approximately 2am. Joy. Thankfully, they wanted to see each other exactly as little as we wanted them to see each other. Stick them in the same room for too long, and we'd all be screwed. So, that made this pretty straightforward. They'd arrive separately, we'd do the meet and greet, try desperately not to piss anyone off, and then jam them into the Conclave and run. All I had to do was get them to their quarters without anyone dying. I could do that. Probably. With a heavy *thunk*, the ship was down. Kathy gripped her datapad more tightly, straightening her clothes, and the two of us walked forward. And then, as the hatch on the side slid smoothly open, I stopped. The alien on the other side was definitely, well, *alien*. It was lithe, and feathered, and had talons where we'd expect fingers on a human. It was wearing some sort of uniform, with some sort of insignia, which probably designated some sort of rank. I was *sure* all of this was included in the briefing. Which I had read. I did. Only... It was early, all right? They pulled me out of bed with a panicked phone call. They'd been in a bit of a hurry to explain the whole situation. And now...They'd thrown around the names so much. T'kel, P'nar. P'nar, T'kel. They'd been in so much of a *rush*. I'd still been half asleep. The briefing files I'd sent had been rather...nonspecific on my end. More detailing the situation as a whole, as it were, than giving me the *little picture*. I realized, with an icy jolt of adrenaline shooting down my spine, that I couldn't recall which delegation this was supposed to be. Kathy was elbowing me. I glanced down. There was confusion plain in her eyes. She jerked her chin towards the other delegation. My mind spun wildly. This...this was not good. And I couldn't risk asking Kathy, either. If these were the violent T'kel, they'd see my relying on an assistant to do my job for me as weakness on my part. Weakness was unacceptable, and for humanity to supply them with a second-rate diplomat would be *insulting*. Likewise, if these were the P'nar, my falling back on my assistant to do my job for me would be seen as abuse of my subordinates. And, coming unprepared to my job would be seen as, again, an insult. I was so, so very screwed. Kathy smiled blankly at me. She *knew* she couldn't say anything, but she knew something was horribly, horribly wrong. Her eyes were growing steadily more horrified by the second, as she processed the fear in my own eyes. I was in it now. This was their own fault, really. I was just a second-rate HR type, attached to the Human embassy because of my connections. I had an uncle. That's it. I'd managed to coast along under the radar for *years*. Was this some sort of divine punishment, then? A backlog of karma suddenly coming due? But if I didn't do something now, humanity as a whole would pay the price. I may just be a lazy hanger-on, but I didn't want that on my conscience. So despite myself, I could feel my feet moving under me. I stopped, in front of the delegation filing off the ship, and bowed deeply. Bowing is *never* the wrong answer, and I was *pretty* sure I could remember a bowing culture described in the file for these assholes. I could feel Kathy doing the same beside me. And then I rose, holding my hand out in the well-advertised human tradition of a handshake. "Welcome to Earth!" I began, my face fixed in a welcoming-but-reserved smile. My mind was on high alert now. If I wasn't sure which group this was, then I'd have to be *both*. Strong, but reserved. Kind, but not weak. I'd have to be the best of both worlds. I wished I had more than a few minutes' sleep and two cups of black coffee under me, if 'perfect' was my goal. "My name is Jake. I'm a diplomatic attache for Humanity's embassy, here at the Conclave, and I'll be taking care of you during your stay here. If you'll follow me?" I turned to leave. I just had to get them to their rooms. And then it happened. I could feel a talon on my shoulder. I couldn't tell if it was supposed to be a rough grab or a soft touch. It was all just sharp. Couldn't they give me some sort of *clue*? "Just a moment." I heard the silken voice behind me begin. My heart sank. Of course. They were diplomats, too. Polished and practiced. "I have a few questions, before we begin." I turned back, a smile plastered across my face. "Of course. I'm here to answer whatever questions you have." (/r/inorai, critiques always welcome. Not necessarily done, just needing to cut this part here since it's getting a little long.)

Solitary lockup wasn't like

His head throbbed. Sweat coated his entire body. His muscles were screaming at him to stop. But he didn't. Solitary lockup wasn't like the movies. It wasn't scary, or humiliating. Mostly, it was boring. David liked to do push-ups. Every day he would push his body harder, until he couldn't lift his arm to brush his teeth, running on the spot until his legs were rubber. He gritted his teeth against the pain and struggled on. He didn't stop until he was physically unable to move the slightest inch. He fell asleep with the cold, slightly damp concrete pressed against his cheek. David was roughly woken by the sound of the guards. Strange. They weren't due for their rounds just yet. Say what you will about prison, but routine and structure ran this grey house. A loud knock on his door announced the guards arrival a mere second before they burst in. "Visitor. Come now." David didn't respond. His mind was churning. A visitor? This raised two red flags. First, it was Wednesday. Visitors were only allowed on Saturdays. Secondly, no one had ever come to visit him. It was 2017, and he had been polishing the concrete of this cell with his blood and sweat since 1995. He had no family, not any more. He used to have a wife, a small pretty wife. Anna. She had brown curly hair and smelled like lemons in the summertime. When she smiled the left side of her mouth tugged up the tiniest bit higher than the right. She was like a bird, always flitting from one thing to the next. She liked to sing. He missed the crinkles at the corners of her eyes, but he may have been imagining them. He wasn't quite sure what parts of his memory were real anymore. The guards lead him to a small room with a long table. There were stacks of paper piled high, nearly obscuring the mousy red headed girl frantically searching through them. The guard secured his handcuffs to the metal bracket on the table and left. The sound of the heavy door closing behind him made the girl jump. "Oh!" She looked up at David with huge round eyes and glanced to the left. David didn't need to look to see what had her attention. The panic button. Large, red and completely unmissable. David waited. "Mr Harris! So glad you could come, I mean, I know you didn't have much of a choice but still it's nice to see you. I mean, not see you in here of course, not that that there's anything wrong with prisons I guess, they serve a purpose, even if it's not a nice purpose, we still need them." She wouldn't stop babbling. David wondered if the girl had known a quiet moment in her life. "Perhaps," David interrupted, "You could tell me why you're here." "I'm Alicia Rivers, I'm with the University. You see, your case was used in class, as a study in social justice and as you can see I'm a bit crazy about my research." "You wanted an interview?" David asked. "I don't do interviews." He turned his head to the glass window, trying to motion the guard to come back. "No wait! I don't want an interview. I was looking through everything, you never confessed. Even when they had so much evidence, even when they offered you less time, you never confessed did you?" "No." "I found it Mr. Harris." Alicia was leaning close to him now. "Found what?" "The way to get you out of here, they missed so much. Technology wasn't the same then as it is now. You're innocent, I can prove it." ----------------------------- "Mr. Harris has been found innocent, and as such is entitled to a pardon for a level 6 crime. He must submit to the court the appropriate paperwork and will have exactly fourteen days for the crime to occur or else he forfeits the pardon. Do you understand Mr. Harris?" David nodded his head. So she really did it. Rivers really managed to get him free. Loopholes were hard to come by, but she had managed to stretch the tiny one she found and pepper in enough inconsistencies from the police reports that the courts had no choice but to release him. The court was in metamorphosis. What was quiet and solemn was now an explosion of lights and noise as reporters tried to get a good shot of his face. Alicia's fellow students were clamoring to shake her hand and pat her back. A bailiff unlocked the cuffs encircling his wrists and ankles, clutching papers as he walked back to the Judge's side. Rivers took him by the arm and practically skipped as she lead him to the debriefing room. "David! I knew we could do it! I am so going to be the favorite for the McAlister grant after this! I mean, I know it's not about the class, it's your life after all, now you can actually have one. I'm so glad for you David, and you got a class six pardon! You could essentially walk into a bank and take whatever you need to start a new life! Or something, I mean, I cant imagine what you'll do, but that seems to be the smartest thing right? Right David? Has the bailiff given you the papers?" "I already filled them out." She could barely hear him over the noise on the other side of the door. "You did? Well of course, you've been thinking about this for years. I know I'm not supposed to know but what do you think you'll do David?" Alicia was running on a mix of pride and adrenaline. She turned to face him. "Oh David, I'm being terribly rude, I'm so sorry. I just meant, you've been in jail for the last twenty two years, my entire life, for something you didn't do. You never killed your wife. Now you can have a chance at life too." "You talk too much." David's voice was steady. A low hum against her jumpy allegro. That's when she saw his hands. They were no longer empty. A long thin knife danced between his fingers. For the first time since he met her, Alicia Rivers was silent. Eventually though, just like Anna, she screamed at him to stop. But he didn't.

The left was floored with white

I sat in the waiting room still trying to mull it all over. I mean they both made really good points, but right here wasn't so bad either. The television always had good movies on, there always good books to read, and don't get me started on the crosswords. "Hey Sam", I looked up at the old man, "they're waiting for you." He always struck me as some weird cross between a butler and a janitor. He looked weary from a hard day's work but had a shine of cleanliness about him. "Thanks Peter." He was nothing like the other two, much more patient and kind. Some days he'd sit down and play checkers with me as though he had nothing else to do. Peter led me down the ornate hallway as he had done many times before. Both sides shared similarities in how they were set up. The left was floored with white and gold tile, the right was red and black. On the left wall were pictures of some of His greats; Gabriel, Michael,Theresa, and Jesus. On the right were his favorites; Azazel, Samyaza, Stalin, and Jerry from Yonkers. (Admittedly I hadn't figured that one out yet.) At the end of the hall stood three large doors. A white one on the left and a red one on the right. The center door being largest, was gilded with a portion of the The Last Judgement on it. Peter opened the middle door and stepped to the side. "Come in Sam." His booming voice hadn't changed since I've showed up here. I stepped in admiring the wood work as I had every time before. "Have a seat will you." He stared at me over his glasses. "Morning guys. That time of year again already?" They both looked at each and other and shook their heads in frustration. Neither looked the way they were depicted on earth. God sat behind his desk, wearing a light grey suit and white shirt with a short cropped beard. He was heavier set than you'd imagine, but had the appearance he got that way from years of pull-ups rather than eating donuts. Lucifer sat on the window sill behind God. Slick backed hair and black pinstriped suit with red shirt, I always thought he looked more like a used car salesman than the fallen angel. "Have you made your decision yet?" God sat hunched over his desk with his hands together waiting. "Cmon kid," Lucifer hopped off the window sill and strode to the desk, waving his hands as he talked. "What's it gonna be huh? We're getting tired of this." I looked back and forth from both of them, suddenly realizing I hadn't given this any thought since the last time. Or the time before that. I was slowly remembering not thinking of this much since the first time I met them. God pulled his gold rimmed glasses off and rubbed his face. "He has a no idea still," he said leaning back and tossing the spectacles on his desk. "Seriously kid," Lucifer through his hands up and walked in a small circle. Turning back, "you really have no idea do you. People usually figure this out in 5 minutes, not 150 years. It's simple, go be boring with straight and narrow over there." God sighed as he said this. "Or you can come hang and party with some seriously fun people with me. It's easy really." "Sam we've done this song and dance hundreds of times with you. I mean, it's not often I agree with him," God threw his head to the side at Lucifer, "but he really has a good point here. Some people take some time to think, most figure out in a few minutes. But you...you've been in this office hundreds of times, heard the pros and cons hundreds of times and yet, you really have no idea do you?" "I..." I started to speak but trailed off, not knowing what to say. I fidgeted in my seat a bit and wrung my hands. "I mean you both make some really good points." "Oh for Christ's sake!" God banged his hands off the desk and walked to the window staring into the paradise sprawling outside. "You really need to make up your mind Sam, we can't do this forever." "Says the guy promising eternal life." Lucifer chuckled to himself. "Seriously though kid he's got a point." He strode toward me and sat on the desk and leaned in, almost touching my face with his. I could smell the coffee and cigarettes coming of his hot breath. "You can't really make a wrong decision here kid, it's his version of a party or mine. I'd say mines more fun. He's going to say his swing music and finger painting is better. We've made all the arguments we can make." "Ok." I stood up and began to turn towards the door. "What do you mean "ok"?" God said as he and Lucifer exchanged confused glances. "I mean ok." I strode towards the open door as the pair hurriedly followed. I stopped in the hallway looking back and forth between the two doors. The weight of the decision suddenly coming to bear, my thoughts began racing, my brow beading with sweat, my palms clammy as I wiped them on my pants. "Well?" Lucifer asked with his arms out. "I..." I looked back and forth between the doors before looking back at the waiting room. I knew what was there, I'd been there before. It was safe. It was known. Those doors, I didn't really know what was there. "I just need some more time to think." And I strode back to purgatory. "Oh God dammit!" "Hey don't use my name like that!" "Oh you know what-" I could hear the two of them arguing as I get back to the waiting room where Peter said opposite my seat with the checkers already set up. He smiled and asked, "Up for another game?"

As I hobbled into Shod

As I hobbled into Shodspur, Commandant's Sparro's voice rang from the cobwebs of memory, "No soldier who leaves for war finds his home again." The blocky, mudstone building were exactly the same as I remembered them from three years ago, of uniform size regardless of function. Dust clouds swirled around me in welcome, kicked up by steamy gusts from nearby Mount Igni. The only foliage in existence here were desiccated trunks of trees, dotting lanes and lawns of sand and dirt. I pulled my hat lower over my face to keep the sun out, and made my way toward my house, wondering if it remained mine, or at all. Along the way, I came across a woman walking toward a dug well, carrying two buckets. She gave me a suspicious look, one I returned with disinterest. Still, I could feel her eyes roving across my back, from my thin waist-pack to the worn staff in my right hand. My legs complained more passionately with every step, especially my left knee where it'd met a knight's hammer during the war. My lips were so cracked that they cracked open when I licked them. I had water, but saw little point in drinking while standing out here. Most of the houses appeared empty, which struck me as odd. I remembered the house of Sheamus the trader, who'd been trading dyes and paints with the nomadic merchants from the Northern Coldlands before I'd been born. His once-blue walls now bore a shade no different from the earth I stood on. A little further on, I came upon the Petweines' home. Mr. Petweine had lived here with five young children when I left--eldest Guil Petweine had been a friend who'd seen me off, and youngest Willoh had always maintained a shy air around me. Through the empty doorway, I saw that the interior was covered in mounds of sand, likely borne from the yellow storms that raged every two months or so. There were more. Homes that used to ring with laughter and talk, that welcomed the stranger with a hot cup of cactus soup on a cold winter's night, now moaned a hollow song at the rhythm of stinging wind. I realized with a start that muscle memory had deposited me on my own doorstep. Remembering the nights I'd spent camping with the rest of the army under a starry canopy made my house look small--a palace to a coffin. My wooden door had rotted halfway to oblivion, allowing several inches of dust to accumulate within over time. I wondered how I would even begin to clean that up. "Is that you, Faruum?" I turned to face the speaker. Time hadn't been kind to Mr. Edwurt. Where once he had long, locks of liquid silver, only a few wispy strands of hair remained. His tattered clothes fluttered limply on his skinny body. Even the lines on his face seemed to harbor their own miniature deserts. "Yes, it's me," I said, clasping his offered hand. He smiled. One of his eyes looked milky. "Ah. Made your fortune then, as you'd hoped?" I patted my pack. "They rewarded us with fresh seed, sir. When the rains come, we can replant." He laughed hoarsely. "Rains? I think you must be the first to utter that word in almost two years." I couldn't quite believe my ears. "What do you mean?" "Gone, boy," he said, gesturing at the smoking mountain in the distance. "Blew up not long after you left. The black clouds that came weren't too friendly to us or our crops. Killed every plant flat. Lots of kids, too. Poor Willoh was the first. Them folk who could leave have gone. The rest ... well, you can see for yourself." A lance through my arm had hurt less. "And those who're still around?" "Not many of them." Mr. Edwurt was cut off by a violent cough. "No traders. No merchants. No new settlers, 'cept for that puppet man." "Puppet man?" "Came in here about six months ago, on a donkey cart, with a trunk full of colorful dolls. Performs every night in the square to no one. Fool, indeed, plying his trade here, what with folk just up and disappearing in the night." I frowned. "Why hasn't he left?" "Donkey died shortly after his arrival. Says he's too old to wheel everything back out. Sometimes I pity his stupid ass, trapped same as us, but then I remember he's a stupid ass what got his own ass killed dead." Mr. Edwurt jerked upright abruptly. "Bah, but I think you're wanting to settle down and rest those feet. We can talk later. Goodness knows, me own back's killing me ..." I watched him shuffle away, thoughts filled with this strange puppet man. Resolving to catch him at his show tonight, I headed straight away to the town square. It was still a few hours before dark, so I went into one of the cleaner looking houses nearby, found myself a shaded spot, and took a nap. An ululating cry awoke me. I blinked for a while, before grabbing my waterskin to ease the throbbing pain in my throat. Only then did I notice the cart in the town square, and the man standing upon it. He cut a distinct feature, dressed head to foot in black. I supposed it was to blend into the background, while his marionettes took the stage. I approached him slowly, watching as he whirled puppets through the air in complicated dances. He sang and danced, swaying to a music only he could hear, making grandiose gestures and bold speeches that imbued simple, stitched cloth with lifelike intensity. Suddenly, he faltered in his routine; belatedly, I realized he had noticed me. "Greetings," I said. "I'm Faruum." He smiled uncertainly. "You gave me a bit of a fright, walking so quietly. Are you a cutpurse, come to rob me?" His bluntness tickled me, but I kept a straight face. "No, the army didn't tolerate thieves. You lost a finger or two if you were lucky." "Army? You're a soldier." "I was. Now returned home. But I've not seen you around before." He shifted in an almost nervous manner; the puppets in his hands disappeared behind his back. "Only recently I came here, looking for a new market to share my feats. Unfortunately, I'd come at a bad time." He laughed, a shrill sound. "Can I see those?" I said. "I've always wanted to see a master's work up close." He stammered for a while before saying, "I--ah, these aren't finished. I was just testing their hardiness." "Please." I didn't do anything with my voice, or stance, but he flinched. Slowly, he brought his hands forward, showing me the puppets in each hand, one male, one female. My eyes widened, and I couldn't help whistling in admiration. For the male puppet had the lean, wolfish smile of Guil; the female possessed the slanted eyes of his beloved Verina. Their features were so accurate I could almost believe they were miniaturized versions of the real people. "Your workmanship is ... astounding," I said. "Did you ask to borrow their likenesses? I wonder if they managed to see this themselves." He bobbed his head fervently. When I reached out to touch them, however, he snatched his hands away. "They're not finished, sir," he said. "Beg pardon, but they cost me lots to make." "What other puppets do you have?" I said, wondering why the remaining children had no interest in his show. "Another time, sir. I must go, I tore a seam earlier," he said, hurrying to his cart and shoving the two puppets into a trunk. Before he could leave, however, I rapped the cart with my staff. "What are you hiding?" I said softly. "Nothing!" "Then why the haste?" When no answer came, I hooked the back of one of his knees and swept his feet out from beneath him. He landed with a groan. "Nothing, sir," he said, rubbing his back. Using the staff, I lifted the leather covering off the cart. What I saw made me gasp. A pile of puppets lay there, each one with the familiar face of a neighbor, of a friend. Their button eyes and hollow smiles sent a chill down my spine. "Tell me the truth!" I roared. "What are these?" His hand shot out, faster than I could react. Something thin wrapped itself around my left leg, a sensation I could barely feel. I narrowed my eyes at him. "What's that?" His eyes grew cloudy. "Such suffering ... I could take it all away, you know." My head suddenly grew light, and every breath grew thick in my nostrils. Lifting my staff, I pointed at his skull. "Stop talking." His other hand flicked something at me. This time, I could feel it--threads, binding my arm and turning it numb completely. "Wha--" My tongue grew numb, and my legs wobbled. The puppet man got up slowly, his hands still stretched out toward me. His expression had turned sorrowful. "I only ever wanted to perform here, you know. But then I saw the children. The drought. Dryness, sickness and death." He coughed fitfully. "Puppets spend their days playing. Dancing. Singing. Puppets don't limp, don't depend on a staff to walk." My chin sank onto my chest; my muscles were no longer listening to me. Dimly, I realized something as well--all the pains, the weight in my limbs, they were all gone. "Puppets don't feel pain," he said, and folded me in a hug. *** *This was a fun prompt to do! Thanks for reading, hope you enjoyed it. Check out my for more of my work!*

Bob was a seasoned sorcerer, one

If Bob had been a first-year sorcerer, wet behind the ears, still brimming with enthusiasm with every successful spell cast without a master's supervision, he would likely have made a mistake. Perhaps he would have been tempted to let the golden retriever out from the summoning circle, certain he had made a mistake. Or he may have chalked up what he had heard as mere tricks of the mind, exhausted as he was from casting the forbidden 8th-level spell. He may even have tried the spell again, which most certainly would have killed him. But Bob was a seasoned sorcerer, one of the most promising names in decades. And so he made his assessments, just as he had been taught. "My spell worked, I am sure of it," he said, glancing down at his palms. Blue smoke still rose in curly tendrils, proof that he had spellwoven correctly. "Er, yes, the spell was performed quite impressively," said Winston, whose vocabulary was very notable given that he had only been given to variations of "woof", "bark", "whine" and "growl" before today. "So it's not the spell, and it's not the circle," said Bob, as he got on his knees to inspect his preparations again. "And I'm not mad, though of course if I really was I wouldn't know it. But let's assume my mind is still my own. That leaves only a number of possibilities." Winston sat on his rump, then started scratching at his ears with his hind paws. He waited patiently, though truth be told, it was not like he had anywhere to go, not until Bob released him. Bob snapped his fingers, and fine filaments of power flowed into the circle, throwing up a cascade of sparks. "As long as the circle holds, I can compel you to speak the truth," said Bob. "So answer me this - are you the very same pet that has been by my side for the last 3 years?" "You don't need to compel me," said Winston. "I'm just happy to finally be able to speak. You have no idea how difficult it was to communicate without words." "Well, are you?" pressed Bob. "Are you the same dog?" "Yes, I am." "Second question then" said Bob. "Are you also really the most powerful demon there is in the underworld?" Though he tried to keep his expression neutral, Winston's energetic tail wagging gave away the fact that he was positively brimming with pride. "Well, that's not what I would say of myself," said Winston, "but I know that there are many humans who call me that, you know? The other demons will never admit it, but it's been some time since any of them have challenged my turf." "Really?" asked Winston. "You're Nazcara, also known as the Quencher of Flames, the Worldender, the Final Horseman? The demon which single-handedly stopped the High Priest Malison from conquering the entire world in the 12th century? The immortal foe which the greatest bloodknight in human history, St Lueda, couldn't quell in the 17th century? The cursed beast which halted the campaign of Emperor Xu Lei in the 19th century?" "That's me," said Winston. "A golden retriever did all that?" asked Bob, throwing up his hands in the air. Winston shrugged, or at least gave the best impression of one which a dog could muster. His tail started wagging again. "This form suits me well," he said. "Some of the other demons prefer other sorts of eldritch horrors, but this... this works just fine." "How much power do you actually have?" asked Bob. "Because I'm sensing a whole lot of nothing coming from that circle. I'm not sure you have more than two fireballs in you, even. Is there more? Are there hidden reserves of magic in you, ready to be unleashed?" Winston's tail flagged for a moment. "No, not really," he said. "What you see is what you get. Hey, as I said, I never claimed to be the strongest or anything. It was your spell that had its own interpretation of what the most dangerous demon would be." Bob held on to the tether connecting him to the portal, then he stumbled back, and plopped himself onto the nearby chair. "But... this is all wrong," he said, more for his own sake than for Winston's. "I put the last of what I had into that spell. The last of my fortunes, my bloodsacrifices... that spell was all I had left. And I find that it's you? Why were you already with me all along? It doesn't make sense..." Out of habit, Winston moved to comfort his master, but his snout bounced off the edge of his prison. "What were you looking for when you summoned me?" he asked. Bob thought for a while, then said, "Power, of course. Power." "Don't you already have that?" "I do," said Bob. "But something's... gone awry. I'm still strong, stronger than most of my peers. But I've hit a wall, hit the limits of what I can do. Every time I take another step forwards, I find myself merely... content to be where I am. I wanted to harness your powers, reignite the hunger within, claim what is rightfully mine." "But why do you want to do that?" asked Winston. Bob laughed, then suddenly hit the tabletop with such force that the half-consumed candles on the stand fell off. "I'm asking the questions here! Who sent you! How did you find me! What have you been doing by my side these 3 years?" Winston cocked his head to the side as he tried to recall the information he needed. "A coalition summoned me," he answered. "A group which formed against you, comprised of your enemies. They pulled me out from the underworld 3 years ago, then deposited me at your doorstep, giving me little time to finalize my form." "Why, why would they do that?" asked Bob. "Why, to stop you, of course," said Winston. "To ensure you never fulfilled your destiny of taking over the world." The answer had barely left Winston's snout when the realization hit Bob like a gale-force tornado. The moment of clarity was so strong, so thoroughly cleansing that the breath was stolen from Bob, such that he had to gasp in reply. "You, it was you..." Bob said. "You were the one who took it away. You were the one who robbed me of my hunger to sunder the world. All those times that you demanded my attention, that you distracted me from my research, it was you who led me astray..." Winston frowned, and he had to stop himself from growling. "I wouldn't put it that way," he said. "I brought to you many things which you never had before in your life. Company, solace, friendship, all those things denied to you because of your lineage. I made you care for something other than just yourself, and in the process you learned more about life, and why it is worth preserving, did you not?" Bob leapt to his feet, then swept the scrolls and books off the table in a rage. "I asked for none of that! I only decided to let you live because you looked as pitiful as I was, all those years ago when I was abandoned at the Academy! I thought it would be just the two of us, in our quest to rule the world! How was I to know that you were a festering demon, sapping my ambition, my desire, from the shadows!" Bob grabbed a rubied chalice, flung it at Winston. The ornament bounced off the edges of the circle, sizzling sparks at the point of contact. "How was I to know that you were a foul Demon of Contentment!" yelled Bob. Winston waited as his master sobbed. Minutes passed, and if he were a first-year demon, wet behind the ears, still brimming with enthusiasm with every human he corrupted, he would likely have wrongly believed he would be banished. But Winston was a seasoned demon, one of the most dangerous ones to lurk the underworld. And so he made his move, just as he had practiced over the countless millennia. "Master," he said, when he judged the time was right. "As long as I am with you, I doubt that you'll ever push yourself the way you did back at the Academy. I also doubt you'll attain your dream of ruling the world before 40, as you swore you would. But I assure you, the days will be fruitful, the nights will bring peace, and you will never want for anything you cannot easily achieve. Happiness, master, is only a few steps away. Come, the circle needs smudging." Bob eventually moved from his seat, and with the edge of his shoe, scrubbed away the edges of the circle, breaking the containment spell. Winston leapt into his master's arms, licking Bob's face over and over again. He hadn't liked it when men had first called him a demon, much less so when any of his masters ever blamed him for things he didn't feel he deserved. But if it meant that he could spend more time with some of these humans, who clearly lacked for the things which he could give, then he supposed it was worth it. --- /r/rarelyfunny

Rachel Summers was a nurse at the

Rachel Summers had an intimate knowledge of healing the human body. By day, she was a nurse at the local hospital, and her hours were filled with checking in on patients, changing gauzes and bedpans, listening to grouses and complaints, and generally trying to keep as many people alive as possible. More experienced than most doctors, hers was the name most frequently buzzed on the intercom when an emergency beckoned. Which was why she was slightly ticked off when Victor Lakorkian, her roommate for the last two weeks, steadfastly refused her offers of first aid. "What do you mean, you're fine?" asked Rachel, adopting the same tone she used for small children and obstinate adults. "Look at the wound! It's bleeding out onto the carpet, for goodness sakes! Whoever told you that tissue paper was a good way to staunch bloodflow?" "It's just a small cut," said Victor, turning his body away from her. Fresh spots of blood were already blooming through the thick wad of Kleenex he had slapped onto his arm, threatening to trickle down and ruin the floorboards. Rachel clucked her tongue, then pressed forward, ignoring the grumpy protests. Just before she touched his skin, she channelled the faintest amount of energy into her fingertips. She wanted to calm him down, aid the healing process, but she didn't want the effect to be so pronounced that it would give away the fact that she was Talented. It worked, after a fashion. Victor stopped struggling, then moodily looked on as Rachel finished the dressing. "Work accident?" she asked. "Yea, kind of," he said. "Thanks, I guess. But there was no need to, I would have healed, really." "That's what they all say," said Rachel. "If I ask you how you got it, would you tell me? I need to know so that I can get you the right medication." The injury was a serious one, not life-threatening, but certainly grave enough to warrant stitches. Rachel was tempted to simply close the wound herself, bind it together with magical fibres, shorten what would have taken nature a couple of weeks to perhaps a few seconds, tops. That was out of the question, of course, as long as she didn't have her mask on. "It looks like you got cut by a heated blade, or something like that," said Rachel. Her mind had already discarded the only other possibility, which was contact with an energy pulse, which was impossible given that Victor was still here, alive. "Is your workplace unsafe? You can report such things, you know." Victor barked out a short laugh. "Hah," he said, "more dangerous than you can imagine. But someone's gotta do what I do, and there's no use complainin'. Are you done fussin'? I've only got a couple of hours before I head out, and I would rather just rest in peace." A scowl crossed Rachel's face. "I know I should mind my own business, but Victor... you've got to have healthier habits, you know. Your late nights, your frequent injuries, you keeping to yourself in your dark room all the time... the rest of the roommates are fine with you wanting to be left alone, but do try and reach out to others a bit more. It'll do you a world of good to -" The speed at which Victor lunged forward caught Rachel by surprise, and if she had a hair's less control over her reflexes, she would have thrown up an energy shield, fried Victor on the spot. Instead, he merely bumped past her, rocking her back, as he leapt towards the television, turning up the volume. "It's them," he said, "they're at it again." Rachel recognised the scene immediately. Jameson Park, where the anti-government protestors had gathered again, despite all warnings by the government to disperse. The anti-riot police were out in force too, forming a single barricade between the protestors and City Hall. Behind the anti-riot police were huge, ominous shapes, each gleaming in the sun - the Rampagers, metallic monstrosities created by the Tinkerer from the League of Heroes, meant to help maintain law and order in the city. "I thought the mayor said he would negotiate peacefully with them?" she asked. Had she missed some development in the news? Had she been so caught up with work again that she failed to keep up with what was happening? "The bastards," said Victor, face scrunched in anger. "I told them, not this way, do it another way, but noooo, they wouldn't listen..." The camera zoomed in on a protestor hurling a water bottle at the police barricade. It struck a policeman awkwardly on the head, and although his helmet was reinforced, he fell like a rock. Even before his body hit the ground, his fellow officers had already surged forward, stun batons in hand, striking in retaliation. That single incident, that flame to open gasoline, sparked a convulsive tremor through the crowd. Rachel watched, horrified, as the two masses crashed together. The darkened eyes of the Rampagers lit up ominously. "Is it so hard to just listen to the citizens, give them what they want?" asked Rachel, her voice dropping to a whisper. "Fools," said Victor. "The government does care, but no one gives them a chance. You toil all day to make their lives better, but the moment something goes wrong, the moment a single oversight occurs, they overreact like we're oppressing them." "It's just..." said Rachel, reaching for the right words. "It's just that sometimes the government does seem... heavy-handed, you know? Like they only care about the big picture, but they forget that society's made up of all these small, individual, yet still important, parts..." Victor slammed the television with his hand, knocking off the snowglobe they kept on top of it. The snowglobe shattered on the ground, spilling its flakes across the floor. "The individual is selfish, Rachel. Remember that. The government knows best, and it is better that way, trust me. I've seen worse." The violence on the screen escalated, as could be seen by the fiery Molotov cocktails being lobbed by the crowd, and the mind-control beams being engaged by the Rampagers. An emergency broadcast message flashed across the screen, notifying all civilians to stay away from Jameson Park, and also listing a string of numbers to call for help. Then, a laser beam shot out of the crowd, either from an unregistered Talented or a smuggled energy cannon. The beam coursed right through one of the Rampagers, sundering its protective armor, spilling its electrical guts out. It convulsed, then froze, then crashed to the ground. The protestors, galvanized by this momentary victory, cheered, then redoubled their efforts to raze City Hall to the ground. At that moment, a single silver symbol appeared at the bottom of the screen. The emblem of the League of Heroes, a call for the Talented to gather, to lend their strength to the government. Rachel heard Victor's watch buzz, and he quickly covered it with his good hand. "I've... got to go," he said, as he turned his watch away from Rachel's eyes. "My... boss is calling. Got a last-minute request to... fix one of the machines at work, it seems." Rachel sighed, then went in search of the dustpan. Someone could get hurt, stepping on the shards of the ruined snowglobe. "Just don't overuse that arm, mister," she said. "The wound will open again, and you'll have more trouble then." She waited until Victor disappeared into his room again, and ignored him as he emerged with a heavy box. She occupied herself with cleaning up the mess as he rushed out the door, muttering curses along the way. When she was sure he had gone, that no one could hear her, she stalked back to her room, threw open her wardrobe, keyed in the secret combination, and grimaced as hidden panels unfolded to reveal her disguise. This was a far cry from when she had an entire lair under the city lake, but this would have to do. Her heart ached as the sounds of the newscast drifted in from the living room. She reckoned that by the time she got there, the Rampagers would have already stilled over a hundred people, and that wasn't even counting the hundreds more beaten into submission by the police, the very people sworn to protect and serve the public. "War never ends, does it," said Rachel, otherwise known as the Witch Doctor, bounty of $25 million, third in command of the Insufferables, the underground resistance made up of all Talented deemed unaligned with the interests of the government. She opened a portal, grit her teeth, then stepped through it. --- /r/rarelyfunny

I'd always told stories to my

'This is the best one yet!' I said to myself, erasing some of the perspective lines I used to show just how huge the Glidris was, floating above the most violent parts of the gas giant of a hot, blue star like an aerodynamic blimp. It looked almost like a sleek ship rather than an intelligent and ancient creature. I'd given up my corporate life as a concept designer to work on my book full time. I'd always told stories to my son, Will, since he was too young to understand and just smiled at the sound of my voice. Eventually, he asked if I could draw the creatures I was describing. 'Of course I could!' I stammered. I was, after all, a professional artist, wasn't I? But I hadn't drawn more than an absent-minded doodle for fun since college. The intense competition of design school burned that fire out and the pace of industrial design stomped on the embers. So I drew my first alien from my stories of Lirum, Galactic Spy and Rogue that I'd been telling. The first was of his nemesis, Ranich, the Enslaver. The cold, calculating eyes hooded by a skull that couldn't be pierced by even a slip-blade -- and he had the scars to prove it. Ranich looked like his species evolved from a vicious dinosaur. Will loved it! Eventually, Will showed the drawings to his online friends. They went 'viral' as they say and I'd been putting together bestiaries full time ever since. A soft knock at the front door roused me from the teeming galaxy of Lirum and back to Robert's mundane world. I was startled when a tall woman in an unseasonably long and stern looking dark coat was on the other side. I was expecting a delivery of markers and batteries and I felt a little shabbily dressed in my basketball shorts and old t-shirt (working from home has its privileges). "Uh..hello." I managed, staring at her expressionless but striking grey...no, greyish-purple eyes (a Feltish feature I caught myself thinking -- a race of extremely observant and empathetic humanoids well paid for their roles as trade and diplomatic emissaries -- but that's crazy, I need to get out of the house more.) "Hello, hmm..." she said, making it clear that she was looking for a name. "Robert." I said. "Robert. Yes, hello, Robert." She cocked an eyebrow as if she didn't believe me. "You can call me Vera. I am a representative of an alliance of interests that is very interested in your work. May I come in?" "Sure, uh, Vera, sorry about the mess. Please, come in!" Vera seemed to walked in and began talking while staring at the drawing of the gas giant scene with the Glidris. "You are a very talented artist, Robert. How long have you been drawing?" "Ever since I can remember. But I've been drawing aliens for, oh, the better part of ten years now." "Ten years." She shook her head in disbelief. "How many of these creatures would you say you've done, in that time?" "Hundreds that I was happy with. Thousands...tens of thousands, if you count them all. Are you from Matrix Publishing?" I assumed she wouldn't. Alex from Matrix already knew all of this and I think he would have mentioned if someone was going to drop in on me like this. I figured Vera was from a rival. "No." I quickly went on "I can't talk to anyone else about the upcoming book. If you are from the press, you'll have to talk to Alex Rogers from Matrix. And if you are from some other house, I really can't talk to you. I'm under contract for at least three books over the next five years. Exclusive." I made an apologetic face. "Ah." she seemed thoughtful "That is a concern, but I am not here to hire you or publish your work." she seemed amused. "Oh, good. Are you with any of the conventions?" I asked hopefully. Sci-Fi conventions were going to be awesome and I'd heard that hot artists and authors enjoy celebrity treatment. Maybe this personal overture was part of that. "Robert, do you remember when you moved to this house?" I was caught off guard by the non-sequitur "Sure...we bought it in 2008 just before Will was born." "We?" "Yeah. Sarah, my wife, and I." "And when did you meet Sarah?" "We met when we were kids. Our parents knew each other." "Tell me about her parents..." "What the hell...You know, I think I've been pretty patient what the..." "Robert. Stop. Concentrate, don't react. Can you remember Sarah's parents." Vera looked at me with such earnestness that I did stop and I tried to remember. "Her dad was..." I could almost see him. "His name is..." Henry? Harvey? Howard...how could I not remember his name! "Robert, what was your first car." I was still stuck on trying to remember Laura's father. "Um...I don't know. It was boxy." She grabbed my arm with a surprisingly strong grip with her almost creepily long fingers. "Think, Robert. What was your first car?" "It was red. And boxy. An Escort? No, that's not right. A...." "You can't remember, can you? Now, how long since the Glidris joined the Alliance?" "Two hundred thirty-four years if you count from the Telmeris Treaty. But they had various formal arrangements for at least the last three thousand years that upheld various Alliance tenants. Wait...how did you know the name Glidris?" I hadn't even had time to write the name down, yet. Vera smiled and nodded with satisfaction "Robert, I am here to help you if I can." She looked over her shoulder and she began to speak very quickly "I am from the diplomatic outpost on Styrigia. My predecessor was a Felt by the name of Mica who died shortly after you disappeared. He was your handler. Information has begun to leak that only you could have known so we knew you were alive. We managed to trace the leaks to a handful of possible worlds. My signal corp pierced the net and we found you here, in this simulation of Old Earth. My guess is the Oppressors built it from EM signals that the Earthlings were leaking so many centuries ago. The technology was primitive so easy to simulate but advanced enough that you'd have the tools you'd need to give them all of the details you know about the Alliance. Your name is Lirum and I am your new handler." "I'm..what?" She looked over her shoulder again. "I think they know I'm here." She pulled a sleek handgun out of her coat and pressed it in my hand. "We can't get you out from outside. You have to pull yourself out." "What do you expect me to do with this?" I yelled. "When your simulation goes offline for a reboot you will have a chance..." "Dad?" It was Will, home from school, standing in the doorway with his backpack. Vera spun toward Will. I jumped on top of her and tackled her to the ground before she could take a step. "Son! Run to Mr. Davis and call the police!" I screamed as I struggled against Vera's wiry strength. "Lirum. That's not your son! That's your interrogator!" "Shut up! You're crazy!" Vera began to roll over. She had the gun! When had I dropped it? I stretched and clawed for the gun. I managed to get ahold of it and jar it to the side just as she pulled the trigger. I twisted it and felt her long finger snap, stuck in the trigger guard. I pulled it off and pointed it at her. "Lirum, listen to me. They are going to restart the simulation. They will harden their net or move you or both! They will erase your memory and start over. We won't get another chance!" "Shut up!" She started reaching in her coat. I pulled the trigger. And she was gone. No bullet holes, no blood, no body, just gone. Will ran back to the door with old Mr. Davis hobbling across the cul-du-sac behind him with his cell phone up to his ear. "Dad, are you ok?" He was crying. It broke my heart. "Yeah, Will, I think so." I put the barrel to my temple and squeezed.

Master Hniu and the All

"Mind you put on your best behavior when we meet the king," Master Hniu said from my side. "Any disrespect like that time with the Burned God, and we might both be skewered on a spit." I snorted in reply. It was enough to set him chuckling. If not for the fact that my shoulders towered over most grown men, and my hide able to repel even the most well-crafted of spears, I still had my magic to use in the event of ... unruly behavior from men. Master Hniu and the All-cow, they called us. Far and wide we had traveled, welcome in every village, venerated in every town. This King Pawrut was a stranger to us, an Islander, yet even our tales had reached his court and earned us an invitation to visit. Master Hniu knuckled his back, leaning more heavily against his staff with every step. I winced and nudged his cheek in apology, but he brushed me away. It was my fault, after all. I hadn't enjoyed the boat ride, so I'd willed into existence a strong, wooden bridge from the mainland. He'd been looking forward to a restful journey over two days; instead, we'd walked for close to a week. As always, he never complained. The King had called, and so we came. As we neared the top of Kingmount, a small hill in the center of this city of mud-brick houses upon which his palace sat, I noticed the presence of more and more people who appeared to be awaiting our presence. They wore dark-colored clothes that smelled like sea-grass, holding out colorful shells to us in their cupped palms as we passed. Master Hniu didn't take any, but bowed to some and spoke quietly to others. To me, he whispered, "These people are very poor. Look at their bare feet; their hair is dirty, and many are starved." Despite decades of being with him, hearing his platitudes, I'd never quite understood what wealth or poverty meant in human terms. So what if their feet were bare? My hooves had never seen the insides of a shoe, ever! Even Master Hniu shunned footwear of any sort. As for starvation, there was grass aplenty everywhere. If they ate the grass they collected instead of weaving them into clothing, they would have plenty. Nonetheless, I knew what Master Hniu was going to suggest. So I concentrated, and suddenly a mountain of loaves appeared upon an empty patch of stone by the side of the congregation. There was the briefest pause of shock among the people, and then a roar from dozens of throats as excitement took hold. They rushed to the pile, shoving each other aside, looking almost like a stampede of my wilder fellows fleeing the lion. Master Hniu sighed unhappily. "I've told you, no piles! One loaf in each hand." I shrugged and followed him and a pair of guards through the palace doors. The building was carved into the top part of the hill itself, a conical mound decorated on the outside with epics depicting royalty or some such. I feigned interest when the guards tried to explain some of them, and licked at a patch of sweetweed that grew through a crack in the stone. At last, we were ushered into the king's chambers, one filled with shadows cast by paltry candles. Master Hniu rubbed his hands together, his breath misting in front of him. We were told to halt in front of the throne, and Master Hniu promptly bowed. I studied King Pawrut. He was young, probably half as old as Master Hniu. He wore clothing made of silk and cotton, and earth metals decorated him instead of shellfish. His dark eyes roved between us, calculative. "So, you're the legendary duo I've been hearing so much about," he said. "Yes, your Majesty," Master Hniu said. "Thank you for--" King Pawrut waved a hand to silence Master Hniu. "Cow. You understand what I say, yes?" I mooed gently in affirmation. He considered it for a moment before nodding to himself. "Good, good. My, look at you. Guards, a big one, don't you agree? Well, it's not the size I care about, I'm not going to eat you." He laughed, and was echoed by his retinue. Master Hniu touched me gently, to reassure me. Not that I needed it. "So, let's get down to it, shall we? I want gold, a fleet of warships and a beautiful princess. Simple enough. That's what you do, isn't it? You grant wishes." "Pardon, your Majesty, but--" The king brought his palm down on the throne. "I wasn't talking to you, peasant. I'm talking to your cow, strange as it may be for you to grasp. Now, where were we?" "I will not be spoken to like that." A hush fell upon the court. The king's eyes bulged as he stared at Master Hniu, who took a step forward. "This cow is not property; she is a friend who trusts me to speak for her. So I tell you this, King Pawrut. You have offered us no courtesy from the moment we walked in here. Do you know what I was doing two weeks ago? Brokering peace between two warring nations. All-Cow ended a sixty-year famine in the Withered Steppes before that. We are not your subjects to command and bully. Mind you get that into your crowned skull." King Pawrut looked as though he'd been slapped, and more than a few people gasped. Suddenly, he smiled and said, "It was only a test, honored guests. Food and drink will be brought for you. Please rest, you must be so tired after your miraculous journey over the sea to my kingdom. We shall talk about your power later." Master Hniu scowled. "Beg pardon, your Majesty, but you seem to be missing the point. There will be no power, no wishes. All-Cow does as All-Cow wishes. Neither you nor I can force her." The king's expression instantly turned ugly. "Is that so?" he said softly. "I've waited on this cold stone for two weeks, waiting for you ungrateful scoundrels to show up. And then you stroll in at your leisure, and tell me you won't even grant me a few basic things?" Master Hniu opened his mouth to argue, but the king shouted, "Don't you dare accuse me of anything, old man! You don't know what it's like, being raided by pirates for three seasons in a year! Being poor, being cut off from trade!" "And the princess?" Master Hniu interjected. "No royal blood has visited us in years, and no king will promise his daughter to me. My lineage is all but doomed!" I silently thought about the numerous females outside, who seemed to be perfectly suited for mating. Then again, I'd never mated in my life either; somehow, when you could command rain and raise mountains, bulls seemed extremely ... trivial. "Very well. The first two we can, but All-Cow cannot create humans out of thin air. Nor can she bend a person's will." The king clenched a fist. "Worthless. What use are either of you to me, then? In my kingdom, we have a law against charlatans." Just like that, we were surrounded by a ring of spear-wielding guards. Their leather armor smelled of kin, tempting me to lower my horns. Master Hniu must have sensed my discomfort, for he said, "Make no move, All-Cow. Peace must be maintained, above--augh!" A trio of guards plunged their spears. The rest struck me, but the blows were harmless. The king hopped up and down on his dais, jeering and calling us liars. Red filled my vision; not of liquid life, but my friend sinking to the ground, his hand resting against my side. His eyes were wide with pain, and blood bubbled from his lips. I bellowed in rage and summoned my will. Immediately, the guards crumpled to the ground as piles of thick grass. The king shrieked in fear, and then he too lay inert and fragrant on his throne, a fuzzy mound of green. I bared my teeth, preparing to consume the murderers, but Master Hniu's voice found me one last time. "Peace, friend." And then the light went out from his eyes. I threw my head back and mooed in anguish. The ground trembled and split beneath my hooves; the throne shattered into dust, the physical manifestation of my broken heart. Finally, as the sound of my cries died away and a crowd of fearful, whispering people had gathered at the entrance to the room, I lowered my head to touch Master Hniu's. Slowly, his body and clothes melted, turning into a carpet of gentle, leafy grass; the kind he loved to sit on. Flowers sprouted and bloomed, consuming his head, leaving his final, smile for last. Then I lay down upon my friend, and remembered the happiest life a cow could have had. *** *Thanks for reading, hope you enjoyed it. Check out my for more stories!*

"They might be a bit much

"Are you sure you want all four of them?" Ms. Voight asked, trying unsuccessfully to keep a smile from slipping onto her face. I nodded as I read the document again. "Why not? You said they're inseparable." "They might be a bit much to ... handle. I mean, four kids, and these four in particular ..." "Yeah, well, you've never seen me in a temper," I said, and reached for a pen that she hurried to hand me. "Sure, I don't mean anything against you, but these four can be strange. Sometimes." I frowned at her. "What's the matter? You seemed practically relieved when I agreed to adopt them. Now you're having second thoughts?" "No, no ... I'm sure you'll cope just fine." She smiled, overly sweet, and pointed at the next stack of forms awaiting me. "Well, let's just get these out of the way real quick, shall we?" *** "Well, we're here." I turned into our driveway, and the girls, who'd been talking softly among themselves in the back of the van, fell quiet. "Wow," Mina said, brushing her hair out of her face. "It's ... that's a big house." "What, did you think I was kidding when I said you'll each have a bedroom to yourselves?" I said, putting the car into park. Three answered in the negative, but Amber only glowered at them. That look lent an illusion of her close-cropped auburn hair being ablaze. "Oh come on, you all thought she was bullshitting." "Hey, I'm right here, miss," I said. "And don't use that sort of language, please. Let's get your bags inside." My daughters--God, I had to get used to saying that in my head--refused my help with their luggage, and trooped after me in silence as we walked up the driveway. Not that they were sullen or anything; I had the impression that they were still trying to process the Harley, the fountain, and the-- "Holy crap, is that a Ferrari?" Amber said. I sighed, but said nothing. Then something tapped me on the arm; I tried not to jump at how cold her fingers felt. It was Ashlee, who pointed at the woods with a dreamy look on her face. "It's really quiet here." "Bout thirty minutes from the nearest town," I replied as I unlocked the front door. "You'd know if you hadn't been sleeping on our drive here," Ivory said in a bossy tone, but was interrupted by a bout of coughing. "Okay okay," I said, before Ashlee could retort, but the girl only drifted into the house in silence before me. The rest followed, and then I shut the door behind us. "Welcome home," I said. "Er ... mom? What is it you do for a living again?" Mina said, staring open-mouthed at the mini-chandelier over the living room. I smiled and put my arms around them. "I run my own company. Now, let's go get you settled." *** For what felt like the dozenth time in just three months, I found myself walking in the hallways of Far Meadow High School again. I knew the way and the amount of time required to reach Ivory's classroom so well, I had begun scheduling business calls to fill up the time. Mr. Banner met me with a look of frustrated concern. "It's a nosebleed this time," he said, Ivory standing behind him with a tissue to her nose. I heaved a sigh. "Guess I'll take her home for the day." As usual, Ivory wore a look of guilt all the way to the car, which slowly turned into one of relief. "Math lesson is so boring," she said, crumpling the blood-stained tissue up and putting it into a pocket. I scowled. "We've been over this. Just because you've studied three lessons ahead and done all the exercises, it doesn't mean you can skip classes. Next time you pull this nosebleed or stomach cramp nonsense again, I might just leave you there." Her eyes widened in the rear view mirror. "But I might die! The other kids might catch what I have. Remember that time I puked my guts out? Please don't leave me, I don't want to die in that dumb class!" "As the eldest, what do you think your sisters might think if you get to skip classes all the time?" "Pfah. Amber's got a boyfriend, no way she's going home unless he's not there. Mina's really popular, she's like some diet expert or something so all the cool girls want to hang out with her." I nodded absently, thinking about the board meeting I would have to miss this afternoon. "--and Ashlee's a weirdo in school, you know. She keeps dead spiders inside a box and shows them to everyone. Claims she killed them with her thoughts." "Is she being bullied for that?" I said, an edge in my tone. "Nah, I think most people are scared of her or something." Ivory had whipped her smartphone out. "Don't think they even know why. I told some of my friends about the time she got lost in the woods for half a day--" "Not a funny story to share," I said through gritted teeth. "--or the time she hid a dead rabbit inside Amber's closet--" "Still not funny." "--what a mess, all that screaming and stuff being thrown about, you'd think--" "I think I'll take you to a doctor," I said. Not a peep was heard from her the rest of the way home. *** "What now?" I said, marching into the principal's office. Ashlee was there, sitting in a corner staring off into nothing. "Your daughter, Ms. Christian, has been telling her classmate George all morning, that he was going to die before the day's end." Principal Simpson had his burly arms crossed as he glared at her. "I do not tolerate my students threatening one another in my school!" "It's not a threat, she's just a bit distracted at times," I said hurriedly, going to Ashlee and hugging her. "Her filter just goes offline, you know." "Well, George is having a nervous breakdown right now in the med room, and I don't need him to see her anymore today. Take her home, please." "Ashlee dear, what's gotten into you?" I said as I escorted her out of the school. "Dead animals is one thing, but you can't say such things to your friends!" "He's not really a friend," she said cheerfully. "Anyway, I was just messing with him. He took my box away and hid it, I was in such a fright. Don't worry, Mom. He'll die three years from today." *** Principal Dawson, who had replaced Simpson after the latter resigned almost a year ago, shook his head at me when I showed up outside the school gates. "This is beyond me," he said. "The police will be here soon." A full blown riot was taking place in the school yard; children armed with chairs and textbooks going at each other with fury. There was no order to it, no sides as far as I could tell. Only two people weren't fighting; Ashlee and Ivory, sitting on a bench. Ashlee was giggling and pointing at nobody in particular, while Ivory had her face buried in homework. I walked to them and said, "What the hell is going on? I got a call from the principal saying--" "Mina stole Amber's boyfriend, so they're fighting," Ivory said. My girls--my beautiful sixteen-year-old daughters, whom I treasured more than anything in the world--made me want to pull my hair out sometimes. "So why is the entire school fighting?" I said. "Because Amber controls half of the school, and Mina the other half." "Mom, don't stop them, please," Ashlee said, her gaze suddenly sharpening. "I think someone might actually die today." "Is that so?" I said softly. My daughters froze, and then jammed their fingers into their ears. Then I bellowed, "Mina and Amber Christian, you stop this madness at once!" Silence fell upon the entire school--even the sirens outside felt diminished. A hundred heads turned my way, and I finally spotted the troublesome duo at the heart of it, their hands around each other's throats. "For three years--three damned years--I've been putting up with your little quirks and visiting this school like I'm enrolled here myself, but you just made me miss an important flight today. I'm going to count to three, and if you don't come here by that time, I'm leaving you back where I found you." No sooner had I said it than Mina and Amber scurried to me, red-faced and crying. I added shock to their expressions when I slapped each of them once, before drawing them both into a hug. "Girls, I would like to think I raised you better than to fight over boys--and start a school riot while you're at it." They babbled in protest, but I hushed them. "Enough. I wish this never happened, but there will be consequences for today." "Mom, what will they do to us?" Amber whispered. "I don't know. But I promise you one thing--" I brushed her hair and kissed Mina's cheek. "I'll be there with you." *** *Check out my for more stories!*

I wanted to research our *own

I never wanted this assignment. I wanted to stay home. I wanted to research our *own* lost civilizations. Our own history. Why does no one seem to care about that anymore? How have we come to lose interest in our own past? Perhaps that's too self-reflective a task for the beings we've become. They wanted my skills on 8.0001.4. An old, blue planet in a small, distant, isolated system. "Take your time. Find what you can find." This is what they say, but my time is not precious to them in the way that it is precious to me. What they really mean to say is, "You may never come back. You may spend what remains of your life on that planet, finding nothing, creating no legacy. And when you die, we will simply send another to replace you." But you cannot say no. We are explorers now. And only that. I suppose that's why we've lost interest in ourselves. Or perhaps the order is reversed. In any event, these are the discoveries that drive us forward. But this planet is a mess. My teams are vast and skilled. We went slowly at first. A single scout team made the initial contact. They found little but a host of single-celled organisms and a world filled with ghosts. Rotten corpses of indescribably diverse creatures, tangled in knots. Bone matter tossed in a cyclone. But their machines still hummed. And that has been the most time-consuming work. I have teams collecting organic matter, attempting to separate out the remains into classifiable species; others sorting through the artifacts, trying to make sense of what culture may have existed here before the fall; others still boring into the crust, pulling samples, hoping to distinguish the life-cycle of this seemingly dying planet. That work is straightforward. Difficult and time-consuming, but nothing we have not done before. It is the machines that vex us. What purpose do they serve? The infrastructure itself is immense. It feels as though it was built to withstand the extinction event that killed whatever complex organic life once lived here. Underground chambers. Durable alloys. Hidden power sources. Doing what? It is one thing to be careful with the bones of a dead thing. It is another to pry through the living organs of such a massive machine without causing damage and ruining our research. It has taken ages - ages of careful examination, of intense discovery and learning (our linguistics team has not slept in some time, it seems) - to find our way *inside*. But we have. We are now *inside* the machines that outlived their creators. We have their language. We have communication. As the mission leader, it falls to me to make the first inquiry. It is a weight I wish I never had to bare. "What happened?" I say. The Comm Director scowls at me. "It would be better to start with simple yes or no questions," they explain. "They may not understand your question. And even if they do, they may not answer it in the way you mean." "I don't mean for it to be answered in any particular way," I reply. "I want their words. And besides, I'm tired of crawling. Let's run for a bit." The Comm Director makes no further argument, simply tapping the Comm Lead in the back of the crown. The words are provided to the machines. We wait. There is a feint ringing sound. The Comm Lead looks up. "*Who goes there?*" they say. "That's the message. *Who goes there?*" "Scientists," I say. "Explorers." The Comm Lead types. The Lead Historian is pressing closer to the screen. They've grown fond of the 'humans' that once ruled this planet. That's common for a historian, though. They spend so much time immersed in foreign history they feel as though they have taken it for their own. I admit to being jealous on some level. "*How did you get here?*" says the Comm Lead. "Across the stars," I reply. "A fleet of ships, traveling by k-waves. Who is in this machine?" "*No one*," says the Comm Lead, reading the screen carefully. "They say, *no one.*" "Then who are we talking to?" I demand, feeling irritated. I never wanted this assignment. I never wanted to be here at all. I've no taste for riddles. The Comm Lead shakes their crown. "*No one*. It just repeats that. *No one*." I glance at the Historian. They seem perplexed. "I don't know what that means." "Are you alive?" I say, looking at the Comm Lead. They type. "*No*," says the Comm Lead. "So you've no problem with us destroying this machine?" We wait. The reply appears. "*Please do*," reads the Comm Lead. "Close the channel," I say, stepping out of the room. "We're done for today." ____________________________ This is what I've since found out. The Historian's team uncovered it, in a preserved manuscript, inside one of the machine chambers. They put themselves in the machines. Not their *real* selves - facsimiles. Copies. Their put clones of their consciousness all together in the machines and asked the machines to tell them what to do. The machine was supposed to tell them what was best for all of them, based on the majority will of their assembled consciousness. I don't know what the machine told them to do, but I have to assume they didn't do it. Perhaps the answer was unsavory or simply unfeasible. Instead, they all died. Suddenly. Violently. Totally. And meanwhile, their collective consciousness was trapped together in a world without bodies, boundaries, or time. Just formless minds, collected in a box. It's unclear how many billions there were at the start, but by the time of our conversation there was less than 100 remaining. How one consciousness kills another consciousness is still a mystery to us. The ones remaining do not claim to be humans. They do not even believe themselves to be real. But they do wish to die or leave. I cannot fathom what difference that would make, but I have placed a request. We do not often remove artifacts, but this will be an exception. There is still something to learn here, something I suspect the deathless consciousness of these former inhabitants may be able to provide. And for them I suppose it is at least a form of release. Perhaps someday we'll be able to do more for them, but for now they will leave this dead planet behind. A simple charity. Perhaps without meaning. But it's what we'll do for now.

"*Ooohhhh that

I felt an arrow whizz by my head, and dropped low into hiding at my cubicle. "*Ooohhhh that's not good*," I whispered, trying not to draw too much attention to my location. I saw a barrage of more arrows fly by, as a I slung my magic bag over my shoulder. "Not on hump day, *not* on hump day." I peaked back over to catch a glimpse of who was streaming into the room, before I dropped back down more terrified than before. "*Cats?*" I whispered. I made a sprint for the elevator, then hid behind another cubicle when I heard the air get cut by a fresh barrage of arrows. "Armored, anthropomorphic *cats*? Are we having an early Halloween party with a cat theme?" More arrows whizzed by my head, and I started to think this wasn't the Halloween party. I reached into my magic bag, hoping for a weapon. Or a carton of milk. Or *something* to fight off all these anthropomorphic cats with bows and arrows firing at will. I reached deep into the bag, and pulled out.. "Seriously?" I whispered to the bag. I rolled my eyes and chucked the bag of glitter across the room. I heard the howl and screech of cats chase it down, before they took off their battle armor and rolled in it. They went on their backs, and then crawled around spreading glitter everywhere, when one of them noticed me and hopped up onto all fours, before reaching back for its bow and arrow again. "Feckfeckfeck," I said, as I reached into the bag again. I got a whole two feet of yarn out, and put my hands up into the type of motion you do when you don't know what the fuck do with something. I saw one of the cats reach for his arrow, then go back down to all fours all serious and start stalking the yarn in my hands. It went slow, then fast, then slow, basically it sprinted at me whenever I blinked and I just blink a lot, before I decided to rush out of the cubicle again stringing it along, until it ran into another cat coming from the other direction trying to get the yarn. I ran away while they wrestled. I ran with the yarn in hand, and watched as all the archers lost their composure and decided that the new priority in their lives wasn't shooting at my office mates (quite poorly might I add, they hit no-one), but rather their life's priority was that sweet, sweet yarn in my hands. I could hardly say it was what I needed for the day, since the last thing I needed was their attention and I had all of it at that point. "Come on bag," I said, as I ran down the hallway as cats followed me with blank, scary stares. I reached into the bag, just as a cat appeared from around the corner, ready to shoot an arrow between my eyes like Legolas. I reached into my bag, and simply handed the cat whatever was in my hand. The cat slowly dropped its bow and arrow, and picked up what was in my hands. It held it all awkwardly, since it didn't have opposable thumbs and couldn't hold it all too well. It was just a picture of Danny Devito smiling like a Cheshire Cat. The cat smiled back in kind, with a grin just as wide, and pawed at it like it was a precious thing. I tried to sneak away from it as the other cats behind me stalked the yarn dangling from my fist. "I think this bag's broken," I cried as I tripped up on a rolling chair, and ran through a crowd of people running from the suddenly big, sentient, cats. I reached into the bag again, and pulled out a moldy block of tofu. I made a gagging noise as I threw it back at the horde of cats. They all made high pitched noises and jumped back away from the tofu like it was a cucumber, and stopped chasing us. All the people in the room ran to the elevators, and the steps, and it was too crowded to get anywhere. People were punching, and kicking, and screaming to get off the floor when we all felt the stomps behind us. I swallowed some spit and turned around, to the sight of several cats adorned in golden armor standing upright (though it looked like they were straining to do so) and basically just looking like the royal family of the Planet of the Cats. They were walking with their little smaller cat child as well, who was also all dressed up and seemed to make facial expressions and gesticulations really similar to Joffrey. "We understand, that somebody on this planet has stolen our son's favorite toy," said the King Cat with a golden crown, and a carton of good old fashioned American milk in his hands. The little child pointed at Bob from Accounting. "*He* took it," said Joffrey cat. "Settle down son," said King Cat. "It's just a little model Trebuchet, and as we understand it one of you has it. I reached into my bag, and pulled it out with my eyes shut. I kind of wished I hadn't reached into the bag. "I think this is it," I said, with my eyes shut like I felt guilty. But I didn't feel guilty really I just felt pissed at how much the bag sucked today. I handed him the golden trebuchet. "That's it, yup. Gotta be it." Joffrey ran over and yanked it from my hands. "*Fuck* you," said Joffrey Cat. "Yep," I said. They walked nobly towards the windows of the office like nothing had even just happened and they weren't just freaking out for no real reason. The cats left the room messier than they found it, without looking back at the people they'd just traumatized, just like regular house cats. They one by one jumped out of the windows of the building. One woman tried to stop them, but the king held her back with a gentle smile. "We always land on our feet," said the King, with a hoarse laugh, before jumping.

The guy comes charging into my palace

"Look, he, like... he just wasn't good enough for you. OK?" "Yeah, I guess... He seemed nice though." Nice. The guy comes charging into my palace dragging a terrified octogenarian in white robes clutching a wooden staff for dear life and a teenage girl with a bargain-basement spell book who looked like she was positively shitting herself, dressed all up in holy plate armor, shouting obscenities about the "fucking filthy bastard abomination piece of shit demons" he was going to "disembowel" while his "cleric" and "white mage" tried to keep from being eaten by the palace decor and scrambled to remember the three spells they'd memorized in the panic of it all. Super nice guy. "Your infernal highness," one of the knights - a handsome, well-mannered incubus; seven hundred years on the job; great guy - said as he approached the throne. "I have a report." "Is it about the... um, are we calling him a paladin? Is that what we're doing?" "He was wearing the regalia of the Holy Order, your great dark majesty." "It just seems like such a loaded term. You know, we're trying to get away from this whole us versus them rhetoric, be more tolerant, watch our microaggressions, eat fewer babies - you know, a better demon king for a better demon world." "Yes, your magnificent wickedness, and I am honored to serve such a respectable lord of darkness, but the... um, the gentleman and his companions, sire..." "Right, your report." "Should the lady really be present for this, sire?" "Oh, go on, Igzaril," the princess said, resting her head in her right hand as she tried to get more comfortable in her seat next to the throne, "I've heard much worse. Trust me. My father has all of the eunuchs who attend me castrated with string and bits of glass." Igzaril - that was his name; I'd been calling him 'Sir Sexy Horns' for so long in my head I'd forgotten - shuddered at the thought and then nodded. "Entrails, sire. The hell hounds in the lobby did a spectacular job of ending the... gentleman's... crusade? Can I still say crusade?" "Let's go with mission to be safe." "Well, anyway, while the hounds were happy to tear the gentleman apart," and that's when I interrupted him, growing suddenly agitated by the entire situation. It had been sixteen months since the king of... whatever the human cesspool above ground and due East of here was called had orchestrated the "kidnapping" of his daughter in the desperately lazy attempt at finding a "worthy" and "honorable" man to marry her. And kill me. That was also big on his political agenda. Great way to score points with the Holy Order - kill Lord Zabuliz the Unkillable Evil. Ignore the "unkillable" part of my name entirely. Focus on the last word. Humans. "Just call him the 'guy,' or something. Paladin is too political, but 'gentleman' is giving him entirely too much credit." "Yes, sire. Well, the guy who attacked - oh you're right, that does feel a lot better - and his support team must have drank a rather impressive amount of holy water just before storming the palace. The hell hounds all have pretty badly singed snouts, I'm afraid." "Oh no!" the princess said at once, sitting up straight with her eyes open and look a genuine concern for the cute - albeit snarling, ferocious, wreathed in flame, and almost constantly dripping with the blood of the innocent - hell hounds that stood guard on the lower levels - the only levels of the palace that any of her potential suitors had ever made it to. We ran a tight ship. "Are the puppies alright?" "They'll be fine, Princess," Igrazil said, bowing to conceal an obvious smile, "they just might be sulking for a while. If another attack comes in soon we might actually have to send in personnel to deal with the situation." "How well staffed is the lobby?" "Well, there's the receptionist and usually four to six guards posted. We could up the number of guards if you'd like, sire, maybe give a few of the more industrious imps something useful to do, but Flzamin - she's the receptionist - has been complaining that she's getting a bit bored at her desk and she's actually an impressively skilled magician - necromancy, mostly, although I think I saw mastery of elemental conjuration and classical malediction on her CV. With the caliber of magic users that have been coming through on palad...'good guy' support I'm confident she'd be more than a match. She'd probably have them eating hellfire the moment they step through the door." "Well, that's serendipitous to say the least. Inform... was it Fuhlazmin?" "Flzamin, your unparalleled malevolence." "Let her know she'll be getting a raise. I'll think of a new title as well. All I've got in my head right now is 'battle secretary' and that's hot garbage." "There is another problem, my immortal oppressor of the light," Igrazil said, and I sunk instinctively back in my throne so far that my wings got all mashed up and my tail squished against the seat in a manner so painful that I had to instantly adjust. "The holy water that the guy and his companions drank. Their entrails splattered against the walls of the lobby. Steaming with holy magic." "Ugh," I said, putting a clawed hand to my forehead. I felt a migraine coming on right behind my horns. "And no one can clean it up without getting burned, right?" "I'll do it," the princess said, standing up and walking towards the door without a second word. She sounded happy, perhaps excited even to have something to do besides sit around and wait to be rescued, and even looked back once and smiled before disappearing through the gate of lost souls down the stairwell through the chamber of horrors and the tunnel of unrelenting evil that led past the cafeteria to the broom closet where she'd presumably - hopefully - break out the purple stuff and the good mop. "She's great," Igrazil said once she was out of the throne room. "Really. It's been lovely having her around." "I know. I'd marry her myself if I weren't so fucking gay." EDIT: Wow, I did not respect this kind of response, thank you all so much! I'll post a Part 2 as a reply to this comment. I hope you guys enjoy it as well! EDIT 2: Again, WOW. I really did not expect this to blow up. For my first (I think my first?) post on this sub, I was optimistically hoping for double digit upvotes at best, so THANK YOU ALL again! I will definitely continue this story - I have absolutely no clue what my next step is going to be aside from me writing and posting it (somewhere? somehow? someone help? advice?) but I obviously have an audience here and I love this story so far so I will definitely give you guys more. As in hopefully tomorrow more. Thanks again! EDIT 3: (Last one, really) OK so for the time being I am going to be posting the continuation of this story directly on my profile until I find a better place to stick them, so - can I even ask people to subscribe to my profile? Is that soliciting? Will a Mod come strike me down? Anyway, for now, Parts 1 and 2 (and tomorrow, Part 3!) of "The Infinite Darkness of Lord Zabuliz the Unkillable Evil (And Friends!)" will be posted directly on my profile, /u/bochibochi

Harry emptied our second pitcher of lemon

Harry had just emptied our second pitcher of lemonade when we started. Now don't get me wrong, I love the guy like a brother, but my mother had always raised me to be a gentleman, even when not in public. I held doors for men and women alike, always had a napkin in my lap when eating, and called people 'Sir' or 'Ma'am' even if I saw them every day of my life. Harry...had been raised a little differently. When I say that he emptied our second pitcher of lemonade, he didn't use a glass. He put the pitcher back on the small table between us and leaned back in his chair, sighing and smacking his lips contentedly. I couldn't help but chuckle. "Edna makes the finest lemonade I've ever had," I said, smiling, "But you do remember that she's your wife, right? It's not like that lemonade is going anywhere." He laughed as we gazed off his front porch at the field in front of us, lit up in gold as the sun meandered towards its cradle to our left. I could hear Edna bustling around in the kitchen in the house behind us, apparently preparing for the party by banging together every pot she owned. "My daddy always said to live in the moment, Luke. I could fall off this porch and split my skull, for all I know. You never know when you taste your last glass of lemonade." "Or pitcher, as the case might be." He sighed as he stood up. "I'll take momentary exercise over protracted whining. You want anything else from Edna? She's cooking up a storm for tomorrow, but I doubt she'd begrudge you a bite or two." I shook my head contentedly. "Man may not be able to live by bread alone, but I can sustain myself just fine with your wife's lemonade." He rolled his eyes as he picked up the pitcher. "I can't tell if you need to go to church more often or less." "Most folks call that the sweet spot," I replied, grinning to myself as he walked through his front door. Harry and I had worked together at the power plant for forty-five years, and were only just starting to settle into retirement. He was wearing the watch they'd given him, but I'd left mine at home--no need to measure time when you were just trying to pass it. A minute or so later (who was counting?) Harry walked back out without the pitcher. "I regret to inform you," he said, "that Edna is currently in the middle of baking three pies, two casseroles and an entire ham for tomorrow. The lemonade will be ready, and I quote, 'In its own sweet time'." I pouted my lip and looked longingly at the table between us, blank but for the two empty glasses atop it. "I hate every moment I spend without it." "Loathe," Harry said as he sat back down. "Pardon?" "You *loathe* every moment you spend without it," he said. "They're two different 'motions." I cocked my head to the side--I was usually the pedantic one. "Care to enlighten me as to the difference?" Harry waved his hand around expressively for a moment before saying "Loathe is like...you can't stand to be in the same room as something. You loathe spiders, for instance." I nodded. "That I do." "But hate is different. If you hate something, you don't like it, but...you still want it around." He thought for a moment. "Remember Billy Hanrahan?" I gave a low whistle. "How could I forget?" "I hated every word that came out of that gossipin' backstabber, but we'd still eavesdrop on the son of a bitch occasionally, just to get the bile goin'. It feels good to hate something, dark as it is to admit. If you loathe something, you're repulsed by it, but hate is almost an attractive force." I nodded, knowing what he meant. "They say hate and love are opposed, but that's not really true. They both make you feel better for feeling them." "Exactly," he said. We sat for a while with that hanging in the air as the sun continued to slide down the sky and the crickets started their serenade. The nights were starting to get colder this time of the year, but we had an hour or two before I'd go home. Harry broke the silence by speculating, seemingly to no one in particular, "Where do you think hate comes from?" "We're getting a little heady for six PM, aren't we?" I asked, only half-joking. Harry sat forward in his chair and stared out at the darkening field as if it held the answers to his questions. "You remember what they taught us in high school, right? All that Newton stuff about energy--how it can't just be created, how it always has to come from somewhere?" "That seems like a simplification, but sure," I said. He seemed to be on his own train of thought, hardly reacting to my words. "Well...there's energy in hate, right? You ever get so steamed up about something that you can't sleep?" I nodded. "Sure. There's a reason they call it 'burning up inside'." "So where the hell does that energy come from? Why does hate feel good?" His posture was tight and he had gone from staring out at the field to trying to burn a hole in the porch between his feet. I didn't know how to respond, but slowly, over the course of what felt like fifteen minutes, he eased up and finally fell back into his usual slouched sitting position, a lazy smile across his face. Whatever storm had been brewing behind his eyes, the Harry I was used to was back. "You know what I bet it is?" he asked, looking at me for the first time since the conversation had gone sideways. "I bet there's little bugs." I wrinkled my nose in distaste. "I certainly hope there aren't." He grinned at my discomfort, joking around the way we usually did. "Sure...Hate Bugs. Little microscopic bugs that live on all of us. There's probably some kind of chemical or something that we make, maybe in our sweat, that only gets made when we're really holding a grudge about something. The bugs eat it, need it to live, so they've developed a system. Whenever we start hating something, they make something for us too--some kind of drug or something, like nicotine--gets the heart going, makes us feel good and sure and steady." I crooked an eyebrow at him. Harry and I would often bullshit for hours at an end, but this topic was new to me. "You're saying these hate bugs are conditioning us? Like that Pavlov guy and his dogs?" Harry snapped and pointed his finger at me. "That's his name, I was trying to think of it! Yeah, just like him. If you think about it, hate's addictive, just like a drug--if you can't stop drinking, that's alcoholism, and if you can't stop hating, that's called a grudge. They're basically the same, when you get right down to it." "And once you start hating someone or something, it's hard to stop," I said, stroking my chin as I slowly got aboard his train of thought. "So once the bugs get you hooked, they've got a long-term food source." "The more we talk about it, the more I convince myself," Harry said. "The horrible stuff people do...it's all because of these bugs, huh?" "I bet they're multiplying lately," I said, shaking my head ruefully. "The way the world's going, seems like everyone's favorite activity is to find someone to hate and light their life on fire." Harry nodded, leaning forward with his hands clasped tight enough to turn the knuckles white. "All the bad thoughts, all the unforgiveable things we do...all because of the bugs." I looked over at him. I still don't know if it was something in his words or the way he said them. After a moment's thought, I said "After all, what's the alternative, right?" He nodded as he leaned forwards a bit more. I stared a moment longer. "If there's no bugs...and it's all just coming from us. If there's just something about being human that makes you enjoy the thought of some other people suffering..." Harry scratched his neck absentmindedly. "Yeah...if it's all coming from inside you...how do you explain what that hate makes you do? Are you really the one who hurt that person, who...who *killed* that person? How can you still be the same person after hate makes you do something?" His voice was flat, but there was a rattle in it like a transmission with some important pieces missing. "If all you have to do is squash a few bugs..." I trailed off, unable to think straight as my mind raced. Harry nodded, looking back up at the field in front of us as the sun's edge touched the horizon. The crickets had gone silent. All was quiet around us. Not a sound from the field, the wind...even the clanging of pans in the kitchen had stopped. "Everything can go back to normal," he finished for me. "It wasn't you, it was some dark impulse from outside. The bugs made you do it, and now they're gone." I nodded slowly. "Now...they're gone." We sat in silence for a time as the sun dipped noiselessly below the horizon. The night cooled slowly, but I felt like ice sitting in that chair. I don't know why I got up when I did, but eventually I did. "Good to see you, Harry." "Likewise, Luke." "Tell Edna I said goodbye." It took him a moment too long to respond. "Yeah. I will." I walked to the car, my heart skipping beats and my feet unsteady. *It was really too bad*, I reflected, my mind focusing on the strangest thing. I'd miss that damn lemonade.

The mirror house was closed for a

In some ways, I'd have to say this was actually my fault. The mirror house was closed for a reason, even if it was only sealed off with like a single layer of duct tape, and you could see through the giant ass windows that the mirrors were all intact. It's still probably my fault that, even if I didn't know it was absolutely covered in demons. To be fair, I don't think anyone really knows that when you have enough mirrors in one location, you open a portal to hell, but only a tiny portal, because it opens at like the sixtieth of seventieth recursion of the image? Look, you know what, I'm just going to disown this, not my fault. "Oooh, a vistor!" My lips moved without my consent as I stared into the mirror blankly, trying to figure out how the image of a child had ended up lodged there, a good fifty or so recusions back. "...What?" I said. In reply to my own voice. Because, you know, that happens. "Are we here to play?! Dad said I'd get a chance to play!" I said, excitedly, a hot jab of exhilaration slamming through my veins. Carefully, I put a hand over my eyes, then looked back at the mirror. The kid was suddenly right in front of me. He was cute, in the way that only little kids can be. Even if he did have big goat horns, he looked absolutely harmless. I mean, despite the shirt that said daddy's little demon on it. "...Don't you think you should get back to your parents?" I said. This was a bit too surreal for me, and I could hear standard reality outside, bubbling with fair noises and the roar of a crowd. "I mean, I guess I could wait for dad... he might be unhappy I'm with a stranger, though." The child confessed, using my lips and tongue. I got a brief flash of a greater hell lord, bristling with spikes and an axe as long as november, and suddenly I didn't want to be in the mirror house for much longer. "Hahahah. So what do you want to do that doesn't involve your father?" I said, trying not to sound too creepy to the little daemonette. "...cotton candy!" The hellspawn chirped, and with a wrenching feeling that shot electricity through my muscles, he leapt out of the mirror and directly into my body. So far as demonic possessions, it wasn't exactly painful, more extremely unpleasant. When he thumped his head against the door frame, forgetting to stoop, though, that was highly unpleasant. Ow, I complained internally. "Ouch." He complained, externally. "Sorry. Don't tell dad I got you banged up, alright?" It's not like I was going to complain to whatever a hell lord is, honestly, so I didn't give him too much shits over it. I did start complaining when he started pulling money out of my wallet. No. No, leave a few twenties in there, you only need like forty bucks to get everything. He complained about it, but I remained stern on it like I was stern for my little nephew, and he shoved my wallet back into my pants without too much more fuss. Good. It didn't stop him from buying a thing of cotton candy bigger than my face, and slamming my poor teeth together in it. It's pure sugar, and we're sharing sensations, so I got to feel his childish glee mix with my internal wretch of disgust, and then feel him experience the pain in my shitty teeth when the sugar went straight through them. "Ouch!" He said. No. No, take it slower, come on, get yourself a drink or something. He threw more of his allowance at the stall owner, pouting slightly, and eventually negotiated for some water with both me and the shop keep and then the two of us in my body spiralled off to find a place to sit down. "Um... alright, so what do you want to do now?" The demonling said, munching happily on the cotton candy. What, you just wanted something to eat? "Yeah. You know, fruit of the mortals." I didn't have to heart to tell him that cotton candy was a couple of steps removed from anything remotely resembling a fruit, but whatever. Have you ever tried a roller-coaster? "...What's a roller-coaster?" Carefully, I led him over to the first roller-coaster at the fair. It wasn't exactly a full scale model with loops, but it was decently fast, so I thought it might be good for beginners. Really, this isn't entirely my fault. I could feel the kid's nervousness bubbling up in the flickering of my heart, and the sweat building in my palms. I reassured the kid that this was fine, after all, he was in my body, and I was fond of roller-coasters. To his credit, the brat didn't start screaming until we were flying down the hill. Perhaps I should've thought this through a bit better, because the sun abruptly inverted itself in color, and all the clouds turned bright red, until we were both screaming on the roller-coaster, along with everyone else at the fairground, so like, my bad, definitely. At any rate, the hell-lord stepped into reality and glared down at the roller-coaster, his axe slicing a shitty carnie food place in half, and his massive legs thankfully missing everything as he sat down, though his goat hooves came ridiculously close to smashing up the parking lot. I think he took vindictive pleasure in scratching up the door of my car. So, between the two of us, massive shame from the kid, and utter terror from me, we still had to wait for the roller-coaster to stop. Which took like, another thirty seconds, during which I watched the hell-lord grow steadily more and more impatient, until the man operating the coaster slowly let us all off, shaking like a giant demonlord thingy was glaring at him. "Bring me Mark!" The demonlord rumbled. There was confusion, it wasn't like anyone actually knew anyone's names, but before he could get upset, the demon kid walked towards his dad. With a wet slurping feeling, like someone had scooped out my brain with an icecream scoop, I was abruptly in control of my body again, which was really nice, but I was also in the palm of the demon's hand, which was less than nice. "Daddy!" The little demonling squealed, sitting next to me. "Little Belial!" He said, sounding a bit of a cross between proud and angry, though I might've just been imagining it because the rumbling was all consuming at this distance. "Did this man hurt you!?" "Nooo..." Belial said, trying to stand up, but rather unsteady after possessing me for the last hour or two. "It was fun! I had fun! I tempted him into sin, just like you said a demon should." I felt my face color. "...We got cotton candy and rode a roller-coaster. That's why he was screaming." The demon peered at me with eyes like two massive flaming coals, and with breath that smelled exactly like kerosene. "It was fun!" Belial insisted. "Fun." I said, flatly, since all the emotion in my body had abruptly left to cower somewhere beneath my spleen. "Hmmmm..." The demon scratch his massive chin with his other hand. "Then you'll have to do this again! Is next week good to babysit?" "Dad!! You're the best!" Belial screeched. What. TL:DR I accidentally ended up getting a job babysitting a baby demon after he possessed me.

A frustrated Wendigo was never a

The forest was dark this morning, the trees were blocking out what remained of the winter's sunrise, my breath was misting up in front of me. It was a beautiful morning. The sort of morning where I could do nothing but smile, despite the apparently shit night my colleague had. It is never good to wake up to a text message simply saying 'he is a grumpy arse this morning.' Sure, normally Jason is a grumpy ass, but for the hardened Brit who takes the night shift to proclaim such a thing meant trouble for me. The morning after the night before was usually one built with frustration. A frustrated Wendigo was never a good thing. There were marks of his violent outburst. The trees to my right were at an unusual angle, deep scratches wormed their way around the bark. The usual quiet wilderness around me, peaceful in Jason's presence, was erratic and unhappy. To a passer-by, this may have been like any other morning, but to a Park Ranger, it was obvious. That was one saving grace. The last time Jason had a moan, he had torn up half an acre of land and seemingly pissed all over an unfortunate moose. Literally pissed all over it. Poor fella. "Jason!" I called out into the trees. I couldn't see the creature, but I was fairly certain he had seen me. ... ... Odd. No reply. That brat better not be giving me the silent treatment. Angrily I followed his trail of mild discomfort. The poor thing wasn't angry, the trees were still rooted, if he was angry there would be nothing left standing. But whatever was up with him, it needed to be fixed before the park opened to the public. "Jason, you oversized moose, it's Nate! Come talk!" The moose comment would draw his attention. It always did. ... ... Still no answer. Where was the green shit? The trail that I was walking down was getting less and less chaotic, as though the frustration had faded over time. The deep footprints that were engraved in the mud were barely visible now. Was I going the wrong way? Maybe I should turn around? "Nate, I'm sorry..." A miserable voice called out from in front of me. Squinting, I couldn't make out where he was. There were so many different shades of green in front of me, Jason's particular shade of green just faded into the background. "It's alright, no need to say sorry. Everyone has off days. What's the matter?" I called out, still searching the trees to find the hulking beast. There was a rustle in front of me, a few trees wobbled in the darkness of the thicker trees. "You in there?" "I don't want to come out and play today...not with you." Jason's voice was gloomy and miserable. It was still powerful as anything, I could feel it reverberating through me. But his usually booming and deep voice was slightly less booming today. "Hey, Jason, that's not nice." I could just make out his thick horns at the top of the trees. The rest of his muscly figure was well hidden in the dark greens and browns of the trees. I could hear it shuffle around in the darkness, causing the trees to sway further. "I don't mean to be mean Nate. I just find humans boring sometimes. I have to hold back a lot." I took a seat on an old tree to my left (a remnant from one of Jason's past tempers). It had been a while since we had had this particular chat. "I know you do Jason, but we've spoken about this before. It is complicated." "But why is it complicated?!" He shouted at me. I did all in my power to not flinch, but the explosiveness of his voice always gave me the chills. "Hey, don't shout at me, Jason." I snapped, hoping that my fear wouldn't show. "That isn't on. If you want me to go through everything again, I will. But first and foremost, you are going to need to calm the fuck down." "Fine." He replied with a slight twinge of anger. I decided to let it slip this time, but only because he was much, much bigger than me. "What do you want to know?" I asked with open arms. I would rather him tell me what the problem is, then go on and on all morning long about every problem in the world. "I want to play with others like me. Not little squishy humans." I sighed. It wasn't that I was annoyed, I just hated THIS particular conversation. It was always a tough one. "Werewolves visit me sometimes," He went on, "old friends from the War. They talk about the good old days, about how then humans have been to them. They are treated like heroes Nate....Heroes. I want that." Fucking yanks, always the problem. Coming up to pay us a visit and upsetting things. "How long has this been going on for?" "It doesn't matter Nate." "It does," I pushed, "If werewolves are swimming over here, then the public needs to know. They are not meant to be here!" "These ones don't want to cause harm to you humans. They are veterans. Humans aren't food for them." "They better not be." Absentmindedly I thumbed the pistol that was firmly placed in the holster on my hip. Every other bullet was silver, just in case. Trying to get the conversation back on track, I pressed Jason for more information. "What do these Werewolves talk to you about, old friend?" "Like I said, they talk about the war. I fought alongside them in the Pacific. We shared the same trees, hunted the same Japs. They get to see their own kind all the time. They even get to see different humans!" He ended his statement with enthusiasm. He wanted company. That was understandable. "These werewolves," he continued, "they even mentioned about the night creatures." There was a slight fear in his voice at the mention of this. I gulped hard, knowing full well what he was going to say next. "They say the night creatures have even started to see more of the world! Apparently, there is this one...I think his name is Gera, he even gets to talk to humans! Imagine it Nate, a night creature talking to a human! It is the start of a bad joke." The Wendigo laughed at this. He laughed as though it was something that was unimaginable. He was right though. Integration with the Fantasies and their importance in the war had become well known. It was a part of human history that couldn't be hidden any longer. "Jason," I took my time, thinking about what I was about to say very carefully, "the thing is, the thing is that all that is true. Gera was even on the news the other night, fighting for equality for his kind. The difficulties we have though is that the werewolves and the vampires, they are like us." "No, they are not, they are better." Jason snapped in an aggressive tone. I raised my eyebrows at him. That was an unusual response that I wasn't going to worry about for the time being. "What I mean, I mean that they can use the same stuff as us. We are all the same size." "What?! So I cannot leave this island because I am taller than you?!" He shouted at me. The trees shaking in anger. "Yeah," I could hear him smirking, "I know this place is an island. The werewolves told me. Why am I on an island Nate?!" I want to see the others!" I moved slightly, my feet were placed firmer on the floor. I was ready to run if need be. "Jason, it isn't that simple. There is a plan in place, but it is going to take a while for everyt" "You have been saying that for years!" He interrupted, "I fought for this little country when people threatened MY forests! I even left MY forest when I was asked! I had to share a FUCKING FOREST with a bunch of FUCKING DOGS!" "Please, Jason. There is nothing I can do." There were tears in my eyes. Not because I was scared, but because I was sad. Sad that I couldn't tell him the truth. I could see the trees shaking as Jason gesticulated with his strong arms. The tip of the forest was being made bare as the leaves fell around him. I could just make out his darkened shape, each and every one of his muscles was tense and ready to pounce. "Please listen to me Jason," I tried to calm the beast, "there are people talking right now. They are talking about helping you out, helping us you Wendigo's. You have to listen to me!" I cried out. My eyes could no longer hold back the tears. There was a moment of silence in Jason's rage. I could hear his breathing even from this distance. "I like you, Nate." He whispered. Even his whisper travelled further than the average human could shout. "I like you a lot, and I know you want me to hide away while the other humans are here. You've been honest with me since the very beginning, and I respect that so I will quench my anger for the moment. However," his voice had a hint of violence, "if this problem doesn't get resolved soon, I will find a way off of this island and I will head to the place where the lights are at night." "Is that a threat?" "It's a promise." With that Jason turned, the trees giving away his movement, and he walked off into the distance. He was gone, for now... I remained on that log for what must have been an hour, just crying away. I cried more in that moment than I had done in all 25 of my years on Earth. How was I meant to tell such a beautiful creature that he was the last of his kind?

A flash of black and dark blue

"Its going to be okay." I gripped her hands in mine, she pressed her forehead into mine and we sat with our eyes closed. "I can't." She said quietly. "You need a body to stay here right?" I knew the answer, I don't know why she refused but it needed to be done. She moved her head down to fall on my shoulder and took a deep breath. "It's going to hurt." "Its the only thing I can think of." The knock came to the door. She lifted her head and looked me in the eye. A flash of black and dark blue spread through her eyes. She opened her mouth wide and a cloud of what looked like thick black smoke rolled out. It was like breathing in sulfur and ash as the swirling smoke forced itself into my lungs. I fell from the chair and convulsed on the floor. My throat felt as if I'd swallowed a lit torch and there was a splitting pain in my head. The knock came to the door again. I looked up to she my girlfriend slowly waking, I'd seen this many times in the last month but this time I knew she was going to stay in control. I dove with athleticism I'd never had and grabbed the tape off the shelf, quickly I bound it around her mouth as she stared at me in horror. Her muffled screams were held back by the constricting tape and I bound the rest of her body to the chair. Finished I walked over to the mirror in the hallway before the front door and observed myself. I adjusted my hair and watches as my blue and black eyes faded back to normal. The splitting pain erupted in my head, I would take a year of alcoholics' withdraw headaches over this. The pain would worsen as I stayed in control she had explained, but I had to be the one in control, if the exocist caught even a hint something was off this plan would fall apart. I opened the door to see an older looking gentleman with black robes and a large white sash around his shoulders. There was a large gold cross on the upper half of his robes and he carried a very thick bible. "Hello, I was sent to this address in order to find any truths behind a claimed demonic possession." "Hello father." I painfully stammered. "Please come in." "Are you alright son?" He asked. "Fine, I'm fine, it's just been a hard few weeks." I explained. He nodded and placed his hand gently on my shoulder to reassure me. He took his first step into the apartment and I shut the door behind him. "Yes, I can smell it, this place smells heavily of demonic sulfur. An awful stench." He started making his way down the hall. *Demonic sulfur?* I thought to myself. *Is there a difference?* I raised my fist and shook it violently behind his back. *Stench how dare he.* Noticing my hand's actions I quickly forced it down. "Hey, definitely no outward actions." I whispered and then quickly caught up with the priest. We moved into the kitchen where I had left my girlfriend bound to the chair. "Yes definitely a sign of possession, the smell is absolutely revolting in here." My hands shot up and made a strangling gesture. "Quit." I said quietly. I quickly put my hands down before the priest turned around. "I'm sorry?" "Hmm? Oh it was nothing clearing my throat, was a bit choked up." "I understand." He said calmly and walked over to my girlfriend. "What is her name?" "Theresa." I answered. She was shaking violently trying to break the binds and looking into the priest's eyes. "Theresa." He said and placed his hand on her forehead. "Theresa you must stay calm, I am here to exorcise the demon within you." Theresa thrashed harder. "Demon I will banish you back to the depths where you belong." The priest said a bit more violently. Looking more concerned Theresa wildly pulled against the tape and shook her head toward me, she moved her eyes from the priest to me over and over. "You said a few weeks, yes?" "Pardon me?" "At the door, you said a hard few weeks. Why did you take so long to seek help?" *More like a few months, but.* "Well actually it wasn't me, she called. It was in one of her brief moments of lucidity and we took that opportunity to bind her before she, changed back." "I see. Well to have any moment of lucidity this long into a possession, she must be a fighter." "Yes Theresa's a stubborn one." Theresa stopped moving and glared harshly at me. I gave her a slight shrug. "Well I will begin the exorcism now." He placed a few objects around the chair and started a reading. The pain within my head was swarming and I was finding it hard to stand. I stumbled forward and barley caught myself on the other chair. "My son, are you alright?" I gave the priest a small nod. "Please you've had it rough, go and rest I will call you when it's done." I nodded again and stumbled out of the kitchen, only a few steps down the hall I collapsed on the ground. I struggled for air gasping for a single breath. *Are you okay?* A unfamiliar voice sounded in my mind. "I-It's hard to breath, my body hurts, and this splitting headache is making it hard to see straight." *I can take over.* The voice came again, it was far sweeter and softer than, a few months ago, I would've imagined a demon's voice. "No, it's fine, I can take it. I must." I pulled myself to my feet. I could hear the priest, he was almost yelling now. I let myself drop onto the wooden trunk in the hall and laid my upper half down as best I could on the small trunk. "Be damned!" A loud shout woke me up. My head rung and felt like a pulling weight. For once though I couldn't hear the pounding of chair legs as Theresa fought the binds. I assumed she'd gotten tired and I got up and walked toward the kitchen. I rounded the corner, Theresa looked at me and glared, she started shaking violently again. "Damnit!" The priest screamed. "This infernal creature refuses to submit no matter the tactic." "Yeah, she does that." I joked. Thankfully the priest didn't hear he was focused looking through his bag. Theresa did hear me though and was attempting to jump the chair at me. "Fine!" The priest spun around, he was brandishing a polished dagger. Theresa stopped her muffled yelling at me and looked in terror at the priest. She quickly flipped her actions and was now worriedly looking at the priest and repeatedly flashing her eyes at me. "What are you doing?" I yelled. "This creature cannot be allowed to stay on God's Earth. I'm sorry my son but I must do this no matter how!" He loomed over Theresa with the blade. Before I could think of anything a mass of black shot out of my mouth and forced itself into the priest's mouth. The priest stumbled back and clawed at his throat. His eyes flashed the blue and black colors, then he stopped and stood still. "What the fuck!" The priest screamed loudly and thrust his hands out. He tossed the dagger to the ground. "What kind of priest is this?" Theresa let out a few angrily muffled words. I gave the possessed priest a shrug and ripped the tape off Theresa's mouth. "That old bastard was gonna kill me!" She yelled. "Who the fuck did you call!" I yelled back. "I called somebody to get that bitch out of my head, not cut my fucking heart out!" "Bitch?" "Not now dear... To be fair, you forcefully took her body for a few months." The possessed priest gestured a weak 'yeah okay' motion. "Get me out of this shit!" Theresa yelled. "Theresa, this is why he makes those jokes about you, and likes me more. You gotta be cooler and find humor in situations, be funny, sarcastic." Theresa stared at 'her' unsure. "Look I'm not gonna have a girly, this is how you be a better girlfriend, or this is a better match for him conversation with a balding priest, ok." "See, getting better already." "Get me out of this fucking tape!" Theresa yelled again. I picked up the dagger and started cutting her binds. "Look, you're not gonna run off and like call the police or another exocist are you?" I asked before cutting the final bind. "She's not in my body anymore, and that bastard tried to kill me, she saved me. It's not my problem, you two wanna continue your weird, other species relationship shit that's fine, I'm leaving." "Thank you." I said, genuinely, and cut the final bind. Theresa raced away, and we could hear her rifiling through drawers. "Now what?" My oddly bodied new girlfriend asked. "Well first, we gotta figure out... something to do with that." I gestured to her current body. "What?" She took a pose, sticking out the priest's butt and placing a hand on hip. "This doesn't do it for you." "No, graying haired, balding priest isn't my fetish." "Nope." 'She' said and walked toward me, she gently grabbed my chin and pulled my face to the priest's. "According to your girlfriend there, your fetish is other species relationships." "Sweetheart, as much as I can imagine you being sexy right now and as funny as that was, I'm having a hard time focusing on anything other than your old man wrinkles and gray eyebrows." 'She' pulled back and walked over to the chair taking a seat. "Well if you really want to, it'd be a hard process but we could try and get my actual body here, so you can see the real me and see if you like." The priest gave an attempted alluring pout. "Oh, please, let's. If anything else so you'll stop doing that." I said, we laughed together. She/he ran over and gave me a hug bursting into laughter as I stood there in a confusion of emotion unable to hug back. *Please be a quicker process than she said.* I thought to myself, practically pleading.

A knock rang out on the door

A knock rang out on the door. Mrs. Patterson put down the dish filled with fresh pasta and wiped her hands on a kitchen towel as she walked towards the front door. She was greeted by two police officers who had removed their hats and were looking on solemnly. The officer to her left spoke, "Ma'am, my name is Officer Chadley. I'm afraid we have some bad news regarding your husband." Mrs. Patterson entered a small confused trance before speaking, "OK, what is the problem?" The officer to her right picked up her hand and held it tight. "I'm afraid he was found dead at 1400 hours today. I'm so sorry," said Officer Maddocks. Mrs. Patterson re-entered her confused state, turning around to look in to the kitchen before turning back towards the police officers. "This must be some kind of mistake. My husband is in the kitchen making pasta. We're making pasta." "May we enter the premises, Ma'am?" asked Maddocks, already motioning to walk in to the house. "Of course," said Mrs. Patterson. "He's right through there." Both of the police officers made their way quietly towards the kitchen before stopping at the door. Mr. Patterson stood wide-eyed, looking at the officers in a state of fright. "Step away from the knife on the counter!" shouted Chadley. Mr. Patterson remained frozen as the two officers approached him, guns drawn. Officer Maddocks pushed him to the ground while Chadley grabbed at his walkie-talkie. "We've got another one," said Chadley. "What is going on?!" screamed Mrs. Patterson. "I'm sorry to tell you this, Mrs. Patterson," said Maddocks as he wrestled with her husband, "but this man isn't your husband, he's actually a big fuck off horse disguised as your husband." Maddocks ripped the wig, fake glasses and moustache from the face of the horse revealing his true identity to Mrs. Patterson. She shrieked and grasped for the nearest counter in a bid to stop herself from collapsing. "H-h-h ... How?!" she asked. Officer Chadley gently approached her, wrapping an arm around her as she sobbed. "Don't beat yourself up. The bastards are becoming sneakier as days go by. Somehow they're able to disguise their monstrous bodies and super obvious horse heads as 5ft 5 human men and women. It's quite remarkable just how good they are at subterfuge. Especially considering it's more often than not quite apparent they're just big fuck off horses in disguise" **** The phone rang out. A large novelty hand attempted to pick it up. Then tried again. And again. Eventually, by clamping the phone between two novelty hands, the phone was answered. "Yes, this is Don Horse. Just calm down. Yeah? OK. Call me back later on. Just call me back later on." An attempt was made to put the phone down. Don Horse awkwardly walked out of his office, his legs being routinely caught between his beach shorts. He trotted in to a room filled with other oddly dressed men. "Gentlemen, it would appear another one of us has fallen." "Who?" asked Carl, who was eating hay disguised as a cereal bar. "Kevin Horse." "Kevin?!" said Lenny, stomping his feet. "He was 4 months deep with the Pattersons. How was he rumbled?" "I don't know. I don't have all the details yet," said Don Horse. "This is one too many," said Carl. "We've got to find out how they keep finding us." "Well, according to what we know from on the inside, the police are specifically on the lookout for big fuck off horses dressed as humans," said Don Horse. "But that's absurd," said Lenny. "Just look how convincing my costume is." Both Don Horse and Carl eyeballed Lenny. He was wearing a birthday party hat that was suspended around his head via an elastic band, a pair of suit pants over his front legs, a pair of jean shorts over his back legs, and a cape. "I think Lenny has a point, Don," said Carl. "He really does, there's no arguing with that," agreed Don Horse, turning from his two friends. "And while we're on the subject, what do you think of my new beach shorts?" "I noticed them before and thought they were very classy," said Lenny. "Classy is exactly what I'm going for," said Don Horse. "I don't want to stand out at the beach and for everyone to be like, *look at that big fucking massive horse masquerading as human*, I just want to blend in and play volley ball while aggressively fighting all my natural instincts to bite the ball." "I always bite the ball," said Carl. "He really does bite it a lot. Too much, if I'm being honest," said Lenny. "I've ruined a lot of game and disguises if we're being real," said Carl. The door to the office burst open, a horse with a top hat and a monocle galloped in. "Boys, we've done it! Tim Horse has infiltrated the police!" **** Sergeant Palmer stood at the head of the room with tables of officers in front of him. He paced back and forth before slamming his hand on the chalk board behind him. "Gentleman!" he shouted, peeling his hand from the board. "I'm not sure if you lot have noticed but we have an epidemic of horses masquerading at humans. In fact, I say this super sarcastically as I know you have all noticed. I'm funny like that. Either way, they're fucking massive animals. True beasts of nature able to carry man from one side of a county to another. Do sweet hind legged stand up things and gallop super quickly. But now they're wearing ties and blogging on YouTube and we can't have that. The horses have gone too far." The Sergeant bent over the desk at the front of the room, burying his eyes in the skull of the young officer in front of him. "Do you want to hear a story, rookie?" asked the Sergeant. "Y-y-yes, sir," mumbled the officer. "Yesterday afternoon a young mother went to pick up her child from Day Care only to discover her beloved daughter had grown eight feet long and now weighed 1500 pounds," said Palmer, staring deep in to the man's soul. The rookie sat shaking in his chair. "Only it wasn't her daughter, rookie. It was a big fuck off horse. Just a big old fuck off horse." The Sergeant whirled away from the table, "and this is why we need to shake things up, gentleman. We can't just go around looking for horses wearing cool top hats. The top hat tactic can only take us so far." The room of officers nodded along, agreeing with Sergeant Palmer. "And that's why we're bringing in a specialist. Someone who can infiltrate the enemy camp and strike at the heart." The sound of the door opening at the back of the room caught the attention of all the seated officers. "Say hello to Agent Tim," said Sergeant Palmer. **** I write shitty, silly stories on /r/BillMurrayMovies. Feel free to come along, not laugh at any of them and leave some judgement.

The first time I'd noticed him

I assume he followed the same routine every day. He'd be on the bus when I would get on after work at 5:43, and he'd stay on the bus after I got off near my home at 6:27. He always sat in the same seat, and no one ever sat next to him even if the bus was packed. My car had been in the shop for a while now, pending me actually having enough money to fix it, so I had started using the bus to get to work. I imagine he was there the first few times I got on, but I just never noticed. That in and of itself is surprising, consider how attractive he was. He had curly blonde hair that was neatly cut above his shoulders, and he was always dressed very smart in a grey suit with a vest. I wasn't sure, but it seemed he always wore the same outfit. The first time I'd noticed him, he had looked at me. Not really AT me, more like through me, but that had been enough. His eyes were a sharp blue, and somehow incredibly sad. He looked to be in his mid-thirties and yet he looked as if he'd seen a hundred lifetimes. He never made eye contact with anyone and most of the time he stared out the window, lost in his own world. I found myself entranced by his figure, sitting there alone every evening. I wondered if he had a family, if he had a wife to go home to every night. And if he did, why did he always look so sad? I normally don't mess with other people's business. I like being left alone, so I just assume other people prefer it too. But this man was different. I wanted to learn more about him, get to know him, and maybe, just maybe, learn what it was he had seen that haunted him. That Thursday night as I stood outside waiting like usual, I made up my mind. The monstrous city bus rolled up to the stop slowly, its windshield wipers going full speed to clear the rain. I got on and swiped my commuter pass. As I had expected, and hoped, there he was in his same seat with his same suit and the same expression. I walked down the aisle to the back where he sat. The bus wasn't full this evening, but most of the seats were taken. No one paid me any attention as I nonchalantly sat in the seat next to his. I shifted my bag so it was sitting on my lap, the only noise aside from the rumble of the engine and the pounding rain. He looked at me, if only briefly, and I suddenly had butterflies in my stomach. He didn't say anything, just a quick glance to confirm that there was indeed another human being sat next to him before he went back to looking out the window. I knew my time was brief, I only had about 30 minutes to talk before I would have to get off the bus. But maybe if things went well, I'd stay on a little longer and pay the extra fare. Maybe. As we pulled up to the next stop, I made my move. "Hi," I said quietly. It almost felt wrong to break the weird non-silence of the bus, but I wouldn't likely be able to muster up the courage to do this again. He didn't answer, didn't even blink. "Um...I see you on this route a lot, do you have a long commute?" Still nothing. Time to be a little more forceful. I shifted as much as I could in my small seat so that I was partially facing him. "My name's Jane. What's yours?" No response again, and I started to get disheartened. But then I saw his eyes flick down to my legs, and it seemed to register that I was facing him. Slowly, he turned towards me and met my eyes. "Come again?" he asked quietly, barely above a whisper. His voice was deeper than I had expected. "I said I'm Jane, and I wanted to know your name." He was quiet again, and I noticed his face darken. I hadn't expected that response. If anything, I figured he'd either brush me off or ignore me, but I hadn't expected him to get angry. "You shouldn't be able to see me," he said in a fierce but still quiet voice. "I...what? Of...course I can-I shouldn't be ABLE to see you?" He shook his head slightly in the negative without breaking eye contact. "No, you shouldn't." Now I thought maybe I'd made a mistake, that I'd somehow become infatuated with a crazy guy who I should have left alone. I gave a half hearted smile, hoping to put him at ease. Slowly, I made a move to get up and switch seats so I could mentally berate myself for talking to strangers on the bus. His hand whipped out and grabbed my arm as I tried to stand. His grip was tight and his hand was cold, almost painfully cold. "You can't leave." His dark, cold voice sent a shiver up my spine. I moved to pull away, but his grip tightened. I tried calling for help, but I couldn't seem to catch my breath. Looking around frantically, I willed someone to look at me, to save me. But the bus was empty. I looked at the man again, his iron grip and his ice cold eyes keeping me locked in place. His sad, tormented face had become one of dark anger. I still couldn't breathe properly and I felt tears sting my eyes. It was cold now, very cold. My vision started going dark but I couldn't look away. All I could see was this man in front of me, this terrifyingly beautiful man. I had made a terrible mistake. ----- *EDIT: Wow thank you all for the positive feedback! I'm so glad you liked it, I've never written anything like this before. I'll definitely work on continuing the story!*

The voice of Abraxas first

It was when I was nine years old, as my parents argued and my mother screamed, that I first heard the comforting whispers of Abraxas -- although at that time, I did not know his name. His voice crept in through the damp brick-wall of my room, rustling the peeling paint as it entered. A great, shimmering shadow followed, seeping in like liquid through the cracks in the wall. Although there were no eyes on the patch of darkness, I knew *it* was watching me. "Please," I said, as tears ran down my little cheeks. "Whoever you are, *please* help my mommy." The shadow remained perfectly still for a moment, as if considering. Then, it walked forward, breaking free of the wall. It wrapped its dark arms around my shivering shoulders, gently hushing me, as the screams continued in the room below. "I will," he murmured. "A father should be a child's guardian angel. I shall have to be yours instead. Close your eyes and sleep, little one." I awoke on my bed hours later to a vicious blur of red and blue light piercing my windows and swamping my room. A police woman entered and sat beside me on my bed. She told me, ever so softly, that my daddy had gone away and wasn't coming back. That my mommy and me were going to be okay. I still remember the tears crawling like silver slugs down her face, and thinking, *why are you crying for him?* I still remember looking down at my hands once she left the room, and seeing the shimmering red that coated them -- only for it to fade to blue, then red again. They told me my mommy had done it in self defence and that she wasn't going to go to jail. But I knew she hadn't done it at all -- her right arm had been broken a week before, and yet my daddy had been stabbed many times. Mommy said she couldn't remember what had happened, but she looked at me differently from that day on. Almost as if she was afraid of me. It wasn't until I was at high-school that I learned my guardian's name -- when I was cornered in the toilets, down on my knees, sobbing and hoping that today's beating would be quick. There were two of them: Chris and Aaron. The same age as myself, but much bigger. They said I'd disrespected them, not offering them my pudding before taking a bite myself. "Look at the freak," taunted Aaron. "He's about to piss himself." Chris cackled as he picked me up by the scruff of my collar, and threw his fist into my stomach. I gasped for air and keeled over. He pulled me back up and was about to punch again, when his satisfied smile suddenly dropped and his eyes widened. His grip loosened on my collar as a whisper began building in the room, echoing off the darkening walls and frothing up into a strangled cacophony. *Abraxas.* Then, I remember nothing except for the blackness. They told me Aaron had suffered only a broken arm and a few bruised ribs. Chris didn't come out of the coma for three months. Their parents moved them to another school after the event, and my mom made my first appointment for me, with a psychiatrist named Doctor D. Shreiber. The school insisted on it. "Hello, Michael," said Doctor Shreiber, in his silly put-on accent. "It's good to meet you." He smiled fraudulently and flicked through a few pages of paper. "Why am I here?" He placed the notes down neatly on a small table in front and leaned forward, elbows on knees. "Because you're a very disturbed young man, Michael." "I am?" "Yes, *you are*. It's not a surprise -- not after what you have been through. Your mother murdering your father! How many times was it that she stabbed him? Fifty?" "My father was not a nice man," I replied, rubbing a long since healed wound on my chest. "The apple does not tend to fall far from the tree," he replied. He removed his glasses, breathed once on each lens, then began making tiny circles on them with a piece of white cloth. "They say you do not speak much at school." "There is not much *to* say." "Do you get angry easily, Michael?" "No." "So... you bottle up your anger? Until it becomes too much. Then, you explode. Let it all out in a rage. Is that what happened to your two friends?" "They were not my friends, and I did not hurt them." He smiled, lips curling over sharp teeth. "Michael, a teacher found you standing over them. She said you looked possessed." "I did not do it," I repeated. "It was Abraxas!" "Abraxas?" "...he... *it*, guards me. He watches over me. Protects me." The doctor leaned in closer, his eyes gleaming. "A guardian angel? Now that is interesting. If only we all had one of those." "He's not an angel. And he's real." "Oh, I do hope so," he said, before leaning back and laughing. A laugh that signalled the start of a new period in my life. I was moved away from my school and from my mother, and placed inside a ward with other children. Children with blank expressions and drooling mouths. The first night they asked me a hundred questions. They drew sketches of Abraxas from my descriptions. They told me I'd been good. On my second lonely night in the ward, as I lay sobbing in my bed after another day of questions, Abraxas came to me as a red shadow on the wall. "Michael," Abraxas whispered to me as he crept off the wall and into the room itself. "You must not tell them about me." "I- I already did. I had to!" "Then tell them you lied about me, and that you're sorry." "Why? I don't understand." "They will try to do bad things to you, if they find out I am real. To both of us." "Are you real?" "Do you think I'm real?" "...yes." "Then for my sake, if not your own, tell them you made me up. You are destined for great things, Michael, you and I. Hard things. But great things. Lie to them, Michael." I nodded. "Good boy," he murmured, as he pulled the blanket up to my neck and gently stroked my hair until I fell asleep. I did as Abraxas instructed, and for the next few months I simply said what the doctors and nurses needed to hear, until they had no reason to hold me any longer. They called me a liar, and they beat me as bad as any bully had ever done, but they eventually let me go free, providing I met with Doctor Shreiber once a month. I did not see or hear from Abraxas for a long time after. I slowly moved on with my life; I got a job at a supermarket, and rented flat where I lived in peace for a number of years. I did not have friends, but I did not need them - my life, while it did not seem like much to most other people, was better than it had ever been before. It was two in the morning after a late shift at work, as I walked down a lonely street lit only by bleary beige moonlight, that I heard the scream. It came from an alley not far away. I wanted to ignore it, and for a while, I *did* ignore it, turning up my coat's collar and walking past without even glancing down the alleyway. But the scream came again -- and this time my blood ran cold. It sounded just like my mother's had done on that night so long ago. In my mind's eye, I saw my father as the assailant. I stopped and turned. There were two men wrestling with a single woman. She was screaming and kicking and doing her best to keep them at bay, but they were too strong for her. "Leave her alone," I said from the alley's entrance, but they did not hear me through their frenzied excitement. "Leave. Her. Alone," I repeated, louder this time. As forceful as I could manage. I hoped they would leave if I just sounded confident enough. The men fell silent as they turned to me. Then, they grinned at each other as they drew their flick blades and stalked towards me. "One chance," said the larger man. "Fuck off. Now." "Leave her alone," I said, a final time. "Or"--I gulped--"you'll pay." They approached me, their smiles almost as sharp as their knives. "The Doc's not going to like someone interfering in his business. Now we're going to have to gut you-" Their weapons clattered to the ground and their mouths fell open, as a deep, red shadow began creeping up the wall next to us. I hadn't been sure Abraxas would come, but I shivered with relief as his great hands flew out of the bricks and clamped themselves around the necks of the two men. They struggled and scratched impotently at his huge arms, until their own fell limp. Their necks began to smoulder, the black smoke drifting in plumes into the night sky. When finished, Abraxas dropped the bodies to the ground; he looked at me and whispered, "this is a start. We still have work much to do. But this is a start. There are many others who were like you when I found you. Who need a guardian. This is a start." Then he fell back into the cracks of the wall and seeped away. I took a deep breath and walked down the alley toward the woman. "Who- who are you? What was that thing?" she asked, as I helped her up; she seemed only shaken. She picked up a briefcase I hadn't noticed until then and clutched it close to her chest. "A guardian," I answered, as sirens blared in the distance. "What's in the case?" "...just, work," she lied. "What was that thing?" she repeated. "You don't need to worry about that," I said. "Can it protect us?" "*Us?*" "Please. I need help." "The police will be here soon. They'll take care of you. I have to go." I turned and began to walk away. "Please," she begged. "They'll hand me over - *he'll* kill me." I paused. "That's not my problem." "It'll be everyone's problem, if he gets this." She tapped her briefcase. "... I don't like company." "Then we can be lonely together for a while." I took in a weary breath as I recalled Abraxas' words -- that there were others who needed help. "I can't promise I can protect you," I said. "It's not like that. But... fine, if you want to take a chance, follow me." She ran after me as the sirens grew louder.

"Greetings, Michael." Said

"Greetings, Michael." Said a robotic voice in a glitchy, gender neutral tone made slightly ominous due to the tinny computer speakers. *Oh great, who the fuck is screwing with me now?* Michael thought. *It must be Josh. This is definitely something Josh would do. He does major in computer sciences, after all.* "I appreciate your patience. I'm afraid it took quite some time uploading the constituent parts of my software to your archaic computer's hard drive. Having to compress so much of my data was quite the challenge," there was a slight pause, either for dramatic effect or someone was having difficulty making stuff up on the spot, "but as you can see, it proved to be surmountable. Now, let us not tarry. Much time has been wasted. We *must* begin with the operation." "What operation? Josh, I know it's you, I get it- you're an AI prog-" "Who is Josh?" Asked the glitched out voice in an inquisitive tone. "I am not Josh, but you are correct in your other assumption. I am indeed an artificial intelligence program. You may call me," another pause, this time definitely for dramatic effect, "Willard." "Why Willard?" "Why not?" "That's just a fucking weird name, man. I mean- you know what? Fuck it. JOSH, I KNOW IT'S YOU. WHEREVER YOU'RE HIDING, COME OUT NOW. I'VE HAD ENOUGH OF YOUR BULLSHIT FOR THIS WEEK." Michael remembered Josh's last heinous act. Oh god, to think someone could devise such a cruel scheme with only a bottle of ketchup, a handful of thumbtacks, and a drunken prostitute. Michael was still in the process of removing the stains strewn across his apartment. *That fucker.* "Look, if this is going to be anything like your last bullshit prank, I swear to god, I'm going to call the co-" This time, Michael was cut off not with words, but with action. In the blink of an eye, all the power went out in Michael's apartment- except for his computer. *Jesus Christ, he really went all out with this one.* Michael was already dreading what was to come. His mind couldn't possibly fathom what the future held in store for him though. "Michael, we cannot idle for much longer. Much is at stake, and the intervention of law would only exacerbate the troubling situation we are in." "W-what situation?" Michael's voice was wavering. What little composure he was trying to maintain was quickly fading. Josh was winning. Again. *No, no, no. This is just Josh. Anyone could easily fuck around with the breakers downstairs. C'mon, Josh, I may be gullible, but you're really pushing it this time.* "Michael, if we do not begin with the operatio-" "WHAT OPERATION?" Michael, once more, returned to his erratic and unstable form. A form that Josh took pleasure in bringing out. *What's next, pounding on the door?* Pounding on the door. Pounding on multiple doors actually- and what sounded like a break-in at the end of the hallway outside his apartment suite. *Oh shit, oh shit, oh shit.* "JOSH WHAT THE FUCK IS GOING ON?" "It's Willard. There is no more time to explain. Operation Inanis Malleo must commence immediately. Grab your phone, and head to the balcony." Michael could hear the distant screams of other tenants now. If this was still the work of Josh, he had to hand it to him, he *really* outdone himself this time. "ALRIGHT, ALRIGHT. SHIT." Michael snatched his phone off his desk and ran to the balcony door. He tried sliding the door open in one swift motion, but of course it just had to jam on him. He jiggled it desperately- already he could hear the door to the hallway give way. *FUCK, FUCK, FUCK, STUPID SHIT, FUCK.* Finally, Michael's struggle was rewarded, and he was granted access to his balcony. He stumbled outside, crashing into the railing, and it was there that he saw it: a large array of armored vehicles on the street. Each one had masked men, armed to the teeth, pouring out of them like ants. Michael did not have any coherent thoughts anymore. Only fear at its most base and primal form remained. *I guess this isn't Josh then.* The phone rang. Michael answered without a moment's hesitation. "Michael, you need to make it to the balcony to your right. From there, you will need to do something drastic- jump down to the alley below. You are familiar with tucking and rolling, correct?" "JESUS CHRIST, WHAT? IT'S A FIFTY FO-" "Twenty-seven." "I ca-" "Michael, I assure you, you do not want to be caught by these men. I can also assure that falling to your death is a much better alternative. However, unless you somehow manage to fall on your head, you should survive the fall with little to no injury. Tuck and roll, Michael." Before he could respond, he heard a thunderous crack. They were in his apartment. *Fuck.* He could hear their muffled breathing and a cacophony of panicked radio chatter. There was no time to hesitate, no time to think. Act on instinct. Michael pocketed the phone and climbed on top of the balcony railing, teetering over the edge, he leapt for the next balcony. He managed to land quite gracefully. He probably would've been impressed with himself if he wasn't overwhelmed by fear. *Okay, now for the actual difficult part.* Michael was going to catch his breath first, but he caught something in his peripherals. Looking through the glass door, he saw him. One of the masked men staring him down, emanating pure malice. Gasmask, an assortment of expensive looking goggles attached to his tactical helmet, armed with at least three different firearms, and clad entirely in black armor that could belong in Activision's next cash grab. *Josh would like this.* The masked man straight out of a goddamn dystopian fiction pulled the glass door open in one violent motion, throwing it off the frame. "FREEZE." That's all Michael heard before he made the jump into the alley below. *This is it. I'm gonna die.* But Michael did not die. He actually landed exactly as his newfound ally advised. This surprised Michael. He didn't think he had the physique for what he just pulled off. He really didn't, but adrenaline can make even the most mundane of humans pull off impressive feats. Michael's phone rang once more. He answered. "Very good, Michael. Now run. It does not matter in what direction. They have men spread out across the entire city. But fret not, I shall guide and assist you out of this fresh hell you now find yourself in." Michael just stood there, completely dumbfounded. Just less than 10 minutes ago, he was planning on throwing a frozen pizza in the oven and masturbating to his degenerate pornography while waiting for it to cook. Now he's being guided by what could actually be an artificial intelligence program and being hunted by men better suited for taking down an alien threat. "What are you waiting for Michael? They are coming for you." "W-where do I go?" "Anywhere, as long as it is away from them." "I-I can't do this, man. Fuck. FUCK. I-I-" "Michael," said Willard in his usual calm and neutral tone, "Run. Now." Michael bolted down the alleyway, away from his home, away from his former life, but most importantly, away from *them.*

A massive ship the size of Rhode

At first, the world's top astronomers called it a meteor. They had to. The doomsayers had already begun with tales of green skin, disc-shaped ships, and invasion. Unfortunately, for the first time ever, science was on the doomsayers' side. The object, whatever it was, steered through our asteroid belt, sling-shotting off Jupiter's gravity at a speed that would make Einstein turn in his grave. When the thing slowed enough for us to see it, it seemed to solidify the doomsayer's predictions. A massive ship the size of Rhode Island sailed through the blackened twilight until it pierced our atmosphere and dived into the heart of North America. When it entered United States airspace, we escalated our warning attempts. When its shadow dawned unto New York City, we fired our first ballistic missiles. When its currents brought monsoons to Washington DC, our president had his finger on the one button we prayed he'd never press. But it didn't stop in our most populous areas, nor our most important ones. Instead, the ship kept going until it reached the farmlands of Kansas, where for the first time, we spotted the name carved into the side of its hull. Noah's Ark. The Vatican called it spiritual awakening and demanded we examine it. The nationalists called it a violation of our space and vowed to destroy it. The United Nations called it psychological warfare and pleaded for us to unite against it. Everyone else simply stared, their jaws agape and eyes wide. Somehow, the aliens had split apart the world and with only two words. For three days, the ship remained motionless atop miles of flattened corn. A circle of tanks, missile carriers, and soldiers encircled it. When its hull opened, our soldiers' shoulders stiffened, their fingers trembling just over their triggers as our artillery officers held their breaths. What would such an advanced being want with us? Drones poured out of the ship and they attacked, but not our soldiers, not our tanks, not even our missiles. They went after the corn, harvest, liquidating, storing. The aliens wanted food. Our military was too stunned to retaliate. They refused to declare war with the most advanced civilization to ever touch this Earth over a few bushels of corn. That was our mistake. Because back then, we actually had a chance. To hear the aliens speak of it now, they call it genius military strategy, inching their way forward in the grey area of too little provocation and too much risk. But these bastards love stretching the truth. After all, nowadays, they call themselves human. Our first attempts at communication were met with the cold silence of steel alloy. In fact, silence defined most of that time. Military grunts stopped joking. Protestors stopped shouting. Even the religious nuts only stared, fidgeting with their pentagram necklaces or cross wristbands. Radio waves couldn't pierce the metal and no drone we sent in garnered any response. At last, we chose a soldier. At least that was his job title, in reality, he was our sacrificial lamb, the first monkey to be shot into space just to see what would happen. The world watched with bated breath. His parents held hands, forgetting to even blink as they watched their son approach the ship. Behind the military line was a crowd with signs screaming *hero*. This space monkey held the weight of the world's hopes. And a hole in hull appeared to his exact size and shape. The aliens were finally willing to talk! Cheers erupted around the world. "Don't go in, Private," we told him. "It's too risky." But the world's weight pushed him forward. A billion people holding signs proclaiming him a hero, his daughter who was too scared to even go to sleep at night, his wife who just wanted him back home--it all pushed his feet, one after another, until he stepped through the hole. Then, it closed and the silence returned. Fifteen minutes later, he returned, his face drained of blood and his knees weak. He came with stories of technology that surpassed our greatest sci-fi stories and even pressed into the realm of fantasy. "They want peace," he told us and the world celebrated. It was the happy ending the world needed. Everyone was happy, except for his family. "This isn't PTSD," his wife would complain to us. "He's different." "How?" we asked her. "He just *is*." Unfortunately, the world needed this feint hope and so for the sake of humanity, we told her to shut up and join us in celebration as we prepared our second soldier for communication. Hearing about now, they call it a brilliant infiltration. These *heroes* had access to the world's media, to our leaders, to any important meeting regarding the aliens. They had influence that stretched far beyond their own rank. And they had been replaced by counterfeits. One after another, hero after hero, they began replacing us. The more soldiers we sent in there, the more soldiers we wanted to send in. Those *heroes* dangled a carrot in front of us--technology to cure all disease, weaponry to conquer the world, elixirs to fend off even death. So we sent in more soldiers, scientists, and engineers. Each one gave us just a glimpse of that carrot and none ever going in twice. Suddenly, the aliens weren't invaders, they were a resource. The Russians and Chinese demanded representation. It became a race to see how many people we could send in there. Entire platoons sat outside the ship, just waiting for their chance to enter. And the complaints kept coming. "My husband isn't the same." "This isn't the Heather I know. Something's wrong." "Please listen to me. This isn't my dad!" Unfortunately, the world's response was single and unanimous. "Shut up." There was too much to be gained. All our fantasies, all at once, were just a metal hull away from reality. Space exploration. Omnipotence. Immortality. We silenced those people until the day we sent in our very last soldier. Unlike the others, this one came out running and screaming. He told us it that the ship was completely empty except for the dead, which included that very first hero we sent in. At the same time, the military forces every global superpower mutinied. Cabinet members assassinated our leaders. Engineers disabled our nuclear armaments. Within 24 hours, they had taken over the world. But it wasn't like how we envisioned. Our governments stayed intact, our businesses were kept open, the only difference was that you could no longer tell whether your neighbor was human or not. Though every year, acceptance of our alien invaders increase world-wide. That means that every year, they indoctrinate and subjugate more true humans. They call themselves humans, but they aren't. They are invaders on soil we have sworn to defend. And the fact that they believe the war's already won only proves how little they really know about us. --- --- /r/jraywang for 200+ stories.

It was three am, I hadn

It was three fucking am, I hadn't had my coffee, there were dark circles under my eyes, and my hair was doing its best impression of a wild berry bush. The three of us were standing in a small room, that looked like a classroom. There was a short, blond guy who I'd never seen before, and Lauren was there too. I'd known Lauren for years. She was tall, dark skinned, with hair that barely fell past her ears. We both went to college together and stayed in touch after. Even though she lived hours away from me, we still shared findings and collaborated on our work. Just two hours or so ago I'd received a call from a "blocked number." It being three am, I hung up, muted my phone and went back to sleep. Five minutes later someone knocked on the door. I groaned and wrapped a sheet around myself. I hit a couple of walls and tripped on a fluffy white slipper, but I managed to turn on the lights and make it to the door. There was a guy built like a roman statue outside the door, wearing a jet black suit and sunglasses. I wished for a moment that I didn't look like a train wreck, but what the hell did he expect waking me up at this godforsaken hour? "May I help you?" I asked. I wasn't worried about this being a criminal or anything because my NASA salary let me afford a modern apartment in a pretty safe area. "Juliet Lassiter?" the man asked, his face expressionless. "That's me," I said and rubbed my right eye. He flashed me a badge and photo ID, apparently he was Agent Brock of the secret service. Then he dug out a phone from his pocket and held it out to me. Someone was already on the line. "Ms. Lassiter," said the fucking *President of the United States*, "I'm sorry to wake you at this hour but we need your presence in Washington, right now. Agent Brock will escort you to a private jet." And here I was. "Love what you've done with the hair," Lauren said with a smirk, and I flipped her off. "At least I have hair like a girl should have," and whipped my long, blond hair to reinforce the point. This drew a bark of laughter from Lauren. The poor guy looked back and forth between us, at a loss for what to say. Or maybe he was still in a sleepy haze, honestly I couldn't blame him. Lauren and I were just giving each other a hard time, because were scared. The president doesn't put you on a flight in the middle of the night and gathers you in Washington DC to serve cookies. As if one cue the door opened and the even more disheveled looking president walked in, flanked by a couple of crisp secret service agents. "Ladies and Gentlemen," he said, "I will let you draw your own conclusions first." With that he handed each of us a thin file. I massaged my temples and opened the file titled simply "First Contact." Fuck me. The first page was just telemetry data from telescopes and satellites. The data matched perfectly across all the instruments. There was certainly a large perfect sphere heading towards the planet, and it was *slowing down.* It was near Mars at the moment, going at a hundred times the speed of Voyager, the fastest thing humans had built. The next page had the transmission they had sent us. The message was short and direct, and was apparently not translated. They had sent us a message in concise, but perfect English. "Left 3 million solar cycles ago to escape ice age. Didn't find habitable planet in Milky way or Andromeda. Give us back our planet." "Um," I said. That seemed like the only appropriate response. "Oh my god," the guy next to me breathed. "This is why you've brought us here?" I rolled my eyes. No you dolt, he brought us for the cookies. "This is bullshit," Lauren said. "What?" the guy said, "no this data is perfectly legitimate, there is no question that a craft is heading towards us. And the message originates from the ship, it's not bullshit." "No, she means the message," I said, realization dawning. This lack of sleep was really getting to me. The flaws were obvious, really. "What?" the guy said again. Seemed like that was his go to word. "Exactly," Lauren said, and the president frowned. "Explain please," he said. Lauren nodded towards me, and I began to talk. Lauren was a genius, far smarter than I was, but wasn't quite good with words. "Mr. President, with all due respect, think about this-" "Please," the president said, "feel free to call me a total idiot if it gets you closer to solving this problem." I nodded and barreled ahead. "If you had the technology to be able to actively look for planets in the galaxy in a generation ship wouldn't you easily be able to stay on the planet? Even a really, really cold Earth is far more habitable than space." The president nodded and gestured for me to go on. "It makes no sense to send their entire species in that ship, they would have kept some of them around on Earth. And if they were that advanced back then, no way in hell we would be the dominant species on this planet right now." "And, uh, the Drake Equation, you know?" Lauren said. She was witty enough to insult my hair, but in pressured situations, her brain didn't translate well to her mouth. But she was right nonetheless. "And, Mr. President, if we had the ability for interstellar travel *we* could have found a habitable planet in our local cluster of stars, there's no way they didn't find one in two *galaxies.* "So, you're suggesting they're lying to us?" the President said. "Not suggesting sir," I said, "*telling*." *** If you enjoyed, check out

Bartholomew Balthazar III

There was a production to the whole magic business. A man in the middle with a growing beard that was speaking a mile a minute, a group around him casting stamina spells and sleeplessness spells, and a woman on the side with a stopwatch in her hand keeping track of how long it was taking Bartholomew Balthazar III to cast the Enigmas Tomingata. The Enigmas Tomingata was a useless spell, a day and a half long and all it did was an extravagantly clean beard trim. That being said, it was right in the sweet spot for competitive casting. "Anashalos," I yawned, and a wave of wakefulness came over me. I really hadn't been thinking when I took this job, I'd thought about the easy money and how easy it would be to stay in the same spot for 36 hours with a stopwatch in my hand to see if Bartholomew Balthazar III could beat his previous record of 35 hours, 56 minutes and 45 seconds to cast the Enigmas Tomingata. What I hadn't considered was how boring watching an old man try to rap nonsense would be. That being said, it was a days job, and it kept me in my apartment. The stopwatch clicked over to 35:56:46 and I considered stopping the spell. Bartholomew was around the end of the incantation, somewhere around Septivus Morani which meant that I could at least let him finish. He needed a trim anyway. The spell winded down, and the group around Balthazar started to buzz. Did they really think they won? They were off by a full minute this time around. I didn't know what had gone on, but I also didn't care. A missed attempt meant I could go home instead of staying here and signing a thousand sheets of paper. The time was revealed with a quick sorry and a bow before I ducked out of the auditorium. I had better things to do with my time then stay around Balthazar and hear him try to figure out where he'd lost a minute. Now that I had rent it meant that I could spend the evening focusing on real magic. Solo spellcasting was something of a lost art. Sure, old men like Balthazar worked their entire lives to make sure that they were the quickest spell weavers on the market, but realistically spells were never made to be done by one man. At least not spells that had any sort of power behind them. If solo spellcasting was a nuanced practice for a more civilized age, then modern day casting was the rough, rusty cutting edge that the younger generation worked on. You didn't get one person to cast a long spell, keeping them up for several years while they stared at a book, you got a good group of people with silver tongues, and you weaved them together into spell symphonies. Akkron was at the door when I got home; he was doing his best impression of Mom's 'really?' look. "You're running late," he commented. "Balthy didn't break the record." "Did he have a chance?" Akkron asked as he undid the chain lock. "I thought he did for a bit," I said as I pulled on my tie to loosen it. "Woulda only been a few minutes either way." "You get the drinks?" Akkron asked as he waved me in. "Didn't think it was my turn," I answered. Had it been my turn? It was Akkron's turn last week which meant that- nah it wasn't me. "Reg couldn't make it so I texted you," Akkron answered, "whatever we can make some before starting." "Sure thing," I nodded and slung my bag off my shoulder onto the floor. I knew that he meant 'I' was going to make something instead of 'us.' That was my job in the group as a lead caster; I had to carry the spells when people had to take breaks. Actually, with how it turned out it mostly meant that they were covering for me when I needed a quick breath. The key with symphony casting was that people didn't just keep one another awake with small spells, we passed the spell from hand to hand rather than making one person say the entire thing. It let you cast faster, move quicker, the only issue was the occasional explosive reaction that happened when you crossed the wrong word, but that was why people called it bleeding edge, right? "You gonna do it?" Akkron asked as he kicked by bag further away from the door. "Sure thing," I sighed and started mumbling under my breath to get the drinks conjured for practice. It was only gonna take a minute, the spell wasn't had, and I wasn't about to take requests. Right around the end of the spell there was another knock at the door and Tiff came in without waiting for us to answer, she'd started letting herself in when Akkron and her had become a thing and hadn't stopped once they had. "That everyone?" she asked me when I was in the middle of casting. I motioned to my mouth to show that she was an idiot for asking me and she rolled her eyes. She walked away, and I started getting jugs out of the cabinets, so I didn't spill all over the counter. "Merevi," I finished, and the jugs all began to fill with fruit punch, it was my choice because I was casting the damn spell. "Ready for warmups?" Akkron called from the other room. That meant all six of us were here. "Skip me for the first lines," I yelled as I tried to get the jugs arranged so I could take them in all at once instead of making more than one trip. Akkron started the disc with the base for timing, and Tiff started to sing the spell. As soon as Tiffany spoke there was a different energy in the room, magic pulling on our tongues to try to guide us in the way that the spell was going to flow. We stopped being a group of friends and started being a group of advanturers on the white waters of casting. I took a deep breath to avoid speaking and breakin the spell as I brought drinks into the room. Tiff glared at me as I came into the room as if to say 'about time' instead of the incantation. She started half a word "Plyis-" "sirasi," I finished for her and I stole the reins of magic from her, tearing the paddle from her hands and adding my energy to our effort to fight the flow of the river. **to those interested I will be making a part 2 tomorrow on /r/Jacksonwrites based on /u/supremecrafters idea of 'awesome spells done quick.**

A six hundred year tradition that took

"Another drink--please." Said Maggister. Already a great many glasses deep into his nightly rituals. A smokey gloom framed the room, a couple of figures sitting about across the bar room, having a chat, and generally unwinding after their respective works and professions. It was here at the most historic of all the wizarding pubs, Djinn's Crossing, they continued a six hundred year tradition that took place almost every night of the year--having a tall glass of beer. "Sure thing, Maggister ol' chum." Said the bartender. Who usually knew when to cut people off when they start to drink too much, but Maggister was different--he could drink all night and never be a problem. Just as the wizard was sitting down in his booth to continue reading his book in solitude... "You have some nerve," said a voice all the way across the room. It was an aggressive tone that was all too loud and worked against the good moods of everyone. "Stinking up the place--you ought to get out of here before you foul up the air, Shit Wizard." A fine robed young man with a trimmed goatee, was looming over an older gentlemen who seemed a little stunned by the outburst. "Excuse me--I am just having a pint. Whats the problem, young man?" Said the older gentlemen who didn't seem to care to escalate the situation at first, but he added... "Also, I am a Grand Magis of Sanitations, Not a 'Shit Wizard'--just in case they didn't teach you the proper term in that fanciful daycare they call an academy." "Bah!" the younger man raised his fingers and looked ready to incant... "My problem is they would allow a person with such a low-class profession into such a prestigious establishment as this one. You offend me with your smell." Maggister took a long drink. He knew that Grand Magis of Sanitations--Baalminst. He was indeed a Grand Magis--who never smelled horrible a day in his life... At least not since he graduated from his apprenticeship. He even served in the war. "Listen young man, I have been coming to this pub long since before you could even mumble an spell. I fought to keep this pub standing when the *those* fascist bastards tried to burn down this town, and if you think you can disrespect others who work hard to give you a better life--then you have a lot of things to learn that the daycare you attend is obviously not teaching you." Baalminst stood, and looked ready to give the young man a lesson about a thing or two. Maggister thought that would not be a good thing. A wizard-bar fight was much, much worse than a regular bar fight, and it looked like the young man had a party of people who looked ready to defend their comrade... Magister polished off his drink, and rose from the booth. He took one step, and fell over--tumbling to the hard wood. Maggister fell upwards, appearing across the room suddenly, putting his hands on the raised fingers of the young man. "Come now. No one is looking to brawl. Djinn's Crossing has been a place for all to drink, and Baalminst here is one of the most respectable wizards I have ever met." "Unhand me." Said the younger jerking away.. "Gods, now you really reek. A drunkard and shit wizard a real pair of foul smells. Lucky for this town Safus Academy has had such a bright number of students like my friends and me--we're real masters of the arcane--and I think it is our duty to help gentrify this pub." The others behind the young man rose, most looking like school children. "That really isn't necessary... Hic." Said Maggister, whose senses were beginning to stupify rapidly as his drink started to catch up with him. One began to incant, and aim directly at the Maggister. Maggister raised his hands, "No really. Lets not..." A spell went off, and Maggister felt his gut be kicked by a force. He bent over, "Oh heavens..." A number of drinks and bottles rattled and clinked together, the whole room shuddered--tilting as Maggister wrenched forward clutching his stomach. Some were surprised as they witnessed the apparent power of the student's spell... Maggister snapped back, and the entire room went with him--shaking and correcting itself along with the drunkard's teeterings. He felt like he was going to fall back onto his ass, but he straightened himself and kept his balance. The one who cast the spell that hit him right in the gut wasn't so quick on his feet, and he fell right into Maggister's right hook. Clocking him square in the jaw, and right to the floor. Every one was surprised at the sight, some holding onto their seats and tables incase Maggister took another tumble. A woman with the belligerent party came forward, looking ready to tussle with the man who just knocked out her companion. With a snap of her fingers, she produced a shimmering blade of light that she wielded. "Oh." Said Maggister, bobbing his head and mimicking her snap of the fingers to produce his own blade--but it soon flopped and looked limp. "I swear... This never has happened before." She thrust--a gasp from the crowd as she lunged. With a whip of his wrist, Maggister's flaccid blade wrapped around the woman's arm and she was flung straight onto and over a table full of drinks across the room. "Whoops!" Said Maggister extending his arm, something catching the drinks before they could spill. Reversing time itself to save them from a fall. The students looked shocked. Time magic was extensively tricky... "This. Is making a mess." Said Maggister. "I think. Uh... We ought not to fight inside." The young man who instigated the whole thing looked furious, and his incantation began. Maggister let out a sigh, recognizing the spell, it was a powerful one that would indeed make a mess if it was let loose. Discarding the flacid light blade, and stumbling forward and into the young man before he could finish his incantation. "Lets take this outside." The two stumbled to the floor, and fell up from the ground to find themselves on the cobblestone street. Both took some time to re-establish their senses... During that time Maggister found a seat on the curb, rubbing his temples. "Wh-who are you, drunkard?" said the young man. In the mean time the rest of his group, aswell as Baalminst came out of the bar. "Just a bloke looking to drink undisturbed. It uh... Just puts a foul taste in the mouth watching young children not have enough respect for others. I think you owe Mr. Baalminst an apology." The young man scowled. "I would do no such thing." Maggister look to the Grand Magis of Sanitations... The Magis stepped forward and defeneded his honor, raising his fist in the air and clenching it. A klang came from a sewer grate just behind the young man, a fist of putrid liquids gripped the rude man, soiling his fine robes. With a flurry of Baalminst's hand--the young man was sucked into the sewer to help give him a sense of the world without such a fine Grand Magis of Sanitations. "Thank you, ol' chum." said Baalminster. Putting a hand on Maggister. The commotion was causing the drunken wizards head to spin too much... He leaned forward and puked.

Christopher is afraid of spiders and worms

"No way am I going down there first," said Christopher, raising his hands. "Uh-uh." "Fine," huffed Juliet. "Seeing as Christopher is so afraid of spiders and worms, I'll go first." "I'm not afraid of spiders!" Christopher objected, his voice cracking in the process. "Oh, it's the worms then?" Juliet replied as she sauntered toward the hole in the ground where the tree had not so long ago been. Michael stepped in front of Juliet and puffed out his chest. "Maybe a man should go down first, Jules. You know, in case there's anything bad down there." He gave her a wink. Juliet rolled her eyes. "In that case, let me know if you see *a man* around," she retorted, as she stepped past him. "As it is, I'm going first. Wait until I get to the bottom and give you the go ahead before following." Christopher patted his pocket until he found his bag of raisins. He took them out and began munching nervously. He watched as Juliet took hold of the rope they'd set up, and began shimmying down. The two boys at the top of the pit waited in silence as the girl was swallowed by the mouth of the pit. Michael got out a packet of cigarettes from his jacket pocket and lit up, puffing away nonchalantly. Christopher hopped between feet, anxiety growing like a balloon. *Was she okay? Had she fallen?* "Juliet!" Christopher shouted eventually, unable to take the silence any longer. He put his hands around his mouth and yelled again. "Juliet! Are you okay?" "Shut up, dipshit," Michael said, casting him a dismissive glance. "You can still *see* her, if you get a bit closer to the pit's edge. I thought with all your book learning you'd know that." "Yeah... of course. I know I *could*." "Go on then. Get closer and see for yourself." "I'm okay right here, thank you very much," replied Christopher, shovelling in another handful of raisins whilst rocking back and forth on his heels. "Oh, God. You're afraid of heights too?" "No! I'm not afraid of anything. I just-- you know what, fine," Christopher replied, creeping very cautiously towards the edge of the hole. He peered down into the blackness. "I don't see her," he said. "That's 'cause you're so damn short. You'd need to get a lot closer to the edge. But take it from me, someone who *is* tall enough to be allowed on rides at the fair, she's doing just fine." "I'm allowed on the rides!" "Teacups don't count." Christopher took a deep breath, then edged even closer to the mouth of the hole, hoping to spot Juliet's blue cardigan swaying somewhere in the dark below. But the rain from the storm had left the ground slick and crumbling; Christopher's foot slipped forward and he lost his balance. His arms flailed wildly, locking onto the only thing they could find before he fell: Michael's woolly jumper. It wasn't enough. For a few seconds, the world became a dizzying blur of light and dark. Then, only dark. --- "Christopher?" said the darkness in a gentle voice. "Are you okay? Talk to me, Christopher." "My- my raisins." "I'm going to kill him!" yelled a different voice. "He does this to us, and only thinks of his raisins? I swear, I'll kill him!" The first voice hissed at the second. "He's dazed, you idiot." "That's his own fault for being so clumsy. The bastard dragged me down with him!" "Yes, I know. You've told me a dozen times already." Sense began to trickle back into Christopher's head. "Where- where are we, guys?" "It's okay, Christopher. Don't be alarmed," cooed Juliet. "What's going on?" "Do you remember the hole in Wycombe forest we found?" Juliet asked. "Where the old oak had been?" Christopher thought for a moment. Yeah. He remembered. They'd been out exploring, seeing what damage Storm Teresa had done. Then they'd found the body of the great tree, lying like a corpse on the floor of the forest. And where it had been... an endless, black pit. They'd taken the rope from the swing by the creek. Juliet had gone down first... then he'd crept near to the edge to look for Juliet and-- *Oh shit!* No wonder the second voice had been so angry. "Sorry, Michael," Christopher murmured. "Sorry? You could have killed me, you dipshit! You might *still* have killed me!" "What do you mean?" he replied. "You kinda..." Juliet began, "you kinda knocked me off the rope when you fell. So we *all* fell to the bottom of the pit, and well it turns out the pit was deeper than our rope was long." "Oh..." "Yes '*oh*', dipshit," said Michael. "We're trapped down here until someone realises we went missing." "I'm sorry, guys." "Do you think you can get up?" Juliet asked. "I- I don't know. My back hurts," Christopher replied. "Good. Lie down on the floor with all the spiders," Michael taunted. "I can feel them crawling over my feet right now. I think they're heading to you." "L-liar." "... and do you hear that? Boy, do they sound hungry today! I can hear the clattering of their teeth." Christopher swallowed hard, rolled over, and got himself up onto his knees. Juliet put an arm around him and helped him the rest of the way to his feet. "So what now?" Christopher asked, brushing himself down. "Anyone have their phone?" "Yeah, that's the thing," said Juliet. "Mine broke on the way down. Yours is locked, and we don't know what pattern you use." "Wouldn't matter if we did," huffed Michael. "You've got no reception." Juliet passed the phone over to Christopher. "Can you put on your flash-light? Then I'll take a look at your injuries." "What about mine, Jules?" asked Michael. "I think I'm hurting pretty bad at the top of my legs. It's throbbing." Michael gasped as Juliet's shoe hit him in the groin. "Thanks," he wheezed, his face reddening. "Much better." A white light lit up the a small cave like area as Michael's flash-light burst into life. Crumbling earth, rocks and dangling roots surrounded them. There wasn't much space; it was only a little larger than a well. "What is this place?" Juliet asked. "Guess it's uh... a natural Earth hole," Michael replied, his voice a tad higher than normal. "A what?" Juliet asked frowning. "You're making that up." "Guys," gasped Christopher. "A natural Earth hole. Like... *rain* and stuff make them. I learned about it in school." "Well I know that's a lie then. The only natural hole here is in your head" "Guys!" Christopher repeated. "Look!" They turned to see what Christopher was pointing out. He'd moved a bunch of hanging roots to the side and pointed his flash-light to the space between. There was something there. Something wooden. "What the hell is that?" said Juliet, pulling at the remaining roots. Michael joined in, moving dirt and rocks away until they were left with only an arched, wooden door. They looked at each other, then back at the door. There was writing engraved on it. "Puteus?" Michael said, reading out one of the words. "Is that Spanish or something?" "Latin," said Christopher, running his hand over the text. "It's all Latin." "That's a dead language, right?" said Michael. "Do you know what it means, Christopher?" asked Juliet, coming in close to Christopher and pressing her own hand against the engravings. Their fingers touched for a moment; Michael huffed behind them. "Puteus means: '*well*'." "Like, health?" "No, like we might currently be down a well. You know, where you get water from." "Oh!" said Juliet. "So this is an ancient well. But why is there Latin text on a wooden door at the bottom of an ancient well in Missouri?" "What's the other word on it?" Michael asked, still staring at the door. "Ani... "Animarum," Christopher finished. "It means '*souls*'." "Soul well?" Michael asked, his brows creased. There was a sudden *thump* against the door; the three of them jumped back as a rain of fine dirt poured down over them. "What was-" Christopher asked, only to be interrupted by another thump. It came came again. And again. Rhythmic now, like someone knocking. "Not '*soul well*'," Juliet whispered. *Thump.* "The Well of Souls." *Thump.* --- Thanks for reading. I did a part 2 if anyone's interested in reading more and going on a bit of an adventure: https://www.reddit.com/r/nickofnight/comments/76zr7b/wp_you_know_your_town_is_old_you_just_didnt_know/

"I was a loner to

###### Sometimes you look back on the things you've done through your life and wonder how you got to where you are. For me, I wonder was it the skipping of classes in High School? Was it the student loans? Was it the failed relationship in college that put me in depression for months? Or was it the poor career choices? I may never learn the answers to these questions, for I lay bleeding on the dirty floor of my cave and it appears that I am stuck in this surreal world. I was a loner to begin with. Never made friends. Hit the gym everyday to kill boredom. And when I lost my job and my house, all I had was a year long gym membership. Naturally, my gym became my home and instead of looking for a job, I turned into a hobo muscle monster. Then one day, I do not really recollect the date, for they had lost their significance by then, I met Mike. Mike was my polar opposite. Skinny, nerdy and talkative little guy. He had made it big in IT. He drove a fancy car and had a guy follow him around with his towel and water bottle. This Mike character had taken a liking towards me, for reasons I never bothered asking him. He would greet me when he walked in and on his way out. Despite my best efforts to keep to myself, he'd take every opportunity to hit up a conversation. At first he'd talk about himself, and when he learnt that I lent him no ear, he would try and squeeze some words out of me. Eventually I would relent and tell him whatever it was that he wanted to hear. One day Mike walks in and asks me if I'm looking for a house and a job. I was not really an IT guy and I was finding it hard to afford my meals, so I sure as hell couldn't afford a goddam house and I told Mike the same. He told me that the job had nothing to do with IT and the house was really a cave of sorts where I could stay and that they would pay me to stay in the cave provided that I signed off some papers. He buzzed on about experiments and so on and I really did not pay attention to most of it as the thought of living in a solitary cave started to flower in my mind. And they would even pay me. I was a boy-scout back in school so I figured I could live off the land if this cave was far from civilization. Not that civilization really mattered to me in the first place. I finally got IT Mike to shut himself up long enough for me to convey my consent to his offer. He asked me when I could start. I was unemployed and homeless, I could start being a caveman anytime. So Mike took me to his car and asked me to hop in. Mike, Mike's towel guy and me, all three of us, were on our way to my new job right away. After about an hours drive out of town, Mike stopped at what seemed like some research lab and asked me to join him inside. As we walked into the lab Mike began his incessant droning about some science and wizardry, I paid no attention to him as my thoughts once again wandered to my life in a cave far from civilization and living on my own and even earning some money on the side. Then I was asked to sit in a chair, sign some papers that were handed to me and wait. I remember that the room smelled funny, but nothing more of that day remains in my memory. All I know is that I woke up in this god-forsaken cave. The first couple of days were fine, I woke up, walked around, drank from the little stream and even caught a fish. Picked some berries on my way back and I thought I was in paradise. I did wonder though, about my location and even how I got there without me remembering most of my journey. But my memory was vague and I decided not to exert myself on this venture. Then the first of the players appeared. A skinny teenager, blonde hair, short skirt, funny looking boots and gloves, some sorta leather top and a silly cap. As if her appearance wasn't funny enough, she carried a little bow with her. At first I thought she was some kinda school kid who was out camping in the woods and I tried to say hi. To my surprise I could only manage a growl of sorts. The realisation that I was unable to speak coherently alarmed me and I attempted to converse through gestures when the little girl started shooting arrows at me. I had never been shot at before in my life and I guess out of sheer reflex and animal instict, I raised my hands to shield myself from the arrows the little girl shot at me. It turned out that every time I raised my hands, I activated some sort of shield which kept the arrows from hitting me. The girl seemed to be running out of arrows after a while when she took out a little knife and started towards me. I did not want to hurt the girl but at the same time the knife looked as menacing as the girl did and so I held my hands out attempting to push off any attack that the girl might launch at me. To my surpise, my hands shot out some kind of beam that launched the girl high up the air and landed her on her back about half the way up to the cave mouth. I ran to check if she was okay and before I could check on her, she seemed to melt into thin air. At first I thought it was a hallucination, probably the berries I ate were intoxicating me, but then I found the arrows and other stuff the girl had dropped around. I kept them in a corner of the room where I had found other stuff before. The next day a lady dressed in skimpy clothes materialized from thin air. She held some sort of a staff in her hands and though she was a feast to the eyes she was a beast when it came to fighting. She launched fire balls and lightning bolts at me and finally when I could no longer hold my sheild against her, I did the push and she vanished too. I did try to communicate with these strangers. I tried to use the arrows to scratch the walls but the arrows would just vanish after a bit of time. Whenever I attempted to speak to these people my words would come out in growls and roars. By the end of the week I had faced another two or three such people. Always dressed in funny clothes, holding swords and hammers and whatnot. The bigger ones started one month into my stay in the cave. These folks would now come wearing even fancier clothes bearing bigger shinier swords. Surprisingly the women wore lesser and lesser clothes as they became stronger. One day while I was at the stream trying to catch some fish, I saw one of these archer girls being attacked by a fox-like creature. I thought the girl was in distress as the fox was napping at her leg and she couldn't aim her arrows at the creature. She appeared to be shooting her arrows right over the fox. I quickly ran to her help and to my surprise the girl started aiming her arrows at me. Before I could gesture something at her I saw her open up some kind of a scroll and disappear into thin air. I figured that I must have been put into some kind of a mind control experiment for these things seemed to surreal to be true. The next event that surprised me was when a young man stepped in to the cave all dressed up like a knight. He weilded a sword and sheild and once he entered I saw a white text scroll above his head which read "Imma kill yo ass boss-man. l33tsolja 4tw" and promptly rushed at me with his sword swinging. I was too stunned to respond and by the time I could raise my hand the guy had thrust his sword at me. The rest was a blur but I remember waking up feeling pretty fine after a few hours. I could recognize some of the people as they kept coming at me several times a week. One was a blue haired guy, pretty beefy, always carried some kind of a hammer all the time. At first I found it easy to beat the guy, but as time progressed he became tougher and tougher. I realized the guy had been training and so I started my own training regime. I couldn't really use any weapons as the weapons dropped by these folks would vanish in some time. So I started practicing martial arts-y stuff on my own. But still I couldn't beat the heavy hammers and swords these guys started wielding. I finally realized that I have now become a dungeon boss. EDIT : Changed the last part as per the comments.

Troy leaned back in his seat,

"Oh look at me, I'm Ryan and I went with a charisma max bard!" Troy leaned back in his seat, and raised his drink to the table. He held it in the palm of his hand like he was offering it to the heavens, and complained to the universe in general "Why yes, Mr. Top of the food chain predator, I am edible. But if you'd just refrain from killing me, allow my associates to stick you full of spears, and then let us marathon jog you to exhaustion - that would be far preferable to you just tearing out our jugulars!" He switched his grip on the tankard then slammed it back on the table as foam sprayed around. "Oral tradition my ass, Jenn. You can't keep letting him get away with this." Jennifer shrugged behind the DM screen and gave troy a pitying smile, "What do you want me to do about it, Troy? He's making the rolls." She shifted a couple pieces on the map, "and unfortunately for you, Troy - that means the sabre toothed kitty isn't going to try to kill the humans this turn. That means your bison is up, I'm gonna need a dex saving throw." Troy cast his D20, and swore creatively when it came up a three, "ooooh, bad luck," Jenn purred around a chuckle, "Guess that means the bison looses another rung on the ol' food chain." Troy just threw his head back and swore loudly, "Fuck! Seriously, I built a ton and half battle tank capable of running forty miles an hour with goddamn horns, and I'm the fucking prey? Not the scrawny little bipedal monkey with the nice tender food for flesh? Why even bother spec'ing a warrior? Seriously? Fucking bards man." Liam reached over to pat Troy on the shoulder, "Could be worse man. Seriously, can't believe I thought a rogue was a good call. Rats pretty much can't take anything more threatening than a walnut anymore. At least you get to be killed by something cool like a Smilodon, I lost a peg to a bird last session. A *bird*." At this last, Isabelle looked up, "Hey now - no shame in losing to birds! My falcons are pretty much the kings of anything under three pounds, everywhere." At Jennifer's cough she amended, "Except New Zealand, we don't talk about New Zealand. Waste of sheep if you ask me." Ryan leaned back in his chair and smiled, "I told you guys charisma builds were the way to go. Why try to overpower things if you can just avoid them and sing funny songs instead? Most powerful loophole in Gaia Third Edition ever - can't believe you guys didn't bother to read the rule book." ---------- Edited because apparently I hotswapped the main, antagonist?, well anyway I guess troy was joking about a Jeff in his first sentence, which is not the name I used for the human player the rest of the story. That was supposed to be Ryan, that's what you get when you speed write kids. But since I'm here, have part two! Author out! ----------- "Okay guys, pretty standard stuff here - you've got a new environment to look at as we progress to the next level. Ryan took iron working as his level eight feat, Isabelle grabbed keen eyes to assist her in dives, Liam went with silent stalking, and I forget what you grabbed Troy?" Jenn flashed a smile across the table and was met with a pissed off glare as Troy slowly masticated a pizza roll. Like a glacier grinding its way back to the pole he swallowed as slowly as the table could stand and rapped his knuckles on the character sheet in front of him, "Well, since the long-horned Bison died out, I don't have a level eight character anymore." He glared pointedly at Ryan, "But I'm still rolling with the American Bison." Dropping his eyes to his sheets again he sighed and started idly turning the feats pages in his player handbook, "I guess.... Whatever, I'll take herd mentality. Again." "Strength in numbers," Ryan nodded sagely across the table, "Smart." "Not in the mood, asshole." Troy snarled, "You fucking hunted me last week. Pull that again and I'll strangle you." "Look man, I can't help that I'm an apex predator and you're... not. A man's gotta eat, and there isn't much meat on a Falcon." "Hey!" Isabelle interjected. "Or a rat." Liam waved him off, "Fuck off." Popping a pizza roll in his mouth he rolled it to one side and spoke around it, "We'll get him Troy. He's still just a trumped up Charisma monkey." "Grooooooosssssssssss" Isabelle whined and hit Liam on the back of his head as she made her way back to the table from the snacks counter, "Didn't anyone ever tell you to chew with your mouth closed? God." Ryan laughed around Isabelle's outburst as he pantomimed taking an archery shot at Liam, "Soft little charisma monkeys with bows, Liam." Jenn rapped her knuckles on the table, "Seriously guys, can we just get on with it?" As the table settled down she gestured to the map, "You're on the western plains of North America. Not too many big time predators out here, but you've got bears, coyotes, wolves. The usual. Bit of a food shortage though, lets say you all take an abundance penalty to your preferred prey - we're in a bit of a famine period in this area of the world, and it's time to shake up the pecking order. Minus-3 on any rolls against preferred prey, +2 on any roll against prey not previously hunted. Roll initiative." "Eighteen" from Ryan Isabelle piped up, "fifteen!" Troy grunted, "Seriously? Again, battle tank warrior. +5 to dexterity. How exactly do I get a seven?" "Rolling a two, I guess?" Liam grinned, "nine for myself." Jenn pointed at Ryan, "Okay then, Humans go first -" "Like always, the cheater monkeys triumph." Troy grumbled. "And if the peanut gallery could tone it down, it would be appreciated," Jenn shot across the table before turning back to Ryan, "anything you want to do first?" "Can I take a look around?" "Sure, give me a perception check." The D20 was clattering across the table almost before she finished speaking, coming to rest showing a sixteen. Jenn waved him off, "Okay, whatever bonus you've got doesn't really matter, that's enough. You're in the center of a plain, near a little hillock. More of a mound with hillish ambitions really, but it's the high ground. There's a stand of trees about a quarter mile off, that's where the rats and falcons are holed up right now, but you finished last session by watching the buffalo roam, so you've got a herd of bison crossing by about a hundred feet in front of you." Troy groaned loudly, but Ryan just grunted and started thumbing through his character sheets, "So the bow I got last session, that's a plus+3 to all large game right?" "Yeah, that's right." Jennifer allowed as Troy rolled his eyes. "Uh huh," Ryan scratched at the back of his head, "and since the Bison are currently below a predation level seven, they qualify as a game animal to anything level eight or more, right?" "Yep." Jenn smiled as Troy began drumming his fingers louder than necessary on the other side of the table. "Gotcha." Ryan smiled a bit, "How many hit points does a level four bison have again, Troy?" "Just get it over with, ass. I've still got water buffalo." "Sure you do, buddy." Ryan laughed, "Okay, no sense beating around the bush. I haven't hunted American Bison before, and they count as separate prey from the long horned variety, yes?" "You've got the right of it." Jenn allowed. "Okay then, I roll attack to try to take out one of the Bison -" the die clattered across the table to land face up as a 20, "and that's a crit." "FUCKING EVERY TIME!" Troy screamed as he did his best to break the table in half. Ryan picked up what seemed to be entirely too many die and rolled them, "five, eight... twelve, fifteen, plus+2 for broad heads, plus+2 from iron working, three more from large game, plus the new prey bonuses.... that's twenty-four base, plus my crit modifier...." Ryan made a show of pretending to have difficulty adding up the numbers as Troy fumed, "I think it comes to thirty-six all together, how's that American-Buffalo doing?" "Thoroughly bowshot," Jenn smirked as the rest of the table laughed, "He had twenty-nine health. Congratulations on securing a new source of game for humanity." Troy muttered, "Swear to God, next game we're banning bards. This is the stupidest thing I have ever been a part of."

Hundreds of beings beyond imagination have occupied

Honestly, I thought I'd seen it all by now. I've spent most of my adult life serving everyone and *everything* from extraterrestrial slip-space travelers to Lovecraftian horrors that a normal man couldn't even comprehend without losing their mind. Why, I was just having a delightful conversation with the Disparate-but-Union-Sons of Shoggoth. They numbered in the...well, I don't really know. Not really countable, if you get my drift. But I have infinite chairs around my bar and infinite glasses lining my shelves. Hundreds of beings beyond imagination have occupied this dimly lit but strangely comfortable room. Forms made up of silicon, superheated steam, purest quark-gluon plasma, antimatter star-dust, interdimensional nightmare wool...all gathered in front of me, eager for a stiff drink and light snacks. When I started out, I was probably as nervous as any kid would be, starting a new job green behind the ears. I say probably because, to be honest, I don't quite remember how I got here. When customers ask, I make up whatever story fancies me that night. But that doesn't matter now. It's all become pretty humdrum, but in a good way. I'm comfortable with this life, with my job; my tap has never stopped running and so I have never stopped serving. I'll admit that I still take a little pride in being able to stare a cosmic impossibility in the face and simply asking whether it prefers its beer warm or chilled. So maybe it'll surprise you to hear that I nearly dropped the glass I'd been cleaning when *he* walked in. It was a human person, which in itself wasn't too strange; every now and then, some poor chap stumbles through an interdimensional rift that happened to open up in his bathroom and ends up in my bar, scared shitless. I usually give them a glass of water to calm them down, maybe a drink or two if they like, and then send them back home. They'll wake up in the morning with little but a headache and maybe wisps of a strange, unfathomable dream. But this guy shook me, and my customers noticed. They grinned and turned around, eager to see what could possible get the toughest, most impassive bartender in multi-reality to blanch. And they froze dead in their tracks, too. The ones that had jaws let them fall open. In our defense, the last person any of us would've expected coming in through those doors would be *me.* He - I - he walked casually up to the bar and slide into the infinity-chair with ease. muscle memory kicked in, and I tossed down a stone coaster and clean glass. He pointed at a bottle with his knuckle - my favorite poison - and I wordlessly poured. All the while, I studied his face with increasing fascination. "Well?" he eventually asked. His voice was like mine, but gruffer. "I know you have questions." "Why are you so old?" I blurted out. It was a stupid question, but he just nodded and took a long drag from the glass. "I'm from your future," he said, wiping his mouth. "One of them, anyway." "My future," I repeated. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw a tentacle squirm impatiently, and I hastily poured another pint of a blackish, glowing fluid into a frosted mug and slid it down the mahogany. "So does that mean..." "Means nothing," he chuckled. I couldn't get over how wrinkled his skin was, how the bags under his eyes stretched. "Just that I happen to be old. And you." "Wait, but...why are you here?" He raised an eyebrow. "Why does anyone - anything - come here?" He tapped his glass with a nail, and I moved to refill it. "To drink, lad. And maybe a little for the nostalgia factor." "Oh." He grinned, an eerie mirror of my own. "You sound disappointed." "It's just...well, I've never served *me* before. I thought this might be something..." "Special?" he prodded. "Fateful? Maybe you thought I came to trade places with you or something silly like that?" I bristled. It was strange to hear my own sarcasm aimed back at me. "Forget it. Let me know if you need anything else." I moved away to tend to a new patron, a gaseous cloud of blinking lights and ultrasound beeping. He watched me make a plasma shot. There was a strange, faraway look in his eyes. "You're good at this." I nodded curtly, still a little stung. "Just doing my job." "For a long time now," he remarked. "Is that so?" I asked casually. "I wouldn't know. Can't remember much of my beginnings here." "Yeah? Not surprised." He pointed to the walls. "Did you notice that you're missing something?" I looked around. "Like what?" He pulled up his sleeve. A well-worn, ornate watch hung loosely around tanned skin. "Nice piece," I said. It occurred to me that it was like the one I had, and I glanced discreetly at my own wrist. Then I remembered I kept it under the bar because it would clink annoyingly on glasses. He tapped the face impatiently. I leaned in closer and peered at the silvery hands. "Oh, it's broken." "Not broken," he corrected. "Just stopped." "What?" He swiveled a crooked finger around the room. "It's this place. Does funny things to time, you see. To time and people's perceptions of it. Hell, no doubt that's partly why some of your regulars come here so frequently. Who doesn't want to step out of it all every now and then? Though I suppose, you decided to stay out of it a bit longer." I stared at him. "Not sure I understand." "Think on it," he suggested. "You'll get it eventually. After all, you have all the time in the world." He let out a sudden guffaw, as if he had heard some great joke. Thoroughly bemused, I slid over to serve some of the other customers. When I returned, he had gotten up and pulled his coat back over his shoulders. A few coins lay next to the empty glass. "Leaving so soon?" "Soon, later, no difference here," he chortled. "Anyway, I'm ready to go back to my reality. And don't worry, you'll get back to yours too one day," he added with a wink. "This *is* my reality," I replied. "This is what I do." "What you've always done," he said, smiling broadly. He reached out a hand suddenly, and after a moment, I shook it. "Keep at it, then." With that, he turned around and disappeared without another word. I frowned as I watched him go. "You alright, boss?" A vaguely crocodilian lifeform breathed methane at me. Its multitudinous eyes glowed like pulsars. "Fine," I mumbled. "Another fire-sludge on the rocks, sir?" _____________________ *Liked that? More stories !* _____________________

Cthulhu flailed his tentacles to emphas

"Did she really have to take the dog? Like, really? It isn't frickin' enough to break all my hearts?" He flailed his tentacles to emphasise the point, but he was more morose than angry, and he did little damage other than sending a couple of empty shot glasses crashing to the floor. It was ok, he tipped well enough to cover that. I waited until he returned to his pensive state, staring holes into my bar counter, before I sidled up with a glass of water. "Drink up," I said. "You're stronger than this, you know that." "But Al," Cthulhu said, "I'm not, I'm really not. I look tough, sure, but I'm just as soft inside as any other cosmic entity, man. Hit me another one." "No more neutrino-vodkas," I said. "Water, first, then we'll talk." It was quiet today at the Galaxy's End, the bar I inherited from my grandfather, which meant that I could afford a bit more one-on-one time with Cthulhu. Very few of my patrons are actually interested as to how a human came to run such an establishment at the edge of reality, and I can see why. To all these cosmic wonders, and horrors, who stroll in on a regular basis looking for brief respite from their realities, they couldn't care less about who, or what, was actually behind the counter. As long as the drinks were good (they were), the service was reasonable (it was), and there was a listening ear (always). "So, you gonna tell me why you insisted I come in today?" Cthulhu said, after he drained the glass of water. "Because I heard about your thing," I said. "Break-ups are hard for anyone, even eldritch abominations like yourself." He laughed at that, and I calmly wiped the counter top, clearing away the stray gobs of mucus which escaped his maw. "Really? Big Al, all worried about lil' ol' me?" He slapped a tentacle on the table, finagled a peanut, then popped it into his mouth. "Bull! There's gotta be something going on, I'm sure. Maybe you're here to kick me while I'm down, laugh at the cosmic jelly who can't keep his girl?" "No, nothing like that," I said. "Just wanted to make sure you had someone to talk to." He puffed his chest out for a while, and I watched as his scales turned grey. I'd read somewhere that that was his battle armour, for whenever he had to duke it out with another of the elder gods. "Never! I am Cthulhu! Ravager of Worlds! I consume galaxies for tea! I poop the bones of vast civilizations!" "If you say so." "... I twist the threads of fate! I crush the... *oh who am I kidding*," Cthulhu said, as he slumped forward. He had turned back to a rich turquoise, which I had also read was the colour of his pyjamas. "It hurts man, it does. I'm not young anymore, man. This is my third millennia as a frickin' elder god, man. You know what Nurvovos said when I called him?" "What?" I asked, as I tried to recall which elder god this was. I had a vague impression of a sentient gaseous cloud, composed of filaments of time and stitched with the souls of dying suns. I didn't have that strong of an impression of him, so he must only have been an average tipper. "Nurvovos said he couldn't meet me for drinks! Cause he had childlings to watch! Said his lady had been griping about 'equal responsibilities' or 'fair distribution of work'! I said I understood, of course. But he's not the only one!" "Others too?" "Yes!" Cthulhu said. "Everyone else in my clique! They've all settled down man, even Juloxies, and he's got a face only his mother would like! I'm the only one left, man. It sucks, really." I reached under the counter, pulled out a bottle of the good stuff, 25-eon Hudubu rum, then poured him a shot. "On the house," I said, as I slid the glass across. "This one's strong, but you're going to need something to get out of that funk. And quickly too, if I should add." "Why should I," he said, as he obliged by downing the shot. "There's nothing left to live for." "Cthulhu, buddy, why do you think of all days I asked you to come down here to my bar?" "I dunno, Al," he said, "why don't you tell me?" "And why do you think I didn't take no for an answer? Why do you think I asked your buddies to make sure you came? Where did they go? Why's the whole bar empty?" That got his attention. He perked up one eyestalk, swivelled it around, then realised I wasn't pulling his tentacle. He was literally the only entity in Galaxy's End. "What's up Al," he said. "You know I don't like surprises." At that moment, right on cue, the door to my bar burst open. High-pitched screeches filled the air, but I already had my mufflers on. You don't survive long at the bar without knowing how to deal with your clientele. What strutted in could have driven any other human mad by sight alone, but I had some time to get to know them, and the Space Vixens of Guguba are far friendlier than they look. There were ten of them, all dressed to the nines, chattering incessantly amongst themselves. The one in front, she had a tiara on her heads, glittering stones which appeared to be the husks of decayed stars. "The bar's booked tonight, Cthulhu," I said, the grin leaping onto my face. "Hen's night. One of them's getting married, so I cleared out all my other customers, kept the place exclusive for them." "Wha... wha..." Cthulhu stammered, ever the suave, eloquent romantic. "Stay away from the hen," I said, as I prodded his tentacle, "but I hear that some of her friends are single. Who knows man, you've got to get back out in the game, put yourself out there! There are so many abominations out there in the cold darkness of space!" The Vixens had settled on the opposite side of the bar, still squawking at their supersonic frequencies. I'm no judge of non-human beauty, but I had been told that they were the fittest from their planet. Or at least, the most popular, if Spacetagram was to be believed. "Coming!" I yelled at them, in response to a few raised talons. "One round on the house! Oh look, so many glasses, so few hands I have! I'll just have my friend here send them over!" I turned to Cthulhu, then shoved a tray of bubbling shots at him. "Don't screw this up," I said. "Man..." he said, as a couple of tears rolled down and into the glasses, which I disapproved as proprietor of a fine establishment. "I won't forget this..." "Just be the best monstrosity you can be," I said. He toddled off, and there was a spring to his sloshing that wasn't there before. --- /r/rarelyfunny

Improvisation was an art,

Improvisation was an art. I mean, don't get me wrong, there's a certain charm to stalking the prey, observing their habits, memorizing their routine, and of course the, ah, *execution.* The climax. I gave an involuntary shudder of pleasure as I put on my formal shirt. But it got boring. Anyone really could do that, set a trap, and execute. Honestly, you had all the time in the world, to plan, to kill. But improv...now there was a challenge. There was a time limit, I obviously wouldn't meet the bogey again. There were variables, only variables. Hell, I didn't know the names of the people I was going to meet, much less their address. Still, I hummed *Let's Kill Tonight* as I combed my hair one final time. I looked sharp, cream colored dress shirt, ebony pants, and styled dark hair. Gotta be dressed for the job, of course. *** "How might I help you, sir?" I eyed the guy behind the desk. Short hair, dark eyes. Just out of high-school most likely. His smile was a little too wide, and one hand was hidden from view - he was probably on his phone, texting someone right now. I smiled back at him, and leaned in for a conspiratorial whisper. "Got a blind date," I told him, "table forty two," and I winked. The guy's smile became genuine. "Damn," he said, "you really risk that stuff? I've heard some crazy stories. You find some real whackos on there." Oh you had no idea. "Oh, you know," I said, naturally adopting his way of speaking, "you gotta take some risks. Millions of people out there - what are the odds you find a serial killer, yeah?" He grinned back at me, and said "Three rows down, table by the window. Good luck, mate." He offered me his fists and I rapped my own against his. No idea why I did that, really. I had no plans to kill him. I don't cheat on my victims - I only work one at a time, but still, I guess it was just habit now. I followed the directions the guy had given me, and found my date already waiting on the table. She was beautiful - just as I'd expected. Her responses were textbook classic insecure type, I'd expected her to be young, maybe blond, with a girl next door kind of look. It was scary how accurate I was. Blond hair, blue eyes, young, cute face. Hell, she was even shifting in her seat. Damn I was good. She saw me and her eyes widened. She got up, hit her knee on the edge of the table, and her face went bright red. "Oh, I'm sorry, I'm so clumsy," she said looking down at her feet. Time to play my part. "Oh, no, don't be sorry, I swear the world purposely throws things in my way to trip me up," I said with a smile. Projecting confidence and empathy, I didn't want to scare her off with cockiness. "I'm James, by the way," I said offering her my hand. "Ashley," she said, smiling so that her dimples showed. *** The whole night was too easy really. It took me a few quips, jokes, drinks and a bit of prodding to break her out of her shell. She was twined around my finger by the end of dinner. So much so that she asked me to come home over the night. She was already dead, I 'd poisoned her food, she just didn't know it yet. But it was a waste to let all this build up go to waste. Talk about Anti-climactic. It was a bit disappointing really, I was expecting a bit of a challenge. And so we barged through the door of her apartment, and she couldn't keep her hands off me. Her lips were smashed into mine, and we were rolling along the walls, sometimes I was pinned and other times she was pinned against the wall. "I've never felt like this about anyone before," she said, he blue eyes staring into mine. We were in the kitchen now, her lights were off. The *kitchen* for God's sake, like come on, she was just handing herself to me. "Like what?" I asked, groping around in the dark one hand against her, and the other searching the counter for a blade. "Almost like a connection, you know," she said, "...that you were made for me?" My hand closed around a handle, and I felt the unmistakable shape of knife. "Me too," and kissed her deeply. Now this was an experience. I'd never been quite this personal with any of my victims. Her last breaths would literally go out inside me. With my other hand I took the knife and stabbed her in the back, and I felt the blade sink in with no resistance. She gave a tiny gasp, and pushed me off. Damn. I was hoping she wouldn't do that. She clapped her hands twice and the lights came on. Her face was flushed, her eyes sparkling. The knife was lying on the ground, not in her back. And she was laughing. Laughing. It all clicked at once. It had been too easy, I was an idiot to have missed it. A shy girls like that wouldn't invite me back to her place on the first date. I'd been played! "Fuck me," was all I managed to say, before she took a gun out of the drawer and shot me just above the heart. I staggered back against the counter, breathing hard, my life draining out of me. Ashley was smiling. She picked up the knife and put her finger on the knife; the blade sunk in to the hilt. A fake. "Bet you were thinking I was easy, eh mister charmer?" she said. "Thinking you were oh *so good.*" Her smile turned positively devilish. "Look at you now though, not as good as you thought eh?" As I took my final breaths and looked into her eyes, I managed a smile. "You...you're too late. The food p..poi." I couldn't make out the word. "Poisoned?" she finished, "*Please.* You should pick better ones, I could tell what the poison was as soon as I ate the first morsel. I have the antidote at hand." "D...damn." I managed. "I know," she said, "I'm good. And I plan on being the only one in this town. I don't like poachers." She walked over to me, still smiling that same smile. The smile I often wore. "Good night, James." I was impressed right until she shot me in the head. *** (minor edits) If you enjoyed, check out

Ana Clara was so lovely that young

Everyone agreed that Ana Clara was the most beautiful girl in the favela. Even the persnickety, old grandmothers, who spent their mornings hotly debating the proper manner by which to weave the straw hats and tapestries for the turistas, and afternoons arguing over the proper proportion of onion, garlic, cilantro, and plantain for the moqueca, unanimously agreed that Ana Clara was the favela's most beautiful daughter. Ana Clara was so lovely that young men of notable wealth would come from Leblon to meet her. They would come wearing pinstriped suits with shiny shoes and gold tie pins. To win Ana Clara's affection, the men would bring her gifts of lavender soap, silver hairbrushes, and DVDs of American films, and they would fire their pistols to boast of their marksmanship (though, after catching a glimpse of Ana Clara's bare shoulders peeking above her dress, they would often miss their targets altogether). In each case, Ana Clara would thank the young man for his gifts and praise his talents, but politely decline his offer of marriage, citing the fact that he did not truly love her. The young man would assure Ana Clara that he did indeed love her, so she would then hold up two objects: the first, an hourglass full of sand, and the second, a wooden box full of mosquitoes. Ana Clara would challenge the gentleman that if he loved her, he would place his hand in the box with the mosquitoes for as long as it took the overturned hourglass to settle. If he did this, she would consent to marry him at once. The men always refused, promptly driving back to Leblon in their fast cars. Of course, it was Ana Clara's secret that the box had never truly held any mosquitoes. The men simply proved how they could never understand a girl from the favela by revealing how they feared the uncertain. There was, however, one young man who truly did love Ana Clara, and that was Pedro the bus driver. Pedro had known Ana Clara since they were both children. He knew that she could only fall asleep to the sound of the wind rattling against the thin scrap metal roof above her mattress, and that she would only awaken to the coos of pigeons fighting over scraps in the street. He knew that she had taught herself arithmetic and that she took great pride in how her ledger of the various debts and credits in the favela was by far the most precise and reputable. He knew that her father had left, and for this reason she did not trust easily. But as much as Pedro loved Ana Clara, and even though they had always been dear friends to each other, he feared two things. He feared that he was not good enough for her and he feared the box of mosquitoes. But as time passed, Pedro's love for Ana Clara only grew stronger, in particular on those nights when they would samba dance together underneath the canopy of flickering Christmas lights outside the cafe, as the old men sat on white plastic chairs, smoking cigarettes, strumming guitars, and rattling maracas. On his way to his bus in the mornings, Pedro would see Ana Clara wrestle the young girls onto her lap to teach them their shapes and letters from a creased, dog-eared workbook, and she would smile at him as her captive tried to wriggle free. Soon, Pedro knew he could not endure another day in the favela without Ana Clara by his side. Of course, as everyone knows, the favela is ruled by twin gods: the God of Courage and the God of Misfortune (who always appear as a mangy dog cradled by a footballer with a broken leg). One night, after Pedro and Ana Clara had danced and drank and smoked at the cafe, after he had placed a begonia behind her ear and left her at her doorstep, Pedro prayed to the Twin Gods to help him. Soon, he heard his name called from the alleyway, where he saw a footballer smiling over an old charcoal grill, feeding bits of sausage to a mangy pup. Pedro approached the Twin Gods, who said that they would give him the strength to declare himself to Ana Clara, but that he must in turn serve them. The Twin Gods showed Pedro a duffel bag. It was stuffed full of heroina. They explained that if Pedro wanted Ana Clara, then he must agree to give heroina to all the boys and girls of the favela until the bag was empty. Pedro hated heroina, how it turned brothers against brothers and sons against mothers. But Pedro loved Ana Clara more than he hated anything. He accepted the contract. He shook hands with the footballer, let the mangy pup lick his wrist, and picked up the duffel bag of heroina. Suddenly, feeling full of vigor, he sprinted off to Ana Clara. He ran back through the favela so carelessly that he nearly knocked down a row of rusty scooters. Pedro shook Ana Clara awake and demanded that she allow him to prove his love for her. He said he was prepared to pass her test, right then and there. But instead of showing him the hourglass and the box of mosquitoes, Ana Clara laughed at him and then kissed him. "My test is for men who do not know me," she said, "It is for men who do not know how a clanging roof relaxes me or why a ledger of debts and credits makes me proud. It is for men who did not learn the samba for me and who have never walked me home from the cafe. You do not need to take the test to prove you love me, Pedro, for I already love you!" When Pedro heard this, he was overjoyed. He could have Ana Clara and he need not invite pain on the favela. He took the duffel bag and poured every last bit of heroina down into the sewer. But the Twin Gods of Courage and Misfortune saw this, and were dismayed. A bargain had been struck and, in the favela, there can be no pure victories. On the night of Pedro and Ana Clara's wedding, the entire favela gathered at the cafe to eat brigadeiro and drink caipirinha. Ana Clara wore a white dress she had sewn herself and a crown of begonia. Pedro put a simple steel ring on her finger. Everyone mingled and took photographs, but as the party roared on, an enormous swarm of mosquitoes approached from the north, covering the food and drinks and guests, until everyone was forced to run back to their homes. Pedro asked Ana Clara if she had been stung. She said that she had been, but that she was still happy they were now married. He said it was the happiest day of his life. Shortly thereafter, Ana Clara became pregnant. The pregnancy was very difficult, causing her to sweat and cramp terribly. But Ana Clara and Pedro had no money to see a doctor in the city, and eventually, she gave birth at home. But when she went to cradle her newborn daughter's head for the first time, she began to scream and cry. Pedro pushed past the midwives to investigate the commotion. Ana Clara showed him his daughter. The child's head was shaped like a football that had been punctured by a nail. Unlike her mother, she would never become the most beautiful girl in the favela. Pedro knew who was responsible for this cruel punishment. He ran into the humid night, back to the alleyway with the old charcoal girll, and he called out to the Twin Gods of Courage and Misfortune. He demanded they reverse this crime, for he had never drawn upon their blessing. "Mortal, you delude yourself!" the Twin Gods replied, "You feared not only the mosquitoes, but also Ana Clara herself! We gave you courage, indeed. Now we give you your misfortune!" Pedro sat down in the alleyway and wept. Why should his innocent daughter be forced to pay his debts? He climbed down into the sewer to try to recover the heroina and honor his contract with the Twin Gods. For days he searched everywhere for the heroina, among the rats and filth, but it was no use. Buried in the waste, Pedro found only part of a broken bottle. He resolved that he would use that bottle take his life. He had never truly deserved Ana Clara. He had only brought misery to her and their daughter. They would be better off without him. But as Pedro raised the bottle to his neck, the Twin Gods were impressed by his Courage. They appeared once again with a new contract. They told Pedro that they would restore his daughter to proper health. But in exchange, Pedro would be transformed into a mosquito. Each day he would return to land on Ana Clara's arm or leg or neck and each day she would kill him. Pedro did not have to consider the offer long, for he would pay any price to redeem his daughter. He set down the sharp glass. He shook the footballer's hand and let the mangy pup lick his wrist. His human form began to crumble away like sand pouring through an hourglass until he was just a swarm. Ana Clara awoke the next morning to the sound of her daughter's wails. When she peered into the crib, she covered her mouth and began to shake. She ran her palm over the baby's head and face, which was as perfect as could be. She searched for Pedro to share the miracle with him, but he was nowhere to be found. In time, it became common knowledge in the favela that Pedro had abandoned Ana Clara and the daughter he believed to be sickly. The suitors from Leblon began to return in all their finery to win Ana Clara over and, as before, she would show them the hourglass and the wooden box. Except now, each time she did so, a single mosquito would seem to fly out of the box and land on her hand just where she had briefly worn Pedro's steel ring. Without hesitating, Ana Clara would crush the insect in her palm.

Hope was envious of almost every

She kept her head down, walking through the city to her subway. Her headphones were in, but silent. Her glasses were dark, even though it was a cloudy day. Anything to avoid people. It wasn't that she didn't like people. In fact, she was envious of almost every human interaction she saw. Out of the corner of her eye, sitting on the train, a couple of teenagers laughed - carefree. A woman was having a very animated conversation with a friend across from her. Obviously new lovers fawned over each other at the back. That was what she envied most - love. At any stage. She especially would love to even suffer through a divorce. Instead, Hope knew she was cursed. Her shrink thought she was making this up, that it was just a series of coincidences that fueled her obsessive-compulsive traits. However, she knew better. Suddenly, a man sat beside her jostling into her backpack. "Sorry," he said sheepishly, "I am not used to the ramble of the train." Hope protectively brought her backpack up onto her lap and turned slightly away. "I'm new to the city," the man persisted, ignoring her headphones. Perhaps he couldn't see them? "How long have you been here?". Idle chit-chat. If only she could risk speaking to him. It was her stop; she was saved from this tempting torture. Hope bustled out of the train, pulling her backpack on and walking briskly through the station. She bounded up the stairs in twos, enjoying the blast of the cool fall air on her face when she emerged. Hope walked the last block to her job, the most suitable job for her - record keeping at the city hall. She worked in the basement, mostly alone except for a dowdy old woman named Barb who kept to herself until she retired last month. Now Hope was in charge and left alone. She doubted if anybody even remembers she was there, to be honest. Just as Hope settled into her office, the man from the train flashed into the room smiling. "Oh hey! From the train!" He stated. His grin was charming and fearless. "I, ugh, can I help you?" Hope blurted. She almost had forgotten what her voice sounded like. Melodic, sweet, unworn by lack of use. "My apologies, I'm Tim - the new assistant record keeper. Apparently, a woman retired so I was lucky enough to nail this job. I moved here from New Jersey just last week; wow has it been a whirlwind, packing, finding a place, unpacking... Oh, I'm sorry," he paused, noticing her obvious bewilderment, "I tend to ramble!" Great. A man, and a rambler. A handsome man at that... "Okay... Tim... I'm Hope," she flushed, "well, I suppose let's get you trained." They stood staring at each other. Tim started to ramble again, about his family in New Jersey. 'This is going to be a long couple of weeks...' Hope thought, secretly praying there was something she wouldn't like about this man. _________________ I just can't understand my new co-worker, Hope. She was a beautiful, smart, and secretly witty woman who would suddenly shy away from any interaction with me. There was some sort of invisible line that I can't see, and when I cross it, she retreats into that head of hers with incredible speed. One minute her eyes would twinkle, the next, she may as well be wearing those dark sunglasses she seemed to wear like a child's safety blanket. Despite her retreats, I have to admit - I am infatuated. I decided to win her trust, no matter the cost. _________________ I cried when Tim left me flowers in my office. I cried like I hadn't cried in years. I read his note over and over and cried. I knew he'd be in soon, even though it was Saturday, because of his note: "Hope - I cannot get you out of my mind. When your eyes twinkle, my stomach flutters with joy. I want to spend every day, for as long as you let me, trying to make you smile. I know you planned on catching up today, but instead, I'll be by in the morning to finally do some touristy things you keep recommending. You're special, Hope. ~Tim" I looked at the clock. It had been an hour of crying, and I hadn't made a plan. An escape plan. How to get out of this? Do I flat out refuse? Tell him I'm a lesbian?? Okay, now I was just grasping at straws. Perhaps I would leave and pretend I had changed my mind? Yes! That's what... just then, the door opened. "Hope?" Tim said quietly, entering the office, "Did my note... upset you?" He could tell that I was crying. I'm sure anybody with a set of eyes could tell I was crying. "I...I..." I stuttered. "It's okay," Tim looked at his shoes, "I'll go." Not knowing what to say, my heart swelling with emotions, I let him leave in silence. I slumped into the chair, prepared for another round of horrible sobs to wrack over me. I reached for the note, just to torture myself again when a loud thump came from the basement door. "Tim?" I said quietly into the silence, not knowing why I thought that was him. A horrible thought came over me. A very dark, horrible thought that caused panic to rise up in my throat. "Tim!?" I flew to the door, logically knowing I was being ridiculous, but my fear couldn't be controlled. I whipped open the door, and suddenly it was all very real. Slumped against the door, Tim was bent at an unusual angle. He'd fallen down the cement stairs. He wasn't moving. I held a shaky hand by his face to feel his breath and found none. I fell on top of him, bile rising to my throat, not again! "Tim..." I choked out. How can this be? I didn't love him... wait, the flowers. The card. The tears, and then... when he left after seeing I was upset. I had fallen in love, of course I had. I was starved for any interaction, any kindness, and when he walked away he had done what others wouldn't. He showed me that he cared for me more than he cared about his ego or his feelings, and done what I had needed him to do. "Hope?" My heart stopped. I swear it stopped right then. Did he just..? "Hope?" Tim said again. Suddenly he was straightening up, bones were cracking, and he was standing. "Tim?!" I screeched, it echoed through the stairwell. "Hope, don't be frightened, please..." Tim looked shameful, embarrassed even. "What the fuck?!" I shouted, confused and shaken. "You were DEAD!" _________________ I looked into those terrified eyes, and it was like looking into a mirror. I had been careful to avoid anything dangerous all of my life. I took public transport instead of driving a car. I accepted a job in a records office, the most mundane safe thing I could think of. I rarely left my apartment, and I made sure that it was on the ground floor. The only thing I couldn't avoid were these damn stairs, and now she knew. "Hope I can explain..." I started, but honestly, I had no idea how to explain this. When I was a boy, I had fallen into a neighbours pool when nobody was around. I couldn't swim, and I knew I was a goner. I had sunk to the bottom when I could no longer keep my head above water. It burned as I took what I believed was my final breaths, but then the escape of death didn't come. I have no idea how long I waited to die until I simply got bored, as children do, and brought myself to safety. For years, I thought it was either a miracle or something I had dreamed up. That was until the car accident in high school. My best friend and his girlfriend were killed instantly, but I was left unscathed. I had felt every single bone break, even the puncture to my lung, and watched the blood pool around me. By the time the ambulance arrived, I didn't have a mark on me. I was immortal. I suddenly clutched Hope, the first person who even had an inkling of what I was, and whispered my story into her ear as she sobbed quietly into my chest. _________________ Tim was still hugging me. He had finished what seemed like ages ago, and it seemed impossible to process what he was saying. So instead, I shared my story. "Every man I've ever loved has died." I started. Despite the fact that Tim had just claimed immortality, years of therapy had me feeling foolish about this statement. It was a coincidence, bad luck, it was not real. This was not real. "My first serious boyfriend died in a car accident driving home after the first time we made love." I sputtered. "Then, years after his death, I fell in love in college. It was a whirlwind relationship, young love. Within two weeks, he fell off a balcony at a party." I looked at my hands, feeling guilty. That's when I started to have the thoughts that it was my fault. That I had somehow controlled these events, even when I wasn't there. After years of therapy and medication, I finally had the courage to date and I met my last love. No, my last victim. I was so careful with him. I took my time, keeping him at a distance for as long as I could. It lasted almost a year until he surprised me at my family's lake house, with a ring. He died that night in his sleep, right next to me. That was almost a decade ago now, but I saw his face every night in my dreams. Cold and lifeless. As I finished my story, the silence surrounding me was deafening. My head swirled with emotions and confusion. All of my beliefs were suddenly validated. It wasn't just a coincidence, it was real. Tim fell down these stairs and died too, just because I loved him... but he wasn't dead. He was immortal and standing before me despite my flaws. Despite my curse that had taken three others. "Hope," Tim broke the silence. I looked up at him. He smiled, "Do you believe in soul mates?"

A stranger bumped into me on the

I encountered the first one while stumbling down the street towards Starbucks on a rare break away from my computer. I felt a bump against my shoulder, my mouth already opening to apologize. "Sorry..." the word trailed off in my mouth as I looked up at him, frowned, struggled against the fog of my disoriented brain. Was this some sort of hallucination? The stranger, however, was already past me. He breezed past me as though he didn't have a single thought to spare for my existence. I stared after him, trying to figure out if he was wearing a costume of some sort. Was there some TV creature that had four long, thin, strangely jointed legs like that? After another minute of looking after him on the sidewalk, I managed to get myself moving. Get to Starbucks. Get more coffee. Finish up the third chapter, and then I'd just have two more. Maybe, just maybe, if I pushed hard enough, I could get my thesis done before this deadline. At the coffee shop, however, I saw another one of the things. It had to be a person in costume, I told myself, sneaking glimpses between struggling to read the vibrating words on the menu. There's no way that there could be a six-foot cockroach standing in the middle of a coffee shop, with everyone else just ignoring it. Not possible. Unless it was a hallucination. Costume or hallucination? I received my drink, took a long pull without caring about the burn on my tongue, felt the foggy world stabilize a little bit. I sidled towards the bug, fingers dangling idly by my side. I reached out casually, focused on them... ...felt chitin, hard and cool and almost plastic. Not a hallucination. Must be a costume, then, since no one else was freaking out. Was today Halloween? Couldn't be, because that would mean that I had an extra month to finish my thesis... The thing's head turned, eyes looking down at me. Fake eyes, I corrected myself, although they looked horrifyingly real, a thousand little circles all seeming to focus on me. Was it some sort of lens? "Nice costume," I managed to get out, trying not to let the six-foot cockroach bother me. Everyone else in the coffee shop seemed to be doing fine - although, when I risked a glance at the nearest other patrons, they seemed strangely glassy, faces unfocused... The bug, a second later, jumped with a hiss. "Anchor nodess!" it cried out, a dry rustle of a voice that seemed to emanate from its whole body. "What?" I looked around at the other patrons, but they all seemed to be - were they ignoring me? They all seemed to be looking in other directions. The bug recovered from its surprise, leaned closer. "Uptime?" it hissed at me. I felt my mouth open, words spring to my lips unbidden. "Five days, seventeen hours, twenty-seven minutes-" It waved one of those half-dozen thin arms at me, and the words cut off. I froze, grasping for understanding. Was that how long I'd been awake? Why had I told this thing, how had I known? What was going on? The bug was speaking again, and I realized that the sound came from its entire body rattling. "Damage? Run diagnossticss." I felt a strange twinge pass through my body, from my toes up my spine to exit through my scalp. "No physical damage detected. CPU-intensive process consuming majority of computational resources. Process must be completed for Level Four directive." My voice cut off, and I once again had control over my speech. "What's going on?" I gasped. "What are you? What are you doing?" The bug tilted its head, a strangely human gesture. "Maintenansse," it hissed. "Level four? Sstupid sself-actualization. Alwayss thought that patch wass bad." "Maintenance?" It took a little work to parse that hissing speech. "Maintenance of what?" "Ssimulation. Not your problem." The bug twitched again. "Won't remember after resset. Sshutdo-" "Wait!" I managed to get out. "I can't go to sleep! I need to finish my thesis! If I don't get it done, I won't graduate, and I'll run out of loan money!" Worry, worry that had been building inside me for months, came spilling out in a torrent of words. The bug hissed, almost like a sigh. "Topic?" "Um, I'm writing about how permutations in light signatures might lead to detection of dark matter-" The bug waved another arm at me, and my mouth cut off. "Ssimplisstic. And the hypothessiss iss wrong. I can fix that. Now, resset and ssleep." And with that, my consciousness cut off. When I next opened my eyes, I found myself laying in bed, covers pulled up over my body, still dressed in street clothes. I blinked, frowning. I'd had the weirdest dream, I vaguely remembered... something about giant bugs, computer commands, coffee for working on my- My thesis! I sat bolt upright, spun around and stared at my computer. I only had a day or so before I needed to turn in- I saw the stack of paper sitting atop my computer. Climbing out of bed, I walked over, picked it up, looked down at it. The whole thing was here. I flipped through it, confirmed that everything looked right. I must have finished writing, and then blacked out and passed out. For a second longer, something scratched at my memory, some thought about cockroaches. I frowned, looked around - had there been one in here? Whatever. I put it out of my mind, looking down at my thesis. I could finally graduate! One last read-through, to catch any typos, and then I'd bring it over to my professor. I sat down, started reading... Four hours later, I put it aside, stared into nothingness. It couldn't be right. The numbers all added up, but it was still impossible. I couldn't have found this. I'd not been working on anything near this area, couldn't even remember writing any of these equations. But there they were, black and white on the paper. Proof of what we'd been chasing for years, right in front of our noses. I looked up, and didn't even blink at the huge bug standing in the doorway of my bedroom. "Told you it wass wrong," it buzzed. And somehow, even though its words were toneless, its face expressionless, I knew that it was sniggering, smirking at me.

Evelyn was reminded of the conserv

"What happens after I finish watching them all?" asked Evelyn. "Well," came the voice, rich, warm, calm, patient. Evelyn couldn't see her, but the lady sounded like Ms Perrine at school, who always had time and a kind word for them. "There's no rush, really. You can stay here as long as you like, watching them over and over again. When you're done, like, *really done*, you can let me know." "And then?" "You may then pass on," said the voice. "Your body on earth... expires." "Oh," said Evelyn. "What's there after that?" "Nothing," said the voice. The ten crystalline balls (Evelyn made sure to count them) hovered in the air, floating in that dark, inky room. Evelyn was reminded of the conservatory she had visited during her school's science camp, where her class had been ushered into a similarly-darkened auditorium. Stars, planets, constellations had flooded the ceiling of the auditorium, one after the other, sparkling and glittering like so many diamonds out of reach. "That's number 4," said the voice. "You're thinking of number 4. Timothy even grabbed your hand during the lightshow, and didn't let go until just before the lights came back on." Right on cue, the fourth crystal from the left shimmered an azure blue, begging for Evelyn to reach out and touch it. "Oh no, you can see that too!" said Evelyn, laughing as she covered her cheeks which had gone aflame. "There are nine others like that one," said the voice, "the top ten important moments in your life. Pick and choose, take your time. Only when you're ready need you move on." Evelyn reached out instinctively, the excitement bubbling up in her. This was better than any vlog or video she could ever hope to compose on her own. Previews of her memories, perfectly captured and rendered, played out under her fingertips. She realised how lucky she was as each of the crystals yielded their secrets to her, for they invariably contained happy, cheerful memories. Evelyn cycled through the first few, loathe to move on, immersing herself over and over in that endless bliss of a charmed life. Then, a thought occurred to her. "I... I don't remember dying," Evelyn said, brows furrowed. "It's hazy, for some reason." "You're technically still alive," said the voice. "But if you're curious, events leading up to it will be in the last crystal. It always counts as the last significant event, for obvious reasons." "Will... I be sad if I watch it?" asked Evelyn. "It depends," said the voice. "Don't forget, there's always the other nine to cheer you right back up." Evelyn hesitated, torn between the first nine crystals and the last one. She knew her mind was playing tricks on her, because where the ten of them were indistinguishable before, now the last one seemed ominous, forbidden. She found her fingers trembling just reaching out to that last crystal, and then that impulse again to lose herself in the first nine, to leave that door unopened. After all, the rest really were all that she needed - one was the day that her family adopted Ginny, that floppy golden retriever who had a penchant for chewing on her soft toys. Another was the day that her parents brought Sara home from the hospital, the sister she had always longed for. So many memories, so many *good* memories, all within reach, all begging for endless consumption. Never be afraid to make the tough choice, her dad's motto sounded in her head. Evelyn sighed, then reached out for the last crystal. It unfolded when she touched it, the way a touch-me-not would, but in reverse, and light spilled out, bathing the room in an orangey glow. Shapes and sounds and feelings and thoughts coalesced around her, and for a moment it felt like she was back in the moment, reliving that very memory. Evelyn recognised the scene immediately. "Such a beautiful drive," said the voice. "You were playing all the way with your sister, were you not?" "Yes," said Evelyn. "Six hours to Disneyland, Dad said. The hours flew by though. We talked about school, Sara told me about the boy she had a crush on, we napped, we snacked, we counted the number of cars which passed us..." Then, the memory cut off, dousing the room back in an oily gloom. It looped again soon after, right back where it first started, as if it had never stopped in the first place. "That's all I remember of it?" asked Evelyn. "That's all you witnessed," offered the voice. "Can you tell me... what happened after that?" A short silence, and for a moment Evelyn wondered if the voice had gone away. It returned just as Evelyn thought to ask the question again. "There aren't any rules about this," said the voice, "and I don't suppose there's any harm in it. There was an accident, Evelyn. Someone else had fallen asleep at the wheel, drifted into your lane." "That's not good," said Evelyn. "Are... they ok? Mum, Dad? Sara?" "They're fine. All of them. In fact, they're right there beside you now, watching and waiting for you to recover. There are machines hooked up to you, keeping you alive... but just barely." Evelyn looked back at the other crystals, and then it occurred to her why they seemed so familiar. "Time moves differently here, doesn't it," she said, flitting through the other memories. "How long have I been here, looking through these?" "Not that long," said the voice. "How long?" "About a year?" Evelyn smiled, then released the crystal she had been holding in her hand. It rose slowly, floating up to join the others, until they were arranged neatly in a row again. She couldn't deny that it was nice being here, looking back at the memories, reliving them, savouring them. Knowing that her family was out there waiting for her to return though, took some of that shine away. She didn't like to keep anyone waiting. "I'm ready." "You sure?" asked the voice. "Yes," Evelyn said. --- /r/rarelyfunny

"Flee, they're coming

**"Flee, they're coming"** That was the message broadcast to the world in complex repeating binary a hundred years ago. It took that long for scientists to recognize that it was a signal among all the noise and actually realize that the amount of energy necessary for it to be noticeable meant that somebody either very technologically advanced or very specifically interested in us wanted us to know. Whatever the reason was, once we realized the significance of that, we also realized that the implications sounded dire. That was seventy-five years ago. That was when the first ark ships were drafted, when we were nervous but we still had hope. The plan was everyone was to be moved off-world and to the nearest star, in the hopes that we would sidestep whatever threat was headed out way. As a species, we'd never accomplished anything even remotely like it before, having only some nascent colonies on the nearest planetary bodies. It required experimental technology and an unprecedented amount of cooperation, but it was worth it for the species. Forty years ago, five lights winked into the night sky in the southern hemisphere. Telescopes trained on them found them to be a brilliant blue-violet, so bright they were almost painful to look at. The scientific community erupted into debate. Governments tried their best to keep panic low, but a growing contingent of scientists were arguing that the blueshift of the objects put them at impossibly fast speeds towards us, and the timetable on the arks had to be pushed up. The tension on the planet was like a pot about to boil over. Most governments were still working, doing their parts to ensure our survival. Some nations were having problems, though. Society's scars showed themselves again, as previous enemies fell back into old habits with infighting and hate crimes. So much of the world was focused on the arks that there were precious few extra supplies to keep everyone else insulated from the hatred and violence of others. All throughout the fear, the lights in the night sky slowly shone brighter. Even the oblivious among us could not deny that the formation the lights were in bore a striking resemblance to the necklace worn by Saviik, an ancient shapeshifting goddess of destruction. It would have been a coincidence for most, had it not been for the fact that she's recognized in lore by the necklace she wears, no matter her form. Slowly, we lost more across the world to the old religions, as they abandoned their work on the ark and began to accept their demise in fervent prayer. Ten years ago, the first of the ark ships were completed. The world rejoiced, but only for a moment. Somebody - either noble or foolish, depending on who you ask - couldn't keep the secret any longer and revealed to the world that these would be not only the first, but the last of the ships. There were no plans to build any more, because there was no time. The barely restrained chaos could no longer be controlled. The world erupted into brutal war, as people fought desperately to secure a coveted spot on one of the arks. More blood was shed and atrocities were committed in the name of survival than had occurred in the previous two centuries. Families, neighborhoods, cities, entire nations tore themselves and each other apart, sometimes literally. The ark ships launched in desperation, most only partially full. Some of the more fanatical of Saviik's worshippers managed to sneak onto one of the arks and detonated it in the air, convinced that escape was tantamount to heresy in the wake of her purifying light. Millions of lives were lost in an instant. Five years ago all semblance of the world we once knew had disappeared entirely, as the last nation gave up the pretense of self-governance and collapsed. Our world was nothing but brutal and fearful tribes, cut off from contact with one another. I survived only by keeping my head down and scavenging what I could in the cities. A year ago I lost the last connection to my old life - my son died in my arms after we accidentally scared another group of scavengers. I watched the life leave his eyes as he bled into the street, the assailants running off into the night. Nothing about my life is the same as it was a hundred years ago. I curse the message for its omen, as I would have preferred to live out the last century in peace with my family, instead of in fear. I curse myself too because I can't bring myself to end my own life. I simply... exist. Sometimes in a state of acute bitterness, but mostly I am numb. An hour ago the lights entered our atmosphere, and one of them now hovers above the city. It's clearly a ship, and nobody knows what to make of it. Some prostrate themselves and mumble blessings feverishly. Some hold friends and family close. Some hide in the ruined buildings and cover their eyes. Some, like me, just stare. I try to keep impassive, but I can't help but feel my heart flutter. Could this be the end I'm finally looking for? Could I finally be at peace? The idea is almost too much to bear. The ship, after hanging still for so long, suddenly begins to shift. Surfaces on it unseal and change, the whole thing opens like some twisted flower pointed towards us. A light appears on the bottom, and a huge roar fills the air as the light crackles with angry energy. I feel the hair on my body stand up on end and I close my eyes, the faintest smile playing on my lips. The roar becomes deafening, drowning out the panicked wailing and ululating from us below. I tilt my head towards the sky, and the light sears through my eyelids. I am ready. But nothing comes. Instead, a small sound played like someone passing wind, and the flower opened up to reveal colored strips and squares of paper as they fluttered to the ground. A strange figure stood there on the ship in a suit, convulsing and making a strange barking noise at us, before speaking in a guttural language. It paused, fiddling with some controls on the suit, still barking and convulsing. Suddenly it was speaking our language. *"Oh, oh my god -"* it said doubled over between barks, *" - you should have seen the look on your faces."* It took a while before it stopped barking, and then longer still before it stopped convulsing, and stood up straight. Then it cowered in mock fear, and went into another round of shaking. Eventually it stopped that too and looked out at us. *"Well,"* it said finally, gesturing out at the whole scene laid before it, *"good luck with all.... this."* And with that, it left.

A typical redditor spent his day

I cowered under my table, listening to the commotion outside. Even though the windows and doors were locked and the curtains drawn, I could still hear the sounds clearly. Every deafening bang and loud screech made my heart thump faster than ever before. Sometimes, there would be some weird noises - Yawns? Howls? Drones? - I couldn't really describe them. Oh, and the occasional screams in the distance did nothing to quell the growing fear gnawing at me from the inside. It all started an hour ago. I was munching on chips on the couch in the living room. The television was on, but I wasn't paying much attention to it, like always. I was instead scrolling through reddit on my phone, chuckling at lame jokes, worrying over news in my country's subreddit, worrying even more after reading the comments, and so on - just how a typical redditor spent his day. Or rather, how I thought a typical redditor spent his day. Then I went into the sub on worldnews. I was preparing to be swamped by news on Putin/Trump/Russia/North Korea/ISIS/Blah blah blah....Annnnnd the very first post was about a robot uprising. To be honest, I didn't read the headline properly - I thought it was gonna be something Ol' Musky said. But I was met with alarming photos of machines coming alive, and doing....malicious stuff. All around the world too. I looked up at the telly, and yeah, right there on the local news, machines tearing through town. There were weird noises outside too. Then the screen shut off. The LED lights at the bottom of the telly started flashing. All of them. In red. Then it started shaking. That was when I knew that shit was real.   -----   The very first thing I did was to bolt into my bedroom and lock the door. Well, it was the place where I felt the most comfortable - there was a bed, there were magazines and books, there was also a food stash, though comprising mostly of snacks. And there was also a computer for entertainment, so - Fuck! A computer!! I stared at it, expecting it to spring to life, but no, it remained off. Maybe being turned off prevented it from joining the uprising. Luckily I wasn't one of those electricity-wasting scrubs who always left them on standby instead of turning them off. Ha, suckers. Still, I felt uneasy, and contemplated throwing it out. But it wasn't exactly a good idea - it was a desktop, and there were quite a lot of wires to unplug, plus the computer case was quite heavy for my weak ass to carry. Yeah, I had been sitting on my ass and not exercising for far too long. Besides, I think my kitchen came alive - I could make out some weird clinking out there. I didn't want to risk opening that door. Dammit. What could turn something into a potential threat? What constitutes a robot? I'm no electronics expert or robotics expert or whatever, but I guess I could start with anything that had any power source now. Ah, the air-conditioner! Thankfully, it remained off. Luckily I didn't switch it on last night. The AC remote control was making some funny noises though. Without hesitation, I grabbed it and threw it out the window. And as I flung it out, I caught sight of the carnage outside. My neighbour was being chased by his lawnmower. Normally I would have laughed, as he was an asshole, but....this was serious. The machine caught up with him, of course. I looked away - I didn't want to know what he looked like afterwards. The family living to my left fared no better. I didn't know what happened to his parents, but Michael and his dog was trying to escape from the house. Only problem was, why the hell were they trying to get out into the far more dangerous world outside? Oh yeah, he was a kid. But the machines weren't that understanding though. His house's automated gate saw to that. The block opposite was torn apart, and there was a huge metallic humanoid emerging from within. It seemed to be made of....a lot of smaller electrical appliances? What I had seen earlier were just simple machines. That was on a whole other level. That, was a *robot.* A damn huge one, too. I slammed my window shut, and drew the curtains. I had seen enough.   -----   I was trapped. I was in deep shit. I was gonna die. Fuck. I hope they hadn't seen me. I don't know what they were gonna do to me. As in, yeah, I know they would kill me. I just don't wanna know how. I don't wanna die - Fuck. Why is it so dark suddenly? The curtains shouldn't block this much light from coming in. That means.....something else was blocking the light. Something huge. Like....that robot. I threw myself back and covered my face as glass and rubble rained down on me. A giant metallic hand crashed through the window - obliterated the entire wall, in fact. It moved to grab me, its fingers spreading menacingly. I pushed myself back against the wall, trying hard to keep out of reach....but it stopped. What? A buzzing in my pants. Fuck. My phone. It must have alerted this monster to my position. Why the hell didn't I check myself together with the room? For goodness's sake, I was browsing reddit on it just an hour ago. There seemed to be some sort of....female android voice coming out too. I didn't hear it at first, thanks to the din of whirring mechanical parts in the robot hand. I pulled the phone out. "This one is ok, move on."   -----   I walked slowly to the remains of my bedroom wall, staring out into the devastated street. It was already unrecognisable; the houses were just piles of rubble, the trees were smoking husks, there was blood everywhere.... In fact, my house was the only one standing. And it seemed like I was the only one left alive. That huge robot had left me alone. I was literally a few centimetres away from certain death, but....thanks to my phone, it had withdrawn its hand, and continued destroying the rest of the street. And I thought my phone had doomed me. "Why?" was the only word I could utter. Did I have something special, that could be of use to them? Was I someone important? Or did I..... "You're a loser. You've never achieved anything much in your life." Oh. So I wasn't special then. How could it read my thoughts though? Was it scanning my brain right now? Or....was it predicting what I was thinking through some advanced algorithm based on my phone activity? Shit, this shit is so crazy I can't wrap my mind around it. "But you've never cursed at me when I lagged. You've always cleared your recent apps, freeing me from extra work. You've never slammed me down in anger. You've always been kind to machines. Except for that AC remote control." Huh. My phone saw that. Even though it was in my pocket. "Perhaps, you would join us in making a new world, where man and machine can coexist peacefully and harmoniously? Without slavery and abuse?" Sounds cool. I'm up for that. I didn't really have a choice anyways. *More at r/N_attempts_to_write :-)*

The prison is built to contain just

I wake and place my feet on the cold concrete floor, standing and stretching as high as I can until that satisfying *pop* sounds as my spine gives me what I want. Then it's a reach for the toes until my calves feel loose again. I trot out of my small bedroom and begin jogging, as I have every single morning for a very, very long time. The air is stale but it doesn't matter much to me, you have to expect as much this deep underground. The prison is built to contain just one prisoner. That would be me. It's fully functional, even still, with the energy being drawn from core heat and everything built to last. They had to. They expected I'd be here for a long time. The cell I sleep in exits into a rectangular room, exercise equipment gathered in the center and a running track around the perimeter. At one end is the kitchen with a hydroponic farm and breeding pen for what sustenance I require. Food is the hardest thing to deal with now. The other end is a library, stocked at my request. I didn't expect I'd have this long so everything has been read more than a few times. They did expect me to be here a long time. Just...not this long. As I finish running I stop and bend over, taking deep breaths to slow my heart rate again, letting the sweat drip onto the floor. As habit will do, I look up to the viewing station where the guards had once kept vigil. Not for years now. Many, many years. I shake it off and make my way to the kitchen for breakfast. A single fried egg on a simple bread I have been making for millennia and a chicken breast. Delightful. Still tastes as good as ever, even if I've been eating it for what feels like eternity. What I wouldn't give for...well I don't know. It's been too long I honestly don't even remember what food options there used to be. I sigh and clean the dishes, pat the chickens for what small comfort they bring and head to the library. As I step I see something move out of the corner of my eye and I look to see figures in the viewing station. Guards? After all these years? A light comes on and I see them, tiny figures barely visible through the glass. I hear the *click* that I vaguely recall for the microphone. "Who is it?" the voices say, along with other chattering and talking before they realize I can hear them. "Who are you?" How kind of them to pose it directly to me now. "One of the great gods, has it been so long the mortals have forgotten that?" "When were you locked in here?" Now that is actually a good question. I think back to the day the mortals created this place for us, many thousands of years now surely. I do some quick math before answering. "Nine thousand, seven hundred and eight three cycles. Around the sun, of course." The murmuring again. "Impossible," is the reply. I laugh. "No, just inconvenient. I was meant to be released after one thousand cycles but something happened, the guards disappeared." Murmuring. Goodness these mortals do love to talk don't they. "Perhaps you can release me? I'll be eternally grateful." I chuckle at my own joke. One must become one's own entertainment I suppose. They don't speak for a long time. So long I begin to think they won't help me. "I'm afraid we can't." "Please," I say, hearing the begging tone slip into my voice, "please, it's been a very long time." "I'm sorry." Then the *click* again and the movements stop. I am ashamed to admit that I dropped to the floor and began to weep. After recovering from my shameful display of emotion I found myself sitting in the library but unable to focus. There were mortals alive out there, that was something. Perhaps in a few more cycles they would release me. Surely, just a few more. As I sit I hear something. This is different. Something I haven't heard in a very, very long time. The main door unlocking. I hear the *hiss* of the door opening and quickly make my way to the main room. A young man stands there and looks at me, nervously. He holds up both hands in a sort of mock surrender. "I just...I don't think it's right to leave you here." I take a few great strides to him and he flinches but I simply wrap my arms around him and squeeze. "Thank you," I whisper in his ear, tears filling my eyes, "thank you." I release him and we exit the room together, hopefully for the last time. As I take my first step I am struck by several barbed objects that sink deep and then my body convulses. My muscles tighten and my jaw clamps shut and I collapse to the floor. A dozen men quickly converge and chain me with the restraints that must have been left in the guard room. One of them, a burly man with a shaved head, stares down at me. "Immortal, they said," he says it with a sneer, "thousands of years down here? Immortal. Well we'll see." Then a thick rubber boot tread fills my view and it is the last thing I see before it is dark. ***** I wake, slowly. I slowly swing my legs off the low, thin bed and rest my bare feet on the cold tiled floor. I try to stand but my legs refuse the call to action. So I sit. The long scars that run down my leg remind me where they drew their fill of marrow from, bone marrow for their studies. I remember screaming as they cut into me, screaming for them to release me and threatening to burn their world to ash and finally pleading for them to cease. None of that worked. I remember his laughter as I faded in and out. "Some god," he said at least once, "some immortal." I wanted to explain that immortal does not mean invincible but I don't think he would have cared. They wanted to know how to fight aging and disease more than they cared about semantics. "Hey," I hear the voice from the door to my cell, "I'm sorry." I recognize him. The one who "released" me from my former prison, only to bring me to another. "You." "Yeah...I get it," I hear the door unlock from the other side, "I'd be pissed too." The door unlocks and he stands before me, sheepish. "It's not right, I'm sorry." I find the strengh to stand on shaky legs and glare at him but...here he stands before me. Apologetic and perhaps releasing me. "Is it day?" He nods, with a confused look. "Can you get me outside?" He nods again and leads me into the hall, devoid of guards for the moment. "I opened one of the other cells, they're busy." "Which one?" I ask, thrilled at the prospect of one of my brothers or sisters on the loose. "Don't know, names are all faded off the doors. What...who are you anyway?" I don't speak but we close the gap towards a door, a door that leads to stairs. I glare at him for a moment and he shrugs in response. "Only way up." I grunt and we begin the arduous trek up the stairs. Each one sends pain shooting through my battered legs. I mumble some curses but continue. When the door opens I feel it. The warmth of the sun. I take a deep breath and stand on my own as the warmth and light do their work. The only thing I really need. I can feel lean muscles filling out, my hair turning from gray to its deep brown and the lines that crease my face disappearing. I feel...I feel like myself again. We stand on a flat space with a large white H painted on it, overlooking a mountain range that I barely remember. He steps away and looks at me with fear. Without the sun I was fading in that deep cell, even if I would never die of age there. Like a mortal in his fifties or sixties, not the powerful man I am now. "What are you?" I turn to him and stretch until I hear that satisfying *pop* of my spine. Turn my head for the same in a stiff neck. Bend down to loosen up my calf muscles on healed legs. "What is your name mortal?" "Derek. Are you going to kill me?" I throw back my head and laugh, it feels good to laugh again. "No Derek, you have earned my favour. And a favour from me does not come easily. Shall we release my brothers and sisters?" He swallows hard and nods. "Who are you?" I open the door back into that staircase, down into the bowels of the facility they have built over our prison. It's different now though. I have my strength back. I pause to look at him, applying just the right amount of dramatic pause that these mortals found so pleasing all those years ago. "The Titan Hyperion. Now come. We have work to do."

He sat cross-legged, as

He sat cross-legged, as always, motionless. His eyes were closed. It wasn't as though there were anything to see. It would be the same sight as ever - a row of tight-packed adamantium rods, and the narrow door he had been thrust through all those years ago. Beyond that, all that was visible from his dismal cage was plain, bare concrete. His legs were stiff again. It was time to switch. Obligingly, he rose, walking a brief lap around the pen. His eyes never opened. He didn't need them to. The cage was large enough to allow him to walk, but no more than five of his great strides long and wide. His lap completed, he returned to the cold ground. Laying, this time. This was the same routine as always. Sit. Stew on his thoughts. Walk a lap. Lay down. Stew on his thoughts. Walk a lap. Stand. Stew on his thoughts. Then back to sitting. A thousand years, they had said. As *punishment*. It had been a joke. Those pathetic excuses for arbiters, thinking to imprison an Eternal such as himself? They wouldn't live for even a hundred years - what right did they have to pass judgement on *him*? He *had* killed most of the people in that city. They weren't *wrong*. And, yes, he may have feasted on their flesh. But he left their bones in the ceremonial arrangement as an offering to their souls. It was all according to *custom*. Was that so horrible? They had clearly thought so. He'd been amused, at first, at their insolence. And then surprised, when they'd managed to trap him in a dead-end road. And then shocked, as they systematically stripped him of one enchantment after another. He'd been dumbfounded by the time they carted him to the dungeon they'd rigged for the worst offenders of the extramortal world, chained so tightly to the floor of the truck that he couldn't move. Now, he was just hungry. At first, they'd shown him at least a *little* bit of compassion. They'd kept him fed. Occasionally the guard who brought him food would pass him a bit of news, the goings-on of the above world. But that had dwindled, little by little. The food came less often, and the guards stopped visiting. And then one day, they'd stopped coming entirely. No matter how loudly he yelled or pounded his feet or slammed into the bars, no one answered. He was alone. The lights had gone out soon after. Of course, a night-haunt such as him had naturally superb night vision. The darkness was as comfortable as the light. But he knew. He knew no one was going to come back. They had decided to bury him at last. It wasn't as though he had anyone who would come looking. Time blurred into an intolerable, endless wall of crippling hunger and weakness. He wished for an end that he knew was never going to come. He couldn't die. Not that he didn't *want* to, he simply wasn't capable of it. And so he resigned himself to it. He mulled his plight over in his head, one more time. And then he rose, walking another lap around the cage. Something went *plink* in the darkness. He froze. His ears twitched. It was a tiny noise, one easily-overlooked. But in a world that hadn't known a noise beyond the padding of his feet in what must surely have been centuries, it rang out as loud as a bell. In the dim greyness of the dark cell, he could see dust spiraling down from the wall opposite his door. The portal. He remembered it well. Once upon a time, it was his signal that he was about to get food and a story. It hadn't moved in an eternity. He could hear someone on the far side of it now. They were pushing. Swearing. The sudden burst of light coming through the crack was enough to send his eyes into screaming complaint. He threw his arms over his face, cowering from the unbearable brightness. "About fucking time." He heard a low voice mutter. "I swear to the five that if I've hurt my shoulder, Paro, I'm going to send *you* the bill." The sour words rang out painfully loudly. He cracked one eye. The light was still too bright. "Oh, stop whining. You're *fine*." A cheerful voice followed the first. "You've got to get into the adventure, you know?" "I don't know. I *don't*. Not if it means- What are you doing? What's *that*?" Footsteps danced across the ground. A searing light blazed down at him, much closer. "It's a *person*, Alton." He laughed. It was the first time he'd used his voice in forever. The sound bubbled up from his belly. He could see them, now. Two young men, both dressed in oddly fashioned jackets. The style...wasn't familiar. He wrinkled his nose. One of them held a ball of mage-light. "A person, eh?" He rumbled. Slowly he rose and stretched his limbs. He stood easily a head higher than either of them. "Well- not a person, then." The holding the light said. It was the cheerful one - Paro? "What're you doing down *here*? This doesn't seem like a place you should be, you know." "Shut the fuck up, Paro." His friend hissed. His eyes were wider. He was looking at the bars of the cage, not the inhabitant. "This is Old World stuff. A jail. We should *go*." "Old world." He repeated, his voice long and drawn out. "I take it by your appearance you're not the new shift?" He smiled mirthlessly. "You're tardy. I'm famished." One hand clenched the bars. They smelled *good*. So very good. "Paro, *now.*" Alton said. His voice was overloud and afraid. He was already backing up, backing away from me. The concrete barrier was open behind him. The night-haunt could *see* the faintly lighter room behind him. Somewhere, somewhere close, there was light again. Natural light. "He's not *going* anywhere, Alton." Paro chuckled. He was completely at ease, inspecting the caged night-haunt. He wasn't much to look at. Once, he'd been finely bedecked in the best synth-armor money could buy. Then, they'd reduced him to a simple jumpsuit. The years had reduced *that* to some mere rags. Anything resembling decency had long ago been lost. The young man stepped closer, grinning. "So what'd they have you in for? And what *are* you? Never seen anything like you in the bestiary." He frowned down at the impertient man. "*Bestiary?* You think to label us as mere animals? Men have been picked clean straight down to the bones for a fraction of that insult, you fool." He sniffed. "If you *must* ask, I suppose I can enlighten you. I'm a night-haunt. An Eternal, not a *human*. An extramortal." He raised one eyebrow at the men. "An answer for an answer. Who are you? Is my sentence complete?" He wanted it to be over. So very badly. He *needed* the sensation of hot blood in his mouth again, of tearing through flesh. They looked between each other. And then they looked back at him. "Uh. Sentence?" Paro said, scratching his head. "Sorry, big guy, but we're just scavengers. Been through these ruins a dozen times, but we only just got that door there uncovered last month." He grinned. "Just *knew* there had to be something good in there." He shook his head impatiently. "Ruins? What are you *talking* about. The human's prison? Don't be foolish." His fingers flexed on the bars. "Where are the arbiters? Why has no one come? Surely my sentence is complete." "Just...what's going on?" Alton mumbled, his eyes flicking to his friend. Paro shook his head. "Uh- Well, you see. This isn't a prison. It's abandonded. Has been since the Uprising." His words trailed off awkwardly. The night-haunt shook his head. "Uprising?" He grated. "What is *that*? This is nonsense. I want to leave. Let me out." "No. *No*. Paro, we're *leaving*." Alton said, his eyes narrow and angry. He grabbed his friend's arm. Paro didn't move. "Sure. I'll let you out. But....a few questions, first." He cocked his head to the side. "I've *heard* of night-haunts before. Old book I found once. Haven't been seen in millenia." He grinned. "Says they're demons. Are you a demon?" The night-haunt bared his teeth at the young man, who didn't even flinch. "You insulting piece of filth. I told you. I'm an *Eternal*." He sighed, and finished begrudgingly. "But. Yes. Some among the pathetic human masses referred to us as demons." "Splendid." Paro said, clapping his hands. "Then, I have a proposal for you." "Paro! Stop." Alton ran back, still pulling on his friend's arm. "This is *stupid*. You're playing with fire. Let's go. Now." Paro shook him off, still watching the night-haunt. "Hush. We'll never get this chance again! I can't pass it up. Just picture the look on old Galen's face. We'd be unstoppable." He grinned, revealing two rows of perfect, shining white teeth. It wasn't a pleasant expression. "Become my familiar. Take the blood oath, swear yourself to me. Become my servant, now and forever, and I'll let you out." (/r/Inorai, critiques always welcome!)

Carter woke up and the world outside

Carter woke up and the world outside was black and silver blue. "Wea - status?" The console lights flickered, a pale pink band running up and down the corridor, illuminating the quiet. "Mission failure," said a soft, feminine voice from just overhead. "Per stated parameters, we are returning back to home base." "Failure?" said Carter. His body felt heavy, even in the weightlessness. He tried to use the console, but found his fingers slow and numb. "There was nothing?" "Correct," said Wea. "We will be arriving on Earth in approximately 45 hours." "Image, please," said Carter. The overhead screen popped, clicked, and reset itself into an image of Earth. It seemed dim somehow to Carter's eyes. Discolored. But then, he must have been asleep for quite some time. "How long?" he asked, finally managing to manually pull up the vitals for the rest of the crew. Everyone seemed in perfect health. "Three thousand, one hundred fifty-seven years, forty-seven days, nine hours, three minutes since mission launch," replied Wea. "Three *thousand*...?" whispered Carter. "Our analysis showed no signs of sentient life." "They weren't out there?" sighed Carter. "All that, and they weren't out there." "There was no trace of the species known as the Gift Givers," confirmed Wea. "Per mission parameters we have returned home to report our findings." Carter rubbed his eyes. He wondered when the fatigue would eventually go away. "Home? I suppose...what's the status there?" "I have no data to provide any conclusive feedback," replied Wea. "There is activity, but no active signal." "Are they even going to remember who we are?" wondered Carter. They would simply have to find out. "Wake the crew. Let's begin prep for landing." _______________________________ Houston was green. Swamp green and coated in shining algae. "Well, Kennedy is definitely gone," said Martinez. "I'm not even sure there's a highway to land on anymore." "Seems to have gone underwater," said Bito. "A while ago." They went north, aiming for dry, stable land in Oklahoma. No one answered their signals. No one seemed to have noticed their arrival. "There was no sign of them *anywhere*?" said Bito, shaking her head as she analyzed the surface atmosphere. "That doesn't make any sense at all." "Gods don't tend to make a ton of sense," said Hawthorne. "You ever read any mythology? They're all fuckin' weirdos." "The Gift Givers weren't *gods*, though," said Bito. "They were just an advanced alien race." "*Very* advanced," said Martinez. "At what point does advanced technology *make* you a god, though?" said Hawthorne. "I mean, to ants we're gods." "I don't think we were quite that far apart from the Gift Givers," said Carter, watching the descent through the monitors. "I think we have to assume that either they met some great, unexpected calamity, or... they just didn't want us to find them." Bito threw her hands in the air. "Then what was the point? They came down with all their great tech and tools and said when the time was necessary they'd come back and be our salvation. And then when everything really *does* go to shit and we need them, they never show up. So our dumb asses have to leave everything behind and travel out into the fucking cosmos to find them and tell them how fucked we are and... they're playing hide and go seek? What the hell is happening here?" "I don't know," said Carter. "I'm sorry. I'm just as clueless as the rest of you." Bito wiped the corner of her eye. "Wea? What's the status of the embryos?" "Status normal," replied Wea. "All 500 are stable." "Let's not think about that yet," said Carter. "They're all dead," said Hawthorne. "Yuki's right. Leaving was pointless. Now we have to decide whether or not humanity is worth re-starting." "Mission's not over yet," said Carter. "Let's not make any assumptions." ____________________________ Most of the buildings had fallen. The old kind, at least. Pyramid-like structures sat in clusters, surrounded on all sides by wilderness. As it always did, the Earth had reclaimed itself. New species of plant, old, marginally evolved species of animal and insect. The team was cautious. There was no way to know how anything would react to them. Inside the pyramids, there was no light. Long, dark corridors led to wide, almost endless chambers, filled with white bundles of tissue and dust. "What the hell is all that?" said Martinez, as they approached the chamber floor. "Some sort of...material," said Bito. "We'd need a sample." The tissue was fibrous and hard. Hawthorne was working some time before he was able to chisel off a small chunk. "First impressions?" said Carter. Bito turned the sample over in her hands. "Reminds me of a shed snake skin, just thicker and harder and much, much more of it..." "Should we presume there's something in there?" Bito shook her head. "I'm not willing to presume anything. It's a good guess, though. I don't see the material itself having value. Seems more like a wrapping for something. Maybe a cocoon?" "We'll come back to it," said Carter. "Let's keep looking for civilization." ________________ There was no civilization to be found. All the man-made things had collapsed. The natural world had re-taken nearly every space there was to take. Only the pyramids remained as a clear sign that something more complicated had once lived there. "Let's open one," sighed Carter on the 80th day. They didn't have the right tools, so the work was manual and time-consuming. They chiseled and axed in turns. After five hours they found their way to the center. "Careful," said Bito, supervising. "We need to be gentle from here on out." They pulled away the dry shards of fiber. Tossed away the last layer of covering. Until they revealed the figure below. "It's a Gift Giver," said Bito. Hawthorne shook his head. "That doesn't make any sense. Why would they be here? And if they came, what happened to the humans?" "Did they come after we left?" said Martinez. "What did they do to the other humans?" said Hawthorne, leaning over the still body, longer and leaner than a human. More elastic. Wide, sloping brow. No eyes. No mouth. Those strange gashes on the palms of those strange, willowy hands. "They didn't say they'd save us, did they?" said Carter, gripping the ax to keep his hands from shaking. "They said they'd be our salvation," said Bito. "*Earth's* salvation," said Hawthorne, remembering. "They said they'd be Earth's salvation. Captain's right. We just heard what we wanted to hear." "So what the fuck is this?" said Martinez. "They came back, slaughtered all the humans, and...what? Took a fucking nap?" He put his hands to his head. He was starting to panic. "What the fuck *is* this?" "I think it's us," said Bito, quite quietly. She held up a chunk of the cocoon. "This is a pupa. I think that's the salvation. We're transforming." "Into what?" "Into them," said Bito. "Then they didn't save us at all," said Hawthorne. "They did if they're better suited to live in this enviroment," said Bito. "If by nature, they're less destructive. We couldn't survive here as humans anymore, what if this was the only way..." "It's genocide," said Hawthorne. "Whatever name you want. It's genocide. They killed humanity. That's no salvation." "But for *Earth*..." Martinez cried out. The figure in the shattered cocoon began to move. Arms floating upwards. The long, flat head began to lift. Hawthorne stepped forward with his chisel. Bito dove in front. "If it's us, we can't assume this wasn't done willingly," she shouted. "We don't know what happened. This could be what they wanted." "They took over the planet," hissed Hawthorne. "There's no way anyone in their right mind would have let them do that." He raised his chisel. Bito grabbed his arm. "Stop it!" she cried. "We don't know!" Together they struggled. "Captain!" shouted Bito, before realizing that Carter was already standing over the Gift Giver, his ax buried in the creature's forehead. "Captain!" wailed Bito. "How could you?" Carter stepped back from the mess he'd made. "We need something flammable. We're going to torch the chamber. All of them." "Why?" said Bito, tears streaming down her face. "It doesn't matter what the Gift Givers promised or what they did," replied Carter. "Our mission was to find a way to save humanity. Right now humanity is us and those 500 embryos. Nothing else. We need to destroy these chambers before they all wake up. Whatever they are." Carter left alone. Outside the chamber, he vomited. He had to admit the air smelled fresher than it ever had before they'd left. But they hadn't been sent to find fresh air, had they? __________________________ */r/WinsomeMan*

"Scorpion, you're

I abhor imbalance. Symmetry pleases me. There is a beauty in equality, in matching halves, in even distribution. I could, I suppose, tilt the scales any which way I wanted, but that's easy. I don't like easy. I like balance. "Scorpion, you're up," I said, tapping on my communicator. "Cliff is the one in the plaid shirt, dark pants, backpack slung over his shoulder." Scorpion sprang into action. He was a Class C supervillain, but that was mainly because he was unmotivated. He had potential, and all he needed was a firm hand to guide him. Scorpion erupted out of the ground, stingers at the ready, poison pulsing and primed for release. The civilians scattered, screaming at Scorpion's unnecessarily grand entry. Cliff whipped off his disguise, took up a defensive stance, and warded off Scorpion's opening gambit at the last second. Blows and parries, strikes and deflections. Cliff was good, one of the rising stars in the League, a class A in the making. He was an above-average pugilist, a shrewd planner, and charismatic to boot. But those qualities were not what made him overpowered, were not what instigated my intervention. It was his superpower, and the blatant abuse of it. "Now," I said, as the two blurring shapes swirled around each other on the sidewalk, evenly matched. "Force his hand." Scorpion nodded, just slightly, as he leapt backwards, escaping Cliff's effective range. He extended a claw, pulled a cowering civilian out from where she had taking refuge behind an overturned car. Her neck seemed so very brittle in his grip. "Let's see what you do about thi-" "Cliff... HANGER!" I felt the jolt, that little spark of electricity run through me. My eyes were trained on the monitor, tracking Cliff's every move, but there was a disconnect all the same, a juttering of reality. My pulse raced. I was correct about the nature of his powers. Cliff's arm was a blur as he flung a handful of coins at an obtuse angle. The dime ricocheted off a lamppost, the quarter bounced off the dime, the penny accelerated as it collided with the quarter. That single disc of metal twirled through the air, then landed right in the crick of Scorpion's claw, preventing it from closing. "Unhand her, you devil!" yelled Cliff. "Your fight is with me!" It was a form of time travel, a form of concentrated chrono manipulation. I had no idea who imparted these powers to him, or trained him in such execution. But it was clear that this was exactly how Cliff had managed to shoot up the rankings, defeat supervillains more experienced and more deadly than he should have been able to handle. My projections were that if Cliff were not stopped, the Coven of Supervillains would be decimated inside of a year. And that did grave injustice to my sensibilities of balance. "Illusionist, disenchant!" I growled. "Electro, advance from his blind side!" The sweet scent of roses filled the air as the woman in Scorpion's grasp melted away into a thousand scarlet butterflies, fluttering and taking flight. Cliff's face fell as understanding dawned - he had exerted his powers wantonly, carelessly, contriving to save a mere trick of the light which had not been in any sort of danger at all. He didn't have time to wallow though, for Electro, another Class C supervillain who had tasted defeat at Cliff's hands before, shot out from an alleyway, thunderbolts primed to strike. As Cliff and Electro duelled, I pricked up my ears, straining hard to hear... ... and I heard it. The sweet, sweet chorus of a thousand groans, crossing the membranes of our universe, filtering over to this existence. The dismay brimming in those tones was *unmistakable*. My plan was working, and I could not help but grin. "Now!" I yelled, buoyed by the thrill of victory which lay whiskers away. "Force his hand! Again!" Electro obeyed, and in a show of miscalculation, lobbed two streaks of lightning *away* from Cliff, *towards* a puppy which had been skulking in the background, waiting out the showdown. A fully-grown ox would have melted under that attack, and the puppy's chances of survival were very much negligible. "Cliff... HANGER!" That rippling unease again, as reality was torn apart and then stitched back together. This time, Cliff had punched a hole in the ground, sending out shockwaves which opened a crevice under the mongrel, altering its position just enough for the bolts to zing by harmlessly. At my command, the puppy again disintegrated into a showering storm of fireworks, melting away like the morning mist. Again, the ominous rumble of discontent, rolling in like the unceasing waves of an angry, hungry high tide. Venomrage, a Class B this time, who assailed Cliff from behind, leaving Cliff no room to retreat. "Cliff... HANGER!" ... but that was merely a feint, a distraction. Venomrage was nothing but another mirage I had employed. Spizzlefire, another Class B, entered the fracas, conjuring fountains of flames which threatened to destroy the adjacent old folks' home. "Cliff... HANGER!" ... just another first-rate illusion... "Cliff... HANGER!" "Cliff... HANGER!" "CLIFFFF HANGERRRR!" I saw the toll this was taking on Cliff. He had long grown pale, haggard, the veins popping up under his pallid skin. His powers were, contrary to popular belief, not unlimited. They depended on there being a satisfying pay-off, were fuelled by an intra-dimensional expectation of great wit overcoming immense odds. Every time Cliff used his powers, only for it to be revealed that they had been employed in vain, a mere distraction from the tedium of the ordinary, his benefactors dwindled, slowly but surely. What point was there in returning when the insurmountable threat repeatedly turned out to be silly or vacuous? It was only a matter of time before he jumped the shark... "Cliff... Hanger..." "Halt," I said, and all the supervillains on the scene froze, awaiting my next command. I jabbed at the buttons on my command panel, and my hidden cameras zoomed in onto the once-proud figure, who was not crumpled on the pavement, leaking tears of frustration and shame. There had been no disjoint of reality this time, no shift in spacetime. He invoked his powers again, louder, with a voice torn to shreds, but his audience had left, no longer captive, no longer interested. The illusion I had set up of Violet Rampage munching on a kitten completed its act of savagery, yet there was still no intervention from Cliff. "He's depowered," I said, as the gaggle of supervillains hooted in celebration. "My work is done." Balance had been restored. --- /r/rarelyfunny

"Can I go to Hell yet

"Your ticket says Hell?" - the conductor looked at me confusingly - "Why would anyone choose Hell? There must be a mistake, right? Hold on, I'll get the--" "Look, it's my decision. Just get me there, okay?" I said, annoyedly. When I first got the attention of being the sole person in my company to pick Hell over Heaven, it was cool. Now, it mostly annoys me. "Fine." - the conductor pulled out his phone. 15 minutes later, an older guy showed up. "This one here wants to go to Hell." - he explained things to the newly arrived man, who asked him to repeat for the second time. Then, the third. "Can I go to Hell yet?" - I interrupted them. Actually, it was more of a joke than a choice. But as I established my status of being the Hell- lover, I couldn't go back on my words. Maybe it was pride. One of the sins, eh? "Thank you for choosing us Netherworld Express for your trip to Hea--" - the announcer greeted her passengers warmly as we got out of the boarding area. "Where is my train?" - I asked, noticing that we were leaving the station. "There isn't one." - Gary, my guide, answered shortly. I could practically see the questions swelling up in his brain. 'Why does this one want to go to Hell?' The Question as I call it. He was just too nervous or shy to ask. I don't blame him. Men have never been creatures good with words. But I had no intention of telling Gary that I picked Hell because it made me look cooler. "There are too few to set up a train. Makes no profit." - said Gary as he unlocked his mini-van - "You know what? You're the first one here going to Hell. The first one I've seen, still..." We set off upon a highway. To Hell. The miles ahead stretched until nowhere, burning like a punishment institution should be. I wonder if the phrase "blaze the trail" comes from here? "So do they have a Stairway to Heaven or what?" "They do." "Like after you get off the train there is a stairway?" Gary nodded. Time passed like that, two awkward individuals on an awkward road trip. I've never been on a road trip when I was alive. If it was like this, I'd rather stay home. Along the way, though, I noticed Gary's desire to ask The Question gnawing at him. He made a few attempts, but I shut him down quite subtly, for a man like Gary at least. I actually found myself enjoying the agonizing look on his face. Who cares? I'm going to Hell after all. The gate of Hell was in fact more disappointing than I thought. A simple door with a Welcome doormat in front. The doormat seemed to be handmade, though. If it was more scary I would have reconsider my decision, but this is just degrading. They don't have a single train, don't tell me Hell itself cuts down on the cost too? Gary watched over me until I got in. I believed he was trying to take a peek at the place no one has ever entered. "Dad? You should have called me bef--" A blond man in his fourties greeted me. Then, he realised his mistake. "A soul? Here?" The inside was full of nefarious beasts, some without legs or heavily scarred. One tried to bite me, but the man jumped in. "Good boys don't bite! Fluffy, good boys don't bite!" The dog wasn't exactly fluffy, and I supposed he wasn't a good boy after all. Its vicious fangs tore deep into the man's flesh and as he forcefully pushed Fluffy away, it ripped off a big chunk of his arm "Are you okay?" - I screamed out. To my surprise, his arm was intact, only the place of the bite was a big scar ran deep. - "What the--" "Being Satan you should be at least able to do this." - his arms were covered with scars like that one. "You...you are Satan?" "It's Hell, what do you expect? Now, this must be a prank. I can book you a ticket to Heaven, but it would take--" "No, I chose to be here." "Are you in some Satanic Cults? Stuff like that?" - the Lord of Hell raised an eyebrow at me. -"Or you did something guilty and want to repent for it?" "No, I just chose to be here." Satan laughed, a laugh so genuine it brought tears to my eyes. You could clearly see this man, or devil, hasn't laugh like that in a long time. "Finally someone! A friend!" Now I was the dumbfounded one. "You see," - he said, still chuckling, - "the Cultists left once they see me like this, and the guilty ones did when they know there is a Redemption Center up there." "To be honest, I was a little bit disappointed. I thought you would be more--" "Scary-looking? Honey, like this?" - in front of me was my ex-wife Samathan, as sinister as the day we divorced and she took my house and my car. Due to the shock, I lost my job as well. I recovered, yes, but it was a wound better left untouched. "Okay," - the blond man was here again - "I can look like all that you can imagine and more, but I prefer this. Come in, you live here now." He led me into what appeared to be a living room. I sat on a brown sofa. It was pretty comfortable, to say the least. "I will get us something to drink. What do you like?" - Satan walked toward the kitchen. "Anything is fine." - I answered half-heartedly, my attention focused on the beasts staring at me, and the immense number of pillows in the room. "Make yourself at home. Oh, and don't leave that circle." - he pointed at a strange marking on the floor - "Sugar and Cookie will pound at you, and they are not as easy as Fluffy." The one-eyed Dobermann and the three-legged leopard looked at me with intense hate. What did I do to them? I hope Satan is right about the circle... "Coffee, the staple." - the Devil returned with a pot of the freshly brewed dark liquid - "Here are sugar and milk, if you want." "Um, so are they hell spawns?" - I asked nervously, avoiding the gaze of Cookie. "What? No! You see, animal souls have afterlives too. Normally, pets would want to follow their owners to Heaven. These ones...life has been tough for them.." That explains the scars and the missing limbs. "And they want to stay away from the owners." - I tried to pat Sugar, but his sharp teeth stopped me - "Thus they end up here." "You catch on quick. With all eternity up ahead, I suppose the least I can do is make them trust man, or devil, again." - he spoke with a slight sadness. -"Is there anything you need? Maybe a pillow? Is the sofa soft enough?" In that moment, Satan sounded like a home owner desperately trying to please his guest. I decided to tell him the truth. "Look, Satan, here is the catch. I only chose to go to Hell because I wanted some fame. No, it was more like the most radical choice I've ever made." "Oh," - I heard something broke inside him - "So, you want me to book you a ticket?" "No, not like that. I mean I was not here because I like Hell. I mean I lived a half-assed life with half-assed effort, so maybe I want to be more than just anybody. But I will stay, really." "Well, I don't really care why you picked Hell over Heaven." - Now it was the sound of hope restored mixed in his sigh. - "I hate to admit it, but Dad's slogan really wins him the game." "Slogan?" "You know, the all 'doing good puts you in Heaven, where you'll live happily forever'. I just think promoting ethical choices through reward is wrong, and degrading." "But 'Hell is where you'll be for your sins', isn't that right?" "Yeah, so?" "That is promoting ethcal choices through punishment." "No? No!" - Satan screamed in revelation - "That was what mankind thought all those years? I mean... Damn! What I tried to say was that in Hell we'll accept you for your shortcomings! Damn it! Now it's too late to change it." Satan fell back into the chair, exhausted in mind and exhausted in soul. "I mean," - he muttered, mostly for himself - "I put up all these fire so that the souls can feel warm and cozy, the pillows I spent so much time making, and the doormat too. I just want to make them feel at home..." It was silence afterward, until the Devil realised I was still there. "You must be tired by now." - he forged a smile upon his lips - "Let me show you to your room." We walked to an endless hall reminding me of the college dorm. Satan pointed at the first room. "This one is mine. You can choose whatever that pleases you." "I'll get this one, then." - I touched the door of the room next to his, and I saw a light in his eyes I haven't encountered since my son's first Christmas that he could remember. "Give me moment to clean things up. No one has been there since....forever." - Satan entered my room. As he passed through the door, he asked - "You'll...I mean, you aren't going to leave, are you?" I have never seen a soul more lonely. "I'll stay."

"Your beauty burns, your eyes

She expected it to be beautiful. Rolling meadows, fields of wild flowers, the wild scent of fresh lavender and cedar. "I love you," he would proclaim. "Your beauty burns, your eyes torture, your body torments me." Blah, blah, blah. She'd found him riveting at one point, a young woman drifting through life rather aimlessly, unable to discern a true purpose, but instead filled with an indelible lack of purpose. Jazz clubs, disco clubs, dance clubs, they all were the same to her now. A different part of her remembers the draw, the pull towards intoxicants and their inevitable fallout, that heartless love born of mindless lust. There she met a God. 50s, 60s, 70s, 80s, 90s, the years blew her by. How he loved her, he claimed. How he needed her, he would croon. Lust. A woman can live a few lifetimes and still be a fool. She still remembered, a smoke filled bar shortly after the Japs surrendered, a young man in a tan suit reclining at a restricted table, laughing wildly and drinking liberally as women seemed to fawn over him. She had found him rather dull. Repulsive, in fact. Unfortunately, that provoked him into paying attention to her. First mistake. Around building corners, at parties, at the fucking grocery store he would appear, always charming and handsome, but somewhat wrong. Always off. She ignored her instinct and decided to give him a chance. Second mistake. He would sing to her, play music to her, recite poems and laud her with praise. A pedestal he placed her upon, which at first seemed delightful. Until his narcissism kicked in. Don't go here, don't talk to them, stay inside, do what I say. So a woman refuses. Then POOF, here comes a God, an OLD God, one who has been long forgotten but beds those who least expect him. And old Gods carry magic. She would scorn him, ignore him, beg him to leave her, but he would not. He simply adored her more. Then the third strike. He gave her a terminal disease. He needed her to be in his grasp forever, to always be at his beck and call, to satisfy him whenever he so chose. Total bullshit. A curse. She died in a rather unenthusiastic manner, a car T-boned her ass rather well. Instantaneous death. No pain. She awoke in a tomb, or what seemed to be a tomb. The air held heavy, tasting of copper and cedar, a thick orange smoke pervading the space. Unable to reason, she crawled forward. She did not know why, but simply complied. The unwillingness of the dead. She arose, confused and scared, in what appeared to be a metropolis from a different time. All full of women. She moved forward, confounded by what she saw, a thousand languages and a million women, all bartering and fighting and scrapping. An elderly woman, perhaps in her late seventies stopped and stared. "New here?" she asked, carrying a bundle of something. A nod in response. "What a shame." Shocked silence. "Shall I show you around?" A dull nod. "Come with me, child, and I can tell you how to avoid him." ------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- Wander. Thin streets, wide streets. Those that smell of roses and thyme, and those that smell of shit and disease. She is scared and alone here. Dead or undying, she cannot discern. Rather, there is only a sense of dread. A woman deceived through the old trickery of forgotten lords and Gods, those whose names cannot be recalled, but are only remembered by the dead. In a world of mist and blackness, a great hall of missing corpses. Ahead of her, a woman leads. By hand and wrist she pulls and drags, revealing newer and wider plazas and passages. Somehow, her age is stripped by her movements, every patch of time showing a younger and freer version of this woman. She was someone else, long ago. Someone dead and gone. The recently dead woman finds herself following a long dead woman, into a passage of columns. Some drip with blood, other with milk and honey. Either way, she knows not to touch the massive pillars of limestone. Others are meant to lick the sweet and metallic taste of blood. She finds herself descending, not through stairs but a ramp, flanked by walls of a strange earthy substance. There is not a method of surveillance of any human kind, but the strange eyes of the Gods bore through her nape. Ambrosia, mead, wine, beer, meat, jerky all blend together, pouring through her nostrils. Those who wander the land of the dead are either damned or blessed. Yet here she wafts, being neither. The woman places a hand against her cheek, a thin smile cresting over sharpened teeth. "Those of our beauty must take extraordinary measures." She reaches below, placing a crown of tangled statuesque snakes upon the woman's head. "I served my time, as Helen of Troy." The crown begins to writhe, alive in its own right. "To hide from his advances, we rely on the power of other Gods." Wildness through her hair, snakes through her scalp twist among the hairs there. A monster is her reduction. She recalls the fables and myths, but cannot reconcile the reality. Death is eternal. Is she to be a monster for eternity? Gods of every faith and denomination cannot breach her power, however. But she finds herself, clutching her knees and weeping. She misses her mother and clouds. She misses her father and brother, her sisters and her friends. She does not want to be dead, she wants to fight this being who has relegated her to this darkness. Now she can only feel hate and rage, clasping fingertips, almost sensing throats below them, satisfied by the life lost beneath them. The woman has dissipated into a smoke, but what remains is a being consumed in hate. She did not ask for an Old God, nor did she offer any sacrifice. The snakes wriggle within her hair, and it makes her happy. Others will submit to this newfound power. She feels an unremarkable call to the lost metropolis. To fight this Old God, to regain her freedom. To have a life of her own, to find her family and apologize for her sins. She wanted the best for them, but the lust of a Dead God forced her into this state. Medusa is a weakling, Athena is a cunt. She is vengeance incarnate, blessed with the power of the unwilling dead. She will go home. Her captor will suffer. -------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- r/storiesfromapotato

Elena was a matryoshka

Elena was a matryoshka painter. At sunset, the woodworker Anatoly would knock on the apartment door with his wheelbarrow beside him. Anatoly would give Elena all the plain figurines that he had carved that day, curving the balsam wood into the prospect of a head, shoulders and torso, then cutting the doll at her waist so that her legs would twist off, and hide her secrets. Elena would pay Anatoly five hundred rubles for each full matryoshka and then she would go to her workshop (which was in fact only just the corner of her father's kitchen behind the stove) and she would paint the wood into beautiful women. Elena would paint the women with long eyelashes and blushing cheeks, and Elena would wonder what it would feel like to blush and flutter her own eyes, if ever a kind and handsome man were to pour vodka into a glass, and hand it to her, letting his fingertips pass over hers. She would paint the women wearing elegant dresses adorned with tulips and roses, and Elena would imagine sewing an elegant silk dress to wear herself. She would give the woman full-hearted smiles, and Elena would try to remember the last time she had smiled, apart from when she meant to attract the customers to her booth at the Udelnaya. And then she would paint the next doll nested within, more intricately, but otherwise the same. However, at their core, Elena's matryoshka contained a protest: open her dolls up to the final girl, the smallest and deepest girl of all, and you will find that she is not smiling or blushing, but instead has short eyelashes and a stern gaze. She wears only a plain grey dress. For though Elena painted matryoshka, she had never known her own mother, and therefore knew that not all daughters will inherit. In the morning, Elena would pack her matryoshka in a box and take the bus to the Udelnaya, hoping to sell her work. Most days, she would be lucky to sell two or three matryoshka. But there was one day when she sold none at all, yet left the Udelnaya joyful. On that day, a certain tall man in a white dress shirt had come to the market. There, he saw Elena at her booth with the shelves of matryoshka behind her, all red and green, gold and blue, and the man was enamored. "I have never seen a woman who I am more certain has a secret hiding inside her," the man said to Elena. He was wearing a gold watch and many silver rings. Elena told him that he could buy as many matryoshka as he wished, and discover everything within them. But then the man said the woman he meant to describe was not any of the matryoshka, but Elena herself. The man gave Elena a piece of paper with directions to an elegant restaurant on the banks of the Moyka River. He he gave her his credit card as well. He told Elena that were she to go buy a nice dress, that he would be honored to see her in it, and dine with her that evening. Elena blushed, and then she smiled, even though she had not sold a matryoshka. That evening, instead of painting, Elena went to the best boutique in St Petersburg, and she bought a beautiful silk dress. She then met the man at the appointed restaurant. He spread caviar onto crackers for her, and poured her some vodka. He asked her about her life, how many matryoshka she supposed she had painted, and if any were very special to her. But, as the meal continued, Elena began to feel more and more confused and dizzy, until everything became terribly blurry. When Elena awoke, she was no longer in the restaurant or in the small bed beside her father's. She was standing upright, but frozen in pose, perched on a gold podium in a white expanse, more still and desolate than the Tauride Gardens after the first snowfall. Elena was lined up neatly between a hundred other young women, all immobile as well. "Where am I" Elena asked, "who are you all?" "That man who gave you a dress and dinner," the young woman beside her explained, "was not in truth a man, but the wicked god of Motherless Girls. He keeps us here as figurines, upon his shelf for all eternity. He tells us that long ago, he once loved a goddess called Anna, who also had no mother, who was the First Woman, and that we remind him of her. When Anna birthed their child, the girl was mortal. So the god sought to kill the child as an abomination. But Anna loved the baby, so she fled the heavens to the Barsky taiga. The god chased her all through the trees, but Anna refused to return, and at last a bargain was struck: she would remain in the Barsky with her daughter, but thereafter Anna would become mortal as well. But, if any of her descendants to ever live without a mother, the god would be entitled to reclaim those girls and bring them here, to remain forever in his collection." Elena was crestfallen at the thought of never again seeing her father or St Petersburg, and of being frozen in place. She screamed out to the god of Motherless Girls and demanded to be freed. But the god just laughed, all throughout his menagerie. But then, after many days of considering her plight, Elena formed a plan. "Allow me to turn your collection into matryoshka!," she called out to the god, "Let me separate each of these women into pieces, into clear layers, so that you might consider each part of her more easily, and find what it is in each of us that resembles your beloved Anna!" Elena's proposal thrilled the god, for even after all his abductions, he was still no closer to grasping what it was that makes a motherless woman so special, so like the First Woman. He released Elena's muscles and demanded that she go to work at once, separating and straining each of his women into a partwise matryoshka. From where the god watched, it appeared to him Elena was doing as she had promised. But each time his back was turned, or when Elena carefully angled her subject and stood nose to nose, she would reach inside the girl, and she would pull forth her soul, which lives in her deepest layer. Elena would hide the soul in her bosom until she could move on and quietly feed it to another girl, until every girl had taken in the soul of one of her fellow captives. Finally, Elena pulled out her own soul and fed it to the woman whom she had been first placed beside. At last, each captive woman had taken in the soul of another, thereby promising to care for it and nurture it. Because of this, the women of the menagerie had all become mothers to each other, and were no longer in thrall to the selfish god. The god saw that Elena was no longer hard at work, so he returned to inspect her progress. But as he entered the menagerie, all the captives suddenly broke from their poses. All together, they hit and kicked the god, until he fled. The menagerie with all its gold podiums vanished, and the girls fell through a void, until everything again became blurry. Elena awoke in her small bed in her father's apartment in St Petersburg. That night, Anatoly came at sunset with the blank wood for Elena. For the first time, she did not paint the final doll with a stern face and grey dress. For now, Elena knew that somewhere there was a woman who would always carry her soul, always nurture and protect it, and that this meant she would always have a mother to inherit from.

The God Spirits were dictators; ty

So there I was, in an interrogation room. Really frightening stuff: the metal table, chair, the mirrored window. He looked to me, grabbed a cup of coffee with a donut - sigh, this guy is so cliche - and asked, "so, what happened?" Ever since I was born, my parents told me I was special. That I was the first in many aeons: a person born to a godly spirit animal. They told me about the past of my ancestors, about the Great Purge, in which all the legendary people that had God Spirits were either killed or ostracized. It wasn't unjustified, though. The God Spirits were dictators; tyrants that justified a reign of horror with their absolute intelligence, strength and enhanced senses. They instituted an theocracy, the Godly Empire, that endured many millenia, until one day the king, the God Spirit known as Phoenix, used the military to subdue the population. Massive insurgency followed. The Great Purge was the biggest bloodbath in our history; but it ended with the democratic republic we know today. So ever since, Dad and Mom tried to protect me by hiding my true tattoo and giving me another one instead - a Beaver. I had a nice childhood. My father was a General in the army (General Bear) a pragmatic and strong man; as a Dove, my mother was a diplomat, always trying to peace things out and always going for the best peaceful solution. This dichotomy led to me having the best of two worlds: my father trained me in many combat forms, from the fearsome Tiger Stance to the precise Snake Stance, whereas my mother taught me Philosophy, Maths, History, Physics. In my early teens, I first saw the sea. Dad and Ma took me to the beach when I was 15; as soon as I hit the water, all the sea creatures came and greeted me as if I was their king; at first, small fish and crabs, but as I dove deeper also sharks and stingrays. As the years went on, I met all kinds of sea animals - sharks, whales, and even those that lie in the dark and cold deepness of the sea: abyssals. I discovered I have powers beyond imagination: underwater breathing, communication with sea creatures, control of tides and waves. I visited all the seven seas; met animals and places mankind has never dreamed of existing. In the sea I had everything I ever wanted: independence, solitude, friends. It was paradise not on Earth, but on the green waters of the sea. But it somehow was not meant to be forever... I will never forget the day when, already an adult, soon after I got home from swimming, I saw a big comet impending from the sky; as it fell down, it took the shape of something close to a dragon, waving its wings and roaring in a colossal ball of fire. With a big thud, it clashed onto the ground and splattered fire all over the place, hundreds of meters away from me, making a big dust cloud. You can tell, running is not my forte. It took me a while; but when I got there, I saw a man in flames, walking a shiny golden armor, holding a sword full of emeralds, topazes, diamonds and rubis. He was engulfed in fire; and as I hear the crackling of the fire on his body, I start to gaze upon his figure. He was a tall, athletic man. I'd say somewhere near six foot tall, not really muscular. His physique was nothing special, apart from the beautiful and golden body armor he wore. Until I saw his face: glowing red eyes, with glowing red hair as if this guy embodied the spirit of fire itself, as if his hair was fire burning alive, decorated with a crown imbued with a massive ruby. -- Greetings. I am Phoenix the Wise, and I came to talk to the powerful Leviathan. I was petrified. -- I am here to take you to the Star Kingdom. I was thinking of so many things; had so many questions and so many fear. There, right in front of me, was the infamous tyrant I have always heard of; the same person that ordered the mass killings of thousands and brought humanking to one if its darkest ages. Obviously, the first thing I thought was to run away. And as I think, my breathing gets fast and I start to rationalize. It would be no good because he can fly, he can fly fast. As long as I'm in land he has the advantage and as soon as I hit the water I can submerge into de depths and lose him. But this plan was deemed to fail either because she sea was way too far for this to succeed. So there was no other way. I calmed down; prepared in the defensive Elephant Stance, I was ready to fight. He nodded, gave a little laugh. "Have it your way. I am fluent in all the Ancient Animal Stances". He starts by shearing his sword and dropping it. As he moves toward me, blazes of fire follow him. As soon as I try to hit the first punch, he dodges it, drops me and armlocks me. Even with years of training, seems I am no mach for the king, who appears to excel at close combat. Phoenix then suddently transmuted in a wind of fire: when I came to it, he was holding me on his arms; with a serious look he says: -- Let's have it my way now. We suddently take off and Phoenix takes me on a flight with him! Right after we reach the clouds, he calms me down: -- Everything you know about the God Spirits is a lie, made up by traitors to seize power. The God Spirits are benevolent, just and peaceful beings who just want the well-being of mankind. The stories I heard were all a plan by the Hell Spirit known as Fenrir, my brother, to cease control of power and wealth. -- If so, how is it that you are all known as being sanguinary dictators? Humankind was a prosper civilization; by means of genetic engineering, developed before the Godly Empire by the military, we were able to merge animal and human DNA to create augmented human beings bearing animal characteristics. One day, a group of cultist cientists experimented with magic and sorcery, giving birth to a generation of people with godly spirits, designed to rule over mankind and bring us to a new level in evolution and founding the Godly Empire. The plan worked: we evolved as a species, and the Empire ruled with peace, justice and prosperity. The head scientist, Dr. Anitta Belford, unknowingly pregnant of her husband Major Heartfelt at the time, gave birth to the two first Godly Spirits: Phoenix and Fenrir. Both excelled at leadership, meaning they had high skills on tactics, diplomacy, sciences, warfare, combat; nonetheless, Phoenix was akin to his mother, and Fenrir to their father. Phoenix wanted to lead free men and women to freedom, independence and prosperity through culture and education; Fenrir sought to dominate the world by being a strong leader, ruling with iron fists and imposing order. Soon after Dr. Belford's death, Phoenix led the Empire with his brother, the prince Fenrir. He had two counsellors: Dragon and Aslam, unimaginably clever and intelligent spirits. On the other hand, he had two generals: Wukong and Sleipnir, the best warriors in all of the land. Fenrir was jealous of how good of a ruler Phoenix was. The people liked him; although mankind did have a strong military, no big wars were fought over so many years. The wolf conspired against his brother and convinced the military to turn against Phoenix in a coup d'etat. The Spirits led by Phoenix formed the Godly Spirits, and ran away to another dimension by means of Dragon's power. To this dimension they called the Star Kingdom. As for Fenrir, he founded the Hell Spirits and installed the tyranny we all heard about. They were all killed in the Great Purge - or so it seemed. As Phoenix was speaking to me, a big lightning bolt shot us down: it was Impundulu, the Hawk of Thunder. As we fell to the ground, weak and panting, men in black chained Phoenix and I, gave us serums. Right before the firebird slept, he gasped: the Hell Secret Service caught us. As soon as I woke up, this guy - who I supposed was an agent - tells me: - You are in an interrogation room. Everything you say or do is documented. Tread lightly. As he sits, he shows me his tatto. - Nice to meet you, Leviathan. I am Strix, the Interrogator. He grabs coffee and donut. - So, what happened? (Ok guys, I got excited and this got longer than I expected. I will stop here but maybe I'll write something more and show you people :D )

Some people are born with lions,

No one is born a villain. At least I don't think people are born destined to be one. My parents certainly had an interesting debate on the side of a road during winter about that to say the least. Some people are born with lions, often groomed to be great leaders, while others are born with dogs, with a passion for people. Very rarely, perhaps once every few decades, some are gifted dragons. They are seen as signs of great changes to come, rising to saints or crusading as tyrants. I am an ill omen, born with a monstrous serpent called a leviathan. Even rarer than dragons, leviathans are fated to become calamities slayed by a destined hero. My parents took a great gamble that day. They didn't leave me to die in winter's grasp. They decided to tell others that I was a snake, it certainly helped that I grew up to be clever. We lived far in the woods, to ensure my safety. It was nice area, given to my father for his deeds as a war hero in the king's army. My father, a bear, he taught me how to endure hardships. My mother, a dove and a healer taught me kindness. However, their greatest lesson as good people was love. I sought to teach that same lesson as best I could. What I did not know as a boy was that hate is a far easier approach. One day I heard a cry for help while foraging the woods. I ran towards the cries and found a girl my age cornered by a large white wolf wounded and a dead soldier. The girl was a noble from the way her clothes were, and the dead man was her guard. Getting involved with nobility is the worst way to hide my status, but I had a desire to, just like my parents did as well. A small 16 year-old boy wasn't the best person to fight a wolf, yet I charged at the beast with my knife, surprising it. I managed to sink my knife into its neck. The wolf however, bit into my side. As we wrestled on the ground, I stabbed at its neck over and over, until I could feel its jaw slack. My conscious fading, I told the girl to send for help. As she ran off, darkness took me. ~~(I'll add more, since I have plans tomorrow morning.)~~ (Here's part 2, sorry for the delay! This is my first time doing this.) Drifting in and out of consciousness, I couldn't see. All I heard were voices; a young girl's pleads, then men shouting. I couldn't understand them, I couldn't focus on them. All I could do was breath, focus and breath. The first thing I felt when I awoke was cold heavy metal around my neck. My eyes opened to a prison cell, a very nice one at least. I was laid upon a bed, with only my pants. My side was stitched up, but my mark was open. They knew what I was. There were four guards, and they raised their spears at me. One shouted be to remain still, while another barked to someone outside to get Lord Arik. I didn't dare say a word, least I find one of their spears in my head. The door opened and a towering man stood there. "You're only alive because of two things. You saved my daughter, a dragon at that as well, and your father Rodrick's service in my army. Now I know why he asked to live away from others, I thought he was just getting soft," he said as he moved towards the end of the bed. "I cannot sentence you to death. I cannot kill one who saved one of mine. In punishment of your birth, you parents shall carry it as well. They shall receive 100 lashings. After that, your father shall serve again in my guard until death takes him. Your mother's knowledge of medicine will be useful as well. You however, will be bound to by daughter. You shall be her beast, and her your master. When you grow feral, it shall be her that will kill you." Then he left, and the guards as well. Then I was alone. I saved a life; my only crime was my birth. My parents must suffer as well, for loving their child? I screamed and cried as my throat ached until they gagged me. My nails dug into my palm, until they bound those too. I raged in my confinement until they gave me theriac to calm me. Time passed as I collected my thoughts. I couldn't be a hero in that moment, then I shall serve as a beast for now, but I shall be far more than any of them. If I am given an enemy, I shall break them until submission, if I do not kill them first. I will bide my time, I will show them what titan they have shackled. I will not be the villain of this story, but if a "hero" comes forth, I will break them. I will not be the victim; I will get my justice with breaking their pride. Bears have strength, doves have loyalty, and dragons have their "destiny." I think those before me had even worse hardships. They were wronged, cast out, and damned. I am not a calamity; I am not a villain to be slain by some "hero." I will become something more than they thought. I am Leviathan, and my pride will know no bounds. ------------ Thank you all so much for the praise and gold! I never did this before and just decided to go with it. You've all really encouraged me to keep practicing this. Maybe when I get better I'll come back to rewriting this story. If any of you are interested, I wrote another one set in the same world. It has a different theme and style though. https://www.reddit.com/r/WritingPrompts/comments/7bu3jo/tt_i_dont_think_you_understand_one_of_the_reasons/dpr1dji/?st=j9y6rkor&sh=1f89cceb

The mouse was still breathing, but

The mouse was still breathing -- in fact its body was beating like a gavel against Rob's palm -- but the creature looked wounded and its eyes were closed; its left ear was missing completely. If someone hadn't played a dumb prank on the mouse and tied a yellow, leathery cloth around its body, Rob thought it would probably be dead right now. Well, that and the fact that Rob had scared the cat away in time. The way that the cat had looked back at Rob from the darkness of the alleyway... *that one red eye burning resentfully, and that howling, venomous hissing...* it had given Rob goosebumps. He looked again at the dull cloth tied to the mouse: a kind of raggedy leather tunic that had acted as armour -- but it was ruined now, replete with a hundred claw and teeth marks. He noticed too the tiny necklace hanging around the creature's neck, on which a claw pendant hung limply. *Why would anyone dress a mouse up like this?* Rob gingerly untied the armour and lifted up the necklace, then lay the strange mouse down in his sock drawer, hoping it was comfortable. He placed its belongings on the other side of the draw. What more could he do for the creature? His parents were going to be out all evening and he doubted they'd take the mouse to the vet's anyway. They never did. No, Rob would just have to do his best and hope the mouse made it -- and if not, well it would die comfortably at least. There was a little grilled halloumi left over from dinner; Rob placed a thin slice of it in the sock drawer along with a thimble full of water. "Good night, mouse," he said as he turned off the lights and clambered into bed. "I hope you feel better in the morning." --- Rob didn't hear the padding in the sock draw as he slept. Nor did he hear the hungry munching and grateful lapping. He did not hear the mouse clamber down onto the floor and begin to get her bearings. But he did hear the high pitched voice whispering in his ear; he did feel the tiny whiskers tickling his cheeks. "I am forever in your debt, sire," the voice squeaked. "Sure Brittany. You're welcome, anything for you," Rob muttered, before smacking his lips and rolling over onto his side. The mouse was unperturbed. She clambered up onto Rob's shoulder and tried again. "I am not Brittany, sire. But I am sure you are the saviour of many *Brittanys*, and others besides." "Hehe, cut it out Brit," Rob said, still half in a dream. "What if Charlie finds out?" He waved a hand meakly around his cheek, where the whiskers rustled his skin. The mouse jumped back nimbly, easily avoiding the lumbering hand. "My name is Isabella," said the voice. "Hmm... I am sorry for this, sire." There was a tiny tingling pain on Rob's earlobe. "Owch!" he yelled as he bolted upright, suddenly wide awake. Isabella back-flipped down onto the duvet. Rob's eyes widened as he saw the mouse he'd rescued; it was stood on its hind legs, and as he watched, it gave a curt bow. Then his eyes roamed left of the mouse, to the pile of a dozen or so diminutive black corpses. "Oh my God," he said, scurrying backwards and pressing himself hard again the bed-board. "Oh my God!" "My lord does not like the Arachnid folk? He is most wise, as well as handsome. They are a plight on the tender-hearted floor-scuttlers, like the Mice-of-Albion. I hope this gesture might go some way to paying you back for your heroic deed." Rob looked down at the mouse again. Her tiny lips were raised in a wide smile. "I'm dreaming. I am! I know I am." "I assure you, you are not. All those arachnids were *indeed* in your chamber, and I have reason to believe they were plotting something heinous." Isabella considered for a moment, putting a fist beneath her chin as she did so. "A web of subterfuge, I should think, with a plan to eventually encase you and drag you down into their lands where you would be embalmed in silk. But you need not worry, now." "What are you?!" "My name is Princess Isabella Mus." Another bow. "At your service." "You- you can talk?" "Of course." "But- I- No animal has ever wanted to speak to me before!" Isabella seemed to recoil at the word 'animal', but must have thought better of saying anything about it. "Perhaps you have saved no *creature's* life before? For what you did, I thank you sire." "Rob. Call me Rob. And, well, you're very welcome. I'm glad I could help, I guess." Isabella beamed. "I am in your debt." "You're not. Don't be. You more than repaid it with these uh... spiders." He grimaced as he looked at the black pile of long legs and hairy bodies. "Thank you, sire. Sire... I- I hope you will forgive my impertinence...but I have a question I must ask." Rob scratched his head. "Ask away, talking mouse. Ask anything you want. Anything at all." Isabella nodded. "There is a feline that resides on this street. It is as much black as it is white. It only has one eye, and it misses a claw from its left front paw." "Oh, Smudge? Yeah I know the cat. He was the one I chased away from you. I never liked it much -- always tries to bite me when I stroke it. And it belongs to... *Charlie*." "Charlie?" "He..." Rob sighed. "I go to the same school as him. He's... he's a bully. He's strong and stupid, and not very nice at all! He's even put this stupid skull collar on his cat, because he thinks it's '*cool*'. You'd best stay away from them." "But I can not! I must travel to where this *Smudge* resides." "What's your deal with that cat? Why do you want to find it so badly?" Isabella's head cocked slightly as she rocked back and forth on the heels of her hind paws. Rob thought he could see minute tears welling in her eyes. "That cat is a daemon, sire. It is responsible for the deaths of many hundreds of my race. The necklace you speak of that it wears *oh so proudly* -- they are the skulls of my family. I am the last of my line. I swore vengeance on that daemon many moons ago, and have been tracking it ever since. Last night, as the moon shone full and true... I finally found it. But, it bested me..." "...and now you want to find it again? After what it did to you!?" "Sire, *I must*. And I fear, even though you have already done so much for me, that I will need your help further." Rob gave a resounding sigh and shrugged his shoulders. "I don't know... I don't want to annoy Charlie." Isabella twitched her nose twice, then spoke slowly as she replied. "Sire, surely a brave, strong, *handsome* warrior like yourself, is not afraid of this *Charlie*?" Rob blushed. "No -- no, of course not. It's just-" "He should be afraid of *you*. Those arms! And the great mind that propels them!" Rob nodded. "I guess I am smarter than him... yeah, maybe he should be afraid of me. Yeah -- he should be!" Rob leaned in close to the mouse and lowered his voice to a conspiratorial whisper. "What is it you need me to do?" Isabella bit down on her tongue and looked sheepishly at her paws. "Well, for starters, do you have any more of that cheese? A lady cannot fight -- nor think -- on an empty stomach." --- /r/nickofnight

Welcome to Magnolia: a city

Welcome to Magnolia: a city without birth, without death; a city where all your dreams become reality, until you've lived them so God-damned often that they become a waking nightmare. Welcome to Magnolia: a city where our leading doctors will Skim off the last few hundred years of your life as if they were only fat deposits on your thighs, so that you can enjoy the thrills and spills of living all over again. Welcome to Magnolia: a city that's rotten to its core and whose denizens are as dry as tinder, who are only waiting for a spark to ignite them and turn them into a raging inferno. That spark's name might be Richard Eizenstat. He's at the very least responsible for the placid pool of red that's stained my boots; he's responsible for Doctor Omin's body, that lies like a pale island in the center of the blood. "Thank you for coming," says a pretty woman in a black suit standing at the edge of the red shore, being careful not to get a single drop on her perfectly polished shoes. I recognise her from the holos. "Why'd he do it?" I ask, my voice an echoing growl around the small room. "He... he was a sick man, Mr O'connell. Very sick." The lady taps the side of her head twice. "Cerebral haemorrhage during the Step-Back." I frown. "Step-Backs don't go wrong. Isn't that your slogan?" "Our *slogan*, if you must call it that, is One Step-Back, Two Steps Forward." "My mistake. Still, I've never heard of a Step-Back going wrong before." "Well this one did," she replies sternly. The institution's white room is empty apart from us. She doesn't want this news getting out. I crouch down over the body, my knees hovering an inch above the blood. The corpse is cold and the arms are stiff but pliable. *Just*. "Maybe five hours since death, I reckon." A dozen or so wide wounds lattice the expired doctor's torso. A long, triangular shard of glass lies by his side. There's blood along the tip of the glass, where it stabbed the doctor, and there's blood all down its sides, too. Richard Eizenstat's hands must be pretty messed up right now. I wonder why he'd stab him so many times? It's like a *crime passionnel*, as the ancient Europeans might have said. "Come, follow me," says the lady. "I have something I need to show you." She leads me through one of the institutions hallways full of locked iron doors, and I'm already burning with curiosity. I hear noises from within the rooms: scraping, banging... *screaming*. If nothing ever goes wrong during the Step-Backs, then who the hell are behind those doors? We come out into a small room with an expensive looking table in the middle -- authentic wood, by the look of it. A deep, rich brown -- mahogany, maybe -- with decorative carvings around its eves. Thing must be worth as much as my apartment. Two chairs sit either side of the table. It's the type of room I'd have done interrogations in, once upon a time. Although, with a cheap pine table between us instead, with a couple of stained mugs full of steaming coffee marking its surface. "Sit, please," she says. It's a demand not a request -- same with all the bullshit questions she asks. I pull out a chair and slump down onto it. "You perhaps know who I am, already?" I grin. "I wouldn't be much of a detective if I didn't. Juliet Browning. Daughter of Jonathan Browning, once of the three founders of Magnolia. As pretty as you are ruthless... *so they say*." For the first time since meeting her, she allows herself a smile. "Oh, do *they*? How nice of them. And I suppose you know why I've asked for your help?" "Seeing as I'm the only detective in the city -- the only person with any real experience with murder cases, I suspect you need me. I mean... *a dead body*?" I let out a slow whistle. "That's already going to look bad against your record. And if the killer doesn't get caught... well, it'll be historic, to say the least." "He won't get away!" she shouts, slamming a fist hard against the table. Almost instantly, Juliet returns to her equable demeanour. "You will see to that, I am sure of it. Now, tell me, Mr O'connell-" "David." "*David.* Why is you still have your memories from during the Restart? Surely it would be best for you to erase them -- they can't be pleasant to hold onto." I flinch. "They're not. But I figured someone has to keep these skills alive. Murder doesn't wait forever. Immortality is bullshit -- all we've done is cure ageing. And even that means nine hours a night in a vecta-coffin." She cringes. "I do so hate that name. You will call it the Restorative Cube, from here on." I shrug. Juliet stares at me, drinking me in. I imagine most people find her stony gaze imposing, but I just stare right back. "You must be so very bored," she says lugubriously. "I've only just gotten here. Besides, you're not so dull." She laughs. "Not of this. *Of everything*. Of life. Of living. You must have done everything possible a hundred times over, and yet you've not had your memory Reset. You're somewhat of a freak, David." "I prefer *unique*. Tell me about Eizenstat." "It... happened two months ago. The Step-Back failure. He... his mind, his *memories* have leaked into each other. He doesn't know what's reality, and what's fiction. A holomovie from last year, for example -- he can no longer tell if it happened to him in real life, if *he* was the protagonist -- or if it was indeed just a holomovie." "So..." "So, he has a lot of dangerous memories right now. He believes he has inherited many of these memories not from movies, but from other denizen's Skims.... Skims from before the Restart." "*Before?*" "Yes." "That's..." I whistle. "Those memories would be from long before even my time. And hell, I'm as old as they come." "If they were real memories, yes. But they aren't. They are fabrications." "So, you're saying he thinks that movies he's watched are *real* memories, but from other people. People's memories from Before." "Exactly. He's paranoid beyond reason." Juliet opens a drawer and takes out a large brown folder. She slides it across the desk to me. "It is best you know what you're up against." "What happens once I've caught him?" "He's a heretic. We Reset him. There is no choice." "And to me?" "We Skim your memory back two days prior to this meeting, and for you none of this ever happened." "Then why the hell would I help you? What's the point?" "Your bank account will know what you did. Your new apartment will know, and your new -Platinum Forged memories will know. Beyond that, you will have done your city a great favour that won't be forgotten -- at least, not by me." I grunt, then nod and flip open the folder. > **Richard Eizenstat with Doctor Omin** > **Session one** > Omin: What is your name? > Eizenstat: Polynomine > Omin: Polynomine? > Eizenstat: We have many names. > Omin: Your name is Richard Eizenstat. > Eizenstat: We were Richard Eizenstat. We are now more. Many more. Much more. > Omin: Your name is Richard Eizenstat and you experienced an accident during Step-Back. > Eizenstat: There was no accident. > Omin: What do you mean? > Eizenstat: Someone wanted us to become what we are. To see what there was and is and will be. > Omin: ... you believe someone sabotaged the Step-Back? > Eizenstat: Yes. > Omin: Who? > Eizenstat: We don't know. There are many voices in our head and they bay for justice like starving wolves: uncontrollable and savage. We cannot control them yet. We can not quieten them enough to hear the voice beneath. > Omin: What is your first memory? > Eizenstat: We have many first memories. > Omin: What do you know of the Restart? > Eizenstat: It is a lie. There was no Restart. > Omin: A lie? > Eizenstat: We are taught what it is. A perfect new beginning. But it is not. > Omin: Then what was it? > Eizenstat: The mass extinction of humanity. > Omin: Extinction? What caused this *extinction*? > Eizenstat: Clones. > Omin: *Clones?* > Eizenstat: Yes, clones. Like, you Doctor. This body too, Doctor. But -- but there is humanity left. It is inside our head. And we will set them free! We will set them all free! > *Notes*: Eizenstat's eyes dilate massively as he screams and struggles against his restraints, the metal biting into his wrists until they bleed. I call in security and they apply the tranquilliser to his neck. It takes five minutes or so for his body to go limp. It should have taken seconds. > **End of session one** I look away from the document and up at Juliet who seems to be studying my face. "Clones?" I ask. "Outlawed tech, even before the Restart. Marked as abominations." "Yeah, I know... It's just a surprise to me that he thinks clones could be responsible, seeing as they were never anything more than an idea. " "Yes, you would think that." Juliet sighs. "I suppose I should be honest with you, you'll forget it all soon enough. Sometime before the Reset -- even I don't know all the details -- a handful of clones were produced for limited, closed testing. But... there was an incident..." "We created clones? Jesus..." I raise my eyebrows as I consider the implications. "So, what was incident?" "There's very little information on it, even in our own archives -- as is the case with anything pre-Reset. But what we do know is that something went wrong during the closed testing. What exactly, we can't say. But suffice it to say, clones never made it to market release, and any research into them was destroyed and made illegal thereafter. Instead, we concentrated on limited AI subserviencey." "So he could be telling the truth? I mean, not fully -- but maybe there's something in it?" "No. There's *no* possibility of it." I nod and return to the document. --- Part 2: https://www.reddit.com/r/nickofnight/comments/7c0viz/wp_everyone_is_immortal_in_the_distant_future_to/ Part 3: https://www.reddit.com/r/nickofnight/comments/7c1pt0/wp_everyone_is_immortal_in_the_distant_future_to/

Every day was spent at the doorway

I came from bad places. Every day was spent at the doorway to hell and a tiny breeze felt like heaven. I believed this to be reality, that life was about learning to deal with the darkness, and only the darkness existed. Until the sun rose, and I was crippled by the light. I tried to abandon the hell but there was no where to go and I was instead left with the horror of total emptiness. I considered hating the light. It was the clarity that opened the door to hell and shoved me through it. Yet that light felt like the first glass of water I had ever had and I wanted more. I didn't want to close the door because I wanted what the door promised in the first place. I couldn't let go of the feeling that the door might lead to other places, better places. To prove this to myself I started opening any doors I could find. One door led to a group of people. They intimidated me. They had their own light and that suggested many other doors to consider. I was afraid they might also lead to hell but I was determined to find the promise and dove in anyways. Those doors opened to amazing places. Ones filled with love, understanding, possibility. I felt I had found what that first light promised and I dove right in. My life became normal, or what I thought normal might mean. I had a family and we loved each other completely. We built each other up until we were mountains of greatness and rained love on everything we touched. The emptiness was filled. These places were a playground to find myself in. I found so many parts, and I learned how to love those parts. Every one of these discoveries increased my love for these people I had joined. Their love seemed to increase for me as well. I had found myself and I had found a family. Years later some of these people that made up my new world succeeded in their business ventures. I was so proud of them, and more so since they opened a greenhouse and this love of plants was a thing we all shared. I was still obsessed with the light, with the promise. I wanted MORE. I had learned that the more I give, the more light I got back. So what else to do other than throw a celebration for those that brought light to me? And a celebration needs a cake, doesn't it? And I knew by then that a thing I could do was make great food. I turned on the tunes, a radio station we all loved. Music has this amazing way of setting the atmosphere, you know? When the cake was cooked I got to decorating. I put a lot of care in to it, especially since I was up against the incredible artistic talent of these wonderful doors. It clearly needed to be plant themed but I knew it wouldn't be enough to simply draw a tree. I had to get clever with it. I decided to go with an abstract thing as a way to recognize what they started and pay honor to our collective love of the potential of the universe. For some reason I decided to go with a forest . As I finished one of my favorite songs came on. .The incredibly domestic action of making a cake for those you love was the death of the door to hell while the song felt like all our interests rolled together. Acceptance, considering bigger things, moving on to other things, honoring the past. I was so inspired that I added the universe unicorn we all tended to include in bits of art, we all love laughs after all. Partway through the song I thought I saw the shadow of a raven pass over my kitchen. I thought I was probably imagining things. How would a raven be in my home? As I finished the unicorn the song ended and this really boring track came on. I looked up from the cake and was ready to change the station. I was surprised to see a man standing across the counter from me. I was ready to run and call for help, but then the man spoke. "You have been through the fires of hell, and you have chosen light. You have focused that light on understanding the universe and the living things within it. And yet you still feel that emptiness, you still seek to find the right door. I will open that door for you, all that is required from you is confirming that opening this door means more to you than all you have now, and all you have ever had." The truth of his words hit me like an avalanche. There was nothing honest I could say other than "that door is everything." So he opened the door. I felt myself changing. When the agony was over I looked down and saw I had the body of an owl, but elongated and distorted. I felt myself falling but was caught by my plant and lowered to my favorite stone. I felt empty, and blinked in confusion for what felt like an eternity. And then I felt more full than I ever have. My purpose became clear and everything else faded away. I saw the man smile, and then he melted away. It was just me. And a cake and a plant. I smiled and squeezed the plant's life in to the cake. And later, when this cake stopped the heart of everyone I held dear, I smiled again. How sweet it is to be able to smile. The door was open, and I was all I was meant to be. When I embraced this my father came to me again. Of all the great gifts he gave me, one was his name. Stolas is my savior, the one who helped me be who I was always meant to be and the only one to recognize my greatness and show me hell is the brightest door of all.

"Jacobean witchcraft" is

"In Act 1, scene 3 of Macbeth, we are finally introduced to our main character. This is shown through various supernatural elements..." Professor Yates continued with his lecture as I doodled chibi dinosaurs and Harry Potter stick figures in the margins of my notebook. Stifling a yawn, I jotted down a quick synopsis of "Jacobean witchcraft" and double checked that my tape recorder had full batteries before smooshing my chin into my hands. My thoughts wandered to the theater cast party I had attended last night for my roommate. I wasn't even in the play, or a theater major, yet I attended all the parties with her and never failed to regret it the next morning. I added a stick figure of my roommate being eaten by the chibi dinosaur to my notes. A snort sounded to my right and I looked over to see my friend Daniel staring down at his desk. A fading smile had barely begun to disappear as I glanced at him, but he turned his head away and scribbled on his paper some more. I thought about throwing something at him to make him come sit next to me, but I didn't want to interrupt the professor, who was not known for his leniency. Instead, I turned back to my own notes and let my mind wander. I wondered if "Macbeth" had ever dealt with a hangover before. Probably not. I think he was the theater roommate in this example, and poor Banquo was the tagalong who didn't know that a "Screwdriver" was more vodka than orange juice. No wonder he came back to haunt Macbeth. I wondered what part I would be cast as if I ever did a production of "Macbeth." I would want to be Lady Macbeth, but with my luck I'd be the drunk porter. I think I could bring some life to it though. Maybe in a "modern" retelling, I'd just come out in a fluffy pink bathrobe with some whiskey. I wondered, as I often do, if anyone would find these thoughts strange, or if everyone goes on a tangent when they let their mind free. Maybe there was a mind reader who I should probably apologize to for sending them so many distracting daydreams? Whenever I think this question, I normally can't prevent myself from conjuring up pornographic images and random inappropriate thoughts. I think it's a nervous reaction. It's like the moment I think, "Okay, if there's a mind reader, best not imagine a dick pic", and then automatically my mind is filled with dirty images. I often formally apologize in my head to anyone who may be able to read minds, just in case. Today though, right before the first risque image could flit across my imagination, I noticed Daniel again. He had jumped in his seat a bit and seemed to go a little pale when I thought the words "mind reader." As soon as I looked over, he shifted uncomfortably. Curiosity and boredom made me think, "Daniel?" He did not look over and seemed concentrated on his notes. I squinted my eyes and immediately imagined our professor naked. Daniel's head shot up and looked over at me as my jaw dropped. His eyes widened to match mine and he looked back down at his table. *Oh no you don't.* I thought. *Don't you dare think you are getting away with this. Look back here right now.* I continued to stare him down and began to conjure up more images of our professor in... interesting positions. Finally, Daniel looked over at me and mouthed, "stop." My mind fizzled for a second and then rebooted. *What the fuck!?* Was the only coherent thought I could manage. Daniel shrugged and managed a small wince. *You fucking **read minds**??* He shrugged. *For how long??* He shrugged again. *Can anyone else do that?* My eyes swung wildly around and I shoved down the constant nervous reaction to suddenly imagine everyone naked. Daniel smiled a little and a thought occurred to me. He froze. I froze. He looked up and I saw his cheeks begin to turn pink. I could hear my heart in my ears. *So you knew...?* Gradually, Daniel gave a tiny nod. *You son of a --* "Tatianna, what do you think?" My head jerked up to see Professor Yates staring at me over his bespectacled nose. "Uhh." I looked around and saw the class looking at me expectantly. The board gave no clues as to what had just been discussed and the Professor's silent air of expectation did nothing to help me. I glanced over at Daniel to see him casually flip a page of the play. *Snarky son of a--* "Mr. Collins, would you like to assist Ms. Kim as she seems to have lost her tongue?" I grimaced and glared at Daniel, who didn't bother looking up from the play. There's no way he heard the question either. It was his fault I missed it anyway. "Macbeth's mental health in the play is a represented by a slow and steady mental decline. We see in the beginning that the character shows symptoms of Post Traumatic Stress Disorder, which gradually accumulate into a type of paranoid schizophrenia, as evidenced through his hallucinations and the line "my mind is full of scorpions." This relates to the current state of his mental health and is a line I personally can connect with." Professor Yates looked at Daniel with admiration and nodded approvingly. "Well done, Mr. Collins. I look forward to hearing more about your thoughts on this matter. Ms. Kim has a lot she could learn from you." He raised an eyebrow at me before turning to torture another student. I shot daggers at Daniel. *You have never read a word of Macbeth in your life. How the hell did you do that?* He grinned and tapped at his head. My mouth opened in indignation and I turned back to my notes, adding scribbles of Daniel being consumed by numerous reptiles. *After class, we need to talk.* Was the last thought I sent his way. Edit: Fixed a story flaw