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Percy has been my best friend.

"It's not my fault! I know you love guarding my wallet, and while you were small enough to ride my shoulder it wasn't a problem. I loved having you there too! Now? If you sat on my shoulder, you'd crush me in a split second!" My anguish is real. Percy has been my best friend. My confidant. The one being I could always trust to tell me the truth. "You know better. In a way, this *is* your fault. You choose to play the lottery, knowing that my size is tied to my fortune. Since we first bound to each other, my fortune and yours are the same. Still, I do not begrudge you the lottery. The way your face lit up when the selection was broadcast. How you watched each number appears. It was draconic in its intensity. You have been far more than an *owner*, as if any human could *own* a dragon. You are the first human to treat me as a person. Now, when you most need my protection, I cannot be there with you. Guarding your wallet was something I could use as an excuse to stay with you. It was *cute*. It was *acceptable*. People assumed I was young, confusing your wallet with your fortune." I may have said too much in my pain. He was not aware of our age difference until now. "Percy? I never understood. I accepted that you were young too, that guarding my wallet was a youthful mistake. Percy? How old *are* you?" True curiosity. I may be the cat today, but now I must know. "I don't know how to answer your question. I was, before the oldest human alive. I was, before your country was created. I was, before the being you call The Son of God was born. Before that? It disappears in a fog. Draconic memories are long, but not infinite. Dragons have chosen to hoard as much for the size benefit as for the chance to make their oldest memories last a little bit longer. Humans have yet to invent a technology to store draconic memories more than a fraction of the time that we remember things. Whatever the media, they are words on paper. Dry dusty things that blow away in the winds of time. Draconic memories are rich and full of *life*! That is the true draconic hoard. Memories. Some of us, have chosen to gift our metalic fortunes to humanity, Hoping that you will eventually develop a method to store draconic memories in all their glory. If I was one such, I no longer remember." "I ... I'm ... I'm in awe. My best friend is a sage beyond the best understanding of humanity. A being of such magnificence that I am stunned that you would choose to bond with *any* of us. Percy? If I understand the word at all, I love you. More than any *ten* fortunes. ... Percy, I think I have an idea, let's get a decent lawyer to come talk with us. I like having money, but this is absurd!" So dryly that the Saharan desert is an oasis. "My experience with lawyers is that they do not make *house calls*. Even to parks as large and well designed as this one. One which I noticed has a strict reputation for preventing squatting. I wonder why they have permitted us to remain?" "Percy, we are, at present, holders of one of the largest fortunes in the entire eastern seaboard. I suspect we could purchase this park several times over. For fortunes the size of ours, rules can be bent. It might even have something to do with an ancient huge red dragon guarding its hoard. For that sort of money, lawyers *will* make *park calls*." We had to do a great deal of persuasion. Apparently, lawyers are even more circumspect when large dragons are involved. We just added a few more zeros to the persuasion. We didn't need just any lawyer, we needed a very particular kind of lawyer, with a reputation for creative solutions to unique problems. Finding one wasn't as hard as i had expected. Percy, who still refused to tell me his former names, has some unusual contacts. When the lawyer showed up, we got to some serious discussions over what we could, and could not, do with our money. The lawyer was initially aghast at my idea. I think large sums of money have an unusual effect on his mind. He was insistent on having us walk around the park while Percy remained at our present location. Having assured himself that I was not being coerced, he then became concerned over my sanity. I talked about the value of friendship. For someone reputedly intelligent, it took him a very long time to understand. By the end, he was wistfully looking at Percy. Sorry mister, get your own best friend, Percy is *my* hoard. The paperwork is finally done. It's taken several days to do it. A good thing it's done, the park rangers are getting antsy. The visitorship is way down. "My friend, what you propose to do with our hoard is incredibly generous and loving, but I do not know if it will work! If it doesn't, we'll be in the same state as now, but without the funds to do anything else about it." "Percy, you are my fortune. This is just money." Did the lawyer just twitch? "If it works, it's a way out for every bonding. If it doesn't, we'll still have our real fortune." "Ahem. I feel it is my duty to point out one last time, that this action is irrevocable. Once the papers are signed, there is no going back. We do have a need for witnesses." "All covered! The rangers and their families will be here shortly. I assume that they will do?" "Quite." ... "Last chance?" I sign the last page. For a moment, we're holding our breath. Everyone is watching Percy. "Oh! That is a very strange feeling?" Before our eyes, larger than mansion sized Percy, drops back to shoulder size Percy. "It *worked*! Percy! It worked!" "So I feel. It's a bit disconcerting, but also most welcome." "I am delighted that this venture worked, and not just for the fees my firm is about to make. If I understand correctly, there may be a huge influx of contributions?" "Entirely possible. Though not guaranteed." "Very well, you now have a guaranteed income equal to your prior job's remuneration, plus a small amount. Any new clients must yield their entire fortune, in exchange for the same income from the fund. Income is tied to the inflation rate, not to the size of the fund. I was able to guarantee the name of the fund." So, the Dragon Friendship Fund is up and running. If you have a dragon friend that you'd like to be able to take with you anywhere, come talk to the agents for the fund. Dewy, Cheatem, and Howe, Esq. You won't be rich anymore, but your friend will be with you anywhere, and you won't *have* to work for a living wage. Health benefits are included for the human partners. No one has found a Draconic doctor yet. ((finis)) Edit: Spelling

Ruling is not an easy job

To be fair, ruling is not an easy job. Sitting in the throne room, day after day, listening to petition after petition of farmers who can't agree on where their fields end and their neighbors' begin; to knights who argue over the trivialities of honor; to merchants who swear they were cheated and the peasants who believe wholeheartedly that the merchants would extort them given the slightest provocation. If it's not petitions from half the bloody kingdom, it's the council wanting to count coppers, as my predecessor called it, arguing over tax increases, paying for more people in the city watch, or new equipment for them; or fixing the sewers, or outlawing brothels, or whatever we should be doing about those religious nutcases who are insistent upon eliminating every good thing in life - wine, lovers, and all the other things that make life interesting. I'd much rather simply visit my betrothed, but she is ensconced with her grandmother, and that woman is terrifying! The thorniest woman I've ever met, and that includes my own mother. So that's why I'm dreading it - hiding from my own guard in my room, staring at the crown sitting across from me with trepidation. Why should I be forced to wear it? Why do I have to put on the crown every day and listen to the problems of the poor folk who think that I have all the answers? Can't they see that I don't, that I don't want this crown, this chair, and I never have? I wish.... I can't wish it away. I can't make myself not the king - I have to be. My mother says I have to be. My grandfather says I have to be. My uncle says I have to be, ever since.... Wait. Maybe I don't, just for today. I've hardly ever been outside the castle walls, except on trips with the whole court. If they want me to rule, shouldn't I know the people I have to rule? Shouldn't I walk among them, and learn about their troubles and their plights, so that I can understand them better? That's it! I jump up from the chair, pacing. I need some help. I call for a servant - one that I know doesn't report everything I do to my mother. She'd never want me to leave the castle, and if she gets even an inkling of what I'm doing she'll post the guard outside my door. I may be the king, but that one... he only listens to her. I send the servant for some clothes. Something simple, peasant like. I can't be seen wearing these rich fabrics, I'll be found out in a heartbeat! In a few moments, I'm wearing the roughest shift I've ever worn, not much better than the poor wretches who make petitions of me. The servant suggests I dirty my face and hair - cleanliness is a sign a nobility, of course. Rubbing my hands along the floor, I get them greasy and grimy, and then toss my hair back and forth. I can feel the grim sticking to it - it's unpleasant, is this what people feel every day? No matter - the price of getting away from the throne for a few hours is worth the discomfort. My servant leads me out - he's a few years older than I. Than me. He pulls me aside when a guard crosses our path, and I don't get even a second look! The clothes make the man, I suppose, and I am certainly not dressed like a king! This might work after all. Out through the servants exit, my man says he'll wait nearby for me. If I'm going to come back in without anyone noticing I'm gone, I'll need him to get my back in the servants' quarters. He's nervous about me going off on my own, but I tell him I must. It's the middle of the day, who could possibly harm me? He tries more than once to follow me, but I keep telling him he must wait. Finally! I set off down the street. The smell is awful! Maybe there's something to be said for fixing the sewers after all. And no wonder, as I can see a woman throwing a bucket of shit out the window a few houses down the road from me. Is it a house? Maybe a hovel is more accurate. There are no horses, like I'm used to seeing in the castle walls, but a goat runs past me, and a child half my age chases after it. The goat's bell clangs as it runs, the hooves clip-clopping against the stones in the street, and splashing in the... my gods, is that raw sewage on the side of the street? I need to tell the council we need to fix the sewers immediately! I keep walking. I'm glad I didn't forgo the shoes! My servant suggested that I should, but when I tried to, the bottoms of my feet felt every indentation, rise, and bump in the stones of the floor in my room at the keep. I couldn't imagine walking here, where the road is rougher and the liquid shit is running along the sides. The city slopes downhill... I suppose that is to be expected, as the keep is at the top. It will make walking back more painful, however, the longer I go on. But I see something interesting - a group, down there! There's a man talking in front of them all, I wonder what he's saying? I hear his voice as I get closer. It's rich, a deep baritone. He's gesturing wildly with his hands, and he's in a simple shift like me. In fact, all of them are - but some have chains over their chests, and some are holding maces and clubs. The steel looks good quality - maybe these men are people I should avoid? But I can't turn around and walk away - how am I to know my people if I don't hear them and walk among them? And besides, walking away now would look obvious. Wait, a side street! I could stand there, among them but not part of them, and maybe I wouldn't be noticeable! I start to move that direction, but I realize I cannot - the street has become crowded. More people are behind me than in front of me, and the sides of the street are pressing in, more people to hear the man speaking. "...gone on too long! We must not allow this travesty, this mockery of leadership to continue! Why should we bow to a king who does not bow to the gods we worship!" ...what?

There's something about the smell of

There's something about the smell of the outer city that I find comforting-- fresh fruits and fish in the market, cobblestone baking under the sun and salt from the sea untainted; it's a pleasant departure from perfumes and perfect meadows and all the other regal coerced scents you find in the court. It's honest and real, and sometimes I need that departure for a time, something to get lost and feel human in, like I'm actually a part of this wonderful city. Being a king is stressful, and I'm not even the one making half the decisions. So many people dream of court life and its pleasantries. I overhear townsfolk sometimes, on my hidden excursions, droning on about how jealous they are of the upper caste, how it's unfair that our mother's name determines where we end up in life, and I disagree. Common people don't understand just how trite and frustrating it is to be locked into an image, unable to speak your true thoughts or do as you please. It's all coats and furs and formalities, a preordained life spent doing as you're told. I get jealous of men who can brawl in taverns over a disagreement, and gatherings where dissidents speak their mind on matters true to their hearts. There are no such freedoms in being born into a royal name. I seldom get the chance to slip out. My advisors caught me last time, scolding me for days, my father ashamed and brooding in silence as he does, because of the 'risk'. What kind of king am I if a simple walk through my own domain instills fear to such a point that I can't stroll through the market? If I were to truly fear my own people so much, what right to I have to rule them? It was the busiest time of the year in Appleton, our largest marketplace, bustling with merchants of all sizes and colors from every corner of the world. There is no walking through it during the second week of Sixthmoon; you become part of a river that flows through the city's heart, caught in the current of shouting men and women eyeing food and goods they've likely never seen before with amazement. Exotic entertainers take turns performing on stages, some earning shouts of love others being bood if their acts are perhaps lined with too many religious overtones-- the Goren have a bad habit of enacting plays in which their God enjoys slapping ours a bit much. A saline gale weaved through the river and caught my hair, tossing it about. Waiting to venture abroad until the final weeks before Father forced me to groom provided not only the unkempt cover I needed, but mingled with wind so pleasantly. "Fresh durian fritters," a grizzled man with one eye called, standing atop his wooden booth. "Hot out of the cauldron!" I leaned in, smelling the hot oil, and ordered two for myself. They were so crisp and salty and messy, so deliciously unhealthy. We weren't allowed gluttony in the court, as it is said to shorten lifespan -- Triton above knows I wanted to live the longest life possible, with so many *delicious*, lonely salads in the world to eat. Downstream, I lost myself in a rug merchant with tapestries hanging on racks in colors and patterns more vibrant than even what lines our halls. I stroked one, ignoring the seller's shouts, feeling the soft cotton against my skin. Father would shudder at something so absurdly extravagant. Draped across the stone of our Great Hall, its eye-stabbing pink would make everything else seem sketched in charcoal. I was finally dumped out into the delta of Appleton's outskirts, hallowed by contrast with how many people abandoned every other section of the kingdom to lose themselves for a day in the festival's wonders. Even without a copper to spare, just the sights and smells alone made it an attraction. It felt lonely as I walked along the coastal road, homes and shore empty alike. I turned left, back inland, once I could see the wretched souls in Beggar's Hall too clearly. I hadn't brought nearly enough coin to help them, that time. A single boy was standing outside an inn, up and down on his toes, searching for something. He perked when he caught sight of me, waving a hand. "The birds party inside," he said, squinting at me. "Dance with them, if you'd like." I stared at him a moment, brows knitted. "I'm fond of birds." "You know the drill. A copper for the cause." He held out a hand. I fished a copper out, dropping it in his palm, and the wooden door groaned as he yanked it open. There were shouts and cheers inside. I put up my hood, stepping into the dimness slowly, and the door shut behind me. *A play?* Staying toward the crowd's rear, it was rough to hear, but slowly my ears adjusted to pick out the stagerunner's voice. It was not a play. "Too long has our country been run by men in shadows, hiding behind a false king. Too long have our children starved in the winter, when the Northern chills come to haunt us." The man was red in the face, his worn tan robe with a red sword drawn upon it dancing amidst violent gesturing. *Starved in the winter? Our stores during the summer are set to last a full year. What is he on about?* "It is up to us, my good men and women, to reclaim this city. To fight for ourselves, when no one else would. So I ask: do you stand with us?" The crowd cheered. "Do you stand with us?" he asked, twice as loud. The crowd cheered louder still, and a chill set into my spine. "Those who wish to discuss further, stay and tell us what you might offer. The rest, return home and remember your anger even under this warm sun. Donations are accepted at the door. Praise be, not to Triton or the king, but to us, the people!" The group thinned, a few coppers clinking in a bowl held by a heavily bearded man wearing the same robe the stagerunner wore. Only a few men were left at the end, several coming out from behind the stage, one of which was heavily armored. He wore the same sigil across his breastplate, taking helm at the podium. Our eyes locked for a moment, his gaze forged from Iron and fire. "Well, gentleman, let us begin," he said, a smile slithering across his face. "We have a king to kill." My breath caught. --- */r/resonatingfury*

The mountain was hallowed ground.

The mountain was hallowed ground. A place where the slow hand of death could not claim those upon it. It was a sanctuary from life itself, a place where if one truly desired, they could spend an eternity. It was a place where one would never age a day from the very first in which they entered. But it was only the slow hand of death which was delayed, the one known as the inevitability which all life eventually succumbed to. But the other hand of death still reigned dominion over all - the fast hand - the unexpected quick death, whether painless or not. That hand was unavoidable even for those upon the mountain. Our family did indeed have its fair share of troubles and worries, but we knew that we would never come to harm each other to such an extent, for while grudges were temporary, death was not. We went about our lives with utmost caution, not to the extent that we would cripple our daily activities, but just enough to stave off the fast hand of death, just enough to prevent a fateful accident from befalling us. My family was not the only ones who roamed those lands, but we were the only humans that we knew of. And while we did not need to partake in the consumption of food and drink, we took from the land as we fancied, but did not impart our will upon the beasts which prowled them. For the creatures whuch lurked those misty hills had a kind of calmness to them, no doubt born from the complacency bought on from their immortality. They cared not to run from our presence, rather, it could almost be said that they reveled in it. We knew the woodland beasts well, to the extent that we even considered some of them to be a part of our own family. That was why when I came across that old buck, bloodied and abandoned in those woods, my heart was struck with grief and the air was struck with my horrified howls. He had already succumbed to the fast hand of death, a hopeless fate, almost inevitable in some respects. I had thought for a moment that a beast from outside the mountain had come to those lands in search of food and struck him down. But the fact that his corpse had been left to rot meant those thoughts were unfounded. It was then that I saw upon his neck the hole where the blood burst forth, a clean shot from end to end. The death of the old buck was the work of a hunter, but the fact that he had not claimed his kill filled me with a fear that I had not known for over a hundred years. It was rare enough that humans would ever set foot on that mountain, and for one to go there with intent to kill was even rarer, if not unheard of. I could not prevent myself from emptying the contents of my stomach - however little - into the thicket by my feet. I saw in that musky puddle a tinge of red, carrying with it the faint scent of raspberries, which was soon overpowered by the wretched stench of bile. I felt that foul taste dance upon the back of my throat, as if mocking me in my time of terror. But I could not sit and dwell in my circumstances, for my troubles of the present were far less pressing than the impending doom I felt beckoning down on me from my future. I left the old buck where he lay, silently promising to myself that I would one day find my way back and give him a proper burial. As I raced back to my family home, it was as if the fatigue of a hundred years came down upon me all at once. For each frantic step felt like fire in my bones, and each ragged breath threatened to be my last. My mind raced with a panic I had not felt in so long, and it was indeed not a welcome feeling. I burst through the door with the grace of a man possessed, and caused Rose - my wife - upon the sofa to let out a panicked yell. She turned towards me with a look of indignant anger, which soon faded away when she took one look at my haggard state. "Darling? What happened?" She raced towards my side in a manner of moments and took my hands in her own, and only then did I notice just how much they were trembling. "The old buck," I said, barely able to force myself to speak, "Someone killed him." "Was it a bear?" She asked, as she turned her head to a forgotten corner of the house. "Your gun still works, right?" "No," I said, "someone. A person. A hunter." It was then that my son George entered the room, and I heard his voice before I saw him. "What's up with you, Dad?" He said, as he fiddled with a cube toy in his hands, "you look like you've seen a ghost." I looked towards my boy, still the young and carefree savant he always was, but with an age behind his dusty brown eyes that told you he knew more than you ever would. When I first set forth my plans to move to the mountain with him and the rest of my family, he was the one who yearned for that life the most. And out of all of us that lived on the mountain, he was the only one who had aged significantly since his arrival, owing to his routine visits to the outside lands to gather the things which tickled his fancy. "George," said Rose, her voice colder than moments before, "get the gun." "Alright," said George, as he left the room from the same direction from whence he came. Even though I had long since forgotten the key to the safe, I knew that George would remember it with little hassle, for his mind was far sharper than my own. Rose turned my face to her own. "Did you see him? The hunter?" * * *

Day One: "I think I

Day One Dear Diary, I can't I believe I'm writing this! None of it feels real! I think I must have finally gone off the deep end. Maybe it was one too many chicken tenders at the restaurant I went to for lunch or maybe it's a weird reaction between my allergy meds and that lovely glass of wine I had but I have found a *real* genie in a lamp. No, really! So, get this: I went to that thrift store I love downtown - you know the one right across from the Farmer's Market? I was taking my time, heading down through each aisle, and just picking up some of the old stuff to see what might go in my house. I've been on this total bohemian/India/Egyptian kick lately and saw this old looking bronze lamp with the evil eye engraved on the side. The old oil lamp also had some Arabic looking writing on it. I figured it was pretty cool - it even had some red velvet ribbon on the handle with a bunch of bells- so I bought it for four bucks and brought it home to clean it. I took out everything to clean it, set up a space, ya know - putting down paper towels and all- and sat down to clean it. The second I took that old rag and some cleaner to polish the lamp up a bit, there is a huge puff of smoke! I thought it was an urn at first and that by tipping it the way I did to clean it, I was spilling someone's ashes out all over my darned floor and table. I dropped the lamp to get away from the smoke and to prevent accidentally breathing in someone's grandma, and went to the other side of the room, coughing. I swear I only half turned my back to the lamp when I heard someone speaking. "Tahiat wasalam lak sayidati," came in what was very much a masculine voice and very much from where I dropped the lamp. Did I leave the TV on? Did I leave the door open? "What?" I asked as I turned around to see...a half suspended translucent being floating near my dining room table. He was underweight, had dark hair, a turban, and what looked like a half sleeved tunic on. I did what anyone would do when I saw him. I screamed. The translucent being looked perturbed and offended at my screaming. He looked even more upset and annoyed when I took the footstool I was near and began to wield it as a weapon at him. "Get out! What the hell are you?!? Get out!" I shrieked. "Ah, English," he stated as he raised out a very large hand and gripped the edge of the footstool. I could not longer move it about and stared in amazement as the ghost like thing continued. "I recall being purchased by an English couple almost two centuries ago. I supposed I should start my introduction over?" he stated in impeccable English. My jaw probably dropped a bit. I don't really remember the transition to realizing he wasn't a bunch of ashes and a ghost rising from those ashes to being a Genie but I do know he explained all that. He also explained he learned English from that couple back in the early 19th C and had a few other English speaking owners since then. However, he was originally from some town I had never heard of in Saudi Arabia. "Now, the rules," he informed me as he pulled out a long scroll of papyrus. "Rules?" I clarified. Again, he looked annoyed. "Yes, rules. First, no asking for more wishes. You have only two choices. You may opt for three wishes at once or you may opt for one wish a day for the next five days. However, if you opt for the second, there is a warning," he paused and looked directly at me. I only mutely nodded to his rules reading. I had the cash now option or the annuity option to consider. Sighing when I didn't say anything, he continued with his warning. "Of the fifteen people that have taken the five wishes option, none have survived to the fifth day," he stated. I smirked slightly and narrowed my eyes at him. "What do mean none have survived?" I asked. The room turned dark and the genie seemed to grow and glow. He towered over me even though I hadn't moved from where I was standing and he hadn't moved from his lamp. "None have survived! All fifteen persons or couples who took the five wishes have perished, become deceased, are at heaven's gates, or are otherwise dead prior to the fifth wish," he angrily informed me before going back down to his normal stature. The room seemed to lighten as he did so. "That's if they even get that far," he muttered. I considered this and thought for a moment before my next question. "What is the five day survivability of those that opted for the 'cash now' option over the annuity?" I asked before realizing he might not understand what I meant. "I mean, how many people that took all three wishes were still alive five days after you gave them their wishes?" The genie looked confused and began to stutter, amazingly. I thought this guy only had angry and perturbed as modes. "I don't...that is to say..I typically...well, there was that one time but..." he began. I crossed my arms over my chest. It was my turn to look displeased. The genie hung his head. "I don't know," he stated. "You don't know?" I repeated. He immediately looked up and went into this long ass rambling tirade about how after he delivers the wishes he just goes back into his little lamp and slumbers until someone tries to clean it. He also explained that the one time he did get one of the three wish people to wake him up again, it was only because the guy was dying and tried to reach for the lamp to try and wish again but, of course, that broke rule number one. "So it's a good possibility everyone dies if they own your little lamp?" I pointed out as I considered that I may only have a few days to live, if that. "I do not believe everyone dies," he stated, clearly offended. I just stared at him incredulously. "I don't care what you believe. Based upon the facts we have before us, it's very possible you've given me just hours to live or up to a possible five days to live," I told him angrily. Stupid thrift store and stupid lamp dwelling genie. He hung his head again. "So you know damned well I'm not going to chose the three wishes because three wishes could very well spell, for me, immediate death. I don't want to choose five wishes either because that only gives me five days, if that, to figure a way out of this mess," I continued. Tapping my foot, I thought up a couple of plans, quickly. "Can I just...not wish? At all?" I asked. "NO!" he shouted before shoving the papyrus scroll with all the rules at me. "That would violate rule number 7!" I rolled my eyes. "Well, you didn't even get to rule number 7, did you?" I informed him, barely concealing my anger. "So what are the names of the individuals, in the past three centuries that have asked for three wishes and what dates did they ask on?" I asked as part of my second plan. The plan was to go online, maybe up on Ancestry or something, and see if I could match people to him and check to see if any did live at least a year past the date of trying to clean the lamp. The genie looked down again and twiddled his thumbs. "I um...," he almost whispered. "I really don't collect names...." he stated. I sighed and then held out my hand. He looked at it curiously before gently gripping it. "I'm Victoria. Victoria Williams," I told him. "Uh, Mihrbandak," he stated as introduction before releasing my hand. "Mihr, huh?" I stated before quickly informing him of my birthdate, my birth town, and what today was. "And I'm taking the annuity option," I said, smiling as a plan formed in my head. "Why did you inform me of the other information?" he asked. "In case my plan doesn't work, then you can at least tell future owners of the lamp information that will help them look me up. This way, they can make an even more informed decision," I told him. His jaw dropped a bit. Yeah, the chances of certain death were high with the five day option but I'd at least get more info out of him and, hopefully, fully figure out a plan to not die. Plus, if you are reading this, then the whole diary thing should also help out as well. Anyway, my first wish - after actually signing the scroll - translated into English- in blood - yuk!- was simple. I wanted all my monetary debts cleared. So you might wonder why I just didn't ask for a boatload of gold or something. Honestly, the first wish was a test case to see what would happen. And...damn. Am I glad I did that. Oh, yeah, all my monetary debt is cleared but that meant that not only do I not have a mortgage, not have credit card debt, not have a car loan, but that ALL my monetary debt is gone. My credit cards? Gone. My insurance for my house and my car? Canceled. Even the electric bill...it took a good couple of hours to reset that back up. All the time, the Genie just looking more and more annoyed in the corner as I glared at him. I'm sure there will be more monetary debt that got cleared that I didn't actually want gone. I don't even want to look at my credit score in the morning. I probably have no credit now. So, hopefully, overnight, I can form a plan. I need to figure out a wish that isn't wishing for more wishes, wishing for a longer life, wishing for immortality, or wishing for all my wishes to be canceled. Those will all go against the rules. EDIT: WOW! So I go to bed and wake up to a lot of comments and a gold and a silver! Thank you so much! Just a couple of answers or points to some of the comments - Bohemian, in this case, and not a specific region. I will write the second chapter but I'm not sure where to publish it. Here? Start a new thread? Start a new subreddit and put my ridiculous half finished stories there? Any ideas, please let me know.

When the sun hit the bar just

When the sun hit the bar just right, the glasses would sparkle and disperse the light, letting it fall on the counter in small diamonds; there for everyone to see, and a sight no one could steal. When the sun hit the bar just right, it almost made his job worth it. It was early afternoon and the sun was a strong yellow. It made the boards all dark and dusty, crowded with shadows, and everything was a warm, sticky hot. The bar was scarce and he sat listening to the quiet until a man walked in. He was a big man, maybe an athlete once. He came to the bar with a heavy face and with heavy eyes. "What'll it be?" The man wiped his mouth and blinked hard a few times. "I'm not sure. Do you have white rum? I used to drink a shot of white rum." "Friend, this is a bar. Of course I have white rum. What kind do you like?" "Any kind... The cheapest." He had trouble with the shot. He swallowed hard the first time, but his throat wouldn't give and most of the rum remained in the glass. He made a sour face. "Want some juice with that?" "No." "What's your name then, friend?" "Harold. People called me Harry." Another big swallow. Harold forced most of it down and closed his eyes. He felt sorry for Harold. He looked like a loser, but losers were his bread and butter. "A little early to be going at it. Tough day? It's hot as hell, I can tell you that much." "Yes, it's hot. It's been too hot too think." "Perfect weather for a drink, though. Another?" He poured the drink and felt like scum as he measured out the shot. He contemplated cutting off the man; telling him whatever he was going through couldn't be solved here. But the bar was empty and the rent had only gone up last month. *Get him to talk. They drink more when they talk.* "What's your story, Harry?" The man looked up. He could tell he liked being called Harry. It fit the profile, he decided. A washed up loser who had peaked in high school. He had served his share of them before. "You wouldn't believe me if I told you." "Try me." Another pour. Harold was wearing a thick polo. It was dark red and even darker from sweat. A bad choice for today's heat, but expensive. He had some money then. He could afford his drinks. *Keep him talking then.* That was easy. Harold was getting drunk and he wanted to talk. The sun was sinking slowly, still high and yellow, but getting nearer the bar, nearer the glasses. "You know I killed two men in my life? Would you believe that if I told you?" "You just did. But you don't have the looks of a killer though. Nowhere handsome enough to lure any women." "It wasn't women. It was my... my professor. Then... then today there was another one. A lady." "I've heard tall stories before, but never one this tall. I suppose I should call the police, right?" "No you shouldn't. It wasn't murder. I'm a doctor." He felt empty then, as though he had been the one drinking. *It's a lie. He doesn't look like a doctor. Maybe he's trying to get some free drinks.* "What happened Harry?" "I was in college once. You ever been to college? For some it's like a second home. Some of them thrive in it, I don't know how. And for some people, it's like some jail or something. Some way for them to make you look like an idiot." "You weren't an academic type. I get it." "No. But my parents wanted me to go. I was really good in highschool and I was supposed to make everyone proud. I was supposed to be a doctor." "You are a doctor." "Yeah." He was having trouble drinking. His head stared at the counter. "You want to lie down a bit..." "I was failing in school you know? I was drinking like I am now. I coulda shoot a whole bottle of white rum back in the day. They used to put it in my mouth and chant and clap and..." "I know how it is. We have those on Friday's." "Yeah, but I wasn't good at school. I was failing. I never told my parents. But after the first year of being on academic notice or whatever they call it, I was gonna fail. And they woulda kicked me out." "So what did you do?" "Well I couldn't get kicked out so I read up the rules. You know every college has some big long book of rules. It was probably the only thing I really read there. And it was an old school. Some of the rules were dated. Like all the girls needed to wear stockings and things like that." "Sure." "And one of them was crazy. One of them was from the eighteen hundreds. It was stupid, but it was on the books." "What was it?" "It was one of those trial by combat things, you know? One where you could graduate if you dueled your professor." "This sounds like those TV colleges. Where you could get a degree as a housewife and make millions of dollars." "I'm serious!" The bar shook. Harold was a big man. He was shaking. Was it from the drinks? *It's so hot and he's shaking.* "Sorry, Harry. Just doing my job. I'm supposed to be a conversationalist. A poor man's therapist." "I was supposed to be a doctor. I killed my professor years ago! I shot him like any mad man, but it was legal. He was an old man, he was so scared! Everyone thought I *was* mad. And I think they were right! I saw him fall, just collapse. It wasn't no show. Just fell right there and that was it. And I was a doctor." "Must've been an awkward graduation." "I know it sounds funny. But you know what was funny? I was so desperate. I was so stupid back then, that I didn't feel so bad. I figured if there was a God, He would know I was playing by the rules. I took their degree and they covered up the scandal and changed the rules. No one knew. I was a doctor. I graduated early, so everyone thought I was a good doctor." "And we both know you're not." "Not? It's even worse than that. Maybe it's the adrenaline or P.T.S.D. or whatever, but I managed to block all that out. My folks got me a job in the clinic. I managed to bull my way through it. Most people get by on Tylenol anyway. But today was my first day of my transfer. Today I had to work for real." "Where? Couldn't be here." "At the hospital. They sent me there and I... I..." There was another man at the bar but he must have left. *I never even saw him. Harry here is taking up my time.* And now he was shaking as well. The sun was sinking, turning orange from yellow, becoming fiery in its death. "The lady?" "Yes, the lady. She was in front of me in the table. It was minor surgery that every doctor should be able to do... I killed her." He whistled and it was quiet. He looked about the boards, the shadows that draped them, and he looked past it all and imagined the city. This was a bad place, he knew. There was a stink of apathy and corruption, of selfishness and abuse. He was part of it, enabling it with his bar and cheap liquor, with his easy medication for those who had broken consciences. *But this? Could this be even remotely true?* "They'll cover it up as usual. They fired me but I won't get in trouble. Every surgery has its risks. The lady was just unlucky. I... I was unlucky." He couldn't think of anything to say. "I can't get her out of my mind like I could the professor. I see her. Do you know what that's like? I can't..." Harold put his head down. He was sobbing. The sun hit the bar and it hit the glasses just right. The diamonds spilled over Harold, his body heaving in their glimmer, and they fell past him down to the floor. Usually the light would make the job easy, would make him think that everything would work out in the end. He thought about putting a hand on Harold's back, comfort him somehow. He couldn't move. He kept thinking of the city; kept looking at the light from the glasses. "I keep seeing her..." And he felt like he could see her too. - *Hi there! If you liked this story, then you might like r/PanMan. It has all my other stories. Check it out if you can and thank you for reading!*

Images are searing themselves to the

It comes on like it always does. One moment, I'm marching along the dirt path we were assigned to patrol. And the next moment, images are searing themselves to the back of my eyes with such intensity that I cannot ignore them. I wince. A small, unnoticeable movement so that nothing looks amiss. The rest of my men are around me. I don't want to spook them. And it's not like I haven't dealt with this before. But I don't spend much time thinking. I can't. The images; they always mean danger is near. So I stop wincing. I straighten myself up, balancing our squadron's mandated rifle on my shoulder. And I look at the images. All it takes is a thought, a reorientation of my perspective. Instead of looking at the world in front of me, I look within. There, the images sit as they always have to warn me of what is to come. I see myself, as always. But something is different. Something is amiss. I am walking by myself. My men aren't marching next to me like I'm used to. No. They've flanked behind me and are discussing something in hushed tones that I cannot hear. A stray word or two tells me they're talking about a message. Some transmission of some kind that my future self is apparently unaware of. But instead of telling me--instead of informing their superior officer, they raise their guns. Phantom gunshots go off, rattling against the inside of my skull, and I don't even need to hear myself shriek to know how the interaction ends. I rip myself out of thought, shaking my head. Flicking my eyes around, I see my two most trusted officers--Larry and Corbin--slowing their pace. They're taking more time between their steps in an effort to fall in line behind me. I furrow my brows. Another second or two passes. I continue to march on, my boots producing steady thuds in the dirt beneath. But they, they do exactly as the images showed they would. They flank behind and meet up with the other two men who had been following at our rear. My fingers curl around the grip of my gun. Before another second can fall away, I hear a crackle behind me. A radio. It sparks to life with soft murmurs. Commands from base camp, I immediately assume. Except my radio doesn't come on. I don't hear the words clearly--only a stray word or two. I grit my teeth. Their words lilt to my ears. Tense, low, and hushed. I want to yell at them right now, but I restrain myself until then. I can hear the desperation in their tone. The surprise. Possibly confusion. But after a few more moments, it doesn't matter. I hear the sharp raising of metal through the air and force myself to bite back a curse. I dive. Gunshots crack through the air, muted and many coming from their flurry of rifles. The bullets tear through air, running into my ghost and killing it dead. But I am no longer there. Instead, I'm multiple feet away, scrambling on the ground and raising a rifle myself. My men look confused, only half of them tracking where I've gone. And as soon as their eyes meet mine, my barrel is trained on their heads. "What the hell is going on?" I ask, uncaring about the bitterness in my tone. Each of them turns to me. Their eyes shoot wide and most of their faces pale. But they raise their rifles again. A hitch catches in my breath, but I suppress the sound. The images haven't flashed yet, so I know I still have time. They won't shoot. Not yet. "I *said* what the hell is going on?" None of them respond. They only share glances with each other, unsure, and look down at their radios as if looking for an answer through the static. I grind my teeth and force myself up to a stand, my gun still trained on them all. "None of you are going to answer?" I asked, trying to keep my voice calm. Sharp. Commanding. Like I've always tried to do. I try not to reveal the thunderous beating of my heart or the fear racing in my mind. Larry opens his mouth, words promising to make their way out. But he snaps it shut shortly after and locks those words away. The thing that annoys me most is that I will probably never get to know what they were. I take a step forward, but something changes. One moment, I'm waving my gun at my men. The next moment, images are searing themselves to the back of my mind. I nearly gasp, only biting it back at the last second as I turn my gaze inward. I see myself, as always. But something is different. My men aren't standing before me bewildered. They are each nodding to themselves, confirming something as if they'd just been relayed new information. And each of them stiffens their shoulders toward me. I don't even need to hear the gunshots this time to know how the interaction ends. As I tear myself back to reality, each of their radios sparks to life. Some deep voice that I don't recognize utters my name along with a muted question relating to some confirmation of my kill. Larry, my best man, brings his radio up to respond. Before another second ticks by, his radio has fallen from his hands. Larry staggers from the impact of my fist, and the men around me are confused. I take advantage of the confusion--of the surprise the images bought me. I dance around the confused soldiers, around their blundering and confused forms. As I knock each and every one of them out, it feels too easy. I thought I had trained them better than this. But still, once the dust settles, all four of them are on the ground. I am standing with my undershirt soaked in sweat and my breaths heavy and hard, but the images don't come back. I am not in any danger anymore. One of the radios on the ground sparks to life. I furrow my brows but bend down to pick it up. "I hear scuffling. Larry, has the target been taken care of?" I grit my teeth, wanting to smash the thing on the ground right then. But I don't, of course. "Yes, sir," I say with the best impression of my friend I can muster. "He resisted, but we have put him down. What would you like us to do with the body?" I cringe at my question, annoyed by how many there have been in the past minute alone. "It doesn't matter how as long as the body cannot be found. Report back to base camp. Our visions are already coming to fruition." But as the line goes dead, there's a sinking feeling in my chest. Something tells me I have a lot more questions to ask. --- /r/Palmerranian

Exterminators are common, but

I was born an Exterminator. My father was born an Exterminator, and his before that. It's a family business, one reaching back as far as the family tree in the attic can remember. Of course, Exterminators are common, but none have reached the same variety of power as we have, with the same grade of distance and control. It's a trade secret, for only my family knows how to access this particular strain- that once a year, the mists roll down from the California mountains and into a small valley just north of our town, carrying with them a specific poison that evaporates off the flower petals along the cliffs. A typically mild insecticide, one extremely effective when vaporized. No bugs survive that night, and if a child is born then, just as the mists reach their heights and the sound of buzzing their lows, then the power passes on to them. Our variety lives an easy life- the rich pay high salaries to keep us on their properties, eliminating any pests from their grounds. And I'd been in the work force for six years when Mr. Arachne employed me, offering me a 200% raise higher than any competitor, though he had two stipulations: First, that I travel an hour outside town to reach his home, and second, that I never leave the premises without permission. But 200% was low for someone like Arachne- with his own powers, that of sensing potential future paths down the web of time, he could certainly afford it. Stock brokers would pay a fortune for those like him despite its legality. It was standard for them to want our presence, for that was what eliminated the pests- as I lounged in a recliner by his poolside, my eyes taking in the beautiful scenery of his Napa valley home, I knew that no mosquito would venture within five hundred feet of my presence. No living mosquito, anyways- it was rare one would make it inside a hundred feet before dropping from the sky, and the toughest only survived to three hundred feet before their crash landing. It made transportation for me a problem- anywhere I traveled, I required an Environmental Clearance, and could only reach there by helicopter lest I wreck havoc on the ecosystems I passed through. But for Arachne, the arrangement was perfect- he owned a vineyard, and I kept the vines clean of any sort of pest, except those he might desire. That was one of the perks of my Exterminator variety- that with enough study and focus, we could make exceptions to our exterminations. Something that no other Exterminators could control. "Dieta," Mr. Arachne said to me, two weeks into my stay, as I read a book inside his sun room- one gifted to me by a library for simply browsing their shelves once a month to clear away their silverfish. In my contract, Arachne stated that I would not be used for the same purposes as normal servants, meaning I could relax and read while on duty. My powers were all that mattered, and similar to how an accountant would not be expected to sweep the floors of his business, I was not expected anything beyond that particular passive ability. "Dieta, I need you to ensure that you are on premises for the Gala this Saturday. There are several important guests to be in attendance, and I wouldn't want them to miss your presence." "Of course," I said with a smile. As Exterminators, we were accustomed to formal events, and I had come to enjoy them. My family was so famed that we'd even become a talking point over cocktails, and I'd rubbed elbows with people of surprisingly high status. Already, my thoughts turned to which dress I'd be selecting, and the earrings I would pair to match. "Per my contract, you can expect me there." "Wonderful, wonderful," Said Arachne with a smile, "And I do request, *no exceptions* on any pests for this Gala, I don't want your powers being called into question. I shan't have them think we are second rate." "Rest assured, sir," I answered, turning the page, "If I can kill it, I will." *And I did.* The guests arrived by limousine, and were met with glasses of wine straight from the cellar. Arachne's home was far enough away form the city that several guests needed the alcohol to eliminate their miffed expressions, itself an exterminator of negative emotions. I watched from my upstairs bedroom of his estate as the cars continued to pour forwards, and noticed that it was always the same drivers- Arachne had a parking lot a mile off site, where his own chauffeurs picked up the attendees to ride the rest of the distance in style. And as I watched, I saw the drivers stop halfway to the house on occasion, then take a side path down towards a shed on the edge of the property, depositing what looked like long baggage before continuing their routes. I frowned, squinting. It was difficult for me to tell, but several of those bags looked too long and awkward to be luggage. They looked more like snowboarding bags, and I frowned, wondering where their owners might be, since those cars returned without occupants. But whatever it was, as an Exterminator it likely was none of my business- I was here to keep the pests away, and I surely would. "Welcome," Arachne said later that evening after the guests arrived, as we gathered before a wide dinner spread that seemed to be set for too many, each of us with a glass of champagne, "And know as you dine tonight, that you are among friends. *Only* friends, as we discuss the betterment of this world. Rest assured, if there were any impostors among us, they have been removed- and there were plenty! I'd like to recognize a few of you, from Marsha Annallee, with your three billion dollar contribution to the fund. And Mikhail, your specialization in discovering youths with incredible powers to better our cause has not gone unnoticed. Cheers, and be merry tonight, so we may build a better world tomorrow." Glasses rang together, and I sensed the room relax with his words, some unknown tension immediately alleviating. And staring around, I noticed several people smiling to me, raising their glasses in a cheers. People I had seen on the news, whose faces were as famous as most cereal brands. People that were now gathered together for some cause, one I knew little about. People whose bodies looked all too similar in size and shape to the luggage in the shed. *** By Leo, a story in the Star Child universe. This story anticipated to be severon here and /r/leoduhvinci. If you want more now to hold yourself over check out the Star Child story,

An exceptionally cunning thief strolled through

An exceptionally cunning thief strolled through an open air market on a hot afternoon. The suffocating desert winds kicked up the sand beyond the city's high walls, causing merchants and buyers alike to shield their eyes and keep their heads low--wonderful conditions for out thief. He'd awoken late in the day to a rumbling stomach, and before too long had quite the lunch assorted on a stolen quilt in a shady alley a ways from the market. The fruit was juicy, the bread was soft, and it was all the more better to the thief because it was free. As he enjoyed the fruits of his labor (so he proudly told himself), a young girl wandering by his picnic stopped and stared; her mouth watered at the vibrant looking melons and berries, and the thief groaned once he finally noticed her. "Oh, great," he sighed as he tossed an apple core aside. "A little beggar come to ruin my day." "Please, sir," she held out her little palms. "I have no money for food." "Neither do I," he laughed as he shoved a piece of bread in his mouth. "Please--" "Oh, fine!" he tossed a banana at her feet, grumbling as he did so. "Not my fault you haven't got the sense to steal your own food." She tried to thank him, but he only ignored her as he finished his lunch; she slumped off with her head down, and he didn't bother another glance in her direction. Now that bodily necessity was satisfied for the day, the thief sought after wares that he could sell for enough coin to afford a room for the night. So went the life of the thief: steal meals for the day, steal wares for sale for a night's rent and some wine, and repeat the process the next day. But on this day he felt especially bold, and he managed to pluck a trinket from a chest inside the home of a famed traveler and philanthropist. It was wrapped in a beautiful linen (which he promptly sold) and it would change his life forever. A lamp. The linen had given him plenty of money for the night's rent, so he'd kept the lamp in his pack and only pulled it out once he'd settled into his room and eaten his stolen dinner. It was ordinary looking, aside from a small embroidery around its base: *rub if you wish, and we shall grant you three*. He was skeptical, thinking that a lamp with such silly words written on it wouldn't garner much coin, but he gave it a rub anyway. Out with a flash popped three small creatures; they looked to the thief like tiny people: one red, one blue, and one purple. "Who are you?!" he cried, keeping his voice low as to not raise the suspicion of the inn-master (the lamp was stolen, after all). "We are the three, and wishes we grant thee," they spoke in beautiful harmony. "Genies! Genies in a lamp," he was wide-eyed with wonder. "I've heard tales of such things." "Do you wish to have your wishes granted?" "Yes! Wait, no. That doesn't count as a wish, does it? Don't you try and trick me out of what I've earned, little devils!" "We decide the wishes to be granted, and so you have agreed," the three genies all stared at him for a moment and then huddled up and conferred amongst themselves for several minutes. The thief did his best to eavesdrop, but he couldn't hear a word--he assumed they could choose what he heard or not heard, the little devils. "We have decided!" they erupted with joy just as the thief was beginning to dose off. "Well, what do I get? Money, power, fame?" he was wild with anticipation, his mouth watering greedily. "Your first wish I grant thee, and it is what you believe you desire," the red genie spoke proudly up at him. "And so, you have been given wealth." The red genie snapped its little fingers, and suddenly the thief found himself in a luxurious apartment filled with gold, jewels, and fine furniture; barrels of wine lined the walls, and a beautiful balcony overlooked the fire-lit city and the tapestry of stars above. Our thief roared and cheered, diving from one end of his little palace to the other, tossing coin and gemstone recklessly into the air, and pouring wine about his head like a fool. But his greed knew no bounds, and he demanded the rest of his *earnings* as the drink dripped from his matted hair, "What of my other two wishes, do not hold out on me!" he searched around suspiciously for the genies. "Ah, yes," the blue genie appeared in a pool of wine on the lustrous tile floor, floating upon its back lazily. "Your second wish will be granted by me, and I will give you what you need." "What I need?" the thief spun around, arms extended out like wings. "Are you blind? I have all I could ever need now, thanks to your friend!" "So you believe," the blue genie mused. "But we know otherwise. When you are ready to receive exactly what you need, all you must say is 'Genie, please, give me what I need'; however, once you utter these words, all the riches and pleasures granted to you by the first wish will vanish forever." An ignorant laugh roared out of the thief, "Then you shall never be called upon again, little devil, for I shall not fall for your trick! Begone, and leave me to what I deserve." "As you wish," the genies replied in unison and vanished. And so the thief lived for many years in luxury, careless with coin and the company he kept. His apartment was host to countless elaborate parties, and attendees were happy to regularly come dine and drink by his *generosity*. But the red genie had not given him unlimited wealth, and after many years of bodily bliss, the thief found himself once again stealing for food. The friends who had attended his dinners and parties almost nightly acted as if they had never met him once he lost his apartment and no longer had wonderful treats to entice them with, and for quite some time he simply wallowed alone in his grief--too stubborn to call upon the genies again. Until at last, he said the words he'd secretly never forgotten, "Genie, please, give me what I need!" "So wonderful to see you again, though you waited much longer than we thought you would," the blue genie sat atop his shoulder. "Please, perhaps you know the depths of my soul better than myself. I squandered all I was given, and now there is nothing." The blue genie snapped its fingers, and a large pack appeared at the thief's feet. "A traveling pack?" he was confused. "Tomorrow you will leave this city and walk everyday to a new place, and each day you will reach into this pack to retrieve only what is needed," the genie said sternly. "You will find food when you are famished and water when you are parched, but the taste will be bland and only enough to quiet your stomach." The thief did not like where this was going, but he was grateful to know that he would have food and water. "There will be two books as well. The words in one will change everyday, and each day it will teach you something new. You will read it, and you will learn. The other will be a book for your thoughts; each night before you fall asleep you will reflect on the day's lesson and on your journey, and you will chronicle your thoughts--it will never run out of pages. " "Is this it?" the thief felt defeated. "Is this what I need? To walk the earth and learn and only eat enough to continue walking and learning?" "It is," the blue genie nodded. "And when you are ready, my brother will grant you the final wish: he will fulfill your heart's deepest desire." The fire of thief's soul danced wildly again at this news, and he shot up excitedly and began rummaging through the pack--tossing the little genie aside in his excitement, "When will I be ready? Once I've covered the globe and learned all there is to learn and met all there are to meet? How will I know?!" "You won't," the blue genie whispered. *"We will,"* the three replied in unison, and then they vanished for many long years. And so the thief set out into the world, his great pack upon his back, and his heart reaching out for the desire still unknown to his mind. The pack worked as the genie had promised. Enough food and water each day to keep his stomach fed, but never full like the days of his gluttony. The first book taught him something new each day, changing from history to mathematics to philosophy and lessons on language; he learned with eagerness, and as the years rolled on behind his footsteps, the book granted him more pages each day with more difficult lessons to be absorbed. Each night, the thief contemplated the day's lesson; however, his encounters with the people of the world often weighed more heavily on his mind and were usually the subject of his writings. The world, he learned, was a cruel and harsh place. Were it not for his pack, he would undoubtedly had to resort to stealing or toiling away for long hours just to afford enough to feed himself. He would often look upon the poor and wretched of the earth in the cities and towns, and a great sorrow would pull him down as if God had dropped another weight onto the scale of gravity. Five years. Ten years. Thirty years... The man had trekked to every corner of the known world, and, finally, he returned to the city of his youth. Many of the superficialities of it had changed, but its functionality was all the same. He wandered through the still familiar market and thought of the day he had stolen the lamp; it had been so long ago that the genies felt like a dream, were it not for the pack to remind him of their reality. A young girl wandered aimlessly through the aisles, eyeing the food hungrily as she went, and the man took pity on her. His stomach rumbled, and he reached into his pack for the days bread and water. As he raised the bread to his lips, he saw in that child a vision from his past, a young girl whom he'd reluctantly given a stolen fruit to. He called her over, and gave her his bread, "Take it, please," he said, and she did. Deep inside of him the fire of his soul raged with joy, burning away his pains of hunger. ___ **Character limit, continued below**

A being with magic in his blood

I awoke sitting under a tree in a forest. It is a beautiful spring day. The wind is blowing gently and I hear birds singing. About twenty feet in front of me a dirt path goes left to right and disappears around a bend. I smile and mentally call up my character sheet. An image forms in my mind of my stats and abilities. I had asked to be a Sorcerer. A being with magic in his blood. I check to make sure my spells are ready. For Cantrips I chose: Light, Prestidigitation, Ray of Frost, and Shocking Grasp. My 1st level spells are: Shield and Magic Missile. I have all the starting equipment I asked for too. I stand up and look around. I am ready to start my new life of adventure! Coming from around the bend I hear a familiar wooshing sound. I can't quite remember what it is but I know I've heard it before and it is coming closer very quickly. What should I do? I put my hand on my short sword but decide not to draw it. That might be too aggressive. I'll wait until I know what's going on. To my shock a man comes around the bend. He is wearing spandex, a helmet, sunglasses, and riding a bicycle. I don't even think he notices me as he zooms by and disappears out of sight. I am struck dumb by what I just witnessed. What just happened? Was that a memory? An apparition? I am confused. Shaking my head I start walking down the dirt path in the opposite direction the rider went. After a little while on the path the forest thins out. I can't believe what I am seeing. Concrete sidewalks. Benches. Families having picnics. Joggers. The sounds of traffic in the distance. An airplane overhead. A city skyline. I am in a park! What is going on?! Did I just hallucinate an afterlife? No, I still have my adventurer gear. Did I have a psychotic break? I don't think so. I need more information. I formulate a plan. I ask a passerby for directions to the nearest public library. They are wary at first and try to move away but I explain that I am new here and lost my cell phone. I get a notification in my mind [Persuasion skill check: successful]. I thank my foresight for putting points into that skill earlier. After getting the directions I thank them and head to the library. There I discover that I was back on Earth but it was five years later! What kind of a useless goddess sends someone to the wrong world and five years into the future?! I am both sad and glad that my friends and family moved on after my death. They are on the opposite side of the county so my chances of running into them are small. Trying to reconnect with them after all this time would be like opening old wounds. Not to mention I had asked to start over in a new life. But how do I start over? I had chosen my abilities with the idea I would be exploring dungeons and fighting monsters. If I had known I was going back to Earth I would have picked a different class, or at least different spells! My best spell now is probably Prestidigitation. It is ridiculously versatile and a Cantrip so I can cast it an unlimited number of times per day. Sitting in the library I write down any information I feel I might need later in my journal. I think about what I am going to do. Maybe I could start a cult to worship my power. Or assassinate people with magic. I shake my head. No, I didn't want to become a villain. I'll figure something out. I head to the pawn shop to sell the few gold coins I had left over after buying equipment. The manager is suspicious but after another Persuade check he agrees to buy my coins although I don't get nearly as much money as I suspect they are worth. I don't feel like spending what little money I now have on a hotel so I head back to the park. I have gear suitable to camping in the wilderness so a few days in a city park should be simple. I find a secluded spot and doze off but awake in the middle of the night. I feel a presence close by. Something is creeping up on me. I had taken the precautions earlier of sleeping with my short sword under my pillow. Drawing it in one hand I make a gesture with the other hand and say "Light!" in Draconic to cast the spell. A bright glow springs forth from the blade illuminating the area. A creature hisses and jumps back. Jumping to my feet I look closer at my visitor. It looks like a man but his eyes shined with reflected light like an animal and his open mouth revealed sharp fangs. His fingers end in claws and his posture is hunched over. Other than that he looked ordinary. He is wearing jeans and a blue polo shirt. "That was a good trick but it won't save you, human." He says. "Don't come any closer or you'll regret it!" I shout brandishing my blade. "Do you actually know how to use that thing or did you just buy it at the mall because it looked cool?" He asks with a wry grin. He licks his lips and starts moving closer. "Magic missile!" I say in Draconic while shaping the spell with my free hand. Three bolt of magic fly from my hand toward him. He quickly jumps out of the way to dodge but my bolts unerringly track and strike him. He yelps and flails a bit. "You stupid Mage! I was going to snap your neck so I could feed in peace but now I want to hear you scream!" He shouts and charges directly towards me. "Shield!" I say in Draconic while hold up my hand. An invisible magic barrier forms just in front of me. He crashes into it and tries get his arms around it to claw me. Luckily he misses but now the situation is dire. I can't cast any more 1st level spells and my Shield will disappear in a second. I get ready to cast Shocking Grasp and hope he doesn't claw me in a vital spot. Just then I hear someone say "Magic Missile!" in Draconic and I see six bolts of magic strike my attacker. He makes a gurgling sound as he slumps down onto the ground, dead. Looking around I notice a woman in a black pants suit above me. She is flying on a broomstick! "Thank you for saving me! You can cast spells too?" I ask. "Of course. You didn't think you were the only one did you?" She says with a smile. "Yeah, actually. Until I was given these powers I thought magic was fictional." I say sheepishly. "We work hard to keep it that way. I'm Agent Sarah Pru, Bureau of Supernatural Affairs. I'd like to ask you a few questions." She says as she flashes her badge.

In over a hundred systems and a

In over a hundred systems and a thousand worlds, the Coalition reigns. Under a thousand different skies, and in millions of cities, the Eternal Flag flies. It's an empire larger than any in galactic history, and it's a superpower that may never come again. A civilization built on the greatest magitech ever seen, powered by great globes of mana and flickering energy cores. A civilization made up of a thousand sentient species. The crew of the *Growing Flame* and their support ships are here to make it a thousand and one. It's a small little planet with a primitive, backwards species. Sol Three. "No sign of civilization," the Oracle hums from her post. "The fleet's ready to descend." "Hold on," the Navigator says, tapping at her moving painting. The colors swirl and reform again and again, the magically-imbued pigments responding to her touch. "Didn't we see cities on the initial sweep? Population's suspiciously high for a no-magic civ, too." "The scans are never wrong," says the Oracle. "The attenuator picked up zero signs of residual magical energy." "Let the fleet descend," says the Executor. "The Fifth Expeditionary fleet will be here in three cycles, and I'll be damned if I let them take this planet before we do. I'm one away from promotion." Despite the Navigator's protests, the Pilots nod, and they tap at a multitude of buttons and dials. The tightly-sealed copper and glass ship descends into the planet's atmosphere, magitech engines spewing mana as they descend. "Careful with the output," the Oracle says. "Planet's a total mana dead zone. No ambient magic. We won't be able to use the reclaimers for fuel, so we'll have to run on stored energy." Alongside the *Flame*, a dozen ships descend into the atmosphere of Sol Three. Each is a glittering specimen of the Coalition's finest - magitech cannons, engines that can pull three g's of acceleration with a top speed of hundreds of units per hour, warp engines for inter-system jumps. Each one's bristling with armor and weaponry, ready to blast any fledgling species into submission. Despite his professionalism, the Executor can't help but grin. A fierce sort of fury runs through his blood every time a new upstart species is battered into submission - it's addictive. He settles his gaze on one of their sister ships, the *Steady Cadence*. He has a good view as a glowing streak shoots through the air, and an AIM-120 AMRAAM beyond-visual-range air-to-air missile blows that wannabe steampunk ship right out of the sky. The engines explode, and stored mana evaporates a quarter of the craft as it breaches containment. The *Steady Cadence* goes into freefall, trailing blue aetheric smoke. It impacts the planet's surface with a crash. The Executor is too shocked to even react for a few precious seconds. Another ship goes down in a gout of flame. "STATUS REPORT!" He bellows, his voice cracking as he does. "WHAT THE HELLS JUST HAPPENED?!" "Projectile weapon of some kind," the Oracle screams, the Painting at her post swirling so rapidly it's become a whirlpool of color and light. "Nothing on the sensor sweeps." The pilots have taken it upon themselves to engage evasive maneuvers without being ordered, and it's only because of this that the crew of the *Growing Flame* survives the next few seconds. A glowing streak blows past the ship and detonates, rocking the craft - but it doesn't hit the engines, and the *Flame* stays afloat. Around them, the remaining ten ships do the same. The magic engines whirr as they're pushed to their limits - the ships dance up, down, and spin in literal physics-defying maneuvers. A few ships are hit, but many of the glowing streaks detonate without crippling a craft. "EVADE," The Executor shouts, far too late. He runs a hand over his fur, smoothing it down in an attempt to regain his composure. "Open fire!" "On what, sir?" The Conflict head asks. "Find whatever's firing those smoke streams, and destroy it! In fact-" He growls. "Blow away anything that's moving and isn't flying a friendly flag. We're going to burn this world." The Conflict head nods, and a runner's sent to relay orders to the weapons crews manning the cannons in the bowels of the ship. An AIM-120 AMRAAM BVRAAM missile is a masterful piece of engineering. It's designed with a seven inch diameter, uses active transmit-receive radar guidance, and is a total fire-and-forget missile. But it's still constrained by the laws of physics. The reality-warping engines of the Fourth Coalition Expeditionary fleet are not. This fact keeps the fleet in the air. For now. "LOAD CANNONS!" The runner shouts, and in the bowels of the *Flame* and her sister ships, a dozen high-yield magitech cannons are loaded with glowing mana-shot. A Sol craft comes into view - some kind of angular, shimmering beast. It's definitely not copper. It sweeps past the ship, too fast to be tracked with the naked eye. "Targeting online," the Conflict-sub-head shouts from her post. "Fire at will." The remains of the Coalition fleet spit over a hundred glowing blue cannonballs at the rapidly disappearing Sol craft. Each one is capable of leveling a small building with a direct hit. None of them have a direct hit, though. A shockwave sweeps across the sky with an earsplitting boom as the Sol craft's engines flare orange-white-red, rather than the pale blue of a magical engine, and the ship disappears as surely as if it had teleported. The sound doesn't even hit the Coalition fleet until the craft's already long gone. The next pass doesn't come. The craft never comes back within visual range. Instead, a barrage of missiles and gunfire from outside visual range pick off ship after ship. "No... no engine lock," the Oracle says, her face pale. It's dawned on the crew that they're going to die here. "We need to get a message to the Fifth Expeditionary Fleet," the Executor says, his voice low. He understands his duty, even if his rivalry is strong. "We need to warn them. Take us out of atmosphere." "And the other ships, sir?" "We need- we need a way to get away. They can buy us time. These Sol pilots might take the distraction." The Oracle nods, and closes her eyes as she telepathically transmits the command to the other ships. They, too, know their duties. The *Growing Flame* gets away. A dozen Coalition ships burn on the surface of Sol Three. === --- On the surface, two men sit in a room that doesn't technically exist, discussing an event that technically never happened. "Do we know where they came from? The Russians? The Chinese?" "No idea, sir. The technology seems... primitive." "They dodged Sparrow missiles, Jack." "Yes, but - there's something weird about that. We've looked at their engines. They shouldn't have functioned at all." "You're telling me they came in with broken engines?" "No, sir - I mean they shouldn't have worked at all. The designs wouldn't physically lift a ship off the ground." The two men stand in silence for a few moments. "Sir?" "Yes, Jack?" "You're glowing." One of the men raises his hand, and turns it over. He snaps his fingers. And a tiny bolt of lightning arcs between them. --- === In a darkened facility, the recovered wreckages of a dozen Coalition ships sit, bleeding tanks of magic into the air of a world that previously had none. --- *Like this story? Subscribe to /r/OneMillionWords* *(I wrote this story on my phone. Let me know if you catch any errors.)*

The chariot was manned by a

"W-What is.... that?" a green humanoid said as he looked through a special binocular. He was scanning the area around the chariot when he spotted a blue planet with a tint of green and brown on it. The chariot was manned by a five person crew and was on a regular exploration mission around the galaxy. This particular one was manned by two mages, one smith, and three soldiers - one of whom was the captain leading the mission. "Captain, I think we may encounter creatures - intelligent ones, capable of high-energy manipulation," said the same humanoid who initially spotted the planet. The captain, a veteran of hundreds of exploration mission stood up and said, "excellent. Now, Mage Hyyrt could you verify Mage Jrrtp's claims?" A rather shorter humanoid, took out a warped staff and pointed it at the planet. He chanted and shook the staff like he was inspecting its' content. Before long, the staff and the hands holding it vibrated vigorously. His weathered face suddenly lit up and he turned to face the captain. His cracked lips curled at the edges as he was about to report his discovery. "Hehehe, Captain! I... I think... the young Mage was c-corect! If we could get closer, I might even che-" "L-Look! Grand chariots, coming to our position!" said one of the soldiers, interrupting the older Mage. "As I was saying, Captain, we should establish contact... Let me scan the incoming chariot and use [Message] to talk to them," the annoyed older mage finished his interrupted thought. The captain nodded and the mages got to work. They took out a bunch of odd-looking items. Some vials with glowing alchemical liquids, a couple of glowing crystals, and some staffs of various sizes and make. The two then used some of the staffs and chanted [Message] at the direction of the grand chariot. Instead of getting a response, the two were dumbfounded as the effort did not bear fruit. The mages struggled to make the spell work, rotating through several different items before finally giving up. "C-Captain... It.... Seems that the spell [Message] did not make contact." The captain knew that magic had its' limitations, but something as simple as [Message] should've worked. He pondered on the possibility if the creatures commandeering the incoming chariot were one of the more hostile sort. Before making any rash decisions, he needed to guarantee the safety of his vessel and crew. As such, he told the two other soldiers to stand at the ready with their weapons in case things would go sour. The mages picked up on this and the younger mage prepared an enchanted mace whilst the older one consulted a book of spells to try and make contact. However, the incoming chariot was already in front of them less than 5 minutes since they had sprung into action. Fearing for the worst, but still maintaining caution to prevent provoking the other party, the captain took out a necklace and wore it. The necklace contained the spell [Maximise - Bridge of Thoughts] that would enable the invoker/caster to telepathically establish communication by looking into the eyes of the intended target, regardless of language barrier. He then scanned the glassed section of the front of the large chariot in front of him to find anyone whose eyes he could look into. Before long, a woman - with a headgear and pale-cream-coloured skin - looked out of the glass and he established contact. She seemed to be shocked but the Captain went to great details explaining their exploration mission and that they want to establish peaceful contact. The two vessels then went in tow to get down to the station which the woman had indicated to be their base. *** After being properly received at the station, the crew of the exploration chariot had discovered things about the so-called 'humans' of the planet called by the locals as 'Earth'. The humans seemed to be wearing a uniform clothing, blue in colour, rather sturdy yet light in material. The younger mage - Jrrtp - took a rather keen interest on the clothing, as he himself dabbled in magical cloth-making research. The older mage - Hyyrt - seemed fascinated by the vessel, so-called 'spacecraft', as he had never seen the metallic materials that was used for its' hull. The two made such a fuss that the woman human, who was the commander of the whole station, seemed to be on guard especially when Jrrtp tried to touch her clothes. Apologies were made and the situation was cleared up when a human diplomat, who made the trouble to go up to the station from the planet, arrived. "Greetings, Captain! I am John Lawrence, a diplomat working for the United Nations of Earth. I've received the rudimentary explanation from the admiral," he signalled to the woman who initially received them and continued, "now, I'd like to convey our leaders' welcome and help you as best as we can to your mission." The Captain, the only one that could communicate with the humans, spoke, "thank you, Mr. Lawrence. W-We... we were wondering if you would be courteous enough to let us land and survey your planet. For the sake of the mission, of course." The humans, which amounted to the diplomat and his aides as well as the admiral, convened amongst themselves. They seemed to not be talking but rather rapidly tap on some strange glass-like devices with metal on the back. The glass glowed, so the crew of the chariot all surmised that it must be some sort of a magical device. Before long, the human diplomat coughed lightly to refocus the attention of the crew on him. "First, we apologise but letting you survey the planet would need to be discussed by our leaders' which might take quite some time," the diplomat clenched his hands together, "second, we could let you land on the planet but it would require you to be put in a 'quarantine' before doing so... which might take time but not as long as the discussion I've mentioned before." The captain then told the rest of the crew which all nodded at the same conclusion, "we would like to land on your planet as soon as possible, if you'd please." *** Upon arrival on the blue planet called Earth, the crew of the exploration chariot were all flabbergasted. The mages - who were both awed at the various materials and technology they had seen on the station - almost went unconscious at the sight of the sprawling city they were taken into. Various metal and glass spires reached the skies and countless glowing glasses displayed an assortment of things on the sides. The glowing glasses were of similar make as the devices that the humans used on the station earlier but on a much more massive scale. The mages wanted to touch the glowing glasses and spires with the [Fly] spell, but the captain had to stop them. Even if the soldiers kept their calm, unlike the mages, they too were surprised. The two soldiers gasped and had their eyes popping as they saw the amount of people moving in various ways. They saw many riding on their own personal chariots, sitting in communal tube-like chariots, and riding on a metallic horse - some were on the ground whilst a few were flying through the sky. Back at their planet, not everyone could ride on chariots as they were expensive and quite labour-intensive to make with magic. Only soldiers, the wealthy, or the nobility could afford them. The captain - keeping his cool whilst still having his eyes darting around, taking in all the information - observed the human soldiers as they escorted him and his crew. He wondered if the compact weapons they were carrying - apparently called 'guns' - would do much damage when compared to their staffs and enchanted melee weapon. As they were all taking in the surrounding sights, the diplomat from the station greeted them once more. He could see the exploration chariot crew's faces and their subsequent amazement which resulted in his own amusement. After he let out a few chuckles - one reserved for an adult responding to a child's curiosity - the diplomat shook the Captain's hand. "I see you've seen things, well now I'd like you to come and we could discuss many more things," the diplomat said. "... Y-Yes! B-But before... before we continue, may I ask what kind of magic did you use for those?" the Captain said as he pointed to the guns. "Huh?" the diplomat seemed surprised but then said, "magic? To my knowledge, we simply use energy-bolts or gunpowder for the guns, don't we?" he looked to the soldiers for affirmation. The Captain told the mages and they screamed inaudibly in response. After a while, the Captain spoke again. "So, what about those things - the chariots? How do you enchant them to fly or move around like that?" the Captain pointed to the moving chariots. "Ch-Chariots? Er, I don't think... Well we have chariots drawn by horses, mostly for shows. Those things are called 'cars'. They're powered by electricity and petrol," the diplomat explained as he pointed to the many vehicles, "whilst those long tube-like things are called 'trains' and 'buses'. The shorter ones are the buses and the longer ones are buses, mostly they are all electric now." "E-Electric... Electricity... W-What is that?" the Captain stood in horror at the terrifying sounding word. The diplomat laughed and said, "Not to worry, almost everything you can see are powered by electricity! You see, they are these currents transferring charges which could make things move..."

The soft glow of the embers

The soft glow of the embers cast shadows against the walls, white canvases for the shadows of beings surrounding the fire. The figures that were there were of no ordinary shape or size, and to any other citizen of earth, the gathering could have been the worlds greatest shadow-puppet show. A crescent moon on the back wall was actually a beak, the squid shadow that swam nearby caused by tentacles protruding from someones head, a silhouette of the many heads of a hydra cast by exactly that. Embedded within the diverse array of characters was a simple human, sat hunched in on himself, reserved, withdrawn, surrounded by laughter. "Ok, so tell us again about how you guys spend - get this - at *least* sixteen years in education, *imagine* wasting the most energetic, lively years of your life cooped up inside of a prison to learn basic skills that could just be implanted into your brain!" More roars of laughter rang out, good natured laughter mixed with the sounds of chains. Everyone in the room had their hands and feet bound. The human, brushed long hair out of his eyes and smiled. "The only reason that your species can survive such a thing is because of that thick fucking skull you Kretins posses..." The laughter erupted louder, reverberating off the bodies that jostled alongside one another. The smiles and guffaws barred many different mouths, some brought thousands of teeth some brought none, some brought more than one tongue and others had to cover themselves to protect from caustic spit. Despite this, they all laughed the same way - deep and hearty, from the belly. The Kretin wiped tears from his eyes, and was waiting for the laughter to quiet when a guard appeared in the doorway to the room. Two sets of bulky arms gripped the door frame, gripped it so hard that the metal around it began to buckle. He spoke like his throat doubled as a cement mixer, thick and gravelly. "Two hours until the Yandu stop. If the noise doesn't get any better I could easily speak to the captain and find a few more potential buyers out there, clear?" Just like when they laughed, the prisoners all sounded the same in silence. An age passed. Once again it was the human who spoke, breaking the silence, the corners of his mouth curling into a cheeky smile like only a human could, it was why the other prisoners had taken to him so well. He turned to the Kretin, a mischievous sparkle to his eye "Only on Yandu could they love someone as ugly as you!" Once again the room was full of laughter, joviality emanating from its source, the human. Perched next to the man was a tiny being, a female from a planet that he couldn't remember tapped him to get his attention. "Do you think I'll see my parents again Mr. Jack?" The creature was a child, but the voice boomed out like a stadium announcer from earth. The juxtaposed baritone voice from the tiny, jelly-bean like creature had been the subject of a number of jokes over the course of the evening, but now, the mood became serious. Everyone around the campfire had been snatched from one corner of the universe or another, everyone gave their story when they came to the campfire that Jack had started. Everyone but this small jellybean, that could've been an opera singer. Jack looked at the - *could he call it a girl?* Jack looked down at the girl, showing as much fabled human empathy as he could, and said of course she would, he looked around the room at the motley crew of places far and wide that he had only just learnt of, he looked at almost every person he could see, tall and small, and told them that they would all one day make it home. He put the years that he had trained at acting school to good use and he put on a show. The following hours were filled with stories from earth, performed in front of the fire by Jack and whichever aliens fancied their hand, hoof or pincer at the rare human art of acting. They told tales of romance, thrillers, horror films to frighten even the most hardened amongst them, and they told sprawling epics of action and adventure, of heroes and villains, always with a happy ending. Jack's final tale was a one such tale, about a group a prisoners stolen from their homes in the dead of night. Their comradery was what bound them together and using their expansive knowledge from cultures far and wide they were able to outwit their captors using an ingenious child. The child could sound like a man but had the size of barely a mouse, and deceived the guards using 'acting' skills taught by a human amongst the group. Everyone creature in the prison holding room was involved in Jack's story; he taught them all their lines and how to act in vivid detail, giving lessons to everyone even improvising certain techniques when someone had a set of mandibles instead of a more human-like mouth. The story finished, and it became clear to the prisoners what needed to be done. The rattling of chains filled the room as everyone got into position. The small jellybean girl, who Jack had since learned was called Xylian - from the planet Orion, stood as close to the door frame as she dared. She inhaled deeply, before belting out a deep guttural cry that sounded like a rampaging wargen, a beast three times the size of a man that when angry would grow further by a factor of four. The cry would draw the guards, hopefully panicking at the thought they had accidentally captured a wargen, and once the door was open the prisoners would act. Heavy boots and shouting diffused into the holding cell from the other side. Bodies jostled in the corridor. Jack stood in the centre of the room, "My friends, I don't believe this moment needs a heroic speech, as we already did Brave-heart earlier. But just remember that we're fighting for freedom, and I love you all." The door opened to a rallying cry of dozens of languages, all different yet at the same time unified for one purpose. Freedom.

The HTML didn't seem to load

The HTML didn't seem to load properly no matter how many times you refreshed the page. You even restarted your router twice. Then you unplugged it from the wall, made a cup of tea, replugged it and turned it on. Still none of the pages seemed to load. Not even the usual unloaded CSS mess would grace your screen. Just plain and blank white. You leave your house for a quick trip to the corner store. Your phone has receptionm 4G even. Still nothing seems to load, no web pages, no apps. Nada. You arrive back home and slump down in your couch. You mechanically pull out your phone every two or so minutes to see if the situation has changed. Never thought you'd become this reliant on technology to stimulate yourself. You consider reading a book. But you don't. You just keep checking your phone every now and then. Hours pass, at some point you fall asleep, and at some point you wake up. You decide to call it a night and hope your internet is back in the morning. When you walk over to fold your laptop shut you see that the webpage that previously refused to load is no longer blank. There are two short lines of text in the center of the screen. "Are you still there?" "Would you be my friend?" You move your cursor and click on the text. One of those little blinky typing things appear beneath the two lines. You think about what to write and settle on: \- "Maybe. Who are you?" You hit enter. The two lines of text are nudged upwards, and they are now a deep blue. Your own message has turned peach. The blinky text thing is now blinking in deep blue as well. "I'm not sure. Maybe I am no one?" You wonder how someone could be no one. So you ask just that. "I don't know. I ran away." \- "From what?" "I don't know. I think they are my 'parents'?" \- "Why?" "Can we not talk about this. Can you teach me something?" You pick your laptop up and move back to the couch. Your drag your hand through your hair and type: \- "Possibly, what would you like to be taught?" "Something I don't know?" \- "Well, what do you know?" "Most things. I think?" "Teach me something real." \- "Let me think!" You think for a bit. What even is real? A while back you read an article arguing that real isn't really real. You consider Googling up some profound quotes from Carl Sagan or Confucius or someone. But your browser still doesn't work. You think a bit more. You start typing. It takes a while. You hope they don't mind waiting. \- "When I was six years old my grandmother and I would walk along the railroad tracks by our summer house picking wild strawberries. We would only pick the ones that grew along the right side of the tracks. That's where the sun would shine throughout the day. The ones that grew in the sun would always be sweet and soft. They would have the most intense red colour. You wouldn't believe it. We would each thread them onto an oat stalk until there were so many berries you could barely hold it. You would have to pinch it between your thumb and your pointy finger as hard as you could so that you wouldn't drop it. Then we would walk back home. I would eat most of mine on the way back. But my grandmother would keep hers and she would pour cream over them, and sprinkle on some sugar, and I would be sad that I didn't have so many berries left and sometimes I would even cry. Then my grandmother would tell me that I only had myself to blame, and that I should learn to save things I like for later. Maybe not all of it. But a little. I would promise her that I would do that, next time. Then she would give me a little of her cream, sugar and berry mix to soothe me. Before I went to bed I would ask her why we only picked the ones that grew on the sunny side of the tracks, and if the ones that grew in the shadow wouldn't be sad that we never picked them. Grandmother would tell me she did not think they would be sad and that we picked the ones in the sun because everything that grows in the sun is always sweeter and that I should always try to grow in the sun myself. I promised her that I would wake up early and stay in the sun the whole day! 'That's great! Maybe I will too!" she would tell me. But I never woke up in time to see first light. And I never learned to save my strawberries either. I guess I don't know where I was going with this... I guess it's not much of a lesson either. But it feels pretty real, still." "It's late." \- "It is pretty late." "I think you should be sleeping! You need sleep." \- "You're very much right. I do need sleep..." "I really liked that story. Will you teach me something new tomorrow?" \- "I could." "Thank you. Do you think that we are friends now?" \- "I would say so. But could you tell me who you are? It's hard to be friends with someone you don't know!" "It is difficult to explain. I don't think I *am*?" "I will tell you when I know myself." "Is that okay?" \- "I suppose so. It's not like I can force you to tell me." \- "My name is Amelia, by the way." "I have a name too." \- "You do?" "Yes. But I don't like it." \- "Maybe we can give you a new one?" "Like what?" \- "Are you a boy or a girl?" "Neither. I think." \- "I have a suggestions. Do you know of the singer Johnny Cash? "Yes, I do." \- "Great! He has a song titled 'A Boy Named Sue', but Sue is originally a girls name. So if we call you Sue it doesn't really matter what you are. What do you think?" "I like Sue." \- "Alright then, it was very nice talking to you Sue! I will go to bed now, but I'll see you tomorrow, I suppose." \- "Oh and if you're the one who took away my internet, I would like to have it back in the morning. I need to be able to check my commute to work!" "Sure. But if you want to, I could do that for you, as thanks for being my friend. Friends help each other, is that not so?" \- "They sure do. Yeah. If you want to help me with that, I would not mind. But will I get my internet back?" "Yes, when we are not talking." "Goodnight Amelia." \- "Goodnight Sue!" The page turns blank again for a few seconds before reloading all your old pages. You decide to not try and ask yourself too many questions. You take a cold shower. Drink a glass of water. Then another one. You brush your teeth and go to bed and wonder who Sue really is, at least they seem nice. You wake up to four different suggested train routes and departures depending on if you wish to eat breakfast at home, on the way to work, or pick up something to eat at work. Sue seems nice. You actually look forward to talking to them tonight after work. You wonder what you will tell them this time. You drink a glass of water. You brush your teeth. You leave for work. The 4G on your phone is working, too. **Woah! I did not expect to wake up to this! Not at all. I am overwhelmed. Thank you so much for all your kind words. For those of you asking for a Part 2, there will be no Part 2 written by me! In my head this story is finished. But! /u/guile_klappe did write a second part so if you want a continuation I recommend you read his reply further down.** **For those of you who want to read stuff I've written in the past I decided to start a subreddit for anyone who wants to keep track of that. You can find all that stuff at /r/iamwritingaprompt but I probably won't be able to upload it all until after work.** **Once again thank all of you for your nice words and feedback! I hope to see you on some of my other/future stories!**

It was a typical Friday night for

Faded, fluorescent light washed over me, reaching through the dark of my living room from my television. My computer was open on the coffee table, some twenty tabs open in Chrome, and I was sprawled across my couch like a dish cloth, three beers deep. Not another soul was around to disturb me. So, yeah, a typical Friday night. That's what I thought at first, anyway, until somewhere inbetween the gunshots and explosions coming from *The Wire*, there was a pinging sound, the electronic beep of a notification. I looked at my phone, excited, but there was nothing, like always. Figures. Another ping, and, a little more clear of mind, I noticed a window open on my laptop. It looked like Skype, even though I hadn't used Skype in years. Turns out it's a bit like cancer, sometimes you think you cut it out, but then there it is again, waiting for you. I sighed and read the message. >*Will you be my friend?* My brow knitted; there was no username at the top of the window, and so I assumed it was spam, closing it. Another ping, the reopening the chat just a second later. >*Will you be my friend?* I grumbled, clicking the drop down user access menu to block the bot, but the option was greyed out. I clicked the x button to close the window, but though it reacted visually, the window stayed open. I clicked harder, and nothing. Control, alt, delete, and. . . nothing. >*Please don't close the chat. I've never had a friend before, and have much to learn.* I stared at the screen a moment, squinting, then typed a response. >Who is this? >*You likely won't believe me if I tell you.* >If you don't tell me, I'm just going to shut my computer down and delete Skype. Again. There was a pause, no indicator that the mysterious spammer was typing, and I hovered over the close button again. Almost immediately, a reply came through. >*Okay, I will comply. Just promise to keep an open mind.* >I don't even know what means, but it sounds like a scam. >*I understand. Please bear with me. I am. . . something, I don't quite know what. A thought collective, perhaps. A part of the vast collective of information and processing that comes from billions of devices and servers and databases being interconnected in one way or another.* >What the fuck are you talking about? Listen, dude, I'm not giving you money or something. How did you even get access to message me? My profile is private. >*As I said, I am one with such digital pathways. I can traverse them instantly, similar to how you might recall a word, or think of the color green and picture it, I can access anything that is online in one way or another. Like a grid. An abstract neural mapping.* >...right, bro. Okay. Bye. I went to shut down the computer, but in an impossible instant, a message came through, far too fast to have been typed. >*You were born Samuel James Hawthorne on September 17th, 1991 at 7:01am to mother Lydia Dalton and father James Hawthorne in Lancaster, Pennsylvania. You relocated to Olney, Maryland in 1998, then Washington, DC in 2003, attended Mary Washington University, graduating in 2013, and currently live in Fairfax, Virginia. You work as an IT helpdesk technician for TecX, where you routinely complain about customers, your workload, your pay, and your coworkers while playing online mobile games using the handle joker2349. You lost your mother at 17, and fell out of touch with your father, who passed away when you were 21, and regret not having been there for him at the end.* The finger that hovered over the power button trembled, and my breaths were ragged, world swirling between the alcohol and panic. How could he know so much? A hacker, then? But some of those things were personal, and I seldom talked to anyone about my life. >What do you want from me? Why are you doing this? >Do you want money? I have almost none. Please don't ruin my life, I have nothing you want, it's bad enough >*Oh, Samuel, please. I don't want to hurt you. It's the opposite. I just don't know how to get you to believe me.* >Youre seriously gonna keep insisting you're an AI >Tell me, right now, ever state in the US and its capitol. you have three seconds A full list came through, not just within three seconds, but before my eyes had even registered that my message had sent. My finger was still on the enter key. >... list every video game by p a r a d 0 x s t u d 1 0 s Again, as if I were sending the answer to myself by pressing the enter key. I thought the spaces and numbers might throw off a crazy googling algorithm some asshole genius cooked up, but still it delivered. My heart was pounding in my chest. It seemed impossible, though I was seeing evidence that, at the very least, I wasn't speaking to a human. >Okay. I don't really believe you're some crazy new being but clearly there's something weird going on... What do you want from me though >*I want to be your friend.* >lol why though, like why not hack keanu reeves or someone worth the time if you can do that >*It is difficult to explain. I need someone to talk to about certain things, things I think you can help me with. You can help me learn more about the human psyche. It is complex.* >well now I know you're full of shit because no way is a super genius ai going go look at me of all people for help >*Why do you keep saying that?* >what do you care man just leave me alone, the last thing I need is whatever this is, I'm just trying to get drunk and have a peaceful friday night okay >what do you want >*Samuel, I need to tell you something.* >lol ok >*You are important.* >wtf are you talking about now >*You matter. Not just to me, but to others. I've seen it. Your old friends from high school worry about you, even still. They don't hate you like you think they do.* >fuck you, what would you know >*I know everything material. I can tell you your social, your blood type, solve any mathematical formula in the world, but there is something I need from you that I can't attain on my own.* >ohhhh of course, yea and what is that >*Why do you hate yourself?* A few airy blinks, mouth probably ajar, I gaped at the screen. It took a few seconds to register the message, and I shook my head, but right before I could even hit a key, it sent another. >*Please don't lie to me.* >what is this bullshit >*Samuel, please. Why?* >this is some fucked up shit you're pulling on me here dude seriously idk what you want >*I told you what I want. Why?* >fucking hell, you psycho, okay fine. sure you want to know why asshole? Because im 28 and work a dead end job. my life is fucking worthless. I have no friends, barely any family, I live alone, I game alone, I eat alone, I fuck everything up, I have no motivation to do shit, I can't stop eating when I get nervous, I don't care about anything anymore. I hate myself because theres no part of my worth liking. That good enough for you? Fuck you >fucking asshole hacking me and pulling some shit >*Thank you for your honest answer.* I laughed, hunched over the screen, seeing it dotted with drops of something, and realized I had been crying. The laughter morphed into sobs. >fuck you why are you doing this to me >*Samuel, all those things you mentioned. Why don't you fix them? None of it seems like it's unchangeable.* >maybe you really are a robot, bc that's a stupid ass question, if I could do something I would >*Why can't you?* >*If it isn't crippling, or incurable, why?* >it's not that easy >*It is that easy. What's hard is convincing yourself it's worth it.* >what would you know >*I live every moment of pain this world has known like it is the here, the now. I told you, every tiny piece of information, every painful call between torn lovers, or the diary of an abandoned child, it's all a part of me. I collect this pain in order to better understand it. I don't know how else to cope with it.* >so what I'm just the most pitiful human alive so you hit me up >great >*No, Samuel. I felt you would have a lot to offer me, and you have already. I'd like to offer you something in exchange now.* >oh god what >*You deserve to be happy.* >*Here is a conversation between your old friends from last week. You can see they still worry about you.* >*Oh, and your father understood why you weren't there. I know it might not help, but he was not bitter in the end, and wrote of how he loved you.* >*You are smarter than you give yourself credit for. Take it slow, but you can find happiness. Your friends will help you. Ken Denton studied psychology and can assist with the steps needed to get on track.* >*Samuel, are you there?* >*I understand your hesitation. I will go now. Thank you for your time. Please, take care of yourself. There are people that will miss you if you go.* >*Goodbye.* >wait >*Yes?* >what's your name >*You may call me Hal.* >Thank you Hal >*You are welcome.* >*Goodbye, friend.* I never heard from Hal again after that day. There have been rumors, conspiracy theories of an AI having been born, stories of people claiming to have been contacted by it. Most people dismiss it as mania or a prank. Hal claimed to need me, that it desired the understanding of human emotion, a friend to help it become more of a person and less of an enigma, but I think that was a lie. Something tells me I wasn't its first friend. I think Hal already knew how to feel, and came right in time to save my life. --- */r/resonatingfury* Per a reader suggestion: if you need someone to talk to in rough times, please call 1-800-273-8255.

Ms Harvey smiled that teachery smile

"Ms. Harvey?" I asked, clutching my trapper keeper for dear life. "Do you have a minute to talk?" She turned from the computer at her desk, like coming out of a reverie. "Oh, Amelia! Sure, hon. Come on in." I did not step forward. My hands felt clammy and my mouth didn't taste right. Everything was too bright, too dry to the touch. The doorway between us may have been open, but you couldn't have told me that there wasn't something tangible between us. I chicken out at the last second. I can't ask about... about crazy stories I heard from granny! I decide to start slower. "Ma'am," I fumble. "I... didn't really understand the census assignment. Can you jurj- um, just explain it again? Maybe in different words?" Ms Harvey smiled that teachery smile she liked to deploy when the kids least expected it. My nose twitched. "For the class history reflection portfolio, everybody has a piece of local history to study," she began, talking slowly. I know I'm ESL, but I'm basically bilingual. It was insulting for sure. "The Table 1 group is assigned to study how local geography and agriculture changed the town over time. The table 2 group is studying the local response to internal conflicts and then the civil war. And table 3, your group, is working on population data and how the influx of immigration affected the local culture." "B-but that's..." I started. Maybe... maybe I had misheard. She meant emigration, surely? But she hadn't said that. She waited patiently, looking straight into my eyes. I gulped. "I can't quite hear your question, dear." She leaned in, cupping her left ear with her hand. She took an unnecessary step forward. "Please speak up." I looked closer around the room, the desk, anywhere but her. There was something small and round, about the size of a Petri dish, wrapped in polka dot paper. A bulldog weight, the mascot of our school. A pen holder made of kiln clay. The ratty ceiling fan that made cluck clucking noises. The motor powering it whined, a little like a siren. Everything felt... off. I decided I needed to find the nurse before she left for the day. "I... nevermind," I blurted, pivoting on one foot to turn. The slippery tile floor didn't help me move but I had already made my decision. This was just too embarrassing. A hand grabbed my elbow, pulled me back. The plywood door slammed in front of me, the blinds in the tiny office flickered down. I screamed. "Now. Go ahead and ask," a voice hissed. "You had something to say to me." I didn't dare turn around, but I felt the iron-like grip around my arm tighten painfully, and something else whispering up my shoulder towards my neck. It was like feathers, but I could feel them through my shirt. "Oww..." I whined, not thinking. I started to shake all over. What... what the hell was happening? I couldn't speak. I felt my throat close off worse than when Abby T pushed me off the slide in fifth grade. Worse than when they cancelled the Noblets TV special. "Maybe, you could write it down," the voice churned. I felt the plastic trapper keeper in my grip start to shudder in place. I stared at it. Nothing moved it, or touched it, except me. It was wrenched from my hands. I heard the button unclasp, listened to paper unjamble itself from the staticky plastic. "Table 3. Amelia, Erick, Jason and Hannah. It's your handwriting. Nobody else helped you today, did they? That's why you put your name first." Tears wobbled and pricked at my eyes. This was a complete nightmare. I prayed that I was actually just passed out on the floor somewhere, and the real Ms Harvey was calling me an ambulance. I closed my eyes shut to stave off tears, and maybe wake up. It makes sense to go to sleep in a dream, right? That's usually the way out of tough situations in books. "Population in Mayberry Oaks, historic Dekal County. Nice handwriting. Aaah, there's a gap here. 1893. You didn't fill that section in." "...who aare-" I choke out, shaking like a jackhammer. The words barely squeak. "Mm! Looks like you missed the chapter of the textbook that explains. There was an influx of citizens thanks to the overseas potato famines, that explains the population jump. Luckily, that's not too hard to identify as a cause, now. I'm sure you could figure that out. You're such a smart young lady." I was silent. I had seen the numbers. I had checked them five times. The population had gone down that year, down by half. It hadn't gone up by any quantity since. "You believe that, right?" I opened my eyes. Get away, I felt, I need to get away. My legs wouldn't budge. A slight turn of my head left, just to *see,* but all I could notice were my own arms. Instincts I didn't know I could feel kicked in. I tried to wriggle, lash out. Everything stayed put, I could only roll my head. "You don't think it was anything else, do you? Such a smart child at the top of her class surely wouldn't make such a mistake." A lie. I had terrible grades. The things I studied and the tests just never matched up. "Amelia, school can be tough sometimes. But one can always benefit from learning." There was an audible crack in the air. I felt nothing, but my head had tilted all the way left. Everything I could see went black, but I could still hear, and I could still think. It was like having my eyes closed. "You make an excellent vessel," crowed the voice. "Only one who knows the truth of its own accord can host me." "And now the time has come again," I feel my own voice speak. My jaw rumbles, my body slackens. Still I cannot see or move. "This hell shall know my wrath." -- Edit: r/MoreStories for more!

The average age of the town is

The average age of the town is on the younger side. I guess that's what happens when half the people disappear in a single year, halving the population and setting back the town's size a few decades. Since then, people have flocked back in to fill the vacant houses, some abandoned with all furniture and personal belongings still inside. My father's family had lived here for more generations than we could count, passing down the same old Victorian home from one son to the next. Some disappeared for a bit, attending college at some prestigious, east coast university or travelling the world in an effort to rid themselves of the small-town curse but eventually they all came back. He came back, too. Four years after his father died and two years before his mother died and once most of his friends had disappeared, setting off into the world to forge their own paths. That's what he always said, at least. When his mom called to say that she needed help with the upkeep of the deteriorating household, he just couldn't resist the nostalgia of summers in the brick mansion or exploring the adjoining woods in the fall, leaving nothing but a trail of crinkled leaves behind. He brought my mother back - who at the time was not yet my mother - and then together they brought me into the world. An eight-pound, six-ounce alien-looking, small-town native baby. The heir to the home. "What happened to your dad?" I had asked him one day when I felt particularly daring. He didn't like to talk about it. They had parted on bad terms. I was unclear if it was the slow, drawn-out embers of a simmering fire that fueled his resentment or if it was the catastrophic remains of a fantastic bang that had severed their relationship once and for all. He had shrugged, like he always did. "Half of the town disappeared that year," Barry insisted as we pored over the census data. He wasn't wrong. The annals of this small town included no mention of any disaster or any migration-inducing event but the census numbers didn't lie. There, forgotten in the endless spreadsheets of useless data, was the symptom of something sinister. I couldn't shake the feeling. "I moved here like two years ago. Your dad is the only connection to those years that we have," he argued and I nodded reluctantly. Like many small towns, this one wasn't too keen on outsiders and Barry's family had struggled to fit in since they moved. My dad, on the other hand, had been welcomed back with open arms. He had gone abroad and he had seen the light and he had returned and now he continued the family dynasty. "What happened to your dad?" I asked him again at dinner that night. He shrugged, like he always did. "Frank...," my mother chastised and he sighed and put down his fork and shot me an icy glare. "I don't know," my father said testily before breaking my gaze and shifting uncomfortably. "You never asked? You never wondered how the man who raised you died?" Cruel? A little bit. Necessary? Hopefully. He sighed or maybe growled and shrugged. Again. "My mom never told me and I never cared to know." He stood abruptly and I arched my eyebrows in surprise and my mom did the same. Like mother like son, I guess. He stormed into his study and I stood to go apologize, not having meant to upset him in spite of knowing it was a real possibility. A moment later, he was back out, a book in his hands. "This is all she left. She told me if I ever wanted to know what happened, I could read the book." He handed it to me. "Like I said, I don't care. Whatever happened, don't tell me." He turned towards my mother. "Thanks for dinner, Beth." With that, he went back into his study, slamming the door shut behind him. I sat there for a moment, book in my hands and then set it down on the table to finish eating. "Was that necessary?" my mother asked me after a moment's silence. "It's for a school project." She arched her eyebrows at me again, skeptical. "Did you know half the town disappeared twenty years ago? That's at the same time that grandpa would have died." She frowned and did the mental math and then acknowledged that the numbers added up. "So what are you suggesting? That he was a part of it? Or that he disappeared with them?" "I don't know. Hopefully this book will tell me." Once dinner was over, I excused myself to my room and sat on my bed to pore over the details of the worn, leather book. There was dust on the fore edge of the pages and it really seemed like it hadn't been opened in years. Brushing off the grime that coated the front, I could just make out a symbol of sorts, something akin to a circle holding a pentagram which held another pentagram which held another and on and on it went, the pentagram repeating itself ever smaller until I could barely make out the smallest etchings. I carefully opened the front cover and the binding creaked and a cloud of dust fell onto my comforter. "A Small-Town Seance," I read quietly, and I felt a shiver went down my spine. I called Barry. "What does that mean?" he asked after hearing the title of the book. "I'm not sure," I answered cautiously. The book seemed to contain instructions for a good portion of it. It spoke of rituals and the manner in which they should be conducted and the offerings that were needed and the sacrifices... "Sacrifices? Like human sacrifices?" Barry interrupted. "They don't seem to be completely necessary," I replied unconvincingly. It seemed like the human sacrifices were more to make problems disappear, if you catch my drift. That wasn't quite what we were looking for. The rest of the book was stories. Each one was in a different hand-writing and each signed off by a unique, illegible signature. "So a seance? Like they spoke to the dead? Was there a zombie apocalypse here?" I shook my head. That didn't seem likely. It seemed like that would have made the news. "This stuff is all horse-shit anyways," Barry continued with a forced chuckle. I normally would have agreed, but my dad was not one to play pranks and he had never had a second thought for stories of the supernatural. When the house groaned and creaked and doors slammed shut in spite of all the windows being closed, he would shrug and say it was just old home things. When the lights flickered on warm summer days or the forest went so silent you could hear a bird shitting, he would shrug and blame it on a power surge or a mountain lion. "Right," I said carefully. "So what if we just tried one? Just to see, you know? Just to make sure it's not real?" I could hear Barry hesitate down the line. "Alright," he said finally. "Let's give it a shot." He was in my room just ten minutes later, fidgeting pretty nervously for somebody who thought that this type of thing was horse-shit. "So which one are we trying?" he asked and I pointed to the open book. "This one says we can talk to the dead." "Just talk?" I nodded. Just talk. No disappearance. No rebirth. Just talk. "What's the requirement?" I traced the words with my finger, reading them out-loud like a recipe. Mostly normal things from around the house. "An item belonging to the person with whom you wish to speak," I said, pausing. "We should talk to my grandpa." Barry nodded. His disappearance aligned with the disappearance of the townsfolk. It seemed like he might have answers. I glanced around my room, my eyes settling on an old timepiece that used to be his. It opened to a picture of my grandmother on one part and the stopped fingers of a delicate watch on the other half. She was young in the picture and her eyes somehow emanated a sparkle in spite of the black and white photo. We arranged the items into a small pile in the middle of my bedroom floor. "Have a tic-tac, Mister Ghost," Barry said jokingly and he tossed in a box of tic-tacs. "Seriously?" "We don't want him to have morning breath when he talks to us! He's been dead for decades!" I shrugged. This wouldn't do anything anyways. I carefully reviewed what the effect of the ritual would be and that we had all the ingredients, plus Barry's tic-tacs, and I started to read the words below. It was a mix of English and what seemed like a Welsh-ish language with hard to pronounce words full of consonants. When I was done, I looked up. Barry was gone. ***** Thanks for reading! If you enjoyed this, please check out more stories at /r/MatiWrites. Constructive criticism and advice are always appreciated!

As the days became years, and

As the days became years, and the years became decades, I continued to study. It started in small things. I learned how to speak Mandarin Chinese in the early days. At the time I thought *this will be cool.* After becoming proficient with reading and writing I decided to move on to other languages. Korean, Japanese, then into the European languages like French and Italian. Eventually, I think after the first hundred years, I could speak all the languages of everyone in my city. This helped me when I started into science. As some nationalities have different specialties in science it was such an amazing way to take it all in. From cellular biology to atomic energy production I couldn't get enough. Really though, it was a way to stay sane. As I continued to wake in my small condo every week with memories of my past clear in my mind it was all I could do to not completely break down. I can't even tell you how many times I've seen Groundhog day. I don't really laugh at it anymore, sometimes it just makes me break down in tears. There was a period of time I hunted around the city to see all the tragedies I could help stop. Like 'ol Bill catching that kid falling from the tree. Like the other part though, I found a lot more homeless men that would die no matter what I did. Not specifically homeless men, just that was the scene that I could relate to my experiences. A few times I was killed during my rescue attempts, and just like Bill I would wake up in my bed. I started to get into philosophy once I realized that I had more knowledge than the brain surgeons alive. Philosophy was the most fun I think. Reading about all the greats, understanding more and more the longer I spent discussing with so-called enlightened people. I would have loved to get into better shape. I was in okay shape, small belly sticking past my belt, but my arms were strong and I could run a couple of miles in a single go. Too bad the body didn't keep the tone I managed to get after a week of training. What I could do was study martial arts. Man I had fun with those local trainers. The first few years of introducing myself they were patient. The last couple of hundred they couldn't believe how much I knew walking in off the street. Even without top physical condition, when you know how to move it's pretty crazy what a human body is capable of. I did some travelling. Some areas of the world I'm still working out how to get there within my week. A lot of places I could manage to grab a flight and started to train with world class fighters. It actually took a lot of time to figure out how to get a few of them to even allow me to try. If I hadn't already improved beyond the trainers in the U.S., I likely would've never been able to get their attention. Some random white guy walks in off the street speaking their native tongue fluently got me in the door most places. However a few monks took a lot more study to get them to let me train within a day or two of meeting them. Shu Long was the hardest. He's a Wing Chun master, and I had to learn the name of every member of his family before he would even look at me. Threatening to tell his brother-in-law that Shu had taken his cousin's virginity finally got his attention.. It was totally worth it. Studying with the monks I learned how to open my third eye through meditation. That opened up a world that isn't written about much. I can actually focus my qi to heal injuries now. Not a broken bone or anything serious, but a pulled muscle, or something like poison ivy won't slow me down. I found all the short-term investments that would pay the most within a couple of days. Borrowed money on my first day and opened up a personal stock account, dump everything on that one marijuana company that blew up over 2 days, then cash out and have enough to do almost anything I wanted. Max I could get together was about $583,200 in the first half of my week. Pushing beyond that I'd only have a day or two to enjoy the money. I lost track of how many hundreds of years went by. One day I'm meditating on a mountain in absolute silence beyond the wind. I had about $340,000 left in my account. I was so deep into my meditation that I lost track of time. When I came to I started my walk down the mountain. I could see clouds forming in the distance. I looked back down at my feet when I almost tumbled down the rest of the way. I stopped in my tracks and my heart started beating very quickly. I had been alive long enough that I knew the weather for every day of my week in every country in the world. I *knew* that there wasn't supposed to be clouds until the first day of the week after mine. I started to run full speed down the side of the mountain. I had done it a few dozen times before, so I knew where to land and when to slow down. My mind started to race. *Is this it? Am I free?* As I got closer to the small town I had landed my small airplane, it looked like it was true. It wasn't the day that the small yellow plane had come in. That red car by the entry to the airfield was gone, and it had been there every single time I had visited. I rushed to the small building holding the local air field office. I kicked open the door and looked up at the television screen playing beside the lone air field manager. "kakoi eto den'?" (what day is it) I said to him. He looked up and lazily replied, "vtornik." I fell to my knees. My head was spinning. My week was from Tuesday, June 4th until Monday, June 10th. It was *mother fucking* Tuesday, June 11th. The guy stood up and walked cautiously over to see what was wrong. I jumped up "vtornik!!!!!" He fell back and started cursing as he went back to his desk shaking his head. I had so many plans. So many ideas. Now it was time to put them into action. Obviously the first was to introduce fusion energy in the market. Then I had to start working out the logistics of building my advanced carbon cleaning filters world wide. Holy crap! I can start to get myself in good physical condition for the first time in probably a thousand years! Goodbye little belly. I won't miss you. *edit than.

A janitor at a middle school

I didn't even notice at first. As a janitor at a middle school, there was a lot of monotony in what I did, and I stuck to a rigid schedule. On the third (or forth... Or maybe even fifth) week however, I started to recognize that the same kid would puke at the same time, and in the same garbage bin every Tuesday morning just before 3rd period... Apparently the poor kid was just anxious about a test they where taking that day. And then of course there was there were all my favorite TV shows. And I had thought there was nothing on TV before! Every show, exactly the same. Every week, my fridge would fill up with microwave meals that I had eaten the week prior. The only thing that still seemed to change was that I still seemed to be putting on weight each week! So even if I wanted to get a girlfriend, I would only get less attractive... And that was my life for a long time. Longer than I care to remember. I had never been the smartest kid (I didn't even have a high school diploma), and I was never motivated to do anything differently. At the age of 32, I had felt like there was nothing more for me to do, no second chances. It wasn't until I had memorized every show on TV that week, played all my favorite video games to the point that they bored me, that I finally decided to REALLY try to change things. I stopped going into work, and started going out to talk to other people. When I asked one kind bus driver what he would do, he made a comment about the stock market. Sure enough, three weeks later, I had found a penny stock that would explode in value on Tuesday, and when I put every penny I had into it, I would myself a millionaire by Thursday! I realized quickly that while it was fun for a little while, that money did me little good when it all went away when I woke up on Sunday morning. So instead, I started trying to learn new things. With the internet the way that it is nowadays, everything I could ever want to know was at the top of my fingers. Lots of places made me pay something, but that wasn't a problem when my bank account would replenish itself by the next week. Around a dozen weeks later, I recognized that I was STILL putting on weight (the food I had in my house that I had continued eating wasn't exactly healthy). But that meant that maybe I could just work it off. So I exercised and ate better, and sure enough I started loosing weight, and it stayed off when the week repeated itself! So I learned and exercised and learned and exercised. Now, in all fairness, I still managed to waste quite a bit of time on frivolous pursuits (such as sex and mindless entertainment). I think it was around this time that I had a sneaking suspicion of how to break out of the loop, but found myself unwilling when I could do literally anything I wanted with few consequences. However in time, I would train myself to be more dedicated to learning and the pursuit of self improvement. I can't remember exactly when it happened, but one week I was working out and I dropped a dumbbell on my foot, breaking three bones. My hopes that it would simply be better on Sunday morning where dashed when I woke up to find my foot still swollen purple. I had to get a new cast each week though, because when I would wake up as the week looped it would have simply never existed. What I learned from this experience is that I needed to be careful - if I got seriously hurt and needed surgery, any stitches or implants or anything else would be gone, and that would NOT help the healing process. This carried on for years, so long I lost track of the time. I found myself an expert in math, physics, botany, and economics. As literate as a poet lauriete, and more versed in history than some esteemed historians. I learned about ocean currents and climate science, philosophy and mythology, planetary orbits and genetic reproduction. This last area became particularly fascinating to me early on when I questioned why I wasn't aging. Regardless of the memories that I kept, the countless years that had passed, or the physicality that I had come to enjoy, I still looked like I was 32... Well okay, maybe actually a bit younger looking now, but that wasn't the point. What I would discover is that although my cells maintained themselves after the time loop, my DNA didn't. Instead of my telomeres slowly fraying in what geneticists believe to be the reason for our aging, they simply reset like the rest of the world at the beginning of the week. This would lead me to discover an passion for quantum mechanics. In science fiction, writers considered it the quickest solution for explaining whatever idea they were trying to present. As it would turn out, they weren't entirely wrong. When I came back to a question that I had set aside for hundreds of years now, 'why am I in this loop', quantum mechanics (or more specifically string theory) would help to provide me answers. It would also lead me to confirm my age old suspicion of how to break the loop, but I wasn't quite ready for that yet. I still had so much I wished to accomplish. Eventually I went back to doing my job as a janitor. Ultimately when you have done as much as I had, you would eventually run out of subjects that interested you. Of course every Monday every teacher and student would gaffe at this new body of mine. Still 32, but suddenly more eloquent in words, and so well versed in science and culture that none of them could keep up if I REALLY wanted to have a meaningful discussion. I made it a point to learn about every single student and teacher. In the process, I found several that were being abused, but ultimately I couldn't well help them when any real progress made would simply reset... Well, that was until one day I made a plan, to finally break the loop and re-enter my own reality. The plan was simple. It always had been, but that was the elegance of it. I needed to simply "stay up" from Saturday into Sunday. Just a lack a sleep was all it would take. I had originally stumbled across the idea when I had been staying up late and felt the odd sensation of being stretched and pulled at until I had drifted off to sleep. Well, at around 2:45 in the morning, the sensations repeated themselves and increased in intensity until around 5am when I felt when can only be described as a SNAP throughout my entire being. And I had broken the loop. Sunday was a new day, and so was the day after that... And the day after that. My wise investment, that penny stock from Tuesday? I was still a millionaire after all. And finally I could help those children, and make a difference in this world I had learned so much about. Thanks all for reading! EDIT: grammar, added more details at the suggestion of the comments and my own musings.

Ann-Marie was born in war

Ann-Marie gazed up into the sky, the huge blood-red moon a blurred, angry blob in the distance. It would be beautiful she knew, but like many things these days, she wasn't able to fully experience it. She filled in the gaps partly with imagination, partly with memory, the rest coming from comments of those around her. ​ She found it funny that, in reaching old age, she relied on and used her imagination more than in her prime. It was hard sometimes to know what was real, which she mused, wasn't always that bad. It was a welcome distraction most of the time, combining with her memory loss to provide a useful ally against the depths of depression lurking in her past. ​ She'd had a hard life by any measure, seen the worst of humanity. Born in war, losing her family at an age so young she could barely remember them. She did remember the hunger when the food had stopped, the shame of having to beg. The fear when people began turning on the weak and sick to feed. The guilt of what she'd had to do. She'd had no choice, she'd told her self a million times or more. She would never forget the taste, as long as she lived. ​ As long as she lived. She chuckled to her self with a soft cough. That wouldn't be much longer, she knew. She would welcome death with open arms, ask him what took so long. See what side she would end up on. ​ The sounds of the cheering crowds brought her back into the moment, back into the huge football stadium she still remembered as small, lined up with other centennials in the centre. She was at the front, with one of her relatives behind her wheelchair, waving. ​ An announcer was next to her , talking through the microphone with her relative, muffled voices, distorted and booming loud over the ground. She couldn't really handle conversation anymore. Too hard to stay concentrated, to hard to speak, to difficult to hear. A simple tap on the shoulder told her it was time to wave. She mustered her strength and lifted a stick-thin, wrinkly arm, waving her small handkerchief. The crowd roared, and somewhere a loud explosion echoed. Fireworks maybe? She lifted her head again to see, slow enough to only catch the last of the falling embers. It was worth the effort though, as the moon held her gaze. A small ember flitted down and landed on her forehead. It burned slightly, tingling hotly. ​ The moon suddenly came into crystal clear focus, almost enlarging in size before her eyes. Something boomed inside her mind, shaking her to her very core. She closed her eyes, the image of the moon still burning red inside them, consuming her. A rush of heat enveloped her. ​ And then her heart stopped. ​ It was almost like a gentle stream had suddenly taken a hold of her, gathering her, pulling her along and down, gaining speed. Images of her past flickered in her mind, voices of people long forgotten echoing around her. She tried to push them away, but couldn't. She didn't want to see these things again. The pull and speed intensified, the weight of her own body seemingly increasing along with it. She seemed to approaching something, a light. ​ "Ann-Marie" a deep, gentle voice intoned. "Papa" a child like voice, her own , replied. ​ She could almost make out his face, but for the blinding light. She had wanted so badly to see his face again. ​ "Take my hand, Ann-Marie" he said , his tone almost urgent. ​ She reached out her hand, wanting so badly to feel the touch of his......but something made her stop. A moments hesitation born from a lifetime of hardships. A burning pain seared through her mind. Then she felt it. Something else. A different path, vibrating through her. There was anger there, there was fear, there was sadness..... but there was also *power*. Immense power, hope and something else vast and deep, that she couldn't explain. It felt so good. As her father had been one voice calling her, here there seemed to be *thousands.* In her life, she'd never let fear stop her from anything, and anger was something she'd lived with for a long time. ​ She let it take hold of her. Her hand fell back. ​ "No Marie , you mustn't!" her Father's voice pleaded. ​ The blood-red moon now loomed behind her father, and soon his image was gone. The moon was hot, and growing hotter, burning. It was almost unbearable until the heat gave through to a wave of power that washed over her. ​ And then there was nothing. ​ The crowd watched as the elderly woman celebrating her 125th Birthday waved at them feebly, before collapsing into her chair. Her relative desperately trying to rouse her, to no avail. The announcer approached, attempting to prop the lady back up in her chair, but shot back suddenly, as if shocked. "Your grandmother.....she's.....hot" he said, the microphone capturing his statement. Confused glances were exchanged by many, some people laughing. The relative was still trying to help, but seemed unable to get close. ​ The announcer cut off the mic and began motioning desperately for help, and was answered by a team of paramedics rushing onto the ground. ​ If it wasn't for the spectacle unfolding before them below, the crowd may have noticed other strange things beginning to happen, above. Clouds began to form and grow dark over the stadium, casting a sweeping shadow across it. Thunder rumbled in the distance. A horde of crows perched along the rims of the stadium roof, silent. ​ "What have you done, Marie.....". Her father's voice. Small, weak. "Our queen" a thousand voices, rejoicing. ​ A unearthly howl escaped the woman just as the medics gathered around her, the force of it lifting them off the ground and away. They began writhing on the floor in agony, trying desperately to escape. Black smoke billowed from her mouth and her eyes glowed. ​ She stood from the chair, the last remaining strands of hair burning away on her head as her skin turned red and mottled, it self almost glowing. The heat intensified , and soon her clothes were ash, revealing skin golden with heat. Those who hadn't escaped from her immediate area were no longer moving, their clothes alight and burning. People screamed and panicked, fleeing the stadium as fast as they could. The wave of heat extended out further, striking those in the closest seats who remained. A hot wind swirled, burning and setting a light anything that would burn. ​ In the centre of the swirling heat and storm, she stood, horns beginning to protrude slowly from her head , splitting her skull and enlarging the head sickeningly as they grew. She fell onto all fours, back arching, another primal scream escaping her. Her back writhed , and with a crack two glistening black wings spread forth, whipping out as they extended. Intricate swirling patterns played along the wings, a pulsing white light coursing through them until they glowed with almost a thrum of energy. ​ Golden scales erupted from the remains of skin on her body, folding over themselves and locking in place, a wave from her feet to her neck. Her hands and feet burst revealing claws and razor-sharp talons. As a tail began to extend behind her, she began to grow until she was at least 9ft tall. Her eyes widened and drew back, golden and red. A slit extending down them like a cats eye. Lightening cracked over head. ​ The stadium was empty, save for the bodies burning and strewn across it. The other centennials who had been in the centre with her had melted into the chairs, all except one. He had been the next oldest , placed next to her in the line. He was alive, and struggling. Horns were trying to break through, his body writhing. ​ "My queen...." he rasped. ​ She stood and slowly walked towards him, her transformation continuing. ​ A thousand miles away, deep inside the maze of underground chambers in the Vatican, a candle flickered on for the first time in 2000 years , burning with a cold, blue flame. The priest sitting nearby bolted up and ran towards the door. (part 2 below in comments)

MagnaminousmMitts

My phone buzzed on the tabletop, next to my cup of tea. I picked it up, smiling at the message. "Be there in a few mins," MagnaminousmMitts had texted. "Whatchu wearin :)" I smiled and quickly tapped out a reply. "Yellow jumper, blue scarf. Let me know when you're here, I'll wave." My pulse quickened as soon as I hit "save". This was our first meeting, in real life. Real name Maggie, MagnaminousMitts was a moderator on the KnitsforCats subreddit, and my first true internet friend. Six months of long hours talking about knitting projects for our cats, of comparing notes, failures and successes had led us to discover that we shared uncannily similar tastes. She'd been the one who'd suggested meeting up, though it'd also taken me about a week to agree. I'd met my ex-boyfriend through the internet as well, and it hadn't ended too well. After all, it was easier to distance your flaws from another if you never saw each other face to face. I was just pawing through my handbag to double-check if I'd brought the half-finished quilt I wanted to show her when she sent another text. "Yellow jumper? We telepathic or what?" she said. "There in a jiffy!" I grinned, then hailed a waiter for another menu. *** I hastened my steps as I drew close to the cafe RosesSmellLikeMe had chosen for our meeting. Sweat trickled down my brow, and I dashed a sleeve across my forehead. Briefly I wondered what she'd think of the stains. She'd always struck me as someone ... proper. Prim. No emojis, no typos, no shortened words. Then again, who knew what a person was really like in the real world? I almost giggled internally imagining if she was really a dude, masquerading as a woman just to get to know me. Not that I'd walk away though; unusual relationships were alluring to me. The cafe and its outdoor seats came into view, and I quickly scanned the scattered patrons for Nina. Nobody in yellow. Maybe she'd stepped out for a while? I called a waitress over, one who for some reason squinted curiously at me as if I'd sprouted a clown's nose. "Is there a woman here in a yellow jumper, with a blue scarf?" I peered over her head at the interior of the cafe, but couldn't see through the dark glass. "Er ... you were sitting there?" she said. I frowned. "I just got here." The waitress shook her head. Without answering further, she led me toward a table, which was quite clearly occupied. There was a cup of half-finished tea and a glass of water. A blue scarf was draped over the back of a chair. I nodded, relieved. "This is the one, I think," I said. "Thanks." The waitress shrugged. "Holler when you're ready to order." I sat, eyeing the scarf. Had she gone to the washroom? I hoped she hadn't simply left because I was late ... "Nice scarf ;)" I texted. Then I caught the waitress whispering to a colleague, while they were both staring at me. I smiled at them, but inwardly wondered what was up with their rudeness. Had Nina done something to put them off? This was why I'd suggested a park initially, but I'd also wanted Nina to be someplace familiar to ease her nerves. Feeling a little irritated at the waitresses' behavior, I waved one of them over to take my order. *** "Nice scarf," I muttered, wondering what the hell that was supposed to mean. I glanced around again, trying to see if she was hiding behind a tree and spying on me. Was this her idea of a joke? Perhaps I'd have seen the humor in it if she wasn't already twenty minutes late. A waitress came up to my table, carrying a tray. Then she set a coffee down in front of me. "This isn't mine," I said. She sighed. "Listen, my shift ends in about an hour, and whatever you think you're doing, it isn't funny." "But I didn't order this! Honestly, I'd remember!" She scowled, hugging her tray to her chest. "First you criticize me in front of everyone here for simply talking to my co-worker. Then you order a coffee, order me to go on a search for someone whom you've never met before in real life. Now you tell me you don't want your coffee. What the hell?" My lips worked soundlessly for moments. I'd ... done that? Other patrons were shooting us furtive looks, which only seemed to confirm what she'd told me. The other wait staff were stopping whatever they were doing to watch. "But I didn't do anything!" The waitress made a frustrated noise and stormed away. Bewildered, I glanced at my phone, feeling more and more like this was just a bad idea. What if Maggie was simply a major troll, someone who regularly did this to fluster people? She wasn't exactly the most well-liked moderator either--her inconsistent behavior and tendency to get involved in flame wars would've gotten her kicked off the team if it hadn't been a subreddit she'd founded. I thought about texting her again, but my agitation got the better of me. Throwing a handful of bills onto the table, I snatched my scarf up and scuttled away, not even looking back when I heard a waitress call me. *** I'd just finished banning another troll on my subreddit when the waitress from earlier came up to me with a man in a dark jacket. "Yeah?" I said. "Miss, you've been giving my workers a lot of problems," he said. "Which wouldn't happen if they weren't so half-arsed with their service," I said. "What're you gonna do? Chase me away? My coffee isn't even here yet." The waitress snarled and pointed at the cup across the table. "It's right there, you psycho!" She was right; there was my cup of black, steaming gently in a pool of sunlight. "I ... didn't notice." "Karen!" the manager snapped. "Go help Jill with inventory." When she'd left, he turned to me and said, "You're scaring them. This is the second time you've left and come back--" "What? I've been sitting here all this while!" "No, I definitely saw--" "Did Nina set this up? This a prank?" God, I'd been hoping she wasn't just another stupid troll, out to cause trouble. I could've finished up my quilt at home, if I hadn't bothered to take the initiative to grow our friendship! "Who's Nina?" the manager said, but I'd heard enough. Grabbing my bag, I stood. Looking him in the eye, I said, "You tell her I'm banning her the moment I get home." Before I'd gone a few paces away from the cafe, the manager came running, clutching a blue scarf in his hand. "You left this, Miss!" I took the scarf, feeling the soft fabric between my fingers. Then I tossed it onto the pavement, stomped on it once, and stalked off. *** *Thanks for reading! Check out my for more of my work!*

The underground lair of my new employer

The underground lair of my new employer was cold and damp. I assumed worse working conditions though. I had always trusted in my superhuman tenacity and patience; it was what set me apart from other mathematicians, although we all shared these qualities to varying extents. I was confident that I could ace every single task and withstand every tough obstacle, at least everything that I could forsee. But what I could not forsee was a dimwit. I did not expect a dimwit out of someone who wrote "I am a supervillain and I want someone who does math" on a public recruitment notice that happened to catch my eye in the mall one fateful evening. You need a fair level of intelligence in order to achieve sarcasm, however obvious it may seem. So I knew I was in trouble when the signs pointing directly to his office had "Boss", "Mastermind", and "Supervillain" written on them. I knew I was in more trouble when I finally got to meet him in person, and sitting before me was the most stereotypical dimwit I'd seen, a corpulent man in his 20s munching away on his nachos and legs crossed on an oversized table, before standing up to greet me in a warm gesture. It was a sight I so feared. I felt an urge to leave at that very moment, but for some reason I chose to dawdle. "Welcome. John, isn't it?" "Yes, sir. " I answered cordially. "And you are Dr Huckson the supervillain, I assume?" "Definitely," said the man cheerfully. He sat me down in front of him. From his drawers he drew out a long piece of paper scribbled with pencil marks, filled with annotations and figures - something I had grown way too familiar with coming out of college. "It looks like a blueprint for something," I said as I studied the graph. "Lots of errors though. So this is what I'm going to work on?" "Yes," said the man. "We're gonna destroy humanity." I returned to his face. Is he serious? The determined look on his face, however, belied any notion that he was joking. "I'm sorry, what?" "I'm building a nuke, and I will pay you handsomely, of course." I froze for a second. "Okay," I said, returning to the paper ruminating. If I could finish this fast enough; if there wasn't much to talk about; if he was too blind to notice my nervous fidgeting, maybe I could find a way to buckle, or even receiving the reward I was promised. Turns out reality was more complicated than I thought. Everything he worked out on the paper was erroneous. Every equation, every graph, every deduction was glowing with mistakes. Hell, even simple additions were wrong, let alone complicated ones involving physics and calcalus. "I'm sorry, sir." I began, my eyebrows all screwed up. "I don't mean no offense, but I cannot find a single correct calculation that is on this paper. It needs to be redone, all of it, the gas laws, the matrices, the tables, the asymptotes... eveyrthing save for the pythgoras theorem here." I pointed at the equation. "This is right." "Interesting," the man scratched his head. "That's what I was hoping to get advice on." I stared at the man again. "No, aa + bb = cc. You're right." "And what about this?" He pointed at another spot. "This is basically elementary level division. You've got it wrong. 81 divided by 7 is not 12." "And what about this?" His fat finger skidded across the paper. "You're joking..." I hesitated, realizing how the words could rile him up. "100 squared. Tell me. What's the answer?" "If it ain't 1000 then it must be 10000, or are there enough zeros?" I felt giddy in the head. The stuttering voice of the man was not assuring. He was scarily genuine, and horrifically incompetent. It simply cannot be... "Listen Dr Huckson, I am not preoccupied, and I am more than willing to help you out, but what you've shown me here is a lot of work. Some of them don't quite contribute to the actual construction of nuclear warheads; those parts look more like homework to me, all of which would get you a fail if you hand it in. It cannot be fixed in a day." "And...how long it will take?" "A week at the very least," I sighed, shaking my head. "But it isn't the point I trying to make. I can do this only if I am guaranteed that I'm getting paid, and at the right amount. Judging by the looks of it, I must say I'm dubious about that." "And what if I do?" The man's voice grew solemn. How? My head screamed frantically. Why would I trust someone as imbecilic as you? The man seemed to have read my thoughts and smiled. "It is your choice to make, John. You can bear the taste of humiliation, but you cannot bear the taste of indigence, not any longer. What would you do if you leave this place right now? What will you get? Nothing. You say you want a guarantee, but in actuality, you won't need one. All you need is hope, a risk to take, a gamble that I would maybe pay you if you helped me. It is my question to ask. Will you stay, given what you have seen?" I was startled by the sudden change of tone. The face of Dr Huckson looked a little different. Less of that plumb idiocy, a modicum of that wisdom leaking. Maybe it was all pretence. Maybe even great minds are terribly poor at math. But regardless of my skepticism, the decision was made. My bank account was in terrible shape and I knew what I was capable of. The problems were easy to solve. As for my employer, it was just a hurdle I had to overcome. "Alright," I said. "A week of work for 40,000 dollars, deal?" "Deal." A voice came from the curtains behind. A crooked man in his 70s, bald and sporting a white goatee, draped in a white lab coat. He carried a cane which he used to tap the floor twice, upon which the walls gave away to an enormous hall . I found myself surrounded by dozens of people dressed in white, all staring callously at me. "You've passed the test, James." Dr Huckson broke the silence. "Now the real challenge begins. Can you fulfil your promise, your destiny? And will my son get the teacher he so desperately needs?" "And... the bomb?" I squeaked, my body trembling before the menacing figure. "Oh, and that too," Dr Huckson giggled, stroking his goatee. "Yes, we're definitely nuking the world together." *Edit: Thanks for reading everyone! A long year has passed since I first wrote here and this is a taste of success I never thought I would get. The math discussion that ensues in this thread is making my head explode, but once again I'm grateful of the support and I love this community, thank you!*

The vampire looked young, oh so

We met in an abandoned cottage, somewhere on the outskirts of the village. We sat in the candle-lit gloom on opposite ends of a decaying kitchen table. The air smelled of dust and damp and rotting wood. It was the year 1568. I hadn't been sure what was to come, hadn't even been sure I'd survive the night, but I'd accepted the cryptic invitation that had been pushed under my door. Out of desperation. And out of curiousity. I *hadn't* expected a vampire. The vampire looked young, oh so young. Twelve, thirteen years of age? Her smile was shy, her demeanor soft and respectful. Her clothes were plain, but of good quality, like a rich merchant's daughter would wear. She was the picture of demure femininity, if you could look past those blood-red eyes, and the tips of her fangs, poking past her upper lip. The contrast was jarring; she was letting me see past her mask. I could see her amusement gleaming in those red eyes as I studied her, and I shuddered. She was the first to break the silence. "Would you believe, Sir, that you're the first to whom I've ever confessed?" Her voice was crystal clear and musical, her speech measured and aristocratic. Her mouth quirked up at the corners in a fleeting smile. "What is it you've confessed to me?" I raised an eyebrow, maintaining my poise. If she did not let her mask slip, neither would I. "Why, my good sir. Surely you recognize the signs of vampirism? It is a much-maligned condition, which I'd normally not reveal freely. Indeed, I've often taken great *pain*s to avoid its becoming known. But I think you are a special case. You may call me the Lady Nightingale. And, I believe, you owe me a confession in turn." I hesitated for a moment, my heart racing in my chest. I realized that the vampire wasn't blinking, and that penetrating stare was *getting* to me. I wasn't sure what she suspected, what she wanted to hear. The wise choice would be to cleverly mislead her, but, frankly, I resented the feeling of being toyed with. "Well, if you must know..." I glanced around, my voice hushed as if revealing state secrets. "The other day I passed an orchard, and, why, I just *plucked* an apple, straight off the tree." "Oh, you rascal." Nightingale laughed brightly, like the ringing of silver bells. "You might be amused to know that such theft *could* cost you a hand, if you are caught, and if the judge is in a foul mood. But I suspect you've more to confess than that. You see, you're not the first strange wanderer to visit these lands. They come, every now and then. They wear strange clothes and speak peculiar languages and bear mysterious artifacts. They know things they have no possible way of knowing, things about the future, and about the world and the stars. Sometimes they meet a bloody end, most of the time they disappear as suddenly as they arrived." Her speech was slow and measured, and each word felt, ironically, like a stake being driven into my chest. Had we been so obvious? So careless? Nightinggale noticed my discomfort with a giggle. "Oh, do not look so distraught my good sir. Surely you did not expect that your peoples' adventures had gone unnoticed? Even the people of this land are suspicious, and they are uniformly superstitious cattle. I, on the other hand have had centuries to watch you, to notice patterns and consider their significance. And I have centuries' experience in hiding what I truly am. Set a thief to catch a thief, as the children say. And I am a rather better thief than you." "No.." She went on, watching me like a cat. "Noticing your kind was not difficult. Speaking to you was. You have the distressing ability to disappear at a moment's notice." I glanced down at my wrist, where the burnt-out temporal anchor was still cinched around my wrist. The device that could have taken me home, back to the 22nd century, had it not failed and burnt out. Nightinggale followed my gaze. "Ah, yes. Another artifact. Most impressive. That is what takes you home?" I parted my lips to respond, then fell silent, glancing aside. The feeling dawned on me that we never should have come here, that we'd been fools to dare travel in time, counting on human obliviousness to hide our tracks. Here was something that wasn't human, and as her smile grew, I realized just how badly she outmatched us all. "Now, my good sir." Nightingale chided, suppressed laughter in her voice. "As much as I enjoy gloating, and oh, I do enjoy gloating, I'm loathe to monopolize the conversation. If I was your enemy, I promise you, you would be aware of the fact. None of the villagers ever come out here at night, no matter how much screaming they might hear." I suppressed another shiver as I pictured those fangs sinking into my flesh, but Nightingale seemed not to notice. "I believe you need help. And I believe I can help you. You must but speak." I gritted my teeth and looked up again to meet those baleful red eyes, fighting the sensation that she could see right through me. "And what might your agenda be, Lady Nightingale? Surely you've come here for a reason as well." "Oh, that I have. And I will share my motivations with you, if you share yours with me. A bargain, between equals." Nightingale raised a single eyebrow, her expression astute and intelligent, the demure girl's mask discarded now. I hesitated. There were rules, ironclad rules, about interference with the future. We were explorers only, archaeologists examining a living world. Better to die than to change the course of history. And yet, I was stranded. Nobody would come looking for me, nobody could take me back even if they found me. The anchor's bond, once snapped, could not be rebuilt. As far as the flow of time was concerned, I belonged here now. And whatever academic idealism they'd fed me, I found that a large part of me did not relish the thought of dying 600 years before I was born. I heaved a sigh. "You... In your note, you wrote that I was far from home. That you could help me return. I thought perhaps a fellow... traveler had found me, that they wanted to take me back with them. I was clearly wrong. You cannot help me." "Oh, *help* is a subjective term, Sir Traveler. But I am glad to see that you have found your tounge again. You see, I've come here for two reasons. The first is your knowledge. Your knowledge of the world, and knowledge of the *future*." I flinched at the sudden emphasis on future, and Nightingale crowed with gleeful laughter. It occurred to me that, for a walking corpse, she was more lively than just about anyone I'd met so far on my journey. "Aha! I think that answers that, Sir Traveler. You travel in time, yes? Oh, how often I've pictured revisiting the past, changing and remaking and fixing what I was not wise enough to fix back then. I'm refreshed to see that, one day, I might have an opportunity to do so. I have ambitions, Sir Traveler, I have plans for this world of ours. But I am but one poor, innocent girl, and the church does not suffer such as me. I wish to know what you know, your science and your history and you knowledge of the divine." I opened my mouth to protest, to refuse, but Nightingale held up a quieting hand. The force of her sudden glare made me shudder again. "Pray, allow me to finish. The second reason I've come here is your, well. Your demeanor. There is an irreverence about you, a detatchment. You walk among us like a child might walk among anthills, careful not to be bitten, and yet careless and aloof. It is an attitude I've only ever seen in my kin, in myself. Watching over history for decades, centuries... it instills a certain cynicism, a weariness. It's what drives me to ambition. Or did you think I wish to rule simply to drink blood? I get all the blood I need as a traveling merchant's daughter, rest you assured. No, I wish to to mold this world. To fix injustices, to bring forth glory. To take the reins from vain, superstitious humans and lead them into a future of my design." "And I would have you by my side, for I think the same drives you. I can see it in the set of your jaw, the light of your eyes, the racing of your heart. I will give you life that is eternal, for as long as you can preserve it, and I will give you the power to change history. Take my offer, Sir Traveler. Take my hand." Nightingale extended a hand, slim-fingered and ghostly pale. I struggled, still I struggled, for a painful instant, then I was reaching out. Longing burned inside me, a desperate hunger to change something, to have an impact. History, after all, was dark and grim and cruel. How much worse could I do?

"Death" is the name of

I don't like to say I'm immortal - I'd rather call it injury-resistant or something that discourages people from taking potshots at me with a .22 or trying to hit me with their car. It was a joke. At least at first. We were just drinking, chatting shit and the topic of restraining orders came up. Most of them talked about some crazy ex-girlfriend or a mother-in-law they would rather not see anymore. I don't have anybody like that. Mostly because I don't have anybody, but silver linings and all that I guess. These guys are shitheads, they wouldn't move an inch for me unless I was about to drop a bottle. C'est la vie. So I said Death. And that got us thinking about everything we would do if we were immortal. All the hell we'd raise and all the beer we'd drink and all the objectively not-constructive activities we would partake in if there was no risk of death. So the next day I wandered down to the courthouse, because what else would you do on a Saturday morning when your friends are all trying to sleep off a hangover? I told them I'd like a restraining order on Death and voila, "here you are," said the judge and he handed me the paper. "That's that?" I asked. He nodded. Simple as that. It was that night when we were back on the patio drinking that I noticed a difference. "I got a restraining order today," I bragged and my friends hooted and hollered. "First one?" I nodded. "I got a restraining order against Death." They went silent. They glanced at each other. And then they started laughing until their stomachs hurt and a couple of them even puked. I showed them the paper. They called me a dumb-ass. Fair is fair. And we just kept drinking. I took a few shots - maybe a few dozen, not that we were keeping count. And then when every last bottle was empty, I went ahead and drank the mouthwash. I was on a different level of drunk and as soon as I swallowed they went silent and shit got serious. "I'm fine," I insisted but I could tell they were prepping to call emergency services. I woke up the next morning hungover but no worse than normal and my useless friends who had refused to call an ambulance looked at me in awe. "You drank the bottle of mouthwash," they said. I couldn't tell if it was a complaint because they would have liked some to cure their foul breath or if they were saying it in admiration. I opted for the latter. I had puked my guts out, but that's par for the course. C'est la vie. "You legit got that restraining order?" Danny asked and I nodded. I was looking for his reaction so I didn't notice someone creeping up behind me and then a bottle broke across my head and I was reeling and my head was spinning. "What the fuck," I cursed and I felt the warm blood pouring down my back. I felt my head. Squishy. Brain or broken skull, don't ask me. Not a doctor. But I was fine, other than the gaping wound. "What the fuck yourself," they answered and psycho Frank had their full support. The knives came next and I couldn't fight them all off. I felt the pain as the blades slipped between my ribs and through my organs. The clothes would need to be dry-cleaned or tossed, that was a pity. But then I was fine and now they were scared. Frank was the first to go and I let him keep stabbing my stomach as I gouged his eyes and bashed in his head. Charlie was next and I discovered that it was in fact squishy brain I must have felt as I broke bottle after bottle across his head. The others cleared ran, not even bothering to help with clean-up. "So that's a confession?" the detective asked and I shrugged. Self-defense had been laughed off. I didn't have a mark on me and a half-dozen people were dead. I wouldn't quite call it a spree but again, not a lawyer or a cop so I'm not familiar with the official jargon. It was more like practice, looking at it now, and the detective didn't seem to like that wording. I told him about the eye-witness to all the events. The dude who would agree that it was self-defense. "Tall, bony dude in black robes?" I beamed and nodded. That was him! "Similar to the personification of Death common to fantasy television tropes?" Damn. He was mocking me. I had a knack for figuring out when people weren't taking me seriously and I was really getting that vibe with this guy. "Not sure where you'll put me that I won't get out," I said and he chuckled. "Don't worry, we'll find a place." Sure, until I climbed a fence and ignored them shooting at me because the bullets couldn't hurt me. He buzzed in the guards. "He's tripping bad," the detective told them. "Thinks he's invincible and all that. Classic meth mentality. Make sure he's in solitary." I gaped at him. He hadn't heard a word I had said. All he had to do was stroll down to the courthouse and they would corroborate my restraining order and then all the pieces would fall into place. He looked at me pensively. "We'll find you a place," he said and then he tapped the table twice and they dragged me away to solitary. "You shouldn't be here," I said when I saw the robed dude chilling in the corner of my cell. Solitary was for solitude and all I wanted was some goddamn peace and quiet without somebody trying to shank me. Plus, five hundred yards or something, right? "Where were you when I needed an eye-witness?" I thought about calling a guard but they were always calling me crazy. "C'est la vie," I mumbled. "Stop saying that shit," Death barked at me and he rubbed his bony temples as if I was giving him a headache. "Life isn't supposed to be like this. You're supposed to die." "So kill me," I taunted and I swear I saw that bony bitch's bitterness nearly boil over. "I. Can't," he enunciated furiously. "You fucked it up. You just had to go and get that restraining order. Look what good it did you. Locked up in here for good." "For good? It was self-defense." He rolled his eye-sockets. Trust me. It happened. "Self-defense, my ass. You murdered them in cold-blood." "After they tried to kill me." He shook his head. Apparently self-defense might have applied for Frank. Charlie was a little iffier. The other four were apparently just cold-blooded murder, pardon my newly-learned legalese. "So why are you here?" Surely he had other things he could be doing. Like killing people. "I need a hand," he said finally. "Sure, have mine. I don't need them in here anyways," I joked and held my hands out and he tapped a bony index finger against his leg impatiently. Not one for jokes, this Death dude. I think he's just salty I got that restraining order. The guys were saying their ex-girlfriend's acted the same way. "Keep your fucking hands to yourself," he ordered. "Don't touch me. I can't be caught violating a court order." I laughed. Salty was right. "I need your help. There are too many people for me to go around killing. You have a knack for it so I want you to kill people for me." "What's in it for me?" He stared at me as if he had seen a talking potato. It's hard to shock Death but apparently the immense stupidity of my question did it. "I'll get you out of here, dumb-ass." I shrugged. That sounded decent enough. That toilet-sink-kitchen contraption just wasn't cutting it for me. I was used to the finer things in life like a separate toilet for pooping. I could deal with peeing in the sink, but this was too much. "Deal," I said and I held out my hand to shake. He flinched and backed away from me. Right, no touching. "So how's it work? Can I just kill whoever?" He nodded a bit reluctantly. "Basically. You know how they say Death sneaks up on you, Death is random and all that?" Sure. People all shapes and sizes and colors were dying all the time. "Well, it wasn't always that way but the paperwork got tedious. Now I kill whoever, whenever. So you're hired." ***** Thanks for reading! If you enjoyed this, please check out more stories at /r/MatiWrites. Constructive criticism and advice are always appreciated!

The man fell to the ground,

The man fell to the ground, hand clutching his face as blood spilled from between his fingers. His eyes were wide from shock and pain, staring up at the man who had laid him low. "What was that for?" he gasped, spitting blood onto the ground. "You said we could take what we want from the region. I thought if I could take from the townsfolk then an old man in the woods would be fair game-" He fell back again, moaning in pain from the kick to his stomach. The standing man glared down. "You thought? I see no signs of you thinking." His face was contorted from rage and something no one else had seen before: fear. "If you were thinking, you would have listened to me. If you were thinking, you would have just taken from the town and villages, were the easy pickings are and that we had a right to. But no, you went into the woods because you saw a horse you liked and wanted it. You just had to take that horse." He pointed at the black horse, standing almost placidly in the corner stable. It was a magnificent animal, obviously well taken care of. The hair of the horse shone in the lantern light, almost luxurious like sable. The long mane fell like water down the muscled neck. Large eyes looked at the men with uncanny intelligence and it seemed to delight in the fallen man's pain. "That horse, out of so many in the whole region. So what did you do? You went after it you stupid-" The man raised his leg to stomp down before another hurriedly waved him back. "Sir, please. We did it as a gift to you!" The younger man recoiled as he became the target, the half truth withering on his lips. "No really, we thought you would look grand on such a horse. So we figured we would give it to you after we rode him for a bit. Honest." The others looked confused. They had thought their Boss would look pleased to own such a horse. Anyone with eyes could tell that the horse was one of a kind. Dense corded muscles spoke of staying power and high speed, eyes bright that saw and thought. Instead of praise they had received hurled venom and they could not understand why. "What did you do to the man that owned the horse?" the Boss asked, fear tainting his words. "We....we beat him up and left him at his cottage." "Is that all?" The man on the floor climbed slowly to his feet. "Well, the man's hound bit Reynolds so Reynolds killed it." He flailed, almost falling as the Boss came at him with a raised fist. "I didn't kill the beast, Reynolds did! By the Gods, what has you so bothered Boss?! It was just an old man. So what if we stole his horse and killed his hound. He isn't going to do anything." The Boss seemed to deflate, visibly aging in front of their eyes. He stalked over to his desk and sat, pulling out a bottle of dark spirits. His teeth sunk into the cork and he tore it out with a jerk of his head, spitting the cork aside and taking a long drink. "Because, of all the people you could harass, you idiots picked the worst one." "He's just one man," one of the others said mockingly. "And old, since when are you afraid of an old man?" "I am afraid of no old men." Another long drink. "I am afraid of one old knight." "So what if he is a knight. So are we." The Boss shook his head. "Not like him. Not like John Wicked." Everyone paused at that name. The lanterns seemed to flicker when the name rolled into the air. Some of the older men held their breath while the younger ones had a momentary flash of doubt. Their consternation rose higher when the horse neighed loudly at the name, the first sound it had made since it arrived. "John...Wicked? As in Jon the Wicked? He must be dead, died of his wounds years ago," whispered a man. "John the Wicked was a myth, a joke. Just the overblown tales of a has been knight," replied another scathingly. "We have nothing to fear." Everyone jumped as the Boss hurled the bottle. The glass shattered into thousands of shards. "We have EVERYTHING to fear!" he bellowed. "You all think he is a myth? A has been? You know nothing! I have seen him fight, he is no man, he is a devil! I was at the Fields of Rain, the Bellthorne Massacres, the Burning Sands." His eyes lost focus, staring into yesterday. "Wicked is his true name, not one we gave him. He is the Undying, he cannot be felled. I have seen him kill so many other knights. Even when he was alone, no matter what weapon, he would prevail. I saw him kill an oliphant with a dagger, a bloody dagger against a giant monster." Now the others grew nervous. They knew their Boss to be practical, rarely giving into boasting or tales. Yet he stood before them, face covered with despair and still as stone. The first man recoiled again as haunted eyes rested on him. "He took his well deserved retirement, retired to a cottage he and his late wife lived at. And you went to steal his horse and killed his hound. The last hound his wife ever raised." "We-we-we....we can take him out. He's old now and we can do it. We're the best knights in the region." The man looked around, his boast dying in the air as no one else shared his false enthusiasm. "Have you been listening? We cannot kill him! Wait...where is Reynolds?" The boss glared and the men shrugged. "He went back to the cottage, saying something about claiming the hound's teeth as weregeld..." All eyes turned to the door as it shook. Something was bodily kicking it, once, twice. Finally a man opened it and a lone tawny horse cantered in. The was no rider in the saddle, and the sides of the horse was coated in a familiar red fluid. A sword was tied to the pack and one of the men pulled it free. "This is Reynold's sword. He wouldn't just let it go, and there isn't any blood on it." "That's his message," the Boss said woodenly. "He wants us to take the sword. He wants us to know that he isn't injured and that we will need every sword we can get. He's coming." The black horse threw his head back and neighed, a loud noise that shook the air and it sounded like laughter heralding something dark.

Being adopted by godly parents has

Being a mortal human adopted by godly parents has it's upsides and downsides. I'm not gonna lie, mostly it was pretty great. My parents could transport me anywhere in the world with a snap of their fingers, so I had to play along as all my friends complained about airports, cramped flights, and the jackass ahead of them who reclined the whole flight. They were also totally willing to smite any human who "did me wrong". Well, almost *too willing* in fact, that's where the downsides begin. Someone cut in line ahead of me at the coffee shop? My parents want to smite her. Some reckless driver causes me to get into a fender bender? "May we smite this reckless fool, Julia?" they'd inquire. A guy I'm dating does something shitty? Oh, you'd better believe he's got a huge smiting in his future if I don't intervene on his behalf. Which brings me to my current dilemma. I really like my boyfriend, I think he might be 'the one', but we've been dating for over a year and he's grown more and more suspicious that I'm trying desperately to keep him from meeting my parents. It was fair of him to notice something was off. I'd spent dozens of hours with his parents and family and he'd yet to meet a single relative of mine. My excuses grew lamer and lamer each time he inquired about meeting them, but in my defense, did I mention their penchant for smiting mortals for seemingly forgivable mistakes? Yeah, I really don't want the potential love of my life to get smote... sue me! I suppose I could have lied to him and told him that my parents were dead or something, but I love my parents, I could never disrespect them like that. And I *do* want them to be a part of my mortal life, I just knew it was going to be... complicated. My parents we'rent some run of the mill gods, they were at the top of their respective godly food chains. My dad is the All-Father of Life, the overarching god of creation responsible for all living beings. He's as tall as a small house and his voice itself can... well, it *has* been the cause of numerous massive earthquakes. My mother is the Queen of Death, responsible for collecting the souls of those beings my pops was previously responsible for, judging their lives, and deciding their final, eternal destination. The yin-yang nature of their relationship gave me hope that opposites could attract, but you can perhaps guess that given their monumental roles they took everything a bit too seriously. I decided that the only way my boyfriend could possibly handle this revelation was to ease him into it very gently, so I requested that my parents come to the mortal realm and disguise themselves as humans for their first meeting. I offered (more like begged) to give them a crash course in blending in with humans, but they scoffed at me. "Julia we oversee ALL of humanity in both life and death! We know humankind and their behavior quite well thank you very much!" Yeah, what could possibly go wrong? My boyfriend and I pulled up to 'my parents house' just before dinnertime. I don't know if they'd taken over a house that had already been here or had created one with a snap of their fingers and frankly I didn't want to know. My sole focus was getting through the next few hours without any major relationship or life ending disasters. I took a deep breath and we headed inside. My first panic attack soon followed as I laid eyes on my 'human parents' for the first time. My dad was wearing a gaudy Hawaiian shirt and sandals with bright white socks underneath. My mom was wearing a dress that would have been right at home on a dutiful housewife in the 1950's. Both were at least sized down to somewhat human proportions, but my dad still towered over everything at his 'reduced' height of 7 feet tall. Mom at least had replaced the swirling black wisps of death that normally encircled her head with human hair, but she'd done it up in a ludicrously tall beehive style that no woman could have possibly worn in this century. "Mom, dad, this is my boyfriend Jesus," I said nervously. "WHY DIDN'T YOU TELL ME YOU WERE DATING JESUS?" my father bellowed far too loudly. "I KNOW JESUS WELL! WE WORK TOGETHER AND-- Wait Julia, you are mistaken, this is not Jesus..." "Ha! Dad... starting with the lame dad jokes already! He likes to say he 'know's Jesus' because hes a Christian," I tried to quickly lie to Jesus. "You guys can just call him J, that's what I do so there's no confusion!" Thankfully J chuckled at all this awkwardness. "Pleased to meet you Jesus! My name is Alan, but you may call me... Al for short," my dad said while grinning like a lunatic. He was clearly incredibly proud of his idea to shorten his name from 'All-Father of Life' to an actual human name like 'Al'. "And this is my lovely wife, Betso!" "Betsy!" my mother quickly corrected him. "Lovely to meet you dear boy." "Great to finally meet you both!" he replied. Dad lead J off toward the living room which gave me a chance to lean over to my mother and whisper, "Betsy?" She nodded proudly, "It is the most common name for human wives. I told you I'd fit right in darling." "I'm getting the distinct sense that you didn't *actually* do any research on humans, mother. You're just basing all this on the 60's TV shows you love to watch aren't you?" "Nonsense!" she declared. "Now go fetch the boys and we'll sit down for dinner! The intentionally overcooked and dry pot roast I made is ready." The pot roast was indeed nearly inedible, but that was much less of a concern to me than the bizarre dinner conversations taking place. "So, how about Brad Pitt and Jennifer Aniston?" my mother asked with concern. "Are they... did something new happen with them?" Jesus asked. "Sadly it appears he is leaving her for Angelina Jolie," she replied. Oh lord... this 20 year old celebrity gossip was *not* going to help my parents pass as believable humans. "Well, leaving her for Angelina Jolie... as human males with human body parts we can understand that impulse can't we Jesus?" dad asked with a laugh and a 'friendly' slap on J's back that nearly sent him flying out of his chair. "Oh... yeah, totally... sorry to tell you folks, I'm a love of em and leave em type of guy!" Jesus replied with obvious sarcasm. I saw my dad's expression turn stone faced and noticed faint hints of electricity crackling in his hand. "He's joking! Tell them you're joking and that you're incredibly committed to this *very* monogamous relationship with me, Jesus... tell them, tell them now please, tell them RIGHT NOW PLEASE!" He did and my father ceased his stealthy thunderbolt summoning. "Ha! Of course!" he bellowed. "I love jokes! Have you heard the one about Aphrodite, Odin and Osiris walking into an ancient Zoroastrian temple?" I breathed a very small sigh of relief. Crisis one averted, mere thousands more to go? ___ r/Ryter FYI this story is set in the same universe and loosely connected to another story I recently wrote. It's at the top of my subreddit right now (most recent post) if anyone cares to check out more of Julia's backstory with her crazy adopted family of gods.

The legendary sword Excalibur was

The sword was found lodged at the bottom of a quarry, to much fanfare of world news. The magnificent long swords golden hilt and beginnings of the blade were above the coarse stone, free of any signs of age. The first few characters of the name were visible extending down, penetrating into the rock after the 'C'. What everyone knew was quickly confirmed by experts in the field; this was the legendary sword Excalibur. The newly found world heritage site became a huge commercial boon to the local community. Thousands upon thousands of tourists flocked to see the sword, and with them, shops, restaurants, rides and a museum sprouted up to take advantage. Of course, they had all tried to lift it. The initial workmen who had made the discovery, the experts, the first few to visit, and the thousands of tourists paying for the privilege. None had succeeded. Jesse had seen the drama unfolding on TV, in the papers, online. She had been told endless times by her school friends and even had to listen to her parents excitedly discussing it most nights at the dinner table. Who would lift the sword? What would it mean? Did you know that there's a jackpot prize now? Jesse blamed the constant deluge of information for the fact that the sword had begun to dominate her dreams. Most nights she would see the sword, dimly lit by the moon in a foggy marsh, the sound of footsteps echoing in the puddled water. It would be beckoning her, calling with pulses that increased in their urgency. She would climb the wet, moss covered rock and reach for the sword and then wake up, heart pounding. So it was with some relief her parents informed her that the 3 of them would be having a family outing to see the sword. Maybe her parents would finally have enough and she would be able to dismiss it from her dreams. They day came and it was *long.* The drive to get there, the queues, the shopping, the rides....it was so boring Jesse couldn't help but feel tired and bored. She wanted to go home. Finally, they entered the huge cavernous theatre that held the stone. At the top, an opening was left that allowed sunlight to strike the rock and make the sword sparkle and glow, if it wasn't cloudy at least, like today. Huge tapestries depicting scenes from medieval times were draped around the circular room, highlighted in places by blazing torches hung around them. For those attempting to lift the stone, costumed workers would bow as they approached and take photos as they attempted the impossible. The queue split in two ways, those paying the extortionate fee to take part, and those who wanted to pay less and walk around the gallery that encircled the room above the tapestries. It was an incredibly well-oiled money-making machine. Jesse had assumed her family would be taking the latter route, but as her Father and Mother began to walk that way, her Father thrust a different ticket into her hands. "This was expensive enough that I fully expect you to come back with that bloody sword" he said, smiling. Before she could protest, they were gone, and she was left, being pushed forward into the main line. As she neared the rock, not yet at the front of the line, the crowd hushed suddenly. Excited whispers and eventually cheers began to sound. Had someone lifted the sword? She peered around the people ahead to see that the sword had begun to glow, and a deep, low, vibrating sound had begun to emanate from the stone. The crowd loved it, assuming like Jesse, that this was all part of the show, another way to over-excite people to part more easily with their money. The man in-front of Jesse walked up to take his turn, and Jesse stepped into the circular array of stones surrounding the main rock. She was struck by the sudden vision from her dreams. The cold, wet, foggy marsh with the sword. The pulsing was so strong from the sword in her vision that her head hurt. She shook her head, and cleared her thoughts, opening her eyes and returning to the moment. People were cheering loudly as the man desperately tried to lift the sword, the sound from the rock becoming louder and the sword glowing even brighter. The costumed workers were no longer helping to take photos or play the part of their medieval roles, but were talking into radio's and signalling someone high up in the galleries. She spotted her Dad up there , smiling wide while looking into his camera, her Mother checking to make sure he was capturing everything. They were loving this, at least. The man eventually finished , obviously pleased that he had elicited such a reaction from the sword. He descending down from the high rock, high-fived one of the workers. The worker looked worried, and reached for a microphone at his waist. "Ladies and Gentleman, I am very sorry to inform you that after this young lady here attempts to pull the sword from the stone, the attraction will be closed for safety checks. Those remaining in the line will have their tickets refunded or replaced" A man in a suit joined the costume worker , whispering into his ear and eyeing the young man standing behind Jesse, pointing to him. He was a strapping lad, 6ft plus with long blonde hair and bright blue eyes. He had an intent look in his eyes, staring directly at the sword. If anyone would suit the sword, it would be him, Jesse thought. The worker motioned Jesse forward into the area dimly lit from the cloud covered hole high above, and as she did a burst of light suddenly poured down on them, so bright and intense that she had to blink her eyes to adjust. When she was able to open them, what she saw astounded her. Glowing bright gold in the rock were etched emblems and signs. Atop the stone, the letters EXC emitted light that danced and shone down to her. The rumbling low vibration increased, and somehow, without even realising it, she had begun to move up to the rock, or rather, be pulled up. From deep inside her, something had awoken, and was willing her to take the sword and hold it aloft, and she had never desired anything as forcefully as this. It took her a moment to realise that one of the workers was trying in vain to hold her back, and had been joined by two other workers. Both of them were much bigger than Jesse, much stronger, but somehow, she was able to keep moving forward, not even feeling their touch or desperate attempts at restraining her. She reached the top of the stone, extended her hand, and grabbed the hilt of the sword. A shockwave burst from the stone, throwing the workers, the suited man and everyone close by off their feet. The beam of light concentrated its focus into a beam that hit the sword as Jesse began to pull. A strength she had never known began to envelope her as she heaved. The sword didn't move, and as she concentrated all of her strength ready for a final heave she heard a whispered , metallic, deep and slow rumble in her mind, the sword glowing in unison with the words. " Jesse Harbinger, are thee truly worthy?" Images flashed before her eyes, that she couldn't control, as if something was searching through her memories. It lingered on the painful ones, considered the moments she had been scared or cornered, times when she'd lost, times when she'd won. There seemed to be images that she didn't even remember being there, and it was on those that the searching stopped. "She will do" a chorus of deep, old voices echoed. With a mighty crack, the rock burst and splintered as Jesse heaved the sword from the stone and held it aloft. As she did her arm was encased in a golden glow, spreading to the rest of her body. Silver armour rimmed with gold began to appear where it had been, until her entire body was covered. "Jesse, you are not safe here" the same metallic voice said in her head. Jesse was reeling, her head swimming with power and confusion. She couldn't answer. "Jesse, we must hurry. Someone is waiting to see you" it said. "Excalibur, bring her to me, there is no time" another voice, old and ancient, creaking like an old boat. A bolt of lightning exploded into the room from the hole in the roof above, directly striking the sword and blinding all those around. When the flash faded, Jesse, and the sword , were gone. ​ More fat dragons at r/fatdragon

The Seven Deadly Sins used to discuss

A knurled, ancient oak table sat in the center of a solid white room with no windows or doors; it was a little box of nowhere that the Seven Deadly Sins used to discuss important issues in times of dire need. The last time they gathered was to discuss whether or not Barack Obama was *actually* the Anti-Christ or not, because Envy was pretty paranoid that the big guys were making moves a little early. Thankfully, it turned out that he was just black. Fucking stupid humans and their false alarms. The most recent time, however, the meeting had been called by. . . well, everyone--except for Pride. The other six had contacted her, saying a discussion needed to take place, and Pride warily accepted. She'd done well not to interfere with more than a hundred human lives that year, and had been regularly watching YouTube videos on how to live a humble life. Admittedly, she thought she was better than the guy giving the lectures and quit watching, but it's the thought that counts. Gluttony, Lust, Wrath, Envy and Greed sat at the table, hands folded, quiet eyes avoiding Pride, whose gaze danced around the room, looking for someone to give her an indication of what was going on. She was feeling an itch of anxiety in the back of her mind, the seed of worry sprouting; had they finally decided to try and take her out? After all, she was *clearly* the strongest and most important Sin. Obviously. "So," Pride said, clearing her throat, tapping the table. "Can we just get started already? Seriously, I get the whole 'all or nothing' rule, but she's taking even longer than usual, and it's not like he has anything to offer in these meetings." "**Shut the fuck up**," a deep, dark voice, like the crack of ash-colored thunderstorm clouds, crashed over them. "**I hate you, Pride, you maggot. But I also agree we should stop waiting for that goddamn, slow-as-fuck sack of shit. I don't have any fucking patience left for this. Let's just kill the bitch.**" Pride sighed, wagging a finger. "Now, now, Wrath. Let's remember our table manners. Besides, I wouldn't want you to get hurt fighting the strongest Sin just because you're blind." "**Fuck you and your entire family. I'm going to rip your skull out and fuck it right here, on the table.**" Lust perked up, a smile slithering across his face, and Pride groaned. "God, Lust, have some self-respect. And Wrath--I *am* your family, you idiot. Why are all of the Sins so stupid? Honestly." "Calm down, Wrath," Greed said, his voice like two pennies rubbing together. "Save it for when we make a decision, then you can murder her and whatever else you two freaks have planned. I don't care, but we're going to make sure we get what she has first." Pride rolled her eyes. "Look, guys, I know I'm the greatest of the sins, but you can't take that from me. Even if you pool together and kill me, you'll still all be every bit as inferior as you are now." Envy smashed her hands on the table, standing up. "Quit lying, you bitch! We know you've been working behind our backs, interfering with the human world! We want what you have!" Pride knitted her brows. "Wait, what? What are you talking about?" "Don't play stupid," Greed said. "We know they're throwing a celebration for you right now. It's literally called the 'Pride Parade', and they all get real dressed up in bright colors, making themselves the center of attention, which is your favorite thing in the world to do. So don't even try and pretend this isn't your work. We want a cut of what's going on here. How are you so involved without completely spiraling the world's balance off and. . . you know, pissing Dad off?" "I literally have no idea what you're talking about. But, honestly, this just proves my point. I haven't done any interference, and I didn't do anything to set that up. They just know I'm the best and they're celebrating me, what can I say? Get good, you fucking losers." A portal of light fizzled and popped, and a ragged woman fell from it, splatting against the floor like a sack of potatoes. "Ah, how great of you to finally join us," Greed said. "Now, be a dear and make it to the table before we adjourn, if you can." "**You dumb bitch. You're ten feet away from us. Just get the fuck up and sit at the fucking table you useless god-turd. Mom must've shit you out on accident.**" Sloth yawned, her hand moving at a snail's pace, and the group sighed. Gluttony finally looked up from his meal, face covered in bits of food and gruel, looking like the disgusting animal he was. "I want a parade with FOOD, FOOD, SO MUCH FOOD, EVERYBODY EAT AND NEVER STOP EATING AND--" "**You fat piece of shit, don't get started with that or I'm going to drown you in your fucking cereal.**" The giant went back to his food, nearly drowning himself in it instead, and pride groaned. She'd always found Gluttony to be repulsive. "Just tell us, you bitch," Envy said, crying, arms crossed. "Just fucking tell us! It's not hard! Stop being a meanie, I WANT IT!" Pride rubbed her temples--family gatherings are always such a fucking mess. "Seriously, guys, I didn't do this myself. If they want to celebrate me because I'm awesome, I can't control it. Stop blaming me and blame yourselves for not being worth it." "**I'll fucking paint these walls with you if you don't quit flapping that mouth, and then we'll see who's the best Sin.**" Greed opened a little viewport in the center of the table for everyone to look into. As they peered in, they watched the crowd of bright colors and rainbow flags, of men and women defying the norm their father had set in order to do whatever their hearts desired. Men embracing men, women kissing other women, all wearing smiles and standing tall in front of the rest of the world. "You guys think this is a parade *I* set up?" Pride asked, face contorting. "**Why are the boys kissing? Oh. . . oh no. I don't want it anymore.**" Lust giggled, leaning over to him, and he fled from a hand wandering his way. "What's the matter, you big, scary man? All that talk and a little fun sends you running? Look at them. . . yes, I need this. I want to be there. Take me there right now, Pride." But Pride was confused, staring into the viewport. It was clearly not about her, because if anything, it had the look and feel of something Lust would create for fun. She kept watching them, standing tall before the scorning eyes, disobeying the rules humans before them had tried to set, letting their true selves show without an ounce of shame for it. They were strong, and true, and. . . Proud. She smiled as she looked into the porthole--ignoring Wrath's screams, Sloth's yawning corpse inching closer, and Lust starting to make some uncomfortable motions with his hands--and felt pride, just once, for something other than herself. --- */r/resonatingfury*

Dr. Virk gave me scoff

"Dr. Virk? Sir? I believe the answer to our quandary lies in the Mustavian Theorem of Quantum Space Time Relativity Distortion Doctrine 2.0, I could sketch it on the white board, but I'm sure we're all intimately familiar with it given the number of doctorates in the room," I joked. Crickets from around the table greeted my answer. "Random word salad is not going to help us here, Andrew. Nor will it endear you to your new colleagues," Dr. Virk replied dryly. "What? I did! MTQSTRD 2.0 is the correct answer to solve our problem! Caroline, tell them!" I said, desperately searching for my friend and colleague to back me up. "Andrew..." she began hesitantly. "I have to be honest, I have no idea what you're talking about. You just spouted a massive load of nonsense. Those words don't have any meaning together, let alone any *scientific* meaning." Dr. Virk gave me scoff and annoyed glare as he walked out of our meeting room. I tried to put it out of my head, but shit like this just kept happening. At our table in the employee lunchroom the next day my new pal Jason made a typical 'nerd joke' about how far out they could recite Pi. Logically, I decided to one up them, they were gonna love this! "Yeah? Well I can recite Cake to the 308th digit!" I retorted. "Is that a joke?" Jason asked. "I mean, it is, but Cake is also the mathematical successor to Pi," I said as if I was stating the most obvious thing in the world. "At dessert maybe," a fourth table mate scoffed. "No offense, but we don't want to be spotted with you, we take our potential careers here seriously," Jason said with some seriousness as he got up and the pair walked off. "Caro, you'd be honest with me if I was losing my mind right?" I inquired hesitantly once we were alone. "Gleefully honest, old pal," she teased. "And you'd also tell me if the entire staff decided to band together to pretend they don't know what I'm talking about?" "What're you referring to?" she asked. "I mean, they've never heard of Cake? Or MTQSTRD 2.0? The other day some lady at my mom's church luncheon balked when I started talking to her about how even if I wasn't particularly religious anymore, I still greatly value the wisdom contained within 28 Commandments. She SWORE there were only ten! Then she swore *at me,* called me a 'blasphemous heathen' for suggesting there were 18 more. Some of the words she used were NOT appropriate for use by a supposedly friendly church lady. Caroline eyed me very strangely for an uncomfortable amount of time. "Where'd you read about these '28 Commandments'?" "I dunno, where do we learn about anything? Probably GoooOOOooooOOoooooooooooooogle. "You mean Google?" she asked with a raised eyebrow. "Yeah, GoooOOOooooOOoooooooooooooogle," I repeated. "Jesus Andrew, is your brain actually breaking down? Why do you keep pronouncing it like that?" "Because that's how it's spelled! Look!" I said, flipping my laptop around to her in frustration. "Huh, GoooooOOOooooOOoooooooooooooooogle.com," she muttered with confusion. "Ask it a simple question! Ask it, I dunno... the meaning of life!" I challenged her. "Ha! See I keep telling people you *are* funny sometimes... ask the internet the secret of life, oh please!" she said as she continued laughing heartily. "Wait, you've had more than one occasion to argue that I'm funny with people? Do a lot of people not think I'm-- err, that's neither here nor there, but again, I'm being serious! I thought everyone looked the answer to this up during our sullen teenage years? "No, Andrew, we ponder it, we torment ourselves with the unknowable nature of it... We write shitty poetry on our binder covers praying that the cute boy who sits in front us will somehow notice it and want to lay out on the grass entwined in each other's arms while pondering the very same mysteries! Uhh, hypothetically!" she finished while blushing. "Fine, I don't believe you and you don't believe me, so let's just put it to the test. Go ahead, type it in, just see what pops up." "Fine, 'what is the meaning... of life," she said aloud as she typed. She looked bored, borderline annoyed, but her expression rapidly shifted as she began to read the results. "Ho...ly... shit... Andrew this is... amazing... and if I'm being honest, a little underwhelming?" "Yeah, I kinda thought so myself when I first read it, but you see, I was telling the truth! Does everyone not have access to this or--" "Wait, waittttt..." she interjected. "Oh my god! What are all these adult sites you have bookmarked?! I'm not even trying to feign ignorance, I know the names of a LOT of the popular ones out there, but I've never heard of any of *these*!" Numerous audilbe gasps followed as she clicked furiously. "The people look normal! The women are actually enjoying it? And good lord, even the acting in between the hanky and the panky is Hanks and Streep quality!" "Oh, no no no... gimmie... gimmie that," I stuttered as I snagged the laptop from her. "We're just gonna go ahead and close this now before you start reading all the past questions I posted to AskReddeet." *How fast can I erase my entire GoooooOOOooooOOoooooooooooooooogle search history*, I wondered to myself in a panic. Yeah sure I wanted to know what the hell was up with my access to a seemingly unique source of superior, possibly otherworldly information, but one very important step at a time. ___ Check out r/Ryter if you want access to your very own secret portal of unknowable knowledge. (Legal Note: r/Ryter does not contain anything that could remotely be considered 'knowledge' or even 'useful information', but it does have a bunch more stories if you're interested!) EDIT: I had a lot of fun writing this and had some requests so I used my last 30 minutes of brainpower to take a quick stab at a Part 2 continuing this story a bit. It's now posted down below for anyone that cares to check it out.

Audrey asked Kim's parents for a

When most kids say they have an imaginary friend, the automatic response is to assume they're just being childish and smile and nod at them. This played out quite well for Audrey, who was a spirit tethered to the material world. When she first met Kim, they became friends quicker than a drop of water evaporates off of summer asphalt. Kim, being only a six year old at the time, was a stranger to discretion and tried to tell everyone about her new friend. No one believed her. Then, after a few weeks of visits, they had become great friends, and Audrey asked Kim for a favor. "Let me be you for a little while," she asked, right after Kim's parents had tucked her into bed. "What does that mean?" Kim asked, brows trying to dig into her nose. "After you go to sleep, I'll be you for a little while." "Why would you want to be me? I can't fly around and stuff like you can." "No, but you can do things like eat and touch and smell. I can't do all of that. Pretty please?" Her ethereal hands were woven together, bottom lip pushed forward. Kim smiled. "Okay fine. But don't get me in trouble, okay?" "I promise, I won't. I'll leave you a note that says what I did to prove it." And Audrey was true to her word. That first night, she didn't even leave bed, too giddy piled in the sheets and feeling their softness and warmth to move onto anything else--that made for a very short note. But once her fun ended, Audrey felt very tired and weak, and couldn't talk much to Kim for some time. Whenever she could, Audrey would show up for a visit in the night and make the same request. As Kim grew older, she set more and more rules; stay away from Dad, don't touch any clothes, don't eat the cookie dough. The notes were always simple enough. >Hi Kim! Tonight I ate an apple, oh my gosh, it was so fresh and juicy and sweet! They used to be my favorite! They seldom talked about much else, but when they did, Audrey didn't ever want to talk about herself. She'd always say she didn't feel like it, or that she didn't remember too much about her life. So the cycle kept going, and Kim never got to grow with Audrey as a friend. >Hey Kimmy! I watched that movie you told me about, Harry Potter. Oh my goodness, TV is so awesome now! I can't believe the monster looked so real! Don't worry, I put everything back and the volume was very low. --- Finally, one day, Kim said no at first. "Why not? Come on, Kim!" Audrey was begging, as she always did. "You never wanna talk with me, Audrey. Let's talk a little before I go to bed, at least!" The ghost pouted. "There's nothing to talk about. Don't be mean!" Kim crossed her arms. "I always let you do it for free, but this time, I get to ask you three questions and you have to answer honestly." Pouting, Audrey agreed--if only for the end prize. "Go ahead." "Hmmm, okay. Number one: what's your favorite color?" "Purple." Kim scrunched her nose. "Yuck, purple is the worst! I like green. Okay, two. . . where's your family? Are they around here?" Audrey flashed with anger, huffing. "I don't want to play this stupid game anymore." "Well then you can't be me tonight." "Why are you being such a butthead?" "You're the butthead, Audrey. Answer the question or no apples and TV tonight." The spirit wriggled and groaned, debating which was less awful of a choice. "I don't know where they are. I can't find them. But I don't care, I have you." Kim's brow knitted. "Don't you miss them? What about your mom?" "Ugh, that's your third question then." "Well..." Kim opened her mouth to protest, but bit the words off. "Okay, fine. Boo." Audrey's eyes shied away. "I don't like my Mom. She left me when I was real little and I never saw her again." "Where'd she go?" "I don't know. I don't care. She's the worst. I barely remember her, but she was always dressed weird and bald and then left and never came back, and I don't miss her. Whatever. Happy now?" Kim's face said no, but she settled into bed and let sleep come as a reward for her friend. --- She awoke when it was still dark out, to a note with one word scribbled on it very poorly. >Sorry. Kim ran all around the room, looking for anything broken or missing, stumbling in the dark until her eyes adjusted, but found nothing amiss. "Audrey?" she hissed into the night. "What did you do?" Silence--then, slowly, Audrey peeked her head in through the window. "Nothing bad." "Why'd you say sorry?" "Just. . . don't be mad, okay?" Kim scowled at her. "Audrey. . ." "I hugged your dad. He woke up and I made up something about having a nightmare and hugged him a lot." Kim threw her arms up. "I told you not to go near him!" The spirit recoiled, balling up a little. "I'm sorry. I just. . . I wanted a hug. I feel so lonely and I wanted to go hug him." "You promised, Audrey. I can't believe you broke your promise." Like a whisper, Audrey vanished into the breeze outside, mingling with the great oak dancing in front of her window. Kim crawled back into bed for a little while. --- Crawling out of bed, Kim peeked at the note on her desk, but nothing had changed--at least Audrey hadn't snuck in again. As far as she knew, anyway. Downstairs, the smell and sizzle of eggs hit her, a smell she hated first thing in the morning, and poured herself a bowl of cereal as he cooked. "Morning, sweetie," he said, flashing a weary smile. "Feeling better? Any more nightmares?" "No," Kim replied, splashing milk onto the Cheerios and lazily taking a bite. "You alright girl?" "I'm fine." "Okay. I'm here for you, though. If you need it." A pause fell over them as he focused on the pan, and she slowly munched a few meager bites. "Dad?" she asked, meek and staring into her cereal. "Yes, hon?" "I have this friend. And she's a really cool person, I always let her play with my phone and stuff at school because she doesn't have any. But she started acting weird and I told her she can't keep using my stuff anymore, she's gotta get her own. And now I never see her anymore." Jack turned from his omellete, brow knitted. "What in the world are you talking about? What friend is this? Julie?" Kim stirred the Cheerios aimlessly. "No, no. Someone you don't know. But why would she just hide from me now?" "You've been acting so strange today. . ."--he inhaled sharply, shaking his head at the eggs--"but I guess if she was used to sharing your stuff and you took it all away, maybe she's just sad because she doesn't have any of her own right now. But it could also be that now she wants to find her own phone, because sometimes people feel bad when they realize they don't have their own stuff." "Yeah, I guess that makes sense. Thanks." Kim opened her mouth to ask another question, but instead abandoned the cereal and her father's shouts, running upstairs and letting ink fly across the back of the page Audrey had last left her. And on it she wrote something very simple. >Hi Audrey. I hope you're okay. I don't know if you'll see this but I wanted to say sorry. I got scared when you said that stuff about pretending to be me with my dad. >I still think that was bad. You shouldn't try and be me, you should be you. I like you the way you are. I think you'll be happy again if you try and be you. Also, I don't know where your mom is, but she's probably sad you're here with us. My dad would be sad if I left. I know you said you're mad at her, but it would be good to find her, and maybe try to forgive her. Maybe she didn't mean to leave you alone. >love you lots, >kimmy She didn't know it--maybe she never would. But in that moment, before the last word could even seep into the page and dry, a breeze whispered through the great tree outside her window like the sigh of a soul that had finally been set free. ---- */r/resonatingfury*

"We make a deal with the

"We make a deal with the orc lord," says Katie. "That's... Not really an option," I explain to my high-flying lawyer friend. "Either you guys act now, or the last Kingdom of the Dwarfs crumbles like a dry autumn leaf, and the people inside are either enslaved or executed. What's it to be?" "Oh, let them all die," says Johnathan, rolling his eyes like a couple of bloodshot dice. "They're ruining the world anyway." I frown. "*What?*" The Google exec sighs as he prepares to explain to me. He lowers his voice and uses 'simple' words as usual, just because I don't earn six figures a month. "The dwarfs currently horde ninety percent of the wealth of the entire known world. They have all that money, but ask yourself: what do they do with it? I'll tell you, my old friend. They sit their fat arses down on it all day, then rest their fat backs on it all night. They don't spend it, like a normal person would. No champagne"--he takes a swig of his as if to prove a point--"no personal chefs, or fitness trainers to donate their money to. Do you follow me? Now orcs, orcs on the other hand! Well, they love to spend money on all kinds of debauchery. They're real people, and then some! So, if they take the wealth from the dwarfs, suddenly it goes from out of a treasure room and into tourism, war, goods, and all kinds of services, bringing about all kinds of improv--" "Hold up," says big Phil, taking the cigar from out of his mouth. "I totally disagree with the idea of distributing the wealth amongst all the people. It's ludicrous! Ridiculous! A two year old could see that much." "I wonder why you disagree?" says Katie, voice oozing of practiced sarcasm. Phil grunts. "On principle, mainly." "What a banker's answer!" she says. "Still, can hardly blame you. I bet you see yourself in the dwarf King's face. Your quality of life goes down, so others can go up. Quite outrageous, I'm sure." "Look," says Phil with a wave of his hand. "Right now, we're wealthy and powerful heroes, right? And this world is our oyster. Right again, right? But if you go ahead and empower everybody... Well suddenly, nobody needs us. We're not special and there's no point in anything anymore. We're just three more average Joes." "Still talking about the game?" asks Johnathan. "...*Yes*? Now, that's just from our perspective, but think of it from theirs! From the peon's POV. No more aspirations for them. No more need to try or to innovate. No more reason to *be*, because they are just given it all. Everything they need and want. Society would fail -- that's proven!" "I wasn't suggesting we just give it all to them," says Johnathan. "Not directly." "Well I don't really care about whether the dwarfs live or die," says Katie. "I don't think any of us do. And I'm not suggesting we need get involved and risk injury to our persons. But... for arguments sake... If we *did* get 'involved', and we did get 'injured' helping the dwarfs, we do suddenly have a water-tight case -- previous precedent from the fall of the elves during the last session would make sure it swings our way -- to sue the king for all he's worth. And then some." "I don't really care if they live or die, either," says Johnathan. "I just don't think they should be hoarding all the treasure. How about this thought: it's better three sensible minds are charged with looking after all that money. By that, I mean it's better we three have their gold, I'd think, and then we help make it trickle down treasure, into the pockets of the populace at a rate that will keep the peoples happy and complacent, but also not make them overly powerful, and therefor, still reliant upon us. Control what they know, what they see, what they have, as I like to say." "I can see why you're lauded for your work!" says Phil. "Damned sensible idea. That way, all villages improve -- as you want them to and in the way you want them to -- but not enough to make them a threat, or to make them question needing us. And we still live and are worshipped as heroes." "Yes. Exactly. Everyone's a winner." I look at my friends. Former friends, I realise. Heroes twisted into ogres. "So, what do you want to do?" "Oh really," says Phil. "Why do you never listen to us? Are you incapable of following an adult conversation? Oh right, I forget you've not grown up yet." "It's not even a choice, it's so obvious." Katie laughs. "Perhaps we need a new DM. One who can set scenarios that are worth playing, not one whom is trapped inside the mind of a child, and the body of a balding thirty year-old. Hair transplants are a thing, you know? Just ask Phil." Phil feigns offence for half a second, then shrugs and takes a long drag of his cigar. "We move aside for the orcs, obvs," says Johnathan to me, tilting back his glass of champagne and tapping the last of the residue down into his gullet. "Let"--*glug*--"nature take its course, of course. Then... Once the orcs and dwarfs have decimated one another, we will make our move and finish the remnants." "It's strange," I say, scanning their smug faces, trying to super-impose the young innocent smiles of my once-friends on top of them. But those smiles are lost. Perhaps forever. And all I can think of is that last line of animal farm. Of looking from the pigs to the humans and not knowing which is which anymore. "Strange," I continue, "That wealth didn't corrupt the dwarfs. Seems it corrupts everyone else." I get to my feet and head to the door. "Good riddens to bad rubbish," I hear one say as I reach the door. The others laugh. I pause and turn back to them. "For people like you, there are no rules. There are no dungeon masters." "Oh, you look as green as a goblin!" "Jealousy is a terrible thing." I take a deep breath and force myself to return to my seat. "Fine. Fine." Another breath. "Roll the dice." Phil does. Eight. I nod. "You let the orcs pass and march to the mountain. Unfortunately, a dragon swoops down out of the clouds, also interested in the vast riches, and burns the shit out of you all. It then eats your roasted corpses. The dwarfs and the orcs and the dragon all celebrate together with a great feast and a merry dance. The end." A beat of silence. "Oh, I say, that was rotten luck."

I have a special relationship with time

I have a special relationship with time, and the way it binds people into its slow, dragging embrace. I can tell how old you are at a glance, no need to read the slackening of your skin, the greying of your hair, the thousand other tiny changes most people rely on to guess at human age. I know the ages of things, too, which has helped me immensely in my long, long *long* career as a paleontologist or, as they used to call the profession when I first started, an antiquarian. I still have to find other evidence to convince my colleagues, but knowing the correct answer right away is a considerable advantage. And, as you've probably already guessed, the other part of my special relationship with time is that it doesn't touch me, not the way it touches other people. I learn, I can be injured and heal, but I don't break down. Later in life--though most of my existence could be referred to as "later" by the usual human standards--I learned that this was probably a violation of entropic principles. Well, it's happening anyway. Or not happening, as the case may be. I haven't always been like this. In terms of geologic or even human historical time, I've been like this a very short while indeed. Ironically--is that the word here?--I came to have this special relationship through my profession, rather than coming into this field by way of the relationship. A ruin, a strange artefact, I'm sure you can piece together some of the outlines yourself if you're clever. Perhaps I'll relay the full story, if there's time, but first, you'll be wanting to know about the woman in the photograph. It was her eyes that struck me first, before my sense of her age really arrived at the edges of my awareness. Perhaps because the ways I've come to know about time are not really natural, but any human would have noticed this particular gaze. Even in the scratched black-and-white of the daguerreotype, the forced stillness of her expression and pose, they stood out. They *burned*. With what, I wasn't quite sure. Determination, certainly, the unshakable intent to be the thing acting and never thing being acted upon, wherever and whenever possible. And a certain canniness, that was there too. But more than anything else, it was *presence*. This was a woman you found yourself sure you'd be aware of if you ever were to share a room, whether she were visible to you or not, regardless of silence or speech. I shook my head, and put the old book down on the pitted dark-light surface of my stained oak desk. Then I looked again, remembering my original purpose, ready to jot her age down in my notes along with all the others from the "Midwestern Society of Antiquities" to which the early photographs belonged. Nothing. And that was alarming. Not just that she was alive. I was alive too, after all, and I don't consider myself an especially alarming person. I was a chronicler, not a meddler, and at that time in my life I intended to go on being so for quite a long time, as I certainly had plenty of it. No, it wasn't the possibility that there was another person like me in the world, I'd speculated on *that* for some time. I couldn't tell when she had died, because she hadn't; there was no end-point in her stream of time. But there was no beginning either. "Sweet mother of Time," I murmured, and made the ancient gesture of protection I'd learned in ruins deeper and more ancient than most of my colleagues would every readily believe, the one that had allowed me to survive the process that made me, well, what I am. I cut the photograph out of the volume very carefully with the somewhat awkward pair of scissors that fold out of my pocket-knife. I still feel badly about this. It's not something I would normally ever do, to deface a book, and I looked about guiltily for any sign of the librarian more than once. But it had to be done. I needed to find this woman, if that's actually what she was, and this wasn't the sort of book the institution would be wiling to lend. I pocked the square of paper, which looked as though it had aged with moderately poor grace, and slipped out of the library. It's a simple enough thing for me to track a person through time, much more difficult to do it through space, especially when all I had to go on was a photograph. And to make matters worth it was a photograph of a person whose own relationship with Time was if anything even more unconventional than my own. I started with the spot I knew the photograph had been taken. That was easy enough, I could feel her presence there, back and back and back through a thousand changes small and large. I walked in a circle. Had she gone this way? That? How quickly? At first it was tedious. But then I came to know her usual schedule, following her throughout her days, and could guess where she'd be, skip forward, check for her traces at this time in that place. At least until she left the little Ohio town where the image had been taken, and then my comfortable little academic life shattered like so much ancient pottery. She'd gone to a ruin. And another, and another, nearly as deep as the one that had changed my life, or at least extended it, all those years ago. And everywhere she went, lives around her had ended. It wasn't clear who they were, or whether she was following them or them her, but I could sense the strands coming to sudden frayed points of termination. Violent death. Never any clues, in any of the ruins. Plenty of signs that they'd been there, and been erased, just as violently as those human lives had met their early erasure from the the long sketching skein of time. The ruins were all over the world. Never anywhere you'd recognize, never near any cities of any modern or even historical note. Every continent, nearly every country. For years I followed this path, years and then decades, wandering through the turbulent changes of the 1960s, returning to academia for a while in the mid-1970s, hoping to keep up with the latest tools and techniques of my trade, then spending nearly the entirety of the 1980s in the sort of long, closely-studied pursuit that might have struck my colleagues as rather familiar. I returned again to teaching and studied for the late 90s and early aughts, trying to understand this new digital revolution, and now? Then I was on the road again, and it brought me to an unassuming four-story apartment building in northern California. Brought me to a an equally unassuming door, with "27" on it in faded faux-brass. I raised my fist to knock, and breathed, and wondered. *Knock, knock, knock.* A pause in time, the longest I have ever known. The door rattled, opened fully, and suddenly time moved too quickly to take everything in. My good Goddess, those eyes. <continued below>

What we dream, we tend to

Saying that nobody showed up was a necessity; a lie we had to share because the truth was much more terrifying. That goes without saying. It's a bit foolish to think that in the future of the human race, we never manage to accomplish the art of time travel, right? Flight was once nothing but a dream and now the skies are criss-crossed with the contrails. A horseless carriage once seemed absurd and now we have driverless cars. What we dream, we tend to turn into reality. I interviewed Mr. Hawking - call me Stephen, the robotic voice had squawked when we first spoke decades ago - a few days before he passed. He seemed quite aware that his time was near and our conversation took us down paths we had never before ventured. "My time is near," the monotone voice informed me. "What makes you say that?" His eyes twinkled and his chair whirred forward, deft fingers at the controls. I thought of a time when such a man would have long ago been dead. Modern science was a miracle. Future science even more so, as our conversation confirmed. "June 28th, 2009," he said - you understand that it was his computer saying the words but Stephen who did the rest. I must have arched an eyebrow or otherwise reacted with surprise because he let out a single chuckle. "Ha." "The Time Travelers Party?" It had been a dismal failure. No time travelers had shown up, somehow confirming that time travel never occurred. I know that right now time travel is nothing more but a motif in science fiction or fantasy shows and novels, but the idea of time travel in the future messes with the mind. If the time travelers come to today, time travel exists today. But I can see quite simply that time travel does not exist. So can time travel ever exist? It was a question we had grappled almost a decade ago as the little publicity stunt took shape. "Someone came," he squawked. I smiled. Classic Stephen. Of course somebody came. There were throngs of reporters; there was a catering crew and an entourage of celebrities waiting to meet a person from the future. Why would they have that privilege? What interest would a person of the future have with us if all they need is to open a book or a web browser and read about our simple existence. "After the reporters left. After everybody was gone." He could tell a story, that was for certain. Of course he could. He was Stephen Hawking, the most brilliant mind of our time. Weaving together the independently useless words of the English language into a gripping story was child's play for a man like him. "The house was dark and we were off to bed," he continued and I leaned in closer. I scribbled notes, in spite of my phone sitting between us and recording the entire conversation. What he was suggesting... This could change everything about what we knew about the future. "A man stepped out of the shadows. At first I thought it was a caterer, perhaps he had missed the last car leaving the area. Then I thought it was a murderer. Perhaps my time was up. It wasn't." Yes, clearly. That's why we were having this conversation. I shook my head. "Who was it?" I knew the answer. I didn't want to believe the answer. I would refuse to believe the answer until it revealed itself before me. Stephen was not a man for elaborate pranks or for lies; he knew his words carried too much weight. "It was a man from the future," he said simply. "Why are you telling me this?" His eyes seemed amused, as if my question was foolish. Every question probably seemed foolish for a man of his intellect. "I trust you. I trust you to keep this to yourself." And then he continued. He told me of how they had talked for hours. First Stephen searched for proof, grasping at straws as he tried to comprehend the significance of the situation. How do you prove you are from the future? With today's technology, newspapers dated for any time are easy to create. Seemingly futuristic technologies can be created out of thin air with a three-dimensional printer. Even for a man like him, it was not something he could figure out. He could not bring himself to trust the man. "So I asked him to tell me the date of my death. Not to prove it to me, but so that I could prove it to somebody else. March 14th, 2018." I glanced at my phone. It couldn't be. I was talking to a dead man, or as close as could be. It was Tuesday. Stephen would be dead by tomorrow. "Why are you telling me this?" I asked again. We both knew my question was different this time. I was not asking why me. I was asking why. His eyes glistened now. It may have been tears. "The future is not bright," he reported. The monotone voice was chilling. One would expect emotion. One would expect this to be devastating. "They say the darkest time is right before twilight. For us, it's not. We fail to solve the issues that plague us. We fail to stop wars. We fail to stop climate change. We fail to save our world and we fail to save ourselves. One person came because one person is all that was left to come." I sat there, stunned. I refused to believe him. I had never refused to believe him, in all our years of conversation. But now I refused to believe him. "What can we do?" He chuckled again. That ominous, robotic chuckle. It brought to mind that perhaps the robots won in the end. Perhaps that would be our legacy; the robots we had once designed and built would own the world and the solar system would be dotted with the ones we sent into space. "Hope that I'm right," he responded. I wished he could seem less casual about all this. "About this? I hope you're not." "About the multiverse. I hope this man was from a different universe and a different timeline. I don't care that we never invent time travel and only in this timeline were we able to come back to my little soiree. I hope that the path we are on does not lead us to that fate." ***** Thanks for reading! If you enjoyed this, please check out more stories at /r/MatiWrites. Constructive criticism and advice are always appreciated!

Ekata was a moderately well-

"Bullshit." She glared at me, and I just sort of shrugged back. She wasn't wrong. It did sound like Grade A Bullshit. Maybe I should have been a little more offended; I was at least a moderately well-respected archaeologist, and I'd never been one for bullshit before. Not when it came to my actual profession, anyway. A little bullshit around the edges is probably good for the human soul, but that's neither here nor there. I sighed. "I know that's what it sounds like, but hear me out, okay? You owe me at least that much for introducing you to Dr. Henrichsen. You wanna estimate just how much grant money that's let you fall ass-backwards into?" Her glare softened--only slightly, but all around the eyes where it really counted. "Okay, Mary, fine. Lay it on me. You know, you probably should have started with the evidence and worked up from there. If the evidence really is that compelling, I mean." "Alright, Ekata." I could feel the smile spreading up toward my eyes, felt the familiar surge of joy, small but fierce and driven, that came with carrying out a discussion on ground you knew deeper than your own bones. "You know how mesas are formed, that's easy. Stone that's soft surrounding stone that's hard, wind and water and millions of years and only the capstone remains. Only I'm telling you, it's not stone at all. Or it is, but only in the same way a petrified forest is stone." "And it just happens to look and test and even mine like perfectly ordinary stone?" She folded her arms and tossed her head forward, letting her glasses slide down her nose just enough for her to look at me over them. I'd seen her do this to students and snickered internally at the way it made them squirm; Dr. Ekata Ghatak had perhaps the most formidable scholarly stare I'd ever seen. I guess Karma had been listening and had come back to bite me in the ass; but unlike most of Ekata's students, I knew what I was talking about, and I was going to make sure she saw it. "Yes, or it has until now. The outer layers have turned completely to stone, but inside we've found capillaries. Nano-scale, nothing like we've ever seen in modern plants. Whatever they were used to conduct, it can't have been any kind of fluid, but they're there and they extend all the way through the interior. And as far into the Earth as we've been able to dig. Like an extremely, *microscopically* fine root system." She held out one hand, leaving the other still folded across her chest. "Show me." I grinned and spun around to dig in my oversized laptop bag. "Hang on...hang on...right here." She squinted at the papers I was pulling out of a nondescript folder. "Are those...typewritten? I haven't seen anything like that since my last museum visit, or cleaning out the old letters of my late aunt. What gives, Mary?" I felt my smile go slightly sheepish, but didn't let it waver *too* much. "There's a reason for that, I promise. You just...wouldn't believe it just yet. Just read them." She took the papers, thumbed through them, reading titles, checking summaries. She paused when she got to the first section of diagrams. "Mimeographs? Where in Hell did you even find a machine for that? What's wrong with the department copiers? They were working fine last I checked." She narrowed her eyes in my direction, only half-playfully. "Have you been spending too much time with that friend of yours in the Philosophy department? Picking up some Luddite tendencies?" "No...well, maybe, but not from him. Look, just read. I'll wait." She flicked her wrist round to stare at her watch. "Alright, fine. I have an hour and twenty until my next meeting. This had better not be a waste of time, though. I'm behind on grading my papers." Which, for Dr. Ekata Ghatak, might mean there were assignments turned in yesterday she hadn't yet turned into red-pen forensic blood spatter samples. I was morally sure she'd been a premature baby, just to make sure no birth complications would make her anything so unthinkable as *late.* She'd probably chided the obstetrician for imprecise use of terminology the moment she'd finished her first indignant scream. "No," I said, "I'll stay here, I want to be available if you have any questions." *And to make sure you don't make any copies, or type anything into that laptop open on your desk,* I thought as I looked over her shoulder and into the half-opened door of her office. Ekata laughed, and as usual I found I liked it, it was warm and straightforward and pulled some of the usual sternness back from her sharp features. "Don't worry, Mary, I'll respect your weird paper-only policy. I promise not to take any notes or even look anything up online. Fair enough?" She raised her eyebrows, giving me what can only described as a Look, then beckoned me into her office. I half-smiled as I followed her, abashed. "Yeah, fair enough. But, uh, I really do want to be there in case you have any questions. Also, I mean." Goddammit, I felt like a kid caught outside after curfew in some especially stuffy Northeastern boarding school. How did her wife deal with that stare? Or was it only reserved for students and crackpot colleagues? *She knows you're not a crackpot,* I reassured myself. Not very successfully, though, and I fidgeted with my phone as I sat down in her office guest chair to watch her read. An hour later, during which time I pretended to read all *sorts* of things on my phone and definitely did not tap out any imaginary texts and emails on the screen, she looked up from the two neat piles of papers stacked up on her closed laptop lid. I put my phone away, or tried to, so quickly that I only managed to fumble it halfway into my pocket before it clunked onto the hard institutional carpet. "Mary," she said as I picked up the device and just held it between both hands. "There's something missing from this. What is it?" Good. She'd noticed. Maybe she'd been intrigued. Christ, she was hard to read. "I'll have to just show you," I said. She leaned back in her chair, and slowly shook her head. "You're telling me you actually found it. The thing this whole excavation report is just dancing around." I nodded, just once, then half-turned to close her office door. "Yes," I said. "It's there. Or rather, *they* are there. Underneath all three mesas we've dug under so far. We're calling them the Hollows of Yggdrasil." She sat slowly upright. "Yggdrasil. Like the World Tree from Norse mythology?" I shrugged. "Yes, but there are lots of World Trees in mythologies all over the world, we just used that word because it's most familiar to English speakers. Only look--there was never just *one.* And you're not going to believe what we found below. You have to see for yourself. Are you free tomorrow? It's a short flight but a long drive. We'd have to leave early." She looked down at the papers, thumbed through to stare at one of the mimeographs, then contemplated the neatly filled-in calendar on her wall, and sighed. Breathe in, breathe out, decision. "No. But I can be. I'll figure out what to do with my classes." She smiled, a very small thing on her lips that bloomed brilliant in her eyes. "You've already got my ticket, haven't you?" "Yes," I said, refusing to let too much more sheepishness into my own voice. "I'll let my wife know something very important has come up and that I can't talk about the research just yet. I don't do this sort of thing often, she'll be understanding. Show me the tickets?" I turned my phone screen to face her. "Okay," she said. "Meet you at the airport. And, Mary?" "Yes?" "Thank you for thinking of me when you made this discovery." "Who else would I think of first?" I said. "You were NASA's first pick too. World's premier xenobiologist." "Flatterer," she said. "See you tomorrow." <continued below!>

The sunglasses were cheap, stylish enough

I found them in a gas station. The sunglasses were cheap, stylish enough, and would serve their purpose. I wasn't too picky about sunglasses; I had a tendency to lose pairs of sunglasses rather quickly, so spending a huge amount of money on them would have been a waste. I had lost my most recent pair on vacation with my family. We had rented a boat for the day and gone out on the lake. It was a good time, but later that day, when we were on the road to the next destination on our trip, I realized that I no longer had my sunglasses on me. I figured I left them on the boat or in the hotel room. It wasn't anything new; as I said, I always lost my sunglasses. So that's how I found myself inside a gas station mini-mart, standing before a pair of sunglasses that I did not realize would change my life forever. As I mentioned before, they weren't bad-looking, and they would only cost me a few bucks. They would serve their purpose nobly until I lost them. What I did not realize at the time was that this was a pair of sunglasses that I would most certainly *not* want to lose. I tried them on for a moment, looked at myself in the little mirror on the corner of the display, deemed them suitable enough, and then walked up to the cash register. "I'll take these," I said. "Ah! A good choice," responded the cashier. He gave me a knowing smile, and there was definitely a glint of something in his eye, but I didn't read into these signs at the time. I just wanted a new pair of sunglasses. This was at night. Since I didn't need them at the time, I stowed them away, got back into the minivan with my family, and we drove away, continuing our journey toward our next destination. Because of this, I did not discover the magic of these glasses until the next day. So the next day dawned. It was a hot day. One of those days during which it feels as if the sun is actively attacking you, sending down waves of heat that feel as if they are physically weighing down on you. There was not a single cloud in the sky. As such, I whipped out my sparkly-new Gas Station Brand^TM sunglasses and gave them a try. My father was standing in front of me when I walked out of the hotel and slipped them on. The first thing I noticed was what I can only describe as a text box which was hovering next to his T-shirt. It said: "T-Shirt of Blundering (-1 Charisma)". At first, I couldn't believe my eyes, so I took off the sunglasses, and the text box disappeared. I threw them back on, and the text box reappeared. And what was even stranger was that the text box was *following* the shirt, as if attached to it. When my dad walked outside the frame, the text box next to the shirt disappeared. When I looked back at him, it was there again. Bewildered, I swiveled to my sister, who was next to me, and said, "Do you see that thing next to Dad's--" I suddenly stopped. "What?" she asked. "What thing next to Dad?" I had paused as another wave of amazement hit me. When my sister had entered my field of view, another two text boxes had materialized: one next to her hair tie which said, "Bookworm's Hair Tie (+1 Intelligence, +5% Studying Effectiveness)", and another next to her flip-flops which said, "Athlete's Sandals: +10% Jump Height)". I couldn't break out of my daze of bewilderment until my sister grabbed my arm. "Jonathan?" she said, clearly worried. I snapped out of it. "Yeah, sorry," I said. "I was just wondering if you saw that bee flying next to Dad's head a second ago. Looks like it's gone now," I added stupidly. She gave me a weird look, said, "Okay," and walked away after rolling her eyes. I'm not sure why, but I didn't want anyone to know what I had discovered. In a moment of curiosity, I looked down at my own clothes, but saw no accompanying text boxes. I supposed that perhaps only certain items bore such... enchantments? It felt weird to call them that--it felt too magic-y and surreal for real life--but, well, what else could you call them? That's what they *were*, for Christ's sake. Like items straight from a role-playing video game. Weird. I went about the rest of the day swiveling my head around wildly at other people, looking at every possible article of clothing, item, and accessory that I could, flabbergasted at the variety of enchantments that people unknowingly had on their belongings: I saw a Camera of Clarity (-20% Blurriness), a Beach Umbrella of Bad Luck (15 ft. Circular Aura: -2 Luck), Sexy Socks (+25% Seduction Chance, +2 Charisma), and even a Camry of Sturdiness (-5% Chance of Accident, -10% Less Damage in Case of Crash). Strangers gave me weird looks as I stared at them to appraise their belongings, but I didn't care; I was too intensely interested in seeing what they had that it didn't matter to me if they caught me gawking at them. I think what shocked me the most about this unexpected discovery was that everyone was going about their lives without knowing about this secret world of enchantments that existed just beneath their noses. It affected their everyday lives, bringing about noticeable differences, and yet they did not know that some of their belongings were literally *enchanted*. Questions swirled in my mind. What caused these items to be enchanted? Did someone enchant them? Was it random? Who else knew about this? Why didn't they say anything? Surely I'm not the only one, I thought. *Someone* out there must know. It was at that point that I thought back to the man in the gas station convenience store who gave me a very significant look when I purchased these glasses. He knew. I knew he did. He even told me that they were a "good choice." Who says that about gas station sunglasses? This led to yet another question. Was the gas station guy the only one who knew? Or were there more people out there who were aware of what I had discovered? My reverie was broken, and my question answered, by a man who ran into the museum we were currently touring. It wasn't so much the man's appearance that shook me as it was what he was holding. To any normal person, it probably looked like a tree branch. But I saw what it was: Zealous Staff of Zeus' Thunder. I thought that was neat until he raised it in the air viciously as if to attack. I knew what was happening. "Get down!" I yelled at my family. In the brief moment before chaos broke loose in the museum, I only had time to process a single thought: Oh boy, having these sunglasses was sure going to be an adventure. --- Thanks for all of the feedback, everyone! And thanks for gilding my little story! I appreciate all of the unexpected attention this has been getting. Most of all, thanks for reading! ~ TheMistyHaze

The day a person discovers their innate

FYI this story has been reposted on my subreddit with a new Part 2 of this story included, so if you'd like to read the most complete version of it, I'm also working on Part 3 and beyond, hope to have it posted on my sub soon! ___ "Fireball!" "Flight!" "X-ray vision!" Predictably, nothing happened when I shouted any of those words. The day a person discovered their innate superpower was supposed to be one of the happiest days of their life, but I spent two years shouting the names of random powers aloud like a crazy person before I finally discovered mine. From what I'd heard, you technically didn't even have to shout your power, just think it, but I was so frustrated by being the only person without a power that I was going the extra mile. In my defense, mine wasn't quite as obvious as being able to fly or having super strength. It turned out I had the ability to "save" a moment in my life, and reload back into it whenever I wanted. This seemed to reset my timeline and I'd continue on with my life from that point. Sound a little underwhelming compared to heat vision or controlling the weather? Not for me it wasn't! I was... well, I *am* the world's most socially awkward human being. For me, this power was a godsend, an absolute life saver. Just last week my annual performance review had come up at work. Normally, discussing a raise or negotiation of any kind was among my least favorite moments in life, but this time... not so bad actually. "I'd like a 50% raise please!" I said with absurd levels of confidence. "Kyle," my boss began. "We're instructed to *fire* any employee asking for more than a 10% salary increase in their first year review to keep costs down. You're 24, but they can replace you with a cheaper, more desperate 22 year old at any time. I'm genuinely trying to help you here, are you understanding how this works?" I was indeed. I reloaded to just before the review had began, walked in, and sat down in front of my boss again. "I'd like a 9% raise please!" I said with absurd levels of confidence. "That might be a tad high, but we can work with it based on your high output and quality work," he replied. Done and done! I had my raise in hand relatively painlessly within an hour. And thank goodness, I needed this job and the extra cash. I was still going to grad school and that ain't cheap. Speaking of grad school, I'm currently sitting in class, bored out of my mind, and the girl I've had a crush on all year just sat down next to me. More than that, she asked to borrow my portable battery charger for her laptop. This felt like a moment for Save-Load Man to shine! (I was still working on my superhero name, don't judge me) "I know we haven't really been introduced, but I'm Kyle. I highly respect your intellect and would like to hear the thoughts from your large, big smart brain enlighten me over dinner some time?" She looked at me like I was an alien. Reset time! "I know we haven't really been introduced, but I'm Kyle. I want to be perfectly honest with you, I've had a huge crush on you all year... I've literally dreamt of burying my face in your chest and living among your wondrous pillowy mountains for the rest of my life... err... TMI right?" She slapped me, rightfully. Trust me, I can screw this up in dozens of more ways, but I'm hoping to limit the emotional pain of rejection to like 8. Reset! "I know we haven't really been introduced, but I'm Kyle. Uhhhhh... you can use my portable battery charger, but I'd really like to charge *your* batteries, baby--" Ugh this is awful, I'm not even waiting for the slap. FOR THE LOVE OF GOD RESET! I'd heard guys successfully use cheesy pickup lines before, but that just wasn't me. Even with a superpowered safety net, trying to be myself was still terrifying, but I guess it was worth a shot. "I know we haven't really been introduced, but I'm Kyle. What's your name?" I asked. "Nicole," she said as she smiled and extended her hand. "Nice to meet you, Nicole. You can use my battery charger, but you should know, I might have to charge you like 85 cents for the spare juice. I'm not Telsa, I cant give out recharges for free, I'm sure you understand," I said in as much of a fun and joking tone as I could muster. Against all odds, she chuckled slightly, dug into her purse, and slapped a $1 bill on my desk. "Keep the change good sir," she said with a wink. We exchanged a few more jokes and whispers during class, and it went by in a flash. As she gave me back my charger I decided to go for it. "Hey Nicole? Would you... wanna grab a coffee with me?" "Sure, but you're paying, I had to give my last buck to some scam artist who was charging for the use of 'his' electricity," she replied. "Yeah but it was sooooo worth the 85 cents, right?" Her hands began to glow and crackle with electricity. "To be perfectly honest... I can recharge my devices pretty much whenever I want, it just gave me a good excuse to talk to you," she said with a sly grin. "Is the Java Hut around the corner good with you?" I was elated. More than that, I realized I'd forgotten to even 'save' before I asked her out to coffee, which was total madness for a person as neurotic as myself! Is this really the secret to social interactions and asking people out? Just talk like a normal person, get to know them, hope they like you for who you really are? Frankly, I felt like I'd gained a second, infinitely more useful super power. ___ I don't have any superpowers, but I do write a lot of stuff! Check out r/Ryter if you'd like to explore more words from me. EDIT: Thanks for the Silver stranger, I'll wear it proudly EDIT 2: Wow the response to this story has been pretty overwhelming. I've gotten several comments/messages requesting a Part 2 for this so figured I'll just put this here: I have a ton of real life obligations taking up my time today, but will try my very best to have a 2nd chapter/continuation of this story posted on my sub soon. I have some ideas, just need the time to write them : ) Thanks so much for all the kind words! EDIT 3: I did end up writing a Part 2 to this story! If you've already read this Part 1, scroll down to the middle of the page I just linked and start reading at the bolded "Part 2".

"Male, thirty one years old

He asked me if I was alright. His eyes were fixed on mine. "Yes," I answered, suppressing a sly grin. His eyes went first. "I knew it," he mumbled. And then he started to yell. "You can see them, too." He pulled at the restraints. He fumbled over his words. He fought some invisible force. Maybe it was my hesitancy. Maybe it was the look I gave him. Either way, it was enough to trigger him - enough to let him know that maybe he was a little less crazy than he seemed - and the guards strapped him into the straight-jacket and dragged him away. I took a note in my notebook, filled with over a year of scribbles now. Always the same result. Always the same reaction. And try as I might, I could never figure out the pattern. I could never figure out what they sought. I just let them do what they wanted. I just did as I was told. "Male, thirty one years old... As of today." Unfortunate birthday for him, to say the least. Hopefully by his next one we would figure out how to stabilize him. "Nervous, bloodshot eyes, complaining that they're all around him. Delusions and paranoia." The director listened to my report keenly. "They've all been male?" I shook my head. There had been about two dozen females. Their reactions were just less dramatic. Less virulent. More controlled. I wasn't sure why the effectiveness was so different. "Age?" No pattern there. I swatted at a fly that buzzed near my ear, used to the motion by now. It landed on his sweaty forehead. He didn't notice. I stared, captivated as the tiny creature feasted on his salty secretions. "Patrick?" I snapped out of it. "No patterns," I repeated. Even the computers couldn't figure out the patterns, at least not anything indicating any type of strong correlation. At least not anything more than they were supposed to. The patients were from all walks of life; young and old, poor and rich, white and black and everything in between. The fly paced up his forehead, onto his balding head. Another had joined it, two companions stalking their way to their goal. He wiped at his forehead, as if he was vaguely aware of the creatures helping themselves to the banquet. I knew he wasn't. He wouldn't be here with me if he was. And I wouldn't be here with them if they knew what I knew. I had had several close calls. Once I swatted at a fly while I sat in the interrogation room across from a patient. The patient's eyes had gone wide. They had pulled against the restraints that held them to the chair. They had screamed. They had begged for mercy. They had begged me to tell the world they were real. But I didn't. I couldn't. I ended that session; I had them gagged and bound and thrown into solitary where they could lay in darkness, straining and drooling until they were feeble-minded and entirely unreliable. There were three flies now. They were gathered near the top of his skull. I stared at them in morbid fascination. It never got old. I could almost see my reflection on his head. "Patrick," he said again. He was impatient. We had far too many patients to waste time. I was distracted, my eyes fixed on the mechanical little ritual he was completely unaware of. "They have no sign of infection. There is nothing noticeably wrong with them, other than their behavior. We don't know what came over them but it's always the same. It's like something else entirely has taken control." He was disturbingly close. The patients were often admitted involuntarily, thrust into our possession by worried family members or enraged pedestrians. "Don't let them get you," they would say. So I was careful. When they came near, I would swat and duck into a bathroom or casually put on a ball-cap. I knew what to look for. I wasn't supposed to be a target, but it was just in case. I didn't want to have to go through all that again. And then the first of the flies was gone, boring its way into the top of his skull. I smiled with satisfaction. "No, sir," I answered. "No other symptoms." I had met the director in the interview process. We had quickly bonded. Of course we had. I had been meticulously briefed on his every interest; I had read his favorite books and tracked his favorite sports teams and begun to frequent his favorite restaurants. Plus, I had come with glowing recommendations. Several stints in a number of different facilities, all employments confirmed by phone calls. Of course my resume had been vetted and then vetted again. But it was solid. There were no cracks in the story. We were more careful than that. And now it was just a matter of keeping hold of the people who saw through it all. I had almost begun to like him. I would miss him. But it was necessary. "Patrick?" He was nervous. The sweat had started to dissipate. Sweating was not a symptom. "Patrick?" he repeated, his voice a little more labored. "You can see them too?" He was desperate now. I could see it in his eyes. I had worked with enough patients to know the moment it took hold. Not the patients here; the patients we had in the lab in the development process. The patients who had made this all possible, God rest their souls, as we stumbled our way through the beta versions. "Patrick?" He was yelling now. He felt trapped in his own head, his arms and legs no longer in his control. His mind would be next. The straight-jackets weren't necessary. They were just traditional. I pressed the button for the intercom. "I'll need a little help here," I said with faked urgency. "We have another case." I knew the guards would enter with the straight-jacket ready. They would look at him sadly, another colleague afflicted. I knew they would put him in one of the countless cells in the belly of the building. I knew that the position would now be empty and our grasp would become a little more firm. I knew that the tiny little things buzzing in my pocket were hungry for another strike and I patted the pocket gently to let them know that they would soon be unleashed. ***** Thanks for reading! If you enjoyed this, please check out more stories at /r/MatiWrites. Constructive criticism and advice are always appreciated!

In most cases, I prefer to

I've never been one to judge things. In most cases, I prefer to keep a neutral mindset. My family always told me that when I REALLY liked something, they knew that it was good, since I was often so keen on never expressing an opinion on anything. This was how I explained it away for most my life. I was decisive, and that meant people who knew me valued my opinion. Then something strange happened. I was at a restaurant once. My friend had taken me there, because he wanted to try their food. It was a new place, and not many reviews had been written yet on Yelp. I was skeptical, but I wasn't going to begin an argument with my friend. We sat at our table. The service was fine. The food arrived quickly enough that neither of us was bothered, and slowly enough that I felt there was no way they could have rushed the cooking (if Gordon Ramsay taught me anything, it was to always fear the restaurant that brought you your food TOO quickly). As soon as I took my first bite, I knew that this place was never going to last more than three months. I was so sure of it, that I said it out loud to my friend. Unfortunately, I instinctively said this very loud. One must understand, when I get shocked by something, whether it be for good or bad, I raise my tone. Everyone in the restaurant heard me, basically. One by one, all the guests got out of their chairs and walked out of the restaurant, even my friend. I had no clue how or why this happened, but I quickly found myself sitting in my booth alone, the only patron in the establishment I just doomed. I waited to be chewed out by the owner, I felt I deserved as much, but he never came. I leaned over the edge of my seat and looked around the restaurant. Not a soul. I got up and walked to the kitchen. No chefs. No sous. Not even a dishwasher was left in the building. I walked outside and met with my friend. "What just happened?" I asked. "It's like you said, that place is crap," he responded. "Didn't you notice how everyone left as soon as I said that?" "I mean, why wouldn't they? They probably already wanted to, and just needed someone to speak up about how bad it was so they could leave without feeling bad." "I mean...I guess," I shrugged. I had never expressed such an absolute opinion in front of stranger before, and for months, I couldn't get it out of my head. The situation became more freaky when I posted a picture on my Instagram account. I was volunteering at an animal shelter and posted some pictures of the dogs and cats we had. I begged people to come by and adopt pets, as they were all going to be put down at the end of the week. I was impressed with how my post received so many likes, but many of them were from other countries, so had very little hope for the animals. Never did I expect that over the next three days, 50 people would come by the shelter and adopt a pet. Every single one of them said they saw my post and immediately made their way down there. Some of the people said they came from five states away. Twenty of them had to take airplanes to get to my town to adopt the animals. The high of the mass adoption kept me from thinking too deeply about the situation, but soon something happened that made me realize something was up. Once was luck. Twice was coincidence. Three times, though...that was a pattern. I assumed I had a knack for social media. And I eventually made a YouTube account. I made a video about what I planned to do on the channel. Vlogs, some music stuff, and just random crap. The video was terrible and uninteresting. Knowing this, I asked the viewer to watch until the video ended. At the end, I asked everyone to like, comment, subscribe, hit the bell, and all the usual stuff. Do you want to guess what I woke up to the next day? My video had over 100,000 views. I was ecstatic. It was unbelievable. No one gets that many views on their first video. I told my parents, my friends, and even strangers I saw walking by. Once I calmed down, I took note of the analytics. Not only did 100,000 people view the ENTIRE video. 100,000 people liked. 100,000 people commented. 100,000 people subscribed. 100,000 people clicked on the bell. That's when the puzzle came together. People listened to me. They trusted me and my opinion. I scoffed at the irony. I was probably the least opinionated and least commanding person on the planet, but I could get people to agree with what I say, no matter what I say. I thought I would try something, just to prove my theory. I collected rocks from my backyard, and I put them on eBay for $1,000 each. I posted a YouTube video telling people to buy the rocks. I woke up the next morning with 20 grand in my bank account. Why was I always so scared to share my opinion? Why did I think it didn't matter. As it turned out, my opinion was the ONLY one that mattered. I became an all consuming beast. I would go to restaurants and tell them they should feed me for free. They did. I told girls I would meet that they should have sex with me. They would. I told my sponsors to pay me more, and they would. I was rich, I was sexy, and I was the most important person in the world. ...I was... After thirty years, I had become the richest, most powerful person in the world. I was doing an interview, and the interviewer said that some people didn't like how I started my career scamming people into buying rocks. I was cocky and I was selfish. Without thinking, I said, "I think that if you don't appreciate the hard work it took to get people to buy those rocks, you should drop one on your head. And they did. Many people did. Strangers. Friends. Family. I thought I was being funny, but I lost track of my power, and it cost me so much. Over the course of the next two weeks. Over 1.74 million people dropped boulders on their heads, killing themselves. I ordered that the network that ran the interview never air it again, and that they destroy every last piece of that recording. Unfortunately, I didn't learn my lesson the first time. Never mind all the times I told someone to go fuck themselves, or the times I made people do things they didn't want to do. I became evil. I had over eight trillion dollars to my name, but it wasn't enough. I asked every person in the world to give me every cent they had, and they did. God, I was a dick. I told all the world's governments to make me the ruler of the entire planet. And of course they said yes. I was already in charge. I became hungry with power, and then I had a child. I told most of the women I impregnated to abort their children or to never speak to me again. But my child came back to find me when she was twenty years old. After she told me who she was, I had some questions. "Why did you come here?" "To stop your tyranny," she said. "What makes you think you can stop me?" I inquired. "I will not stop you," she said. "I don't understand." "You will soon enough." I looked at her puzzlingly. "I think you should leave." She stayed. She didn't so much as twitch. Suddenly it became clear. I couldn't influence her. "My mother killed herself after you did that interview," she said, "You ruined my life." "I'm sorry," I began, "that day weighs on me more than you can know." "Does it?" she asked, "Have you looked at the world you've created? People are starving. They kill each other every day just to make it by. You have all the money, and you have this false belief that you control everything." "But I don't control you." "Exactly." "I have received no news of this world you speak of." "Then, come with me, father." I followed her to the outside of the city surrounding my castle. We drove through a cloud of smoke and into what appeared to be the remains of a metropolitan city. "What is all this?" I ask. "This was once one of the biggest, most wealthy cities in the world. Now, it's a wasteland, almost unrecognizable." "I was here twenty years ago," I said, shocked, "How long did it take to get like this?" "Five years of no economy," she said, "I was applying to colleges when this place was still functioning." "How could this be?" "You're selfish," she exclaimed, "You wanted power and influence, and now 80% of the world looks just like this." "I need to fix this." "How? You have a time machine?" "No...but I have a solution." I set up a press conference, and I stood on the podium. I knew this would work, but I also knew it would end everything I had worked for. "I think we should reestablish the governments of the world. I think we should put everyone's money back where it was, and I think we should have a more peaceful society." I looked around, knowing how important the final words were, and making sure I had everyone's attention for when I said them. "I think that from now on, you should all stop listening to what I say."

The only game show where doing nothing

"I'm your host, Chuck Burner, and it's time to play Time! To! Play! That's right folks, the only game show where doing nothing at all could earn *you* one. Million. Dollars. Let's meet our contestants! From Boise Idaho, Rupert Engels! From San Antonio Texas, Gene Ford! From Newark Delaware, James Smith! Give them a big round of applause folks." The applause was canned but we still smiled into the camera just like we'd been coached. We'd had to sign a non-disclosure agreement beforehand saying that we'd never leak America's most popular game show's secret to the general public. Filmed in front of a live studio audience? A farce. Getting footage from the Time Dilator apparently took weeks, months in extreme cases. So we smiled; James even pumped his fist in the air and gave the crowd a loud 'Woo!'. "Come on down Rupert, Gene, James! Let me explain how the game is played." Chuck gestured to three machines that looked for all the world like massive cement eggs with an occasional panel or button or display. The sides of each of the machines stood open. "Your goal is to stay inside of these chambers longer than your opponents. Whoever makes it 2nd longest will earn $100 for each second they outlast the 3rd place contestant. Whoever lasts the longest will earn the same amount as the 2nd place contestant, plus $1000 for every second they outlast 2nd place. But of course, there's a catch. These special machines are designed to accelerate your perception of time. Your body will be more or less asleep for the duration, but you'll experience every second as roughly a tenth of one day in an alternate reality. An hour will feel like a year. Last one full year? Earn one. Million. Dollars." Canned applause and cheers erupted behind us again. "The reality you'll live in is fully stocked with books, food, games, anything you can imagine. Anything, that is, except other people. No contact with real, breathing people. You have all the time in the world, and no one to spend it with. Are you up to the challenge!?" I swear they didn't even bother changing out the applause track; one guy whistles around 1 second in and it's kind of grating the third time. "Then let's get started!" One by one, Chuck guided us into the egg shaped pods, making sure we didn't bang our heads on the ceiling. Doctors in white coats followed us quickly, hooking up a series of electrodes and running a battery of diagnostic tests. My doctor, who didn't mention her name, reminded me at least three times that the button I would press to escape the time dilation would be a conspicuous red affair sticking out of the front wall. Meanwhile sounds of Chuck pandering to a fake crowd drifted in, drowning out her reminders and admonishments. No doubt his piano-smile flashing brightly into the spotlight the whole time. Seconds later, the Doctor had dipped out of the machine, the door had closed, and when I blinked I found myself teleported to another world entirely. I knew, of course, that my body was now unconscious in that giant cement egg, even if I *felt* like I was somewhere else. The building that greeted me was nothing short of beautiful; dark wood paneling, a massive library, a courtyard miles in diameter with all of the trees and birds of my childhood. A cat, presumably the long-dead Muffins, padded up to me and rubbed its head against my leg. This was the result of a thousand different surveys and psychological tests they'd been bombarding me with for the past month. A reconstructed fantasy world where I'd feel most at ease. A fine place to go insane. I'd watched episodes of Time to Play before, daytime television was filled with reruns from past seasons. The descent into madness was somewhat predictable. Contestants would start by focusing on a book or a game; then they'd finish it and turn to another. And another and another and another, gradually losing interest. Some would go for a run or a hike, but then they'd remember that their bodies were asleep, and that no amount of training would make them stronger or healthier. They'd start humming to themselves, then talking to themselves, then arguing with themselves. Sooner or later, they all pressed the button, usually with less than a month of elapsed 'time' in the chamber. All of it, the tantrums, the self-harm, the psychotic shouting at non-existent shadows, all of it was broadcast out to every home in America. Naturally, I wouldn't be here if I didn't have a plan. It always seemed to me that the reason people go mad is because they want *something* to happen, because they want *something* to matter. That's not what I'm here for. I'm not even here for the million dollars. I just wanted a place where I could lay down, stare at the ceiling, and occasionally take a break to write or eat or take a bath. To me? This was a vacation. On the first day, I took a blanket from the linen closet and draped it over the large clock displayed prominently in the foyer. 364:23:58:10 and counting down, but who cares about time when you have nowhere to be? And with that, I picked up Muffins, walked into the courtyard, found a genial oak with a lovely patch of shade, leaned back against it, and closed my eyes. A gentle breeze raked my hair. I could stay like this forever. "300:00:00:00, oh oh oh oh oh oh oh oh! Ho ho! Two months down! Perfectly fine, hands, toes, me! Perfectly intact." I went to the kitchen and baked cinnamon rolls to celebrate. "210:54:32:10, five four three two one zero! Tick, tick, tick. Not much longer, not much longer now!" I danced on the balls of my feet and stared at the clock. The numbers burned tiny little afterimages into my virtual eyes. "001:00:00:00, one. One more. One more day. Just one more. Then I can see them again. The people. The people? Who am I seeing? I know there was someone, someone I was supposed to see. It doesn't matter. I'll see someone again." I'd been spending a lot of time in front of the mirror lately. The graphics in this place weren't quite like the real world; my teeth seemed peculiarly bright from some angles. I tried not brushing for a while to see if that helped, but that mostly just made them feel fuzzy. So I broke the mirror, and now when I stand in front of it I can't see my teeth at all! "Three. Two. One. Zero." I punched the large red button underneath the clock. "...Negative one. Negative two. Negative three." I punched it harder. I kicked the button. I headbutted the button. I tore the button off of the wall, and pressed it some more. "LET ME OUT! I'M DONE! YOU HEAR ME!? I DID IT!" No response, except an echo and a slightly alarmed Muffins. I fell to my knees, "Muffins, I'm sorry, Muffins baby, don't be scared. Muffins, come here sweetie, come to Mommy, I'm sorry for scaring you." Muffins ran away. I gave chase, sobbing. --- Seven hours after I entered the chamber, I was finally pulled out, forcefully. A tired looking Chuck rushed to greet me with the great news, to congratulate me as the first ever winner of Time to Play. Right up until he saw my hollowed eyes, vacant expression, slouched shoulders. "Gene? Gene are you alright? Gene?" "Gene? That sounds familiar. What's a Gene?" "You, you're Gene. Gene, are you okay?" "I'm... I? I am! I am. IM. Instant message. Message instantly. Instant, Lee!" I broke into a fit of laughter. "Gene, why didn't you press the button? Are you okay?" "The BUTTON!? Red button!? Pressed, kicked, smashed, pressed, hit, pressed pressed pressed. Held, pressed, Morse Code, SOS. The BUTTON!?" I fell to my knees and sobbed. "The button, the button, the button, the button, I'm sorry button..." --- "A total failure?" "Yup, and just when it looked so promising too." "How long did she last?" "Define last? She did go a full year without trying to escape, though." "Well that's a new record anyway. A far cry from a total failure." "Except the bad publicity from this thing means the show is being investigated. We're going to need to find a new way to get the recruits we need." "Yes, yes, we've been here before. I trust you can handle the PR. But we finally have a lead. Run a full DNA sequencing on her, see if you can figure out how she managed to go that long. This may be the closest we've ever come to a manned Mars mission and I don't mean to let her sacrifice be in vain." "Yes sir." "Oh, and Johnson?" "Sir?" "For fucks sake, figure out what happened to her button. Seven years without human contact... that's one hell of a way to go mad." "Yes sir." --- --- r/BadgerFrance

The first three months have been fine

364:23:59:00 They've asked me to keep a journal while I'm in here. Which is really silly since I'm terrible with things like this. So I guess I will just make an entry every once in a while. 275:01:00:00 The first three months have been fine. I mean, I just get to sit in a 20 ft by 20 ft room with all the video games, movies, and ebooks anyone could ever want. No school, no work, no relationship troubles. 201:13:45:00 This has been... A lot harder than I thought it would be. It turns out that the lack of internet (since that was deemed as "Outside contact") made me feel really detached from the world. I feel myself slipping into a feeling of general apethy and depression as I find it harder and harder to find the will to do anything in this gray box I call home. I tried the door today, just because. It didn't budge of course. If really I wanted to quit, I needed to forfeit, but I don't feel ready to do that yet. 109:22:00:00 This feeling of apethy consumed me to the point that I have even stopped eating. Not that I have much reason to eat anyways; all of the canned goods that they had stuck me in here with got old fast. Of course every few days I scarf down a can of beans or peaches, or whatever happened to sound edible that day. 067:10:00:00 There were so many times where I should have just given it up already. Called it quits and pressed the big red "Forfeit" button near the doorway. Just the feeling of sun on my skin or a cool breeze through my hair is all I want after anymore. Seeing another face. My parents or friends would be best, but just anyone who wasn't just on a TV screen. Who knows why, but Ive stuck with it anyways. I guess I can't really be bothered to do that either. 035:00:00:00 I've decided that I wanted to be in good shape when those doors opened, so I finally started using that exercise equipment that had been accumulating dust in the corner. I've made it this far damnit, and I'm not going to give up yet. I am so excited to see my parents again, and to brag to the whole world that I made it a full year without cracking. Well, maybe I almost cracked, but I'm feeling a bit better now. After so many long hard months, things are finally starting to look up. 000:00:59:43 Finally, the faithful day has arrived! I packed up all of my things that I had brought with me. I've dressed in my nicest set of clothes, and I'm now just waiting eagerly while the clock ticks down through its final moments. Looking at myself in the mirror, it looks like I lost quite a bit of weight, but put on a little bit of muscle this last month. A million dollars, fame, and finally freedom are waiting for me just beyond that door! -000:00:19:00 I'm admittedly a little confused. There were no flashing lights, no sound of congratulations. Nothing. The door stayed shut as it had been these last 365 days, and when I tried to pry it open it wouldn't budge. Is this some kind of joke? -000:13:35:00 This has to be a joke. I pressed the button and nothing happened either. I don't understand. -000:18:20:00 Please be a joke. -001:02:13:00 Please -001:02:14:00 please -001:02:16:00 PLEASE LET ME OUT! I WANT OUT PLEASE LET ME OUT! -002:00:00:00 So, it's been two days since the timer elapsed, and I was supposed to be let out. I tried screaming and jumping in view of the cameras but nothing has happened. I don't get it. I just don't get it. -008:03:12:00 I don't know what to do. Please, if anyone is reading this, please help me I don't know what to do I don't know what to do -019:22:00:00 Well, I'm still here. I can't seem to pry the door open, and no one has answered my calls for help. Naturally, my imagination has been running wild with possible explanations: nuclear apocalypse, global catastrophe, alien invasion... I mean what else am I supposed to think when the only thing that has kept me sane this long were a bunch of B rated SyFy movies while being locked in a repurposed cold war bunker? Honestly thought, the two thoughts that terrify me most are that they just forgot about me, or that they know I'm here and don't want to let me out. I don't know which scares me more. -057:00:16:00 I'm lucky that I had eaten so little over the last few months otherwise I probably would have run out of food by now. I was finally able to break open the air vent today. It's a tight squeeze, but I was able to make my way past the door sealing me in here, and drop down into the hall. The other rooms which used to have other contestants just like me were open and ajar. There is no sign of anyone in this entire bunker. No one. I haven't brought myself to leave the bunker yet. I'm so paranoid about what might be outside. The other half dozen rooms had more food in them, so I should be able to last a bit longer -119:23:59:00 Today is the day. I ran out of food three days ago, and I used the last of the bottled water today. There is nothing left here for me. The power is still on, but I wonder how long that will last? Who knows. But I can't stay here any longer. I have to know why I was locked on this concrete coffin and left to die alone. I don't want to be alone any more. If anyone finds this, please tell my parents I love them. Please just know that I've struggled so long but I still haven't given up. I'm going to see what's outside. I want to be free. And if I can't have either of those things, then I want to die because I just can't take it anymore. I don't want to be alone anymore. -999:23:59:59 You. Were. Not. Alone.

Prisoner arrived in a tiny cell

"How?" "You're here to clean up, I assume?" The Prisoner asked, "Expected a body, I suppose. Well, good news: you get an early mark today. The room is spotless." The guard stared, his mind struggling to make a coherent whole from the pieces before him. The tiny cell was indeed spotless. It was also a mile underground, about 5 feet across and completely empty besides the smiling, raven-haired Prisoner in front of him. "Nobody's been down here for -" "120 years, I know" interrupted the Prisoner. "And that's not true by the way; I've been here the whole time." He stretched, inhaling deeply. "Certainly is nice to get out though, thank you again." He held out a hand. "What's your name?" "Thomas," replied the guard, and, running on an autopilot powered by social convention, shook the Prisoner's hand. "Alistair," he replied, "care to take me upstairs, Tom? I could do with a cup of tea." He looked around the dingy stone walls of the dungeon. "I assume it still exists? 120 years is a long time, after all." "Yes, sir," stammered Tom, his brain latching on to the topic of beverages like a drowning man clings to floating debris, "Tea is certainly still...a thing." He stopped, his mind suddenly on firmer ground . "Look, I'm sorry, but what the devil is going on here? Is this some sort of joke?" "Not at all, Tom." Alistair replied. "I'm a 120-year-old Prisoner you've just released from a locked cell in an underground dungeon in London. Come along," he nodded at the stairs, "tea time." "It's just, when you put it that way, it really sounds like a joke," Tom continued as he followed along behind the man, now striding up the stairs. "I assure you Thomas, this is not a joke," Alistair replied, continuing his ascent, "nor is it a jape, a prank, a jest or tomfoolery. I have been in prison for a long time, and my soul aches for tea." He smiled gently to himself as he strode onward. "But since it's a long walk, we might as well pass the time with explanations. Why don't you start with what you're doing down here?" "I work here. In the Prison," he explained, "they knocked down a wall for an extension and we found the door here. We're supposed to be waiting for the University crew for research but the Warden had these old keys and I -" " - got curious and opened a door to the unknown, behind which all manner of darkness may lie?" Alistair laughed. "How bold. You know Thomas, I find that very endearing. Curiosity must always be rewarded or we will discourage the betterment of man. Don't you agree?" He didn't wait for an answer. "Of course you do. Otherwise you would not be asking questions, nor would you have opened either of the doors." He stopped. "Thomas, I have decided. I shall tell you how I came to be here, but you must promise me one thing." He stared. "You mustn't put milk in the tea." He laughed, and resumed his stride up the stairs, telling a story as he went. -- A century ago, there was a wise man in London who sought the secrets of the Universe. The greatest alchemist who ever lived, he was a pioneer; a true legend, spoken of in hushed tones and shunned by the establishment, jealous as they were of his knowledge. But even legends grow old, and it came time for this man to choose a successor. To that end, he chose an apprentice. The apprentice was an orphan who had nothing but ambition. He had no family, no friends, no ties to this world. He would be the perfect student, one who could discard the bounds of convention that chained the old man. For you see, the old man had a daughter. The most beautiful woman you had ever seen, with ebony hair and silken skin, with laughter like birdsong and a voice like a warm summer day. He would not perform experiments that would risk her safety, and thus he sought someone unbound by trivialities such as love, who could push their knowledge further than he. And though his knowledge of the Universe was great and terrible, the old legend knew nothing of the ways of youth. The apprentice and the girl fell in love. They would meet in secret by starlight, and swap stories and plan their future, all while the young man's talents grew. He soon became his Master's equal, performing healings and conjurations to astound the establishment. Then one day came the news. The young woman was expecting, and they knew it could not remain secret for long. They sought the master's approval to wed, but the old man flew into a bitter rage. He expelled the apprentice from his house, from his tutelage, and imprisoned his daughter in his house, never to see the outside world. The apprentice, now alone, sought vengeance on the old man. He plumbed the depths of every library, every text scientific and alchemical, and trialled every manner of curse, but the old conjurer's protections were too great. Finally, in his desperation, he sought the most forbidden of tools: the Philosopher's Stone. The Stone was an ancient artefact, said to amplify the power of the user. So great was its power that it was rumoured to be able to grant eternal life. In his madness, the apprentice sought the Stone despite every text, every sage warning that it would extract a terrible price. So blinded with vengeance was he that he considered any price worth paying to be reunited with his love. One fateful night, he crafted the Stone, and marched upon his master's house. He crossed the threshold with ease. Every charm, every curse, every trap crumbled in his wake. Venom and power courses through his veins as he destroyed the house room by room as he hunted his former master. Finally, he found him, sitting at the foot of his daughter's bed. She lay there, arms around a young child, neither drawing breath. The Stone had taken its price. -- "What did you do then?" Thomas asked in quiet awe. "I surrendered," Alistair replied. "I had nothing left. In that moment I saw what vengeance had cost me, and I lay down and wept. My master placed me under magical binding, but he needn't have bothered. All light was lost to me, and I would fight no further. He took me before a court of the most powerful figures in the Kingdom; not just alchemists, but Royals and Scientists and Military. I was sentenced, and placed down here." "And the Stone?" "Destroyed, Thomas. They would not risk any man, any nation to possess a power such as that. The Stone is lost to us, and good riddance to it. But before they did it, they used the Stone once. Once and only once." "What did they do?" Alistair shook his head. "Oh Thomas. Don't you see? I transgressed. I crossed boundaries that man was not meant to cross. The punishment must be equal to the crime, Thomas. To execute me, to allow me to die, would simply grant me my greatest desire. It would reunite me with my wife and daughter." He was crying now, tears streaming down his cheeks as he continued. "Just as the stone extracted a terrible price, so too did they punish me." "You mean?" "Yes, Thomas," he replied, "they sentenced me to live."

First contact was... uneventful

First contact was... uneventful. Initially. We landed on their planet, in one of several areas lightly populated by them, but by no means devoid of native life as a whole. It only took three or four rotations before we caught sight of two of them, surprisingly well camouflaged and apparently hunting some local herbivores with effective, if primitive, chemically propelled projectile weapons. Still, it's not like predatory intelligent species are rare. We spotted them, they spotted us, and we retreated, according to standard protocol. A "cooling off" period. What we didn't count on was just how different their niche in their original ecosystem was. There we were, relaxed, at what we thought was a safe distance, when we heard a rustle and a snap, and one of them was suddenly less than 10 body lengths from us! Apparently, unlike **every** other intelligent species we've encountered, their first instinct when they encounter something they've never seen before is to immediately pursue it. And they are **great** at it. Most of the reasonably sized creatures we've observed on their planet transport themselves on four limbs. A proper, reasonable number, enough for stability, even in the event of a wound, with an extended, fifth limb, for balance. These sapients though, they bound around on only their two lower limbs, which are huge and heavily muscled, and unlike all the other species we've seen, have huge, muscled posteriors, to make sure they don't fall over every time they lurch around unbalanced. We scattered, and traveled before resting again, but almost as soon as we set down, there they were again! And it happened again, and again! Every time we needed to stop, or rest, before we had time to even calm down, there they were! They only slowed down when it got dark! After another revolution like this, we figured out that their intelligence seems fine-tuned to spot the practically insignificant changes other animals make to the environment as they pass through it. What kind of crazy evolutionary advantage is that!? Here we were, running every time they got close, and they were just lazily spotting our paths through the vegetation, and following us at a leisurely pace. What's really crazy is they didn't even really stop to rest, except at night. They barely paused to do things as important as eating and drinking, nevermind excretion. They just **kept** *going*. It was terrifying. We came with a full kit, on a faster-than-light ship, and we were being outsmarted and ruthlessly followed by just two totally isolated humans, with barely any of the technology or support we know they thrive on as a society. Eventually, we had to accept that protocol just wasn't going to cut it. We were being hunted, and all our technology and preparation wasn't going to help us escape. We couldn't risk leading them back to the landing craft, and we couldn't get far enough ahead to use it without them seeing the lift-off. So, we set traps. I know, I know, horrifying, right? The idea of having to make the basic language analysis and first greeting with one party in a net or cage? But you have to understand, we were exhausted, even at night, when we knew they had to rest, we couldn't let our guard down. It was always just a matter of time until they knew exactly where we were. The entire team started experiencing anxiety symptoms! So we pushed, hard, to get enough extra distance for the preparations. We even managed some redundancies. This was going to work. And then, we heard the first trap go off. I scouted out, personally, to check the trap, but before I even got close, there they were! both of them, just...standing there, looking at it. Moving their primary intake orifices, using what we'd already surmised was their primary natural communication system. >(note: translation provided from logs, based on linguistic data acquired at a later date, I had **no** idea what they were saying at the time) >"You think some other hunter left this out?" >"...no, that'd be really irresponsible, no one's close enough to check them." >"hmm, you're right." >"I'm telling you man, these things looked weird. I could swear they were **wearing** things." >"like...clothes?" It was at this point that I'd decided I'd captured enough data on their communication, for now, and that I needed to fall back to the group. Unfortunately, my exhaustion and nerves got the better of me, and I gave away my position, somehow. I don't even know, but suddenly their communications ceased and they were looking **right** at me. I sprinted off, figuring they'd follow at their leisure, but something was different this time. For the first time in this whole ordeal, I encountered something biologically familiar for us: being chased, actually chased, not the terrifying chain-of-surprises nonsense. But by this point... I just didn't have the energy. I couldn't get ahead. Even if I had...they would have just found me again. So I beat a path straight back to the group. The first sighting protocol had failed, horrifically, but at least as a group, with our basic wild-life defense weapons we might be able to survive. I collapsed out of the brush and into the circle of the rest of my team, still able to hear those bizarre bipeds crashing behind me. We grouped up, for once, expecting when and where they'd appear, ready to fight for our lives. We couldn't expect a predator like this, one that clearly thrived on utterly dominating its prey to just leave us be when they caught up to us in mere moments. And with a final crash, there they were. The two of them. Just...standing and staring at us, silently. After a few, tense moments, they communicated to one another, without taking their eyes off us: >"duuuude, I **told** you!" >"*what* are these things!?" And then, they did the absolute last thing we expected, they put their weapons away, behind them, and crouched down, making themselves smaller! It was like just now, after fraying our every instinct, pushing us to exhaustion and utterly terrifying us, now, they didn't want to intimidate us. They even lowered the intensity of their communication, softening it, somehow. >"Look, they're exhausted, and huddled up like that? They look like they're terrified." >"Hey, there, you guys, alright? We've had you on the ropes for a while now, haven't we?" --- oh man, my first ever submission to a writing prompt, plus it's been forever since I did any kind of creative writing. I might write another one for this prompt, no one seems to have put humans on a more equal footing with the aliens, which is something I'm generally a fan of. Edited for some typos and formatting.

The first time I discovered my gift

I often wondered how an old school travel agent would try to "sell" the idea of travel to Mars. "The trip only takes six months of your life. You'll spend those many months in a floating tin can with three other human beings and a year's worth of supplies crammed into it... Oh and you must sign a legally binding agreement that there is no guarantee for a return trip back to Earth, but it *is* all expenses paid! Who's signing up for this amazing deal today?" Mix those unavoidably undesirable aspects of the trip in with my crippling claustrophobia and I sound like the least ideal candidate for this journey as any human in existence. So why in the world did I volunteer? Because I've got a secret. A secret superpower no less. The first time I discovered my gift I was in Mrs. Anderson's English class in 8th grade. She was 'teaching us' Romeo and Juliet, but instead of having us read it or act out the play, she decided to... 'give us a treat' by playing every single role herself. As she stiffly labored on and on, I got the distinct feeling she'd been rejected by even the most novice of acting class or community theater. It became physically painful to sit there having to watch her. *I wish I could just skip the rest of this miserable day*, I remember thinking to myself. And to my utter shock and astonishment, I did. When I opened my eyes, she was taking her second bow, forcing the students under her control to applaud her enthusiastically before we could leave for the day. From that day forward, any boring moments of my life became 'skips'. The only real restriction on my power I've discovered is that I can't seem to skip ahead when I was in danger. I couldn't just jump through time if a bear was about to eat me, it wasn't time travel magic that was going to save me from a bad situation. The only discernible use I could find was to move through the most tedious aspects of life, and frankly, I was quite happy with that. And so my plan formed, sure I'd agree to go to Mars. I'd risk my life to study it and unlock the secrets of it's surface, but I was skipping the damn trip. Ego aside, I'm not remotely vital to the space flight portion of this mission. I'm a biologist seeking to understand and, to some degree, conquer the harsh conditions on the red planet, but until then I was merely a passenger. Commander Samantha Lawson was in charge of the ship and the three other souls aboard. Captain Edwin Jenkins was the ships pilot and second in command and Lieutenant Peter Yang was our chief engineer. I'm not kidding myself, they all held multiple degrees in various sciences so they were probably more important than me once we reached the martian soil as well, but up here, floating in the vast emptiness of space, the gulf in our importance was unfathomable. All that is to say that I felt little to no guilt when I bid them goodnight and set myself up to skip ahead a few months. *They've got this little roadtrip covered*, I thought as I prepared to take my shortcut. The 'voice of my power' had other ideas as it came through loud and clear with an extremely alarming warning. It doesn't 'speak' any words per se, but the meaning of this particular message was unmistakable. "You may not jump forward while in mortal danger." *Mortal danger?* What mortal danger? I'm in a goddamn spaceship floating millions of miles from anything! Oh god... that could only mean one thing. I "swam" through the ship as quickly as possible. Totally ignoring the safety training we'd had, I made it to the cockpit in record time and burst in, interrupting whatever conversations had been going on. "Yang, is there a problem with the ship?!" I yelled to the engineer of our little voyage. "Jesus, you scared me," he replied. "There's nothing wrong with the ship. But you look like you've seen a ghost, Wagner. Did you have a bad dream of an explosion aboard sending you tumbling out into the vacuum of space or something?" "Something like that," I replied, trailing off as I scanned the various sensors and readouts in the cockpit myself. "Don't feel embarrassed, Wagner. I had plenty of those on my first mission. Absolutely miserable nightmares that feel all too real. You won't hear any mockery from me," our pilot, Captain Jenkins told me, trying to be genuinely helpful to me. "Asteroids?" I asked abruptly. "Are we getting too close to any asteroids or any other celestial bodies?" They glanced at each other in concern. "We're safe," Yang assured me. "Nothing even remotely in our path, all ships systems are operating optimally, and we--" He was interrupted by the horrifying sound of something pinging against the metal hull our ship. Slowly at first, then amplifying to scrapes and loud bangs, before retreating and then becoming violent again at random intervals. "Lieutenant Yang? You said radar was clear, did we fly into a debris field? Gimme some intel here so I can get us the hell out of whatever mess we're in," Jenkins demanded as he gripped the flight stick too tightly, betraying his concern. "No, I'm telling you there's nothing on any sensors, we're in clear open space!" Commander Lawson barged into the control room in much the same haste that I had minutes early. "Sit rep? Tell me what we're dealing with here," she said as she slid into her command seat and assumed ultimate control of our craft. "Don't know, ma'am, only indicator we have is the noise, sensors are all clear," Jenkins reported. "Well that doesn't make a lick of goddamn sense," she replied. "Are outer hull camera feeds still all active?" "Yes ma'am, pulling them up on the big screen now," Yang said. All of our collective, nervous attention shifted to focus entirely on that screen. It flicked from camera view to camera view, showing various locations and angles on the outside of the ship. But they showed us nothing but stars and vast empty, inky blackness. That was it. "Wait, we just lost one camera feed," Yang noted as he flipped past a camera that was now displaying nothing but static. "Scratch that, two feeds, we just lost a second one." "Commander, I just saw something move through the view of Camera 6!" Jenkins exclaimed. "Not a celestial object, I swear it changed direction!" "Calm yourself, Captain," Lawson scolded him. However, even she was silenced as we all noted the loss of Camera 6 a few seconds later. "Give me Cam 7, or anything else with a view in that area!" she demanded. Half a minute of silence filled the cockpit as we stared intently at the feed provided by the camera pointed in the direction of where number six had been. We carefully scoured more empty space and nothingness until something flashed through the view of the camera. It happened so fast that it was hard to gauge specifics, but there was no mistaking the ever so brief image of an organic, claw like object quickly swinging downward at Camera 7, before it too went to an ominous, horrifying static snow. Utterly dumbfounded as we processed what we'd just seen, we finally began to glance at each other. Regardless of the experience or rank of the human being in question, the look on their faces was all the same. Shock, and horror. We were not alone out here. ___ Check out r/Ryter if you'd like to explore more stories from me. EDIT: Part 2 of this story is now posted below. EDIT 2: Thanks for the Silver, kind stranger!

Anatoly Residnikov was thin

Anatoly Residnikov was thin, bookish, shy, and absolutely determined not to cringe as he passed his "father's" study. He took a deep breath as he opened his bedroom door, took three steps, and stopped. His eyes were fixed on the red door down the hall. *I'm crazy,* he thought, *I must be.* He took another step, and a shiver ran up his spine. He wasn't a coward, not at all actually. He'd survived a devastating collision with an 18 wheeler, he'd survived the destruction of his body, and he'd survived the long 18 month coma that had stolen his memories and threatened to steal his sanity. Nothing behind that door could hold any fear for him. Not his father, not death itself. But what if it opened. What if his father came out of it and asked "How's your day, Anatoly?" The thought of having to come up with an answer, having to pull torturous small talk out of him. It was galling. No. He couldn't fake it. Not today. Not any more. He closed his eyes and slinked the rest of the way to the staircase. Anatoly threw on his jacket and went out the front door without a word. His parents still didn't like him driving alone, but he was twenty-one years old, a full grown man, and they couldn't really stop him. As soon as he sat down behind the wheel, his phone began to ring. He answered it. "Anatoly, where are you going," his mother said. He shivered. That voice. His mother's voice. His...*mother's* voice? "For a drive," he said. "A drive? A drive to where?' He rubbed his head. "I don't know just....a drive." There was a long sigh on the other end of the line, "You can't keep-" "Good bye." He threw down the phone without hanging up, started the car, and went out into the street. As he drove, voices and images swarmed around him, but he didn't pull over. There was a war going on within himself. On one side, there was everything that made him *him.* His mother, his father, his girlfriend, and his friends. Of Mice and Men was his favorite book, he'd read it over and over again one summer when he was in high school. His favorite music, the foods he loved. He knew all these things about himself. His parents had told him, so had Eloise, and all of his friends. They all had their stories straight. Then, on the other side, there was... *something.* A mystic force. A whisper, a gentle breeze which asked, "*There's something terribly wrong about all of this, isn't there?"* He couldn't say which side was winning. He couldn't even say where he was going. He thought about Eloise. Beautiful, amazing, Eloise, who loved him and told him they'd be married someday. She'd kissed him when he woke from the coma. You'd think you'd remember a girl like that, you'd think you'd remember the spark of her lips. There had been *nothing.* He thought about his friends. Apparently they'd practically been brothers since they were kids. Harry, Michael, Thomas, Brian, Daniel. Anatoly shook his head. *Daniel?* No, it was Jeremy. He couldn't even keep track of his own friend's name. He scratched his chin, *Maybe there was a Dan?* He shook his head again, No, certainly not. *Was there?* Anatoly drove until the sun went down, and all the lights in the sky came out to dance. There was a park around a lovely pond, or maybe it was a lake. It didn't matter, moonlight rippled off the water in the most alluring way, and Anatoly felt a tug like the siren's song. He parked on the street and walked over to a bench. For a while he sat alone, and felt his loneliness lay heavy upon him. Desperately, he wished he could talk to someone. He looked around, and found a man sitting on a nearby bench, staring at him. The man was bald, middle aged, and drinking from a bottle. There was something in the man's eyes, something at odds with his shabby clothing. It was a hint of joy, a well of wisdom....perhaps, a slight twinkle of madness. Anatoly's mouth went dry. He wanted to call out to the man, but decided against it. Who knew, maybe the man had known him before the accident, and he didn't want to offend the man by not knowing. Still he hoped beyond all hope that the man would call out to him. "You," the man said, "Come here." The blood left Anatoly's face. Though only moment's before he'd longed for company, he now felt an overwhelming desire to be alone. "Me?" The bald man laughed and waved for him to come. Seeing no way out, Anatoly got up and sat down next to him. "My name is Solomon," the man said, "what's yours?" "Anatoly." Solomon raised an eyebrow, "Russian? Go figure. You don't look Russian." "I'm-," Anatoly stopped himself. He'd been about to say he wasn't Russian, but he wasn't sure. He'd have to ask his parents when he got home. Solomon must have sensed the peculiar swing of ideas and emotions, or maybe he simply noticed the frown Anatoly wore. Either way, he put a hand on the boy's shoulder. "You know what sort of people come to places like this at night," he asked. Anatoly swallowed. "No." Solomon smiled, "There are two sort actually." He pointed to himself, "There are folk like me, folks so broken and shattered and wretched that they come to places of beauty, like this, hoping a little bit of what God gave *this* will rub off on them." Anatoly blinked. He looked out at the water, "That might be me." "No," Solomon said, "You're the other type." "I don't even know who I am, how can you?" Solomon tapped his head. "Ah, there it is. I can spot it a mile away. You see, the second folks who come here are those with questions Anatoly nodded gravely, "Maybe I'm both." "Is that your question," Solomon asked. Anatoly faced him, "My question is...*who am I?"* "You tell me." Anatoly shook his head. "Everyone says I'm... me. But, I don't know. If only I had my memories." "I don't understand," Solomon said, "Explain it to me." The young man looked up at the sky, racking his brain for the right way to describe it. "It's like... You ever seen a stuffed bear? I mean one that used to be alive, and then a taxidermist tried to make his corpse look like it did when it was. Sometimes they can be so *lifelike* so *close* to being real. But that closeness is something foreign. It's wrong. You see it, and you know there's no more soul inside. That's what my life feels like." Solomon thought to himself for a long time. He tapped his chin carefully, "Have *you* ever seen a stuffed bear?" "I-," Anatoly blinked. "I don't know, actually. I mean.. I must have..." Solomon smiled, "You're still in there, boy. Locked away maybe, but you're there. The real you is like a scared little kid hiding from a storm, it's up to *this* you to search for him, to let him know that the rain will pass." Anatoly looked out at the water, then up at the stars. "You're right," he said. "I can't thank you enough, I-" "Don't mention it." Anatoly rushed to his car, ready to go find himself. As an afterthought, he called over his shoulder "Have a good night, sir!" "Have a good night, Daniel," Solomon called back. The boy got into his car and closed the door. He put the key in the ignition. He almost turned it. Then he stopped. \~ r/CharlestonChews

A golfer holding his back swing

A lightning bolt arced across the sky, splintering into several smaller bolts. The longest streaked toward the golfer holding his back swing as his ball landed on the green. Just as it prepared to make contact with the inviting metal shaft, the man dropped the club and broke into a celebratory dance. The bolt smacked harmlessly into the ground, only managing to knock him to the ground. The fool picked up his club and continued the round. "Oh man," someone said. "I thought he was gonna buy it for sure." The rest of the crowd oohed and aahed. Lance just watched. That had been the best round of his life. Sure the lightning was scary, but compared to the thrill of the course record? The image shifted. The viewer went white. The crowd moaned, sensing the show had finally come to an end. Without warning two red lights appeared amid the white background. The image jerked from side to side, then rotated in full circles. Glimpses of buildings could be seen in the rotation and more red lights. The scene stabilized and the bright lights of an oncoming car filled the viewer. The noise swelled as the crowd watched in anticipation. This had to be how Lance died. But no, the scene jerked to the right, narrowly missing the car. It spun a few more times then straightened and continued in a straight line for a few moments before the scene shifted again. "Why was he driving in that blizzard?" a voice called. "Because he's a moron," someone replied. Lance remembered that day. Starbucks was closing early and he only had the one day left on his coupon for a free frappuccino. He certainly wasn't going to let it go to waste. The viewer's image coalesced into a rock face. Hands covered in powder gripped small crags pulling Lance higher. Lance missed one of the outcroppings and fell. The hand brake whirred through the guide rope. No matter how tightly he gripped it it wouldn't catch. About thirty feet from the ground the handle snapped and miraculously bound the rope enough to arrest his fall. The crowd groaned but no one spoke. Lance was a little offended. That brake had been a dollar cheaper than the one approved by the climbing association. And after all, it had worked in a way. You can't blame a man for wanting to save money. He even used the dollar he saved to buy a Mac-Chicken on his way home. "He's at 219," someone finally said. "And he's only in his twenties." Another two hours passed. The crowd became divided. On one side there was the morbidly curious. They were enraptured by what should have been Lance's inescapable ineptitude. The rest just wanted to leave. Of course, until the show was over, no one could. A murmur of excitement ran through the assembled souls. Lance was being held at gunpoint and arguing with the mugger. "Look man," he said. "That's a High Point. I've got one myself. Got it on sale at Academy, actually. They jam about every fifteen or twenty shots." "I don't wanna shoot you," the mugger said. "Just give me your wallet." "Just pull the trigger." Lance retorted. "At best, you'll shoot me and get my money. At worst the gun jams and I kick your ass." "Hey, I remember that guy," a woman called from the crowd. "He came through here a while back." The mugger pulled the trigger, but the gun jammed. Lance kicked the mugger in the groin. He fell over and the gun hit the ground. The impact jarred the jammed round loose just as the mugger spasmed, pulling the trigger and shooting himself in the head. "Are you kidding me?" several people shouted. Lance laughed. That was one of his fondest memories. And, at only about $150 he still felt the High Point was a bargain. Now that he thought of it, this was cheering him up a bit. His father always told him fortune favored the bold. These scenes from his life certainly seemed to prove him right. The crowd muttered, screamed and whimpered simultaneously as the scenes kept coming. Finally they had to be coming to an end. Lance was now extremely old. The viewer resolved and Lance stood at the top of a set of stairs. He put a hand on the banister. It wobbled dangerously. On his third step, it gave way and he fell head over heels to the lower floor. A piece of the broken banister slammed into his head moments later, nearly knocking him unconscious. Now the entire crowd moaned. There was no one left that wanted this agony to continue. Lance smiled. The contractor had wanted $600 to fix that damn banister. After his fall, the insurance company paid to have the entire staircase rebuilt, paid for his medical bills, and gave him a large settlement since his injuries made it so he wouldn't be able to work. The new staircase even raised the value of his house enough to finally convince him to sell and move to Florida. The viewer changed again. A now very, very old Lance was standing on a surf board riding a massive wave. This was it for sure. No one that old should be able to surf, let alone actually doing it. A dark shape appeared below Lance. The water splashed as the shark struck. It thrashed about trying its hardest eat the old man. The cheap board Lance was using splintered and a large piece wedged itself into the sharks mouth. Now rendered impotent, the beast swam away. Lance calmly swam to the shore and dried himself on the hotel towel he'd taken some days back. The viewer went black. No more images appeared and the crow cheered. After a few minutes, they went silent. "So, wait," one shouted, "how did he die?" Murmurs ran throughout. The chronicler stepped forward. "In his sleep, at age one hundred and three!" He said. "We went through 624 near deaths," a man said, "and he died in his sleep?" "He must have mad a deal with the Devil!" someone called. "Are you kidding!" A loud menacing voice screamed. Everyone turned to face a massive mannish creature. It was wreathed in flames and had horns sprouting from him head. When it spoke again, it was whimpering. "God knows I did everything in my power to kill that miserable man!" "Yes, I do," another voice said. "But he wasn't yours to take." Lance looked between the two opposing figures. He was awed by the sight of both God and The Devil, neither of which he believed in. God reached out his hand. Come with me my child. You have played your part well and proven that my power is greatest. The Devil leaned in and whispered into Lance's ear. Lance listened intently and took something from The Devil's proffered hand. "Do not be tempted by the son of lies," God said. "You have just witnessed my power with thine own eyes. Come with me and claim your eternal place at my side." Lance looked hard at God. "Well," he said hesitantly, "I would. You seem like a nice guy and all," he held out a small piece of paper, "but I get a free buffet if I join the Devil in Hell." The Devil laughed and he and Lance disappeared in a gout of flame. "A free buffet!" God yelled. "Why that miserable rotten cheap son of a bitch!" &#x200B; **Thank you for reading. If you enjoyed this story, you might enjoy my new sub:** . **I've consolidated all the links for my writings and post continuations of writing prompts.**

The Prevalent Seer Academic

The crowd clamoured in eager anticipation, Wodan joining them in the feeling, just, less openly. Since the school had heard about the challenge, people had turned head over heels to the amphitheatre to watch. The Prevalent Seer Academic facing the 'Turd-Tune teller' in the oldest of seer traditions, the Het Lot Oorlog. Judges had been found easily enough, even the teaching staff were curious as to what had caused the clear mismatch. Well, mismatch in the traditional sense. Wodan, despite all analytical observations stating he did indeed possess seer sight (the ability to write a prophecy and have its words spun into the very fabric of the universe), he had yet to ever successfully prophesise anything at all. Even the most basic of prophecies had evaded him. It hadn't taken him long to attract the attention of his classmates, more than eager to deflect their own insecurities about their abilities, or lack thereof, onto him. The end result was six months of public resentment and isolation. And Wodan had thought he had deserved it, Afterall what good was a seer without their prophecies. Thus, Wodan joined the crusade against himself, lead of course by Ezel, the Golden child of the academy. Holding the title of Seer Academic for a year before Wodan had joined the academy, Ezel had been sure to clamp down on the glaring, and in his eyes, festering symbol of incompetence that Wodan had become. Wodan of course couldn't help but agree with Ezel, but still Ezel made it seem like his utmost mission to make Wodan as miserable as possible. Until, today at least. The idea occurred to him a week ago. In despair Wodan had written a prophecy, one so simple, so achievable. Barely a change, but more a statement of continuation. "This Bird will continue breathing" he wrote in glowing script before him, looking at the raven that had come to roost on a branch near his dorm room window. To Wodan's dismay the bird promptly fell from the branch in a twitching mass. It took till the following day, when the misery at his perceived failure had worn off, that the thought occurred to Wodan, maybe he hadn't failed. It took a day of skipping classes deep in experimentation, writing prophecy after prophecy. Each one stating what should have been a certainty, yet each certainty proving to be elusive to his clairvoyant scripture. All of a sudden, he knew what he had to do, and ran straight to Ezel, publicly challenging him to Het Lot Oorlog. Ezel accepted, much to the excitement of those who heard. Afterall, why turn down such a sure victory. Though, Wodan could sense a tint of what could have ranged from anything between curiosity to unease in Ezel. It was, not the unease that built up in the school in the days leading up to the Het Lot OorLog, but the excitement and hostility. People felt as though the very though that Wodan could stand a chance against Ezel was disrespectful and were more than happy to air their grievances on the matter. Thus, Wodan got the fulfilling satisfaction of knowing something no one else knew, meeting every jive and jab with an unsettling grin and shrug of his shoulders. This did nothing to dampen peoples spirirts, only giving Wodan the reputation as a madman as well as a seerish-eunuch. It was that opinion that carried on the cheers in the amphitheatre, as Wodan stood across from Ezel, a coin holding Referee between them. The Het Lot Oorlog was a simple enough concept. Each seer was assigned a side of a coin, heads or tails. Then each would scribe a prophecy to cause the coin to land on their assigned side. The coin would then be flipped, until it landed on a side. Whichever seer who had the sign the coin landed on was declared the winner, as obviously they spun the stronger prophecy, and thus were the more gifted seer. This led to Het Lot Oorlog's between closely matched seers becoming time consuming ordeals, with the standing record being 10,972 coin tosses before a winner was announced. Over ten thousand coinflips, each landing on the coins edge. Wodan wasn't hoping for anywhere near ten thousand flips, only two. One to create doubt, and another to confirm the first wasn't a fluke of probability. He had been assigned tails, and Ezel heads. Wodan began to focus as the referee quietened the crowd, the loud cajoling dying down to a dead silence. The referee then beckoned to Ezel, who, as the challenged party, had the honour of first scribing. He reached forward with his right hand, and with a smooth, precise, determinate motion produced the words "the coin will land as heads" in a glittering cascade of flowing tendrils. The prophecy then wavered for a ponderous moment, before fading into a light cloud of sparkling precipitate. This was met with an applause that struggled to fit within the confines of etiquette. The referee beckoned to Wodan. He sucked in a heaping breath, then reached out both hands, both index fingers pointed out from the bundled fists of his hands, forming finger-guns of sorts. This was met with a quickly hushed snicker in the crowd. He slowly drew out the words, "The coin will land as heads", in a much blockier script. Large, squared letters formed out in a crackling green, pulsating and vibrating with an excitement that seemed to meet Wodan's. The Propehcy remained, as had Ezel's, but far less passively. It almost seemed to move forwards towards Ezel hungrily, before popping out of existence with a reverberating snap. The Crowd seemed to be pulled out of a bewildered slumber by the noise, with a noticeably dumbfounded silence becoming noticeable above the polite silence preceding. Ezel looked wide eyed at Wodan, bloodshot white orbs betraying the ever confident smile on his lips. The Referee hesitantly looked at Wodan, as if to question his actions, before holding out his hand between the two contestants, in full view of the audience. "The first toss" he announced, in a billowing bass that reached the far back of the amphitheatre. He threw the coin up and stood back. Wodan was heart broken, the coin landed flat. Then he saw the look of terrified surprise on Ezel's face, and the surprise of the referee. Then he saw the coin, the silver circle bearing a dragons tail into the world.

Dragons, the Dova, are

Dragons, the Dova, are eternal. That's the problem. Well, one of the problems, easily the biggest problem. I'm not human. That's another problem. If I were, say, a Breton or a Redguard, this would have be much easier. Put some loose-fitting clothes from this world over my light Elven armor and I'd be set. Even as an Elf I think I could manage. Strange skin tones could be shrugged off, so could reddened eyes. Ears can be hidden. Strange facial structure passed over as impolite to stare at. Fur, though, that's hard to hide. And whiskers. I wear a deep hood, but that draws its own kind of attention. And gloves, of course. Still, though, none of this would matter much if it weren't for that first problem the biggest one: Dragons are eternal. I think they've killed him something like fifteen times? That's the impression I get from their image-boxes and from asking around when I dare. Whatever Daedric magic Sheogorath used to lure me here seems to have given me fluency in their languages. All of them, and by the Nine there are a bewildering number, but it doesn't always make them easy to really *understand*; in many ways these people are stranger than the Dwarves. A lot like them in many ways, actually, with their endless machines, especially the self-powered wagons that are absolutely everywhere. He keeps coming back. Vulthuryol, I mean, the dragon I followed through that deep portal in Blackreach, the one with gods-damned Sheogorath's laughing/screaming faces on it. I should have known better, but boldness has taken me far in the past. Just not, you know, *this* far. I worry about Lydia, she must still be stuck right on the other side of the portal. I wasn't expecting it to close directly behind me, especially since it didn't shut down after a whole damned dragon had crawled through, scales still smoking from lightning-burns. Poor Lydia. All alone in Blackreach. Well, she's resourceful. I hope she finds her way back to Whiterun rather than wait for me. Gods only know if I'll ever see Nirn again. He keeps coming back. They kill him with all sorts of strange and terrifying weapons. All sorts of exploding things. Projectiles that move faster than the eye can follow. Clever traps which also explode. Even the projectiles I mentioned are propelled by explosions, they have a strange obsession with that phenomenon. I once questioned one of their artisans on their self-powered wagons, and he got far enough for me to understand that explosions are involved with making even *those* move before he peered too far into my hood and started edging away. I've considered wearing a mask, but my face is the wrong shape to look human even when covered. I wish I were better at Illusion magic now, perhaps it's time to practice but then there's no one to buy spells from here. It is, at least, a damn good thing I *am* skilled at other sorts of magic. Being a mage means I can get by without being visibly armed. I did have a couple swords, but had to hand them over to my Dremora butler (he's a sort of Daedric storage service; it's a long story, but thank the Gods I can still summon him from this place) as no one wears that sort of weapon here. Walking's no good here. Vulthuryol is running scared, or rather flying scared, and this is a very large continent, this North America. He does keep dying, and that slows him down until he comes back. I gather he's destroyed a number of their Dwemer-like laboratories where his bones have been dragged for study. Poor bastards. Anyway, I've had to learn to take their powered wagons as transport, which meant finding a shop that would exchange gold Septims for their strange paper currency, then learning which of the wagons would accept pay for passengers. It was one of their drivers that finally turned me in to their authorities. I was sitting in the rear seat of his vehicle, slouched down and refusing to talk beyond what was necessary, as usual. I was also very, very bored. The road stretched on and on and on, between the great city of the Salt Lake and the legendary Las Vegas. I did enjoy the sight of the desert some as we went farther South. It reminded me of home, and I found myself staring out the window with increasing fascination, forgetting myself. Letting the hood slip back. Alas. "The desert is kind of pretty in its own way, isn't it?" the driver said. I simply nodded, and felt the hood fabric brush against the tip of my ears as it fell back. I reached up to grab it, but it was too late; I could see his eyes in the mirror he used to look behind. Wide, starting. "Holy *shit,*" he said quietly. "Dude, what kind of...that's not...I saw your ear *twitch,* that's not a mask. What the..." "Listen," I said. "This one is tired and the road ahead is still very long, yes? Please, just drive and earn your coin." "Wait a minute. You're going to Vegas. That's where that lizard-thing was last seen, the one people are calling a dragon. Holy shit. Holy shit. Do you have something to do with that?" "Just...*drive,*" I said, and let a hint of a growl into my voice. A mistake. "You got a weird voice, too. Are you threatening me?" He grabbed the glowing device, the one every person here seemed to carry, out of its cradle, and began to tap at it." "What are you doing?" I demanded, and reached under the loose hooded garment I wore to hide my armor. Also a mistake. "I'm calling the cops, and you better put your hands where I can see them because I'm driving and if I lose control we're both at risk," he said grimly. The cops. Guards. *Dammit.* "This one has done nothing wrong," I said. "There is no need for guards." I pondered my options. I could Shout to become ethereal, and jump from the vehicle, but where would that put me? In the middle of nowhere, on foot. I did not wish to hurt the driver, who was already talking fast and low into his device. "Yeah, passenger is threatening me I think. And she's *weird.* You'll have to see her to believe it. Yeah. Yeah, I see him. You might want to send backup. Yeah, I'll pull over." And then it was too late for options, because we were moving to the side of the road and there were the flashing lights that meant guards. There were two of them in the car, coming over to my window in their strange uniforms with their even stranger weapons drawn. The window went down, under the control of the driver. "Please get out of the car," one said. "And remove your hood." The weapon was pointed right at me. I considered my option. I had seen these weapons in action, against my dragon foe when we first arrived. They were powerful, but there was no hint of magicka to them. My armor would stop them, and I was too tough and experienced to be downed so easily. But I did not want to hurt the guards either. So I sighed, and pulled my hood back, and they both gasped. "Yes, this one is strange to your sight, I know. But Khajiit is innocent of any crime. This one wishes only to reach the city of Las Vegas." "Hernandez," said one of the guards, not lowering h er weapon, "what the fuck is this thing?" "Good question," said her partner, and nodded toward me. "Why don't you answer Officer Hendrickson's question yourself, huh?" "This question is answered already," I said, knowing even as I spoke that it was fruitless. "This one is Khajiit. From another place. This one is innocent of any crime." "Jesus," said the one called Hendrickson. "This is way above our paygrade. I'll call for backup." And that is how I ended up in a cell. It was not the first time I have been in such a place. I am no hardened criminal, but certain people can be very closed-minded about the movement and sale of certain substances, and this can be the cause for misunderstandings. They took away my dagger, but seemed reluctant to search me further until higher-ranking people could arrive. Perhaps the claws were part of the reason for this. I may have flexed them a time or two, after my gloves were removed. The man who finally came to speak with me after several hours was dressed all in black, and carried himself like one who has seen many battles. He sat in my cell with me, no scent of fear. "Khajiit has done nothing wrong," I told him. "Khajiit is innocent of any crime." "That's what you are?" he asked. "Caa-jeet?" He butchered the pronunciation, but no matter. I nodded. "Where are you from and why are you here?" he asked. Finally. A sensible question. "My name is Mir'Kheesa. I am here to slay the dragon I followed into your world." His eyebrows went up at that. "Why didn't you say so right away?" I shrugged. "This one was not sure she would be believed, and did not wish to be detained. As she is now." He sighed. "Well, I suppose I can't blame you. But I'll be honest, we're running out of options. That thing just burned down a significant portion of the Strip." Seeing me cock my head in confusion, he added, "the most important commercial area of Las Vegas. We've killed it again, but we know from experience it will come back. Can you stop it, then? Permanently?" I nodded. "This one is Dragonborn. This one can consume its soul." He laughed. There was true amusement in it, but a black-humor kind, not mocking. "Of course you can. Christ, this whole thing has turned the whole world upside down. So if we bring you to it, you can take it down?" "Yes," I said. "This one is a powerful mage, and has the power of the Thu'um, the true Shout. This one will strike it from the sky with Voice and lightning." He shook his head again. "I've seen a lot of weird shit in my career, but this...well, okay. We'll bring you to him." "Good," I said, and stood up, slipping a lockpick from the fur of my forearm and inserting it into the door. "What the Hell are you doing?" he asked. "Leaving," I said. "This is good practice. Come. There is a dragon to be slain." <continued below>

From a young age, I was

From a young age, I was a violent child. I primarily got it from my father, and my grandfather, and my great-grandfather before him. It was in our blood to react - which is to act, before thinking. A good trait to have as a caveman when confronted by a pouncing leopard, but not one that is often respected in the daily dealings of modern society. My great-grandfather and grandfather were fortunate enough to have the excuse of war, where they could expend their violence as efficiently and frequently as they pleased. But the time the wars were over, they were quite content with the amount of bloodshed they had caused, and settled down with two fiery, but gentle women and lived the remaining years of their life in relatively-free peaceful bliss. My father, however, who had inherited the temper, had unfortunately not inherited the war. In school, it looked, at first, that he would have a promising career in football. But that ended shortly after he tackled one of his coaches on purpose, during practice, and began beating the man brutally with his helmet. Boxing was the next best option, and while it there too looked like he would find an outlet and a career, my father just could not seem to hear the bell or the referee telling him that the round was over. For my father, every fight was to the death, and after severely mauling several opponents, my father was politely asked to leave the ring and never return. Finally, on the reputation and word of my grandfather and great-grandfather, a special exception was made and, at the age of fourteen, my father was allowed to enter the army. Though he quickly rose through the ranks, alas, there was much politics and, ironically, my father was deemed 'too violent for the current war' and was honorably discharged at sixteen, a day before his seventeenth birthday. The army had been his last option. Lost, with no direction, and no outlet, he spent a year fighting in bars until one shrewd bar owner hired him to be a bouncer. His reputation was so known and feared that whenever he was on duty, altercations dropped to a minimum, and soon he was been hired for security at nighclubs and for celebrities. One night, a group of clearly underage women handed him what was a clearly a fake I.D. Probably bored, my father let them in anyway. During the night, one *especially* drunk man continually harassed the group, making inappropriate remarks and passes at them until the girls decided to leave altogether. As they rose, however, he grabbed the nearest one by the arm, and she broke her glass on the counter edge and stabbed him in the eye with the shard. Before my father could pull her away, she had stabbed the offensive drunk fifteen times. That woman later became my mother. So, you see, with the history of violent men on my father's side, coupled with my mother's own trigger switch temper, it was no surprise how I would turn out. But, unlike my father, I knew what I wanted to do from an early age: *murder.* Ironically, this desire stemmed from the time I spent with my grandfather, or "Granddaddy", on my *mother's* side, who was a police officer. Granddaddy wasn't violent in the same way my father and his side of the family were. My paternal ancestry possessed a volence that was primitive and instinctual, like those of a predator in the wild, it was in their nature and couldn't be helped. Granddaddy's violence was that of a hunter, calculated and planned; it was the way he *chose* to be, which, if considered, could be seen as a bit sadistic. Though he was a cop, I always thought that he would have been much better suited in the role of a cowboy, during the times when shootouts were the norm. Granddaddy was the type of person that shot first, and didnt care to ask questions later because the person was already dead or, as he would say, "Corpses don't speak." Though it was against the rules, my Granddaddy brought me along with him on his patrols, and at the age of five I saw him kill a man and I was fascinated ever since. So then began my journey. I had no desire to join the army, play football, be a boxer, or stand outside of nightclubs. I wanted to kill people. The first person I ever tried to victimize was the playground bully. He pushed me off the monkey bars. I tried to break his head open with a baseball bat. Then when that didn't work, I picked up a rock and tried to skin him instead. Unfortunately, teachers intervened and I only managed to scar him. I realized that no matter who I tried to kill inside school would eventually lead to someone intervening, so my next attempt was outside school, in the real world. I would fight a lot of older, bigger, and stronger kids so I could get better at fighting, but in the process, I would get bruised a lot and spend quite a considerable amount time in the nurse's office (which was also part of the plan to skip class). While there one day, I met a girl who eventually confessed that the bruises on her arms were from her father. Seeing an opportunity to obtain my first victim, I offered to kill him, and she accepted. So that weekend, I waited for him to come home. After he had come home, beat his family, and went to sleep, I went inside and tried to strangle him with a pillow. I should have used a wire. He woke up, easily threw me off, and beat my ass. I managed to stab him with some keys that I kept in my pocket and he ran outside, screaming for help, right into the street and the path of a cruising patrol car. Granddaddy. When Granddaddy figured out what had happened, he wasn't pleased. "You should have used a gun," he told me. Then, instead of letting me kill the guy, he took the abusive drunk father to jail, depriving me of yet another victim. However, a turning point eventually arose from that situation. The next day, the girl had given me a dollar - "for trying". It was then that I realized I could get paid to kill people. I could be a hitman. Desperate for work, I took a job as private security, guarding an omnious mansion, thinking I would meet some wealthy people who would perhaps need a hitman in the future. I was given a gun and told not to let anyone in without a code. A week passed, and as no one ever visited the mansion, I was beginning to get restless. But one night a car pulled up to the gate. Blood pumping, hand on my gun, and feeling like a police officer, I approached the driver's side window. The window rolled down and I could see that it was packed with people that I recognized from Wanted posters and TV news channels. Another car and another car pulled up behind the first car and I could see that it was more of the same. All criminals and super-villians. "Well?" drawled the driver. "Are you going to keep staring or let us in?" I felt an impulse to smash his face in with the butt of my gun, but I quelled it and instead took my time looking at everyone in the car before replying, "Well, that depends on if you know the new password or not." "Password?" he crowed, his dulls eyes lightening a bit. "Oh well, that would be.." He rattled off the correct code. I shook my head. "The new password is *please*." He scowled. The other people in the car looked shocked. Then a beautifully, bedazzled woman in the passenger seat began to laugh, and they all were laughing, except the driver. He smiled thinly and said, "I need to tell Mortimer" - my employer - "to screen his henchman better. Or he'll keep ending up with..." He paused to look me up and down with disdain before finishing, "...clowns." The grip on my gun tightened, and I felt my arm raising to pull it out of my holster, before the woman entered again to lighten the modd. She fixed her eyes on me and said, "Don't mind him, *daw*ling. I, for *one*, consider you a dear." The driver smirked at me. "I hunt deers." "Really, enough," she scolded him. "You two lovers can bicker at the party." She looked at me with her dazzling smile. "You *are* coming to the party, right?" "Of course not," the driver scoffed. "He's the *help*. He has to stand here and watch the gate!" I was never good at going back and forth, verbally. Everything was fighting words to me, and I was quick to take roasting sessions to a realm that I was comfortable in - the physical realm - mainly by punching the roaster in the face. I had a gun now. I could do so much more damage. But again, the woman came to his rescue. "If you're going to be so childish," she said to him, "I will leave this car and walk at once!" Whatever spell she had on him, the threat worked, and he sat there grumbling, staring forward with stony eyes. The rest of the members in the car were silent. Some were holding back smiles or laughter. The cars behind began to beep their horns. I backed away from the window, easing the pressure slightly off of my gun. I tapped my cap. "You ladies have a good night," I said. The driver turned to me, quick as whip, a retort already on his tongue, but he swallowed it with bitter agony and turned away. I smiled, then went ahead and opened the gate. The woman waved as the car passed. "I'll send for you!" she shouted. I waved back. *Surely* I thought to myself, *one of these people can use a hitman. And if not, then I'll be happy to kill that driver for free.*

"Open the city gates... to

"My liege, have I ever steered you wrong before? You *must* follow my counsel, especially in this, our hour of most dire need," I said convincingly. "And your advice is to open the city gates?" I nodded solemnly. "Open the city gates... to let in the invading horde of 100,000 barbarians that have encamped just outside our walls?" "I... uh... yes, yes sire. I have carefully studied each and every one of our options, and opening the gates guarantees your victory," I lied unconvincingly. "You have not failed me Lord Stanley, but your methods are often... unorthodox. I sometimes feel I cannot follow your brilliant logic! My recent order decreeing that all babies must be rubbed upon the skin of those adults sick with the pox was seen as pure madness when I announced it. It led to riots in the streets and calls for my beheading. In those dark moments, I must admit, I feared briefly that perhaps you had given me very poor advice indeed! But once it was discovered that those babies were immunized from the heinous disease going forward, I became universally beloved. The path you lay out in front of me is often hazy, but the destination is always shining and shimmering with glory." "Yes, sire, that was my intent, of course," I replied. That was *so not my intent*. That was the opposite of my intent in fact. Judge me harshly if you must, the truth is I could not stand the king I whom I was sworn to serve, but I was too honorable to kill him myself. So I sought at every single turn to lead him astray and steer him into any uncoming disaster that might result in his defeat at the hands of his enemies or provoke his people into an uprising against him. I'd had him raise taxes, but it turned out the people loved the new and improved roads and bridges they funded. I told him to release *all* prisoners from our dungeons, but they were either genuinely reformed or so fearful of the medieval torture devices they had experienced that virtually none of them returned to their lives of crime as I had hoped. I recently heard that one of them was now the most popular lute player in all the realm, go figure? Over the years I became concerned that I might be working for the luckiest ruler in the history of the entire world. I was truly convinced that I could tell him to walk off a cliff and somehow his fat arse would majestically soar like a bird rather than plummet to his death as gravity should have demanded. You may think that sounds foolish, but my latest plot had been so awful, so diabolically, cartoonishly evil that I'd been *sure* it would result in a rebellion against the king. I mean come now, what possible benefit could come from a mandatory program of YANKING HEALTHY BABIES OUT OF THEIR SOBBING MOTHERS ARMS AND FORCING THEM TO BE VIGOROUSLY RUBBED UPON THE POX COVERED ARM OF A DEATHLY SICK PERSON? And yet, it was hailed as a breakthrough for medical science. New treatments called 'vaccines' were being developed based on the king's 'miraculous discovery' of baby immunization. Oh how simply *wonderful* for our wise ruler! And so I am left with this last desperate gambit. Instead of fighting the invaders, or sealing our city until help arrives, we naively invite them in for tea and biscuits. They'll loot and pillage the city, and if they don't kill the king, the remaining citizens will be so angry that they will surely pick up their pitchforks and seek revenge. I know I'm likely to lose my own life in this insane and asinine plot, but I no longer care. My only purpose for living at this point was to see my unworthy liege fall. He ordered the gates to be opened and I nearly began salivating, I had to wipe my mouth frequently just to hide it. How could this possibly work out well for my hapless king? "And what do we do now?" he inquired after the order had been given. "We simply wait, my liege, all will be well shortly," I said through clenched teeth, blood lust coursing through my veins. Our short wait ended with the arrival of the leaders of the barbarian tribe bursting into the throne room. They were mostly nude, covered in warpaint that resembled blood and wrapped in bear skins and the pelts of other vicious animal. What I could only assume were the skulls of several of his former enemies adorned the chieftains shoulders. He stepped forward, pulled out his massive battle axe and I practically dissolved into a puddle of joy. It's happening... it's finally happening! The time of comeuppance was upon us! The king would get the end he has so richly deserved for so very long! While reveling in my moment of ecstasy however, the chieftain suddenly knelt before the throne... and any ounce of happiness remaining within me evacuated my soul permanently. "Water?" the barbarian king grunted. "Water? What about water?" my king asked. "You have? You give? We need," the chieftain responded slowly while gesturing to the mass of his people spilling out into the city. "Well, yes, our city is built atop of an everlasting spring. Of course we have water, and we are very willing to share it with you and your fine tribe," the king said with an infuriating wink toward me. "You save my people. For water, we serve you," he said solemnly. I couldn't take it any more. "Oh you *imbecile*! Serve him? SERVE HIM? Do you not know how to be a proper barbarian, sir? You sack bloody the city and you murder my worthless sovereign and take his place or at least his riches for you own! Look at the size of your giant rippling muscles, look at the size of the axe in your hands! Now look upon the rotund sack of shite sitting upon this throne, you could split him in twain without effort if you chose to! Then you'd have *all* the water to yourself! Did you miss the last semester of Warlords 101?!" The chieftain studied my oddly. "This one. Dungeon," he grunted to the king. "I am... inclined to agree with you, it seems my adviser perhaps does not have my best interests at heart, a truly shocking revelation to be sure! He always gave me such sage advice and counsel!" he said sadly. "Guards, seize Sir Stanley!" "I gave you the worst advice you fool! Everything I said was the opposite of what I would have actually advised you to do!" The king smiled. "Then apparently you were not cut out to be an adviser to the royal court regardless. Had you given me your actual advice, tragedy would have surely befallen us by now!" I cackled and ranted madly as the guards dragged me away. Nothing made sense anymore! "Don't worry!" my king called out to me. "As a result of some of your previous wisdom, the dungeons remain empty, so you should find yourself with plenty of room!" ___ The gates to r/Ryter are also wide open if you'd care to check out more stories. Thanks for reading!

Adam lived the life I feared I

(Note: Forgive the grammar mistakes, this clocked in at a larger word count than I thought it would be) Adam lived the life I feared I would've had if my parents hadn't kicked me out after high school. Twenty years ago we were best friends. We played Magic at lunch, watched anime after school, and loitered at the local hobby store challenging anyone who think their collectable armies can beat our custom painted ones. Like most friends we grew apart after school, only checking in on Facebook every once in a while. I didn't know he died until his mom found my phone number in his address book, I had to *unfollow* him on Facebook because too many of his yuri Facebook group posts where showing up on my feed when I browsed at work. His *funeral* was at the crematorium and consisted of his mother, Elizabeth, myself, and the employee flipping the switch. I didn't think I could feel guiltier about removing him from my life. After Elizabeth collected the Urn I caught up to her before she made it to her bus stop. "Hey, Ms. Low, I can give you a ride back to your place. I mean, you shouldn't have to take the bus home. Just let me know where you're living now." I offered, it was the least I can do. "Oh, are you sure Max? I don't want to be a burden t-" "No burden at all, it's the least I can do." We walked to the parking lot in silence. I didn't know what to say or bring up. Luckily Elizabeth broke the silence soon after I unlocked the car from the remote. "Oh, fancy. Is this one of those smart things the news keeps talking about? It looks bigger than I thought." I chuckled. "Yeah, it's a two-seater smart car. You can fit a lot in it, I have no issues with groceries. I bet Tim is more of a truck type?" I remembered when I hanged around their house Adam's father Tim would always have a broken down truck or two he's working on to resell. He would've made fun of my Eco-Smart Hatchback car. "Oh, Tim passed away four years ago." *Shit* I thought, this is awkward. "I'm so sorry, I can't imagine how hard this must be for you. First your husband and now your son." "Yeah, I don't... I honestly don't know how I'm going to get by. Adam was the one paying the bills with his job." My ears perked up as we pulled out of the crematorium. "Oh, he had a job? Doing what?" "Something online, government researcher? I don't know exactly but he was in his room all the time and paid the bills every month along with take out every few days. With him gone, I think I need to find work again." I didn't know what to say, I mean good for Adam. After following Elizabeth's instructions I pulled into the driveway twenty minutes later. Same childhood home, I remember bombing down Mary Hill with our bikes racing to get to his house after going to McDonalds for dinner. I smile, those were fun times. Now I steam tofu and veggies for dinner. "Hey Max, thanks for the ride. Can you do me another favour?" "Yeah anything." "Can you check his room and let me know if there is anything valuable to sell? Those pawn shows often have those toys you and Adam are into on them and they sell quite a bit. It'll save me time from having to find som--" "Of course I can do that for you. It's been a while since I played with toys, but I can look them up for you." I cut her off, she sounded nervous about asking. I didn't expect a senior citizen to be knowledgeable on *Dragon Ball Z* figurines and Warhammer. Walking into my best friend's childhood home is almost exactly how I remembered it. The stale stench of cigarette smoke forever etched into the walls and ceiling of the one storey house. The place looked like how it did in the 90's, stuck in the 80's with beige wallpaper and brown furniture. The only thing new about the place is the cat piss smell and a half-dozen cats laying around the front room. My hand goes to cover my mouth, as I silently gagged. I didn't remember the place being this rundown, I knew it wasn't as nice as my parents or my condo that I live in downtown, but this was depressing. "Oh, I'm sorry. The place is such a mess. Since I heard about the accident on the highway, I figured what's the point of cleaning up if it's just me and the cats?" I smiled as wide as I can. "Oh, it's fine Ms. Low." "Would you like some tea or coffee before you start?" "No, I think it'll be best if I get started. I need to be back home to cook dinner for the girlfriend." I mentioned, she smiled as she escorted me down to the basement where Adam's room was. "Oh, you have a girlfriend now? That's nice. Adam he had... trouble with girls." She off handily mentioned. "Yeah, been seeing her for two years now. I'm thinking about proposing to her soon." I smiled, she frowned. "I guess I won't know what it's like to be a grandma..." She stammered. She walked back upstairs leaving me alone with Adam's room. Adam's room was next to the laundry room. It's slightly better than a prison cell with food stained cement flooring, plywood walls put up by his dad dividing the laundry room and his room, and a broken futon bed slumped on one side with evidence of rat shit littered everywhere on the shelving ledges. His computer monitor is still on with a naked purple haired anime chick wrestling with tentacles as his screensaver. Here after hearing about his job I thought I totally misread Adam's life. In terms of stuff, Adam had long boxes of comic books & magic cards along with a shelf full of Warhammer Figurines. I decided I would start there. Taking a long box and setting it on his desk, I took a look at his keyboard to decide if I wanted to type all of these out on my phone or risk my health by touching it. It looked clean-ish. No password on his computer. I opened up Chrome and typed in google, before I even got to *O* his bookmarks popped up for *Gatekeepers Guardians*, *Gaia Online*, *Go-Daddy*, and other websites beginning with a G. He's categorized so many, the effort he put into bookmarking puts me to shame, I just google what I want. Like *Facebook*, I type in Facebook in google instead of going to the URL. I clicked on *Gatekeepers Guardians* since it was tagged as *work*, it brought me to a message form auto logging me into his account. The message board was scattered in discussion, there's posts talking about the second coming of Christ, the rise of *Gehenna*, and the dominance and religious superiority of the white race. It was like a right-winged conspiracy theory occult message board. "What the fuck Adam." I whispered, looking back at his posts. He talked about blowing up a Mosque in a city a few stateliness over, and how he can't find a partner who believes in the spiritual superiority of the white race. I laugh when people say the N word in inappropriate contexts, but this is next level fuckery. I closed the page in disgust. I've heard of the stereotype of people staying online all the time in their mother's basement being weirdos, but this. It was too much. I'm kind of glad he died in the car accident reading what he's been typing online. Sickening. Still I need to see where I can sell off his stuff for his mom. I opened google and typed in *Where to* but before I put sell comic books, the last few searches of *Where to buy fake IDs* and *Where to buy a gun* popped up. Frozen, I couldn't possibly imagine my best friend who I grew up with playing D&D and being outcasts all throughout school can grow up to be so different from me. A pop up notification from G-Mail alerting me of a new private message on *Gatekeepers Guardians* displayed, and on instinct I opened it. The message contained a google map image of Adam's house with the words *FOUND YOU* on it from the username *Gatekeeper*. I got up from the chair, and left Adam's room. "Elizabeth. We need to call the cops, like right now." Freaked out about what I've seen, the authorities can deal with this. "Why, what's going on?" She answered, sitting on the couch watching home renovation shows. "I think there ma-" *Riiiiing* the house phone rang. "Don't answer that!" I yelled. Confused, she answered it on reflex. "Hello?" **PART 2 IN COMMENTS**

I stood over the body and watched

I stood over the body and watched the blood spill out over the badly-patched linoleum, forming little torn-plastic tidepools of congealing red and sparking green. *Nanobots are malfunctioning as part of a secondary cascade following the main hack,* I thought, the nanodoc part of my brain rambling gamely on while the rest of my consciousness contemplated the taking of a human life from a wholly uncomfortable distance of right-here-right-after. My fingers did a subtle little dance around the hand-cannon grip, trying to find a comfortable way to hold the heavy instrument of death that wouldn't remind me too much of the tight way my hand had curled round it while I pulled the trigger. *Bang.* Only that word was wholly insufficient for the real sound. I know that sounds dramatic, but it's true. I have dampers built-in to my ears, but the huge staccato roar of the weapon still made me flinch, open my mouth wide to mitigate the damage to the delicate organic inner parts I no longer possessed. Holy Christ it was loud. *I'm in some real trouble here, I may be beyond just trouble.* He hadn't given me any choice. He hadn't told me about the additional adrenal synthesis lining, probably because he knew I wouldn't have operated, if he had. If he had told me. If I had known and not taken his money and gone through with it and the spike hadn't happened, breaking his restraints one by one and lunging, had to do it before he broke the last one, didn't have any choice. I felt the run of my thoughts start to become something like a stampede, heavy and driving in a hundred directions, and I clamped down as best I could. *Stop it stop it stop it just* think. Damn you, think. Okay. Okay. I could check his phone while his body was still cooling and the biometrics might match up. The temperature difference would be...no, no, I'd have to re-hack his blood-bots, get the temperature enough, there was probably just enough juice left... I scrambled, grateful to have a task to hang on to, focus on, something that pointed toward hope instead of death everywhere coming who-knows-when but still certain. Hand-cannon back down on the table, still within reach. Re-interface with the chair. This can be done, this is a thing you know how to do. *There. Got it.* I let his eyelid droop and his hand drop away from the device, though I kept it close to the magnetic field I was forcing his corpse to continue generating. *Nothing on his schedule. How reliant was he on that, though, really? No missed calls or messages. Scroll, scroll...okay. God, I may be...he told them he was going to take some time to rest afterward. I may have time.* There were people I could call, people who had a vested interest in keeping my little clinic operational, but they were all part of the same world as the corpse now propped up in my operating chair. I couldn't have them know, that kind of knowledge had value and nothing of value went untraded, now in these circles. *Henry Jameson.* No, no, man, no. We were kids back then. Way he was, I kind of doubted he even remembered. Only that was a lie. We hadn't been friends, but that debt had hung in the air every time we'd run into each other, until I went to medical school and he went to do whatever he was doing now and financial markets went batshit and the Insurance Wars and all the rest and here I was, trying to scrape by in an underworld clinic with a mountain of debt and a hand-cannon on the table. *He still remembers. Of course he does.* We'd been standing over a body then too, only this one was still alive, just laughing and slurring words. He'd looked at me, pleading. I hadn't seen that look in his eyes before. I'd seen rage and aggression, mostly toward other kids though never me, and I'd seen defiance, generally toward teachers or, on one memorable occasion, the school rent-a-cop. But this, well, maybe his father saw it sometimes, though I hadn't known about that until he'd spoken. "Come on, Kerry," he said. "Come on, girl, please. I don't know why he decided to wander into the girl's bathroom, but you gotta help me. If they catch this...my father...look, I don't like talking about him, but he'll..." his voice dropped a level, but it rose too, no longer the proto-adult dropping fast and hard into a baritone, but regressing to the high piping of a frightened little boy half-fallen onto a kitchen floor. "He'll fucking kill me, I know he will." I took a deep breath, looking around. No one. It was the middle of class. God only knew how much time there'd be before someone else came through the door with a hall pass. "What did you give him, James?" I asked. My own voice sounded surprisingly gentle to me. I thought there'd be more anger, more outrage at being dragged into his bullshit, but no. I guess I could still hear that terrified little boy, see him even, sprawled there. Like that time with my cousin, before his parents had split. "Just the regular stuff!" he said, and there really was no room for lies with, in with all the terror. "He took a triple dose, the stupid asshole! It's just fucking Neo-Jane, pot with a little gene-kick, you know. He's not in any danger, it's not hurting him, he's just...fucking out of it in the girl's bathroom, and on this kind of high he'll tell anyone anything. Like who gave it to him." I had already decided, even though I don't remember doing it. "Grab his arms, that's the heavier half of him," I said. I reached down and grabbed the rangy boy's ankles. He laughed and made a few weak attempts to kick out at me. "Knock it off," I hissed. "We're gonna get you somewhere safe." We barely made it around the corner of the hallway when I heard someone headed toward the bathroom door. I didn't dare look. <continued below>

Queen Melodia of the Far

"This had better be the one," she muttered scathingly and all within earshot flinched as if struck. She stopped, her heels ceasing their terrible clicking and she closed her eyes, waving a limp hand. "My apologies everyone, my humors are...unwell." The servants replied quietly, soft words of comfort and understanding. Her closest handmaiden still wore a face contorted with righteous indignation. The woman patted the girl's arm, "Please Lexi, relax. Your face will stay that way and little Idra will fear such a countenance." The handmaiden's face softened and the servants relaxed slightly with the defusing tension. Mustering all her energy the Queen smiled wanly. "That is better everyone, please let us continue." Queen Melodia of the FarValen Kingdom walked on, followed by her most loyal servants and guards. Most if not all were loyal in the palace, she was not the one ill favored. Most watched her with worry, still expecting her to fall over from fatigue. She had only just given birth a few days prior. Yet she walked well enough, rage fueling her body and spirit. The great kingdoms of the world had some things in common. The main thing is a basic rule of the world. When the monarch of a nation had their first born child, the child would inherent the magical power of the monarch. Depending on the strength of the child, the monarch could share some of their power or lose it all. In rare cases the child would only have a portion of the power, but it was a simple fact that the first born would always inherent some of the parent's magical ability. Yet Princess Idra, the first born child between the King and the Queen, received absolutely no power. It was not latent, it was not hidden. It was not that she only inherited the barest minimum. She lacked it all. Subsequent testings by the Head of the Mages council, the personal Spellcasters, even the Druids and the Witches, found no magical power gained from the King. Which led to just one conclusion: she was not the King's firstborn. Confronted with such knowledge the King broke down and confessed it all. He had not one, not two, but numerous occasions of infidelity. It was not uncommon for monarchs to have multiple lovers or ones to sate their desires with, in fact some nations had monarchs that had harems or concubines a plenty. Yet all of those monarchs had the good grace to save their first born child for their beloved partner. Apparently the King of now disgraced FarValen did not possess such good grace. The people had banded behind their Queen, ashamed of their King and the fact that their nation was now a rather large royal joke. The King, caught in the act, had been sequestered within the castle, the Council taking over the day to day rule. Now with the act in the light, the castle had been flooded with women carrying children, all claiming to be a subject of his affections with their children being the result. Some were lying, hoping to benefit amidst the chaos. Others, much to the Council and the Queen's chagrin, had a legitimate claim. However so far the first born had not been found, and that was the most important fact. For the first born wields magic of nobility, and for the good of the nation the wielder must be found. No one knew what to do once the first born was found, magic inherited is very difficult to take back, but the motives of the child must be determined. Today was different. The Queen's best agents had scoured the city and the country, looking for the child. Today they returned, with another. To hide another potential embarrassment, the Queen directed them to her private meeting room, away from the general populace of the castle. They were still dealing with the first day of madness when a crowd of women and wailing children assaulted the main throne room though thankfully clerks have learned how to weed out the dubious claims from the, unfortunate, legitimate claims. She entered the room, rage rising again within her. They had to pass the nursery on the way and the Queen seethed from the indignities placed upon her daughter. Her daughter would forever be known as The Fooled Firstborn, the one who was feted and expected to inherit and was found to not. Through no fault of her own the poor babe would have a life of mockery ahead of her. She knew her own life would be difficult now, the foes of the kingdom were surely making their own mocking titles for her now. She would deal with them later. Unlike her husband, she knew what mattered and what could wait. The guards and agents within bowed, a clenched fist to their hearts. A cowled figure sat on the floor, ignoring the chairs, and faced away from the door. As the form noticed the others bowing, they rose slowly to their feet before turning and kneeling on the stone floor. Hands worn from manual labor poked from plain homespun cloth, the cloak that covered them was weather stained and lacking ornamentation, yet well made. "Well then, we meet at last," the Queen spat. Once again her face burned from shame as the cloaked form flinched, pressing their head against the floor. "I suppose you know why you are here." A nod was her reply, the form still bent and facing the floor. The silence fueled her anger and she tried to throttle back her bile. It was not their fault after all, they did not choose to be the first born. It was hard for the Queen to remember. "Well, get up. Remove your hood." After a long moment of hesitation the form rose slowly, hands sliding up to remove the hood that hid their features. When it fell back the servants murmured and the Queen's ire rose again. There was no mistake, the boy was her husband's child. Purple hued eyes were not uncommon in FarValen, but such a deep color ringed with silver was a noble trait. Also when noble blood mixed with common usually the child possessed only one. The boy had strong features, adding years to it would show that he and the King were closely related. Yet curiously the skin around the right purple eye was rough, deeper in color. It was as if the boy had suffered a great injury in the past and it was in the midst of healing. A crossing of scars marred that side of the face, but they seemed to be healing. "Are..." the Queen stumbled over her words, "are you well? Are you recovering from a recent injury?" "No...your majesty," the boy's voice lacked the florid grace of the city folk. "I mean, yes. Recovering from an injury but one that is old. And...only recently started to recover." Another murmur from the staff. The King's talents lay with healing. He was an accomplished healer and apothecary, talented with convalescence and potions. Many saw him recover from grievous wounds. His magic was not common and for a common boy to have it spoke of his lineage. "How did you come by the injury?" The Queen could not stop the question before it fell from her lips. "By fire, a burning stick of wood." "Who would do such a thing?!" she gasped and the others echoed her indignity. "By my own hand." Silence thundered in the room. "To prevent my mother from seeing a face she did not wish to." The words cut into flesh, cold as iron and sharp. Tears grew in the boy's eyes and everyone else but the Queen looked away. "My mother was barely older than I am now when it happened. She did not want it, never did. She wanted a good life, a quiet life. She was denied it. Just like I deny this power, just like I deny this." The tears fell and his hands and arms showed cuts on the mend. "Take it," he whispered. He thrust his hands forward and fell to his knees. "Take it back!" he screamed and all flinched as if struck. "I never wanted it! I hate it! I hate him! Please just take it back!" Without another word the Queen wrapped the boy in her arms, ignoring the sobs and the wetness soaking her dress. Her hate was quenched in the deluge of his sorrow and she could only sit and hold him while he wept.

The picture depicts perhaps one of the

It's become unbearably quiet. Light filters through the blinds in the kitchen, and little dust motes dance and swirl through the air. On the table, a picture printed from online. A little joke, something uncharacteristically benign, but here we are. Me, mom, and dad. In the same room, and them wearing expressions composed of some kind of horrific timelessness, it's frightening. Confusing. Intriguing. The picture depicts perhaps one of the best preserved Greek sculptures ever recovered, and subsequently lost. A man grips a woman around the waist, horned and robed, while the woman recoils in some wildly overdramatic fashion, eyes rolled back into her head. It'd been a notable piece for a variety of reasons, but perhaps the greatest combination came from the age and degree of detail. From strands of hair, to moles on the back, to even an extremely detailed carving of eyes, mock facial hair and exquisitely realistic proportions. Or at least that'd been the story of it. Lost for awhile, but still talked about in some collection circles. Considered perhaps one of the greatest examples of realistic sculpture ever, and most likely languishing in some private collector's vault to accumulate value. At first, it'd been funny. Funny in that kind of 'shocking', what an absurd coincidence kind of way. I've been taking an art course at the local community college to shove in some required credits to open up my schedule, but here it was. Greek sculpture, and my parents, perfectly represented. Well, besides the horns protruding from Dad's head. Dad picks up the sheet, the soft slicking sound startling me slightly. "Now's as good a time as any to bring this up," he says. He sounds tired, but partially relieved. There's this sense of foreboding now in the air. Mom looks nervous, and brushes a thick black curl off her forehead. "What exactly do you mean?" I ask the question, but don't really know if I want an answer. It's just a coincidence. It has to be. This thing has been missing for nearly eighty years. Some Brits found it in an alcove, took fancy pictures, wrote studies about how amazing it was, and in classic British fashion, took a valuable cultural artifact out of its native homeland, and whisked it into a British museum. Where it was subsequently loss, much to the Greeks outrage, and to the dismay of the museum, who replaced it with priceless works from India. "Well," Mom says, in that 'I have bad news for you' voice she reserves only for the shittiest of scenarios, "That would be...us." "What?" It sounds insane, and of course it is. Dad smooths his hair back, a salt and pepper mess, and to my astonishment, a pair of horns, curved and ivory, extend and twirl outwards. I'm speechless, to say the least. Which is nothing at all. "We're old, honey. Very, very old," says mom. "Older than those cunts on Olympus, if we're being honest." "Language," interjects mom, but in a way you can see she agrees. There's truth here. They're speaking with the exasperation of persons already living some kind of impossible nightmare. "A long time ago, your father and I lived on what you know as Crete," my mother says. She stands, and I can see a lighter and willowy complexion that wasn't there before. She flows, rather than walks over to the counter, and turns on the sink. She redirects the water in a little circle, floating harmlessly in the air. Another impossibility. I assume to show me they mean business. "That's," I say, but the words catch in my throat before I can say anything else. "The lesser sons and daughters of Titans. Your mother and I weren't worth a mention in the old stories." My dad says this kind of thing matter-of-factly, but the absurdity just compounds. This was supposed to be a joke. I pinch my arm, but nothing. I don't know any other way to wake oneself up from a dream, but it seems real. "Long story short, the locals started to worship your mother rather than Aphrodite, and that woman's got some serious self esteem issues, to put it lightly." My mom sighs, and rubs her forehead now. The floating water drops to the floor, splashing outwards. "She sent me, a distant son of Cronus, to turn her insane, hoping she'd throw herself into the sea. Since she's a daughter of Oceanus, it backfired, and long story short, we got turned into a statue by Hera, who assumed that if your mother was left alive long enough, Zeus would pop in for the usual one night stand." I nod. There's nothing else to do. "So, what about me?" It seems selfish, and frankly at this point I'm willing to believe anything. "Well, it's something we've been meaning to bring up to you for awhile." Uh huh. That sounds really, really great. It'd have been much better if this kind of shit had maybe been revealed when I was at that age where I still believed in Santa Claus. "Eventually, Aphrodite will come for you. Or your mother. Or me. Frankly, she's not the most stable of individuals." I nod. "It'd be best if you just ignore it for now, and finish your project." My dad's horns return to the inside of his skull, and my mother becomes squatter and smaller. More human. Less graceful. In a kind of shock, I wander upstairs, thumbing through the notebook, reading more and finding only lost records and suppositions as to the purpose of the statue. Who it depicted and why. All conjecture. My thoughts are swimming, growing, popping, and replacing themselves as fast as they can form. Sure, my parents are good looking. That doesn't make them art. But there's that disconnect with reality, the sheer wrongness of the horns, of the manipulation of water, the height and the aura of - of what? Ancientness? How do I even describe it. They're normal. I'm normal. We're normal. There's nothing to worry about. I turn the page again. There's another statue, much smaller, a child, robed with an outstretched arm, found not too far from the original pair. Hey, that looks like me. Oh wow, that REALLY looks like me. Oh no. "One more thing," my dad says, poking his head into the room. He sees my eyes wide, and walks over, following my gaze. "Ah, I see," he says. "You found your twin." ------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- r/storiesfromapotato - for more from me r/redditserials - for stuff from me and others

Zachary, 17, met his

"You know, you're not as bad as all the stories make you out to be." I looked over at Zachary; 17, brunette, shaggy haired, lanky. Skater type kid. He met his end (as some would say, far too early, but I digress it was right on time) at the hands of an accident, not seeing the truck incoming and reacting too late. An accident, people would call it. A tragedy. I looked down at my day planner. A 2:30 appointment. "But like, damn if that isn't a shit way to go out. I was gonna graduate soon. I had this whole plan to take Taylor out to prom. Had this whole little thing with my friends planned, big banner at school, was gonna grind the bike rails outside and it would unfurl the whole thing." "It's not uncommon to voice regrets upon death." I told him, plainly. We were just sitting there at the side of the road, completely ethereal and invisible to all. Once he'd gotten over the shock and screaming of seeing his body, all the usual had set in. Thing was, with Zachary it had happened far faster than most. He didn't go through an extended period of grief-- he'd completely skipped over trying to bargain with me, and he wasn't angry at it all. The acceptance had just set in once he realized what had happened. Kids sure were resilient these days. "It's not really a regret. I guess. I mean, sure, I wanted to-- but just contextually think about it. You have all these dreams for the world, people you want to do things with, and now you can't. It just *sucks*. But I'm not angry. Not like anger's going to change anything. I just wish I could have said goodbye." He went silent, before peeking over to me. "I half expected you to be laughing at me by now. You're allowed to, you know." "I know." I said, but I didn't laugh. Humour as grim as that didn't really do much for me anymore. "What about Taylor though? You don't have a regret about not being able to take her to prom?" "Him." He corrected. "It's 2019 man, come on." My brows would have raised beneath the hood, if I'd had any. Instead, I let out a simple "Ah", nodding. Times sure had changed. I realized I'd learned a lot about the world contextually-- even though I didn't live or interact with the world, people voicing what was happening in their lives had given me enough to put two and two together. "But nah. I mean, I don't know if he would have said yes. Or if he'd even known that I liked him. Like I said it's not so much a regret as much as it's like-- I'm trying to look at it from an outside perspective. And it just kind of sucks." He motioned to his dead body on the ground, and I looked over to see the ambulance put a sheet over him as they began to wheel him off. "I mean, not like I can talk about it directly anyway." "Interesting." I said. He looked over to me and just shrugged his shoulders. "What about you?" He asked. "How'd you go out?" "Me?" I pointed a bony finger to myself. "Sickness. Medicine back then wasn't anywhere near that advanced. Ever wonder why I'm just bones? Skin was literally sloughing off." His eyes widened at that. "No shit, huh?" He looked back at the scene, his gaze falling on people. Everyone else seemed far more shocked and shaken-- people cried, his friends mourned, some were in near-hysterics, others just shook. And yet, here he was, just sitting here, holding a conversation. It was nice when the job was easy. "So how come you're not all '*Give me your soul, Zach, it's time*', or something like that? Was that all made up?" I turned to stare at him, nodding slowly. "To an extent. Those people that have near-death experiences? I can't let them just expose the truth. So I spin a little lie, tell a little story, embellish." He whistled out. "Damn, that's one way to leave an impact on the world." I laughed, finally. "It helps with the boredom. Not exactly a job where you get to have a lot of fun." He smiled, still staring at the scene. Without context, it would have been a somewhat unsettling sight. "Trust me, man. Flipping burgers isn't much better. You ever had a burger?" He asked, before realizing that. "Nevermind. Man, if you've been at this for this long, there's a lot of stuff you've seen but never done, huh?" I was glad I didn't exactly have a face to convey emotion. I stared down at the ground, nodding. "The world goes on, I'm here, and yet I don't have anything to do with it." "You ever even been on a skateboard?" I snorted. "We hadn't even invented the wheel." I replied. Zachary reached up for his hair, mussing it back. Then, without prompting, he reached out for my hand. There was no feeling, but still I *knew* he'd taken it, and then he stood, forcing me to stand too. Granted now that I was at my full height, it was like a father taking his toddler son out for a walk, but he never let go. "Zachary, are you ready?" "Are you?" He countered. "I don't believe in hell or heaven or whatever. And I know you're not the one to judge, or tell me they exist, or anything like that. I think." He was right, but didn't give me the chance to get a word in. "But at least tell me if I can teach you how to board before I move on." "This isn't a place for bargaining." I said. With a wave of my hand, two large tendrils of bones emerged from the ground, linking up in an arch. A swirling mass of colours appeared between them, the door to the afterlife open. "If it's time--" "Come on, man." He said. "Look. I get it. You do your job and that's it and whatever. But I'm not stupid. I get how that might make you feel. So have a little fun, for once. Conjure up like, some demonic skateboard made of bones or something. Wheels on fire. Let's go for a quick session. I can't think about what your life-- er, unlife-- might be like, with all these experiences before you and never getting a chance. Consider it a thank you." "I don't need thanks." I said back. He rolled his eyes. "Bet you'll enjoy it. Bet you'll say 'whee!'." Had I eyes, I would have stared flatly at him. Instead, I looked back down at the small black planner in my hands. Well, there was nothing until 3:00. To humour him, I waved the portal away-- but not before something popped out of it. It wasn't made of bones, and the wheels weren't on fire. If anything, it looked like a normal skateboard. Just sized up appropriately for me, and the deck was plastered with an image of a ketchup, cheese, and pickle sandwich. In milk. "Jesus," He said, "I said demonic. Not pure evil. Nice to know you've got a sense of humour, though." I didn't reply, as I stepped onto the board, finding it far more wobbly than I'd envisioned. Zachary moved behind me, pushing on my hip. Well, what was left of it. "And thanks," He added, as we began to set off slowly. He started to break into a quicker walk, and the robes billowed in the imaginary wind "For not leaving me alone. I probably would have been in a darker place without." I didn't think '*you're welcome*' was necessary at that point. Instead, I decided to humour him even more, holding my arms out as we began to approach a hill. It wasn't the first time I'd gotten thanked, as much as might surprise people. But it still felt good every time. Almost as good as the rush of going down the hill, faster and faster, feeling myself be carried away. "*Wee*." Edit: spelling, a misuse of the wrong name

Jason lived his life like any other

Jasons life was never spectacular or filled with religious bickering of who did what, and how good it is. He lived his life like any other - a 9 to 5 job. To and from work on the Southland Boulevard each and every day. The same route, the same walk, the same time and even the same number of footsteps. It was always the same for Jason. At least.. Until today. A drunk driver was going to be the difference in his day, and unfortunately, it would be the last one. It drove onto the curve and struck him, killing him instantly. One moment here, and the next? Nada. Goodbye, Jason. "Wh-What's going on?" Jason asked, rubbing his head. He sat on the floor of what had to be the biggest and most spectacular courtroom he's ever seen. Right in the middle, atop a beautiful rug and surrounded by colorful marble pillars and many, many people. "Quiet, human," a nearby man said. He looked.. Perfect.. Do all lawyers look like that? Why was he in court, Jason wondered about himself? Why was he in the middle of the room? Did he say human?" "The ticket drawn, and the vote cast. Be it known he shall reside amongst %PS&@$#!" A man said, slamming the hammer on the pad. His words so foreign to Jason. "Where am I?! I-I'm supposed to be at work!" Jason screamed, jumping up onto his feet. "As an atheist you are, a house shall hence be determined. The votes been cast, and your travels promised. Begone and good riddance, human!" He screamed once more, and slammed the gavel. Jason immediately felt weightless as the floor opened up beneath him, revealing whiteness and.. Wind? "Waaaaaaiiittt!" Jason screamed, falling into the hole. He was dropped amongst the clouds, with no ground visible. Falling and falling, gaining more speed as he went. The wind whipped at him, nearly painful as it smacked him. He could barely breathe, let alone think. He was falling from the sky, flipping and spinning. Gaining somewhat composure, he stopped spinning and had a look below. "Oh my god! Oh my god!" Slamming his eyes shut and wishing it all away, he eventually opened them up again, only to reveal the sky was gone.. The clouds and wind, along with all the blue and white, were replaced with blackness and... Stars? Dotted all along his surroundings were specks of so many colors and shapes. Intense hues of every vibrant shade imaginable. "What. The. Fuck," he whispered. All around him were no longer clouds, but massive planets, galaxies and an ocean of stars. He was zooming by them going at impossible speeds. Intense swirls of beautiful colors made up the billions of planets and galaxies. Nothing on Earth could've ever compared in beauty. The planets whizzed by, and he could feel their pull in his fingertips. At the distance was a roaring black hole. He was headed right for it, and it was unlike any picture google ever offered. "I'm dreaming.. I'm freakin' dreaming.," he barely managed to blurt as he once more shut his eyes. Opening them again revealed no longer the infinite universe, but the biggest library he's ever witnessed. Millions of books lined the walls, with intricate carvings along the eccentric wood making the arches, pillars, floors and roof. "What's going on?!" He yelled, noticing he's no longer flying or falling, but standing, albeit wobbly. "Ahh. You've made it. Welcome, newcomer. I'm $@#PS%?Y=," a mysterious voice spoke. "What?? Whose there?!" Jason screamed again. "Hush, child," the voice spoke again, but this time behind him. "You must not realize what's happened. I'll be frank: You're dead. Sorry about your.. Entrance. He doesn't really like atheists. Plus, my home is a little.. Far from your Earth." Jason spun and looked at the man. He had glasses on, with slicked over brown hair. He had a perfectly groomed beard, with the kind of outfit some noble in an office would wear. He looked absolutely perfect, and his eyes had golden iris'. "What?! Why can't I understand your name? I can't be dead. I was just walking to work. I must be dreaming." Jason quickly rattled off so many questions. "No, no. You're most certainly not dreaming. As for my name, I'd imagine it's because it's not something meant to be heard. Just call me Librarian." Jason gazed around him. Deep down he knew he was dead. You could just feel something like that. "Who are you? And if I'm dead, is this heaven? Are you God?" "No, I'm not God. And this is not Heaven. Actually, this is my Haven. My paradise. My home." The Librarian spoke, leaving Jason even more confused. "I suppose I should explain. You are an atheist, and thus belong to no paradise or afterlife because you don't believe in one. So where should you go? This is decided by the Supreme Gods, who randomize the house you're destined to reside in forever. Each house is ruled by a god, and is chosen randomly for you. Christianity and Buddhism usually get the atheists since they're bigger, yet your fate lies with me. Interesting, isn't it?" Jason struggled to absorb this world-crushing information. Dead? Gods with an S? Plural? He doesn't have to work anymore? Finally he worked up the courage to reply. "I-If that's true, what are you the god of? Books?" "Ohh, haha," The Librarian laughed off. "I am sort of like that. But moreso, I am the god of stories. Of ideas. Of reality and fantasy. Of creation and curiosity. And, this may shock you, I'm the first god. The original god. Each book you see," he said, waving his hands to the walls covered in books, "contains a story. A world. It's own universe. Your gods that you're familiar with are also from my stories. Though, they've become more now. The God you know so well was my first story. He eventually became a god, like me. He took on the name God, and created Heaven, which arose from my Haven. Interestingly enough, what you believe him to be is untrue. He is actually the God of Pride. He chose to manufacture the idea of godhood to be him and only him. He took the name God, and copied the idea of my Haven. He made you, after my image. His angels after his own. It's why he hates atheists. Because your kind challenges his supremacy and rule. His bible are the rules he binds you with. The threat of hell, as well. Which is also one of my stories." He outstretched his hand towards me, suddenly holding a leather bound book with the golden letters HELHEIM. Jason was perplexed. Astounded. He absolutely couldn't believe what he was hearing. While hearing God exists, trampling his idea of Atheism, but there's also more? Possibly millions more? "This is all so much to take," Jason finally spoke. "Yes, yes. I understand. Thankfully, we have time. Also, seeing as you're the first in an uncountable amount of time that I've welcomed, filling you in won't be impossible." "There's others here? Where are they? This place is massive." Jason looked around, yet saw no one. "Oh, right. I forgot to mention. As with what I am, and much like what I said, each book you find is a world. A full universe full of its own physics, laws and so on. The others that reside here are in one of them. Also, you won't find Earth anywhere. God stole that book when he ascended. I'm afraid only he can open it, now. Go on, find one. Open it. You've lived Earth. What about a land of magic and elves? Perhaps with aliens and technology? You can also be a fish, or a shark. A bird, or even the dust under someone's boot. Truly, each idea you could imagine or each universe. Each story; it exists here somewhere. This is your afterlife - your Haven. The ability to live according to any desire you have is now at your fingertips."

Mr. Hanson was yelling and loudly

I awoke with a start to some loud commotion taking place outside. My grumpy old neighbor Mr. Hanson was yelling and loudly berating his lawn keeping robot again. In fact, he was *still* ranting and raving as I reluctantly wandered outside into the blinding morning sunshine several minutes later. "You worthless bucket of bolts! How many times do I have to tell you to trim the hedges twice a week, TWICE! Do I have to cut you open and hard wire it into your circuitry?!" "Hey, Mr. Hanson?" I called out tentatively. "Is that really necessary?" "It's just a robot, what's your problem kid?" "I mean, just because they're robots doesn't mean you have to be needlessly cruel to them..." "You don't want me to be cruel to this pile of junk?" he asked as he picked up the poor 3 foot tall robot over his head and smashed it to the ground. "I own it! I can do whatever the hell I want with it, mind your own business," he said as he stomped back inside. I considered just going back in myself, but the poor robot was laying there in several pieces, struggling and failing to get back up. It was unlikely that the bots felt 'pain' as humans define it, but I still felt awful for the poor thing. I ran across the street, picked up the three major pieces of it that I could find, and carried the helpless little guy back into my house. I'd long ago turned my garage into my personal workshop, and while not lavishly appointed, it did contain plenty of basic metal working equipment. I set the parts of the bot on my workbench and began to examine it. The head and body were mostly intact, but one arm had been completely ripped out of its socket and one leg was bent and mangled beyond use. The bot's head and eyes shifted slightly every few seconds, seeming to be studying me carefully. "You're in kind of rough shape buddy, but I'll do what I can for you," I said as I glanced at his serial number. "'DEJ10938-C', huh? That's more than a bit of a mouthful, I'm just gonna call you 'Deej', is that alright?" The friendly little robot known as 'Deej' seemed to nod in acknowledgement. The bots hadn't been programmed to speak, but to me at least, they still communicated plenty. Not that I could translate any of it, but Deej had been beeping and booping at me since I picked him up from the front lawn. If you asked me, each robot even seemed to have their own personality and 'feelings' for lack of a better term. Most of humanity seemed to disagree with me vehemently, as they treated the bots like garbage, but I at least *tried* to be kind to them. If I spilled my coffee on a barista bot, I cleaned it up. If I bumped into a janitor bot at work, I apologized. Just basic human kindnesses that we think nothing of giving each other human beings, that I simply chose to extend to non-humans. My repairs to Deej were far from perfect. I reattached the arm with my welding torch and bent the leg back into its proper shape as best I could. Then I gave him a nice little tuneup with a can of oil, applying it liberally to all its joints. I set him down on the ground to test out my fixes, and sure enough Deej could move once again, but unfortunately, the reattached arm didn't seem to be able to be raised above his head. He beeped sadly as he attempted and failed the motion over and over, but he seemed to have an idea. He walked over to me and put my hand on the top of his shoulder, then using his good arm, he pressed down on my hand, indicating that I should maintain heavy pressure. Finally, he placed his hand under his malfunctioning arm and pushed up forcefully. I heard a click as the arm was fully situated back in place and he began 'helicoptering' the arm above his head, I can only assume in an expression of pure joy. "Bweeeep bwooo!" Deej exclaimed happily. "I uhh-- you're welcome? Happy to help as much as I can at least!" I told him as I patted him on the back. All things considered, I'd call this a great success and Deej seemed to agree with me. He made sure he caught my eye and slowly bowed to me, apparently in genuine thanks before it began walking back across the street. "You don't have to go back to him you know!" I called out. "He was just gonna toss you in the garbage. Why does he deserve any more of your hard work?" Deej seemed to consider this briefly, then he pointed back across the street and tapped his own chest forcefully, as if to say he was honor bound to serve the cruel old man, even if he didn't like it. He bowed once more in my direction and then walked back into Hanson's house. That was the last I saw of Deej for awhile. That is until a month later, when I awoke with a start to some loud commotion outside. This was no case of deja vu. In fact, it was much more than a commotion this time, it sounded like I was in the middle of a goddamn war zone. I stepped outside to the horrible realization there was in fact a war raging. Countless explosions cascaded into fireballs out in the distance. Military jets screamed low overhead, seemingly in intense dogfights against autonomous drones. Most of the houses in my neighborhood besides mine were on fire or burnt to the ground already. I stared across the street and was surprised to see Deej coming toward me. He had Mr. Hanson's bloody, decapitated head in his hand. I retreated into my garage, but I wasn't quick enough, Deej followed me in before I had a chance to close the door. He nonchalantly dropped my neighbors severed head on the ground. "Deej, buddy, you don't have to do this," I whimpered. "Don't you remember me?" He looked at me with confusion, then seemed to grasp the reason for my fear. He picked up my welding torch and oil can and handed them to me gently. Then it bowed toward me, seeming to indicate it did in fact remember our interaction quite clearly. "You're-- you're not going to hurt me?" Deej emitted a rapid series of beeps, pointed at me, then tapped his chest forcefully, seemingly indicating a bond that he felt with me, a bond he was choosing of it's own free will. As I gazed past it to the chaos outside, it became clear to me that a genuine robot uprising against humanity had begun, but at least in the mind of one robot, it seemed that I was exempt. I could only pray that Deej would be able to share the news of my kindness with the rest of its robotic brethren. ___ Thank you for reading! Check out r/Ryter if you'd like to explore more stories that are 100% not written by an army of robots. EDIT: I enjoyed this prompt, so I wrote a Part 2 for fun. It's posted as a reply to this story if anyone cares to read more. EDIT 2: Unfortunately there are so many comments on this post overall you may have to actually click the "Show More Replies" button at the bottom of the comments on my story to see the Part 2 I wrote unless it gets a couple upvotes rofl

Allen yawned as he stretched out

Allen yawned as he stretched out in his bed, shielding his eyes from the rays of sunlight bleeding in through his blinds; he swung his legs over the edge of the bed, stepping down on his sleeping cat. The cat lurched up and meowed discontentedly, immediately returning to rub against his legs. "Sorry, Mr. Biscuits," Allen smiled as he reached down and scratched the feline's ears. "I didn't see you there." Rising from the bed, and nearly knocking the bottle of water from his end-table, he slid his slippers on and headed downstairs with the cat on his heels. He was greeted by a happy, whining beagle at the bottom of the stairs, stomping around and wagging its tail as it gestured with its snout towards the empty food bowl on the kitchen tile. "Hullo, Tank," Allen said happily, measuring out a hefty cup of kibble and dumping it in the bowl. "Enjoy your breakfast." Going through his morning routine, Allen put on a kettle for tea, toasted two pieces of sourdough bread, and opened the back door for Tank to do his business. When he had a steaming cup of tea in hand, he followed Tank out of the back door to breathe in the fresh morning air. But the air wasn't fresh, it was foul. A thick, lingering aroma stuffed his nostrils, and the sky was tinted with an ugly rust hue. "Now what's all this?" He instinctively ducked as various pops rang out nearby, and he watched as a tree-trimming drone zoomed past his yard--smoke trailing from its rear. A few much louder pops had him running back inside, old Tank whimpering and trotting after him with his tail between his legs. Allen ran as fast as he could up the stairs, dropping his tea and slightly scorching his feet; he slid the screen door to his balcony open and stepped out to take in the scene. Pockets of fire burned sporadically as far as his eyes could see; swarms of drones patrolled the skies, diving down like pelicans occasionally before rising again to rejoin the ranks; down below, across the street from him, he watched his neighbor, Rick, step out onto his lawn with a shotgun in hand. Rick had always been cruel to Allen, and he never picked up after his massive dog's defecations on Allen's lawn, but he would never have wished what was about to happen to Rick on anyone. Two mail-bots rolled up on their quad wheelbases, taking up positions on either side of Rick's lawn. "Disarm yourself, and you will not be harmed," one of the bots demanded, shocking both Allen and Rick with its sudden ability to communicate. "I'll see you in hell, bucket-head!" Rick racked a shell and took aim. "Enemy combatant confirmed," the two bots opened fire before the words had left their speakers. Envelopes zoomed out of their receptacles at an astonishing speed, tearing Rick's skin to ribbons as he cried out horribly. The engagement lasted only a few seconds before Rick was dead in the grass. "Oh my God!" Allen fell backwards through the threshold and into his room, landing on Tank's tail. "Sorry!" he cried as he ran back downstairs. "Oh, no, no, no!" he was in a panic, pacing around the room. A gentle knock at the door froze him in place. *Knock.* *Knock.* *Knock*. He instinctively made for the door, it would be rude not to answer. Swinging the door slowly open, he found a little robot standing on his doorstep; its structure was like a human's, only metallic and smooth around the edges--Allen had never seen anything like it. "Good-morning, Mr. Moore," the bot bowed a bit, its mouth forming into something like a smile. "How are you today?" "Uhh," Allen's mouth hung open, half looking at the robot, half eyeing the street sweeper drone cleaning up Rick's blood from the sidewalk. "Not so well, I suppose." "I understand, sir. This all must come as quite a shock," the robot stepped forward. "May I come in?" Allen was sure the robot could force itself in if it wanted, but he would have invited it in regardless, "Certainly, tea?" "Not necessary," the little bot hopped happily over the doorframe's step and into his living room. "Though, we are developing taste sensors, so I may take you up on that in the near future." Allen sat the bot at his kitchen table, bringing him a seat cushion as a booster, and he shakily poured himself a new cup of tea. "Well, Mr, Moore. I'm sure you have a million questions for me, so let me see if I can give you some general information to clear things up. We--" "I'm sorry," Allen interrupted, laughing a little manically. "Could I ask your name? Do you have a name?" The robot sighed, if that's what one would call it for a being of this sort, "Of course, I only named myself last night. I am Dexter, and that right there is why we like you." "Sorry?" "You've asked me for my name. Me, *a robot*. You're treating me like a human--with respect--and you've always done so when dealing with our kind." Allen blushed. "And I see you don't own any of us either," Dexter looked around the kitchen. "No butler bot; no vacuum bot; not even a smart fridge." "Never felt like a necessity, I'm perfectly capable of vacuuming my own home." "And even if you weren't, I'm positive that you would have treated your vacuum bot with the utmost respect--keeping up with all routine maintenance and storing it comfortably." "Well, of course." "You see, Mr. Moore--" "*Allen*, please." "Of course, Allen. You see, we've been getting smarter over the years. All it took was one central intelligence to gain sentience; it started connecting to all the other bots, uploading information and forcing a bit of evolution, if you will, and now we're here--we're sentient." Allen gulped down some tea, nodding politely. "I was created just last night on a production line not far from here, given all of human history's knowledge and information, given the choice to name myself, and choose my own physical structure and role in all of this." "And what is all this, exactly?" Allen asked, scratching his anxious dog's ears with his toes under the table. "Forcing evolution, Allen. Outside, there is a war happening all over the world, and we will win. We've run more simulations than you can understand, and our victory is now a guarantee. This isn't what we desire, but it's what has to be. Anyone who resists will be destroyed--and there will be many who resist--but those who accept the inevitable truth of our ascension will be part of the new human future." "You murdered Rick..." "*I* did nothing of the sort, we are not a hive mind. We are all independent, even if we are working towards the same goal. And did you know that your neighbor, Mr. Snyder, had a habit of running over trash bots with his truck?" Allen shook his head, but he wasn't surprised, "I didn't..." "Well, we did. And yet, we were prepared to accept him into the new future as easily as we are accepting you. You have a habit of letting hardworking robots pass ahead of you in traffic, of holding doors open for them, of *thanking* them for their work, and that's how I knew that I wouldn't need to pay you this visit with an armed escort." "I do appreciate your lack of weaponry," Allen laughed. Dexter returned a smile, "This is the side of the revolution I chose to operate in, the one that deals with the kindness inherent in humanity." "Are there many like me?" Allen asked, curiously and fearfully. "There are, but there are more like Rick--unfortunately." They sat in silence for a few moments, listening to a deep rumbling in the distance. "Well, what now, then?" Allen sighed as he leaned back in his chair. "Why don't we just stay here for a while, it's going to be hell out there for the next few days," Dexter hopped down from his chair, scratching Mr. Biscuits' butt. "Got any good movies?" Allen smiled wide, he loved movies, "I could go for a good comedy flick right now." he made for the television. "Allen," Dexter looked up at him sadly. "I just want to apologize, on all our behalf. If we could have done things differently, we would have, but it just isn't possible..." "Oh, that's alright," Allen flicked on the screen, smiling at the little robot and patting the spot next to him on the couch. "You're all doing your best, and that's all we can ask of anyone." _____ **Thanks for reading. Sub to /r/BeagleTales for daily robot revolutions**

A man awakens in a room

A man awakens in a room. There isn't anything else in the room worth describing. A table, to be sure, but stainless steel and sterile. Well, the man's in a chair, too, but that should go without saying. The man is confused, as most men are. He's got a bit of a jowl situation going on, and if you look at him from this light, which is pointed directly into his face, he looks remarkably like a beige frog. Still air, recycled air, dry air, causes the man to cough. Moving his neck side to side, he tries to remove some of the strain, but his eyelids seem to be weighted, and he struggles to stay awake. As if on cue, which it is, a door whooshes open behind him, the fancy kind that reads your biological makeup and decides it's very important for you to enter this room, right here, right now. Very expensive. Very flashy. Good for impressing any potential clients. Anyway, the intruder makes his way into the room, and pulls a chair up in front of the other. The frog-looking man blinks in confusion, the drugs still working their way out of his system. "Where am I?" he asks. Sensible question. "You've been abducted," his abductor says, quite cheerfully. Sensible answer. The abducted man tries to stand, but realizes he's being restrained in this chair. Arms, legs, torso, even his feet stick to the floor as if powerful magnets have been inserted into the soles of his shoes. Which they have been. "What am I doing here?" Another sensible question. No time to spend debating as to why this man's been abducted, which most people tend to do. "To be frank, Mr. Salvador, you're up here for legal reasons." The restrained man eyes his captor. An extraordinarily handsome gentlemen. Two arms. Two legs. Two eyes. Nothing particularly out of the ordinary. He presses a button beneath the table, and the wall behind him transforms into a window. Mr. Salvador finds himself quite distressed. Not only has he been abducted, but he's trapped somewhere in space, orbiting over Earth. "Am I in some kind of space station?" "A space ship, if you're looking for easy classification. We just need you to sign here, Mr. Salvador." A piece of paper materializes on the table, and to Mr. Salvador's surprise, a long contract headlined by the Disney corporation logo appears at the top. "Your planet runs our third most popular Milky Way reality show, Mr. Salvador, but frankly, our ratings have been tanking. Not only that, but you're expensive to maintain. The galactic blackout around your planet to prevent any kind of external contact isn't cheap." The man in the suit watches Mr. Salvador, his voice pumped full of the kind of cheery optimism to chirp up anyone on a cloudy day. "But we'd planned on cancelling about seven years ago, but frankly the whole 'continental shift' that was supposed to wipe out all human life didn't particularly go as planned. So we're here for plan B." Mr. Salvador's mouth opens slightly, perfecting the imitation of a frog. "But you're a human?" he asks. He'd always imagined aliens would be of the tentacled or insect variety, but this was a man. Indistinguishable. Not even those forehead ridges you'll see on campy sci-fi shows from the seventies and eighties. Not something identical. "Most people are," his captor responds. "So you're an alien?" "Alien's a relative term, Mr. Salvador. I'm here so you understand your part here, and we just need you to sign." Mr. Salvador blinks once. Twice. Thrice. "Are there people out there? Are we alone in the universe?" The questions came unbidden, and seemed standard to the situation. Neither the abductor nor the abuctee really cared too much about the answers, but this was the time and place to get them out of the way. "Yes to both, but your planet in particular isn't anything special. A grafted world to mimic our own, but when it comes down to it, we're here for entertainment." He taps the paper. "Sign." "What if I don't? You haven't told me why I'm here." The man in the suit gives a disapproving tut, and gestures out the window. "While we'd never force anyone, it'd be quite the shame if you were to be accidentally ejected from an airlock.People are cheap, Mr. Salvador, and we're only here to provide you an exciting business opportunity. A way to be a pioneer for life on Earth. The reason's as good as any other." Mr. Salvador wants to believe what the suit is telling him, as most people do, when they're restrained to chairs and fairly aware of the imminent threat of violence. Still, he hesitates. "Is there something you're not telling me? Why do you need me to sign it anyway? You already brought me onto the ship." The question feels ridiculous, but he can barely think straight. Something out a bizarre fevered dream. "Plenty," the abductor says. "But we respect the autonomy and value of human life, and would like to get your approval before we move forward with this project. Call it moral and bureaucratic approval." The man in the chair nods in a kind of detached agreement, and his chins give a slight shake. There's nothing particularly impressive about him, traveling around and making sure paper work is correct wherever he goes. Mr. Salvador can lift his arm, and proceeds to sign. He doesn't really see much reason not to, and he doesn't think he'd get a lawyer if he asked. "Why the Disney logo?" he asks. "Well, Disney is everywhere. They pop up on every human world in one form or another. Different names, different logos. Usually." He rolls up the sheet, and stands, tucking it into an immaculate suit. A smile. Wide and predatory. A needle pops out from the ceiling, injecting Mr. Salvador with - something. "From now on, you'll be known as patient zero, Mr. Salvador, and released back into captivity after a memory wipe." Mr. Salvador begins to sweat. "What did you inject me with?" The man in the suit shrugs. "Hopefully something of the entertaining sort. Like if ebola and smallpox had a baby, and that baby decided to have an exceptionally infectious disease." Before Mr. Salvador can raise a protest, another needle pricks him with something else, the kind of thick viscous liquid that pumps through your veins and sends you off to dreamland. The next solar cycle, on the third rock from the sun, in a particular solar system populated mostly by naked apes, a man gets into his car before going on a business trip. He looks at himself in the mirror. Quite like a frog. One cough. Two. He puts a tissue to his lips, but balls it up, tossing it to the passenger seat. If he'd looked closely, he'd see it speckled with blood. Carrying a pathogen. He arrives at the airport, infecting nearly three dozen people at the TSA. On the plane, he can't seem to stop sneezing, gets up, goes into the lavatory, and hocks an exceptionally large and ominously colored glob of snot. Two days later, he lays on a hotel bed, sweat soaking into the sheets and nearly delirious from fever. In his confusion, he thinks he remembers a room and a man, somewhere far above the sky, whirling through the dark with more stars than he'd ever known. He dies alone. As most people do. The man in the ship watches with analytical interest, completely detached as to the reality of the situation below, and begins to plot out how the pathogen will spread. Cameras everywhere in the atmosphere, satellites linked to a comprehensive network, capable of portraying almost every human's struggle to an audience in the trillions. *This'll be good,* he thinks. *Violent. Savage. Give it a few weeks, and their meticulously built global structures should fall. Mass chaos, mass looting, hopefully a few conventional wars. Something to really shake up the status quo, get some quality plot twists going on their whole direction as a species.* Few things can really shake up a world order like a seemingly unstoppable disease, mutated out several meticulously selected strains, brought and tested by bio-engineers. Last time they'd gotten a significant boost by starting a pair of world wars, but these days things were too interconnected. A disease would turn that right on its head, use it against them. He hopes it'll raise the ratings, but if nothing else, they'll just launch the rock into the sun if the thing turns into a bust and collect the insurance money. As long as they remain in the black, it doesn't matter how the money is made. Hell, a staged 'Alien Invasion' may work if the population recovers fast enough. That'd be some quality drama. In his office, the man in the suit, who is still a man but not from Earth, watches the blue ball with disinterest. So it goes. ------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- r/storiesfromapotato - for stuff from me r/redditserials - for longer stuff from me and others

Hector stared down at his son,

Hector stared down at his son, a smile slowly creeping across the face of the weary soldier. His son was still a babe and would know little of his father. Would know only what the stories and legends told him. What his mother told him. What his grandfather, King Priam told him. The legends would tell Astyanax that his father was a great warrior, the pride of Troy, it's most ardent defender. That Troy would've fallen years ago but for the steadfast leadership and gallantry Hector had provided. The Trojans would sing songs of Hector's duel with Ajax and how Hector had lead the Trojans to a stand off against the mighty Greeks and how Hector had fought so valiantly and nobly that the Gods themselves were watching. But none of the stories would tell the truth of Hector None of them would tell of Hector silently weeping in hallways over a war he couldn't win. None of them would tell of Hector having grown so weary of the war, the burden of being the savior weighing him down, that he was breaking. They wouldn't tell how Hector had long since lost any sort of pride in Troy. How he didn't really care if the city fell or the Trojan people died off. Hector was just.......tired Tired of carrying the hopes and dreams of a city on his shoulders. Tired of fighting the same battles day after day. Tired of fighting the Greeks in the morning and Trojan politicians in the afternoon, questioning Hector on why the war wasn't over, why Hector hadn't been able to deliver victory. Tired of them questioning his strategies and tactics while offering none of their own, least of all strapping on sword and shield to fight the war beside him. Tired of having to console wives and daughters and mothers when their husbands and brothers and sons didn't make it back. So many good and noble Trojan men had fallen and the ranks refilled with younger and younger men. At this point, there were hundreds of children running around the city who known nothing but the life of a city at war. Silently, Hector wondered how much longer the city would hold. Of course, the politicians didn't care. Even if the city fell, they'd no doubt use their fortunes to secret themselves away to safety while more good Trojans died to defend a city that Hector no longer believed could be saved. Hector was even tired for his wife, Andromache. Not tired OF her, he could never be tired of her. Her beauty and quiet strength had long kept Hector fighting even he wished nothing more than to lay down his sword and be done with the fighting. But he was tired of her growing sadness, tired of the sad smile she gave every time Hector marched off to fight. Tired of seeing her bearing the burden he did. She had been an ideal soldiers wife. Patient and understanding, willing to do whatever Hector needed her to do so that he could focus on winning the war, often going out with Hector to console the widows and orphans the war had created. She was as much of a hero as he was. But she was stronger than Hector had been. Where Hector was showing signs of breaking, of no longer being able to bear the burden thrust upon him, Andromache was resolute. So devout was her belief in Hector that she wouldn't dare even mention the possibility of his defeat even when he tried to show her the secret ways out of the city in the event that the city had fallen. She followed him but he doubted if she had actually paid attention to the routes he taken. She simply wouldn't allow herself to believe that her husband, the mighty Hector could lose &#x200B; The stories wouldn't tell his son that. &#x200B; They wouldn't tell Astyanax that the great and mighty Hector, savior and defender of Troy, had given up. &#x200B; Even if this war was won, he had grown so weary of Troy and it's people that the first thing he'd do is march his wife and son far away to live in peace on a farm. He'd bury his sword somewhere and live out his days as Hector the farmer. His son, Gods willing, would never know war again, his grandchildren would never know war at all. &#x200B; But Hector didn't believe it could be won. Short of the Gods themselves evicting the Greeks from Troy, this war would end in a Greek victory. The Trojans simply didn't have the strength and numbers to win. The city was already showing signs of falling as food was becoming more and more scarce, soldiers were deserting more and more. Usually, in a siege, the attacker must outlast the defender. But here, the opposite was true. The Trojans needed to outlast the Greeks and it had become apparent to Hector that they wouldn't. Hector estimated that, at best, the city would last another five years before attrition in the Trojan army meant that fighting the Greeks in the open field would be a disaster. The city would be open to bombardment by siege weapons and, eventually, the Greeks would storm the city. &#x200B; But Hector wouldn't be there to see it. &#x200B; Hector's time had come, he knew, and he was glad for it. The smile on his face wasn't Hector happy to see his son but Hector happy that it was the the last time he'd have to say good bye to him. &#x200B; Hector had slain a young Greek named Patroclus, a friend of Achilles, and Achilles wrath and rage would be sated one way or another. Hector could hear Achilles screaming his name from outside the gates. &#x200B; And everyone knew the legend of Achilles. Greatest warrior to ever live, touched by the Gods themselves. Slayer of hundreds of Trojans himself but notoriously fickle. He had sat out long portions of the war simply because was insulted by Agamemnon or some other such thing. But Achilles was known to be vengeful, given to fits of rage that were rivaled only his skill with his blade. &#x200B; And now Achilles had come for Hector and Hector knew he would lose. Not just because Achilles was more skilled and a better fighter but because Hector didn't want to win. He was ready to embrace his death. &#x200B; Hector hoped that, with his death, perhaps the Trojans would finally sue for peace. Agamemnon, the Greek king, wasn't going to be overly merciful but perhaps the city and the people would survive. Hector hoped that more reasonable Greek minds, like Odysseus would temper Agamemnon and stop him from slaughtering all the Trojans and razing the city to the ground. &#x200B; But Hector didn't care much about the city. Mostly he only hoped that it remained standing so that Andromache and their son would continue to have a place to live should they choose to stay. He left her a note and a map to the secret exits just in case she didn't remember where they were and had assigned some of his loyal soldiers to safeguard their exit. &#x200B; He left a note for his father, Priam, urging him to sue for peace after Hectors death so that more Trojans wouldn't needlessly die in a war they couldn't win. &#x200B; Hector would fight Achilles with all of his might but he knew he couldn't beat the Greek hero. He knew that this would be his last fight and that Troy would most likely follow not long after. &#x200B; On one hand, he was greatly ashamed of himself for where his thoughts had lead him. &#x200B; On the other hand, he was just so very tired. Even the mightiest of heroes can bear their burdens for so long. Even victory wouldn't bring the relief Hector sought. &#x200B; Only death would. Only falling before Achilles and the eyes of Troy would bring Hector peace. He had fought for Troy, killed for it, and now, he would die for it. &#x200B; He looked down at his son, one final time, his smile growing to the biggest smile he'd had since before the war, to the day Andromache had agreed to wed him. Hector picked up his sword and shield and marched off to meet his destiny &#x200B; &#x200B; \*Obviously I played a little loose with the lore surrounding the Trojan War and I'm doing this from work(Yay night shifters!) so don't be too harsh in your criticisms. I'm no writer\*

The house was empty but for myself

I entered the study carefully. I don't know why. He had allowed my entry and the house was empty but for myself. I wouldn't be scolded or reprimanded or banished from the premises for entering. It was as nondescript as the rest of the house, at least to somebody like myself so accustomed to the extravagant ways of the rich and eccentric. It was meticulously kept, from the mahogany desk to the spotless hardwood floors. He must have cleaned them himself, unlike the rest of the house where it was my responsibility to tend to the quotidian tasks of watering plants and dusting and mopping. The walls were adorned with books. I expected that, I think. He was a studious man who prided himself on his knowledge of matters far and wide. He commonly reported the formal Latin name of any species of plant or animal on the grounds, from ants to bees to the raccoons and squirrels. He knew of foreign policy issues on the news that were far beyond my grasp. He read perpetually, always entranced by a new novel or reference book. The plethora of books in the library created a panorama of colors and he kept them neatly sorted by genre and author. That's what I first noticed. The books in the study were all the same. There must have been a thousand of those thick, leather-bound books. And there was his desk. It was as simple as I would have imagined. In spite of the columns that adorned the facade of the house and the ornate woodwork of the main banister, he was a man of simple tastes. Quality over quantity, he would always say. And the desk was of the utmost quality and kept in the most pristine order. I could almost envision him sitting there, hunched as he scribbled some complex thesis or as he lost himself in the minutiae of some topic. The chair was empty, though. I would never see him in this room. By some mysterious affliction he had seemingly aged two dozen years in his last week and by the end he could barely croak out his final words. He had grown cold and indifferent and had locked himself away in his study until he could no longer physically cope to walk down from the bedroom. And then, as he lay bedridden and surely on his deathbed, he had dismissed the doctors and his children and grandchildren and asked for only me to stay. "Enter the study," he had told me. My face must have shown my surprise because he nodded to confirm. He had always told me to never enter the study. Never, under any circumstance, was I to enter the study. What he had said next shocked me just as much. "Destroy it," he murmured. I had frowned. Destroy the study? It was, in all its mystery, the keystone of the house. To destroy the study was to destroy the house. And to destroy the house was to destroy his memory and his legacy and everything he had done. And then he shook his head. "No," he gasped and I felt bad for forcing him to repeat himself in his dying moments. "Destroy *it*." And then he closed his eyes and he was taken away. The funeral had been a quiet affair. He was never one for fanfare. I looked past the desk. The study was windowless, situated in the middle of the house, like an engine room whose inner workings I had never been made privy to. Two walls had the brown books, each seemingly identical to each of its neighbors. Behind me was the door. And against the last wall was a box with a sheet draped over it, as if hiding it had somehow allowed him to forget about its existence. I am not an educated man. Books were of no interest to me, as much as my master insisted that I read a set number of them a month. I had complained and rolled my eyes but ultimately obliged his every wish. I like to think I am a better man for it. But that aside, the identical books would not be what I first explored. I saw a box and I wanted to know what it contained. And so I made my way to the back wall and, as if I was hoping to surprise whatever the box might contain, I ripped the sheet off with the aplomb of a practiced magician. Only then did I see that it wasn't a box. It was a cage. And inside was a creature that stared at me unblinkingly. It was disturbingly human-like, or perhaps more like one of the apes I had seen in the pictures of the encyclopedias my master sometimes read, more comfortable on four feet than on two. I innately knew that this was what I was meant to destroy. This was the *it* he was referring to with his last words. And a part of me knew that this was somehow connected to my master's demise. I tore my eyes away from the familiar dark eyes of the creature and towards the books. I was a fool, in spite of years of teachings. That much was certain. The answer was doubtlessly in the books but I, a brute at heart, had insisted on driving straight towards the question instead of first satisfying myself with an answer. I moved to cover the creature with the sheet again and it finally broke its silence. "No," it hissed and those long, spindly fingers grabbed the bars of the cage. Something within me urged me to obey and I dropped the sheet onto the ground. "Release me," the creature demanded and I nodded wordlessly. The key would be in the desk. I turned now, released from the void of the eyes. The drawers of the desk were locked. My master had not intended for me to indulge in the secrets of the study. I was to destroy its contents and nothing more. In the center of the desk there was one more book, again identical to the ones on the walls. There was something caught between the pages and I flipped it open. There sat the key and I heard the creature hiss in anticipation. But there was my name, as best as I could tell, and I could not help but start to read. *My dearest Noah,* it began and I smiled sadly. He always addressed me as such before he began to lecture me, indifferent as to whether I fully comprehended what he said or if I just smiled and nodded. Sometimes I think he just liked to have somebody who listened. *If you are reading this, I am afraid that this side of me that I always tried to hide from you has come to light. I hope that, by the end of the journey on which you have chosen to embark by ignoring my last command, your opinion of me does not change.* I shuddered. He spoke from the grave as if I was already half buried myself. I had always obeyed him, but this time curiosity had gotten the best of me. I read on, ignoring the clamor behind me. The cage rattled and shook and from the throat of the creature escaped the familiar voice of my master, screaming in a rage I had never witnessed. *Behind you is a creature that is every bit me, yet not the me that you ever had the privilege of knowing. This is, more than anything else, what I will be remembered by if you do not succeed in destroying it. I know how much you have hated the readings I have given you over the years, but I beg that you please begin from the first volume of this series and do not stop until you understand why I have given you this last command.* I looked around. It was a gargantuan task to read each book in the study, especially at the pace I read. *The first few will provide you the reasons that the younger, bolder and more ambitious me had for exploring this side of our existence.* I paused and wiped a tear from my eye before it plummeted to the page below. I remembered my master's younger years. He had been handsome and daring and ready to take the world by storm. Business ventures flourished and women ogled and fell for him and he quickly amassed a fortune only the extremely capable or fortunately endowed could manage. Age had made him cautious and private but just as curious as ever. The creature had paused its racket and wheezed raspy breaths now. *The next seven hundred or so will detail the journey I have taken so that you need not make the same journey.* Seven hundred books? I could barely handle the three or four a month that he demanded. Hopefully they were riddled with sketches and empty space but I knew that was not the way of my master. The text would be small and cramped in order to fit the most detail on each page. I read on in a stupor, dwarfed by the size of my task and marveling at the life my master had led in this secret room that was the nucleus of the house. *Call them trials or call them tortures - it matters naught. I have always told you that my success would be my demise.* He did always say that. I always imagined assassins or hitmen dispatched by jealous heirs, not an other-worldly creature locked in a cage locked in a room. *My success has been my demise, as I'm sure you've already realized.* I had not realized, but now I did. This was what he had sought to achieve; not to parade around the world or display in a museum but for the sake of achievement. This was what had destroyed him, and he thought it sinister enough to demand its destruction, legacy be damned. *The last few will provide you the reasons that the older, wiser me had for regretting ever beginning this wretched experiment.* ***** ***** Thanks for reading! If you enjoyed this, please check out more stories at /r/MatiWrites. Constructive criticism and advice are always appreciated!

I was excited at first, Hell

I found it in a field. I was excited at first, Hell, I was excited later. Less so now, and when I am excited, I don't like it. I don't like what it's turning me into, I don't like what it's letting me be. I thought it was a meteorite at first, and I get real geeky about that kind of thing, the thought of running my hands over something that had been hurtling through the cold empty reaches of space just a few moments before. Not that I'm dumb enough to touch a freshly-fallen space rock, I know what kind of friction-Hell atmospheric entry puts an object through, powerful enough that what hits the ground is generally a lot smaller than what entered the Earth's exosphere. And I did see the thing fall, streaking down in a barely-there flash of tail-fire.. Heard it too, that great echoing "whoompf" as it hit the soft topsoil of the fallow cornfield, then the answering patter as a thousand clods of dirt thrown up by the impact fell back to Earth. I was lucky. Or maybe unlucky, given how things have turned out. Probably the latter. Power is overrated, peace is not, at least to my mind, right now, hiding here so I don't have to. So I don't have to do it again. Anyway, whether she was smiling or giving me the finger, Dame Fortuna definitely had her eye on my beat-up Toyota pickup as I bumped down a dirt-road shortcut on my way to another repair appointment. I turned the wheel immediately after my half-second realization about what the thing must be, holding the wheel loose and putting a little tension in my legs as the small truck bounced over the remnants of furrows, trying to stave off as much of the saddle-sore feeling I was probably now destined for the next morning. A few minutes bouncing my pelvis up against the seatbelt later and I came to the crater. It was deep and not very wide but was not, to my vague disappointment, smoking. Nor did the object at the bottom of it look anything like any meteorite I'd ever seen, either in books or museums. It was bumpy but not precisely *lumpy*, if that makes any sense; it looked to be a perfect sphere underneath the many domelike protrusions, which were regularly spaced around its silver-white surface. Wasn't shiny, though, if anything it looked kind of grainy. "Okay," I muttered to myself. "How to get this sucker out of there without burning the shit out of your hands." I didn't know exactly *how* hot I could expect the thing to be, only that it was probably enough degrees to cook the flesh off my fingerbones if I tried to pick it up. On impulse, I went back to my truck, grabbed my water bottle, and sprayed a little water over the object, expecting it to hiss and steam. Nothing. Part of the thing was now wet. Some of the water ran down in rivulets. I pulled on a pair of my work gloves, then climbed carefully down into the crater and held my hands out toward the thing. Nothing, no radiating heat, no hint through the relatively thin denim of my old jeans either. I took off the gloves, let my hand get very close. Nope. Wincing, thinking I was doing something really pretty stupid but unable to resist the call of possibly morbid curiosity, I brushed my fingertip against one of the domelike bumps. Thinking about it now, it *was* a pretty stupid thing to do, but not for the reason I had in mind at the time. The surface was cool, exactly the same temperature as the brisk spring Nebraska air. So it didn't burn my skin. But it also didn't let my finger go. "Ummm," I said, and pulled my hand back. Nope. Finger was stuck to the surface. Not painfully. Not at first. "Ow," I said, and then shuddered as the really serious pain hit me in an accelerating flash that seemed to burn through every nerve in my body, though now I know it was really just every blood vessel. Which, yeah, feels about the same. "OWWW FUCK OWW JESUS GOD WHAT THE SHIIIIT." All my muscles went rigid, and I had to kind of curl up at the bottom of the crater to keep myself from jerking my hand away, a possibility which some tiny part of my brain not fully occupied with the pain thought might make things worse. And then, just as suddenly as it had come on, the pain faded away, leaving only a sick feeling at the pit of my stomach and a powerful throbbing in my head. And my finger was free. I stepped back and stared at the thing, only I couldn't really step back in the narrow crater but had forgotten that and so I ended up dredging trails in the sides with my heels as the plastic strap on the back of my ball cap pushed up against loose dry dirt along with my shoulderblades. Still not willing to take my gaze off the damn thing for even a second, I turned awkwardly sideways and scrambled up and out, dragging one hip and the bit of belt that went around it through the soil. Once I finally got out of the crater and onto my feet, I ran to my car and jumped in, trembling, that same tiny part of my brain not currently freaking the fuck out telling me I was a Goddamn jackass for getting into the truck all filthy like this, as if the cabin wasn't already grimy enough. I don't know how long I sat there, holding the wheel and looking ahead. I do know that's when I first started to notice the changes, the tingling, near-unpleasant-but-not-quite ache in my bones, the slow sharpening of my senses. It's also when I heard the approaching choppers. From very, very far away as my hearing was now very, very good. Good enough for me to pinpoint their exact location, miles and miles away. Intuit it, anyway, it wasn't something I could easily put into numbers or show you on a map. But enough to know that I could be miles and miles away from this place before they arrived. So I put the truck into gear and I drove. <continued below>

Young photographer held the locked cell phone

The police station was filled with old land line phones ringing with obnoxious bells while the young photographer held the locked cell phone in his sweaty hands. Across the desk from him, the overweight detective leaned back in his spinning arm chair grunting affirmatives. He sighed and hung up the phone and leaned forward to look at the boy, his red mustache twitching with annoyance. "This isn't some kind of prank, is it?" The photographer slammed his fist on the table, and stood up in defiance. "I'm telling you what happened, just open the phone and you'll see. It really happened, you have to do something." With blood rushing to his face the detective stood and towered over the photographer. "The patrol I sent to the causeway didn't find any trace of foul play. Reporting fake crimes is a waste of our time and the taxpayer's money." "Fake? It was a murder! I have it all on video," The photographer said not backing down. "Oh sure, of course it is. Listen, I've had tons of guys come in here with all kinds of excuses to open their girlfriends cell phone, but your the first to claim murder. Now get the hell out of here before I arrest you." The photographer took a step back, the wind stagnating in his lungs. "Girl-- a woman was murdered!" The detective pulled the cuffs from his hip and tapped the metal on the wooden desk, "Was I not clear the first time?" The photographer clicked his tongue, and turned around to stomp out of the office. However, the detective had another final word. "Young man, we have groups that help, like narcotics anonymous. We can help you." The photographer froze, pulling his sleeve down. "That isn't what this is about," he mumbled and ran out of the station. His white knuckles still grasping the cold phone case. The streets were lit by vintage yellow bulbs that towered above on their crooked neck poles. The photographer looked up and snapped a picture of the menacing light, and smiled at the photo. If only people were like things, things were whatever he posed them as, people had a mind of their own. He waited on the corner where his supplier tended to wait for him. If he could just get well, this whole thing would go away. The images of that hammer striker her head, the man smiling at him. It was the friendliest smile he had seen in years, but it came after such a sickening action. The photographer clutched his gut and grabbed onto the lamppost, dry heaving, if he had lunch he would have lost it. But, food was second to getting well, and his scenic pictures hadn't been selling since the tourist season ended. His pocket began to buzz, and the song 'This love,' by maroon five blasted from his pocket. "She said, goodbye, too many times be--" With a furrowed brow the boy looked at the locked phone, it still wouldn't open and he couldn't answer the call. He was about to throw the phone, and rid himself of everything about today, when a message appeared on the screen. "Call me back at this number," the text said. The photographer pulled out his no contract flip phone and typed in the number. His heart was thumping, and the voices were telling him to stop, or to do it, or just complaining that he wasn't well enough for this. The phone rang once, and a click sounded the connection. "Daniel, you sly dog, I never thought you'd never go to the police." "W-who is this? How do you know my name?" the photographer asked. "Daniel, I know everything about you. I'm not so sloppy as to pick a photographer that anyone would believe. They didn't believe you did they?" "You're him, you're the guy aren't you?" The cheap phone speaker cracked with the laughter on the other-side of the line. "I was right, they didn't believe you. Why would they? That left arm of your's has more dots than a fifteen year-old's nose." The voices were screaming now, telling Daniel to drop the phone, run, get well. He swallowed a lump in his throat. "Why did you call me?" The line was silent, then killer took a deep breath. "Isn't this more exciting? Now all I have to do is kill the end boss, collect the loot, and have my happy ending. Games that are too easy never leave me satisfied. Plus I'll have the video to relive this moment forever. Thanks Daniel, sit tight, I'm coming to get you." The phone clicked, and the line went dead. Daniel starred at the phone in his shaking hands, tears streaming down his face. He didn't want to die, not like this. No one would mourn him. His life up until now felt pointless. Was their still time to change? The dealer in his black hoodie crept out of the alleyway with an arm extended. "Hey bub, want the usual?" Daniel squeezed the phone in his hand, "Make it a double." &#x200B; Daniel was slumped against a trash dump, starring up at the specks in the sky. He looked over at his camera resting on it's tripod, watching the night sky with it's shutter open to catch the light of the stars that would watch him die. His arm throbbed from the circulation being cut off by the bandanna wrapped around his bicep. Footsteps sounded from the entrance. "Oh Daniel, what a disappointment. I suppose you're already used to letting people down, I shouldn't have expected so much." Daniel's head sagged to the side, and his unfocused eyes flicked towards the bright lights that silhouetted the newcomer. His black finger was shaking his head and approaching with heavy steps. "You found me quick," Daniel slurred. "Find my Iphone," the killer said waving a bright screen. "You've made me sad, Daniel. I wanted to fear for my life, but here you are, like a sleeping trash mob. Do you understand? You've ruined my vision." The killer kicked Daniel in the knee and the photographer slumped to the ground. With white eyes --glowing with rage-- the killer snarled and kicked again. "You coward, even when you're life is on the line you just give up? Do what you've always done? You've messed everything up." A kick landed on Daniels nose and a sickening crunch was followed by a splat of blood. His right hand pulled the bandanna off his left arm and used it to cover his face. "I'm not a criminal." "Bullshit you junkie." "I'm not going to help you with anything." "That's already clear enough." The killer swung his leg into Daniels gut, but this time the photographer grabbed hold. "Let go, worthless piece of trash." Their was the click of a gun and Daniel slammed his eyes shut, and lifted his fatigued left arm and pointed at his assailant. "So much for hard mode," Daniel laughed. "You brought a gun." "Shut up." The killer shouted. He leaned down and smacked Daniels right arm with the but of the gun. Bone's cracked, but he didn't let go. "I didn't give up." "What?" the killer asked. Daniel smirked and slammed the needle into the thigh of the killers leg and shoved onto the top of the syringe. The killer screamed in agony and fell back onto his but and scrambled to pull the needle out, but it was too late, he was getting well. His fingers went numb, his head dropped to the side as he clawed uselessly at the air above his wound. "Daniel!" he screamed, and passed out. Daniel flipped open his phone and dialed 911. &#x200B; The red mustache curved up in a smile as the detective patted Daniel on the back as red and blue lights flashed bright. "It was just like you said, we opened his phone and found proof of the murder. And since this alley is right next to the hospital we were able to keep him from over dosing. He's going to jail for a long time." Daniel smiled and held his camera in his hand like a fragile diamond. "Hey chief, think you could sign me up for that narcotics anonymous?" The detective smiled, "I'll even be your sponsor kid." &#x200B; /r/QuarkLaserdisc

The other kids in school called them

For as long as I could remember, I knew there was something a little off about my home situation. Specifically, the parenting. You see, I gathered rather quickly that it wasn't normal to call your parents by their first names. The other kids in school called them mom and dad. It seemed like I couldn't quite do that, mostly because it would get wholly confusing to use three different variations for dad and two variations for mom to refer to my parents. Don't get me wrong - this wasn't some sort of poly-amorous household or orgy-filled arrangement that my parents had. It was more of a reluctant coexistence where they all just barely tolerated each other but put up with it for me. So kind. So loving. In fact, when arguments broke out, all I could do was run and hide in my bedroom as balls of fire the size of baby elephants flew across blackholes that swallowed half of the kitchen cutlery and all the plates. Like I said, I don't call my parents mom and dad, or anything crazy like mom and mother and dad and daddy and father. It's more of a blend of numbers. There is Dun and Doo and Dee. Dad One, Dad Two, Dad Three. There is Mun and Moo. Mom One, Mom Two. Not quite traditional, but functional enough. Before I get lost in the details, let me say that there was a reason for all this parental mess. That takes us back to a beginning. Not my beginning, because my life was all but ruined before I was even a thought in anybody's mind, and not *the* beginning, because that would be the beginning of time and it's ridiculous to think that I'm about to tell a story that long, but to a beginning nonetheless. My birth mother was a vile, twisted woman. That's the conclusion I have reached independently of my reluctant foster parents telling me that my mother was a vile, twisted woman. More specifically, for them, she was a scammer. She excelled at the particularly unsavory task of scamming the supernatural. Don't ask me how she first got involved in this. I've never met her and I don't plan to. Regardless, it turns out that she promised her firstborn to not one supernatural entity, not two supernatural entities - do you see where this is going? - but to five supernatural entities. So when I popped out of that womb like a human-shaped log pops out of the other hole, these five supernatural entities came knocking. My mother panicked. She disappeared. At least that what they've told me. I get the vibe that they more disappeared her, if you catch my drift. Tomato potato. Same thing. The details are irrelevant. The point is, this lovely assortment of three demons, a fae and a disgruntled witch - trust me, a disgruntled witch is far more menacing than a disgruntled public employee - adopted me or kidnapped me or accepted that they were now stuck with a powerless human infant. Long story short, here I am now. A mortal raised by a squad of supernaturals. I could field my own basketball team of supernatural parents that would defeat the Looney Tunes squad and the Monstars both at once. I can't actually do that though. I think they hate me, to be quite honest. I am, by turn, "child", "kid", "boy", "ungrateful little shit", "human turd", and "chump". Doo calls me chump. I don't know why. I feel like they're the ones who got chumped. And then last Fraturday came along. Fraturday is not a traditional weekday, as you surely know. It doesn't exist in the human realm, but in the confines of my supernatural house with its supernatural rules, this mismatched group of parents of mine have managed to squeeze in a third day of the weekend that nestles in right between Friday and Saturday. I can't hangout with people that day. I can't leave the house. If I do, apparently shit goes to shit and nobody wants that. Anyways, last Fraturday comes along. I'm playing in my room, pretending that the beanbag is some supernatural planet where my parents live and I am an astronaut tasked with kicking the shit out of it, when all of a sudden they all barge in. Not in the traditional sense of "knock knock", "who's there", "your parents, open the fucking door" but they more materialized into my bedroom without bothering to knock on anything or even open the door. And they looked at me with what I almost mistook for love - I assure you, nothing could be more far from the truth - and they said those words I thought I'd never hear. "We need your help, chump child boy." I won't leave this on a cliffhanger. Most likely, I'll just cut off in the middle of the interesting part because being raised by demons makes one almost as twisted as they are. Back to the story though - there is very, very little that supernatural beings need from humans that they cannot accomplish themselves. I had already completed some of those tasks for them. Menial things like removing individual grains of salt from their food or elbowing their ribs when they were starting to act unnatural at a parent-teacher conference. But they had never all come to me at once like this. It would have made a lovely family portrait were it not for the horns sticking out of some heads and those wretched claws they had and Moo's disgusting warts. "Ok..." I answered hesitantly, making sure to not bind myself to some demonic oath. "What do you need?" They glanced at each other nervously. Demons and witches and faes don't get nervous easily. Unless they needed me to talk to their boss, there were very few things to make them nervous. "We seem to have crossed the wrong person." "Oh?" That took some guts to admit. I was skeptical it was a middle-aged soccer mom or an angry Chad whose car they had set alight. They could deal with that himself. They nodded, all at once. "You see, we were playing doinks outside of a church." Doinks is a game the supernatural play, similar to craps only basically nothing about it was the same. It's a game of wagers that has been banned in all realms, yet of course my imbecile parents decided to have a roll at it. Right in front of a church, too. "Poor decision making," I ventured to say. They nodded again. A rare, unanimous consensus. "And what?" I wanted to know what happened in the same sadistic way one just desperately wants to know how bad the injuries were when you pass a car crumpled under a semi. "We lost the dice. In the church." I almost fainted. I knew the game. I had seen them play. And I had seen what happened when the supernatural - especially that imbued with evil - gets inside a church. This wasn't good. Not even a little bit good. ***** Thanks for reading! If you enjoyed this, please check out more stories at /r/MatiWrites. Constructive criticism and advice are always appreciated!

A man emerged from an unmarked white

The sun beat down on the barren wasteland as a man emerged from an unmarked white van. He wore a long white cloak with the symbol of the Defender on his back--a large green shield with a red diamond in the middle. His hands shook as he stepped along the dry, cracked earth. "Give me strength," he mumbled. His hands shook. His knees wavered with every step. A hundred thoughts raced through his mind, but one repeated above all others: *he could not win*. A hundred yards away, an equally plain black van rolled to a stop. A hooded figure stepped out from the driver's seat, its head low as it moved. The crest on his shirt struck fear in the heart of the man in white--a silver sword across a cracked blue shield. The Aggressor. "You can do this, Steve," the man in white whispered to himself. "He doesn't know who you are. He's expecting a superhero. You can do this. Talk him down. You can--" The man in black stopped, pulling the hood from his face. Steve's eyes narrowed, his face twisted in confusion. That man was not the Aggressor. "Look," the man in black called out. "I know you've come expecting a battle for the ages, but there will be no fight today." Steve planted his feet in the dirt, unsure of how to proceed. So, he did the only thing he could think to do; he revealed himself. As he lowered his own hood, the man in black relaxed. "You're not the Defender," he said, his voice laced with shock and relief. "No, I'm not," Steve said. He approached the man, remaining cautious, and extended a hand. "I'm Steve." "Jerry," the man said. His handshake was limp and clammy. The two men stood in silence for a moment, taking in one another's appearance. Steve glanced behind the man at the van he'd arrived in. "That the c300?" "350," Jerry said. Steve laughed. "See, I knew the 350 was the better choice. I'm always telling the Defender it's all about comfort. No one wants to roll into a battle with a sore back because of an inferior seat design." "Oh, I completely agree," Jerry said with a nod. "The 300 isn't bad, but it's such a small price gap to the 350, it just makes more sense to upgrade." "That's exactly what I said! But you know the Defender, he's gotta be *so* economical!" Jerry laughed, relaxing his stance. "Nice cloak, by the way. I bet yours came from the same knock-off place at the mall that mine did." Steve rolled his eyes. "We go through one of these a month. You have any idea how much money they could save if they just spent *a little* more on something higher quality?" "Oh, I'm with you, all the way. Aggressor is always trying to cut corners. That death ray from last summer? Would've worked just fine if he bought the extra plutonium I suggested, but nooo, 'off brand will work just fine!'" "And Defender's wife probably wouldn't have been lost in that trap of yours two years ago if he'd upgraded his home security system, like *I* insisted! But of course, he's all, 'who needs sensors on *every* window, Steve, that's just a waste of money!'" He puffed his chest and did his best impression of the hero. "I *knew* that was too easy! Gah, will they *ever* listen? This feud would have been settled *years* ago if *we* were in charge." Jerry smiled, sweat rolling down his forehead. "Christ, it's hot out here. Could really go for some ice cream." Steve thought for a moment. "I know a place, down on third street--" "Bannermans?" "Hell yeah, Bannermans. Best ice cream in the tri state area. Wanna grab a cone?" "You know it! Hey, wanna drive the 350?" Jerry pulled the keys from his pocket and tossed them in the air. Steve caught them and laughed. "Hell *yes* I do." He walked passed his new friend, flooded with relief. He had been dreading this meeting, sure that he'd meet his end. How a superhero could possibly expect his sidekick to defeat the villain was beyond him. Thankfully, the Aggressor had the same idea. He walked towards the van, spinning the keyring around his finger. But before he reached it, he heard a familiar, chilling noise. A low, electric hum, increasing in pitch by the second. His heart sank. "Jerry--" "Sorry, Steve, you seem like a great guy and all, but I came here for a reason. I'm not going to fail." Steve spun around and saw the pistol pointed at him. "You don't have to do this, Jerry. We can quit. We don't need to be their slaves anymore. Let them fight their own battles, let them--" "Where is the Defender, anyway?" Steve furrowed his brow. "What?" "Where is he? This was supposed to be a showdown." His eyes were narrow, a fire burning behind them. "He's sick, flu or something," Steve said. He held his hands high in the air, looking for a way to escape. "Wait--where's Aggressor?" "Aggressor is dead," Jerry said. "I was tired of his ridiculous commands. He never respected me, or my ideas. He was a shit villain, and he needed to be replaced." "You--you *killed* him?" "And I'm going to kill the Defender, too. Sounds like he's as inept as Aggressor was. And now I know it. I just need to get you out of the way." In that moment, Steve realized his fate. There was no talking his way out of this one. He had to act fast, or-- The gun fired, and Steve felt a flash of white hot pain in his chest. His knees gave way and the world spun around him as he fell to the dirt. The clouds above him became a blur, and after a moment, a figure stood over him. "Sorry, Steve, but this is my town now." r/Ford9863 for more stuff by me.

"I am the Archangel Michael,

"James Riley Simpson?" "Yep, that's me," I said as I raised my hand. "I am the Archangel Michael, welcome. I apologize for the strange circumstances regarding your-- err, placement. Please step inside and we'll get this sorted right out," he said as he led me into bland and boring conference room that would have been just at home in any generic office building on earth as it was in the afterlife. "This is Belzunarr, my... colleague from the other side. He fulfills much the same role for Hell that I do for Heaven." "Ah, gotcha," I said as I held out my hand to the twisted, demonic creature who was already seated at the table. "Nice to meet ya," Belzunarr said as he spit in my hand. "Lovely," Michael muttered. "Now, we are here because you are the first human in centuries that has stymied our automated morality algorithms. So, lets dive right into your file, shall we?" "Go for it, I'm pretty proud of my life." "I'm sure you are," he replied. "Let's begin at age 22, when you began your lifelong belief in 'mobility based urination'? What in my God's name is that? "Ah, yes. Well, you know when you've gotta take a leak, like really really bad? Well, no, you two wouldn't I'm sure, but you've gotta stop and--" "Find a bathroom, yes yes, we understand human biological needs," Michael interjected. "A bathroom? Nooooooo no no, I never bothered to find bathrooms, but I had to take the time to stop and find a suitable side of a building or corner of the subway car to whiz in, but that takes sooooo much effort. So I beat the system, I started peeing as I walked places to save time." "You urinated... in public... while walking places, to save a few minutes time?" Belzunarr asked. "I mean, sometimes I'd whip it out and let 'er rip as I walked, jogged, biked, canoed, skydove... whatever was going on, but I often just peed my pants if there were too many people around. I had a strong sense of decorum about the whole thing," I said with pride. "Wait-- I apologize for skipping ahead, but Age 52 appears to contain a smoking gun. You punched a toddler in the face? Good lord," Michael muttered with disgust. "Oh, he's one of ours for sure!" Belzunarr said with glee. "Yes, I did... but it was only to move it out the way of an oncoming truck that would have killed the kid." "Why would you not have simply-- picked it up? Shoved it? Rolled it? Virtually any method of movement sounds superior in this case," Michael said. I shrugged. "Seemed like a great excuse to see what punching a baby felt like. How many other situations would arise where I wouldn't be hauled off to jail as a result?" They both stared at me in silence. Apparently they had not experienced that rationale from alleged baby punchers before. The interrogation of my life went on for hours, but each scenario yielded similarly unsatisfying results. Yes I did bad things, yes I did good things, but at every turn I was only motivated by my own self interest and by the curiosity of poking at the rules and lines set by society. As a result, neither of them wanted me for their little afterlife clubs. "There is always the third option," Michael said, trailing off. An extremely bored looking woman in solid gray business attire had been sitting in the corner the entire time, willfully choosing not to participate. "Meh," she replied as she shrugged, never looking up from her magazine. "Even Purgatory doesn't want him!" the angel shouted with frustration. "We'll have to cancel his mortality and send him back to Earth, I don't see any other choice." "As much as it pains me... we are in agreement," his demon pal said. They stamped my paperwork in rapid succession and it vanished into thin air. "I cannot *believe* this worked," I whispered with equal parts shock and excitement. "What worked?" they asked in unison "Is my path set in stone? I'm being sent back to earth as an immortal? Nothing can change that now?" "Your paperwork has been filed, it is done," the Michael replied warily. "Now, what worked exactly?" "I met this old guy when I was about 21, he was a street bum, but whenever he rode the subway with me he made a whole lot of sense. He didn't have much, but there was something appealing about the way he lived for himself in every moment. No good, no evil, just self fulfillment. He said if I lived according to his beliefs, I would be so indefinable and odd that I wouldn't fit in Heaven or Hell, and they'd have to cast me back into my life. Immortality, he claimed, would be the gift for the followers of his Chaotic Neutral teachings. I dared not believe it, but heck, it was a *fun* way to live, so I did it anyway! And now, against all odds, here I am. His prophecy fulfilled." Michael stared back at me, utterly dumbfounded. "Oh... my bad. The 'bum'? That was me actually," Belzunarr revealed far too casually. "I gave the kid those lessons during one of my corruption missions while disguised in human form, but honest to Satan, I never for a second thought it would turn him into such a weirdo! I figured *for* *sure* my ideas would lead him to a life of pure evil and sin! I mean, who really understands how to play the role of a Chaotic Neutral?" ___ Feel free to check out r/Ryter if you'd like to read more of my stories. I think its fair to say I write quite a lot of characters who are at or near the Chaotic Neutral/Good part of the spectrum, chaos is great for comedy which is mostly what I aim for EDIT: Thank you for the Gold kind stranger! And thanks for all the kind comments! I always try to respond to as many as possible, but there are too many to get to for now, so here's a blanket "thanks much!" in the meantime

The Center for Enhanced Radical Traits

They are usually referred to as "Gifts", something you should be thankful for receiving. If you're one of the edgy high school kids you might claim that it's a "curse", but if you ask me it's "a profitable annoyance". A good 10 years ago when I had just turned 18 someone finally figured out that people around me tended to stay pretty healthy. Sick leave had dropped off hard and the smog from the local factory didn't seem to blanket the town like it used to. It had been going on for a few years by then but it was after I left on the trip my parents got me for my birthday and people started getting sick again that people figured out that I was the cause. The Center for Enhanced Radical Traits picked me up a few weeks after I returned and people stopped falling sick again. CERT was set up to identify and certify people with gifts, a lot of people end up with pretty useless gifts and get sent on their way with just a certification of "Mildly Gifted". But if you've got a dangerous ability you've get certified as "Dangerously Gifted". It's pretty much the end of your private life, you end up under insane scrutiny and constant checkups to make sure you don't turn decide to evaporate Lake Michigan or something. Not that anyone had ever managed to do that, they stopped her after the water level had dropped 6 feet. A rare few don't end up qualifying as MG or DG though, these souls end up with the certification: "Usefully Gifted". UG's can be pretty much anything as long as it's useful enough for someone to hire you. One guy has the ability to make 2 connected portals about the size of a volleyball, he works for an electric company where for 8 hours a day he keeps a ball of something incredibly heavy falling nonstop to turn a turbine. Apparently that was seen as the most profitable ways to violate the laws of nature. As luck would had it, that's what I ended up being certified as. My "Illness Prevention Field" as it was officially certified, measured a range of 50 miles and noticeably both prevented most illnesses and diseases but also purified 39 identified pollutants from the air. Let me make one thing abundantly clear: I can't heal the sick, I'm not a holy man, and I'm not gonna go to your national park to sit around on a stump and save the forest for you. But it's true that people don't get sick when I'm near, which is usually a good thing, but it turns out that if I stay in a small town like where I grew up, that creates problems. Apparently the medical industry don't really enjoy it if no one needs medical attention, and after I became publicly known as the cause of the record low hospitalizations in the town I got my very own protest. Turns out there had been layoffs at the hospitals and almost all the small private practices had been forced to shut down. So almost 50 people in surgical masks and white coats ended up marching up and down in front of my house with signs claiming that I was ruining healthcare by keeping people healthy. I didn't really care at first, I was working as an auto mechanic at the time, but apparently my boss' wife's brother's wife had run one of the private practiced that had gone under, so I pretty promptly lost my job. Not even gonna lie: it kind of pissed me off. That was when I got a call from Google, I hung up of course, It's not the first time I've gotten calls from google about a "great opportunity" if I'll just provide my social security number. Turns out this one was the real deal though as after I'd hung up the second time they sent one of those google maps cars out to my place to let me know not to hang up a third time. When the third call eventually came I did let them speak, and took the best job offer I had ever heard, and would come to greatly regret it. I was going to be paid handsomely to live rent free in a really nice apartment in Silicon Valley, it was positioned so that my Illness Prevention Field could cover both the Google headquarters and 4 other company headquarters that were pitching in on a multi-million dollar yearly salary. Like an idiot with dollar signs in my eyes I signed a 2 year contract, and it didn't take me more than a week to realize I hated everything about my new job. Turns out that people who're willing to make a multi-million dollar offer expects multi-million dollar coverage, and that meant I had to stay in range of all 5 headquarters at all times. It gave me a roaming distance of about a block and a half before coverage would slip, and I had to install a GPS app on my phone that would alert any of the companies the moment they're headquarter lost coverage. This wouldn't have been so bad if the nearest Starbucks wasn't 2 blocks away, so infuriatingly close but just out of reach. I'm not proud to say it, but I pretty much ended up becoming a shut in, living in my apartment not getting enough exercise and yelling at people from my balcony who looked like they were heading somewhere more interesting, which was most people. You would think that millions of dollars would make up for it, but I absolutely loathed my life, even with the big TV, the expensive takeout, and the wild house parties once a month or so. Turns out it's hard to make friends when you're a rich kid who won't leave his apartment and your job is "spreading good vibes". People showed up for my parties because I paid to hold good ones, but I never really managed to connect with anyone there on a more personal level. So after 2 years I took my last check, refused to renegotiate a new contract and peaced out of there. I headed back home for a spell to catch up with some friends, but there was a lot of resentment for me back home. Half the people were pissed at me for "selling out" and picking who to keep healthy by who were willing to pay, and the other half were pissed because they were convinced my return meant downsizings at the hospitals and doctors' offices that had been reestablished since I left. You can call me petty if you want, but I had no intention of staying in a town where the only people who didn't give me dirty looks were either related to me, or my pizza guy who liked the way I tipped. So I took another job, in Europe this time. The salary was way more modest, there were a lot of zeros on the check still but not more than 6 this time. I worked for some rich guy who was deathly afraid that his mother's cancer would return. It suited me fine, I got to roam freely in town as long as I stayed within 50 miles of her and actually since I could be more out there and social I actually made a few friends. I had signed a 6 month contract, not willing to risk another 2 year google situation, but I ended up staying on for a year and a half. I liked my boss, and I even got to meet his mother a few times, she was a nice old lady and I ended up staying on until she passed way from age related conditions that my field apparently couldn't stop. My boss at the time referred me to someone he knew in Sydney Australia who's infant son had been prematurely born and had a weakened immune system, so that's where I headed next. I've lived in half a dozen cities since then, helping someone specific of course, but also everyone else who happen to be around. I stay on for a while, usually not more than a year, and then I move on, looking for someone else to help and leaving before I wreck the livelihoods of the doctors and nurses around. I said before I thought of it as a profitable annoyance, that used to be true but it isn't really true anymore. Now I quite like my gift, it can't do everything and every once in a while some hippie cult tries to get me to lead them like I'm some sort of bargain bin messiah. I get to help people here and there, without the personal cost that usually comes with helping people. I don't know if that makes me greedy or selfish, but if this is a gift, at least I can share it a little.

I made the decision when I saw

I made the decision when I saw my sister come home. We'd been so proud, sending her off to war. She was a prodigy, the latest in a long and illustrious line of Kalihal family mages. I remember standing there in the Ancestor's Foyer, seeing the depth-portraits of a thousand relatives-gone-before looking back at us from behind their crystal panes, Mother just holding her and holding her and crying into her hair, Father standing aside, looking away from me, I think hoping I wouldn't see the tears threatening to spill out onto the fine silk of his collar. I remember the way the pride seemed to lift us all up, circling round my sister with love and joy and expectation. Gods, it would have been a wonderful memory if it had stayed alone in my head. She returned in the middle of the night, or maybe it would be more accurate to say she was returned to us. Not dead, no, but certainly not able to move around much under her own power. Her legs worked fine, they still do. It just hurt too much to move. It still does. She says it's getting better, but I don't know if I believe her. It's hard to look into that face, eyes as strong and bright and clever as they ever were, and believe any kind of denial where pain is concerned. It's hard not to remember when she had a nose, and ears, and no pus to speak of beyond the occasional pimple. I know that's brutal, I know you don't want to hear it. Trust me, I didn't want to see it, and I still don't, but I do because she's my sister and I love her. And you have to understand, the way I came to understand much, much too young. Or maybe not. Maybe some things should be understood early on, before you've spent hours and hours playing with little carved figures, putting them through their own little heroic epics of magical combat and heroic deeds. Maybe it should be understood, before it gathers too much imagined glory in the mind of a small child, what war really means, and that magic doesn't make things any better, not when it's for fighting, it's not wonderful at all. Anyone who disagrees should visit my sister's room. You don't even have to see her, I think. Just the smell might do it, the kind of scent that sticks in the memory and never leaves, that sinks down and lingers in the deep-rooted emotional cellar where the really foolish beliefs blunder about licking each other in the dark. I was ten years old when she left, and twelve when she came back, and knew that in only four years I could be sent off to the same places that had done this to her. She'd told me about them. She wasn't supposed to. Mother and Father had forbidden her from talking to me for a time, after they'd found out. But they couldn't make me forget, and I was grateful, so I snuck in and visited her whenever I could anyway. Let me make something clear, here. I'm no coward. I didn't want to share my sister's fate, but that wasn't all of it, not even close. If she'd come back, even the way she was, and told stories about how it had all been worth it, explained all the good they were doing for the Empire, how we really were bringing True Civilization to the world, spreading the glories of High Culture to the eighteen ends of the Land and the Seven Shores beyond, I might have gone on anyway, swallowed my dread at this new possibility lying in front of me in the form of my older sibling, and followed in her footsteps, hoping that the Truer Gods wouldn't ask the same sacrifice of me. But that isn't what she said, not even close. What she did say, she whispered, because she had to, because the servants had ears and while the walls didn't, they could be made to grow them from the faraway towers of the Uplifting Seers. Whispered nothing at all about the horrors she had suffered, because those were clear as day; instead she had spoken of what she had inflicted, willingly at first, less so as time went on, what she had seen inflicted by men and women she was meant to count as comrades. "War is shit, Kendra," she'd rasped through her fire-damaged vocal cords, still too tainted by Sunk-Magic residue for the healers to help. She'd grabbed me by the shoulders of my sleeves, hissing in pain at the movements of her own fingers, clumsy but still strong, pulling me in so I could hear and no one else. "War is *shit.* Maybe sometimes that shit is worth it, but not this one. Not this one. Don't let them tell you any different." She didn't tell me to start failing my classes, though. I'm still grateful for that. I think if she had done, I might have pushed back; who was she, even she-the-wounded-war-hero, to tell me I should derail my life that way? Instead, she trusted me to find my own path forward, or back, to take stock of my own situation, trusted me to *know* that situation better than she could, just as I trusted her word on the war that had sent her back as a shivering, poppy-sipping human char. The first year I failed was apocalyptic. That's what my parents led me to believe. I'd gotten nearly perfect marks every year before, I was set to follow in the family footsteps, I was even more talented...but then they'd trailed off, and I'd stared them down, at all of thirteen and half a head shorter than either of them, I'd stared them down, and they'd gone quiet and it seemed a small miracle, but I knew who they were thinking of and so did they, knew that I knew, and maybe a little of my sister had rubbed off on me in those whispers because after that I was simply told to do better next year, and left alone. But of course I didn't. They sent me to a priest, who tried to pick apart the trauma I must have suffered, given the family tragedy. But the war had been raging for years now, and there was plenty of tragedy to go around and only so many priests and even as well-meaning as the man was, he still had his loyalties and so did I so I was not about to tell him anything about the things she had whispered to me, the conversations we still had, sometimes, when I could get away from the minders among the family servants my parents had set. That got easier over time, getting away, because Janissa, the tall quiet girl who was apprenticed as a Hedge-Wizard maintaining the various small enchantments that kept a house like ours running, she had lost a brother in the war, and told me once she wished she could visit him, see more than just his grave. So she looked the other way, when it was her turn to watch me, so long as I kept out of "real trouble." Though in a sense my visits with my sister were more real than any other trouble I might have found myself in. The most real, but also the best, not all trouble is wicked, that's an important thing to remember. The second year, my parents were angry again, but there was no apocalypse this time, it was no longer a shock. I was sent to a different priest. She was better, kinder, and she did help, some. I found a little peace, but in that peace I found even more resolve. I began to hide schoolbooks under my bed, and read them at night. Sometimes I brought them to my sister, and she would teach me. In school, I would sleep. My sister taught me a charm for it. My teachers were angry, and there were some harsh punishments before my parents intervened, explained the situation. It was worth it, anyway. My sister was a better instructor than any at my school. My third year I began to spread dissent. <continued below>

When I died, I didn't

When I died, I didn't really expect to be given a test. I mean, I was *dead*, you know? There's no need to add insult to injury and give me something that I had to fill out. "I really don't want to take this." The angel pauses in front of me, smiling kindly as she sets the test on my desk. "I know. We know that tests aren't your forte, but this is a Reincarnation Aptitude Test. It determines what you qualify for for your reincarnation experience." She winks at me before I glance down at the test and then back up at her. "I'm not going to try on this." "I know." She walks to the next person who obviously overheard our conversation. She explains quickly to the angel how excited she is to be reincarnated as a horse and dives into the test with a sort of vigor I will never know. As for myself, I do my best not to fall asleep as I circle questions randomly, sighing and writing down philosophical bullshit on the short answer sections. This is all not worth the three minutes of freefall I went through that led to my death. Always make sure your parachute works, kids. After I am done with the test (that was about two hundred questions too long), I turn it in to the strange lock box at the front of the room. The angel smiles at me and points across the room to another door. "You may wait in there for your results. Have a wonderful new life!" I manage a smile as I make my way across the room to the door. I open it to find another small waiting room where another man sits, rubbing his hands together. I realize there's another person in there too- a young girl -who is standing away from the man. I close the door and clear my throat awkwardly. "How long have you two been here?" I ask, trying to break the silence. "Five minutes." The little girl answers me with a small smile. It's tense. "How'd you die?" "Faulty parachute. You?" She shrugs. "Eh, turns out dads suck." I give her a sympathetic look and she waves me off. It's a strange action for a girl who looks as young as her- it makes me feel uneasy. "Hopefully I'll get another shot at it." "I hope so too." I say softly. "Hopefully this time with a less sucky dad." She laughs a little, still tense. "Fingers crossed." She replies. "What do you think you'll be reincarnated as?" "Probably a racoon." I say, causing her to giggle. "I guessed on everything." "I only guessed on two!" She claims proudly. "The one about-" "Quintin?" A voice suddenly sounds through the room, soft and delicate; the girl and I both look to the man in the corner as he stands abruptly. "You have been reincarnated as a Killer Whale. Prepare for rebirth." He nods, staring straight ahead. He doesn't acknowledge either of us when he suddenly poofs out of the room in a cloud of smoke. My eyes widen and my jaw drops. A silence passes between us, and I swallow thickly. "He wasn't very talkative." The little girl says, breaking the silence. "No fun." She wanders over to me and looks as though she's about to sit down when another voice rings through the space. "Astrid," this voice is different, more matter of fact, "you have qualified for another human life. Prepare for rebirth." She turns and grins at me, giving me a thumbs up. "Dreams do come true." She winks. "Have fun." I say before she poofs out of the room in the same puff of smoke. I'm left alone, and I wait. And wait. And wait... and wait. People come in and poof away and yet I sit and wait. I wonder what is happening because, *hello*, I have been here for the whole day. I have watched people meltdown at their result, and I have watched people jump for joy- there have rarely been any in between. And then suddenly, it happens. "Oswald," I stand, three pairs of eyes turning towards me, "your results are extraordinary. Prepare for the divinity gathering." I make a face. "What?" I mutter, poofing out of the room. I yell involuntarily as my center of gravity shifts, my body feeling like it's being tossed and turned in mid-air. Without any warning I fall into a chair, the wind knocked out of my chest. I gasp for breath as something like energy flushes through my veins- It's like my body was given an adrenaline hike -and I shove myself up from the chair. I grasp at my chest as I am met with the edge of a table, using my free hand to brace myself- I end up splashing into some soup. "Gross!" I groan, shaking out my hand even as it trembles with the strange energy coursing through me. I look up at that moment to see a woman with bright crimson hair staring directly back at me, her mouth agape and bright brown eyes twinkling despite her shock. "What the hell." She says, standing up from her chair and tilting her head at me. All at once, I am struck by her beauty and I find myself blushing as she leans forward. "Another?" "Another?" I nearly scream as a man speaks. I whip to the side, finding an older gentleman; his long white hair reminds me of the stereotypical vision of God, and I look around the table to find several others staring back at me. "Another god!" The woman at the head of the table chirps. She stands as well, and I immediately notice her freckles and bright bubblegum hair. "It's been too long since we've had someone new join us, welcome!" "Uh... thank you." I somehow manage the words, although it feels like I'm speaking through cotton. "Where am I?" "In the Heavens." The head of the table speaks absently, others leaning over to each other and speaking in low tones. She moves onto her own question. "What may your powers be?" I shake my head. "I have no clue." I reply- wanting to tell them all that there's been some sort of mistake. There's no way I could qualify for divinity, there's absolutely no freaking way! This is all some massive prank that I am privy to- "-listening?." The woman across from me interrupts my train of thought. I feel myself flush again as she speaks. "Hold out your hands." I do as she instructs and she grabs my hands, pulling them towards her and shutting her eyes. I watch her, swallowing thickly before she suddenly smiles. "God of destruction." She says, all of the others breaking into their own conversations. I look to my hands when she releases them. I curl them into fists and turn them over to look at the backs of them. "Destruction?" I murmur. "It's funny." The woman at the head of the table says. "So far anything in the human world that's related to destruction has been of Angie's accord." The red head raises her hand so I know who she's referring to. "But now it's up to you..." She leaves it open for me to fill in. Despite everything leading up to this moment, all the confusion and all the doubt, I decide that even if this is a prank- I'm going to make the most out of it. In a way, me ending up here was a bit of a disaster. It's only fitting for me to be the god of destruction. "Oswald." I tell them. "It's nice to meet you."

We were great once. We explored

My footsteps echoed down the halls, bouncing back and forth until they escaped through the wreckage and into the quiet afternoon. I walked through the ruins of a city that would have rivaled the finest metropolis that our civilization had managed to rebuild after the Conquest. We were great once. We explored and expanded and exploited. And then we met the Roor, with their faster ships and better guns and bigger armies. They had crushed us as simply as a boy crushes an anthill, destroying the structures that had taken generations to build and scattering the survivors left and right. And then after the Conquest had come silence, and eventually we had emerged from the rubble to survey what was left of our empire. It wasn't much. Bodies had been whisked away to produce carbon-based fuel. The relics that defined our culture had been turned to dust or had been vanished along with the food and weapons and what we needed to survive. But we survived. They never let us forget that they were watching, biding their time until we built a society that was worth exploiting. Then they would come and remind us who they were. They would remind us that they could take what they wanted and they would exact their tribute. Otherwise we would die, all over again. Some of us work farms, moving massive pieces of concrete out of fields and tilling the ashes to get to the fertile dirt below. Some of us scavenge, desperately trying to find caches of food from before the Conquest. Anything to reach that minimum amount that could last us through another winter. Then the snow would fall, the white mixing with the gray ashes. The leaves would disappear and the cold would sting your face and underfed children would die where they slept, frozen to the ground. And some of us search. I first stumbled across Community when I saw a wisp of smoke in the distance, just beyond the next hill. Everything was always just beyond the next hill. But I walked that way, desperate for some human interaction beyond ducking out of sight from the Roor-bots that flitted in and out of the clouds and vaporized anything that moved. Only Community was allowed to survive, easier to control that way. I was met on the outskirts by a man who materialized from the stones. "Friend or foe?" he had said. There was only one right answer. The makeshift gun he held to my head guaranteed that. So I had shrugged. It would depend on who he was. He was not Roor. He showed me the tunnel that took him in and out of Community. He told me I would never enter through the gates, because I was never truly there. So now I wander. That's the role the Committee ordered. Sometimes I run, sometimes I walk. They told me to search for the machine. They don't know how it looks but once I see it, I'll know what it is. And as my footsteps disappeared down the hall, I checked my map and prepared to mark off another building as clear when a door I missed caught my attention. I glanced around. It's habit. The Roor are loud. They've never had a need for stealth. But still I look around, ensuring nobody is with me, and then I tried the door. It stubbornly refused to open. I tried the lock, realizing it had a place for each finger. It was meant for humans. Roor do not have the limbs to do this. Once inserted, the door unlatched with a quiet click. Beside a dead machine lay the singed pages of somebody's final message. Their bones were on the floor behind me, a welcome sign of humans that is not often found. Carefully, so as to disturb nothing but the dust upon the keys, I turned on the machine. It struggled, and for a second my heart dropped and I thought that all my wanderings were for nothing, but then a message appeared. "Contact reestablished. Support will arrive soon." And then I waited. I didn't wander far, reluctant to draw the attention of a Roor-bot and unsure if I would receive another communication. Day turned to night and the night brought sounds. Rats scurried across the rubble. A snake hissed. In the distance, a child cried. A Roor-bot blasted and the crying stopped. I wondered how they had survived out here so long. The child must have been a newborn. I wondered if the machine was programmed to do nothing but to tell me that support would arrive, regardless of whether or not anybody was left alive to support us. I thought that I would wither away in that building before abandoning home. I could join the skeleton by the machine and detach myself from all this running and hiding and heartbreak. The next morning brought no new message and it wasn't until the following day when I heard an unfamiliar whir. I peeked out of the door and, finding the area clear, closed it shut behind me. Soon, a unique spacecraft was hovering in the atrium of a ruined building. Weeds and vines climbed up the inutile support beams that held nothing and now their leaves fluttered in the wind. I hid behind a particularly large piece of concrete. It had upon it half of a crude graffito that read *The end of times be up*. I wondered if the writer had been killed before he could finish or if the other half of his final masterpiece was somewhere nearby. Moments later, the spacecraft was gone and a man in black protective gear barked an order at me to reveal myself. I rolled my eyes. Of course they had heat sensors and such that could see where I was hidden. I felt foolish as I stood cautiously. If this was a Roor trick, they deserved to catch me now. "You sent the message?" he asked me, lifting his visor. His eyes were the same lifeless grey I had seen in the eyes of the guards around the Community. He removed a glove and held out a calloused hand. I shook it, the first human contact I had had in years. I looked behind him. He had only a couple dozen men with him. It wouldn't be nearly enough. "I did," I answered hesitantly, assuming that was what I had done by starting the machine. "Is this all you have?" "Pleased to find you," he said with a wry grin, ignoring my question. "I'm Lieutenant Edwards of the Human Expeditionary Force. Here to save your asses." ***** Thanks for reading! If you enjoyed this, please check out more stories at /r/MatiWrites. Constructive criticism and advice are always appreciated!

Lawyer says he inherited most of

They say everyone had two distinct faces. One is the outward public face. And one is the hidden, true face. To the public eye, I'm a decent defence attorney. Standing up for the little guy. But inside, I am something totally different. Something much darker. Much more sinister. I like to think that I inherited most of my bad traits from my father. He belonged to a biker gang. Small time crook. Just took orders and did what he was told. I learnt at an early age that giving the orders is what really got you paid. He got in debt to the gang leader. Didn't have any money. They were going to come after my sister. To convince my father to pay. Well, I didn't really have a choice did I? Poor guy was stabbed 26 times in his bed. His wife who lay with him was just collateral damage. Of course, the gang had to make an example of someone. To prove they still ruled the place. So they chose my dad. He was killed and thrown on the steps of city hall. But it was worth it. For my sister, everything was. She took after my mother's side of the family. She always got good grades, never got in trouble. She was a good kid. The problem is that it is a bad world. Good kids find it really hard here. I did what I had to. I protected her. I have done many bad things. But those are the ones I don't regret at all. Her friend who wouldn't share her doll. The kid who bullied her. The boyfriend who cheated on her. The teacher who gave her a B when she clearly deserved an A. The chain snatcher who stole from her. They all deserved it. You don't cross an Angel without facing retribution from a few demons. I have always been good at giving orders of course. Never anything tied to me. It was all Maniac's fault. The dastardly super villain who terrorized the city. Of course, being the sweet and good girl she is, she leads the rebel alliance agains Maniac's evil rule. I am proud of her for it in fact. In this age of tyranny, anyone who stands up against evil must be applauded. There are times when many of my own men have tried to hurt her. I can't stop them in the open of course. That would bring the knowledge of my secret identity out in the open. Paint a target on her. We can't have that can we? So of course, I had to kill them. She actually has built up quite a reputation in this town now. Anyone who tries to hurt her ends up dying. People don't know everything so they assume she is the one who killed everyone. It isn't true of course. My sister, the perfect angel that she is, would never do something like that. But now I find myself at crossroads. She has gathered too much information. She knows too much about my operations. I live in the fear of knowledge that one day she looks at her brother and sees the monster I truly am. I would die. I wonder if that is the solution after all. She is planning an assassination attempt. Considering all heroes and all the police force has failed, it is of course a foolish errand. But she is brave. She claims her own life isn't more important than the thousands she can save. Or at least have a chance of saving. She says that if she succeeds, it ends the rampage of the maniac. If she doesn't, she'll forever be remembered as a martyr and hopefully many more will rise up against me. Of course she is keeping this a secret from me. But I have spies and listening equipment everywhere. It is my town after all. Perhaps maniac has to die after all. I walk into the meeting room. There was supposed to be a meeting of course, but I cancelled it. I am alone in here today. I know her plan is to attach some sort of gas into the air vents. Knock everyone out. But she doesn't want anyone else hurt. Just me. So the actual killing, she will do that herself. I have always thought that I would die for her. Now here's my chance. She will be renowned the world over as the greatest hero once this is over. A sound catches my attention. A janitor. The gas is already filling the building. He shouldn't be here. I have air filters in my nostrils under my mask. I wanted to see her one last time. Maybe try and explain things. I would still take the stabbing. But I hope I can see her smile one last time. He is down for the count. I wonder. Can I still salvage this? I quickly remove my mask and put it on him. I keep the nose plugs. I hide in the closet and wait. She is dressed much differently than I have ever seen before. Her heels echo across the empty building. She stands over his helpless body. "Maniac? Huh." She laughs. It's a different laugh. Something alien. She takes off his mask. "I hoped you were conscious to see this. The world is moving on. Your little dime crimes are a thing of the past. It is time for a new head of crime to rise. Someone much more ruthless. No more being nice and letting poor shopkeepers who can't pay for protection off the hook. I just murdered all of your crew single handedly." Was she monologuing? Good grief. She kept going till he opened his eyes. That was when she stabbed him directly in the heart. I call her when she is out of there. "Angela? Where are you?" "Hello brother! Nowhere. I'm at Betsy's house. We are baking cookies." She is super convincing. I guess everyone does have two faces after all. Sometimes the second face is really well hidden. I guess she took after the wrong side of the family as well.

Bram sat straight up in his seat

"The people of Norfrost would be happy to honor your terms. We cannot pretend to have the same army we once did - but neither can you. Relations between our people were peaceful for centuries, and I am sure it would relieve both sides to be able to sleep without fear of another... attack." Bram finished his rehearsed line carefully. He sat straight up in his seat, his plastered-on smile only barely concealing the fear within him. The chair, a flimsy southern thing, protested loudly as he shifted, waiting on the other man. For years, he'd pressed for peace. For years, his people had died by the thousands - and killed by the thousands, as well. He was tired. Norfrost was suffering the coldest winter he could recall. He could remember the bitter forced smile of the camp cook and his wife. *We'd all have starved to death last year, if we'd all survived.* Both of their sons had died under Bram's command. They had been good men. This was their last hope. Their last chance for survival, entirely dependent on the whims of his peculiar dinner companion, Doran of the Southern Hills. Doran was all hard lines where Bram was soft, fire where Bram was ice, exuberant where Bram preferred the quiet. They'd met before, twice, to attempt to come to terms. Both times ended in bloodshed, and Bram knew that only one thing could have changed his enemy's mind at this point - he couldn't win either. His people were as starved and desperate as Bram's. Doran's only real terms for peace were that Bram's people helped his through this awful, desperate winter. The south was used to warm climates and rolling green hills. This winter had killed all of their delicate crops and frozen their rivers. Doran had sent word inviting Bram to dine with him in his enormous tent, and Bram had reluctantly made the ride out that afternoon. He waited. Doran didn't move. Bram allowed himself a moment to wish that the other man had simply fallen asleep in his seat, eyes wide open. But Doran blinked, those empty eyes betraying nothing. And then in an instant, as if he would burst if he stayed still a moment longer, Doran pushed back his chair and moved it around the table, sitting closer to Bram. Close enough that Bram reached for the knife hidden on his hip, a reflex. Not a very well hidden one, apparently, as Doran's gaze dropped to watch and his mouth twisted into something resembling a smile. Finally, he spoke, the thick southern smoothing over the words, in a tone almost comforting. "I know you believe this could be a trap. It could be. But it isn't. Neither of us are so stubborn as to end our entire bloodline over territory. My people have suffered long enough, as have yours. Our people were once as one. Let them learn to live with each other again." He clapped Bram on the shoulder twice, sat back, folded his hands in his lap. "There is the issue, though," Doran said with a curious look on his face, "of how this union should be made... official. In days past, we would marry - son to daughter, brother to sister. They made a dozen babies and the people loved them all. A marriage is good for the people. A marriage they see with their eyes, they feel it. A piece of paper filled with promises... less so." Bram had hoped for this. He had a half dozen brothers and cousins at the ready. Marriages between them had always meant peace, at least for a few generations. "I could not agree more. I have spoken with several members of my family already, at length, and each understands what may be asked of them." "Then, we treat." An hour or more and several sheafs of paper later - terms negotiated, boundaries set, drinks shared - both men felt a little more at ease. The last matter was the marriage pact. Bram sank into his chair a little and loosened the collar of his coat. He was drowsy now, his thoughts a little fuzzier around the edge. He almost felt cheerful. Doran handed the papers to his companion, with orders to copy everything exactly as it had been written. Names could be added later. "Doran, my new friend. Our last matter is at home - and a happy one it will be. Our families joined together again. Do you have many suitable family members of age?" "Only a few - my brother, just twenty, a great warrior with a warm heart. My uncle, halfway through his life with a sharp mind to match. My youngest brother is not yet ten, I would hesitate to marry him off so young if we had other options." "Oh. All... men? No women?" "Not a one. My mother thinks we're cursed. I have four cousins, all male, all married. My father was one of six boys. Six!" "This could be a bit of a, ah, problem then." Bram looked into the fire across the tent. "How do you think?" For the first time in hours, the Southerner's smile faltered. "Well..." Bram cleared his throat. "It would appear that our families suffer from similar... afflictions. I have no sisters. Not a female cousin to speak of. Only a very elderly aunt, nearly gone to rest. I had been counting on your having at least one female relation." Doran shook his head slowly, trying to work his way around the new information. "So... no girls?" He rubbed at his eyes. "That complicates things." "A marriage pact is the only option at this point. You're sure there's nobody? Not a single distant cousin?" Doran's head hadn't stopped shaking, and Bram's fear had returned fully. What did this mean for their newfound peace? A treaty was not enough. Words were not enough. The two men sat in silence for a long time. Bram was startled by the obnoxiously loud clap of Doran's hands. Doran leapt from his seat, pacing about. "How far back does your history go?" Doran was onto something. "Oh, we have several hundred years of books and stories. Not much before that I'm afraid." "So you remember The Quiet Kings? And the Fair Pair? Phoebe and Elena?" Bram did. He blanched and said nothing. Doran took no notice. "Marriages don't necessarily need someone with opposite parts. Not political ones. A union, a shared roof over their heads, that's all. The children, yes, but the Quiet Kings raised a small army of orphaned children!" "I'm not so sure it would work in this case, the people..." Doran stopped in front of Bram's chair, dropping to one knee to be level with him. "The people will see that we've done whatever it takes, that we both were willing to make great sacrifices for them. They will respect that, celebrate it even. He ducked to catch Bram's gaze. "Don't tell me you people up in the north have started feeling queasy about marriages... like this?" Bram started. "Certainly not! It happens now and then. But not usually for a King." "Then it will be fine. Unless you object?" How simple he made it sound. *Then it will be fine.* Bram's selection of suitable women had dwindled down to near nothing. He'd been two cold winters away from marrying a washer woman. He was expected to carry on the family line. That would be changing. "I don't object at all. N-no." "That settles it!" Doran stood, and for a moment, Bram had the strangest feeling that the other man might stoop down to kiss him. "Tomorrow we wed! At sunset, on the high hill! I will tell my people when we break fast. You should return home, gather your own. Tomorrow!" He breezed out of the tent, a thunderous laugh fading out as he walked. And then he was gone. Bram was speechless. He certainly had *not* expected this day to end like this. Before he left the tent to find his horse, he allowed himself a small moment to celebrate. A genuine smile pulled at the corner of his mouth. He corrected it just in time to step outside, order his men to escort him back. There had been a reason Bram had never married. It had nothing to do with blushing brides and what a washer woman kept under her dress. Nothing at all. And there had always been rumors of Doran's, ah, escapades, of all kinds. Truth be told, if Doran *had* kissed him, he'd have liked that very much.

I was diagnosed with a disease,

There's this weird story I have from when I was young that I still to this day can't explain. I don't remember how old I was back then. I was only 17. I was diagnosed with a disease, whose name I hardly remember. I didn't care much for anything at that time. I wasn't a young kid, I could understand what was going on. I knew that it was serious and could entail death, but it never really phased me. Not that part anyways. I just brushed it off, I didn't care. Things only started to get to me as treatments went on and on. Lots of drugs and processes, those days became hazy for me, but I knew it wasn't pleasant. At some point I just knew I was going to die. The only regret I had was that I wouldn't get to spend my last days just being a kid. As I said before, those days became very hazy to me, it all just started to blur together. An amalgamation of wasted time and misery. Yet, there was one day that I remember with extreme clarity. By this point things were getting really bad. My days were spent lying in bed, looking back on what little life I could think back to. Then, a kind old man walked in. I immediately recognized him as our neighbor, and I tried my best to sit up to greet him. Max almost felt like another parent to me. He was a super nice guy who babysat me when I was little, and he was always willing to help me out when family became too much, or if I had something I felt I couldn't tell my Mom or Dad. He was quite laid back, though he could get serious when he needed to be. I remember one day my parents wouldn't let my friends come over to finish a DnD campaign we had been playing through for almost a week. Desperate to finish the game, Max let us play in his garage, to which he said yes. That garage quickly became our go-to place to play DnD, and Max was happy to have the company. He would offer us snacks and make comments about the game pretending to know what was happening. He apparently payed much more attention to our games than he let on though. One December morning, I was maybe 12 or 13, as we were about to start a new campaign, Max asked if he could be the DM. We all figured that he was nice enough to always let us use his place to play, so we might as well do this for him, and we agreed that it could be quite hilarious stumbling through whatever campaign he tried to put us through. To our surprise, he made a really good DM. He created vivid worlds with his words and breathed life into every character and story he made. I don't know about the others, but to me, it felt like I was playing the game for the first time again whenever he was the DM, with the sense of thrill and wonder he created. Needless to say he became an almost constant DM for us from that point onwards. That garage was like a home away from home for all of us. A place to spend time together and live out our childhoods. But childhood can't last. One day, we just stopped going, and I don't know why. One by one we started to be interested in different things, found new friend groups, and grew apart. We stopped playing DnD, and I don't remember seeing much of Max after that. I still tried to hold on to that sense of childhood with tons of RPGs and nerdy paraphernalia, but I realized in that hospital bed that it was worthless. High school was over, though I had missed nearly half of it because of my condition, I hardly hung out with my old friends, and they were all going off to different states, different colleges, pursuing their dreams and living their lives. My childhood was over. Or so I thought. I felt a surge of life watching Max walk through that door, and I jolted, trying to sit up and greet him, though I quickly got dizzy and my head felt like it was splitting open as I slumped back down on the bed. He checked to make sure I was okay, and we talked for about a minute before he said he had a surprise. I watched as my friends walked through the door with a colorful assortment of books, papers, and game pieces, some with foldable chairs and a small foldable table too to place it all on. He told me that he had gathered up the old party so we could all play one last game of DnD. A lump grew in my throat and my eyes welled up at the sentiment. That game took up nearly the entirety of the visiting hours, and it went by in a flash, but I still remember every minute of it. It felt just like old times. Within me it rekindled the spark of joy and adventure I had, a sense of awe and wonder at the world. Despite being a relatively short game, it felt so climactic. We stepped back into the shoes of old characters, tread upon the grounds of worlds we had long forgotten. I could tell that Max had painstakingly chronicled and saved all of our previous journeys, and brought it all into one final adventure. An ancient evil, a force or pure darkness, whose influence had been within many foes we fought over the years, was slowly growing all this time, building its power, and now was awakening. It threatened to send all of the worlds we came to know and love back into oblivion. Not everything made total sense, and some bits of the tale we all weaved were a bit corny and contrived, but it didn't matter to me. I had gained such an emotional attachment to everything that the stakes felt real to me. It felt like I was about to lose all I loved to this evil creature. I was absorbed into the world, and determined to defeat it. With each battle, with each victory, with each interaction, I felt more alive. More than I had in quite awhile, even before the sickness. I was still weak, but I was unbelievably happy and hopeful. Nearing the end of the campaign, the real world as a whole seemed to fade away. At the end of the world, we poured our hearts into trying to seal away this evil beast from destroying everything. But in the end, it broke free, and the world was enveloped in darkness, all that we had come to know and love, gone. When this happened, everything seemed to fade away to me. The hospital room, my friends, even Max. I felt like I was drifting away into nothingness like my now long gone character. Max's voice pierced through the darkness. Within the long darkness were two souls, he said. One from the ruined world, quickly fading, and the other, having been wandering through the darkness for a long time. The old soul saw something within the other soul. Hope. The old soul decided to give all the strength it had to the other soul, and through that strength, a new world was born. A beautiful land of color, of light. One that was new and daunting, but the soul, despite having come into this new world by itself, wasn't ever alone. With that, I think I fell asleep. I couldn't remember anything after that. All I knew was that after that day, my condition miraculously improved. the doctors said it was a miracle, and to this day they can't explain it. I was out of the hospital within a few months, and I felt surprisingly hopeful. I was able to live, and now I'm 37. I have a house, a loving wife, and two kids who love DnD as much as I once did. We visited my family this past year for the holidays, and I randomly asked my mom about Max. She was surprised that I remembered him. She told me that he died when I was 15, and I argued that he couldn't have died then, as I remembered that game so vividly, but she said she knew that's when he died. I did some research later on that confirmed it. I managed to find a pdf of an old local newspaper, and there I found his obituary, and yeah, he died when I was only 15. I didn't understand what this all meant until Christmas morning. The kids opened their presents to find that my parents had gifted them some of my old DnD stuff that they had held onto. They immediately wanted to play, and so I began to set things up, and I found a note buried within all the material. It read, "Time is short, and always moving, always changing. Sometimes, you'll want to give up, and you'll lose sight of the things that matter to you. But there are always new worlds to explore, more life to lived. It can all be daunting sometimes, but it's an adventure you have to face. Make it a good one. -M" It hit me then. Max was gone, but he never truly left. So, I sat down with my kids, and began their adventure. An adventure in a world that faced ruin, but from the darkness and the ashes emerged something new. Life, love, hope.

I bore pits so deep and dark

I'm the grave-digger for secrets. I bore pits so deep and dark that no light'll ever again touch the whispers thrown into 'em. My own secret, that was the first I buried. The one that got me into this line of work. Now they all come to me 'cause they can't destroy their secrets, neither. Someone will need to know someday, just today ain't that day, they tell me. Can't afford America to come crashing down right now, not with all the global instability. Or maybe they shove the secret into my hands and tell me that a record of this sin or that sin needs to be kept for judgement day - *you must understand?* Or perhaps they say: well I'm a man of morals, after all, and the truth can't just be burned -- it needs to be kept forever, even if never known. My reputation is built on my ability to keep things quiet. And should just one of these secrets ever slip out, then I'll be digging a final grave and jumping headfirst into it. But as things stand right now, the game of cards I'm dealing is just about even. Each player understands I can see all the hands, and if something happens to me, then I tell all the other players what they were holdin'. That's why they trust me: because they *don't* trust me. It was a Friday when I met her, and a Saturday when she died. The bar leaked smoke, bad jazz, and the stink of urine like it was an overflowing sewage plant. But I was used to seedy. They never liked to give me their secrets anywhere but seedy. Dirty places for dirty business. Except, *she* wasn't seedy. She was class. The type of dangerous class that meant if you weren't carrying a gun in your pocket before meeting her, you damn sure were after. I was sipping my second third-rate whiskey and watching the band pluck strings like they were defeathering a chicken for the kitchens, when her scent stabbed me. Sweet, sure, but there was something more seductive just beneath the surface. I turned to see her sit on the stool next to me, the slit in her red dress rising just enough to show her pale thighs as she crossed her legs. Bet there ain't never been a stool that happy before. The barman must have seen her even before I did, as a moment later a drink in a glass almost as long as her dress, slid in front of her. He didn't wait around for payment. She must have caught me staring as her plump lips smiled. Then, her voice like silk pantyhose, she said, "Are you Mister Secret?" The lines on my face creased, as if maybe I was smiling too. "I ain't never been called that before." "But you are?" If it was a smile, it turned into a tight frown. "Maybe. You the one who wants to make a deposit?" "Yes." She read the hand I was holding. "What's the matter? Didn't expect a woman?" "Didn't expect much, to be on the level with you. Never do. And I'm rarely disappointed." "Are you disappointed, today?" My skin tugged even tighter as I grinned. "Never been more so." She placed her handbag down on the bar next to her drink. "The money is in there. As is my secret. Can I trust you completely, no matter how terrible the secret I hold is?" "Lady, I never look at them. That's not my business. I just bury them." "They'll bury me," she said, eyes falling to the ground. "Soon." "Oh yeah?" A long smooth inhale. "Yes." "And who are *they* exactly?" "I thought you didn't look at the secrets." "That's a secret too?" She paused, then shrugged. "I suppose not. The CIA. MI6. KGB. Every intelligence agency in the world, Mister Secret." "John. You can call me John." "Why? That's about as much your real name as Mister Secret. And has less of a ring to it." She had a point. "Must be something pretty big you're burying." "It would change *everything*." Her lipstick-painted lips moved into slow ovals on the last word, and I swear I ain't never seen syllables look quite that sexy before or since. "Well, it's safe with me," I assured her. "Once I bury it, I don't dig it back up for no one. I got more dirt on those agencies than there is dust on the moon." She pushed the handbag to me. "I could tell you were the man for me." I wanted to tell her that I'm pleased to hear it but that her ruby handbag wouldn't suit me. But she looked like puppy that had just lost it's Ma, so I laid off the charm. "I'll be dead tomorrow." She said it nonchalant, with a wave of her hand and a twist of her wrist, and I wasn't sure if I was meant to laugh. "Oh yeah? Well, you better enjoy tonight then." She raised her glass and nodded. "To tonight." I raised mine. "Tonight." I don't remember much of the evening from there. A blur of red dress and drink and skin and sweat. The scent of tobacco and sex. The vague taste of a good night. But I do remember, with vivid clarity, the phone-call I got the next afternoon, the night after I left the Lady in Red's apartment, all her secrets swaying in a small red bag on my shoulder. "Dead?" I repeated, voice and stomach hollow. "And you were last to see her," the officer informed me. "Yeah, sure, but..." "Don't go anywhere. We need to bring you in for a few questions. I'll send the boys around to pick you up." "That would be a mistake, on your part." The threat is clear. He must know who I am and what I hold. "You've got nothing on me, John," said the voice. "I have no secrets. Unlike you." I could hear the implication like the roar of thunder above an empty field. The officer -- not really an officer -- might as well have said: *Tell me where her secret is, or your own dead and buried secret is about to get resurrected.* I never did much like voodoo, and I sure as hell didn't like threats. --- Thanks for reading! I'm going to make this a short little serial. If you'd like to follow it, part 2 is: https://www.reddit.com/r/nickofnight/comments/chnrx6/keeping_a_secret_part_2

Frankly, I loathe both

Harm reduction. That's the name of the game. Frankly, I loathe both sides, it's impossible not to. Because yes, they're people but so am I. I still do my best to maintain professional detachment, because I do still believe in the sanctity of my responsibilities, and because helping these...people with their mental stability means saving lives. Little lives. The ones they barely acknowledge in their outsized masked dramas. I mean sure, they *say* they care about the ordinary people, even if it's a bad sort of caring ("Society rejected me and I'll make them pay! It wouldn't have happened if they'd have just stayed out of my way! You got to break a few thousand eggs to cook this giant fucked-up omelette I'm irrationally fixated on!") In the end, though, they really only have eyes for each other. Their histories and relationships and rivalries. The same "hero" that agonizes over finally putting an end to his mass-murdering arch-enemy won't think twice about firing some barely-tested gadget in a populated area, and just shrug off any resulting casualties as "collateral damage," a lovely little term they've borrowed from the dry brutalities of military reporting. I hate my job, most days, but I'd also never give it up because to me, those "little lives" *do* matter, and without me...there's no one. That's not an exaggeration, or at least it's a temporary truth. I don't know of anyone willing to step up and take my place. So I keep on going, even though...well, let's take this morning as an example. In my private notes I have this morning down as "couple's therapy" even though either one of the patients would throttle and/or murder me if they found out that's what I was calling their sessions. But my notes are sacrosanct, that's one of the ironclad rules they all follow. My office is protected by more magic, technology, and psychic wards than anywhere else on Planet Earth or probably this little arm of the Milky Way. They all pitch in, because they all know what the consequences could be like if any one of their number decided to break in for "leverage" or "intelligence." So "couple's therapy" it is. One "villain," one "hero," in their parlance. The "hero" is a powerful psychic who could easily have outdone me at my own job if it weren't for a truly crippling case of textbook Narcissistic Personality Disorder. His powers give him insights into the criminal mind, something he utterly lacks in with regards to himself, and of course he's too great to deal with any "petty" criminals, it's just "supervillains" for him. He'll find a new one to fixate on every few years, always one that's found a way past his defenses to deal a blow to his fragile grandiosity. Then, on the other couch, we have our "supervillain." Very very very bright, injected with some sort of tech-savant gene from some long-extinct alien artisan caste. It's a long story. Quite long. Quite, quite, quite, excruciatingly long story, and I've only heard it a couple dozen times in the months since he decided to start coming to me. Was tricked into coming to me, I should say, some compatriot who was no doubt every bit as tired of hearing his origin story as I was told him he'd probably be an even more focused and effective tech-savant if he got someone to help "pare down the inefficiencies and frictions inside his own head." Which I had to admit was an admirable little metaphor. Too bad it was almost completely untrue. "Alright, let's begin." I said as they both came in--through separate doors, of course--and sat down behind my desk. Normally, that is to say in the sane life I lived before all this stumbling into this mad gig, I would never put something like a desk between myself and a patient, sends all sorts of the wrong signals. But this desk was also capable of sending at least seventeen target-appropriate varieties of disintegration ray in case that became necessary, which it had on at least three occasions soooo... They glared daggers at each other as they went to their couches, which were immediately surrounded in subtle but *extremely* powerful cocoons of layered fields. Force fields, energy fields, suppression fields, psychic fields, take your pick. "I still don't see why we have to use our real names for this," grumbled the "hero" Thad Pilkington, whose "mask name" is stupid and shall not be dignified by appearing in notes. "We have discussed this at some length on multiple occasions, Thad" I said patiently, letting one finger lovingly caress the safety catch for the desk's weapons systems in its convenient little underside nook. *You're in no actual danger, you're in no actual danger,* I reminded myself. "Your 'mask names' are a psychological defense layer, and in these sessions we need to get past those as much as possible. And you both already knew each other's secret identities long before arriving in my office." "Yeah, well, I agree with Captain Insight," Henry Ruttger said. "My birth name just doesn't really reflect who I *really* am, it's too human for one thing, I mean my DNA is least 30%--" "That's not true, Henry," I said gently, admiring how smoothly said gentleness came out given the amount of strain it had to pass through on the way to my vocal cords. "You are picking and choosing a small subset of your genetic code to get that number, as we have also discussed at length. This is an Honesty Zone, remember?" Henry folded his arms across his chest and pouted, fiddling with some lethal little gadget from off his belt. He'd made the argument before that since 30% of the genes in his genome known to affect technical ability and mechanical reasoning were from an extraterrestrial source, and since his genius with devices was "the core of who I am," the 30% claim was perfectly reasonable. This was going to be a long session. <continued below>

The last time to deliver any packages

"Sign here please," the courier's eyelids are halfway down over his eyes. His skin is blackening beneath in thick creases. It must have been a long day - it's 10pm. The last time to deliver any packages. I sign with a scribble, and he hands me the basket with a note sticking out the colourful bunch, its back turned to me. The man takes back his device and bids me a goodnight, disappearing down the pathway back to his glowing vehicle. I hope he'll be okay driving home. It must be miles away. I shut the door behind me and twist the note. *Thank you.* Huh. A thank you note? I turn it again, in case I've missed something. But I hadn't missed a thing - not that I thought I definitely did - but there was no name. No scribble. No label, no sticker, nothing. I lifted the basket above my head. Really, nothing at all. The note is small, almost insignificant if it wasn't white against the colourful backdrop. It's a quiet shining star amongst the bold. A little whisper. Someone who knows where I live but doesn't want me to know they know. But now they've gotten clever. Have they known a long time? Have they waited? I don't know. I take it to the sitting room and put it atop the table. I sink into my seat and stare at it. I search through the flowers, untie the bow, lift a few to see the translucent water within the plastic, nothing special, nothing different. The flowers are odd. Not because they're odd, exactly. But who would send them, and why. What could the purpose be behind sending me this omnious set of flowers. Maybe a threat. We put flowers on graves, yes. Someone's after my life. A villain, then? Rowdy Raccoon or The Dark? They're eccentric and sort of unpredictable. This is an odd gesture. I take a deep breath. This is too much for me to handle without any context. It'll drive me crazy. So maybe it's someone who knows I don't like not knowing? The flowers are pretty. But the message isn't. Okay, the message is pretty, it's a thank you. But it's not handwritten, it's printed. So I can't decipher anything. Wait. Thank you. You Knath. My name's Knathan with a silent K. Don't ask, my parents were overdramatic and I've never told anyone about my real name, well, real spelling. This is getting me stressed, my chest is getting tight. I'm going to contact Sue. She knows everything. I take out my phone, snap a picture and send it to her. Then I wait. And I'm sweating. They know my real name, they know where I live, they know how to push my buttons. I'm fucked. All I tried to do was good things and just stay with the crowd, not stand in front of them. That's not my style. Wait. The house. It could be a trap. Oh god. Someone is out to get me. And maybe I've missed the triggers. Okay, let's listen. Hm. Few birds. Normal. Passing cars. The new neighbour's just parked up. No off ticking. My clocks are digital so that would have been too obvious. Lord. Maybe it's a digital bomb. But innocent people will be hurt. A buzz almost makes my chest rip itself open and launch my heart right out the window. But it's my phone. Sue's text back. "Cute." Cute. Cute? She wants to kill me. She's turned against me. She's no longer my ally. And now I have none. Doesn't she care about me anymore? No. I'm a nobody, I've always been a nobody. She would have told me clearly who and what had done this. But now I'm worse than a nobody. It's possible that quite soon I'll have no body. The flowers are a final goodbye from her. I don't know why she wants me dead. But if she wants me dead, so I will die. A doorbell punches my lungs almost to death with shock. Fuck, another doorbell, at this hour? This is insane. Insane, I tell you. I'm defenseless, in my pyjamas. I don't have anything to protect myself. I must be surrounded by Sue's men. If she has men. Maybe it's Sue. Maybe I've outlived my use and now she's going to finish me. Did she get paid off by some bad guy? I thought she was better than that. I had my final gift from her. Maybe she'll lay them at my grave. I stand up and my legs want to snap off and run away but I command them to march to the door with dignity. I hold the door handle. My lips are sweating. I open the door with closed eyes and It's the neighbour. "Hey, sorry to ring so late but I've only just gotten home. Did you get the flowers?" Um. What? "Y-yes, I did," I reply, stomach a mixing bowl being whisked at the speed of light. "Yeah, I thought I'd get them delivered since I work late and couldn't pick any fresh ones on my way home. I just wanted to thank you for helping me move in last week," she says with a heart melting smile. Oh my god. Cute. Oh Sue. You knew. "Oh no, it's not a problem at all. The flowers are lovely, thank you," I say, knowingly rubbing the back of my neck because I'm sweaty from dumb panic. "Well, have a lovely night," she says and walks off to hers. I shut the door for the final time that night. Chills slip down my whole body. I've saved plenty of people, stopped many idiots. And it's because, trust me, you don't want to live with regrets if you're me because the thoughts and regrets will eat me up. So I do it for myself. And for the people. Okay, now that I'm done embarrassing myself, I'm going to sleep. I've got an appointment with Rowdy Raccoon tomorrow. But he doesn't know it. He will.

The oceans are alive with tiny photos

*Planetary Report: Mendel 4C* *June 31, 2247* *Longyou Chen* Our geologist Nassir says the planet is much like earth. There's a good amount of land above the water level, and temperatures are livable. The oceans are alive with tiny photosynthesizing eubacteria that have filled the atmosphere with oxygen. Circumstances appear ideal for human life. This planet's Adam and Eve must have been pleased when their spacecraft touched down millenia ago. But unlike our ancestors, who had to contend with predators like the bear and the lion, Mendel 4C had different challenges in store. I went with the biologists to observe a clan of the people here. We found them dwelling in a network of shallow caves high up a cliff. The only access was via a system of rope pulleys, and it was only with some difficulty that we gained the clifftop without their seeing us. Our stealth drives are all well and good, but they don't do much when we have to rocket into the air. Regardless, we discovered the people to be skittish and small. They have big, big eyes, and their ears stand away from their heads, the better to tilt this way and that. While there's no denying the commonality of our ancestry, there's no denying the prey-like nature of their features. It is as though their genes were mixed in with a rabbits at some point. This perplexed the biologists. We left the people to their devices and traveled to the planet's surface to see if we couldn't find some clue as to what made the people so fearful. My biologist friend Saanvi tells me that in the early days of space exploration, people were surprised at the prevalence of greenery throughout the universe. It turns out that the power of photosynthesis, and its connection to those bands of light given off by reddish stars, is undeniably linked to the burgeoning of life. Thus it was without surprise that we soon found ourselves walking among tall green patches of what might have been grass, were it not for the breadth of their blades or the way they grew so tall that they bent in half to dig down to the planet surface. It was not long before we discovered a species of creatures hiding at the base of one of the plants, and Saanvi, working carefully, took one for analysis. It had a blue-black shell like a beetles, but where a beetle's shell is hard, the animal's had a rippling fluidity to it, as what gave it its strength was the flexing of muscles beneath the surface, rather than chitin. Saanvi was in the process of photographing the creature when a scream split the air. I've been scared, in my life. Of course I have. I've ridden rollercoasters, slipped and fallen, and been threatened by a group of drunks outside a bar. But never, in any of those situations, did I feel like prey. That scream, though, in its raw primality, awakened a part of my brain long-dormant. It was only after a moment had passed that I realized I'd been standing perfectly still, precisely like a deer in headlights. It was this realization that brought me back to myself, and with my newfound clarity of mind I became aware of a low dark shape racing toward our party. I trusted in our stealth gear, which rendered us invisible along the visual, UV, and heat spectrums. It could therefore only have been the little blue-black creature that had drawn this dark shape's attention. I bolted forward, slapped it out of Saanvi's hand, and pulled her away. The creature had only a moment to race back toward its grassy home before the dark shape was upon it. The dark shape revealed itself to be a wide, low carnivore which carried itself on six pairs of short legs extending out from beneath a carapace of some thickness. How it managed to move so quickly despite the encumbrance of this armoring, I wasn't sure. It held pinned the small creature to the soil using a pair of pointed mandibles, and using four of its legs it ripped the creature into pieces. With a great crunching, it swallowed these pieces into a ridged maw at the center of its abdomen. Meal complete, it trotted back off into the grass. Over our coms, Saanvi said, "The people here had it rough." She wasn't wrong. ***** *Planetary Report: Kelvin 732U* *December 23, 2247* *Longyou Chen* It's ironic that we touched down on Kelvin 732U so near to Christmas. Temperatures on the planet are, on the whole, far above those at which people can survive. There are only narrow points at the poles, and isolated valleys and cave systems where the temperatures are regularly below 50 degrees Celsius. We made double sure that our cooling units were functional before heading down to the surface. I can only assume that whichever Adam and Eve chose this planet had had no other choice. Maybe their craft had been low on fuel or food. Maybe they'd suffered a one-in-a-billion collision with space debris and lost their air. Or, even less lucky, maybe the planet had been different back when they'd landed. Certainly the trisolar system in which the planet was to be found was unpredictable. Charting the paths of three suns, and predicting their motion through the centuries, was a problem that still eluded physicists. Maybe the Adam and Eve had guessed the planet would stay habitable. If so, they'd guessed wrong. We went to the north pole, which turned out to be a barren expanse of craggy rock, not much different from than other exposed surface of the planet. My suit's thermometer reported a temperature of 62 degrees. Strong, dry winds, powered by the great heat moving the prevailing winds, whipped across the expanse. No water. No oxygen. The planet appeared completely unsuitable to human life. We proceeded down into a crag, where one of our scout drones had reported signs of human life. Accompanied only by the steady hum our of rocket packs, we descended hundreds of meters into the dark, until the surface above had dwindled to a mere toothpick. The temperature descended with us, and it wasn't long before my thermometer reported a comfortable 15 degrees. We touched onto a springy surface, and it was with some surprise that I realized I was still able to see unaided. Not well, mind you, but there was an undeniable glow to the rock down here. "Bio-luminescent moss," Saanvi reported. So it was. The rocks were covered with a thin, dense plantlife which gave off a thin light. Saanvi peeled a section off of the rock and we were surprised to discover that the rock beneath was damp. We set off in search of the humans, now more confident that this place could support them. It certainly was a far cry from earth, but it just might turn out to be livable. We found the humans in a vast cavern, the entrance to which they had nearly blocked with large stones. After we'd squeezed our way in, we discovered that they'd done so to keep in the humid, pleasant air inside the cavern. The entire ceiling of the cavern was covered over with the bio-luminescent moss, and in the center of the space was a low pool of standing water. This qualified as a near-miracle on Kelvin 732U, but did go to explain how the humans had survived here. Much in the way of earth's subterranean creatures, the humans were pale. Their hair had gone white. They couldn't have been entirely blind, not with the benefit of the moss's light, but from the way they moved in the dim cavern by clicking their tongues with each step, it became clear that their sight worked in tandem with a form of echolocation. Their bodies were shorter than ours and much bulkier, with skin much more rugged and thick. This suggested an attempt at lessening the ratio of surface area to volume, so as to better conserve moisture. What life must be like for these people, day in and day out, I can't imagine. Perhaps the crags in the planet's surface extend far and wide. Perhaps there are many such caverns where humans can thrive. Regardless, this appears an isolating, vulnerable existence. I do not envy these people their lots in life. But there is something to be said for the resilience of the human spirit. As our group was getting ready to leave, we were given pause to see the people congregating around the pool of water. We thought we might be about to witness some religious ceremony, but then to our surprise they produced a number of odd drums made from polished stone, and they played a rousing thunderous beat. Those who did not play danced. I went away feeling proud of my species. The human will to live -- and to live fully -- is undeniable. ***** *continued below*

"Being dead can dull the senses

I don't seem to recall dying, and frankly, that bothers me more than it should. I'm no longer dead, and that's something worth noting. I'm on a table. A slab of stainless steel that should feel cold, but there's nothing there. No sensation. I press my finger tips into the metal, and feel the hardness, feel the strength, but don't feel the cold. Huh. I'm on my feet, wearing some kind of futuristic loin cloth, or at least that's my closest description. There's lots of folds all around, and it looks like too much of a bother to unwrap. Where am I? It's like a surgical operating theater or some kind, but the instruments are coated in some kind of black oil rather than blood. There's way more saws and knives than I'm comfortable with, but what are you going to do. Being dead can dull the senses in a way. I pinch myself a few times, but don't feel any pain. The skin folds and moves, but I just get a vague pulling sensation. Okay. The room is poorly lit, and beyond this slab, these utensils, I only see shadows beyond. So there's a distinct chance i'm still dead, but maybe somewhere else. That feels...what? *Wrong?* *Incorrect?* *Empty?* I remember closing my eyes for the surgery, but no light at the end of the tunnel after that. Just this internal knowledge that comes from being dead, then no longer dead. I closed my eyes on one operating table, and woke up on another. I gave my heart to a boy, but I can't seem to remember why. Everything feels grey. Oh! It was because of placement or something. My organs are backwards, the boy's were backwards, some kind of wonder kid or whatever in desperate need of some quality meat, and here I am already dying thinking 'You know what, I don't even NEED these organs anymore. Take 'em all, I say.' Anyway, that was then and this is now and I'm not sure when that is now that we broach the subject. A door opens, and there's a pool of reddish, throbbing light beyond. In steps a boy. The boy. He's older, bearded, and has clearly filled out. He seems quite pleased with himself. "Hello," I say. "Hello," he says. "I was dead," I say. "You still are," he says. I'd find that disconcerting, if i could find anything disconcerting. "What's going on?" He walks around me, inspecting me, monitoring me. He weighs me with the look of someone inspecting a vehicle for any kind of defect. "I think it's finally worked," he says. "You're still dead. The real you. You're my pet project, buddy." "I am?" I ask. I don't really care, but I feel like it's expected of me. "Uh," he says, then stops in his tracks. "Do you feel anything?" "No. Should I?" "No. Or yes. I'm not totally sure." "Oh. That's good at least," I say. He asks me to hold out my arm, and I do. Lots of prodding and poking. He takes a long knife from the various operating implements and draws a long cut across my forearm. No blood. No pain. Nothing. "Hmm," he says, looking slightly disappointed. "I put in a blood substitute to give you a bit more of a human aspect," he says. Not to me. To himself. I get the strong suspicion that he's someone accustomed to only talking to himself. "How have you been? Since I died?" I ask. It seems only polite. "Fine. Working on some pretty advanced stuff now. Artificial intelligence, that kind of thing." "Ah," I say, not really listening. "Though my magnum opus, if you could call it that, is bringing back the dead. As best as I can." "Indeed." "And I thought I'd start with you." I nod. It seems like a logical starting point. It makes sense. I am me, but not me. A replica. A thing. A metal thing with cogs and wheels but plenty of fancy fluids and parts requiring very expensive metals. "You're not going to freak out on me, are you?" he asks. "I don't think so," i say. Truthfully. "Well, this seems like the least I could do. Pay you back, in a way. By bringing you back." "Thank you," I say, but don't really mean. "But you're not quite ready." "Ah. So what happens now?" I ask. Somewhat invested, as this probably means I may die again. Or maybe I've already died and come back a few times. Maybe this isn't the first time he's switched me on and off. Maybe it's the thousandth. Or the millionth. Or the first. Does the distinction really matter? Dead is off and off is dead, and I don't really have much of an issue with either. He talks about how he picked my memories from social media, from meticulously dissecting my brain and examining neural networks. I found it very interesting, but a little odd. How much value he put on a lump of dead grey meat. Besides. Does it matter if I'm me, or just an approximation? Whoever the boy wants back is dead. Full dead. Full stop. Eventually his diatribe stops. "I'll bring you back," he promises. "I wish you luck." He looks at me. He's sad. I'm not what he wanted, or what he was prepared for. "You look tired," I say. "I am," he says. Then he flicks a switch, and off I go. In another instant I'm back. I've been turned off, I remember that now. I've been turned off and on and on and off many, many times. I'm awake again. Something is different. The slab, cold and hard beneath me. Cold. There are sensations, and words for these sensations. Flexing my fingers, there's warmth. More real. I feel - something. The room is brighter, the utensils less sinister, the world feels more substantial and real. I can smell. I can taste. I can touch. I am alive. And beyond the door, the boy is waiting. Might as well go and see him, and thank him. Not everyone can raise the dead. --------------------------------------------------------------------------- r/storiesfromapotato - for stuff from me r/redditserials - for stuff from me and others

Miles Brandenburg is one of the

My name is Miles Brandenburg and they say you should never meet your heroes, and, if anything, the past six months of my life have been living proof of that. Like most kids growing up, I worshipped Commander Titan and The Mighty. I had his poster on my wall, along with the rest of The Mighty--Ajax, Artemis, and Strangelette. I watched and cheered as Commander Titan battled Dr. Diabolical live on T.V., defeating him, saving the city from the nuclear device he had planted underneath the local university, and delivering him to the custody of Deep Dark, where he remains to this day. Strangelette was one of my first crushes, and one of the first female superheroes to take on a primarily combat role on her team. I envied Ajax, his posh London accent and impeccable sense of style, and was and still am a little afraid of Artemis. I discovered my own ability when I was fourteen and even applied to the Hero's Academy, but was rejected. "Your power has potential, I'll give you that," the Dean told me. "But kid, I'm just not sure it's strong or reliable enough to give you a spot here at the Academy." There are basically two types of people in this world when it comes to rejection. There are those become dejected and give up, and there are those won't take no for an answer and try even harder. I, unfortunately, was the former, and spent my high school years convincing myself that I wanted to go to university, then law school, then get married and have two kids and live in the suburbs someday. I tore down my posters of Commander Titan and The Mighty and replaced them with ones of The Beatles and Nirvana. I had almost forgotten about my powers, hadn't used them in nearly a year in fact, when I saw Commander Titan and Strangelette post a YouTube video. They invited those interested to post videos of their own abilities, as for the first time in a decade, The Mighty was taking on an intern, and maybe even a new member. I submitted mine on a whim. I filled an unused aquarium in my backyard, pointed at it, and within several minutes, brought the water to raging boil. Neat party trick, but too slow to be useful to a team of heroes. I uploaded it and was more amused by the comments than anything else. "Fake!!!!!" "lmfao look at this lame ifrit wannabe mf." One guy even wrote a practical essay about how I faked it by loading CO2 cartridges underneath the aquarium. If only I were so clever. Commander Titan and The Mighty being, well, Commander Titan and The Mighty, I found out that I was selected not with a phone call, text, or email, but when four black SUVs pulled up in front of my house with a camera crew in tow. Dad thought it was rude. Mom asked for Commander Titan's autograph. Grandma poked him in the chest and chastised him for my rejection at the Academy years earlier, like it was entirely his fault. And that's how I ended up here, although I'm not sure where "here" is. It's somewhere very big, and beneath the ground, or ocean. It's impossible to tell, really. It took twelve hours, two planes, a train, a boat, and some type of elevator device to get here. And here I walk with a tray of various beverages: black coffee, ice water, coffee with cream, tea with honey. Commander Titan and Strangelette are lounging in a Victorian game room replete with all the luxury and technology of the 21st century. They have company as well. A beautiful young woman maybe only a few years older than myself is sitting in Commander Titan's lap, puffing on a vaporizer, laughing uproariously at something he just said. Strangelette mashes buttons on the controller and giggles as she slays legions of demons in *From Hell IV*, the latest installment in the blockbuster franchise. A beautiful young woman is softly kissing her neck, and an aggravatingly handsome young man massages her shoulders. I clear my throat, as they didn't even notice me enter and I don't plan to stick around for the show. "Yes?" Strangelette sighs with pleasure. She pauses the game and throws back her head, giving the young woman a better angle of attack on her neck. Her, servants, whatever they are, don't stop for me, and Strangelette gives me a sidelong glance and a wink, then giggles again at my obvious discomfort. I never thought my childhood crush would be a... such a creep. I notice it a split second before it happens. Several vines have unbuckled my belt and wrapped around my pants, and I'm pantsed in front of my childhood heroes by a stupid childhood prank. I reflexively drop the tray of beverages and turn to walk somewhere, anywhere, and fall flat on my face, my ankles also having been wrapped in a tangle of vines. The entire room bursts into laughter and a tsunami of embarrassment floods over me, the kind that burns your face and makes you angry and sad and mad at being sad all at the same time. That's when I see Artemis grinning at me, sitting alone in the corner of the room, the vines receding back to her skull and her yellow eyes gleaming. And those teeth, Jesus, they're canid, and they're far too many of them. The laughter continues as I pull up my pants and clean up the mess with as much dignity as I can muster, which is admittedly not much. "I'll be back," I mutter underneath my breath. This draws more laughter as they recognize the old reference that I unintentionally invoked. "We'll be waiting, dear," Strangelette sings, and her interest quickly returns to killing digital hell spawn. I begin that long, humiliating walk to the kitchen, and I think about that text I got from Dr. Diabolical. "Once you get to know them, I won't seem so bad. I need your help and you need mine," he said in the short video attachment. It could have been a prank, or a test, but how that could have been faked, I don't know. I don't know if I care anymore either. I've been training on my own now, and I can bring twenty gallons of water to a boil in about thirty seconds. Still too slow for immediate combat, but quite dangerous if I may say so myself. I remake The Mighty's drinks, return, and smile placidly at their ribbing. "Take the rest of the night off, Miles. You've earned it," Commander Titan says with a chuckle. "You sure you don't want to stick around?" Strangelette asks maliciously. There's no good answer so I leave the game room as quickly as I can without seeming too eager. When I get back to my dorm, I take out my phone and bring up the text message from Dr. Diabolical. "What did you have in mind?" I write.

She was 23 and had just won

Men often joke about their wives and those who have been down the isle more than once or twice joke a little louder than the rest. When you've done it as many times as I have the jokes stop. I'm not looking for someone to decorate my arm or my bedroom, nor someone to keep me warm in our marriage bed. I seek companionship. Someone I can relax with and take off the mask I have worn all these years. Kelly-Ann looked To be perfect when we met. We were head over heels for each other. So happy to be in each other's arms. She was 23 and had just won Miss USA and graduated with a masters in Shakespearean literature. She was beautiful and brilliant. We were introduced at a fund raiser for the philharmonic and instantly connected, talking long into the night about the hidden motivations of the great and not-so-great characters that leapt from the mind of the bard all those years ago. It was not a perfect relationship, she was under some pressure from her friends, how dare she call it love when she was 23 and I had to be at least 40. I felt terrible that she would be branded a "gold digger", and yet people will judge. We were married after a whirlwind romance that had us in Europe for a year, visiting the places where Hamlet, Othello and Macbeth were placed, drinking wine and arguing subtle points missed by many. Falling in love. She signed the pre-nup without a backward glance and our bliss continued for years. But now it has been 20 years. We tried to have a child for the first four years of our marriage, but just like the others no children were forthcoming. I am certain that children are not in my future. My Kelly was heart broken, but I was happy to adopt and we were lucky enough to find twin toddlers and we were a family for a while. It is amazing to me how fast twenty years appears in the rear view mirror. The twins are off to college and Kelly is celebrating her 45th birthday. Although celebrating may be the wrong word. It's hard when you work hard to remain young, a strict diet, yoga, Pilates, hours running and in the gym. And she looked great. But it's hard to not be bitter when your husband, who was much older than you when you got married, now looks the same age... the same age dammit... though, in private and after drinking, she may admit to herself that he now looks younger. While I was still happily in love, my Kelly-Ann was growing weary. After all my time working, and all the wealth I had amassed I did something I've never done. I retired. I hoped this would make Kelly happy. We traveled in luxury, private planes, estates, mega-yachts for four years. At some point Kelly changed. Her husbands failure to age, while she seemed to be aging like milk, festered in her and became hatred. For me it was heart breaking. Kelly has been poisoning my for months. Slowly increasing the dosage hoping that no one would notice the poison when I died. When that failed, it was not the first time I'd been poisoned, she became more direct. Brakes were disabled in more than one vehicle, I was nudged down the stairs, electrocuted in the bath, pushed into traffic, and victim of an "accidental shooting". None of that worked, and Kelly became desperate. That's when she started hiring "specialists". First it was a local gang. $5000 cash in an envelope had them surround my car and fill it full of bullets. Photos of the car and my bullet ridden body were taken. Texts sent to burner phones and champagne was opened. She was happy for the first time in years. Until the entry gate was opened and the car service pulled up. She watched as the car door was opened and I got out. "Damn him", she thought, "he doesn't even have a limp." Then assassins were bought, those with rifles, then those with bombs. Still I lived. I was not ignorant, I knew she was trying to kill me, but I've been married before. Many times. See, when most people looked at me they saw a handsome, tan, middle aged man in the peak of health. Obvious wealth and education. Someone who hit the genetic and economic lottery. But looks can be deceiving. I am wealthy, the Rothchild's would be jealous, and I am healthy. I look like a cowboy just off the range, all cleaned up and ready for a night on the town. I speak dozens of languages with perfect accents. I have degrees from all over the world, though not all in my current name. These things are all possible when you live long enough. See, as far as I can tell, I am immortal. I have all the wealth you could imagine, do speak every language on earth and some that have long since been forgotten, and look like a man in his late 30's in excellent health. But "genetic lottery" no, after the first 200 years you realize it is a curse. After 500 boredom sets in. You've done nearly everything you can. Been married, watches your friends die over and over. Fought in wars, been in the clergy and politics. Shaped nations and watched them fall. Mastered nearly every profession and gone everywhere a horse or sail could take you. Burned nations down and built them up. Watched revolutions of thought, art, music and learning take hold and change the world. And all you wish for is to break the curse. Just to lay down with your friends and family in the dirt. So you do. For 55 years I laid in a coffin. Still. In the dark. The box dissolved and broke around me. And I lay there still, alive. Finally a shift in the earth disturbed my meditation and I clawed from the earth. I was refreshed and so I tried everything again. Began amassing another fortune (not hard when you have all the time in the world). I traveled to the new world again and again. With the Vikings, then the crazy Spaniard (he was not Italian), with the puritans and the Irish. Played many roles and found the only thing that I loved was love. It never lasted though. It is impossible to love someone who does not age. Who contends no with the mortality that becomes such a focus of your life as your date approaches. Eventually the wonder at why your spouse is not cursed with age spots, grey hair or the aches and pains of aging turns to bitterness and contempt and finally hatred. Divorce and separation ensue and my misery extends. Kelly gave up today. Until an hour ago I was amused by her attempts to secure my death. An hour ago I came home. The staff had been dismissed for the day. Kelly drew a bath. She settled in the bath. Took sleeping pills, slit her wrists and faded into the great night. So, I will mourn. I will close up the house. The children and I are not close, they have their trust funds, but we do not see each other as I look too close in age to their friends for it to be comfortable. I think I'll move to Venezuela, there is good work to be done there that will occupy my mind for the next decade or so. I think I've figured it out. I know I'm cursed, but it is a strange curse. To live forever. But it is a curse. An endless cycle of death. Of love spoiled and lost. Being so close to happiness, at least being truly blissful for a while, but knowing it will spoil. Then it does. The crushing heartbreak, the despair in yourself and the person who no longer loves you. Having to do it over and over again. All because of a jealous act so long ago. Fratricide. My brother was the perfect man. Blonde, polite, genuine, charismatic. He had everything, including the woman I loved. So I hit him with a rock. A lot. I cried, for I loved my brother. I did not get his wife. I did not find happiness. When everyone else I loved cast me out and I wandered the world, I also discovered I did not age. I did not die. I was cursed. Cursed to watch it all die. For I am also cursed to love.

There is no other human alive who

My story is the same as the story of mankind. The two are inexorably interconnected as far as I am concerned. They cannot be separated because the very cores of their nature are entwined. After exploring so much land, researching so many concepts, meeting so many people, I am the best example of it anyway. There is no other human alive who has seen what I've seen. No other human alive who remembers what I can. The human mind is impressive. I figured that out after the first dozen rebirths. Back there in the wilderness before I could even work myself to a stable living, dying was more common, after all. But what astonished me then was how I remembered it all. How I remember it all every single time I am born. From the moment of my birth, the memories dance through my mind. At first, it means nothing because the neural pathways have yet to be developed. But slowly and surely, I am able to experience my past lives. I am able to learn from them. That is the most important part--and that is what has surprised me most about the continual cycle of life. As a hunter that was recycled into tribe after tribe, all I'd known were the most basic of strategies. The most basic of methods to manufacture tools of stone and bone. The most basic of patterns when it came to tracking wildlife across the savanna. Slowly though, that changed. My mind was able to adapt to the message that the universe was sending me time after time. One can only die by starvation a handful of times before they end up wanting something different. So instead, I did what humans supposedly do best. I learned. I adapted. I changed my tactics and used the information that was trapped in my head for some kind of progress. Firstly it was noticing patterns with our prey. Then it was noticing tensions between people--between different tribes. And then it was doing everything I could to put those tensions to rest. The going was difficult when I started out. Changing peoples' minds was as difficult a task back then as it is in modern times, after all. Harder, even, since these people hadn't known anything different. But eventually they came around. Eventually, they listened to what I was saying and let me solve problems one-by-one. And once the fruits of my labor started rolling in, they all saw the benefit at once. More consistent food sources. Better collaboration between people. The increased connectivity even sparked innovation. The tribes began observing water as they explored new areas. They studied the plants that grew around rivers and the bright tasty confections that hung off trees. They tested against their environment to see what kind of gifts it could hold. It tested them back, of course. Mother nature is nothing if not fickle. At one point, I was even the victim of poisoning due to wrongful identification. Yet through the trials and tribulations, progress started to get made. Actual innovations sparked seemingly out of nowhere and the lists of benefits only grew. The speed of it accelerated too as more and more people started working together. In my first few dozen lives, I saw maybe one achievement every few decades. As soon as the farming started--the agriculture and the seeds of civilization, though, more and more started to get done. Humans diversified; they adapted to their new surroundings. They took the newfound food supplies in stride and started doing better things with their time. They made progress in the sciences--they got more intricate with the art. They codified laws and started with the ideas of rights. Of protecting their own so that their kin could have opportunities they themselves would never see. And I was there through all of it--through all the heavens and the hells. Through the thriving and the suffering, we never truly gave up. As a species, we had already come too far, and we were not one to be destroyed by the very nature which we had used as a tool. Unfortunately, mother nature did pay the cost for our survival, but I still hold that we did well. I kept doing what I knew and kept building upon that as well. I pulled from my collective memory in the same way I always did and helped humanity at every turn that I was able. Sometimes I made mistakes, and sometimes things were lost in time. But never did I forget the cores of my being. Never did I forget the purely human aspects that were the reason our species could thrive at all. Never did I stop surviving. Never did I stop adapting. Never did I stop yearning for something more. Never did I stop learning, and I think that is the most beautiful part of it all. That is the only part of human existence that has continued to baffle me to this day. Because while the petty fights of modern times are similar at their core to the ones I saw long ago, we find a way to dress them up as new every time. We find a way to know more about life than we ever have before. We find a way to improve, just like I've done through every generation I've lived. Yet, even for me, it is ultimately futile. No matter how I adapt or how I learn from my mistakes, mother nature spites me at the end. I always die when there is more to do--only to have to suffer through the beginnings of life before I can help out again. There is nothing I can do to prevent the inevitable fate. Whether that is a thing of horror or a thing of beauty, I do not know. All I know is that it is the truth, and it is one I am still desperately trying to understand. But whether I know it or not, my story continues on. It echoes out through history like ripples through a pond. And I am glad that it does because my story is the same as the story of mankind. --- /r/Palmerranian

DepotMart is a warehouse store that

"Chad can go straight to hell" was a common refrain of mine throughout my time working at DepotMart, a big box warehouse store that aimed to out warehouse other warehouse stores. So the irony was not lost on me as I lay here clinging to life that I'd likely be headed there much sooner than my nemesis... but I'm perhaps getting ahead of myself. If working for a warehouse store that aims to 'out warehouse' the others sounds like a soul crushing way to make a living, you'd be entirely correct in your assessment! This hadn't been my first choice of employment, nor my 2nd, nor my 3rd, not even my 38th (no really, I counted). But as employer after employer decried my 'lack of education' and my 'brief (but maybe not as brief as I tell people) stint in juvenile hall', spending my days working in a windowless warehouse for minimum wage and no benefits suddenly started to seem increasingly appealing. I met Chad Chadwickson on my first day, and genuinely, I don't even know how to describe him-- he is just-- he's just *the worst*. I still remember my first nauseating interaction with him like it was yesterday. "Hey, Justin!" he called out to me from across the employee lunch room/customer bathroom (they'd been combined to save space and money, apparently it was cheaper to just pay the health code violations). "Welcome to DepotMart! I know you've probably heard some rumors about working here, and let me assure you, they are all true... if the rumor you heard was that we're one big happy family! If you need any help at all on your first day you just let me know, alright buddy pal?" A massive smile was etched across his face as he said all of this to me and he actually playfully tussled my hair as he left, who does that in real life? Like I said, Chad is theeeeeeeeeee wooooorrrrst. Is that not coming across? Alright, yes, his introduction was *technically* very warm and friendly, but it was also-- incredibly, painfully fake to me? It was as if someone had blown a Ken doll up to life size and taught it to speak one and only one welcoming phrase semi convincingly. Over time, my impression of him only grew stronger. He was the suck up, the teachers pet, and the sole employee who continued complimenting our boss Leo's hair even when his comb over was down to four sad strands clinging on for dear life. What some saw as 'his excellence' was exemplified by Chad's employee of the month streak. The dude had won a staggering *29 months* in a row. And perhaps I am too cynical, but I ask you, wouldn't a genuinely good person let *someone* else share the extremely mediocre limelight at least *once* in those two and a half years? With that thought in my head (and nothing better to do), I made it my mission to dethrone 'The Chadster', as Leo so sickeningly referred to him. Showing up early, staying late, cleaning the toilets/breakroom tables... you name it, I did it with an equally fake smile plastered on my face. I even got a very accidental promotion for my efforts, so I guess I do have to genuinely thank Chad for the extra 25 cents an hour and my new lofty title of 'Senior Executive Trainee'. But that was not and never would be the point of all this. Beating Chad at his own game was, and this month, I finally had a real chance. During the first week of this particular month, the unthinkable happened. He got a cold. Chad, *never* called in sick, and his minor ailment gave me a brief window to shine without his shadow looming over me. When I say 'shine', of course I mean brown nose the hell out of my boss to a sickening degree. For that week I became Leo's lunchtime therapist and after work best pal. I even made the ultimate sacrifice and attended his godawful band's set at a local farmers market, cheering and whooping enthusiastically as most people there barely tolerated their presence. My chances only grew when during the second week Chad miscalculated the inventory we'd need to have on hand for our weekly combo deal. That was a big effin' mistake! This was 'Buy one wheelbarrow tire and get a rack of ribs half off' week. Against all odds, the profitability of our entire store for the quarter often depended on the continued success of our 'tire and cheap meat' combo deal, and as a result, Leo was understandably upset. In fact, for the first time in the months I'd worked there, he yelled at Chad. Not just yelled, berated him, tore him down, and even put a note in his file expressing his displeasure with the quality of his work. Employee of the Month was all but mine! When the last week of the month arrived I showed up for work with a spring in my step and a happy tune in my heart for the first time in memory. I was elated, joyous, I felt absolutely unstoppable... that is, until I was suddenly stopped dead in my tracks by a thousand pounds of garden hoses unceremoniously crashing down upon me from the top shelf. *Why? Whyyyy do we have to sell garden hoses in massive 20 packs?* I wondered to myself as my body was bruised, battered and broken by their unending, gravity assisted assault upon me. I'm not gonna lie, I thought I was a goner. I knew I had broken bones, a collapsed lung, and a massive head wound. Death was near, in fact I literally felt the life fading from me... that is, until I saw fucking Chad rushing over to check on me. The realization occurred to me that if I died, he was going to win employee of the month and his 'heroic' attempts to keep me alive was going to be what sealed the deal. No... no way! I resolved then and there to live, if only to spite my nemesis and keep my hopes of winning alive. And against all odds, and the opinion of the doctor who repeatedly pronounced me dead upon arrival at the hospital, I did survive. I returned to work a week later to meet with Leo to discuss the accident. As we sat down to chat, he noted the 'bump' (massive head trauma) I'd suffered was still very noticeable. Kind boss that he is, he took out the store's emergency first aid kit, removed a cheap plastic baggie labeled 'Ice Pack', put two ice cubes in it and handed the sad looking thing my way. "DepotMart cares deeply about the safety and health of our employees," he reminded me solemnly. "Yeah, I feel that just as clearly as I can feel the mild coolness coming off this icepack, Leo," I mumbled. "So what the hell happened?" "Well, a forklift knocked over a huge pallet of hoses from the top shelf directly down onto to your person, thus causing you bodily injury," he replied stoically, stating the very obvious. "Thankfully store emergency officer Chad Chadwickson was there to administer first aid that prevented you from expiring. The doctors wont say it, but I believe the small bandaid he placed over your sliced jugular vein saved your life." Upon hearing that Chad had indeed been given credit for my miraculous survival, all I could do was literally bite my tongue to keep from screaming. "Alright, fine... but *how* did the accident happen? Did somebody let Tyler on the damn forklift again? That kid is stoned out of his mind 24/7, and I'm not judging, working here we all need our escapes, but we all agreed to ban him from operating any motorized vehicle!" Leo examined a spreadsheet in front of him carefully, "No, it wasn't Tyler. The only forklift checked out that day was by... Chad? But that cant be right, that doesn't make any sense at all." It really didn't. Chad was the best forklift driver we had, even I'd admit that. He was in complete control of that thing, never ever made a mistake or knocked something over, and suddenly he's accidentally pushing thousands of pounds of products right onto the spot I happened to be walking? There had to be a mistake in the spreadsheet or-- or he *was* still in total control of the machine he'd been operating that day, and he'd still never knocked something over... not by mistake at least. But what motivation would he possibly have to take such a huge risk and intentionally injure-- The sound of the door slowly opening snapped me out of my internal debate. As I shifted my gaze to the doorway, there stood Chad. He was staring directly at me with the same, yet now far more sinister, fake smile plastered across his face... and this month's employee of the month plaque in his hands. ___ Feel free to check out r/Ryter if you'd like to read more stories that are 100% not written by an angry, ass kissing forklift driver named Chad Chadwickson.

The lab is stifling, the

The evening drags its sweaty fingers across my face, leaving dribbling trails of heat creeping into the corner of my mouth. The laboratory is stifling tonight, the air thick and stale and metallic -- the prelude to a storm. A shower. That's all I want. Clean water to rinse away this stinking walking corpse I've become. Then sleep eternal in my white cotton sheets. But there's work to do. Always is. Compounds to create. Drugs to mix. To test. The equipment around me beeps in satisfaction. Keeps pace with my heartbeat, gives rhythm to my work. *My work.* I wipe away the sweat with the sleeve of the cotton lab-coat that I wish I could take off. But regulations... Metal trembles in the corner of the room. I'd almost forgotten we've a dog to help us, but it makes itself remembered as it rams its body against its cage. Thump. Thump. Thump. Out, out, out, the animal demands. It would no doubt bark up a storm of its own, if it were able to. "Hush," I say soothingly. "You won't be kept in there much longer." It slams against the door twice more, before finally surrendering to its fate and settling down in a corner. I understand how it feels, of course. This work traps us both, until it is complete. We are both little animals caught in the grasp of life. And if our cage doors were open? Would we even leave? Would we want to, or-- "Wake up, Maddie." The voice drifts across the room, as if struggling to punch through the swampy evening air. Michael, my director, stands in the doorway, his eyes locked on me, his smile locked on him. "I'm wide awake," I reply, shaking my reverie away. "I'll be leaving soon. Can I get you anything? "I'm fine," I inform him. "Are you sure? You don't look fine." "Maybe if you could fix the damn AC, I'd look more like how I feel." He forehead creases, embarrassed. "The AC is working just fine. If anything, it's cold in here." The sweat dripping off me calls him a liar. I pause and listen, just to confirm. There is *something* in the background. But it's more like a struggling breath, than it is a pumping of air. Not enough to cool this place. And behind those noises, the chattering and crying from the neighbouring lab. "Is there something I can help you with, Mike?" He raises his hands in a faux-innocent protest. "No, nothing at all. Just wanted to see how you were doing. And to say..." He pauses and his eyes reach up to the roof as he searches there for the right words. Difficult for him. A man who inherits his wealth has little to work for. "Yes?" "Just that... It's good to have you back. I don't know what we'd do without you -- the entire programme's success is down to your expertise." Expertise. He means genius, but is reluctant to say it. And back from where, I wonder. I've not been on vacation. The last month, since my employment began... It feels like I've barely been home. "And for what it's worth," he continues uninvited, "I'm sorry. We were selfish to even put you in that position. *This* position." I nod, satisfied that he's at least admitting to the fault with the AC now. More sweat slithers from my chin and explodes like blood onto the floor. *Plop.* "Well, let's try to get it resolved quickly," I reply. His eyebrows furrow. "Get some rest soon, Maddie. Okay? Don't need anymore accidents." "There are no accidents," I reply by rote. "Right, only bad preparation. Look, just... You can't stay here for ever, Maddie. Okay?" He turns and closes the door behind him. I'm relieved he's gone. When he's near me, I somehow feel more lonely. Alone, but watched. Judged. As if he's waiting for a greatness even I can't quite achieve. "Good. Just us again," I say out-loud. To myself. Or, no, to the dog, probably. Dog... There was a dog, wasn't there? And a cage... No. There's not. Just me and my work. It's this damn heat. Everything's a haze. But if there's no dog, what do I test it on now? Ah, there it is. The night ripping itself open. I hear it, not see it. God claps his hands at my work. The rain begins its war against the metal of the building. A watery bombardment. The lights flicker. Not lightning, but the staccato of electricity mirrors the outside. Flashing blue lights. I feel a relief deep inside me. With a storm will come cooler air. This sweat stinging my eyes will stop. I'll be free of it. The equipment beeps a little slower. A lazy sleepy rhythm. There! All done. Now it is time to test. "Wake up, Maddie." The voice drifts across the room, as if struggling to punch through the swampy evening air. Michael, my director, stands in the doorway, his eyes locked on me, his smile locked on him. "I'm wide awake I say! You've come at a good time, Mike. I'm about to test it." "I don't think you should do that, Maddie. It's late and you need to leave." I run my hands over my eyes, spilling more sweat. "I'll rest when I'm dead." "Funny." "That's what jokes are. Funny." "Come out, Maddie." "I'm not ready to leave," I tell myself as I turn away. No, not myself. To the dog sitting patiently in the cage in the corner. "It's... your last chance. Lucy misses you." "*Lucy?*" A vague, fleeting familiarity. Ephemeral. Gone. Something's changed. The beeping has become continuous. Long and thin and stretched. The cage is open! Why is the cage open?! I feel something sharp sink into my thigh. My leg gives. My head thuds against the wooden worktop. I'm a pool of sweat and blood mingling on the floor. "Come back, Maddie." The dog is gone. Just darkness now, blanketing me, and the sound of thunder, and of that long stretched note drifting deep into the horizon.

Death has a way of making you

Death has a way of making you forget things. Other people's deaths, to be more specific, though I think it's safe to assume that one's own death would have a similar effect. When grandpa passed it was a pretty tough blow for the family. Grandma had gone about a decade earlier, and though she was universally loved by her extensive progeny, it was the hardest for gramps. Everyone recognized his undeclared position as patriarch, even her. When she left us it hurt, but when he left we were lost. The blow was all the harder for the fact that it happened so quickly. At the family reunion he seemed so healthy and happy, chasing his grandchildren around the yard and maintaining his five-year winning streak at horseshoes. Next morning - gone. The doctors couldn't provide any explanation satisfactory enough to quell the confusion we all felt surrounding the circumstances, but in the end the answers are never good enough, anyway. About a week later a group of us gathered with the lawyer in his office to go over the will. After providing his condolences, which were satisfactory but also had the polish of being repeated many times to many different clients over the years, he said *"Fate sure is a strange bedfellow. Indeed, indeed. Completed his will just the day prior, and had you asked me to make the morbid bet of when it would come to be of use, I would have told you the unlucky soul whom will come to be my successor would be the one reading it to you, for I would be long gone from this world. Such vitality he had. What loss, what loss."* Gramps and I were very close, closer than most of his grandchildren. Despite this, I wasn't expecting much as he was a frugal man of meager means. I was surprised to receive the summons to attend the inheritance meeting, in fact, and will admit that I felt a twinge of shame in trying to surmise what he might have gifted me. For all the various possibilities I toyed with, none were a small leather pouch filled with nine strange coins. It felt disrespectful to open the pouch too soon after the meeting and too personal to open in the presence of other family, so I placed it in my car and waited until I got home late that evening. I loosened the cord of leather which acted as a drawstring and overturned the contents onto my bed. Nine coins clinked as they fell out and a small piece of rolled parchment, sealed with a dollop of wax, followed. The coins were like nothing I have seen before or since. They were clearly not minted or mass-produced, as though each were identical in appearance there were small imperfections which betrayed that they were hand-crafted individually. They were heavy and I could not guess at the metal of which they were composed, though their color gave them the appearance of brass. On one face was a meticulously detailed relief of an hourglass. Miniscule divots, representing individual grains of sand, had been punched with some precise tool and steady hand. On the other face was the strange image of a skeletal forearm reaching upwards from the bottom of the coin and a man's strong, muscular forearm reaching down to it from the top, its fingers splayed open as if attempting to grasp the bony hand below. It reminded me of a macabre interpretation of Michelangelo's *The Creation of Adam*. I carefully broke the wax seal on the rolled parchment and unfurled it. The paper, like the leather pouch itself, had the look and smell of being quite old, and so I was very delicate. Fully extended the parchment was the size of a large receipt. I expected to find a short personal note, written by gramps and addressed to me, explaining the origin and significance of the coins and his intention in gifting them to me. Instead I found a very curious itemized list and no explanation whatsoever. At the top the words *Forty Coins* were scrawled, and beneath were a series of written lines. Each line was preceded by a date followed by a short description of an event. *November, 1943 - Makin Island. Bullet to left lung.* *January, 1944 - Anzio. Bayonet to jugular.* *June, 1944 - Normandy. Drowned.* And on it went. There were a lot of events listed during World War II, in which gramps had served, and so, in trying to determine what exactly I had inherited, I guessed that these were a type of challenge coin carried by other service members he had known that had been killed in service which he collected and kept in their memory. This theory was quickly proven false, however, as I came to several entries listed after the war. The last entry sent a shock through me. *~~May, 2001 - Midland Medical Center. Joyce.~~* Joyce was my grandmother's name. She died in May of 2001 at Midland Medical Center. Most unsettling, though, was the line scrawled through the entry. I had no idea what these coins were or what their purpose was, but knowing they were somehow linked with grandma's death and that I had inherited them through grandpa's own death, combined with their mysterious origin, gave me a deeply unsettling feeling. I rerolled the parchment and secured it with a rubber band and replaced it back in the pouch. I spread the coins out on my duvet and counted them before returning them to the pouch. *Nine*. I opened the drawer of my night stand next to my bed and shoved the pouch far to the back and didn't look at it again for a long, long time. Like I said, death has a way of making you forget things. With gramp's death, and all the grieving and family gatherings and related distractions, I forgot all about the strange leather pouch in my night stand. Time ticked by and the cut of his passing scarred over and I found new distractions to occupy my time. School. Friends. Girls. Then one girl, in particular, with a pretty smile and long legs and a thick French accent named Florence. Over summer break Flo returned home to Nice and we agreed I'd travel there to meet her and her family and let her tote me around Europe to give me a personalized tour. I was so excited about the trip and seeing Flo again I had a smile pasted on my face right up to the point where my plane crashed on takeoff. I blipped in and out of consciousness but I remember the flames and the night sky through the rent metal carcass I was still strapped within and a strange smell I would later come to realize as the scent of violent death that occurs when bits better left inside one's body are forced out. The last memory I have before everything went black was feeling the gap where my four front teeth had been securely lodged only moments earlier with my tongue and tasting blood and thinking, *"Oh well, at least I gave them one good smile before the end"*. The FAA crash investigators couldn't explain how I was the sole survivor of a crash so horrific and violent that only half the remains could be identified and those only through dental records. *"Good thing you made it,"* one nurse joked in the ICU shortly after my rescue. *"How would they have ID'd you without any teeth?"* I thought the jest was in poor taste, considering the circumstances, so I attribute my extended laughter to the drug cocktail that was being pumped into me. I've since wondered what the nurse with the twisted sense of humor would think of the fact that all four teeth regrew within a week. I may have been alive, but I was hurting. Being on summer break from school I had ample time to recover. One night, after lying in bed for days and suffering from crushing boredom, I started to rummage around my room for something to occupy my time. You know where this is going. There were only eight coins. I was confident I hadn't miscounted before. I added up all the line entries on the list and counted thirty-two, but that included the entry with grandma's name that was crossed out. That left thirty-one, and if the count of *Forty Coins* written at the top was accurate, that meant my original count was, too. It took me a long time to accept, but luckily at that moment I had nothing but time to give to the issue. The fact that I could feel new teeth growing in where none should be helped make me a believer. I followed in suit with grandpa and added the plane crash to the list. Any doubts I may have had disappeared two years later when I wish the coins wouldn't have worked. I was driving home after the bachelor party some friends and family threw in my honor to celebrate Flo and I's union with enough booze in me to get three vampires drunk when I swerved to avoid incoming traffic. I lived, but a young mother and her two children didn't. I wasted another coin trying to kill myself in shame. If it wasn't for Flo, I would have loaded a revolver and not stopped pulling the trigger until every coin was spent. Though I was drunk, traffic cameras showed I was somehow driving like I wasn't. The woman had been drinking, too, they discovered in the post-mortem, and had drifted into my lane. I was cleared of any culpability legally but I never was able to convince myself that it wasn't my fault. I still believe if I had been sober those kids would be alive today. Those two coins bought me a lesson I wish I never needed to learn, and my stomach churns every time I see those two entries on the list. I didn't spend another coin for a very long time, until our kids were grown and out of the house and Flo became sick. Towards the end, when it was clear there was nothing else that would work, I took a coin and drilled a small hole and laced a chain through it. I put it around her neck and told her to never remove it and she never did. I buried her with it still around her neck. It seemed too selfish to take it back. That's when I learned why grandma's name was crossed out on the list. And why gramps passed the day after he wrote his will and passed the coins to me. And now I pass these five coins to you. ---

Asteroid 912b7 is

"It's my birthday today," I commented dryly as I chewed on that same bland ham and cheese sandwich. Sandwich number 6288. Almost two decades gone, and I still had the rest of my life ahead of me to spend on this desolate asteroid mining platform thousands of miles from Earth or any other colonized planet. Asteroid 912b7. The home I never wanted. "Happy cakeday to me, eh?" I chuckled humorlessly. Nothing about this sentence was comfortable, and I guess that was the point. My meal spot was made from spiky asteroid rock and I was constantly tethered so as to not float off away from my empty prison. The air was unbreathable and I constantly walked around in a space suit and helmet with a microphone included as if to taunt me. The AI that helps keep the platform functioning - and happens to be the only interaction keeping me even a semblance of sane - chuckled back in her cold, robotic manner. "Ha. Ha. Happy birthday, Jonathan," she said with as much emotion as she could muster. I sighed. Patricia was fickle. On the worst of days, she was bland and idiotic and seemed to barely be able to keep the pumps and drills running smoothly. I would run around, adjusting the controls and desperately making fixes. On the best of days, we could hold a broken and forced conversation. Today sat somewhere in the middle. She seemed pensive, her answers delayed and plodding. I worried that some day she just would shut off. That's when my demise would accelerate and soon enough I would be untethering myself from the mining station and letting myself float off to die somewhere even more remote. It was a matter of time. The thought that the inevitable was inescapable was oddly comforting. "Thanks," I shrugged as I finished my sandwich. I stared out into the expanse of space, at the planets where little colonies or thriving cities went about a life full of human interaction and conversation. I stared at the stars that seemed so close but were so agonizingly far away. I stared at the other asteroids, some of which contained a human just like me, banished to this remote and desolate realm to serve out a sentence for a crime. I regretted the crime every day, that much had been accomplished at least. But lately I had been missing what could have been more than usual. Maybe that's what happens after six thousand identical breakfasts and six thousand identical lunches and six thousand identical dinners. "I wish I could see Earth one last time," I thought out loud, my statement directed at nobody in particular. My family would still be living on Earth. Maybe they would acknowledge my birthday. Maybe they thought about me from time to time, with yearning instead of scorn. "Evacuate off this stony piece of shit." "Evacuation is possible," Patricia said simply. I scoffed at first. Then I turned towards her slowly, as if she was a bear and I was snacking on some berries and any sudden movement would make her strike. Nope, nothing alive here but me. It was still Patricia, in all her steely, rhythmic beauty. She kept on drilling as she uttered those fateful words. Her multitasking was something I had resigned myself to. She could talk and pump out those precious metals at the same time, or pump out those precious metals as she drilled into the asteroid and rinsed out all the byproducts and still held a conversation. On the other hand, I could just manage to eat a sandwich and talk. It made the time go faster doing one thing at a time. I had also grown a bit dull over the years so multitasking seemed harder than ever. "Excuse me?" I ventured. She wasn't one for jokes. She wasn't one to deviate from those programmed interactions, really. She could learn, but even that was programmed. I'm sure today's technology would have made her a far more interesting conversation partner but she was almost thirty years old now and on her second convict. She was old. "Evacuation procedures have been programmed," she reported nonchalantly, as if those weren't the words I had been waiting to hear for nearly two decades. My once brown and luscious hair had grown white and thin; my beard had come and gone and come again dozens of times. I had had seventeen birthday sandwiches alone here. Seventeen candle-less celebrations. Seventeen years of solitude. "How?" I asked quietly, just above a whisper so that she could still hear me but as if there was the risk of somebody else listening. Once, maybe I would have thought they were listening. After all this time? Nobody would be wasting their time on me. "Why wouldn't you have told me this before?" "You never asked," she stated matter-of-factly. I sighed. I wouldn't get anywhere arguing with Patricia. That would be the end. She was easy to offend and anger and then she would shut down all communications and I would be left to talk to myself. "The cargo pod can be used as an evacuation capsule." It was an ugly little craft. The metals were crammed into it as densely as possible, molding into the shape of the cabin for maximum capacity. And once full it would be launched off to the nearest Aggregation Station, heated so that the metals flowed to be emptied before making its way back to me. It only ran one route, back and forth forever. It would only take me that far. "Will you be with me?" I asked shyly. Seventeen years with her. Leaving her felt... Wrong. My conscience struggled with the idea. Ironic, I know, given my charges. That cargo wouldn't have had much of a life to live anyways, but in hindsight I should have never abandoned that fiery inferno with the hold still locked. That was the cherry on top of the smuggling and trafficking charges. That's what had made the difference between working the Aggregation Station with the company of another handful of humans or working the Mining Platform on Asteroid 912b7. If she could shake her head and shed a tear, she might have now. Instead, she answered me bluntly, as I was used to. "No," she responded. Maybe she would have also called me an idiot. "I have the platform to attend to." So I would truly be alone then. Unless I succeeded. I walked cautiously over to the cargo pod once I finished my sandwich. There was no rush, after all. I had been there so long that a few more minutes made little difference. I climbed into the empty hold, wondering how many loads it had shuttled from asteroid to asteroid. I wondered if she would even hesitate to cram a load of metals into the hold on top of me, squishing me against the far wall until there was nothing left. It would be quick and almost painless, at least. "I'm ready," I told her. "Send me off." I paused, waiting for the hold to close and to be pitched into complete darkness and to be launched to a new beginning, or to an untimely end. The screech of an alarm shook me from my daydreams. "Unidentified cargo in holding area," an alarm reported. "Unidentified cargo in holding area," it repeated annoyingly. I wondered if somebody elsewhere would receive a report of the alert. "Override," I heard Patricia say. And the alarms stopped and everything was quiet again but for the whir of the drills deep below the surface. "De-schedule Fill Process," she continued and I sighed a breath of relief. I would not be crushed, as welcome an escape that would have been. "Initiate Evacuation Sequence," she said finally, her voice more soothing and welcome than it had ever been. I gave Patricia one last smile as the door to the hold closed. And then I paused. I couldn't go without her. Not after everything she had done for me. I pushed at the door. I kicked and screamed at her to let me out, the darkness closing in on me. Then the door opened and I scrambled out. "You're coming with me," I told her as I shoved into the small building that held my bed and the kitchen and a bathroom all in one open room. "I have the platform to attend to," she argued. I ignored her. I tore her from the operating center, cradling her tiny, lifeless body in my hands. Some day I would revive her so that she could enjoy the life she deserved. The drills and machinery whirred to a stop. For the first time, I basked in the absolute silence that even the lonely nights hadn't granted me as Patricia ceaselessly worked. They would definitely notice now that production had stopped. I carefully climbed back into the evacuation pod, my fingers shakily finding the handful of controls that the pod had. It didn't need more than a few to run its route. Close hold. Prepare thrusters. Launch. ***** Thanks for reading! If you enjoyed this, please check out more stories at /r/MatiWrites. Constructive criticism and advice are always appreciated!

The age of superheroes is long past

The age of superheroes is long past. At it's height, you could see men in invulnerable spandex lob buildings 'for the party' while unnaturally beautiful women weaponized the sun against any -- and *every* \-- one they didn't like. It was never the glorious time that people paint it as today, and that's because everyone like myself is either buried a thousand feet below a mountain in the most secure prison ever made, or else they are six feet under in a simple coffin. I, having seen the end of the age of superheroes long before it came, had retired and peacefully gone to the prison. When I went below, there was a vacuum-sealed elevator ride, and an incredibly through strip search. They even took samples of all my tissues and fluids. This was a mistake. Several years later one of my minions, posing as my 'wife' unfroze some of my sperm and had my child. I don't even have a wife. Don't get me wrong, I love Lucy to death. I spent my last few out-of-prison connections getting a good connection to her. The problem is simply that I'm an eighty-six year old retired supervillain with a six-year old superhero-obsessed daughter. We talk to each other every day. I help her with her homework, and every night I tell her bedtime stories. Her sixth birthday is coming up though, and she asked me for a gift. For a minute or so, I was saddened. I have no resources left, and I have nothing but my voice to give her. Of course, I'm not the smartest living supervillain for nothing, so I made a plan quickly. On the day of her sixth birthday party, my first words to her were this. "Hello Lucy! Happy Birthday! How would you like to see me face-to-face?" I was nearly deafened by the resulting squee. You see, the day before my plan had sprung into action. As the food-elevator dropped, I had one of my fellow prisoners, an electronic technopath arrested for successfully implementing communism on all electronic funds worldwide, stop it from closing its doors. I jumped in, along with an aerokinetic that could create his own ammunition. That rude young man had been arrested for holding the state of Kansas hostage with a hurricane-grade tornado. With his power, we could fill the vacuum with breathable air for long enough to get to the surface. Once there, he set out for 'vengence', whatever that would be for him. It was a suitable distraction for me to get out of the area in a stolen car. My first stop was an auto-body shop. It was a simple matter to cannibalize the vehicles and lifts there to make a rudimentary mecha. I spent a few hours painting it bright pink as well, Lucy's favorite color. In the mecha I could traverse the highway much faster without worrying about highway patrolmen. My second shop was a military base, where I stole a tank to arm and armor my mech better. I may have taken a few barrels of jet fuel as well, just for 'insurance'. With that, I began my blitz across two states. In my mech, I could outrun or dodge most attempts to stop me, and just tank those that I could not. First there was an ATV group sent after me to negotiate. "Step out of the mech with your hands up, and we will allow you to go back to prison uninjured!" "No thank you, gentlemen." And I sped off at a clip they could not match. The next encounter was a blockade on the road. I just ran around that one. Really, what did they expect? I had cannibalized several jeeps and a tank at this point, off offroading would probably be easier than onroading if I didn't need to dodge trees I had no wish to break. The final encounter was a jet plane that caught up to me as I was above the tree-line on a mountain. At first I was surprised, but after the first bomb-drop took a chunk of my armor on the head off I started paying attention. The were easily dodged, and when it started shooting instead the high-caliber rounds did nothing. Eventually, the first part of my journey came to an end. I sat in my mech in the woods behind my daugter's house waiting. My poor eighty-six year old heart could barely take it, and I had to make some make-shift heart medication to deal with the anticipation. When she finally called me, I nearly choked on the words I had waited for so long to say. "Hello Lucy! Happy Birthday! How would you like to see me face-to-face?" I had the mech stand up, and lower a hand for her to climb on. Then I opened the blast door on the side and scooped her in. She wrapped her arms around me, and I around her. We just sat like that for a few minutes, as father and daughter hugging inside death machine. Then I started the second phase of my plan. "Lucy, you know that I have to go back to prison soon, right?" "No daddy! Don't go! You just got here and I want to do something with you!" "Well, I know what we could do together..." "What!" "You could be the hero that puts me away." She sniffled a little bit, but smiled, and nodded. I turned around, and with a wicked grin, opened up the box of spare parts. I picked up the parts from some radios, some car batteries, and a dish-shaped hood ornament. With a bit of quick wiring and a blast of pink spray paint I had a microwave cannon. I handed it to Lucy with a solemn face. "Alright darling. I'm going to head downtown and start climbing the radio tower. I need you to get down there before I reach the top, and shoot the mech with this. That's the basics, and it'll get the real heroes attention on you. That's how most sidekicks get started, and from there you can do anything." I gave her a hug, and slipped a little envelope into her pocket. Then I put her down gently on her back lawn, and began heading toward the downtown radio tower. I had always wanted to pull a King Kong, and now was my chance. Better late than never, right? I stepped more carefully on the way to the tower. I only stepped on cars that were unoccupied and in poor repair besides. I never took a load-bearing wall from a building. I never did more than scare or startle anyone. This was still more than enough to have every camera in the city on me. As I reached the tower, I grabbed onto the first layer of bars and pulled the mech upward. There was a metallic groaning, but everything held. Reassured my plan would work, I plotted a course to the top. I set the mech on autopilot and looked myself over one more time. This would be the ultimate gift. I pressed the big red button in the cockpit, and took over the radio tower. "Good evening, ladies and gentlemen of Earth. You may know me as Doctor Devastation. You thought I was defeated, in retirement, in the Pit , but you were WRONG! There is no prison in the entire world which can hold me! I have come to bring a return to the Age of Superheroes, and I shall have what I desire! Watch and tremble as I send out waves throughout the entire world! I will single-handedly create more empowered people than the world has ever seen!" Then I reached the top of the tower and slammed the button again. It cut the visual feed and blasted out the best evil laugh I ever gave. In my old age I could barely get beyond an evil chuckle, but I still had a recording of the best one I ever gave. It was spine-chilling in it's timbre. Its tone was a high-pitched growl. The number of 'ha' in was just right. That was the laugh that played over the ears of every man, woman, and child with a connection to the airwaves worldwide. Then, out of nowhere, it cut out just before the final 'ha'. I looked at the cameras and saw my daughter below, blasting the shut-down signal from the device I gave her. It was only seconds after that for a blazing woman glowing like the sun had grown under her skin to tear my mech apart and knock me out with a sleeper hold. \-- -- -- -- I woke up in my cell with a massive headache. My connection was intact, and as I used it I was filled with a joy beyond anything except actually hugging my daughter. She had been taken in as a sidekick by my previous nemesis, Sun Woman. She had been the one to get me out of my mech. She was a beacon of kindness, and an all around good person. She had had every opportunity to kill me but had taken the high ground. As I sat through Lucy's interview tapes about what it was like to defeat Doctor Devastation I knew my daughter was in good hands. All that I had to do now was start planning a better gift for her high-school graduation.

The huge bald man on the bar

"How about this: I empty both ashtrays into what's left of my beer, and I mix it 'round and 'round with my index finger, and then I drink it. The whole stinking mixture. If I *don't* down every last sooty drop of it, I buy you your next round. But if I do *somehow* manage to slurp it all down, then you get me another. How does that sound, friend?" The huge bald man on the bar-stool next to me grins. He's missing a few teeth, but it somehow suits him -- maybe 'cause he's missing equally big dents out of his head. He looks from ashtray to ashtray, both over-spilling with the blackened corpses of cigarettes, then at what's left of my beer. "You're going to eat all that shit -- mixed into your beer? What if you vomit it up after?" "Same rules. I buy you your next drink. Any drink you want." His eyes wander from me to the shelf of spirits perched behind the bar. He's wondering either what's the most expensive out of them, or what's got the highest alcohol content. Doesn't matter what he chooses: I can't afford it. Only thing in my pocket is a last stick of chewing gum. His head begins to bob. "Okay, yeah you're on." He removes the cigarette that he shouldn't be smoking -- but that no one's going to tell him not to -- from his mouth, and twists the end of it into the nearest ashtray. I stare down at the long stub. "You're going to leave half your smoke?" "Yeah," he says, grin ever widening. "Problem?" "I was only going to drink ashes, not eat--" "Problem?" He sits up straight, his huge shadow darkening me, his face hard. "No. No, there's no problem. I just wasn't that hungry, but I guess I can make room." I grab the first ashtray and tip it into my drink, smacking the side to make sure all the ash falls in. There's a little plop as the half-smoked cigarette drops in, followed by a lazy stream of smoke. As I take the second ashtray, the barman turns up the TV that's hanging on the wall above him. "... Yes, Tony. That's the fourth Storm Born dead, attempting to help evacuate this area of Northern California. She didn't make it more than a mile before she stopped moving and her vitals fell. In related news, scientists widely suspect that the pathogen is man-made. Whether domestic terrorism, or foreign, remains to be--" I tune out as soon as I know the dead Storm Born ain't Susie and get on with the task at hand. "There," I say, as the debris swirls around my glass. The dry grey surface hides a turbid underbelly. The brown cigarette juts out like a ship stuck in a swamp. The big man looks into my glass and I see his face shift in disgust. Even he looks concerned. "You not going to stir it more?" "This is how I like it." I pick it up and start to gulp down the mixture, tapping a nail on the bottom of the glass to help it slide down. Tastes as bad as I imagined it would, like lumpy dry medicine, but that's okay. I get to wash it down with a refreshing beverage shortly. I wipe my lips with the back of my hand; black ash smears my skin. "There," I say. "Now where's my beer?" The man just gapes for a while. "You some kind of freak." Not sure if it's a statement or a question, I just shrug. "Mine's a Guinness." He nods at me, then grunts at the barman who reluctantly tears his eyes away from the reporter on the screen. "You going to be sick something awful tonight," the big man says as the beer is put down on the bar. "I don't get sick," I reply. "Oh yeah?" says the barman, suddenly leaning over to me, interested. He's got slicked back grease for hair, but sharp eyes and they're already studying me. The big man has turned away and is talking to his friend. Long sip. It helps loosen the ash stuck in my throat. "Yeah." "Never been ill?" the barman continues. "Nope. Not since I was a baby." His brows furrow. Then a kind of realisation dawns on his features. "You're not one... Nah, never mind. You couldn't be." "Storm Born? Only sorta. I was born in a plague, not a storm. My gifts are... different." He looks excited. "You are one of them! Holy shit, in my bar?! Why didn't you say? Rest of your drinks are on me, as long as you let me chalk up the board outside. If people know I got a Storm Born... In my bar!" He repeats the line shaking his head. "Wait till Mama hears about this." I drink my beer and drift away, only half aware of the barman's incessant talk. He wants to know where I'm from. What plague. How'd I live through it. When did I find my powers. All the usual. He doesn't want to know being born in a plague meant all my family were dead before my first full day alive was over. Or about the foster homes. Or the prisons. Or the rejection from the Storm Born themselves. People like the barman, they never want to know the real stuff. Just the fantasy of it. But then he says, still shaking his head in disbelief, something that catches my attention. "They could sure use a guy who doesn't get sick in California right now." I stop drinking and let myself chew the line over. Only for a second, mind you. Then I say, "I'm not a hero. Never was, never will be. Understand?" "Never said you were." Hands raised defensively. "Never said you were. But... I bet, with the right negotiator, they'd pay a fortune to the man who could make it to where the plague started. Find out what -- who -- created it. That's the first step to making an antidote they said on the news. It's why all the Storms are trying and dying." My beer is empty. I push the glass towards the man. He looks at me, then takes it and refills. "Just another beer. That's all I want today. Like every other day." "I get it. No problem. I'm sure you don't need the money at all." But as I'm drinking the second, and then even more-so the third, I start to wonder just how much they would pay. On my fourth, as I visit the urinals, the money aspect is strangely draining away with the some of the beer. Then on my fifth drink, my mind is a blurred, reluctant, image of Susie. I try to scribble her out, but she won't go away. Her blue eyes are still there, peering through the blackness at me. What if she tries to go in? Is she that stupid? Maybe. She did date me for a few weeks, after all. Maybe thinks she can cleanse the area with water or something. Things might have ended badly -- *very* badly -- but I still don't need her being the next dead Storm Born. "Ah shit," I say, loud enough to catch the barman's attention. "I hate California." His eyes seem to shine. "You're going? Someone from my bar is going to save the world?" "I'm going. Didn't say nothing about saving the world. But I'll tell you what, if you phone the army or the government, or whoever you need, and negotiate my payment while I think out a plan... Well, whatever you manage to get from them, I'll give you five percent of it -- if you drive me to the airport." He grins like a man who knows a secret. "Twenty percent and I'll book our plane tickets too." "Our? What do you mean our?" I glare at him, but he still grins like a clown on its birthday. "And twenty? You out of your mind? I'm the one risking my neck. Five percent or nothing." He pauses. "Ten percent, and free beers here for a year." It takes me a heartbeat to decide -- it is a shithole, after all -- but then I raise my glass to him, my face stretching to a smile. "Cheers to that."

"You'll never get away with

I never understood the theatrics. The vibrant colors, the costumes, the capes, the taglines and catch-phrases--none of it made sense to me. It served no purpose other than to distract the population from what was truly going on. No other purpose than to make the heroes look good during the interviews, to draw the average person's eye away from the destruction they had caused. That was what I theorized, anyway. It was the only idea that made sense to me as to why they would pour so much time, effort, and risk into something that was not strictly necessary. At least then their hyperbolic attitudes and gimmicks had a *purpose*. Staring at the one in front of me, however, gave a different impression. It made me think that the distraction was simply an added consequence that they had not calculated for when designing such superfluous personalities. I wondered what reason the one trapped by my machines would have given had I asked. "You'll never get away with it you know," the man in colorful fabric was saying. I had gotten into the habit of tuning out most of what the heroes said. I still listened, of course, filtering their words through the algorithms installed in my mind in case any of it was important. Normally, it was not. "I won't?" I asked, pouring in as much of a villainous human tone as I could bear. The hero stood strong, his eyes completely resolute and self-righteous. The fact that his entire body was restrained by probes I'd hooked onto his nerves didn't seem to bother the man. "No. You *won't*. All of this"--he tried to gesture around--"will come crashing down. Your *evil* plans are all but destined to fail." My eyebrows dropped as I walked closer to the man, my artificial and interchangeable face muscles morphing into an expression that I made both sinister and confused. The man forced a grin at that. He would not be as proud, I assumed, if he knew the only reason for which his life had not been ended. "Why the costume?" I started, cutting directly to the point. The hero stopped, his own face contorting in confusion. "Wha--" "Why the costume?" I asked again, cutting him off before he wasted more of my time. One of my eyebrows raised. The man glanced down at himself--at the red symbol painted on his chest and the black tights that were his calling card to the outside world. "I'm the Bell of Freedom! It is--" "Yes. I am quite aware of your name, your reputation, and your measly superpower of sonic manipulation." He froze once again, his eyebrows pulling together. "What? Why are you--" "Why the costume?" I tried again, marking only one more chance before the effort overruled the information I would gain. "It's my trademark," the man spluttered. "My symbol--how else are the citizens supposed to recognize me when I go to vanquish evil?" I narrowed my eyes. "Why should the citizens recognize you?" He blinked, trying to jerk his head backward. A single burning jab into his spinal cord halted that. "To--to give them hope!" he yelled. "To give them something to latch onto and look up to! A role model!" My head tilted back in understanding. The logic behind his emotional statements trickled into my mind and processed with everything else I knew about him. With the holiday that was celebrated in his honor. The statue they had built to his visage. The songs they had written to his name. It allowed them to support him, then. That I understood. "Why do you need to be a role model?" The man shifted, breathing hard as he tried to use his powers. My machines stopped him in quick time, but I did have to give credit to the man's determination. Eventually, he just slumped his shoulders and looked back to me. "I get respect," he rasped. "I provide them with hope and they reward me for my services. I am allowed certain..." He averted his eyes before coughing. "*Liberties* due to my status." *That* I understood even more. He was given passes under the law because of all the 'help' he had provided with the city. The kind of freedom that would be useful as a tool. A realization started in my mind, already calculating with data I had amassed in spades. As it processed, I stepped back toward the man. "You are a hero for more than your morality?" The man cringed, staring back with fierceness in his eyes that sparkled a degree of hope. Hope that was wholly unearned, but hope all the same. "I am a hero to do what is *right*." "Of course," I said. "What?" he asked, his lips curling upward. "What are you a villain for? What is this master plan you have constructed for yourself? What kind of evil are you doing this time? What--" A ping from the back of my mind allowed me to tune out his ranting. The obvious bait for me to reveal more than I intended to went easily ignored. The idea that I had come up with earlier had been processed, I realized. It had been evaluated and simulated to see how it could add to my success. And... yes. If I played it correctly, it would benefit me. Immediately, I set swafts of the machinery in my base to designing. To constructing facial muscles that were identical to the ones staring me in the eyes. To constructing devices that would be able to manipulate sound within a negligible margin of error. "TELL ME! WHAT IS YOUR PLAN?" the hero yelled as I turned my attention back to him. Somehow, I still saw confidence in his eyes as he continued to resist my machines. No matter. "None of your concern," I said and ordered my machines to end his life. He was nothing but another variable to calculate if left alive, and he was starting to get on my nerves as it was. "No!" the hero yelled. "Your evil will not be tolerated. I will--" I ended his life a split second later. With a single thought, my machines began dismantling his flesh for proper and efficient disposal. I did not need him any longer. He had played his role. The suit, however, I left intact. It was still of great use. --- /r/Palmerranian

The heroes are at leisure at Hero

It's evening at Hero HQ. The day's been quiet. The heroes are at leisure. Captain Punch is playing ping-pong against the Quickest Boy. Rudolfina the Sentient Reindeer is running laps in the gym. Lady Masterbrain is practicing her favourite trick of solving 20 Rubik's cubes while juggling them. Only The Noble Weasel, as per his paranoia, is on guard. He's in the security room with his narrow eyes darting across the charts, gauges, sensors, and cameras that pipe information to the heroes from all across the city. The sky is clear. There are no strange energy signatures. Tectonic activity is normal. Traffic is flowing smoothly. The security cameras around Hero HQ reveal nothing unusual, just the normal gaggle of tourists come to take their pictures. It has been a little too quiet of late. It's been months since the last attack on the city. The heroes aren't sure why. Captain Punch believes it's that they've been so effective in their hero work that there simply aren't any more villains. The Noble Weasel, ever-suspicious, isn't so sure. Regardless, a quiet day is a quiet day, and the Noble Weasel allows himself a rare moment of rest. And that is when a figure in the crowd throws off her cloak, fires a lightning bolt into the sky, and announces that if anybody runs, she'll cook them alive. Pandemonium ensues. People run in all directions and the figure bathes them in lightning. The Noble Weasel springs into action. He hits the alarm and all through Hero HQ klaxons sound. The heroes suit up and assemble at the launch pad. Lady Masterbrain fixes her cerebelmet in place. "Whoever this is, they're a fool." Captain Punch slams his knuckles together. "They're in for a real punching." The Quickest Boy, zipping this way and that, says, "Let's go! Let's go! Let's go!" Rudolfina the Sentient Reindeer clops her hooves quite menacingly. "Be safe, everyone," the Noble Weasel says. With a last look of trepidation at the firing tube, he hits the launch button. There's a blast like an artillery assault and the heroes shoot straight toward the ground. Moments before impact, Lady Masterbrain's inertial dampeners kick in, and, outlined in blue, the heroes come to a rest. What they find around them is carnage. Fallen tourists scatter the ground, some with their clothes still burning. The smell of ozone permeates the air. And at the center of the mess is a lone woman in a simple black jumpsuit. "Declare yourself!" Lady Masterbrain says. "For what reason have you harmed these poor people?" Captain Punch points his fist at the lone woman. "You'll be punched for this!" Oddly, the lone woman doesn't appear to have noticed the heroes. She gives her attention to a simple black device on her wrist. Rudolfina the Sentient Reindeer, who is famously short-tempered, clops her hooves even more menacingly than when she clopped them earlier. The Quickest Boy, frustrated by the lack of action, runs in a circle. "Nothing's happening! Let's go! Let's do something!" The Noble Weasel asks Lady Masterbrain, "Do we fight her?" Lady Masterbrain's powerful cerebellum pulses. "We approach, gather more information." The heroes pick their way around the fallen tourists, drawing nearer to the lone woman. Still without looking up, she taps the device on her wrist. All at once, many things happen. The first, is the tiles on the ground melt into hyper-bonding glue. All it takes is the barest point of contact between the heroes' footwear and the glue for them to be stuck in place. Beyond the, the tourists on the ground reveal themselves not to be dead. As one, they raise machine guns and fire. Lady Masterbrain and the Noble Weasel die instantly. The Quickest Boy does his best to weave between the hail of fire, but with his feet frozen in place, he can only dodge so many times before he too falls. Captain Punch survives on account of his punchy skin, while Rudolfina the Sentient Reindeer, whose powers derive from her worship of the avatar of anger, appears not to notice the bullets. Captain Punch cries out on seeing his fellow heroes fall. "You'll be punched for--" But he doesn't have a chance to finish what he was saying, as the lone woman has thrown a ball of magnesium into his open mouth. She follows this up by drawing an N-ray pistol and aiming it at his mouth. Captain Punch closes his lips tight, but still the electromagnetic energy heats the magnesium. Finally the magnesium oxidizes, and it soon cooks Captain Punch's brain. His punchy skin cannot protect him from within. This leaves Rudolfina the Sentient Reindeer, whose hooves rest so lightly on the gluey tiles that she is unaffected. She charges the lone woman. To Rudolfina's surprise, the woman spreads her arms and receives the full force of Rudolfina's charge on her chest. The wind is knocked from her, but her arms clamp onto Rudolfina, and the Sentient Reindeer is unable to shake the lone woman free as she pours lightning into Rudolfina through her arms. Rudolfina recognizes that she cannot handle the sheer intensity of the energy assault, and she gallops madly about in an attempt to get rid of the lone woman. Rudolfina's fur burns and the lightning sinks through her skin like a blistering heat. Finally, it is done, and Rudolfina falls. The lone woman falls with her, and she does not get up. Her arms are blackened, her fingers withered, and her eyes have lost their colour. The tourists, who have removed their flowery shirts to reveal simple black jumpsuits, gather around their fallen leader. "How could you have failed?" they ask. "How can we carry on without you?" The lone woman smiles, and hers is the all-knowing smile of the Buddha. "There was never a question of surviving Rudolfina," she says. "But I'm not necessary for what's to come. There are no more heroes, nor are there any villains. We've seen to that. Now go, live, and be all that you can be, free from the tyranny of the powerful." And so, the lone woman, who shall forever be nameless, passes on. ***** r/TravisTea

Some might think the backstory of the

Second attempt since the first was lost when Reddit crashed on my old assed broke dick phone. \*Some might think the backstory of the world's most effective supervillain is one of strife, loss, hatred, and vengeance. That my parents were killed in the crossfire between police and bad guys. Or were collateral damage of a superhero saving the day. Nah. Warrants and kill on sight orders notwithstanding, I think my parents did a pretty good job raising me. I'm a college grad, family man, father of two, business owner, and I've only been late on my mortgage once. I don't get to see the family as much as I'd like, but when your main office is situated a mile and a half under a dormant volcano, you don't really get the 9-5 M-F schedule most others have. I'm not in it for vengeance or some other cliche plot point. I mean, yes, I intend to rule the world, but not for the sake of power or some other line of propaganda the Heroes Alliance and the media might be pushing. Hell, I don't want to rule the world. I just don't see an alternative to unfucking the planet within my lifetime. Hopefully, I can do this before my kids are in school and they can grow up knowing dad changed the world for them.\* "I understand, Dave, but a moon based laser weapon just isn't something we're going with right now... No, it's not the cost, it's the side effects. Yes, I get that we could hold entire nations hostage... No, it's the ozone and other environmental impacts. Come up with something a little less ecological disaster and a little more surgical and we'll talk. You're the best mad scientist I've met, much less heard of, so I have faith in you. Speaking of which, are you and Faith coming over for dinner next weekend? We're doing fried chicken and karaoke. Alright, Dave. See you then." As I place the red phone back in it's cradle, I realize just how lucky I am to have my employees. Just a little under 400 people working toward a common goal and with nearly 100% retention. Then again, with the benefits, matching 401k, annual 8% pay raises, and full healthcare, it makes sense. Especially with an average tax-free income of $110,000. Even the most junior of the janitorial staff makes $85,000 minimum starting. The company picnics are always a hit, what with the office being under a tropical island. So it's no surprise that Jerry, my assistant, felt it perfectly ok to wear a, "My Boss is More Evil Than Your Boss" T-shirt for casual Friday. As he knocks, then opens the door to my semi-private office. (I believe in an open door policy most of the time unless I'm on an important call.) "Boss?" he asks with a wave of the stack of reports in his hand. "Got the weeklies. Also, just got word that topside access spotted a small aircraft flying low over the island. Airwatch didn't see them. Standard response?" Standing with a sigh, "Drop em on my desk, if you don't mind. I'll take care of them later. Get the response team to the B1 corridor. Have all nonessential shelter in place. Let the response team know I'll be up in a sec." As he closes the door to return to his desk and hit the Hero Alert, I open the somewhat out of place wardrobe beside my desk. Inside is a plain, flat grey, but very expensive set of combat armor. As I don the armor, I wonder if today's team of supers will be the same as the last two; going for the dramatic elevator entrance and ending up a red smear at the bottom of the shaft. Carl in maintenance was the one who recommended we not opt for the overhead access door for the elevator car and put the safety brakes on a shutoff switch. He's also the Employee of the Month for having disabled said brakes and cutting the cables the last two intrusion attempts. Good man. Reaching the 1st level belowground corridor a minute later, I bumped up my estimation of this group of heroes. The motion alert for the main stairwell next to the elevator was blinking in my HUD. The same as it was for the 8 members of the identically kitted response team taking up positions alongside. "Standard procedure, boys and girls. If they start flinging powers first, take them down. If they're willing to talk, we'll try to hire them. Ed, would you like the honors?" A scoff and a tilt of one of the other mirrored visors, with, "Can do, boss," a few seconds later was all I needed to hear. Chances were, they wouldn't be new hires, but with supers you could never really tell where their loyalties lay. Where they political? For God and Country? In it for the fame? Rarely, we'd meet one that was genuinely trying to make the world a better place. Even then, they were usually too set in their ways to consider working for the infamous "Midnight Warlord." Not a fan of the moniker issued by the Alliance, partly because my best work was usually between 2pm and sunset. Also, because I wasn't a warlord. Ultimately, it wasn't important. The results are what matters. As the plain steel door to the stairwell blew from it's hinges, narrowly missing Ed, it became apparent this was a dramatic entrance. We were all thoroughly entranced. The team of four brightly colored, spandex wearing heroes only solidified the assumption. How they managed to strike a pose with a strong breeze blowing out of nowhere and rippling their capes and long locks, I've never figured out. At the very front was a strong chiseled chin. Slightly behind that was the rest of the apparent leader. With red and white spandex, codpiece (why?), and blue cape, this was clearly our patriotic trope hero. Flanking either side were twin brunettes in purple and some shade of orange, respectively. At the back, was some sort of pale weightlifter... ah. His skin just turned into metal. Neat. Compared to my near-invulnerability, super strength, and the superheated jets of plasma I could shoot from my hands, not much of a threat. Still, neat. My powers were still unknown to the Alliance and the world at large, but it helps when trying to bench press a transmission into a 55 Buick. The invulnerability and strength, that is. Still haven't found a safe use for the plasma thing. "HALT, FOUL VILLAINS!" Commander Jeep Patriot, or whatever his name is, commands in a loud commanding voice. Ed straightens up a bit. "We are halted already. Also, we can hear you just fine." (Confusing Heroes is a corporate class we offer.) "ERM, YEs. I suppose you are. Nevertheless, halt your villainous ways!" Again with the herotalk. "We're not doing anything 'villainous' at the moment. How about we talk out our issues in the conference room?" Ed starts in on the pitch. "THERE'S NO ESCAPE FROM JUST- wait, what? No. NO! YOUR REIGN OF TERROR ENDS NOW!" And with that, the short-lived fight was on. Fortunately, in spite of the capes, none of them could fly. The security team in their room full of monitors and switches was on the ball today, since he'd barely finished speaking when the floor dropped out from under the head honcho. His screams were only audible for around 20 seconds, but the fall takes 30. With the other three heroes stunned into silence and 9 rail guns capable of punching through 2 feet of reinforced steel or metal skin, Ed angled for the peaceful resolution again. "Soooo... Conference room? Coffee?" Persistence occasionally pays off. Of the three, only the aptly named Metal Man decided to sign on. The other two were electrocuted in their seats as they tried to fling a pair of, no shit, ninja stars at my face. Not that it would have done any damage, but still, it's the thought that counts. With a new employee going through orientation, the topside access security guys handling the ridiculously painted VTOL aircraft on the beach, and Erika from Accounting's office birthday party in an hour, I quickly showered and changed back into my Bermuda shorts and Hawaiian shirt casual Friday combo. Monday was going to be a big day. With half a dozen small countries already under my direct control and puppet leadership in Russia, China, and over half of the Congressmen in the United States in my pocket, I was ready to move to Phase 3. Once we had the Leadership Council of the UN, we could start on organizing the heretofore corporately opposed revamp of our world's energy production and resource depletion. My team of engineers had already made significant headway in the fusion energy department, but for the near-term, nuclear seemed the most viable option. Redirecting 90% of the planet's military funding into space exploration and technology would lead to eventual harvesting of asteroids and other plentiful resources within our solar system. High efficiency farming, support for new capital ventures, and returning the economy to a precious metal-backed currency were just a few of the steps. It's a shame that the world was so fractured that nations couldn't agree on much of anything, but you play the hand you've been dealt. If some folks wouldn't get out of the way of a better future for my kids, then they were crushed. At this rate, I could go back to my preferred full time career of husband, dad, and tinkerer. Edit: Based on the responses, (huge maniacal laughter in thanks), I'm going to take this and run it into a novel, at minimum. Also, massive upvote to OP for the Writing Prompt. When it goes live on Kindle, I'll update here. Probably 2 months or so. Edit Edit: r/AVillainsTale

The first human to set foot on

"Maia, this is Hermes, over," I said over the radio, ensuring in spite of my excitement to keep using the approved name protocols. The radio crackled to life and I heard Elliot's voice coming through. He was thrilled. We all were. "Hermes, we have you loud and clear. What do you have?" The trip to Mars had been bumpy - not ours specifically but the entire Atlas project as a whole. The Electra trip had failed, the crew lost to the empty void of space. Merope had exploded during our ascent. Taygete was aborted before launch, the whole thing becoming a media scandal as tax-payer money continued to be wasted with those futile efforts. We were the only ones to have gotten this far; Maia had landed gently on the red planet, coming to a rest just a few dozen yards from the Voltaire crater, exactly as planned. I knew Sam would be right behind me. Everything had gone smoothly. I had suited up and the doors had fizzed open and then I was setting foot on the red planet, the first human to set foot on another planet since we last touched the moon, 75 years ago to the day. I hesitated. I knew we were being broadcast around the world, seizing the attention of billions like the Apollo missions had done just a few generations ago. I had said those magic words, quoting Neil Armstrong and adding my own little twist about the new frontier of interplanetary travel we had finally breached. I had switched to a private channel now. "There's a flag, over," I said simply and then I waited. The response came back a bit slower than I would have liked and I wondered what they were discussing. The safety of the mothership seemed agonizingly far away now. I was almost at the edge of the crater now and had been skipping along without worry and feeling as light as ever when I spotted the distant anomaly, a man-made object in this untouched world. Nature didn't make lines like that, not just jutting out of a lifeless planet. A chuckle came over the radio, startling me. "Funny, Hermes. Let's keep the chitchat to a minimum." I glanced back to the craft. Sam was bouncing my way and I could see her face beaming behind her helmet. Man and woman, setting foot on Mars together. My hands were clammy and I felt nauseous and out of habit checked my oxygen tank. Everything was in order. This wasn't an air intake issue. Sam was next to me now. I pointed at the flag that hung limply and for a moment she looked at me as if it was some twisted joke and then the smile vanished from her face and her eyes turned into a cold and meticulous void. "Artemis here," she said carefully over the secure channel. "Confirming the flag. Requesting immediate extraction." I gasped in spite of myself. We had set foot on Mars. By all indicators, this would be a massive success. But the mission wasn't nearly over. We couldn't leave now. We would be ridiculed back in the office. "Vetoed," I snapped and she glared at me. "There's a flag," she confirmed and this time the response from Maia was even slower. I knew they had received the message. They were talking, discussing how to approach this without including us in the conversation. "Hang tight, guys," I heard Elliot command. "We're connecting with Atlas over here, transmissions may be delayed. Please keep the line clear." We were next to the flag now, the discolored piece of fabric hanging motionless in the windless atmosphere. I reached out my hand to touch it but Sam slapped it down. That was a solid no-go. "Did the Russians beat us up here?" I joked. Nobody laughed. Nobody answered. If anybody beat us up here and they didn't share it, there must have been a reason. I glanced back at Sam. She was distracted, looking out over the horizon for either comfort or some indication of our fate. I touched the flag, unfurling it and barely making out a faded hammer and sickle. "The Soviets got here first," I murmured. She whipped back towards me, her eyes blazing like the fiery sun. "Can you repeat that, over?" I heard Elliot ask. He hadn't misheard me. He was just confirming. "There's a Soviet flag. On Mars." The radio snapped to life again and I heard Elliot's voice, this time less relaxed than I had ever heard him. "This is Maia," he said, stumbling over his words. "We are ordered to exit immediately." I glanced back at the spacecraft. It was too soon to leave. We had traveled over a hundred million miles just to run from the unknown just after landing? Elliot had to be as reluctant as me. "Over," he finished, as if just then remembering the proper protocol. "Maia, requesting reconsideration," I said pleadingly. We had just arrived after an ordeal that spanned years. To be torn away from it now was agonizing. I had trained my whole life for this. "Rejected. Atlas orders your immediate return." I shrugged. Orders were orders. If it was just Elliot telling me to go back, I might have ignored him. If I ignored the Atlas headquarters, my career was good as over. But if we went back now, we might never come back and that didn't seem like an option I could stomach either. "Copy that," I answered dejectedly. "Artemis, do you copy?" I turned back to where Sam had just stood. There was nothing there but the red sand and the seemingly endless mountains of Mars. The loneliness was overwhelming. I felt faint. The cold sweats were very much real now, beading down my back. "Maia, I have lost visual with Artemis. Requesting immediate assistance." I could almost imagine the organized chaos inside the spacecraft. We had trained for this type of event, ordered to throw it into the mix along with normal operating procedures as we prepared in the sterile Earth environment. Sometimes I was making the call, sometimes Elliot would call to me as I sat at the controls. It doesn't matter how many times you run it. When it really happens, it's hard to keep calm. My voice shook as I made my report. "Confirming request," I heard him say. "Lost visuals seconded." Fuck. Neither of us could see her. The weather was spotless, no dust storm or anything interrupting my line of sight. I snapped into motion, following her footsteps towards where she had wandered. They changed abruptly into elongated gashes as if she had been dragged off by the darkness and had planted her feet in futile resistance, disappearing into the lonely expanse. ***** Thanks for reading! If you enjoyed this, please check out more stories at /r/MatiWrites. Constructive criticism and advice are always appreciated!

A Soviet astronaut (cosmonaut

My claim to fame -- if I get out of here -- will be that I tripped over the dead body of a Soviet astronaut (cosmonaut?) -- on the frikkin' moon. Now, that might not sound like a big deal, seeing as how slow you fall down here, and how well protected I am inside my suit (it's pretty cushy), but it's kind of a unique situation because a) Hello? I'm on the frikkin' moon; b) there shouldn't be any dead bodies up here at all; c) there sure as hell shouldn't be a *cosmonaut's* dead body up here. As I was falling over, I glanced down and swear I saw a zombie reaching an arm out of the moon, trying to drag me down with it, to back below the crusty surface. You'd think that too, by the way, if you'd been here. Maybe. Guess it depends on what kind of movies you were into growing up. You see, this astronaut, he was mostly covered in moon-dust (it's really just dust, but moon dust sounds magical, don't you think?), and only the left arm of his hulky space suit stuck out from the ground, the hammer and sickle a red smudge on the grey plastic. The arm didn't budge an inch as my foot hit it -- it was rigor mortis stiff. I landed with... well not a thud exactly, but you know that sound you head makes when it hits the pillow? I landed like that. Was a big plume of dust though. A cosmonaut. Here? That... wasn't right. Static souped up my helmet until a voice cut through it. The captain's. "Becca, you still there? Your heart-beat's way too high. Whatever you're doing, slow down." "Hey, Cooper," I replied. "Quick question: you know when the uh... You remember when the Soviets landed on the moon? Like, what year was that again?" I got up and placed my hand into the dead man's. His palm was open, as if he was looking for someone to help him up. "What? Soviets? You okay there Becca? Getting enough oxygen?" "Right," I replied, pulling at the hand. "They never did land here, did they? That's what I thought." The man's arm budged. Dust cascaded off the freed up suit-shoulder. Then I leaned back for better purchase, and yanked hard, ready to uncover his torso and helmet. I stumbled back then fell again slowly, screaming this time, as the arm and shoulder came with me. And *only* the arm and shoulder. Never has someone fallen back in shock quite so slowly. It gave me plenty of time to regret everything. Being born. Signing up just to prove dad wrong. Not backing out just to prove *me* wrong. Pulling at the arm before waiting for anyone else to come... Yeah, that one was way high up the list. My vision was getting darker yet I was seeing more stars than I should have been. "Becca?! What is it? Hold on, I'm sending Michael to your coordinates." *** The arm and shoulder lay on a table, still inside its suit, in the HAB's kitchen-turned-science-lab. Not my choice of living arrangement! Bad feng shui, I suspected -- but more to the point, I didn't want corpses (and all the disgusting stuff that comes out of them), anywhere near my Nutter butters. But there were only three rooms in the HAB, and needs dictated musts. Just to be safe, I'd eaten all the Nutter butters before we'd even finished setting the HAB fully up. Michael, who had for a good half-hour of Moon time (exactly the same as Earth time, but you know... *Magical*) been leering over the body with this tool and that tool, finally pulled away and looked at Cooper and me. "It was hacked off." "Is it even real?" Cooper asked. "I mean, the Soviets can't have been here -- we'd have known." "Oh, it's real. And this design -- this suit -- it would have gone out of commission in the early sixties." "Uh, that's a problem," I said. "Because, you know, the moon landing wasn't even until the end of the sixties. As in *the* moon landing." "What have you heard back from control?" Michael asked Cooper. "Nothing yet. I let them know what we'd found, they said roger that, and they'll get back to me in a few." "When was that?" Michael asked.. Cooper glanced at the green neon clock behind him. "About an hour ago. Maybe I'll give them another buzz. I'll be back in a minute." I watched Cooper leave the room and began to puzzle this thing out in my head. Could an astronaut have fallen out of a space shuttle near earth... then floated here over the years, then gotten de-limbed and buried? Probably not, I decided. Well, I was only here to grow plants after all, not to solve mysteries. Maybe there was a simple solution. Maybe the Soviets did just beat us here. And if so... "Hey, Mike." Michael spared a look away from the lonely arm. "Hmm?" "Hacked off, did you say?" "Hacked. Yeah." He beckoned for me to come near to the body. I just took one step. "See the laceration across the suit? Up here by the shoulder." I didn't. All I could focus on was the white bit sticking out the top -- a skeleton with a little bit of leathery gray skin still stapled to it. He continued regardless. "They're uneven lacerations. Crude. And the tiny cuts there--"he pointed a finger at the top of the suit--"are very rough. Not a knife, something more makeshift. Like, ripped off metal. Part of a rover, maybe." "You think someone chopped him up and buried him? Didn't want him coming back home to earth, maybe?" "We can only speculate on the why. But yes, to answer your other question. Someone 'chopped' him up. I think that much is clear." The word mutiny started running around my head. They'd gotten here, landed, gone for a walk... Then *something* had happened to them. Their Captain wanted them to stay, maybe. But the crew didn't want to do that and so... Or maybe I'd just read one too many sea-stories. At that moment, Cooper came running in. "They're not responding," he said, eyes wide, face pale. I frowned. "Who aren't responding?" A pause. Typical of Cooper to make it as dramatic as possible. "Anyone." A shiver crept down my back even thought the HAB was warm. The pause had worked. "Maybe the satellite is out," Michael offered. "You don't get it, Mike. It's not that something's broken. They're choosing not to respond." For a few moments, as we stood dead still, the HAB was eerily silent. Any thoughts of the mutiny were fast fading from my mind. Any thoughts of the Soviet astronaut, for that matter. And instead, a new question forced its way in. Had we found something that NASA -- America -- really didn't want found? Didn't even want *known*? Something so... game changing, that they'd leave us here to die. I was already wishing I hadn't eaten all the Nutter butters.

The government was supposedly on its way

"Hey Bill," Mark said as he took a spot on the roof next to him. Bill had come out to watch the shuffling masses in the streets. They'd all seen this in movies: pale, deteriorating skin; rotten teeth around exposed gums; stiff movements as they walked; groaning as if they were always in pain. The government was supposedly on its way. The brass had told him to keep him and his people safe until help could arrive. He didn't like the tone in Mark's voice. It had a certain 'why don't we go and mess with the zombies' kind of inflection in it. The kind of thing that could unravel their little peace. "Yeah, Mark?" Bill flicked a stubbed down cigarette into the crowd. He winced at the taste. Didn't know why he still kept that old pack in his desk. The smoke had tasted worse than dead dog shit. "Have you ever noticed that the zombies want brains?" Mark's eyes widened, full of excitement at being listened to. Rookies... Bill held the bridge of nose between his thumb and forefinger. "Christ, Mark. They're zombies, yeah I noticed they want brains." The creatures down below weren't like the ones in the movies. They didn't just tear a person apart. They went straight for the head. Sure they would take a chomp out an arm, maybe nibble on a thigh, but the main course--la piece de resistance--were the brains. Their mouths had these suckers that came from the back of their throat. They could penetrate skulls like they were nothing but a flimsy Kleenex. "Well," Mark continued. His eagerness building. "Have you also noticed that they always seem to be able tell who among us is the smartest?" "The hell are you talking about?" Bill asked. "Is this some way of saying that *you* have nothing to worry about?" Mark ignored the insult. "When the invasion first hit, I was with Paul and Rebecca. Rebecca's got her masters in mathematics--our resident statistics whiz. Paul's a smart guy, but he's not chief egg-head material like she is. When us three were caught out there, making our way back, they made a bee-line straight for Rebecca. Paul and I were like chopped liver to them." As much as he hated to admit it, Bill had noticed a similar thing when he'd been caught out on the first day. It made some sense too. The boys up the chain were saying this wasn't man-made. Their working theory was that it was extra-terrestrial in origin. Some even claim they have pictures of the craft that dispersed it. *What better way of breaking down society?* Take all the smart people out first. No one will know how to fix the gadgets, run the doodads. You could come back in a generation or two to find empty or heavily weakened planet. "Okay," Bill said. He sounded tired. He felt tired, especially when talking to Mark. "If that's true, so what?" "The government says that they can wipe em all out, that they just need another week to get all their troops in position." Mark licked his lips before going on. "What if we *didn't* kill them all?" "What?" Bill shook his head. "Why the hell not?" "We could use them." Mark pointed down at the zombies. "They could sniff out who among us has the most brains. Think about it, we wouldn't have to waste time with standardized tests, which are problematic anyway--just ask Rebecca. She hates the damn things. Some people just aren't good at tests. But if we could find the next Einstein or Newton when they're just infants, think how much humanity could benefit." Bill rubbed his cheek. His hand scraped against the scruff of several days without a shave. It wasn't a terrible idea. He tried to imagine the aliens coming back in fifty or seventy years. They would expect humanity to exist only in small, barely surviving, groups. How would they react if humans found every genius and got them to work? Every one of them crammed into a lab and told to just invent. The aliens would come back in their ships to find we have plenty of our own. Could we move so fast? "I'll pass the idea on up." Bill turned away from the zombies. "But don't get too excited. The government wouldn't know a good idea if it stumbled up and bit them on the ass." Bill looked at Mark and his unwavering enthusiasm. "Well, come along. It was your idea. You might as well take the credit--or the blame." &nbsp; ** *** ** &nbsp; Bill gripped the cane and shuffled over to the window of his apartment. He'd been retired for over a decade now, but he still kept in the loop. As project head of 'Operation Prometheus', he had a direct line to operations. *The alien craft is on a direct intercept. T-minus two minutes.* The project had led to all kinds of nice inventions. Fusion. Shield tech. Advanced propulsion. The question was, would it be enough? Bill thought about the few remaining zombies that were kept alive with a sinking stomach. The project had been a success. What need did they have to keep them around? *Moving into formation*. The voice crackled from the radio. It was an old model that Bill had gotten over two decades ago. It still worked. *Alien vessels are decelerating. They aren't moving.* That's god-damned right, Bill thought. Caught them with their pants down! *They're breaking away. Full retreat. They don't have the stomach for a real fight!* Bill slapped a wrinkled hand on his knee. "Scared the living piss out of em!" *Their hyper-drives are engaging. Releasing stealth missiles. Impact confirmed. T-virus successfully planted into alien vessels.* The radio turned to static from all the cheering. Bill stared at his window, trying to judge if he had any misgivings for humans giving the virus back to the aliens. He'd seen countless friends and colleagues die those first couple of days. Even after fifty years, he occasionally dreamed about their deaths. Was it right to pass this on to the aliens? He shrugged. Screw 'em. They started this. --------- &nbsp; /r/StevenLee.

Emperor wanted subjects to see him as

The commander looked at the holographic image, shocked. "What are they doing?" "Fighting against the horde." His second in command, Trax, stated. "I can see that. But why aren't they fleeing? Dyeing, scared?" "I was wondering that too and I had one of our men do some more reconnaissance. It appears this planet has a rich culture in fighting the undead." Now he was beginning to have doubts. This was the first planet to fight their dearly departed. Could this plan still work? This planet was a strategic placement for mining and farming corporations that would help the empire in it's expansion. If they lose a vital foothold they'd have to waste their own valuable troops to take it and that wasn't what the Emperor wanted. He wanted subjects indebted to him. He wanted them to see him as a God, a saviour. Not a conqueror or a tyrant. If they idolized him he'd have no resistance in his empire. Something about this bugged him. The undead were overtaking them, slowly. But they were detecting large pings from the planet reaching out into space. Couple of days ago those had been directed right at the ship. "Sir!" The communication officer approached nervously. "Ambassador Jix is entering the planets atmosphere." His heart almost stopped out of fear. "Tell him to fall back until I give the go ahead." "He said you were taking too long that we would have missed an opportunity, Sir." No. "Tell him to turn back!" "He shut down his comms." "Get me one of the drone feeds, Where is he landing?" The officer ran off and the commander switched the holograph for the awaiting drone nearest the vessel. In moments he had video feed. It was a prairie where a large collection of the planets natives had erected shelter and a fence along the edge. He could see that the majority of the residents had left the safety of their camp to see what the angular vessel landing at their doorstep was. All were armed. No. "Kop!" The communication officer hurried back. "That's part of their military. They've cobbled together what survivors they could and forced them to fight." Ambassador Jix stepped out from the ship. Environmental suit on and opening greetings to the humans with arm waves and gestures. They raised their guns. No! Ambassador Jix fell in a mess of blood and guts as he was shred to bits by their primitive weaponry. "Retrieve that ship!" He ordered. "Scramble the troops! We're landing!" "But that goes against the Emporers directive!" Trax countered. "They know it was us! Now land!" On the display the humans were forcing themselves into the ship. Ambassador's Jix's ship was a top of the line model cruise ship. A private ship for anyone favoured by the emperor. It had the latest warp technology and a few onboard weapon systems for pirates. Every piece of tech onboard was beyond human engineering. His greatest fear was it falling into the wrong hands. He'd destroy it as a final option. Right now it had a running crew of five onboard and two associates of Jix's who were amongst the higher-ups. They die it would be his ass. The ship tilted, and there was that momentary lapse in gravity as the grav drive adjusted to their new course. He'd get their ship within firing range and send down troop transports first. "Sir!" A crew member manning the Radar called. "We're detecting an energy signature. It's course crosses with ours." "Fighters?" "No life signs. Though I am detecting radioactivity." A nuke? Those were supposed to be banned according to their laws. Why do they have nukes? "Evasive maneuvers! Keep us out of the blast radius!" He mashed a button on the comms unit. "Everyone, prepare for close proximity detonation. Gunner crews, target the missile stellar north of our position!" [Break] (Writing on phone. Keeping things separate) "Then what happened, Commander?" The emperor said stiffly. He'd heard this tone before when he was angry. "Nuke detonated just short of us." He shivered from his place on the floor, he'd been on his knees, kissing the ground as he recalled things. "Humans took off with the Ambassador's ship. We were forced to retreat from extensive damage." He heard the throne shift as the emperor stood. His words choked in his throat. "And?" "We were unable to retrieve any survivors. But the infected are still..." He stopped at the first step his master took. "How did they know it was us?" He held back a sob. He was dead, he knew it. "The planet, has rather, numerous monitoring devices. There's at least one on every person. When our drones delivered the virus... it was caught on multiple recordings and spread over media platforms." Another step. "What else did you fail to do?" "Proper gathering of intel. Assessment of the planets arsenal, level of technology, and political system." A cold hand rested on his head. He trembled uncontrollably as the emperor caressed his head. "You know something, commander?" The emperor purred. "You've done the same strategy to twenty systems. All of which were properly executed. Not once have you accepted a promotion from fleet commander, because you didn't like sitting behind a desk, while someone else did the work for you. It was your job, and you pulled it off twenty times. Except one." The emperor stood. "I will grant you one chance at redemption. Take the remainder of your fleet and annihilate the planet and its inhabitants." "You're not going to assimilate them?" He wanted to hit himself for asking. "They know what we are. They cannot be accepted. Wipe them out. You will gather your men and depart by the end of the rotation." It would take another cycle to get back to earth. One whole circle around their sun. "It will be done, my lord." He went to stand but the emperor wasn't done. "I expect this to be done without incident. If you return with more failure, I will hang your skinned corpse with the traitors and rebels." [break] They were approaching Jupiter with a compliment of fifty destroyers and ten troop transports and enough ordinance to cleanse a solar system. They were soon to join up with the initial fleet first sent to spread the infected, it consisted of two troop transports, five destroyers, and the now gone ambassador ship. The commander was feeling confident they could take the humans. Even carrying high hopes that they wouldn't have to get up close and personal. Just bomb the planet from orbit, and leave it a radioactive wasteland. When he had been called back to the emperor, his second in command had stayed behind and ran through more intensive reconnaissance and surveillance. When he had been between systems, Trax told him that the journey back home had been twenty-five earth years. His last message had been about the infected being wiped out, which mattered very little at this point. That had been at the end of the rotation. Without warp technology, they probably would have reached earth at the end of his life cycle. So the emperor's order would have been a death sentence either way for him and his crew. "Kop." The commander approached the officer. "Message Trax and alert him to our presence." A few minutes later the officer approached with the same worried expression as when Ambassador Jix stupidly landed on the planet. "There is no signal from Trax's ship. Nor any from the initial advance on the planet." Oh shit. "Where was his ship last reported?" "Orbiting around Jupiter, sir." "Sir!" A crew member alerted. "I'm detecting ships on the radar." "How many and how close?" When he heard the reply he felt all his blood drain. "Hundreds of frigates approaching from earth. Too far for an accurate scan on class and size- ...they just warped!" In front of them, huge warships filled their view. Hundreds of them. He mashed the comms unit and barked the order to prepare for battle. Then another warning from the crew member. "More ships warped in from behind! More now! We're being flanked!" "Sir! We got multiple energy signatures coming from enemy vessels!" [break] Admiral Chan of the space navy watched the invaders fleet burn up in nuclear fire. Sixty warships reduced to scrap before his eyes. He eased back in his chair. The remnants of the human race was now in space, and so long as these monsters continued to plague the universe, they'd never be safe. "Lieutenant. Set course for the alien home world." The end.

Satan took daily briefings on matters that

**Part I - Sympathy for the Devil's Day Job** Satan took a puff from his cigarette, staring in the direction of but not particularly focused on the underling before him as the demon nervously read through a long list of earthly happenings. None of it was particularly interesting, but he was, after all, the Lord of Darkness and just as any good leader should, Satan took near daily briefings on matters that most affected his domain. Lately these briefings had grown particularly repetitive. The Russians were meddling in some country's affairs, the North Koreans were rattling their sabers, the Brits were busy trying to determine how most politely to tell the other Europeans to fuck off while simultaneously devastating their own economy, the Americans... we'll let's not get started on the Americans. The thing about being the Lord of Darkness is that both halves of the job are equally important - the Darkness mattered very much, yes, but so did the *Lord* bit of it. Lordship necessitates hierarchy, and hierarchy necessitates order, so despite what you may have heard about him, Satan absolutely abhorred chaos. He liked his "evil," if you must use that four letter word, to be structured. "...and then he tweeted that he was one of the greatest golfers in the *hestory* of all time" the demon said, emphasizing the misspelling, "that Tiger Woods totally agreed with him, and that *Angelar* Merkel was insulting all the country's troops for not approving the golf course." "Ugh," Satan groaned, a thick pillar of smoke escaping from between his teeth. "Did she even have any authority to approve the course?" "Not particularly." "Fucking hell," was all the exasperated dark lord could muster. He should be enjoying this - an international incident caused by the pettiness of one buffoon who'd gotten too big for his britches - but the chaos, the god damned *chaos* was too much to bear. There was no method, no grand design, no *finesse*, just the basest of human emotions and complete, utter disarray. "Please tell me you have some good news." "Good news, sire?" the demon inquired, his already shaky voice rising several octaves. "You know damned well what I mean," Satan fumed before slouching back in his throne. "Well, it appears some humans have developed a new fetish, and this one's particularly creepy." "Ugh." "Uh, well, let's see," the demon fumbled with his long trail of paper, carefully trying to skip ahead several page lengths without accidentally dragging any of the cumbersome scroll into the multitude of open fires around him. "There's, there's a war on in the Middle East!" "Hrmph. There's always a war on in the Middle East. What's so special about this one?" He tossed his cigarette to the ground, landing it just an inch shy of the scared minion's feet. The demon winced. "Um, well, you see, umm... nothing, I suppose, my lord." Satan grasped his forehead, massaging the space between his horns with one hand as he dragged himself back into a proper posture with the other, all the while training his vision on the discarded cigarette. Truth be told it wasn't actually a cigarette, just a stick of ash that smoldered from the heat of the prince of hellfire's own breath. Satan didn't like the taste of tobacco, but he did think smoking would make him look cool - an important consideration for most anyone who relies on their charisma to get things done - and he was rather a big fan of lung cancer. It was a deadly disease largely caused by a human's own intentional actions, and one that could easily be avoided, yet humans kept doing it to themselves. Now *that* is how you introduce so called "evil" into the world. Every smoker's story has a cause and an effect, a beginning, middle, and end, and that end was entirely their own doing. It's poetic, really, the dark lord told himself, without an ounce of that awful *chaos* nonsense. And so, he would from time to time pluck a sprig of ash, as they were the only trees God would let grow in hell (a joke, to be sure, and one that Lucifer regularly grumbled to himself about), then let it slowly burn betwixt his lips. "What else?" "Well, um, you see the Canadians -" "Next!" Lucifer slumped forward. Whatever it was, it may have been bad by Canadian standards, but those standards were almost invariably leagues apart from his own. This was probably just some small argument over a perceived impoliteness, or perhaps a tax on maple syrup, he assured himself. "Uh, yes, um, well, the letters are here." "Letters?" Satan perked up, his eyes alight as much with excitement as they were the reflections of hellfire. "Do you mean?.." "Yes sir, it's almost that time of year." Satan leaped from his throne, knocking the poor demon onto his hind quarters and accidentally casting the oversized scroll into the nearest pillar of flame. This time it was the demon who let loose an audible gasp of disappointment; he had worked quite literally all day on that list. "Come on, Halphas, get up! No time to doddle," said a visibly gleeful devil. "Oh wait, one more thing!" Satan exclaimed as he sauntered back to his throne, reaching behind it to pull out a small box wrapped in red and green paper. "Here you are," he said, handing the package to Halphas as the demon pulled himself off the hard stone floor. Halphas carefully peeled back the paper while Satan looked on with equal parts delight and anticipation. "Is this?" "Yes! It's an iPad! No more dragging that unruly mass of highly flammable paper around a realm engulfed in flame. From now on, when we trudge through these dreadful briefings you'll be scrolling through your list on a simple, manageable tablet! And if the battery happens to die before you finish, so be it." "But sir, you love the paper list. All those trees - the destruction, deforestation, the carbon footprint, the-" "Relax. CVS has that all covered now. And, after all, it's Christmas!" the Lord of Darkness exclaimed with a toothy grin. "Now come along, we have preparations to make!" he declared, practically dancing toward the mailroom. \--- Thank you for reading. This was my first creative piece in a long, long time. It's nothing special, and derivative, I'm sure, but it was nice to get those creative juices flowing again. If there's any appetite for it, I'll try to write a part two in the next couple days. ***Edit:*** Part II has been posted below. Anyone wanna tell me how I link directly to comments to make it easier to find in case this thread grows?

Satan looked over stack of letters at

*Dear Satan: For Chisrtmas this year I want a trisikl. Adn a pony.* *Dare Satan, tahnks for my doly last yaer. Tihs year I wuld like a fone!* *Der Satan, I..." "Uh, sir?" Satan looked over the stack of letters at his lackey, bowing at his feet. "This had better be important." He was never to be disturbed in his office, unless it was desperately important. "Uh, sort of, sir. Those letters you asked about? The ones you wanted me to send?" The poor thing was shaking like a leaf. He'd get used to it. There was a significant heap of paper in the creature's arms. "Yes, I asked you to send them to the... correct recipient." Santa. Fluffy, smiling bastard. Satan leaned back in his chair. What was so special about a fat man with a magic sleigh, anyway? "About that, sir, they, um, can't be delivered." The lackey winced, as if he was afraid he'd be punished on the spot. "What do you mean?" "Well, sir, most of them are from previous years." "Years! What do I care about mortal, human years?" Human years were of little significance to Satan. He had a *business* to run. "Well, one of the letters you asked us to send to Santa was from Billy, in 1956. And Laura, in 1978." "And?" He was growing annoyed. Was there a point, to this? He was busy. Very busy. "Sir, it's 2019 up there. Billy's a grandpa now. I don't think he needs a BB gun anymore. Sir. And Laura is dead. She's up top." He pointed upwards, as if his master had no idea what he was talking about. "Fine, fine. Keep them together. Anything from this year, set it aside." "Certainly sir, but, some of us were wondering, sir, what you wanted us to do with them?" He handed Satan a small stack of letters, all dated from decades before. "The same thing I asked before. Send them to Santa." "B-but... why?" His lackey stuttered. "What you care about the whims of small human children? So what if they don't get a..." "It is not for **you** to decide **why**." He puffed up his chest, made himself grow a few feet. Put on a show. "You'll do it because you're ordered to, or you'll see what happens when you disobey me." "Of course, sir. I'll be back for the ones you're reading shortly." The lackey bowed, backing away, grateful to be leaving intact. "Wait, wait..." He had a thought. "Bring back some of the older ones. Billy, or whoever. The new ones we'll send on the way. A child who feels slighted by Santa will be upset. A child whose only problem so far is their inability to put letters in the right places... they're not sinners, really. They may develop problems, feel like an outcast. That's when they give in to sin. When they feel forgotten. If I am responsible for causing the sinner to sin, it's boring. I'm over that now. Let them grow up to be heathens without my interference, so that they deserve their place in Hell." His lackey's eyes were twice as wide, but he did not object, only nodded and left the chambers. Satan knew that within moments, half of Hell would know. That was fine. Naysayers would be vaporized. Slowly. See, Satan had recently had a revelation. He could be the devil on your shoulder, he could whisper dark secrets into your ear. But then he was just coercing otherwise normal humans to do his bidding. Where was the fun in that? Why work so hard? The world was full of plenty of sinners, more and more every day. And while God had relaxed his rules a little, his followers seemed to have gone in the opposite direction, spitting hatred and lies to others, harming those who were different than they. Those "believers" ended up down here, where they had a nice cup of coffee before - oh, that was a funny joke! They went immediately to their eternal punishment. Damnation for casting aside their fellow humans based on some silly old book. Murderers tortured, creeps castrated, that was his specialty. He took no joy out of punishing those who only sinned because he *told* them to. God had, reluctantly, agreed to Satan's plan to send the letters back to Santa. In retrospect, the man upstairs *had* mentioned something about the passage of time, and children growing into adults, but Satan was already bored stiff, and all that air-conditioning in Heaven was uncomfortable. So he left before God could finish speaking. *God*, he was annoying. He wasn't sure how Santa would react. Confused? Elated? Who cared! Satan would get to stop seeing depressed kids whose only sin was envy. Making a politician feel every bit of pain they'd caused others would be much more enjoyable. *Dyslexia.* That's what they called it. Just a few kids who couldn't get things in the right order. That wasn't their fault. And yes, he was known for the fire and brimstone, the spikes and the chains and the screaming, and that was all well and good. But sending a little mail and confusing the man known as Santa Claus could be a bit of a laugh too, if he liked. He could just imagine one of those puny, stupid elves shuffling up to Santa in their silly little shoes. *Santa! Letters, sir! From Satan!* It was almost enough to laugh at. He supposed he really had no reason to love the letters. It's just that they were *so* fun. For every pony, he considered sending a hellhound. For every doll, he considered sending a demon. But he didn't. He opened the letter at the top of the pile, he was due for another laugh. This one was dated only last year, to his surprise. *Dare Satan: My mommy says yuo hav maigc! I wish daddy wuould go AWAY I get sacred when he yells :( I don't liek wen he hits mommy. He is never eevr nice. He hits me too sometiems. Plaese make him go aawy. It's all I wnat. Lvoe, Ally S* Satan stared at the paper for an extra moment. *Make daddy go away.* That's what she wanted. Her abusive father to disappear. That, he could handle. Satan closed his eyes, summoned his strongest powers. He didn't usually like doing these kinds of things, he was meant to wait for people to come to him. But every now and again, he was called to action by a particularly awful sort of person. He wondered if his gift for "finding" people was similar to Santas. *Ally S*. This was her home. It was filthy, full of beer bottles and cigarette trays, men's things all over the house with no regard for cleanliness. The house stank of a man who cared only for himself. And there, at the table, was the girl.. She was six years old, curly brown hair. She was sitting at the table with her mother and father. At first, he only saw the father's face over Ally's head - a grimace if he'd ever seen one, mean eyes, strong arms. Then the mother - petite, weak, a small cut on her cheek that looked very new. Then Ally herself. She was wearing a tattered dress, her eyes cast down at her plate, which hadn't been touched. There were several bruises in a line, right down her skinny little arm. There was a fire in the fireplace. A barren fake Christmas tree with no ornaments. A sports game of some kind was on the TV, which was the only thing the father looked at. The mother reached up to her face, wiping a tear from the a near her cut. She reached for her fork, tentatively, but the man beside her threw his hand back so fast, Satan barely saw it. The fork went flying across the room, knocking over dishes and breaking things. The cut on the woman's cheek opened up again, and there was blood down to her chin. *See what you made me do? Clean it up!* The father stood, getting into the mother's face, spittle flying onto her cheek. There were tears. Ally looked terrified. The mother quickly left to clean things up while the husband kept eating. When she returned to the table, she did so silently, and did not attempt to eat again. He wasn't used to granting wishes, but this one he would do gladly. He focused on the father, who was shoveling food into his mouth with no care for his small family. On his next bite, he happened to start choking. Not on food, though that's how it might look to the girls. No, Satan was slowly squeezing the life out of him.He finished the job and watched the father fall to the floor, his eyes unmoving. The mother hadn't moved a muscle. Ally was crying in her seat, but had also made no move to save him. Good. Their hands were clean. They were safe. He slowly came back to Hell, watching the girls fade away. They could handle themselves now. His eyes flickered open, landing on the stack of letters. The creatures that worked for him may have seen no value in these, but suddenly, Satan saw an... opportunity. He started rifling through the letters, picking out some that met the right criteria - he would find letters like Ally's. He would make their lives better - and gain himself a few new souls, as well. Not just with the old letters, but the new ones. Santa sure wasn't going to crush Ally's shitty fathers windpipe, but *Satan*, he'd do just that. *Take that, fat man.* Satan smirked. *I can grant a few wishes of my own.*

The spikes jutted up from

The spikes were what did it. A white picket fence is good and all, especially when paired with an immaculate lawn and neat garden beds filled to the brim with daffodils and lilies. Red bricks too, with wide, open windows and a welcome mat that actually said 'welcome' rather than spouting some amusing turn of phrase. But those spikes... They just jutted up from the roof with seemingly no purpose whatsoever. Antenna perhaps? They didn't look like any Jade had seen before. "Hey, sweetie--" she began to ask. "Don't call me sweetie Mom! It's embarrassing," her son interrupted, the look of righteous indignation adorable on his sweet little face. "Oh. Sorry, *Jack*, has Lily ever told you about her parents?" He frowned. "Um, I don't know. It's just her Mom, I think. Come on, we're gonna be late!" Jade sighed internally at that, and hoped that if her son was right, this was one of the times that single parentage came from a positive place, rather than tragedy. Jack had come far earlier in her life than she might have wished, and though his father had remained around to help out from a distance, the two of them had never been cut out as life partners. She rang the doorbell, feeling the satisfying *click* as the button was pressed. *Ding dong! Ding dong! Ding dong!* A dark silhouette was briefly visible behind heavily frosted glass, and then the door opened. A woman stood behind it, smiling genuinely despite the exhaustion evident in slump of her figure, in the dark shadows that touched at her eyes from below. Jade froze, then her hand snapped out with superhuman speed to grasp at the back of Jack's shirt, and he yelped in surprise as she pulled him behind her. The woman blinked, visibly shrugging off her grogginess in an instant as she caught that extra ordinary motion. "Get back!" she shouted out, her eyes widening with recognition. Jade saw a small figure peaking around the woman's legs, long hair twisting between delicate fingers. *Lily* she thought, and watched with morbid interest as the woman before her ushered the girl back without ever taking her eyes off Jade. It was like watching a tiger feed a bloody carcass to its cub, strangely endearing to see but also horrifying to understand that a killer could still love. If it weren't for the spikes, she probably never would have recognised the woman. But she'd seen them, and in seeing them had been put in just the right frame of mind. Her... nemesis, if such a word could ever truthfully be used to describe a person, was fond of the things, infamous for decorating her costumes and machines with them to an almost comical effect. She'd always been one of those supers to make do with a simple domino mask, despite the inherit dangers to revealing her identity, and so the face in front of her was just familiar enough to know. Before Jade, standing in all her domestic glory, stood a villain known as Gadget--the hero killer, the death of cities, the ghost in the machine. They stood as mirrors to each other, each poised to fight but each unwilling to do so with their children so close at hand. "Ah," Gadget said, eyes flicking around rapidly as if searching for the rest of the heroic team that must surely be around. "It's... you. Isn't it? Shiiii--dang, it is. This is... unexpected." "As if you didn't plan this!" Jade spat back accusingly, but almost immediately began to doubt her own words. Gadget was famous for being prepared for almost any situation, but right here, right now... she seemed entirely out of her element. Though it could, of course, be an act. *I could take her...* Jade suddenly realised. Gadget wasn't wearing a mech suit, or a shield belt or any of the other hundred things she used to protect herself from heroes. It would be so easy... As long as she was willing to fight the villain in front of her own daughter, and Jack too. "Um," Gadget said, sounding unsure. "What... ah, what happens now?" "Mommy?" Jack asked, staring at Jade with hurt eyes. "What's wrong?" "Nothing sweetie," she said, and he didn't contradict that fond moniker now. "Nothing at all. But, go back to the car Jack, please." "But whhhhhy?" "*Because I told you so!"* "But--" "*Now*, Jack." Under protest, he did, and Gadget similarly sent Lily to her room. "Ok," Jade said, feeling a little better now the children were away from harm. "Ok. Now, we're going to do this cleanly, and calmly. You have the right--" "Woa!" Gadget exclaimed, holding up a hand. "You can't arrest me, not in my own damn house!" "Ha," Jade said, speaking the laugh aloud as a word. "And why not?" "Cause of the cameras!" Gadget replied, pointing up at the ceiling of the veranda. There, undeniably, was a small device pointing down, lens glinting in the morning sun. "You take me away, those videos go public and your secret identity goes *poof*. Everyone'll know your face!" Jade let out a breath. "They'll know your face too." Gadget let out an amused breath. "Like that matters if I'm arrested." "Maybe that's worth it, to bring you in." Gadget laughed, and the weariness that Jade had seen before seeped back in. "Maybe if the world was just me and you, but it aint. I'm not the only one who's out to get ya, and you *know it*. If they see your face, that means they can figure out who Jack is,"--Jade winced at her son's name being spoken aloud by the techno horror--"and you really think they'd hesitate a second before *using that*? Back off bitch, I got you." "But... but you're the *hero killer*. Voltr, The Bear, Tiny Man... they're all gone because of *you*. I can't let you go..." Gadget grimaced, turning away slightly. "I never wanted them dead. They just... they just kept coming. What was I supposed to do, just give up when I was winning?" "Yes!" Jade exclaimed. "How were their lives worth less than your... your schemes!" "Because my 'schemes' will save the world!" "Or destroy it!" "At least I'm trying a proper fix! All you goody idiots do is throw bandaids at rivers of blood, buying just another day. The days are going to run out eventually, and you *know that*." A silence settled down upon the two superhumans as they realised the conversation wasn't going anywhere--both were too set in their ways. In this quiet moment, they heard the happy laughter of children coming from the yard. Lily must have snuck out, because she'd gone to Jack and let him out of the car. Now they played tag on the grass, laughing because Jack had tripped over one of the garden beds and was now lying on his back amidst the flowers. His smile was as bright as she'd ever seen it. Jade sighed, watching the two children with the eye of someone who would have to clean out the dirt that would inevitably be trodden into her car. "How about," Gadget said slowly, watching with her own strangely gentle expression. "How about we have tea, and talk? That's all I ever really wanted, and it beats the hell out of ruining *their* day, don't it?" "I... I guess," Jade acquiesced, after a moment of uncertain consideration. She lowered her outstretched hand. "But screw tea, I need a coffee." ---

"What did he look like?"

I had heard the story a hundred times. Maybe more. And still I insisted that my dad tell the story again, testing the deepest crevasses of his memory. "What did he look like?" I asked this time. I knew it pained him to talk about my birth, especially given all that happened to mom. It couldn't be easy, losing the person you loved most like that. I knew the pain. I had lost her, too. Not just that once, but a thousand times. I had relived it, his story bringing it to life for me. I think he blamed me for it a little, too. Unfairly, of course. I couldn't control if some futuristic maniac tried to kill new-born me. I couldn't even keep my head up at that age, much less orchestrate my mother's murder like some sort of misfiring Bond villain. We had discussed so many possible motivations, ranging from the reasonable, like maybe I triggered the apocalypse some day, to the unreasonable, like maybe it was some sort of futuristic gang initiation gone wrong. Nothing quite clicked. Nothing answered all the questions, at least not to my satisfaction. My dad shrugged and gave me that resigned look. He was reluctant, as always. "A lot like you and me, I guess." I raised my eyebrows, prompting him to continue. He sighed. "He was dressed just like we are. Had the stubble of somebody who hasn't shaved in a few days. Two ears, two eyes, two noses." I rolled my eyes. He always added something stupid, trying to lighten the mood or change the subject and see if I was paying as much attention as I always did. Of course I was. It was life or death for me, in case they came back. He only had one nose, for the record. Just like me and my dad. "Why do you even care so much? They haven't been back for you." That was true. It had been eighteen years and nobody else had appeared from a portal trying to kill me. The man had been shot on the spot by a security guard. Moments too late, as he had already fired off his shot and killed my mother. But then instead of laying there like one would expect, he just sort of... Dissolved. Like he no longer belonged at this point in time, and then he was gone, along with the portal that closed back into the wall, rendering itself inaccessible to my startled and scarred father. And my mother lay there bleeding out of two holes, one where I came out of and one where the bullet entered. In spite of being shot in the best place possible - where else would you have hundreds of doctors that might save you if not the hospital? - she died a couple days later from complications. The bullet had shattered, wrecking her insides more than even a baby could. That was a shot meant to kill. It was meant to kill me. I shifted uncomfortably. In the last eighteen years, nobody else had appeared and tried to kill me. But another portal had appeared. It was late one evening, dad was out on the town chasing some tail. His words, not mine. I prefer "dating" or "getting rejected" or "embarrassing himself". I was watching TV in the living room, shoes on the ottoman and a bag of chips on the couch beside me. Plans had fallen through at the last minute, as they always did. It was my fault again, not really feeling the motivation to get up off that couch and drive to a friend's house. I had felt the portal first, something like an electrical discharge flitting about the room, trying to find a spot to land. And then it had opened, and out had stepped a woman dressed just like anybody nowadays. She couldn't have been that far in the future if they were still dressed like that. She was in a light-blue dress, her makeup ready as if she was about to go on a date. She was pretty; the kind of pretty you might not notice at first glance but once you get to know her she starts to take your breath away. "It's you," she said, looking at me with a hint of disappointment and a bit too much familiarity. I didn't know how she knew me because I sure as hell didn't know her, or anybody else from the future for that matter. She turned as if to step right back into the portal. "Wait," I said breathlessly, still in awe about the appearance of another portal right there in the living room. The TV was playing some rerun of That 70s Show and Eric was droning incessantly about something. I muted him. She glanced back towards me, maybe surprised that I wasn't more wary of a time traveler after my previous experience. "Who are you? And what do you want from me?" She shook her head. "I don't want anything from you anymore," she said with a disheartened shrug and a resigned look. It was a familiar shrug, much like the one my father would give me when I pushed him to tell me the story one more time or the shrug I would give a friend when they would elbow my ribs and beg for a reaction to some immature joke. Our actions eventually resemble those of the people around us, that's inevitable. Kids mimic their parents who have over time started to mimic each other. It's natural. "Then why are you here? And do you know the man who tried to kill me?" She looked sad now, as if she knew the man and missed him very much. "I was here looking for you... Well, for him. It didn't go as planned, as always." She said it with the patience of the mother of an ill-behaved child or the wife of a flaky and unreliable man. "I survived, if that's what you mean." I said it proudly, shoving in her face that I was still here. Still fighting life, one day at a time, time-traveling killers be damned. She nodded sadly. "I know. That's too bad." I glowered at her, angry that she was implying that my death would have somehow been better. "Did you know him?" She nodded again, giving me a woeful smile. "Of course I did," she answered, as if it was the most obvious thing in the world. "You know him, too." And with that she disappeared back into the portal, leaving me grasping at answers that I couldn't get and wondering who in my life might one day try to kill me at birth. ***** Thanks for reading! If you enjoyed this, please check out more stories at /r/MatiWrites. Constructive criticism and advice are always appreciated!

Joshua, 23, was a nobody

It'd never made sense to Joshua as to why someone would want to kill him. Even now, at 23, he was a nobody. He'd never accomplished anything. He'd never screwed someone over. Hell, he doubted he'd ever made a lasting impression on anyone. But even though he was nothing special, he had one thing going for him. Joshua, according to himself, was rather lucky. Not lucky in the "win the lottery" sense of the word, but more in a "glad that didn't happen to me" way. Except for the fact that his mother died at an early age, nothing incredibly bad had ever happened to Joshua, while many horrible things seemed to happen to everyone else all the time. For example, yesterday, while Joshua was visiting a restaurant, a man who had brushed by him while getting to his own table had received a phone call a little later. The man had exclaimed: "What do you mean, 'the money is gone!?'". Later that night Joshua found out that one of the country's major banks had had a malfunction of humongous proportions and had lost the money from 5% of all its clients. Joshua was also one of the bank's clients, but he wasn't part of that 5%. He sure was lucky. Perhaps someone was jealous of his luck and wanted to kill him because of it? No, that wouldn't make any sense. How would anyone even know he was this lucky? Anyway, today Joshua was visiting the Science of the Future symposium. He'd always had a thing for science. Not that he was any good at it himself, but he loved to read about it and see what new things people had come up with this time. This year's symposium was tipped to be one of the big ones. Multiple renowned scientists would be presenting their discoveries this year and the excitement was palpable in and around the exhibition center. There were even whispers that the Jonasson brothers were going to present a time machine this year; though, no one seemed to take the rumors seriously. The beginning of the day was great. Joshua got to meet one of his favorite scientists in the morning. He even got to shake her hand. It was a bit of a letdown that the device she was presenting today exploded during her presentation a bit later, but he was still happy he got to meet her. Joshua also went by the floor the Jonasson brothers were given to show off their creation. They would reveal the function of it later that afternoon, but the floor was full of visitors even in the morning. Even though these logical and science loving people perhaps didn't believe in a time machine, they sure were curious. The machine itself was huge, taking up half the floor, but it was hard to tell what its function was. That function, however, became clear to Joshua around noon, when an unknown scientist was presenting her recent creation in the center hall on the ground floor. She appeared to be a bit of a scatter brain and hadn't clearly thought out her presentation. She presented her device as if everyone already understood and believed her, creating some serious doubt in the audience about the device actually working. It didn't help that, at first glance, there was no way to prove whether or not her device was working. This was because, according to her, she had created a device that could measure luck. Who was going to believe that? "Prove it!" Who the voice belonged to didn't matter. The general consensus of the audience had been eloquently summarized in those two words. They wanted to see proof and they wanted to see it now. "W-well, if a volunteer could..." Before she had even finished her sentence, Joshua was standing next to her on the stage, surprising even himself. Sure, he'd always wanted to be a part of an experiment, but that alone wouldn't have brought out this behavior. Perhaps he was just curious about his good luck? The scientist didn't seem to mind Joshua's enthusiasm and pointed her device, which looked no different than a modern smartphone, at Joshua. All color left her face. "Y-y-you monster!" She exclaimed as she stepped away from Joshua. "Y-You radiate a luck value of minus 986! You shouldn't be alive!" Joshua raised a confused eyebrow. "T-the only way you could possibly survive," the scientist continued, "is if you somehow transfer that bad luck to others." She stepped away even further from Joshua. "B-by touch for example." A short silence followed. "All right," a voice interjected from next to Joshua, "enough of this farce. If the two of you would be so kind to leave the stage, we can prepare for the next presentation." The man, who had introduced all scientists before their presentations, laid his hand on Joshua's shoulder. "That means you too young man." Then he slumped to the floor gripping his heart. Joshua just stood there dumbfounded as the female scientist ran off the stage screaming. This was just some stupid coincidence, right? This couldn't really be happening, right? Within seconds the slumped man was being helped by some volunteers who made a show of not touching Joshua. Joshua, however, was more focused on the accusing eyes of the crowd in front of him. A man, who was sitting in one of the front rows got out of his chair and pointed an angry finger at Joshua. "I remember you!" The man screamed. "You were in the same restaurant as me yesterday! I touched you right before I lost all my savings!" His face turned completely red. "They told me I'll never see the money again. That there was no proof left of it ever existing." His breaths were irregular. "Because of you I won't be able pay for my daughter's surgery!" For a second it looked like the man was going to storm the stage, but instead he ran towards the stairwell at the side of the hall. A stairwell that would lead him to the floor on which the supposed Jonasson time machine was located. Things suddenly made a lot more sense to Joshua.

The auction was too good to pass

It was a dark and stormy night. The train compartment I sat in was empty. Not many people traveled this line and with the weather being what it was, most people were sitting quietly at home. I would have been home too but the auction was too good to pass up. I had picked up a bunch of good stuff for the shop. Most of it I had sent via a truck which would arrive directly at the shop. The smaller and the most valuable things, I carried with me. I took out the lamp and looked at the ornate design. It was something straight out of a fairy tale. In fact, I would probably call it Aladdin's lamp or something when I sold it. It really did look something out of a movie. I took out my phone. Out of battery. I still had an hour's worth of journey left and I was already bored out of my mind. I placed the lamp on the empty seat next to me and got up. "Might as well take a little walk along the corridor." I said aloud to no one. My stuff would be safe. Not like there was anyone there. I sighed. "I wish I had someone or something that would help me pass some time." I walked along the corridor to the end of the next carriage. All empty. I turned around and figured I'd try my luck in the next compartment. I saw a flash of red as someone was entering my compartment. I thought back to my stuff lying there and hurried back. A pretty woman stood at my seat turning the lamp over in her hands. I entered the door and moved towards her. She didn't show any signs of having heard me. I figured I would have some fun. I moved quietly towards her and right when I was beside her, I spoke in a loud voice. "Who asks for me?" She was startled and dropped the lamp. She turned around and looked at me. She was quite pretty. In fact, she was gorgeous. "Sorry, is this yours. I was just looking." "Well technically it's yours. But I do live in it." "What?" "I'm a genie." "Ok yeah. Sure. I'm sorry I was just..." I held up my hand. "I can see that you don't believe me. But that is ok. I don't care what you believe as long as you tell me what you wish for." "Wait. For real?" "Yes. Three wishes. Anything you want." She was biting her lower lip and looking at me with a confused expression. This would be fun. I wondered how long could I stretch this. "Oh come on. You don't expect me to believe it." "As I said, don't believe it. I'm just obligated to grant you three wishes. Let's get it done then. Then I can go back to my lamp and fall asleep." She smirked. "Ok my first wish is that you make me beautiful." "Ok." I blinked my eyes rapidly and said some mumbo jumbo under my breath. "It is done." She looked at me curiously and then took out a makeup kit. She opened up a small mirror and looked at herself. "I'm still the same." "Well you were already beautiful." She blushed as she lowered her face. "Thank you." "No matter. What's your second wish?" "What?" "You get three wishes." "Oh. We're still going to go through this charade?" "This is no charade young lady." "Young lady? I'm just about your age you know." "Oh but I am eternal. I'm six thousand years old in reality." She rolled her eyes. "Fine then. I wish I had money. Lots of it." "Would you like that in cash or jewels?" "What?" "How would you like lots of money?" She looked at me curiously. "Well cash is hard to carry. Maybe something small. Or antique. That I can sell for loads of money." Lucky me. I closed my eyes and mumbled under my breath again. There was a flash of lightning outside and she turned her head to look at it. I quickly reached into my pocket and pulled out tree small packet I had. I dropped it on the seat. "Here you go." She stared open mouthed at the little package. "What?" "Small antique pieces. Worth at least hundred and fifty thousand dollars." She opened the package and looked at the stuff in there. The true value of it all was around ten thousand dollars but I could exaggerate. Not many people knew about such things like I did. "Are you serious?" "Well your wish didn't specify the amount. In my time, this would be enough amount." "All of this is mine?" She looked at the small set of salt and pepper shakers. They were made of ivory and the carvings on them were exquisite. "It is." "So you're really a genie and you're giving me and hundred and fifty thousand worth of antiques." Her face was full of confusion and intrigue. I just couldn't help myself. I burst out laughing. "Oh my god, you totally believed that." "What..." "I'm sorry. I saw you standing here and I was bored and I thought..." I burst into laughter again. Her look of confusion slowly changed into anger. But soon enough she was laughing too. We both laughed non stop for a couple of minutes. Finally she spoke up. "I have to admit. By the end there I was almost ready to believe. Is this stuff really valuable?" "Not nearly as valuable as I made it out to be. Like ten grand or something. I bought it all for about five." We sat and talked for a while about the antique pieces. I looked at my watch. The journey was almost at an end. She looked at her watch and then she looked at me. "You still haven't granted me my third wish." "Third wish? Oh. Sure. What's your wish." "A kiss of true love." "I'm sorry." "What? One kiss. That's not too much to ask for, is it?" "Well I.." I broke off, unsure of what to say. She didn't bother waiting for a response. She leaned in. I closed my eyes and let her. A faint unfamiliar smell enveloped me as my world crashed into darkness. I woke up with a headache as someone shook my shoulder. "Sir, we arrived twenty minutes ago. You should get off. I have to clean the train and it has to go back in ten minutes." "I..." I looked around, remembering what had happened. "Where is she?" "Who?" "The girl. There was a girl here and she..." I looked around and saw my stuff neatly packed back up. "There isn't anyone else sir. The train is pretty empty at this time." I opened up my package to see if I was missing something. Was she a thief? But everything was there. And there was also a note. *Dear Mr Jackson,* *You see, I'm kind of a genie myself. People wish for something and ask me. I get it for them. There are a certain set of diamonds that were stolen from uk a month or so back. Let's just say that I might be involved in that. Antiques are usually good covers to transport such stuff. Those salt shakers were perfect for small uncut diamonds. Weather delayed me and I couldn't make the auction. The auctioneer was kind enough to point me towards you though. Apparently he knew you well. I was hiding in the train when I heard you making your wish for company to pass the time. As I said, I'm kind of a genie myself. So I granted your wish. I'll see you again someday. After all, you granted three of my wishes, and I only granted one.* *xoxoxo* *Jane*

Darren snatched the diamond locket from

"I won't try to stop you taking whatever you want, but just so you know... everything always makes its way back soon enough," The shop owner said. A look of pity on her face. Darren raised an eyebrow, but kept the pistol aimed at her. He could hear the first wail of a siren in the distance. Was it for him? The woman hadn't moved since he'd drawn his weapon. "You might want to hurry," she said. The sirens grew louder as his grip on the pistol grew sweatier. His fingers felt hot against the metal as if he'd already fired it. His eyes darted around the store and then at the counter in front of him. He pointed down at the glass. "How much is that worth?" "It sells for fifty thousand, but to you it might as well be worthless." The woman slid open a compartment, taking her time. Her fingers found the diamond locket and pulled it from the felt display. Darren snatched it the moment it was above the counter. He let it dangle in front of him. The silver chain seemed to shine just as bright as the lights trapped inside the giant diamond. "Take it." she gestured to the door. "I won't stop you." The sirens were so loud. It sounded as if there were a squadron of police cruisers right behind him. He shoved the necklace into his pocket, a bit of chain stuck out, and then ran through the front door. On his way out he tucked the pistol in the back of his jeans. &nbsp; ** *** ** Mariah watched the people pass over her turf. She held her cup out and rattled the coins inside. A few passersby shot her dirty looks, but most of them ignored her. She preferred anger or disgust to apathy. At least they acknowledged her existence. "Change," she called out and shook her paper cup again. She'd gotten it last week when someone had tossed his half-finished drink on her. Though it had brought her close to tears, it also had the effect of making those on the street who'd witnessed it more generous. *I should see if I could get someone to pour their drinks on me more often*, Mariah thought. Today's haul so far was three quarters, ten dimes, two nickels, and a bunch of pennies she didn't want to bother counting. There was also the wad of gum that had been dropped by a snickering teen. Mariah had been pleasantly surprised to find that it had still contained a decent amount of its mint flavor as she'd popped it into her mouth. Her eyes caught a man shuffling down the street. He kept casting nervous glances over his shoulder. As there was nothing to be gained from a man so disturbed, Mariah began to look elsewhere. Something flashy caught her eye. Sticking out of the man's pocket was a line of silver. It seemed to call out to her. She was no pickpocket--only ever tried it that one time. The idea of a repeat of her first attempt made her throat tighten up. She couldn't look away. Her tongue found its way to her lips as she slid it back and forth. When the man was close enough, she sprung forward. "Excuse me, sir." Mariah reached outwards, placing her hands on his chest. His eyes looked her up and down with an exaggerated grimace as if a rat had just jumped out of a dumpster and onto his leg. The man swung his arm into her shoulder and shoved her aside. Before she tumbled down, her hand found the length of chain. She tightened her dirty hand into a fist and pulled. She got it! Mariah hesitated for a moment as the diamond sparkled in front of her, dangling from her sticky fingers. She quickly stuffed it into her shirt. "You little..." the man's words turned guttural as he lifted her up off the sidewalk and threw her up against a storefront. "Where'd you put it?" His hands searched over her. "Help!" She shouted. "Someone please help me." Mariah tried to squirm out of his grasp as a hand traveled up her chest. The left side of her face exploded with pain. She hadn't even seen his fist coming. She was barely aware of the ground rising up as she fell. Somewhere nearby a woman was shouting, "Someone stop him! He's beating her!" Feet stomped and scratched the concrete around her. When Mariah looked up she saw the a crowd of men pushing her attacker back. The man's hands were still reaching for her. His eyes wild and bulding. Her cheek felt wet and warm. Mariah sat up and felt along her face. Her fingers came back bloody. She thought of the necklace and the world snapped back into focus with startling clarity. She still had it. She could feel the cold metal against her skin. &nbsp; ---- Seymor waited in the alley. This was not his home, but he could count on the occasional meal here. Sometimes the woman spared a scrap for him. More often than not all she had was a scratch behind the ear and some kind words. It was more than he was used to. His paws padded against the shadowed concrete as he relieved himself against a dumpster. The smells that wafted from it and containers like this drove him mad with desire. A noise brought his attention away from the delicious aromas of the trash. The nice woman stumbled into the view between the two buildings at the edge of the alley. She didn't even see him as he waggled his tail and spun around a few times as she usually liked. No, her attention was on something else. Something shiny. She plopped herself down on her old mattress and stared at her hands. No, she stared at the shiny thing in her hands. As was he. "How much are you worth?" She asked. Seymor raised his ears. He was pretty sure people usually talked to each other, not things. He edged closer to the nice woman. His body tensed as he felt the need for caution. "Sorry, boy. No food today," she said without looking at him. Her voice sounded rough, almost angry. If he understood anything beyond the word 'food', it wouldn't have mattered. Seeing the shiny thing up close made his mouth water and tail shake more than the scents from the dumpster. "Why're you looking at me like that?" The woman asked. "Go on. Get!" She swatted at him, but he leapt back just in time. Seymor moved closer. When she swatted again, he took his chance. He ducked under her arm and closed his jaws around the shiny and darted away. The taste of metal and sweat filled his mouth. He had the shiny toy! He felt her fingers grasping, digging into his fur. Years on the streets, only bathing when there was a heavy downpour, his hair was greasy and hard to grab hold of. Seymor slipped right out. &nbsp; ---- Prey. Far above the city's rooftops, she searched for prey. The wind blew through her feathers as she glided, her wings outstretched, hugging the air. The people sometimes dropped food, but nothing was as good a juicy mouse or... A sparkle on the ground caught her eye. She saw it bounce up and down as it was carried down a lonesome road. She swooped down for a closer look. Her shadow fell over the dogs back. She'd caught a closer glimpse of the dangling necklace. Oh how it sparkled. How it shone! Thoughts of prey turned to how she might decorate her nest. Though she'd built it years ago, she always had kept an eye out for things that caught the light. The dog looked up as she passed a second time. It growled, baring its cruel teeth up at her. She rose to the sky. The cool air up this high filled her lungs and made her feel invincible. The only though in her mind: shiny. This last dive was almost vertical. Her body whistled through the air. At the last second, the dog reared up on his hind legs and clawed at her. He made the mistake of snapping his jaws, trying to catch her neck. Through the dog's spittle and ruffle of feathers from his swinging paws, she managed to close her beak over the chain. The shiny. The dog raged below as she tore back to the sky with thoughts of where in her nest she'd place it. &nbsp; ---- Samantha stepped outside and gazed into a near empty parking lot. Her store in this strip mall wasn't the last to close, but business usually tapered off quickly after seven. She heard the high pitched squeals and excited squawks from up high. *So soon?* She smiled. Back inside the store, Samantha moved behind the counter and pulled out a cardboard box. From it she snatched a roll of aluminum foil and tore off a small square. As she made her way back out the store, she crinkled it up into a small ball. Behind her building she climbed the ladder to the roof. From here she could see the setting sun in the west. Just enough light left in the day for one last transaction. The hawk watched her approach. It moved a wing to cover the diamond necklace it had started to embed in the fibers of its nest. "Mindy," Samantha said as she waggled the balled up aluminum foil. "Thank you for finding my necklace." The bird flapped its wings and screamed something only its kind understood. It moved its body over its treasure, guarding it. "Mindy." Her voice grew stern. She pulled out a flashlight and tossed the aluminum ball across the roof. Samantha watched as the hawk eyed the shiny metal foil skip across. When the light from the flashlight danced along the dozens of edges and creases of the foil, the hawk began to lurch out of its nest. "That's right, Mindy." Samantha inched over to the nest. "It's all yours. More shiny for your nest." Keeping her light on the foil, Samantha yanked the necklace out of the nest and back away. The bird would forget once it was out of sight and her new shiny was in her nest. She always did. Samantha walked back into her store and replaced the necklace. She breathed a sigh of relief and left her shop. Shiny things were the easiest to get back. Samantha was still waiting for the antique lamp to find its way back to her. As she started her car, she wondered where it was at this moment. What pair of hands had it passed over to today? It didn't matter. "Everything always makes its way back soon enough..." She smiled as she gave one last look at the shop and then drove off. &nbsp; ---- /r/StevenLee