The Native Story Index [Open; All Techs]

[Karaig]

BLOOD ACROSS THE SNOW

Chapter IV: Dropping the Curtain

[ FT ]

[ Mature ]

With the ramparts in our hands, and their vanguard forces either shredded or scattered, the Cytroxis defence at Rethian collapsed. The remaining forces fought on, ferociously, but they ragtag groups and small pocket squads were systematically exterminated as the 486th and 254th Assault Corps advanced. Rethian became the Empire's when the first barrage from the Wet Navy arrived. When that curtain barrage came down, a wall of death cutting Rethian off from the rest of the mountains, everyone thought they had survived their first battle. However, the relief of survival didn't last long: The Cytroxis didn't take our landing lying down, they met us head on.

The enemy still had reserves, and at the time they seemed inexhaustible. They dug in deep, barricading the maintenance tunnels, armouries, anywhere they could operate from. Even when the flamethrowers were deployed, when the plasma was charring their flesh, boiling their blood: even when their bones were nothing but ashes, the never yielded. Every last one had to go.

The Cytroxis Military was always like that: they never fell back. The Roaches, Ree'akki in their tongue, attacked with fervent zeal, never surrendering. They killed their share before dying; they made us pay in blood for every corridor and junction we took below Rethian. Even the Gruk'ak, the Grubs, the lowliest of the low never fell back. The Cytroxis were fanatical in their campaign against Karaig. They were beasts, and monsters: cold and heartless.

But, hell, we were no different.

-Sergeant Dymor Ardav (ret.)
Why We Went to Tyror III

TYROR SYSTEM, DISPUTED CYTROXIS TERRITORY
TYROR III, RETHIAN BASE
SIGMA COMPANY, EPSILON SQUADRON

"Fire in the Bug Hole!" shouted Sergeant Brisonand as he and three other soldiers lobbed high fragmentation SPLINTER grenades into a tunnel entrance. The grenades would detonate sending super-heated shaped shrapnel in all directions capable of shredding powered armour. Clearly the bugs had seconds of life left. Backing away, the squad heard the muffled thumps of detonation, along with a choir of hissing screeches.

"Ardav, circle 'round the collapsed bunker up the stairs, clear it out!" turned Brisonand.

"Alright. Boys, bug hunt, Keve take point." said Sergeant Ardav as he ordered his fire team upwards.

The BRAT rushed around, hoping to cut down any Cytroxis bugs who'd survived the opening salvo of the Navy's guns. Keve took point, rushing forward with his SPKR. They came to the entrance of the bunker: a stout two story complex that had lost its room and the vast majority of its frontal face to the ships on the horizon. Rubble filled the room, covering the dead Cytroxis. Keve stepped through the doorway, right into an orange puddle. He lifted his foot with disgust, before pressing on. Seven dead Grubs, two dead Roaches, most of them charred from the super-heated bombardment.

He looked out of the bunker, looking over the horizon at the setting star, the silhouettes of ships. Below he could see the countless Muskox heavy transports, the amphibious hulls slamming onto the beach against the dwindling purple fire. The defenders along the beach wouldn't last the hour, the ones up on the cliffs were being wiped out by his division. Victory.

He turned to go back to the door, seeing the Cytroxi warrior up above. Raising his gun, he felt the slamming of shots as glowing pink shards tore into the BRAT's armoured chest, the plating parting like butter as seven shards stuck out of him glowing. He dropped a moment later, falling back silently, dead before he hit the floor. There was a cry of pain, then a hiss of agony as the SPKR unleashed a burst of fire as Keve fell. His assailant, the Cytroxis Roach lay against the wall, florescent orange blood pooling around it. In it hand it held a shaking weapon glowing with pinkish spikes, swinging it wildly in search of a target to take with it.

It didn't find another target as Sergeant Ardav kicked the weapon out from its claws, drew his RLVR, and put a round through its head. The round ended its life with little pain, but took away half the skull as the body slumped down, orange blood pooling around. He turned to one of his subordinates. The latter just shook his head in grim response.

"Fuck." he mumbled. "Fuck. Fuck. FUCK!"

He lifted his massive boot and crushed the leg of the Roach beneath him. It was sloppy and bloody, much like how he handled this operation. The kid was dead because he hadn't taken precautions. It brought a bitter taste to his mouth, a ferric taste as he bit his tongue.

"Sir, area is all clear." came a voice.

"Check again, and call a Medic. Now." he replied as he looked over the battle raging on the beaches: it was dying down now. He could say the heavy armour being landed, the massive plumes of plasma as the flame tanks pushed up. How many sergeants down there felt as he did: helpless and holding too many lives in their hands?

---

"Should we wait for the flame units?"

"Fuck if I know, wanna toss a grenade in?"

"Only if it’s yours."

"Fuck that I'm saving them for when I need 'em"

"You have a bloody RVGR machine gun, you have all the help you need!"

Isaac Toren and Joseph Ellenwood were in a literal hole. Jumping into a crater caused by a missile strike the two soldiers were facing a tunnel uncovered in the assault, black as space. Their squad was above them, weapons trained while the two soldiers, who had drawn the short cigarettes, were to get a look. Through night vision and infrared, they had seen nothing. The tunnel looked safe, but no one wanted to risk their hides to a Cytroxis ambush. The Cytroxis still had numbers below, especially in the engineering and maintenance tunnels.

"Sitrep gentlemen." came the voice of Sergeant Brisonand over the communication channels.

"Looks clear sir, but..." replied Toren.

"...but we think it'd be better if we got those guys from the 254th to handle this. Cuz, y'know, they got flamethrowers." cut in Ellenwood.

"As much as I'd love to hand my paycheck to the boys downstairs, it'll take them at least an hour to get up here from the beach. That tunnel is at least five meters across: that's enough to move enough troops through and commence a counter attack. I won't sugar coat it: we're all basically dead if they counter attack before the boys downstairs get up here. Alright, boys get back up here. Carrousal, keep a bead on that tunnel. I'll go grab the Captain."

With that Brisonand stepped back from the lip of the crater, tapping his helmet comm. Isaac and Joesph made their way back up the crater.

"Hey Carrousal, keep that dot on the hole. I like my ass!" yelled up Ellenwood.

"Yeah but Ellenwood, I hate your ass, it reminds me of your sister before I got out the paper bag."

"My sister's a saint you fuck!"

"Not in bed she isn't!" Carrousal laughed.

Reaching the lip of the crater, Ellenwood slugged Carrousal in the shoulder. As soon as he was up the Sergeant turned around.

"Alright, everyone down the hole, 1st Platoon is heading in!" he said as Captain Fenix and other squads moved forward.

"I just got up here Sarge!" said Ellenwood in his faux annoyed voice.

"Could be worse, you could be on point. Speaking of which; Ellenwood, Toren, Carrousal, you're all on point with me." Brisonand hopped down the crater, sliding to a stop. "Ellenwood, hurry your ass down here before I decide I want you run down to the beach to ask for flamers."

"Can't that be done by the comm relay?"

"Yes: now hurry up."

---

There was no light at the end of the tunnel, simply because there was no end. The majority of 1st platoon moved deeper into the complex, with a few remaining behind to care for the wounded. The visibility, even with night vision was severely limited: particles of dust filled the area, most likely from their own bombardment. Infrared should worse with multiple heat sources coming from exposed wires and heat sinks in the walls. They had split at the first junction, a large circular room with a rail cart turn table: most likely to move munitions throughout the base. Leaving behind Sergeant Jan Batton and his twelve men to fortify and hold their only exit point, the platoon carried on.

The tunnels were in worse condition as they ventured inwards: massive power lines tore from the walls and jury rigged to hook up to Cytroxis weaponry: no doubt these wires went all the way up to the AA mounts and artillery weapons that had been destroyed in the attack. The bugs had left panels everywhere, screws and scraps, it was a mess: the kind forces didn't in desperation for an upcoming assault.

The soldiers advanced for what seemed like an hour, Ellenwood and Carrousal stopped bickering, the whole platoon was quite. Even through the communication relays, they were silent. The only noises they heard were the footfalls of their own boots, the subtle clunks of armour, and the dripping of water from the ceiling.

It was Sergeant Aron who stopped first, raising his hand. The line halted, save the Captain.

“Captain, I think I saw movement up ahead. Seventy meters, maybe eighty. Possibly a fortified junction.”

"Did you check through all visors?" replied the Captain as he hefted his SPKR, sighting down the corridor.

"Yes, all of them," replied the Sergeant. "The most I got was infrared picking up a massive heat sink on an air conditioning unit over the junction, the room has power lines throughout it."

"Copy that. I wanted all RVGR troops flanking up the corridor, hug the wall. Everyone else stay low. How many grenade launchers do we have to move up?"

"None sir: we lost one under a Beetle's foot: no others made it to the LZ." replied Dymor.

"Of course Command has their heads up their asses" sighed Captain Fenix. "We never get enough of anything."

"Well sir, we are in command of a FNG division, Command probably is giving all the toys to the vets." replied Aron.

"Yeah, but I heard over the battle net that they're shipping in WLFHND-55 assault rifles soon."

"That's great Dymor, but useless at this moment. Alright, we do this the hard way. Prep hand grenades: SPLINTER and DRUMMERs only. Let's move."

The troops moved up, advancing fast and quiet, with the machine gun troops pressing the walls. No lasers sights were on, everything was going to be old school marksmanship. They closed in fast, seeing the junction approaching. Sixty. Fifty. Forty. Thir-

A massive explosion tore out behind them, troops shouting out as they were caught in the blast. The Captain spun around, seeing smoke and dust. He turned back just in time to dodge an incoming purple pulse. He slammed himself to the left, as the shot disappeared behind him. The corridor erupted into fire as Cytroxis violet beams and pink spikes hissed, while the Karaigian tungsten and grenades roared.

Isaac Toren dropped to his knee, just in time for the soldier on his left to take a barrage of violet light. He dropped down, wispy violet flecked smoke rising from his chest plate. Isaac squeezed the trigger as his assault rifle barked back blindly at the enemy. He looked up over his right shoulder, seeing Ellenwood above him, bracing against the wall, firing down the corridor.

"All units switch to infrared, the explosion knocked out power, their easy pickings!" came the voice of Sergeant Dymor over the comm.

More explosions tore out in far ahead of the Karaigian platoon: this time from their own grenades. Isaac heard the hissing before he switched to infrared, then he saw at least three enemies rushing forward. He squeezed the trigger, emptying his clip in seconds. The first rounds caught the Grub in the chest, tearing it practically in half. More tore out the legs under another, the alien screaming as orange florescent sprayed across the floor. The third crushed the legless one, and charged. It was bigger, a Roach, and it let loose a roaring hiss at it hefted a weapon. It fired, unleashing a storm of violet as Isaac dropped to the floor prone. He fumbled to reload his assault rifle.

"Yoink!" cried Ellenwood as he stocked the Roach on the side of its head, orange fluid spitting out. The Roach staggered, and then fell as Ellenwood hefted his machine gun and fired. "Taste tungsten bug breath!"

More Roaches and Grub troops appeared, with the latter running in first as a meat shield. Captain Fenix tossed a grenade, and watched three grubs and two Roaches become orange mist. He fired off a few more rounds before turning to Dymor.

"Sergeant, How screwed are we?"

"The explosion to our rear cut off, it caved in and is at least five meters thick. They must have stowed the explosives with the heat sinks and power lines." he said as he fired off rounds point blank into a Roach warrior.

"Casualties?" replied the Captain as he stepped forward, drawing his revolver and firing into the head of a Grub trying to grab a pistol.

"Seven wounded, two of them critically, three dead." The Sergeant swung his assault rifle, his stock knocking an incoming grenade back at the Cytrox. "We cannot go back; we can't blast through the rubble."

"Then we blast through them. We're moving up, If we take the junction we can use this corridor as a safe area for the wounded, and take the fight farther down. Get on the link with Batton. I want him to tell the 254th to get their asses down here and bring explosives to clear this breach. And flamers, we need fucking flamers. Where's our Medic?"

"Moving up behind Privates Toren and Ellenwood."

---

Isaac hadn't noticed the medic until he had slammed a combat shield into the ground. Immediately the metallic sounds rang out as the Cytroxis fire was weathered by the thick shield. Isaac turned to see the hex lens helmet of the Karaigian Medic, the spider-like servo arms that protruded from his back. It was a fearsome sight, the needles on the mechanical arms, their surgical drills and scalpels: all of them looking painful and lethal, yet there to help.

"Cover me while I attempt to save this man." with that the medic dropped to his knee, his mechanical arms go to work as a white hot laser started cutting into the damaged parts of the armour.

Isaac turned to look up at Ellenwood, who in turn just shook his head, mumbling about his fear of spiders and needles. They both then turned back to the fight as they unleash more rounds into the Cytroxis forces. As a Grub's head caved in from Isaac's fire, the com-link went to life as he heard the familiar barking of orders from the Captain Fenix and the sergeants. With the orders, Isaac saw Ellenwood advance around the shield, and Isaac started to follow. He stopped suddenly turning back to the medic. Without a word the medic looked up.

"I'm fine. You do your job, I'll do mine." with that he went back to his bloody work.

Isaac turned back and rushed forward, already falling behind as the remaining forces advanced forward, guns ablaze. Isaac turned entered the junction, which was a simple perpendicular corridor making a "T" section. His comrades had split, half left and half right, with Ellenwood's signal coming from the right. That was his compass.

He moved down the corridor, his HUD informing him of a firefight ahead. The first comrade he found was Sergeant Dymor, just as the man was putting a final round through the slumping body of a Roach. He looked at Isaac, and simply nodded his head over his shoulder. The both moved down meeting two more men of Dymor's squad: finishing their job of making sure the dead stayed quiet. Then the corridor ended as they merged into a chaotic room. It was more of a cavern, a massive rectangular room with the fading evening light streaming in from the far side.

Isaac jumped down beside Ellenwood, joining his squad behind rubble piled as high as his chest. The Cytrox were across the room, weathering most of the fire from behind the husks of their ruined fighters and bombers. They outnumbered the Karaigians at least three to one, but that was no surprise. Isaac turned to Ellenwood.

"This a hanger?" he said as he fired off a burst into an exposed Grub.

"No, this is Carrousal's house: it's always been a shit hole!"

"Your sister never complained about the holiness of my house, or my room." yelled back Carrousal as he let loose some rounds from his DMR.

"He got you good." replied Isaac.

"Shut up."

The Cytroxis forces were cornered, and as the saying goes, never is a beast fiercer. They launched their under barrel micro missiles and expended ammunition like there was no tomorrow: which in their situation, was fairly true. Isaac saw as a Roach with a high powered rifle unleashed three brilliant pink beams, each one slamming into the chest of an unfortunate Karaigian. He dropped fast, his comrade trying to grab him as he went. Isaac kept shooting.

Nearby Isaac heard the Captain Fenix turn to Sergeant Brisonand.

"Sergeant, I'm dropping the curtain on this operation, prepare to push them back."

"Thinking about using the Hellkites?"

"They'll be cut down in seconds." the Captain replied.

---

Dymor chucked a grenade, the explosion tearing up two Grubs who were using one of the wrecked fighters' cockpit as a machine gun nest. Buggers could fit anywhere, he thought. He looked over at a line of twleve roaches in phalanx formation, their guns fitting between the white shields and purple energy. He turned back to his squad, and gave a thumbs up over his shoulder. Private Rownandiaz trudged forward, aiming his missile launcher at the phalanx.

"Private, fire one missile at one end, another at the other. Then fall back and reload."

"Copy that sir." said Rownandiaz as he hefted the double barrel missile launcher over his shoulder. "Anyone behind me bail out!"

The first rocket hit its mark, slamming in between the two Roaches on the far left. Their shields, even with energy barriers, were no match for the heavy ordnance of a missile: the result was a a ball of fiery orange and black ash erupting from the area, the twin Roaches vapourized, their comrades nearby sent sprawling. Rownandiaz quickly trained his launcher on the opposite side and fired, this time it impacted at their feet, sending four flying in the air, and vapourizing three more. Dymor almost felt bad when Rownandiaz backed down behind the rubble to reload, watching the remaining dazed Roaches being cut to pieces by concentrated machine gun fire. Almost.

He turned to see Sergeant Brisonand beside him now, firing at the last surviving phalanx Roach. He turned to Dymor, as he reloaded.

"Captain's got the air support coming in, prepare to mop up."

"Hellkites?" replied Dymor.

"Yeah so we better stay behind cover or any stray shots with hurt us bad."

"How bad? Missiles or shots?"

"Just the normal shots of the fifty millimeter variety." said Brisonand. He turned back to the fight only for a violet barrage to hit him. The shots rake up the left side of Brisonand's chest plate, with the final one slamming into the collar guard as he fell back.

Dymor returned fire as he jumped down off the rubble wall, dropping down beside his friend. He turned and shouted for a medic, before turning back to the fallen sergeant. the blast marks from the Cytroxis beam weapon were at least an inch deep each, purple flaked smoke snaking out of the strike points. The collar guard was broken in one area from the shot. The medic rushed up, his massive shield ringing as Cytroxis fire dinged off of it. He slammed it into the ground as he fired his submachine gun into the Cytroxis lines.

"Kirvec, tell me he's gonna make it!" Dymor shouted at the medic.

"I'm still examining... his chest plate held off two rounds, and the left side of his collard guard all but disappeared to stop the round... I see one penetration... necrosis along the upper most areas of his muscle due to the super cooled plasma bolt... his bone was grazed... He'll most likely-"

"Live, I'll live." said the downed sergeant.

"Yes, but you shouldn't be moving," the Medic Kirvec said as he administered two needles that sounded like gun shots. "Nor talking, so shut up and stay down you fool."

The com-link burst to life as the Fenix's voice entered the sound of battle. "Everyone get down, incoming Hellkites, danger close."

"Yeah, stay down my friend." said Dymor as he turned away from Brisonand and Kirvec, grabbing a trigger happy private by the waist and hauling him behind the rubble.

The Cytrox didn't see the gunships until they were firing up their metaphorical and literal asses. The 50mm rounds from the nose mounted Gatling cannons rammed into the line of Cytroxis, the bugs literally disappearing in the orange mist that was once their blood. The hanger was fortified and deep within the cliffs from a naval fire, was completely exposed to an air attack while the blast doors were open. The result was a ten second assault by three Hellkite gunships, not even fearing retaliation: they set their engines to hover and then got down to their grim work.

Within ten seconds, all resistance was crushed in the hanger.

---

Isaac walked back down the corridors with the rest of his platoon as they made their exodus from the hanger. they passed medics administering aid and moving the wounded out, while the dead were collected and stripped of valuable equipment. Isaac had heard of the ice boxes they used for the journey home, how whole decks of medical ships had cryo stasis for the dead and critically wounded: cyro-catacombs as they were known. He wondered if that'd be his class of seating for the trip home.

They passed three soldiers from the 254th, one of them clearing a room with a plasma wave. The flame trooper turned and nodded to them as they passed, not even requiring a look at what he was burning. Isaac followed Dymor past the, now blasted clear, caved in corridor. Sergeant Brisonand was back a bit, being carried on a stretcher by the medical troops. Until he was able, Dymor was in command.

They passed more 254th troops as they exited out the way they came; the massive crater that had originally uncovered the corridor was now refined with a ramp blasted by 254th engineers. The landing was familiar, despite the dropships that had landed more of Isaac's 486th Corps, as well as the massive Muskox transports that had somehow gotten up the cliff. The area was now firmly in their hands, though he heard that the Cytrox were still running around in the deeper corridor systems.

Captain Fenix approached another officer standing and talking to some subordinates, who quickly hurrying off to some end.

"Captain Arbridge, you're fucking late."

"Captain Fenix, it's been a while." the other man replied. "Sorry for the wait, I got stuck on the beaches; buggers dug in deep around the main road and blasted the elevators to the Altarians. What's your status?"

"I took at twenty casualties, though by the Altarian's grace most are just wounded."

"Sorry I couldn't reinforce you with my 2nd platoon in time: when we got into the tunnels we got flanked, had to burn them back. Bloody buggers had Beetles with 'em. So what's the objective now?" the 254th's 2nd platoon Captain spoke.

"I was wondering if you fucking knew." Fenix asked. "My Company CO isn't even on the ground yet. He's coming in with the next drop off. Fucking cadets."

"You're fucking right: all the new officers out of the academy seem to forget this is a fucking war and not some fucking party."

"Altarians be good I miss the fucking Third War. Back then, we didn't take this crap."

"Back then we didn't deal with this crap; we were professionals."

"Yeah. Well I'm going to go get on the com-link and see what the fuck is up. Rethian's ours, the bugs will be gone by sunrise."

"You do that give my regards to that fucking major of yours!" he said as Fenix left. "Oh, the Muskox carriers have ammunition and food. Get your boys some rest. Command even sent us the new assault rifles. Apparently now that we've taken this place they feel like giving us the weapons to hold it!"

"'Bout fucking time. Talk to ya later Arbridge"

[Gratislavia]

More Blood for the Line
[PT]

If hell had ever found its way to Earth, it must have been in Artyomsk. The screams of the dying and the solemn cries of the dead seemed to block all sounds, not gun nor cannon able to overcome the dark symphony that filled the very souls of those few that still lived. Ruble filled the streets, with great trenches snaking across blocks of the city, a massive conglomeration of defensive lines in the face of impending doom. The few Gratislavs that remained clung just barely to their city, their country, their very lives at that. This was the last line of defense, the lifeblood of the Tsardom, the once-glorious jewel of an idea.

In the trenches themselves, the defenders, once men but now sunken faced ghost of a generation stood defiant in the face of Armageddon. With machine gun, rifle, bayonet, shovel and sword they beat back the tide of the devil, again and again he came to take their lives and their county. Again and again deprived of the iron jewel he sought relentlessly. He was the cold faced Azuran, the emotionless Rithosian, the overwhelming tidal wave of the south set about to plunge the Gratislavs into a sea of endless dismay. He was the enemy in simpler terms, he came to take the life of others.

There was a call in the trenches every once in a while, a scream and then a whistle followed by a wave of Gratislavs rushing from the interior of the city towards the trenches. Those that were not cut down by the unending barrage of artillery, taking up their weapons and fighting until they too were snuffed out by the monstrosity set before them. Each greeted by an ominous phrase, "More blood for the line." Always more blood for the line, the only thing that mattered now, blood, and the line that was filling with it.

And it came again, the whistle and the scream, a mass body of Gratislavs running forth from the city's buildings. Among them, Olav Gromanivich, a boy of no more than nineteen. He ran with a furry, seemingly unphased by fragments of rock, bone and metal that flew past his face. In an instant the ground below him disappeared, giving way to the trenches. He landed with a thud, his face slamming against the mud-covered wood that constituted the trench's foundation.

He fumbled for his rifle, pulling it out of the encasing mud that had begun to pull it down. "More blood for the line," to his right, the once face of a hollowed Gratislav defender mimicked the words to him. He spoke in an almost song like voice, beautiful, and yet so out of place in this horrible horrible place. "Put the rifle to your arm boy, they'll be coming again." As if prematurely planned, the man's words drew a whistle from the Azuran lines, a great mass of bodies seeming to surge forth from their trenches all screaming in a tongue foreign to Olav. "Here they come boy, get the rifle up, quickly now!"

The ghoulish man put his rifle up the side of the trench, taking aim and firing, offering a hollow smile as he noticed Olav doing the same. "Good boy, very good, keep shooting, send them back to hell." Olav thought it was odd that the man did not scream the words, war-cries as such not usually repeated in almost whispered tones. "Kill them boy, kill them all." The ghoul continued firing, smiling widely as he watched the Azurans drop around him, their advance only twenty meters from the trench. "Ready yourself boy, they'll come into the lines in a moment."

And come they did, a great tidal wave crashed down into the trenches, nearly throwing Olav's rifle from his hand. But yet he stayed his footing, fighting for his very life as the Azurans lunged with their bayonets at what was left of Gratislavia. Olav fought back, he in a swift motion ducked a bayonet aimed at his heart, coming up with a swift motion and lodging his rifle square in the face of the Azuran attacker. He had no time to revel in his kill however, quickly he collected one of the entrenching tools that lay nearby, smashing it into the face of the nearest Azuran who had dared to over-reach his lunge.

A great splatter of blood shot forth from the man's face coating Olav, his severed mouth seemingly to scream eternally its death throngs as he crumpled to the ground, shovel still lodged firmly in his forehead. He collected it quickly and moved to the next, and the next, and next, the cycle seemed endless, until, in an anticlimactic fashion it ended the broken Azuran advance climbing back out of the trenches in a great hurry and darting across the no-man's-land that had once been a community park. Olav could not even be bothered to shoot at the retreating Azurans, he lay down, propped against the side of the trench as exhaustion set in.

He dared a glance around him, the bodies of dead Azuran and Gratislav alike laying like the discarded rag-dolls of a child. It all came across rather funnily to him, enemies laying strewn about like lovers in the cold mud. He found it extremely funny in fact, moments before they had killed each other, now they lay together, heads resting against the torsos of their enemy. The only thing that was out of place were the faces, some caught in their death cries, others smashed beyond recognition, all smelling of death as the mud began to seep into their open mouths and cover their eyes. The whistle blew again, "More blood for the line." Was all Olav could mouth.

"Always, More Blood for the Line, Always."

[Urarail]

A Good Feeling

MT

In all the magnitude, calamity, and scope of the August War, it is sometimes easy to forget the battles were not fought by ideologies, or churches, or empires.
They were fought by people.

Ethan Grattweig, Minister of State of the Urarailian Empire

Sudentor, Grabacr Province, Urarail
August 13, 7:48 PM local time
In the 1,232nd Year of the Empire

Althan Reirmark despised habits. It made a person, a leader especially, predictable. And thus, exploitable. He had worked for half a decade to eliminate predictable patterns from his professional life, leaving whatever his true plans were obscured under a cacophony of nonsense and apparent lunacy. It had made him dangerously unreadable in the Red War, and it had made him the Herald of Ciranaar in the Auvohm War. However, there were some rituals he could not find the fortitude to eliminate, some habits he refused to surrender.

Coffee was one such daily ritual, and this kaffeehaus in particular, was a favorite. Especially in times of anxiety and uncertainty, such as this day. He sat outside on the sidewalk patio, in his favorite seat, underneath a sprawling oak tree with arachnid-like branches that sprawled above this coffee shop's patrons in eternal and shading menace. He took another long drag from the obsidian liquid in his mug, setting it back on the wooden table with a soft thud as the porcelain met the surface. He looked back up at the macabre sign over the entryway; the three marching skeletons with toothy grins, the shop's name and motto blazed underneath in a firecracker font: "Capital Kaffee Roasters, Est. 1973 -- We wake the dead!" It was these familiar sights, smells, and tastes, that he had seen dozens, perhaps hundreds, of times that brought him comfort in his final hours of unease.

He regarded the black velvet box in front of him again. He was a Urarailian officer; he never committed to an action unless he was certain it would bring him victory, or at least a step closer to it. Reckless bravado and heroic measures was something for the Temsplaces to do; he imagined it made for better theater in their holy books and chronicles. But it was not his people's way, and more importantly, it was not his way. However, in this affair, he had no such assurances or verifying calculations. All he had was a gut feeling.

And it was a good one.

He let his fingers run over the dark cloth again, his digits leaving a tell-tell wake as he drug them over the fabric. He was excited and fearful all at once A dichotomy of futures that the box and her answer would determine stood before him on the morrow, and he had no idea which truly awaited him. For an information addict like Althan, it was maddening to have nothing to go on beyond blind faith and personal intuition, but at the same time, he couldn't help but have that same blind faith. Hope was both a true weakness and immeasurable strength he had been taught once, but on this day he put more stock, however unfounded, in it.

While he did not have a read on this particular sortie's outcome, he did at least have a strategy. Tomorrow, at dinner. Her favorite place down by the harbor. She'd been in the Navy a short yet impossibly long time ago, and she'd always liked being near the water. He imagined she'd insist on living by it too, regardless of whatever she said to him tomorrow.

The iron toll of the cathedral bells interrupted his thoughts as the city's holy places bid the day farewell, as they did every day at sundown. This moment, with his coffee, in this chair at this table, in this city, at sundown with the bells, this was his habit, his little moment of perfection he guarded and indulged in whenever possible. Because while Lord General Reirmark was the larger-than-life commander, the heretical warlord the Tsellians ill-regarded and the Auvohm cursed, Althan was a man, no more or less than any other. A man with hopes, aspirations, fears, and gut feelings about things he couldn't possibly predict or understand.

And he had a good feeling about tomorrow.

[New Azura]

[ FT ]

Dream Beats

Out of the darkness came a light; not a bright one, but a flicker of something nonetheless. Caroline could feel herself flowing through it, like one would drive an automobile through a tunnel. Every second forward felt like her body was being flung through time and space towards some unknown destination. She knew, and yet she didn't know at the same time—the whiteness cascaded into an ambient swirling of colors, and suddenly there was no more darkness. Her feet found solid footing on nothing in particular, and yet she could stand perfectly fine. The scene before her was unlike anything she could have possibly imagined; it was a garden without end, without order and yet spared from the disorder of chaos. Every sight, every smell was so vivid, and yet so distant, as if she could be in such a place, but not of that place. There were no stars, and yet there was no shortage of light there. It was breathtaking and it was serene; a sanctum in contrast to the coldness of a reliquary.

There was no grand entrance into the empyrean garden of her dream, but there was no associated pain or discomfort therein. Every conceivable emotion, both positive and negative, the sublime and the insidious were cleansed from her soul. Every ache and pain scrubbed from her body; even the gristle of her muscle and the sinew of her bones were purged of their impurities. Whatever void she had stumbled into, the sensation was unlike anything experienced before. So many vibrant colors, radiant and pure as if the Creator himself had reached down and kissed each pedal with the stroke of the brush—a canvas of ethereal colors which bled of the passionate devotion contributed in its conception. The sight of the flowers, alive in their ubiquitous abundance along the invisible path ahead spurred her to take the very first step forward. There was no atrophy, no braces or chairs to be seen; just one one foot in front of the other, as naturally as the touch of air upon craving lungs. It was astounding... it was euphoric.

Caroline had no voice in the garden, but there was no harm done there; simply experiencing the wondrous gift of sensory perception was poignant enough. She began to test his legs, finding that the clear, unbroken path of nothingness below provided no resistance. And yet she moved ever faster forward, picking up speed as her trot became a galloping run, finding her footing in the power of determination and the speed in the will of a mended spirit. The path winded forward through the flowers, which seemed to change from a deep azure to a resplendent violet shade as she passed by. Time held no meaning to her; seconds passed as hours, and hours like minutes. Her focus was on the rhythmic cadence of muscle and foot, sole and transparency. She longed for the sensation of pleasure, and yet as thrilled as she should have been, there was a constant feeling of inevitability; she wasn't running for the sake of running. Rather, she was running somewhere, to do something important. Something that could not be described...

"Hello, beautiful."

The first sound that had been perceived since she'd arrived, and it was powerful enough to cut through every inch of the void, even to the most private depths of her heart. Caroline's feet stopped running, her legs frozen in place by the voice of a ghost. She could not see the man's face, but her mind immediately registered who was speaking to her, and it caused a rush of physical reactions. Her heart began to speed up, as her pupils contracted in wide-eyed amazement. Every breath became an exercise in endurance, with the shallow gasps barely allowing enough oxygen to her tightening veins. The soft, effervescent voice was less commanding than it had been the last time she'd managed to hear it, but then everything was so whimsical here—why should the voice of her love be any different? Oh, how Caroline searched through the heavens above and the blissful chasms of the void below, trying to see but a fleeting image of her husband. She spun wildly on her heels, trying to find him in the garden. How could he be speaking to her if he wasn't even there?

"Marc? Marc, where are you love? I can't... I can't see you! Why can't I—"

"It's okay," his voice answered in kind. "I'm right here with you, speaking to your heart. All you have to do is open up and listen."

Caroline searched in vain, feeling a pointed knife work its way up through the very fabric of her being. She dropped to her knees, spilling angst-filled tears unto the bottomless realm beneath her, despite being unable to feel them as they rolled. "Marc, I've missed you so much. Y-you don't know how b-ad it hurts to..."

"—To be alone," the voice replied with a trace of melancholy. "Caroline, love, I never intended to leave you alone. Things happened that were beyond our reach, beyond our ability to control. This wasn't your fault."

"But it feels like my fault..."

There was a brief flicker of light, and then her husband was simply there, as if he'd been there all along. There were no wounds on his body from the crash, no markings or scars of any kind. His face lit up at the sight of her, and he extended his arms out to embrace her; his face beaming, his smile stretching from ear to ear. Caroline fell into his arms, feeling the wells of her emotion spill forth onto his shoulder. She sobbed bitterly, longingly clutching at the fabric of his silken shirt, dripping tears onto the fine cloth. The touch of his skin awakened her to physical sensation in its most pure sense; every inch of her body infused spiritually with his, linking the two lovers in an embrace that transcended all other understanding. It was love, borne in flesh and word, action and deed, need and desire. There was nothing else to dwell on, nothing else to ponder or consider. Perfection in its truest guise was but the tender embrace of her dearly beloved, lost but now found in the Heaven of her most earnest dreams.

"Please don't leave me."

"Beautiful," he whispered softly, stroking delicate strands of her hair, "I will always be with you. When you think of me, I'll be thinking of you. And when you need me, I'll always be there for you. I love you, beautiful!"

"God, I love you so much," Caroline said quietly, burying her head as far as she could upon his chest, feeling it rise and fall as he breathed. The tears that had been sliding onto her cheeks suddenly felt cold and morbid, as if they were haunted by some stale, dark force. "Wait, what am I doing?"

"You're crying," Marc said sweetly, his visage and his voice disappearing along with everything else around.

"But you can't, you—"

Bloodshot eyes snapped open, staring up at a bleak, featureless metal ceiling that cast dark aspersions. Caroline closed her eyes tightly against the sensation of tears slipping down her sullen cheeks, wishing so desperately to return to her husband. But when the gentle hum of the ship's engine could be felt through the deck plating, she knew that there was no hope left of going back. Caroline opened her eyes again, rolling her head back to the left, looking out towards the empty expanse of space with pity and despair. Her wheelchair was still parked beside the bed, its steel gleaming faintly under the night light. Her braces, leaning by the door next to the mechanical lift that would move her from her bed into the shower. Caroline looked down past her chest, doing everything in her power to make her legs move. If she could only find the strength to walk, maybe she could get back to her husband. Maybe she wouldn't have to keep living while he waited for her on the other side.

"Please don't go, Marc! Please come back..."

[Xiscapia]

[FT]

[Very Mature]

Now, I am Xiscapian

The neophyte in liminality must be a tabula rasa, a blank slate, on which is inscribed the knowledge and wisdom of the group, in those respects that pertain to the new status. The ordeals and humiliations, often of a grossly physiological character, to which neophytes are submitted represent partly a destruction of the previous status and partly a tempering of their essence in order to prepare them to cope with their new responsibilities and restrain them in advance from abusing their new privileges. They have to be shown that in themselves they are clay or dust, mere matter, whose form is impressed upon them by society. -Turner, Victor. 1969. The Ritual Process

They came late in the night.
It was sometime after 0200 hours, well after curfew, and I was curled up with my roommate for warmth in our tiny room. I remember it well, the epitome of close quarters, so small that with our bunks on either side there wasn't space for either of us to stand and extend arms without hitting the other, let alone tails. Windowless, cold and dark, conditions they told us we had better get used to, because that's how every bunker and troopship was; so we did. It was not too different from home anyway, not for most of us, and there was no energy to complain anyway after the daily regimens they put us through, too tired to read or talk or even so much as masturbate, not that you could hide that from your roommate anyway -if you can smell it, so can they, or so the maxim went. So we were all fast asleep when the hammering sounded at the door.

"Cadets! Open up! Now!"

Confused, blurry-eyed and exhausted to the bone, we roused ourselves, my roommate and I shooting each other incredulous, exasperated looks. More drills? Now? A week before graduation? As I tried to wipe the sleep from my eyes he walked across the room, making it to the door in a few steps. He tugged it open, letting the light from the hallway spill into our room in a shaft of yellowish illumination, and was immediately pulled out with a yelp. Startled, I darted over, suddenly wide awake, and looked out into the corridor suddenly filled with people.

All along the narrow passage other first-year cadets were emerging from their rooms as well, blinking in the harsh light, distinguishable by fur color in an array of oranges, tans, browns, blacks, whites and grays but all otherwise uniform in gray A-shirts and blue shorts. Facing us, two or three to a room, were upperclassmen, all in fatigues and mirror-paneled glasses or visor helmets, standing with arms folded or akimbo. Where there were two they flanked the door, one to each side, and if there was a third he or she stood directly in front of the entrance, right up against the first-years who had just come out. When I glanced from left to right I could see more of them at each end of the hall, blocking the exits, not doing anything, just watching. My heart began to beat quicker.

My roommate was just being released by an orange coated vixen flanked by a pair of toms, he stumbling back into me, tail lashing, shocked. I stared up at the other kitsune, seeing myself reflected in her shades, a tiny, disheveled-looking representation of myself that I felt could not be my true reflection. She couldn't have been more than an inch or two taller than me, even in combat boots, but she seemed to tower nevertheless, imposing her will on us by her very presence. There was no name tag; in fact, I realized that none of them had any way for us to identify them, not so much a smell detectable from the heavy amounts of shampoo they'd all seemed to have washed with. Between the thick clothes and their glasses, they were as good as anonymous.

"Cadet, are you one of us?"

Before there was general hubbub in the corridor, but it quieted to a dead silence as the question was posed. The vixen had a powerful voice, one that overrode everything else, so everyone turned to look at her. She hadn't addressed it to any of them, but was looking straight ahead, at me and the twin images of the little, frightened cadet that showed up in the glass. I recognized a loaded question when I heard one, but I was prouder than I was smart. I said the only answer I could.

"I am a cadet of the Xiscapian Imperial Army -I am one of you."

"Wrong."

That single word rang strong, cutting across my sentence like a lash. I blinked, only just remembering to close my mouth, and shared a bewildered glance with my roommate. No one laughed, or spoke up to contradict her, or so much as coughed. Looking back to her, I felt my tail curl, questioningly. Who was she to say...?

"You are nothing," she told me plainly. "I am a cadet of the Xiscapian Imperial Army. You are the dirt under my heel. In fact, you are worth less to me than my tail dandruff. Your first year isn't even up yet, and so, you are worthless. You are not even Xiscapian. Now strip."

The order came so soon after the shocking statements that nobody moved.

"I said strip," she repeated, fingering the handle of her combat knife. "Or I'll strip you myself."

Slowly, we complied. There is no such thing as a nudity taboo in our culture, but there is a difference between being willingly naked and disrobing because someone else has just ordered you to for no discernible reason. Lifting my hands, I grasped my shirt by the collar and, leaning, pulled it over by head and dropped it to the floor beside me, where it joined my roommate's shorts. Sliding hands down my hips, I pushed my own shorts down as well, letting them drop the rest of the way before stepping out of them, entirely nude. I didn't even have time to adjust to the change before she was on me.

Her arms wrapped around me, holding me tightly in a vice-like grip accompanied by the whir of servomotors, irresistible in suddenness and power. My snout pressed against her chest, crushed into her breasts, and I struggled but she held firm and I felt her grab my tail at its base. I yelped, plume whipping as she pulled it up, ears flattening at the cries from my fellow cadets as they were similarly assaulted. Before I knew it she had procured a rope from somewhere, yanking it tautly around my tail in a tight knot before using the slack to pull around and bind my wrists until I could only move them a few degrees in any direction without pulling my own plume, the very act of which made my eyes water in pain. I was too distracted by my ridiculous predicament, arms held out awkwardly in front of me to give myself as much room as possible, to notice the collar until she'd clipped it around my neck.

At once I swallowed, feeling the leather press against my throat, constantly reminding me of its presence. My eyes dropped to it, enough to notice the little silver bell hanging from the front that jangled whenever I moved. Moving up, they followed the end of the leash until they traced the end of it to the same vixen's hands, where she stood watching me. In a single motion she pulled hard, and I fell to the floor, dragged down and only kept from going completely prone by my own hands, forced into position to catch me at the expense of leaving my tail raised as long as the rope was around it. I could feel my face already starting to burn; a lifted plume is a sign of submission in our culture, the higher the lower, and mine was leaving me completely exposed.

It was little consolation to know that I was not the only one. In front of me my roommate had been forced into an identical position, and ahead of him every other first-year cadet was likewise. Only the upperclassmen had been left standing, holding leashes or walking alongside us, stern. Near the end of the corridor, opposite of me, I could see and hear cadets being led away into the bathroom, and a faint, coarse buzzing noise that I couldn't quite identify. No one dared ask what or why this was happening.

I had no way to track the passage of time, no way of knowing how long I sat there on all fours, staring at my roommate's ass and trying not to think about how the cute tom from next door was behind me, staring at my own derrière. The line moved slowly, they were apparently taking us two at a time but whatever they were doing with the ones they took had to be taking a while. Second and third-year toms and vixens prowled up and down the ranks of naked, collared first-years on the floor, eyes probing us from behind masks as if seeking any wrongdoing even as our handlers watched as well, reflecting our humiliation back at us in their visors. For my part, I kept my eyes to the floor, tired of looking ahead but trying not to attract any attention. The vixen was watching me all the time.

At last it was my turn, my roommate and I shuffling into the white-tiled bathroom, making hard points on our palms and knees as we were led in. There were four people already crammed inside, all more senior cadets, but the first thing I noticed was that the floor was covered in clumps of hair of all different hues from deepest black to purest white and all natural colors in between, enough to practically carpet the place. I could feel it sticking to my arms and legs when I crawled. My stomach lurched, and when I looked up and saw the tom with an electric razor in his hand there could be no questioning it. I now knew what the buzzing sound had been.

With the realization I pulled back on my leash, the first sign of disobedience I had shown to my "mistress" as I tugged, defiant and scared, tail straining against its bonds. In a second three of them were on me, her, the other tom, and the male with the razor, holding me down against the tile with the ropes and their hands, ignoring the commotion from the other side as my roommate fought for freedom. As the former two secured me I heard the latter started in with the trimmer, running it along my back, and felt the tears gather in my eyes as it sunk into my flaxen coat and bit away the fur there, snarling as it sheared away that final covering. I had never had my fur shaved off before, they had cut my hair when I came here but they hadn't touched my coat, it just wasn't done in our culture, but here they were, taking my last pride from me. What I thought about it didn't matter, and the awful hum of the device continued.

They were very systematic about it, turning me onto my side and my back as needed, never letting me go an inch, and eventually I stopped thrashing and just gave in. Their thoroughness was one of military precision, going down my back, rear and legs, along my tail, over my front, chest, belly, between my legs, up my neck and face -nothing was spared. He wielded the razor like a cutting laser, getting the hairs between my toes by spreading my pads, inside my ears when he pulled them inside out, even on my taint when each my legs were grabbed and parted. By the end of it I was bald in the most literal sense except for the way that one might normally mean, as all my fur was gone, joining the piles on the floor, but they'd left my head of hair intact. I was released, if you could call it that, since they pulled me to my feet and swung me around, arms held behind me as the vixen busied herself with the ropes again, taking my hands and directly connecting them to the knot at my tail so they were behind me.

All but held upright, I could see myself in the mirror behind the sinks, life-sized this time around. A kitsune with a tear-stained face stared back at me, barely recognizable as such. I was pink, too pink, like a human, all skin and virgin flesh, like a newborn kit. Now I seemed even smaller than the clothed, furred upperclassmen that surrounded me, objectively lesser in every way, as the vixen had said, dandruff, dirt, nothing. Impossible that I could be like them, that I could ever have dreamed that I was on their level.

Then the blindfold came on, blocking out my vision as it was tied around my head, cinching tightly. A clinking noise sounded, letting me know that they were at least taking the leash off, though the collar was still heavy on my neck. Submerged in darkness that not even my nocturnal vision could penetrate, I felt the fingers hook under my collar and allowed myself to be led away, more naked than I had ever been in my life. Metal clunked against metal, a frigid draft brushed over my body, and I was pushed forward, feet meeting hard dirt as I stumbled into the outside, goosebumps immediately rising on my exposed skin. A heavy slap landed on my rump, making me yip in surprised pain, jumping, and the vixen yelled:

"Run, bitch!"

Tush stinging, I bolted. Never before had I tried to run while naked, hairless, blind, and with my tail and arms tied behind my back, and it proved to be harder than I would have expected, the uneven weight making me bend over slightly so I could run faster. The ground was at least flat, but I had other problems as I soon felt when I heard the first crack of something whipping through the air near my chest. Squealing, I dodged to the left, away from the assailant, and went right into what was definitely someone's rolled up belt that cracked over my hip. I howled and sped up, as if trying to outrun the pain, but it was little use as I sprinted right into the gauntlet, entering a perfect storm of towels, belts and suspenders striking across my vulnerable form, leaving welts and making me scream out my torment with every blow.

It didn't last long, perhaps twenty seconds -the lines of upperclassmen couldn't have been very long- but it felt like an age in and of itself. My entire body smarted fiercely, having spanked me from ankles up to my neck, and the burning pain was almost enough to negate the chill wind that flowed over my abused and surely ruddy skin. Almost before I could realize that it had stopped something grabbed my collar, arresting me, and I nearly fell as I fought to keep my balance without my tail, more held up by whoever had caught me than anything. Quick hands righted me, putting themselves on my shoulders so I stayed firmly in place, then slipped away, leaving me. "Easy there, do ngu," a vixen's voice said. "Hold still. If you run we beat you."

"O-okay," I gasped, sides still heaving, barely able to speak between being out of breath and teeth chattering from the cold.

"Now, cadet, why don't you jiggle pop for me?"

My brain froze up for a moment as I tried to comprehend what I was being asked. "You...what?"

"Jiggle pop, you dumb fuck. The dance. From the band Jiggle Pop? Lots of girls, jumping around? That one. Do it."

I tried. I'd seen the dance before, though never done it, and my aching, shaking body put on the best alluring performance it could at the moment, which wasn't much. The snickering from nearby upperclassmen reached my ears as I wiggled my hips, and I was sure they could see the blush on my face from ten meters away, with how hot it felt. The same couldn't be said for my dance, but they let me go a while longer as I eked out an approximation of the movements, knowing I looked like a fool. She stopped me with a word.

"Enough."

Gratefully, I settled.

"Now sing, 'Send Me an Angel.'"

I balked. "B-but that's an A-Abhuman song! I-I don't even k-know the words!"

"Shut up. You first-years sing it every night in the barracks. You don't need to know the words. Now sing."

I swallowed hard. That was true enough, but I didn't know that more than one or two of us actually knew the words in the strange language. We just liked the sound and imitated them as best we could, mostly relying on each other to carry the song. But now I was expected to do it alone. Opening my mouth, I croaked out what I knew, haltingly, knowing I was mangling every word.

"Sh'lach...li-mal'achsheyikach...sheyikach...oti...lelev..."

"Stop. You piece of shit. I've heard Clak-Tok sing better than that. C'mon, on to the next part. No, walk forward," she grabbed me by the collar. "You can't even follow directions," she hissed in my ear. "How do you expect to survive in combat, huh?"

It seemed like we'd only gone a few paces, her leading me along almost without touching me, when we halted. Hands on my shoulders sat me down, and I yelled, high-pitched, as my ass touched something ice-cold. Shifting around, I figured out that it actually was a block of ice I was sitting on, and it felt like it was already giving my genitals frostbite. Feeling myself beginning to shake uncontrollably, I wished I could hug myself for warmth but my arms were still tied to my tail; I couldn't even wrap my plume around my waist. There was nothing I could do but grimace and bear it.

"Now," said the same voice, somewhere a meter or so off to my left. "How many cubic meters of volume are there in a Wasp class Heavy Cruiser? You get three tries."

I blinked invisibly behind my blindfold. Obviously someone had to know the answer...but that someone wasn't me. It wasn't as if we were tested on that kind of thing. Hell, that was KIN stuff anyway, for the Navy! How was I supposed to know?

"I..." I stopped myself before I could say something I would regret. "Um...ten thousand?"

"Wrong. Two tries left."

I gulped. I really did not want to find out what was going to happen when I used up all my tries, but I was pretty sure I was going numb down there. "Fifty thousand?"

"No, idiot. One try left."

"One hundred thousand!"

There was no way I could have been prepared for it. She must have had a stun baton, because she hit me in the chest with it and the jolts blasted through me, enough to make my hair stand on end, or it would have, if I'd had any left. I shrieked, jumping up from the sheer, literal shock of it, and the ice tore at my bare skin as I wrenched myself up, making me scream louder and longer as I keeled over into the dirt. At one with my kind, I thought was I writhed, limbs jerking. I remember drooling a little down the side of my face as they picked me up, someone grabbing my arms behind my back and the other holding my legs, lifting me away.

There was the barest hint of a warning, a foul stench right before they dropped me. I fell into a shallow depression full of cold, slimy liquid that smelled so bad I could all but feel my nose shutting down, trying to protect itself from being damaged. The stuff clung to my naked, tortured body as I turned over in it, inadvertently coating myself in the goo with my wallowing, slimy and hideous-feeling. Not knowing what I had been thrown into, I yelled, turning over again, trying to get into a position where I could stand up and climb out. It seemed hopeless -my feet couldn't find purchase on the bottom, so I just fell back into it.

"Please! No more!"

"Shut up! You fucking scut ba tam. How do you expect to fight anything if you can't handle getting a little messy!? Huh? You think one of those Exile War Priests is afraid of a bunch of slime? What about a Black Claw Raider, are you just hoping they'll be even prissier than your begging ass? Maybe you'd rather go ask a Vipran to make you her bitch than try to fight her?" The tom above snarled. "You don't deserve to fight for the Motherland! Take it like the Xiscapian you're not. You either fucking deal, or we break you. Your choice, con di."

Rolling over again, I lay still, trembling. My eyes were watering from the sheer putrid odor of the liquid, wetting the blindfold, but I didn't say anything. It was strange, I felt low, yet not defeated. There was hope. I could make it out. I had to make it out. The other choice was unthinkable. I would not wash out. Not now. Not after all I'd been through.

After a while, I never knew how long, they pulled me out, dripping, covered in the goop, quivering, but I was able to stand when they put me on my feet. That was fortunate, because they went right back to yanking me along, and I staggered onward, not thinking much anymore, just trying to get to the end. Whenever that would be, whatever that entailed. I was stopped by someone poking me in the chest with a hard, metal object, and I swayed where I stood, dazed, until I felt fingers working at the ropes tying my limbs back. They were untying my hands! Hope sprang forth within me. I had to be close.

"Start climbing."

Arms and tail free, I stretched them, one ear cocking quizzically. Climb what? Reaching out blindly, I stepped forward and my aching hands bumped into the bitter metal of the ladder right in front of me. Only know what I had been told to do, I put both feet on the bottom rung, reached up, and was immediately blasted by a spray of glacial water from below. Screeching, I climbed for all I was worth, desperately maintaining my hold as the ladder became slick and raw, endangering my ascension. It did me little good, with my stance like it was my legs had to be parted and whoever had the hose was deliberately aiming right between my thighs, spraying the polar water right onto my genitals. Somehow, no matter how far up I went, that infernal jet followed me until at last, soaking wet, shivering and wheezing, I hauled myself up onto the roof.

More arms came for me, pulling me up on to me knees, and I lackadaisically allowed myself to be propped up, just trying to breath normally again. In a single motion my blindfold was torn away and for a long moment I just stared at the floor I found myself on, sitting on hands and knees again, huddled against the wind that toyed with my defenseless figure. At last I looked up, and there I was, reflected in the panes of that same vixen I had met originally. I had never seen anything more pathetic than myself at that moment, looking for all the universe like an animal with the collar on, pink skin bruised, trembling and soft. I only had a moment to be taken by that before I noticed what she was wearing.

It was not so much her clothes, for those had not changed, as her new...attachment. Someone had designed a harness that, impossibly, poised a 12.7×108mm IMP-4 Anti-materiel rifle slung between her legs. The stock ended somewhere around where her tail would be, so the barrel of the weapon stuck out from just below her crotch like a massive, erect metal penis. She seemed quite comfortable with it, though I stared for several seconds as I sat back on my knees, open-mouthed, struck dumb. There were no words, and then I couldn't say anything at all as she jammed the end of the barrel into my mouth.

Almost reflexively, I bit down, ending up with the very tip on my tongue, held in place. Horrified, I looked up at her, and she gazed down at me, expressionless.

"You know what this is," she said quietly, stroking the barrel in an oddly masturbatory motion. "Improved Material Penetration 4 Anti-materiel rifle. One shot from this hits you, and it boils your blood in your veins. They say you survive it just long enough for it to hurt." Reaching down, she slapped the safety off with an audible metallic noise, and I felt my eyes widen as large as dinner plates.

"Yes," the vixen murred softly, scratching me behind the ears. "You ever sucked a cock before, cadet? Get your lips around it and just start moving up and down the barrel. Get it nice and wet for me." Letting my tongue press against the bottom of my mouth, I opened wider to allow as much in as I could, feeling the cold, hard metal stick to the warm, damp flesh in my mouth, tasting smoke.

"It's important, what you're doing here. This is death," she touched the gun again as I lubricated it, the barrel shining with my spit. "As real as anyone can make it. This is what we all deal with, every day. Death on a personal, intimate level, like it's your lover. Always near, faithful, just a call away, never leaving, never dying itself. We all fellate death, you see, whenever we step out into combat, daring it to shoot its load into us. Maybe from a weapon like this. Maybe from something like a knife, or a mine, or something we can't even imagine. You have to embrace it. You have to be ready to do dirty, nasty things with it, if you only want to keep it with you, and not have it consume you."

Taking my cue, I pulled back slightly, sticking my tongue out, just rimming the inside of the barrel. "Good. You understand. You have to love death, and not just for the enemy. Death isn't a jealous lover, see. Death is a whore. It'll sleep with anyone, for the right price. If you're good, and careful and lucky, you can keep making the other bastards pay that price. But if you're not," she took a half step forward, ramming it into my mouth, "then it'll come for you. And you have to accept that. When it comes calling, when it's been paid, you can't refuse. You can only let it happen."

I gagged a little, and she eased back, letting me breath. "You can't love death too much. You spend too long with it, it'll take you over, and you'll be dead. Remember: Death is a whore. There when you need it, and to be kept away when you don't. It'll never leave, not entirely, because you and me and all those other poor furfags down there, we're marked toms and vixens. Death knows. It'll come for us eventually, if you see what I mean, and we'll give as good as we get when that happens. That's what it means to be an Xiscapian soldier. You've heard the jokes all those foreigners like to make. How we'll fuck anything. Do you think they'd guess that we'd fuck death?"

Backing up, she pulled the rifle out, letting it sit there, coated with my saliva as I panted. "You have to be a little crazy, to be one of us. You have to go through all of what you just did; all of us did, at one point. We broke you down, made you nothing, less than a kit, and you were reborn, naked, hairless, wet, screaming, in pain. We showed you your ignorance, your helplessness, your arrogance. But now you've been remade. Strong. Worthy. And you fucked death, and got away with it."

Her tail drifted around and pulled the trigger before I could react. Click. Nothing. Empty barrel. No magazine in the gun.

I gave a weak smile. "T-Thank godlessness for erectile dysfunction."

She laughed aloud, looking down at me, and for the first time I saw her eyes just over the rims of her glasses. "I like you. Here," reaching down, she undid the straps and let the rifle fall to the roof before extending her other hand, helping me up. "You're one of us now," she told me, pulling my collar off and tossing it aside. "You passed our ritual, so you're ready to graduate. And don't worry," she shucked off her coat, wrapping it around me, "we grow fur back fast. You'll have a full coat again by the time the ceremony rolls around."

Inhaling, I let out a long, shuddering exhale of relief, tugging the coat tighter around me. "Thanks."

"Don't mention it. Really, don't. This is not to be spoken of outside these walls. But there's one last thing you need to do." She looked at me seriously.

I stared back, dread rising in my heart. "What?"

"Repeat after me: Now, I am Xiscapian."

I smiled.

"Now, I am Xiscapian."

[The Commonwealth of Steel]

[MT]

The Dream

The Man with No Name glided his way through the vacant city, in a surreal wonder as he grew sceptical of his new found reality. There were no parked cars, nor bikes or clutter of any kind. Each and every street was sterile in it's nakedness, without pedestrians to ruin it's muted splendour. The man soon strayed onto the cobbled roads, having dismissed his natural aversion as there was no traffic. The air was stale, and the light was grey, dust seemingly knocked from mid-air suspension as the Nameless Man carved a path through frozen dust motes, leaving a trail of perfect emptiness in his wake. He, of course, didn't notice this as he strolled past empty shop fronts towards nowhere in particular.

As he strolled past such quaint shops, an alley entrance caught his eye, and an untraceable compulsion drew him to investigate further. He looked down the alley, and saw pristine walls of stone cutting across to the next street over. Something attracted his focus from the corner of his eye. The movement came from the street he was on, a strange movement which seemed as if the ground were flaking into shards and idly drifting. His eyes darted to his right, from whence the movement had come; everything was as sterile as ever. He turned back to the alley for a last look. There, instead of the vacant alley he saw a moment ago, people were lined up on either side of the conduit, staring straight ahead with a glazed expression. As he looked closer, he saw that the gender alternated down the line from woman to man and back again. Strangest of all was their appearance. Each man was wearing a grey suit leached of all colour, complemented by a blood red handkerchief in their breast-pocket. Each woman was dressed similarly, with a business skirt and black business heels. They all wore a blood red lipstick upon their lips, the only colour in their entire attire, like the men's handkerchief. Something struck the Man Lacking a Name as odd, apart from the obvious mystery of how and why they were here as they were. He couldn't quite see it until he walked up to one of the "mannequins". Each man was the image was of every other, as were the women. Each face was held in an expectant smile, framed by a cadaverous beauty and a waxy sheen to their skin. The skin shone pale in the grey light, without any inner-glow nor colour.

The Name Begotten Man opted to walk into the next street, via the alley, Once he reached halfway, all the vacant faces suddenly flicked to a dour frown, without movement or warning. The man, startled, fled from the alley to Next Street as the faces flicked to his direction of flight like the shuttering of a camera.

The man ran and ran, seemingly without mortal restraint, until he came to a grey park, once again devoid of any and all colour, only in shades of grey. What caused the man to stop was a pedestrian underpass, which caused the world to blur like an unfocused image when seen through the tunnel. The man was curious, despite his misgivings from his last encounter. As he watched, the blurry image became narrow, as the tunnel stretched out before him. The park was gone, leaving him at the entrance of a very long tunnel without recourse. A man-shaped blur suddenly emerged from the washed out light at the tunnels end, resolving himself to be a dark patch of light as he seemed to walk into the tunnel. The Name Challenged Man peered with more curiosity into the tunnel, and saw the man come into sharp focus, coming out the other end. His end. That distance was surely too great to travel in so many seconds, but as it was, the man was faced with a humanoid shadow as blurred in nearness as he was at the end of a distance. He reached for the man, to be rebuffed by screaming and an abject refusal for proximity. The man dashed through the re-materialized park and went through another underpass, to find himself looking at what he could only presume was the back of the Shade. The light in front of him began to brighten, so he had to squint. The Shade looked more natural when it's background was so oppressive, shaking it away from it's eerie form. The man was swept away by the white light, to be left with a sensation of falling...

The Awakening

...To be reintroduced to gravity. And sheets. Jackson woke in a fit, with sheets tangled around his legs and the duna flung into the far reaches by his bucking. He sat up, shaking from the adrenaline his awakening saw fit to trigger. He stared into blackness at a bookshelf he knew was there, sitting like that for a amount of time he couldn't be sure of. He waited for the shaking to subside before he slid himself out of bed and went to get a drink.

He took turns in sipping the water and pressing the glass to his head, as he leant on the quart tabletop, once again staring off into oblivion. He thought about the Shade, thinking about his sense of Deja Vu at the time. Once he was finished drinking, he slinked off back to bed. He slept with his lamp on for the rest of the night. His eyes never strayed from bedroom doorway, through which he was looking into a darkened corner in his living room. The lamp light made great inroads into the darkness, including the chair next to the corner. But the corner gorged itself on the light, and remained dark. Though the night was cool, he basked in his own sweat till morning.

[Oppressorion]

Forgiveness

I am looking for a child. A little girl. All around me is darkness. It is not the inky black obsidian of the dead of night, but the complete absence of sight – there is nothing to see. All I have are sensations. I start to walk, unseen gravel crunching under my feet, and presently a figure comes into view. Morgan, the person my life revolved around. A few words spill from those familiar lips, from that mouth I knew so well. “Are you sure?” Morgan was right to be concerned - this was not my first time here. I nod, and Morgan gives me a thread. I pull on it.

I hear a delighted laugh, and reach out, grasping the memory. Just a small one, just the sound without sight or smell. It was my laugh, the one I had when I found out that a child was coming. My daughter. I hear Morgan's voice, and my own. So optimistic, then – so hopeful that things'd be better. We had a good home, a good marriage and a steady income: what could a child do, but improve?

I feel it and find a second thread, a tenuous tendon latched onto the next fragment of my life. There's another one now in my grasp. It feels bigger, and – ah! It has an image. The child's room...preparing it? No, not yet; this is too early. It was when we -me and Morgan- were looking at new houses. The pregnancy was a bit of a surprise, you see, and we needed a bigger home. I remember worrying; the excitement had faded by now, replaced by stress. Was I making enough at my job to cover an extra mouth, much less a new mortgage? How much leave could I take, without risking having no job to come back to? I savour it all the same, absorbing the nervous excitement and anticipation I'd felt. It actually felt better than the first time – the house made things more real, made the future more solid. I was worried about being a good parent, scared of screwing things up, but also eager to start something new.

I walk a little way forward. The next to meet me wears a surgeon's scrubs. Silently, he (or she; I can't tell with the mask and scrubs) hands me a thread. This one leads to a more recent memory, with sound and visuals. It was me and Morgan picking the child's name after the ultrasound, in the living room – our old one, I mean.
“Mary? After my grandmother?”
I shake my head.
“Ehhh...feels too Biblical.” I think.
“Hang on. Bible, legends... 'Morgan' is from King Arthur, isn't it? Well, what about Gwen, from Guinevere?”
Morgan thinks, head tilting as the name rolls around in it.
“Gwen...it sounds good.”
I smile, and kiss Morgan's cheek.
“Gwen it is.”
Gwen. Good name. Not meaning anything important nowadays, not some great scientist or artist from the past. Nothing important, but hers. Something that she could hold to herself, something I could give her. The last thing I gave her...I smell antiseptic, and shudder.

I'm near the end now, so near, and I'm afraid. The next memory is the most detailed, the most recent. It even has the smell of salmon and eggs – I'd gotten in to my head that they would be good for the baby. Morgan had flatly refused to eat the same fish so often, so I often changed meals round, but that didn't prevent the smell from permeating the house – I often joked that it was good that we were moving, because otherwise Gwen would have been driven mad in a month. I remember I was standing on the upper landing – I'd just gotten off of the phone with the estate agent. The people selling the house had accepted our offer, and we'd be able to move in in two weeks. I ran to tell Morgan -well, tried to, I was quite a bit heavier by then- and then, horrified, I realise, and I try to shout, to warn myself, to slow down...

To no avail. I watch, helpless, as I turn at the top of the stairs.
Turn, and my ankle gives.
Turn, and fall.
Turn, and meet Morgan's eyes, wide with surprise.
Then I stop falling, because I have just pushed my wife down the stairs. Now our feelings match past and present.

I'm back to sensations and feelings now. The voice of the lady on the end of the 999 line. The wail of ambulance sirens. The smell of a hospital, all white and antiseptic. And...I almost stop. No, I remind myself. You did this. You are the cause, you see the consequence. So, finally, I see the last image. The doctors kept it behind a screen – they are not monsters. But I insisted – my conscious demanded no less. “I did this”, I say. After much arguing, I am finally given a smock and surgical mask, and ordered to keep out of their way. And here it is. My daughter. What I made of her. A small, bloody thing, twisted and deformed. It was already dead in the hospital – Morgan was haemorrhaging, and the surgery was to save her. I felt like two great holes had opened up before me - one, a great chasm of pain that I'd created in Morgan. Next was an abyss, a hole without end. It was Death, and I had carelessly dropped my daughter in.
"I have killed my daughter", I say to myself. Nobody hears - they are too busy trying to prevent my mistake from killing someone else. Nobody but me.

I awaken now, in my single bed. Morgan and me...that was as much me as as her. She couldn't cope with her pain, and I couldn't cope with my guilt. So we went her separate ways, her to her parents' to grieve, and me to a cheap flat in the city. There was no divorce; I took a few hundred from the account and gave her my card and car keys. That was the last time I saw her.
A train rumbles by, and I look over to the bedside cabinet. A bottle of painkillers are there – the noise gives me a migraine. I take two with some water in a cup beside the bottle.
“No...”, I mumble, half asleep, the incomplete sentence dissolving on my lips. Then I think and tilt my head. Half-formed sentence, half of a bottle...I shrug, and, finish both. “No forgiveness.”

[Talidan]

The Beast

Relim Vie held the massive helmet in his gloved hands. This helmet was not a military helmet, nor a hard-hat, but a key component of a space suit meant for zero gravity and zero atmosphere. It always felt claustrophobic to him. The suit itself was bulky, complete with insolation, bright white colors and even flashing lights in case something went wrong. Along with himself, Relim was with three others in the airlock. For some reason, he couldn’t remember their names but the leader… Commandant Helker. The Commandant already was suited up fully, so only his aged face, complete with cheek-scar that prevented him from actually smiling, was exposed to vision from behind the glass. “Hurry up, Vie, or that wreckage will drift away!” the commandant growled through the two-way radio that was attached to the neck-grid in the front of the suit-wearer. Relim almost dropped his helmet, fumbling with it, but he managed to place it over his head, and then twisted it slightly on the base for it to hiss as the seals interlocked.

The other men began taking positions along a white, cigar-shaped, with two men on either side. For each man was a grip, as well as a harness cable. “Sync up!” Helker grunted again, which was responded with clicks of harness cables. “Alright, Bridge, we are ready. Unseal hatch and let us depart.” The commandant continued. Almost immediately, the grey doors hissed as they unsealed, exposing the blackness of the void with distant stars even further away. The white cylinder, along with the men, began to drift slowly in the Zero-G. The group of men, all hanging onto the cylinder, pushed off into open-space. With short, controlled, bursts the pod was manoeuvred forward towards something being slowly illuminated by flood-lights on the hull of the ship the men had just departed. It was a wreck. A massive one. It certainly wasn’t of Talidanii manufacture either; it was too curved and showed no signs of a rotating mid-section. Even its surface was of a dull peat-green, not the familiar metal of human vessels.

The little pod and its men were nearing the derelict when the Talidanii salvage ship began moving away. “What in the world!? Bridge! Come in! What are you doing!? We are…” Commandant Helker was shouting into the communication-link, but he shifted his eyes upward which caused him to pause. Rilem did the same, and he was horrified from what he saw. Along the top of the derelict was a massive monster with a hexagonal-shaped mouth. It seemed to almost be like a wingless dragon, but covered in claws and spikes of pure terror. “My Heilas…” Helker said piously, both in shock and in prayer as the beast swarmed down upon the entire crew. Rilem screamed, attempting to push off into the void to spare his life for a few moments longer. He flailed his arms, wanting to scream but he just couldn’t. Over the radio, he could hear the terrified cries of peril from the other men. Rilem turned around in the Zero-G just long enough to see the hexagonal mouth devour him.

Rilem’s eyes shot open, probably by the jolt in his heart from being to as close to death as he ever wanted to be at his young age of 21. He shifted a bit, moving his legs together from their spastic locations on the bed, before sitting up. He rubbed his face, which was clean-shaven, and then stroked a hand through his red hair. It felt matted down and in odd angles for hair to be in. Such was bed-head. Rilem leaned back and pressed a button near his lamp to open the metallic blinds that sealed his window into open space. This wasn’t a common thing, but living on a space station had its perks. He swung his legs off the bed, hesitating a moment to build up strength before standing up.

The floor had a pretty bad excuse for carpet, but at least it wasn’t metal panels. His eyes began to adjust, allowing him to see his drab living quarters. Basically, it was a bedroom with a closet and a bathroom attached. The blinds had retracted from the window by the time Rilem had gotten to the side-table he leaned on to look out of it. The stars, without atmosphere or light pollution, were flawless to him. However, that is not what he wanted to look at. Outside his window stood the monolith of modern space travel; the Gate. It allowed movement Faster-Than-Light, which evaded the Talidanii still. It stood unused, currently. If a ship entered through the gate (or out of it); blue phase lines would outline the ship and zap it away in a blink of an eye. Its hexagonal shape was massive and it terrified him. He had transferred from a salvage freighter explicitly to avoid going through it. Government information about what was on the other side was heavily restricted, which to Rilem meant that nothing good was there. He signed deeply and glanced at the clock. It said 02:43 hours, standard time. The young man groaned, rubbing his face; he had a shift in about three hours. Pressing a button near the window itself, the metal sidings shuddered to life to slide back down over the glass window. He’d climb back into bed in a moment, but first… he had to pee.

[Rhyschew]

[ FT ]

A mandated dream

I crawled into a hollow in the root of The Eternal Tree, ready to become one with the tree. As my roots wrapped around those of the tree, I began to shut down, ready to receive vital nutrients and share my thoughts with the tree.

When sleep finally came I was in a large field, populated by white grains. A cool breeze caused these to ripple pleasingly. I began to wade through these and they put up no resistance, looking up the sky was blank and empty, but still offered a light too harsh to look at for long.
In the distance a tall, pointed structure rose against the sterile and blank sky. As I began to drag myself towards it, shorter structures made themselves visible to me, and an entire city was now arrayed before me, and curious, I began towards it with even more enthusiasm.
When I entered the city it seemed to be much more alive. Small stalls and creatures dotted spaces between the buildings. These creatures had three legs, and were pyramidal. They hopped about with satisfaction and projected a feeling of joy, though I did not see why. On each face they had an eye. They hummed and purred as I walked past, along the streets which all seemed to lead to a single stall. Despite me being drawn to it, it was the same as all the others, as was the pyramid being it. I approached it.
Suddenly everything around me seemed to stretch into shape. The stall was suddenly raised onto a white marble plaza that rose up in steps and the pyramid was rounded into a sphere. He vibrated and whistled excitedly while the pyramidal beings toiled in the white grain that had taken over the city, which was now nothing but the pedestal that the sphere occupied. I wondered what had happened. The pyramids piled the grain at the base of the sphere's platform, the grain seemingly floating next to their corners. Again the scene stretched like some sort of skin stretched over a writhing goo. Now the area was just earth and thousands of cubes hammered at small objects placed on tables in unison, again holding the tools with their corners. The dull clash of metal on stone rang out as the hammer came down again and again.
I suddenly woke with an enormous sense of well being. I could barely remember what had happened in my dream and as I started to think about it more and more details escaped me. I could remember a skyline and fields of wheat but that was it. Despite this I felt very happy and I was moving much faster than I normally would. The hairs on my roots stood erect and I began to whistle as I clambered out of the hollow, Almost leaping down the pathway.

[Kreanoltha]

[ FT ]

A Field of Glass

It was late in the morning, and Togadus had a headache. Scotch should help with that. Despite the bright light streaming through his curtained windows, he could still see imposing ice-encapsulated peaks of the mountains to the west of his city. Perhaps it was the rain clouds hanging low above his windows. If the clouds had been a little thicker it would have been a lovely day. As it was, he was still in a bad mood from work. Trustfund babies were insufferable. He mumbled something about wishing he could drain their accounts if he could get away with it as he slump onto his couch. He grabbed a cigarette too. If alcohol could help so could nicotine.

_________

Togadus woke with a start. He sighed.

“Damn. I liked that tie.” he muttered as he brushed the ash off of it. The soot stains phosphoresced without piquing his curiosity. He reached over and grabbed his bottle of scotch, poured a large glass, and bolted it down. He nose wrinkled a little as it burned down to his stomach. He grabbed a cigarette out of instinct.

Togadus stood and walked towards the kitchen. The door dissolved as he touched it, spilling him into the bright midday sun. His black hair soaked up the sun while his pale skin did its best not to burn and blister under the burning yellow star. His blue eyes squinted in unendurably bright light. The glass walls did nothing to protect him. Space was only hidden from him by the imperfect transparency of the glass that formed the cityship.

He noticed a closet.

“That's always been there.” he muttered to himself as though to reassure himself of that fact. It was as though he was in a haze. He thought he could see something moving in the glass, but that would be impossible. Nothing could live in the glass. Where was everyone anyway?

Togadus opened the door and was spilled onto a vast mezzanine overlooking a vast field of glass. It almost seemed as though he was in a forest; albeit one with a mezzanine and a glass dome. He was in his long bathrobe now. It was back and red plaid. Whatever respite the glass had offered him was gone. He wanted to go back into his apartment, but something was driving him forward.

After vacillating for a few moments, Togadus decided to turn back. He opened the closet door to go back to his kitchen, but the kitchen was gone. It was replaced by a broom closet. Everything was made of glass; even the head of the dust mop. The confusion passed quickly but was replaced with the pain of the sun. It beat down on his skin and burned his eyes. The urge to go into the forest of glass was greater than ever. He gave in and pulled the robe over his head.

_________

Togadus felt as though he'd been wandering for hours. The forest had offered no shade, and it looked as though something was moving inside of the tree trunk. It was impossible. It was just the heat, easily thirty degrees centigrade, playing with his eyes. He was hallucinating. He felt as though he was going to have a heat stroke. Anyway, the forest had given out several hundred meters ago. He wasn't sure, but he thought he was in a desert. Some cultures feared swamps the way Kreanolthans feared deserts. There was no shade and no water. A noliri's snowy skin would burn in the endless light. They would die of heat exhaustion in the oven-like air. This was not lost on Togadus. Still, he trudged along despite the strong sense of something following him. He could see the glass-sand shift around him.

Abruptly, the desert ended at an impossibly straight line of polished glass. It's mirror-like surface shown even more light at Togadus' cracking skin and blinded eyes. A cyclopean maze stood before him. The only thought running though his mind was that perhaps there would be water inside. He was so hot and dehydrated that he couldn't bring himself to even try lighting a cigarette.

_________

Togadus staggered through the maze for what felt like an eternity. Eyes in the glass were watching him. They seemed to focus the light on him like baleful lenses. He felt as though he was a giant walking blister, but, defying comprehension, his skin was unmolested. His eyes were another story. He could barely make out shapes anymore; colors were reduced to washed out smudges over the Gaussian blurs that passed for shapes. There was a constant stream of tears running running down his face as the light seared his corneas. He wished there was a dark hole he could crawl into somewhere in this god forsaken wasteland, somewhere cool and damp to heal, but he was hopelessly lost. The maze was impossible. Places that should have been dead ends, where the maze curled in on itself, instead lead to long corridors. Angles that shouldn't have existed did. He once tripped into an obtuse angle. His mind was more injured by the occurrence than his body. Navigation was impossible.

Suddenly a sound sweeter than life itself rang through the burning sun and dust-filled air: the soft plink of water dripping into a puddle. Togadus ran to the sound as fast as his languorous legs would carry him.

After twisting through countless switchbacks and turns it appeared: a pool of clear blue water in the glass floor. It was easily thirty-five degrees, possibly even forty, but Togadus didn't care. It burned his mouth and throat, but it was still the best water he'd ever tasted. He had drained half the pool when he saw the eyes rushing down on him. There was something in the glass!

As the eyes converged giant hands of sand shattered the ground beneath Togadus and rose up around him. For the first time since he awoke he could see without pain. His relief was fugacious. The newly formed dome collapsed over his head enveloping him. The sharp edged glass sand covered him in paper cuts. He could feel the microscopic razorblades tearing his nose and throat as the sand forced its way into his chest.

_________

“AAHHHH!!!”

Togadus bolted upright in his chair.

“What the bleeding fuck?!” he mumbled as he brushed the cigarette ash off of his tie.

“Damn it... I liked that tie.” he grumbled as he poured a large glass of scotch and lit a cigarette. He bolted the scotch and poured another glass while puffing away on his cigarette.

Would he examine the dream Togadus might have realized that it was a metaphor illustrating his feelings on his stations in life. He knew his job was a dead end. He would be stuck managing the trust funds of irresponsible little bastards given to them by their parents to keep them off their backs. He worked with people he hated in a job he hated. He feared that if he ever did manage to rise he'd be struck down.

If he bothered to pay attention to his dream Togadus might have realized this too. Instead he was setting about to drown his resentment and fear in alcohol like he did every day.

[Dolmhold]

[FT]

The Trance Mirror

The land was embellished in a bright desert of snow, the bitter arctic winds giving each flake of snow the annoyance of sand in a sandstorm. The much unappreciated rays of the sun shone down like a spear to the eye, and where it could not hit its target directly it’d rebound off the crystal mirror of the vast landscape to punish the man in a torturous glare. The landscape itself was barren, impoverished with any physical features other than the vast dunes of encroaching and fleeting white, and the monstrous blue skies which coupled itself with the inflictor of radiant pain were clear through the veil of the blizzard flurries. There were no footsteps that could tell him where he came from.

The man himself was only aware of his existence here, and not elsewhere, for the cold had played a game of jest with him and denied him of any memories as to he was here. His cool but not frozen feet were entrenched in a pair of mammoth boots that he did not remember having, his arms and body encased in a bulky overcoat of hide and fur, its length approaching his feet, that seemed to only have existed with the he that is here and not before. His face was exposed to the cold, and to the elements, as he retracted his hands inside his sleeves to preserve some degree of warmth. Wherever he was, he realized quickly that he needed to find civilization quick.

He chose a direction, and marched towards it. The man had no tools of orientation on him, as he found out depressingly, and most of them would not work in the monotonous landscape anyways for lack of any highlighting symbol. Thus, any direction would’ve been as good as any, and so he just trudged, monotonously, trying to figure out what had happened or why. He was accompanied by nothing resembling life, unless the pricks of blown snow could be said to be lively with their little spears, as he kept getting more and more tired at an unnatural rate. Even the weight of the clothes could not hand wave it. Something was unnatural about this.

A black speck moved in front of the noise that it generated as it darted across the skies, curiosity peaking as the man observed its direction. Hope welled up inside of him, when he saw the plane turn rather sharply and enlarging in size, that he was going to be rescued from this desolate tundra. It ran away as rapidly as the noise from the plane as it screamed away and over the horizon, however, and despair filled the vacuum before leveling out under rational thought. That was a drone; surely it must have carried a camera! He must have been seen! Hope clouded his vision again as he came to the conclusion that since they must’ve known, they will send a rescue party soon.

Time gave way to his unconsciousness as the hours that flew by blended into one. Indeed, no such party came to his aid, and he kept trudging, the weight of the overcoat being felt with each step now, and the cold making inroads every hour. Bitterness came to his mind; a thought that they did not see him at all emerged. With the continuous pricks of snow on his face and the concentration he had, he hadn’t picked up the roaring of a vehicle until it passed within an arm’s length of where he was trudging forward. The windows clarified that it was not a drone as the man desperately ran to the now roaring away snowmobile, which seemed to have ignored him completely. Resentment was the last feeling he needed, and yet he resented the people in that snowmobile as it turned a blind eye to the man chasing it. The futility of his mad dash was only further insulted by his total waste of strength and stamina, which conceived of a further injury by the sweat which allowed the cold in.

He fell to his knees, tired and in a deeply sorry mindset. He furiously pondered why he was simply ignored and left on the snow, despite his wild gestures and his mad dash. It struck him that it may have looked a bit barbaric, and he chuckled, but he reasoned it was no excuse for leaving him in the snow since it wasn’t as if he looked like a bear. Reason turned to hate, as he gathered his slowly fading strength with the fiery emotional lever and allowed hate to expel cold before trekking towards the rapidly fading car trail. He could not understand why people were so indifferent, so cruel and so selfish.

By this time, the trail had faded away, and a glance backwards revealed the same about his tracks. It was erased from ever being there, reflective of a growing fear that a similar fate awaited him. The fire of hate could only propel man ever so far, and now he was aware of his immense hunger pains and muscle fatigue. He could no longer feel his feet or his cheek as it moved in an unwieldy step forward and the other moving forward like a solid mask. He was weakening, no help forthcoming, and nothing seemed to be coming. He was about to accept that he was going to die.

The jingling of bells, small and angelic bells, startled him greatly and spiked a second of hope within his heart. He turned the heavy weight that was his tortured head and saw an animal-driven sleigh in the distance. It was bright yellow and built like a private car, elongated like a train, and was obviously heated based off the light inside. A light that told him just how long he was walking, as it contrasted with the now dark sky and gave him hope. He pushed himself to get to the sleigh; he knew he could survive the miniscule distance. Just a little bit more, and he would live on.

The alarming crackle of a gunshot frightened him, but by now he could see the man who was just ending the suffering of a thick-haired boar in the ranks that towed the mighty sleigh. The sleigh driver turned around and stared at his frozen face, as he walked up to the man.

“P-p-please. I’m l-lost and fr-freazing to d-death. Can you h-help me?” He begged.

“Why should I help the buffoons who conduct themselves unjustly? Why should my path lift those whom have made the idiotic decisions?” The sleigh driver unexpectedly stated, in a cold and belligerent voice. “If you need help, you can use this.”

A gun emerged at his feet as the sleigh driver rushed back into the sleigh before he could feel the shock in his system, and just as rapidly as the sleigh driver passed the gun, the sleigh was off. Words could not describe the grief and pain he felt as the cold penetrated his gut area and seemed to have approached his brain. He had fallen over from the elements.

“No…” He breathed.

He then realized that he had only two choices: lay there and die slowly, or finish himself. With the little strength left in his fingers and the gun’s friendly interface, he cried as he pulled.

--

“Aaaagh!” Great Light screamed as he catapulted up from his feathery bed and landed with his face on the floor, cold from the lack of a blanket over his body and his face feeling solid from a blanket that was on it.

He gasped, fear still in his eyes as he tried to make sense of what had happened. He stared at his clothes. They were nothing more than his typical pajamas, and not the thick, woolly and yet ultimately useless overcoat he had in that other world. He looked around for a sign that he had died, but as his memories began to function again he had realized that he did not die at all.

“Hmm… It was just a dream. Calm down…”

“Why should I help the buffoons who conduct themselves unjustly? Why should my path lift those whom have made the idiotic decisions?” The blow struck him over his head again, as he realized that those words had first come not from the sleigh driver, but from him.

Yesterday night, it came from him and his then bitter form. ”No… Not my bitter form then, but my ever bittering character. I’ve done something wrong, this must have been the spirits of my ancestors telling me that I’ve gone astray. But… but why and- I must change.

[Old Sarthal]

[ FT ]

Days of our Lives

"Good morning, [ERROR: NAMEGET=0]. Last night cycle, you registered a significant shift in your circadian rhythm. Zentacorp policy requires you provide a..."

A sloppy strike with an injection-molded HappiTec Nocturnal Head Support Device (or, as it was more commonly referred to "cheap plastic pillow) muffled the alarm, but it refused to be silenced, droning on about how failure to provide samples of at least two bodily fluids would result in a three-day suspension. The problem with stealing company hardware was that you could never be sure it wasn't still watching you. Though, he didn't recall taking anything of the sort, in fact he didn't recall... anything.

Ezrael sat straight up. This was extremely curious. He walked over to his window, and, with the tap of a button, revealed nothing. An attempt to activate the lights was met with similar results. The fan. Nothing. All of the built-in electronics in the apartment, supposedly keyed to his genetic signature, had all failed. At the same time. He tentatively activated the manual release on his door, and headed downstairs to the common for breakfast and a word with the landlord.

The common area was both uncharacteristically dark and lacking in any sort of appealing nourishment. A brief rummage through the ingredients cabinet revealed some beef-flavor nutripaste, but Ezrael wasn't particularly hungry at this point. Curiously, no one else seemed to have come down yet, and so for some time he sat, nursing a cup of foul-tasting but reviving tlatza.

After some time, he ventured to the main entrance of the building, and, briefly steeling himself, tapped the exit button. Nothing happened. He tapped it again. Nothing happened. He was trapped, until such time as someone else decided to wake up. He turned around and was about to begin the tedious climb back up the stairwell, when suddenly he heard footsteps. He rotated slowly. No one was there. A puff of breath landed on the back of his neck. He spun around, faster this time. No one was there. It grew darker, colder. A cold metallic touch-

Azrael woke with a start.

"Good morning, [ERROR: NAMEGET=0]..."

[Xenohumanity]

[FT]

[Mature]

The Crisis of Faith

To be a Xenohuman in such times is to be one amongst untold billions. It is to live in the cruelest and most bloody regime imaginable.

---

The two Drakes sat in the kind of smoke-filled room conducive to talks of things best left out of ear-shot from the rest of the galaxy. The small grey table, the somewhat uncomfortable chairs bought through proxy, the small holoproj between them casting its dismal news-feed onto the haze; it all seemed a bit too conspiratorial to be a coincidence. XenoIntel always had a nasty sense of irony and self-deprecation. It knew its name inspired little fear abroad, as did any of the Xeno- branches of government or military, and on the inside, the agency reveled in a comic futility that made the business of mass brainwashing and en-mass wetwork that much more bearable to imagine.

What wasn’t bearable was the news-feed. The blue-scale puffing away at an e-cigar and the white-hide leaning on his elbows staring at the projection with an unspeakable disappointment both agreed that this was quite far enough for them. Still, they couldn’t stop watching, even if they wanted to; they were getting paid too much and had lost the ability to just walk away from tragedy after all these years of a job like this. Still, they figured they could pause for a moment and digest things.

They’d frozen the feed at the perfect moment; Xeno-Tech’s news drones would certainly pick this to throw up for the Extranet feed-sites and shock the galaxy with yet another atrocity on the streets of the Federation, half to win pity from enemies and half to win attention from friends who simply weren’t giving enough money. The shot was a tad blurry, but only from the smoke. The two wished it’d been a bit blurrier, to be honest. They’d both seen enough combat to be done for a life-time.

It was a self-explanatory shot. A grey day on the open-air neo-organic ‘dirt-crop yard’ of some hydroponic farm somewhere interrupted by crime. The far back of the picture showed enough fire and smoke to indicate some sort of large-scale attack, and while the smashed grav-combine and the ruined GMO-wheat were bad enough, the center-left was worse. Over the sobbing body of a Xenohuman woman in a clean-suit stood a pair of malnourished, grey-scaled, sclerotic Drakon stood in heavy combat gear. Their lips clearly amputated to reveal their teeth more cruelly, their devil’s smiles went unmirrored in their lifeless cyber-eyes, more lenses than actual eyes from the looks of it. One stood with his arms over his head, looking upward at nothing while a bubble of blue energy springing from his hands surrounded the two, the other looking down at the woman, leveling a shotgun, instants away from firing.

“Sir,” the blue-hide said, “this isn’t the first time I’ve hated this country.”
“That makes two of us, Tuuk” the other answered, taking a long hard drag.
“I hate this job sometimes.”
“I hate my life sometimes, you’ve no right to complain.”
“I never said I didn’t hate my life sometimes, sir.” He leaned back in his chair and closed his eyes, massaging the end of his snout with a hand. “Ordom, as a friend, answer me this. Have we considered coopting their powers and just driving them out once and for all? Honestly, have we?”
“Aye, that we have. Of course, it might work for a second before we lose all government legitimacy and we have another Civil War on our hands, but it might.” Ordom knew how much his student hated those touches of sarcasm, but it was good to keep him a little irritated when dealing with matters regarding the people’s enemy.

“You also know I’m not talking about Pairbond here. We already have, what, 75% of them in our employ?”
“You’ve been hitting the books. Yes, that’s right. I also knew you weren’t talking about the most useful part of the Federation’s most special population. No, you were talking about the Todularians, were you not?”
Loathe to say it but knowing he’d have had to eventually: “Yes.”
“We all have to say the word sometimes, it’s fine. Hell, half of us here don’t even know all the double-talk we’re supposed to for this job unlike some greenhorns.”
“Are you saying I know too much double-talk?”
“I just like screwing with you, is all,” he said with more of that sarcasm. “Are you thinking of any ingenious young-gun solutions of yours?”

“Genomita?” Foreign aid was a good option for a matter like this, especially after plural centuries of conspiracy warfare clearly failed to matter.
“They’ll never understand. Damn empaths, they only understand their own kind. They barely tolerate us as it stands, what with the InfoWar.”
“Hell, now many dash-Wars are we fighting, officially?”
“CorpWar, InfoWar, CultWar, CultureWar-”
“Oh, hell, that’s on the books now?” He’d thought it was just a bad joke.”
“Culturestalking is far more serious than we used to think-”
“The anthropology of it is bullshit. Ordom, you’re going to have to start throwing reams of studies at me before tolerate that call. Who are we even fighting in ‘CultureWar’?”
“Everybody.”

“Everybody?” The incredulity on his tongue was painful.
“Everybody. If a Xenohuman has gotten a taste of a self-standing culture, you can bet they’ll try to assimilate to it. It’s how every defector thinks to do it, it’s how every emigrant realizes they’re not happy here anymore. We can’t tolerate it with the natural birth-rate being so low, even with the tax-credit programs. Can we get back to the matter at hand?”
“No, this is the matter at hand, because if we’re going to get help on this, you’d better realize that they’re going to get whiff of this CultureWar and wonder if their embassies aren’t going to get bombed.”
“They haven’t so far.”
“Like that’s a good excuse,” he shot back with the kind of disgust one would expect from a scornful superior.

“What about the Segmentians? Heresy and all that.”
“They are a cult. Next dumb idea to shoot down, go.”
“Saurisians?”
“Inbred drake-degenerates who see our state atheism as a neat political trick, not a survival necessity. Totally useless. Any other bright ideas?”

“Certainly the Xiscapians would aid us.”
Ordom sighed the sigh of man about to flog another, one of pity and of bracing himself for the words coming out to whip the poor boy. “The Xiscapian people profess an worthy disgust regarding psyko-theologies, and their leadership keeps bullshitting us and saying ‘our situations are not dissimilar’. But you know what? You know what? They don’t know a damn thing about it. Their religions don’t even pretend to hold authority. Even the Setulanites don’t theologize everything like they used to.”
“Like all religions are supposed to by definition,” posing an incomplete definition, daring the man to take it.

There was really only one way for any proper Federal to answer this. “Aye.” Tuuk heard the truth in his own voice and loved himself for it.
“Well that settles it. We can’t outsource any of this. This is like that old X-COM project on Terra #22935 but even worse off.”
“I’ve called our work P-COM before and nobody ever got the joke. Good job.”
“Fuck you. Fuck this whole thing.”
“That was patently uncalled for.”
“What else do I say to all this? So then what? Just keep plodding away making illusory gains and watching real people die?”
“To that I ask what else do we do? Just give up? Cave in? Let Todular return?”

A good and honest question: “Are you trying to play games with me, I wonder? Get me to say something bad that’ll get me sniped at home? We still have to figure out what in godlessness’ name we’re doing about the problem that’ll actually do something.”
“The same thing we’ve always done.”
“Which isn’t working. Throwing psykers at them every now and then and letting the mercenaries we all call ‘police’ and ‘soldiers’ make a laughing stock of civil rights in front of the entire galaxy for a living isn’t fucking working.”
“Well, there’s half the problem, you think we can ‘solve’ this problem at all without turning into it.”
“Don’t say things like that to me, godlessness dammit! Here I was, thinking you might be the first man I meet in this job who wasn’t a masochistic, fatalistic maniac, and then you keep telling me that everything’s fine being not fine!”

“Calm yourself, boy, I never said we couldn’t sort it out, I just said we couldn’t ‘solve’ it.”
“Then what does ‘sort it out’ mean?”
“I mean we do what we’ve always been doing. The matter’s been sorted out for centuries now.”
“I’m not following… this. This isn’t logic, but it’s not madness, you’re too smart for that.”
“Every year, so-and-so people die due to cultist activity. This number falls within a range of decently high numbers that never changes.”
“Like I’ll believe that.”
“Look them up yourself, damnit, it’s true. They don’t all happen in the same spread, but it always ends up that a certain number of the Federation is offered on their gods-damned altars one way or another, despite the absolute best of our efforts.”
“And this is ‘sorted out’ how, might I ask?”
“Because it could be way deadlier.”

“How, exactly? How the fuck?”
“You’ve seen the Relic-Weapons. The left-overs from the Civil war, still teleporting around, birthing cults and starting fires that we keep putting out. Omnimiracula engines, Forces-Taking-Form playing terrasque in our border worlds, every single cult cell that can manage to make actual summonings. If we don’t let them play their little games, they turn the Armed Federation to dust a world at a time and start working on every nation we’ve ever had a beer with.”
“Other nations have counter-psi program.s They shouldn’t be worried.”
“Oh, they would once they see the shit that’s trapped in the TSM.”
“The Todularian Spiritual Medium? GhostSpace?”
“Aye, there’re some in there that make the Yahweh class look like a bathtub boat. We’re talking demigods in ship form. The bloated ones with a brain inside, remember? Neurothoths?”
“I’ve read the paperwork. I still don’t believe it. ”
“Don’t try to believe it, everyone who does ends up institutionalized.”
“More evidence to the contrary.”
“We’ve barely got enough documentation to know that we can’t really stop them on our terms, but we’ve got enough.”
“Oh, so we’re just going to sit back and keep letting the Todularians shovel bodies into their mouths?”
“Call me XenoCidal, but yes, that’s what we have to do if we want to keep from turning into them. But you already knew that.”

That he did.

“We’re all going to not-Hell because we do what has to be done.”
“But you never act like it.”
“Because that’s hardly a way to live.”
Ordon leaned forward, clenching his e-gar in his sharp mouth. “Nobody here at XenoIntel is living. I’d recommend you stop living too if you know what’s good for you.”
”You really think it’s that easy?”
“Took me four years to do, but I managed it.”
“What the fuck is wrong with you? Really, what?”
“The same thing wrong with everybody working here. We know what we have to do so that we can do it without the people we do it to ever having to worry.”
“Millions dying every year to be replaced by kids born from orgies in the nightclubs and tank-grown factory-workers and they don’t worry?”
“Ask them, they’re not worried thanks to us. They just know they’re all going to die screaming in pain one day. It’s a fact of life to them. It’s not to us. Which is why you don’t live in the first place.”

There was a truth in that last statement that echoed in Tuuk like a gunshot in a cathedral.

“I’m guessing that’s my assignment, then? What you called me in this room for?”
“Sure wasn’t the vid. You saw that last week too.”

That he had.

“Stop living?”
“You can use the term ‘stop thinking’ or ‘stop caring’, but yeah.”

“From knowledge, the future…” Mulling the national motto over in his head physically hurt at this point.

“From emotion, the end. Welcome to the Armed Federation.”

A pregnant silence carrying an aborted plot to storm out and never come back. “You know, why do we even call it the Federation anymore?”
“We have a Federate.”
“One-party autocracy, plutocratic pseudo-socialism, all for not dying one way by dying another.”
“It’s not my fault we have to be the gatekeepers for this shit. Think how the Segmentians feel.”
“You said they were a cult. Dammit, what’s your opinion on them? On anything?”
“I’ll get there. Yes, they’re a cult, but they’re fighting a far worse reality. Just like us, but with a little misguided motivation.”
“So they’re fine now?”
“Their Grey Knights have the kind of itchy trigger finger and fast ships that’ve helped us out in fringe space before. Not for the actual CultWar, but for the symptoms, you understand.”
“I don’t understand anything anymore, to be honest.”

“Well, that ain’t going to go away.”
“I realized.”
“Why don’t do it?”
A strange question: “What?”
“Kill yourself. Why?”
“The fuck kind of question is that?”
“A perfectly valid one. You’ve done this for 40 years, how have you not killed yourself yet?”
Ordon sighed and pulled the cigar from his mouth, letting its red tip push around the smoke. “That’s going to take a sort of long answer, you understand.”
“Tell me why you didn’t pull a Commander Mortra, at a field hospital in who-knows-where on Ramam Tertius. A Corpsman T’wain, at the Ruby Station. An Admiral Tuchane, through the airlock of his ship.”
“Pills, guns, and a long, long fall.”
“They’re all painless at the end of it. Why haven’t you? Why?”
“You’re asking because you don’t know, and if you’re thinking about it, don’t. You’re too good an operative. The galaxy needs you.”
“I don’t need it.”
“Keep telling yourself that. Tell yourself that when you’re putting that gun against your head, sitting on the end of your bed crying like a bitch because the psychosurgeon can’t do anything for you and the family’s never going to see you again. Better yet, tell yourself that when you’re doing all that and your eyes fall on the picture of them and you remember you had the good luck to save them once. Just once, once and for all. Tell yourself you don’t need it when you look at that picture.”

A pause, Tuuk busy tossing the idea around in his head and trying his best to stay stone-faced.

“That’s a very specific image.”
“I know. Happened to me.”
“Should have figu-”
“Don’t you dare smart-mouth me. I’m going to tell you why the hell we do this, right now. It was… 11 years ago, now, give or take a few months. I was going to kill myself nice and quickly. Quietly. Got a motel room out in some Downzone and was going to just off myself. I couldn’t take it anymore. The false-flags, the poisonings, the lying, the self-betrayal. There’s no way you can do that for thirty years and not get hollowed out and black inside.”

Tuuk’s eyes had fallen downward. He was starting to get empathetic; that and the smoke had him trying to stop his eyes from watering from the sting.

Ordon continued: “But just because you start to rot doesn’t mean you’re dead. Its frostbite for the soul, this job, but you can go out there and smell a real flower or have a good friend and be thankful for what you have, and you’ll have gloves thick enough for anything. I never understood people who wondered why we do this. It takes a… a mechanical look at life to think it’s not worth fighting for, when you look at all the happiness people can have.”

“Your family.”
“Yes?”
“Where are they?”
“Somewhere safe. I don’t know the details, think they’re in Beta Quadrant. I had them slipped through the borders a long while back once the bombings got too close to home.”
“Do you stay in touch?”
“Can’t. I’ve got too many enemies with ships and ill-wills for that.”
“I’m sorry to hear that.”
“Wouldn’t have it any other way; they come first, and I’m sure they’re happy right now out there wherever they are.”
“Any children?”
“Two. Boy and a girl. They were the most beautiful things in the galaxy when I last saw them, and I’m sure that hasn’t changed.”

Tuuk just nodded slowly as the watering in his eyes continued. He finally caved and thumbed away the would-be-tears, staring down at the table in front of him.

“How about you,” Ordon asked. “You have family?”
“Isn’t it in my papers?”
“Relatives and family aren’t the same thing.”
“Yeah, I’d say it’s family.”
“The parents okay?”
“I hope so. Dad never stopped drinking once I joined the agency, though, so I’m not sure. Neither did my brother once he joined the Navy.”
“You want a reason to do this job? Day in, day out, through hell and back?”
“I’m guessing I have a few already, boss.”
“Your family, my family, and every family that has a chance of ever being happy. There’s your reasons and mine, kid.”

Another long silence. Tuuk took a deep breath and looked his mentor in the eyes with a ready, almost eager expression.

“So, what do we do now?”
Ordon began to stand, shutting the holograph off, and Tuuk also rose as the two started for the door.
“Well, you and I are going to head down to that agri-town, help clean up, and start kicking snouts back into faces to make up for what they’ve done.”
“The cell doesn’t exactly seem small from what pre-reading we got.”
“Never said it was. Nothing we can’t handle, though. We’ve got the guns, brains, and reason to win, every single time.”

The door opened. The light outside was bright, but not unsurprisingly so, the smoke fading into the air as if it had never been there.

“Same as it ever was, then?”
“Same as it ever was.”

---

I, [name] / as an prospective inductee to XenoIntelligence’s Counter-Cult Field-Agency / hereby swear on name and nation / to protect the Armed Federation / and the universe at large / from the gods, weapons, magic, and priesthood of Todular / to combat Todularianism in all its forms / for the preservation of life as we know it / to aim for the greatest good for the greatest number / at the expense of my life and its comforts / and to accept restless nights and painful days for the length of my mortal coil / so that the universe may rest with me as its watchman / and live on with me as its guard / nameless and thankless, but selfless and gracious.

-XenoIntel Counter-Cult Operations, Field-Agency Division, Oath of Lifelong Service (unofficial)

[Estainia]

[ PT - Fantasy]

Horrifying Hope

790 AD

It was some time ago in what would one day be known as the Russo-Spanish Empire. Back then it was many warring kingdoms and petty fiefdoms, all vying for the power to unite the lands around them under their single banner. In one of these lands, so small and tiny its name has been lost; there lived a family. This family was small; consisting only of two parents and a child; the child who was a girl was born graced with the view of the goddesses; beautiful and intelligent, charming and delightful, softspoken and polite. She was perfect, and they could not help but to have dreams for her. Her father, Santiago; who was a bit of a social climber thought of it that perhaps she could marry well and become a noble, while her mother, Anselma; a bit of an insecure woman thought she would reach greatness on her own, as a knight or a sorceress.

As much as they wanted the very best for their daughter, they argued about what her fate would be. In the end both were wrong, instead of growing up, she grew very ill. They went to the temples and they were told to pray, yet prayer did nothing. They went to the magicians, who said what was wrong with her was so rare and unheard of there was no cure. All of the greatest institutions of the lands they could reach failed them and they sought out the darker corners of power in their lands. They went to the witches and the black alchemists, the sorcerers hermits and other hidden things.

"'I can think of only one place you can go," said an old herbalist they found in the most remote peaks of the Amber Mountains. "There is a college in Mercia."

"We've been to the colleges though," protested Santiago, "They couldn't help us."

"Go to Mercia." The Herbalist insisted, "And tell no one you are going."

It was not easy for them to find Mercia, it was on no map, and no-one seemed to know of it. It turned out to be in the center of what is now Alisonia, at the time it was convulsed in warfare between rival lords, and their going was not easy. The winter was harsh that year but in desperation they set out any way, wrapping their daughter tightly against the cold. They traveled for weeks, avoiding all kind of trouble from soldiers and more before they arrived at Mercia.

The town was flanked by the crumbling statues of long forgotten gods or heroes. Taverns with broken windows, a plaza with a dried-up well, shattered palaces and fire-blackened tenements, barren shops and abandoned stables, all desolate, all still filled the silent town alongside gravestones. Every road and alley was lined, and crossed, and crossed again with memorials to the dead. Both parents looked at one another apprehensively, a chill ran down their spines that had nothing to do with the terrible weather, both pressed on however for the sake of their daughter.

They continued on to their goal, surrounded y the desolate township before they arrived at the rusted gates of the college. It was different from the city that surrounded it, though the gates were rusted open, the windows were intact and glowed with warm candlelight; but it brought warmth to them to think that someone was alive in this city so steeped in death. They came to the main doors of the college and dared to knock at its heavy doors which creaked heavily as they did so. They waited and waited, thinking they had been cruelly tricked into coming here when at last the door opened.

The face that greeted them was thin but healthy, the young face of a female Gitanos; one of the eternal nomads who were more frequent in the south, than here in the center of the peninsula. She blinked and stared at them before she spoke. "I am not mad, you are real! Come in! Come in out of the terrible cold!" The nomad ushered them in to the building which was a stark contrast to the world outside it; it was warm and inviting to a point, and had welcoming aromas floating throughout it.

Inside they were met with the image of a man, pale but not unhealthy; of median height with cruel, hard eyes of violet that spoke of violence and evil deeds done against God himself. Despite his eyes, they were welcomed and fed, bread and spiced wine before the man spoke in a voice as cruel as his eyes. "What brings you here, to my claimed realm?"

They divulged the purpose of their visit and begged the man for his help, he held a hand up and bade their silence before he looked over their daughter. "I can give you what you seek," he began. "However; you must remain here, Uxía will see to you." He lifted their daughter with a strength that such a small man should not have had before he carried her away into the recesses of the college. The nomad did indeed see to them, supplying a better meal than mere bread for such a long journey for them.

Time passed, candlemarks bleeding away and the sun disappearing from the sky entirely before the man reappeared. He walked with his head down and he shook his head repeatedly before he spoke. "I am sorry, your daughter died." He said mournfully almost while Anselma let out a strangled cry of despair.

"What in the name of The Darkness do you mean!?" Santiago invoked possibly the worst curse that was known in their culture before the man sighed, it was a smooth and clear sight before he raised his head; his cruel eyes looking fiery.

"'Your daughter was on her last breath when she came in here, anyone could see that," the man began. "That is not what I do here, I am not a healer." Santiago stared at the man with an equal fire in his own eyes. "I am a necromancer." With those words the father's fire disappeared and he sank backwards, shrinking as though he were struck. "She had to die. Necromancy is not about curing a disease, it's about resurrection, total regeneration, transforming the whole body, not just the parts that aren't working now." The man continued.

"Y-you mean she'll live now?" Anselma choked tearfully. The man grinned an evil, vile grin before he replied.

"Oh yes.." From deeper within came the sound of small footsteps. "Child, come say hello to your parents."

The parents turned and their screaming began; only to be drown out by the storm outside...

[St James]

[ PT ]

The Legend of little Mary Anne

It was a warm summer day, in the village of Allsbury, the birds were chirping, the sun was shinning, and the bubbling brook that ran along Allsbury was flowing with grace. This was the type of day little Mary Anne liked the most, she would go next to the brook and splash in its cool, but not cold, waters, and then sit on the grass beach staring at the birds. This day, however, was different. Yes, little Mary Anne did go next to the brook and splash, but there were two other boys there, Henry and John two boys that went to the older kids school, sitting on the grass beach, her grass beach, they were staring at the birds, birds little Mary Anne knew so dearly. They laughed while they told each other jokes that, to Mary Anne, made no sense, and throw rocks and the tumbling squirrels.
Mary Anne walked up to Henry and punched him in the arm, screaming:
"You leave them alone, Henry! Or I'll tell your mama!"
To which he laughingly replied:
"I ain't scared of you, we could just put you on the other side of the brook, we could, and leave you there! Then your mama would have to get a boat and get you back, oh wait! You don't got no mama!"
Now, the brook was not a normal brook, it was very large, they called it a brook because they didn't know about rivers, anything that was flowing was a brook and anything that had a still body of water was a pond.
Little Mary Anne was furious at Henry and punched him in the arm again, then she said happily:
"You don't have a boat, Henry Johnson, so I's gonna go tell Mizz Jenkins that you was bein' mean ta me!"
He replied in a likewise fashion:
"Oh, little Mary Anne, I do have a boat! John, will you go get Ol' Bess?"
John laughed at went into a nearby shack. He brought out an old, falling apart piece of wood that was apparently a boat.
"That ain't no boat!" cried little Mary Anne. "That, right there, is a board!"
To which John replied, the first time he had talk at this place:
"But I ship she is! I reckon we could fit all three o' us! Mebe get another, but I don't wanna stretch our luck."
John walked up to the couple, whistling, and then, with a nod from Henry, put it on the smooth waters where the current didn't pull as much. He then went back into the old shack and brought out two oars, one for Henry and one for John.
Henry then said to Mary Anne:
"Get in that boat, Mary Anne." and then to John: "This is gonna be fun!"
Mary Anne slowly and reluctantly got onto the "boat" while John and Henry followed her.
On the side of the boat, "Old Bess" was written in very old red paint.
John and Henry started to paddle and they quickly made it to the other side of the brook. On the other side of the brook, the trees grew closer together so the sun couldn't shine in the midst of it, giving it a gloomy glow within. They left little Mary Anne on the other side of the brook and paddled back to shore. When they reached, they waved at Mary Anne in a mocking fashion, she cried.
Then she picked her self up from the dirt, and walked, much to Henry and John's surprise, right into the forest. It was darker than little Mary Anne expected but she kept walking. She walked day after day, month after month, year after year, century after century, until she reached a small hut. It wasn't a fancy hut nor a particularly well-built hut but a hut nonetheless. She walked into the hut for shelter, thinking it was abandoned, but what she saw astounded her. She had walked straight into a palace, with glowing windows and shinning floors, in the center of it all was a Queen. Mary Anne walked up to the Queen and said in her most polite voice:
"Hello ma'am, I's lost and don't know where ta go."
To which the Queen replied:
"Ah! Princess Mary!" she cried, then she cried to her guards: "Ring the bells! Ring the bells! The Princess has come back!"
She hugged Mary Anne, but Mary Anne pulled away, saying:
"I-I ain't no Princess! I's an orphan from Allsbury!"
The Queen grew quiet, then said softly, with tears in her eyes:
"I know, I know, little one. I am very sorry for the way I treated you," she saw Mary's confused look and then spoke further. "When you were born, I left you on the doorstep of an orphanage, the kingdom was at war! It just wasn't safe."
She then broke into a multitude of weeping and then faced her daughter again:
"I will do anything for you! Anything! Name it, please!"
To which Mary Anne replied quickly:
"Henry and John was mean to me! An' I gonna whallop 'em! Will you help me?"
"Why? Of course I will! I'll send a knight to give them a good beating! Mr. Moohow!"
A man in shinning armor stepped forth:
"Yes Queen Youdan?"
He said, not noticing Mary Anne.
"Go with the Princess and give these two boys and good beating."
She said, pointing in the direction of the far off town.
"Yes, my Queen!"
He said, not being excited about the arrival of Mary Anne.
So the two set off and walked day after day, month after month, year after year, and century after century until they reached Mary Anne's tormentors and gave them a beating they will never forget.

[Albaie]

Tag for future post.

[Senkaku]

Tag for future posts.

[Huerdae]

OoC: Copied from the old Crewman's Journal thread during the NSZ event. I rather enjoyed it, so I figured I would maintain it. These were posted over the course of the day, as events unfolded. I did not know where it would end, and was just trying to react to how the situation was unfolding. It became...rather interesting.

Day 4, I.M.S. Empty Sunrise, Deathbringer-Class Cruiser
Crewman's Log, Gunner's Mate Corporal Fai'Karra

I don't normally keep a log, but something about this seems right. It just started, I-

I'm not sure how to do this, really. First I heard, things were going wrong. Everywhere. Illness, madness. People in the mess hall laughing that another news agency got hacked, and was spewing out lies. Bad joke, all that, hope nobody's head was going to roll. In a few hours, though, they had pictures. Videos. We don't normally do that, it's all cold numbers, but my god. At 650 million, Emperor Vlais called in the Shield. I thought it was crazy. Six-hundred-fifty million, of all the people in the Star Empire. It was almost negligable. But then, someone put up a map. My god, it was everywhere. I went to bed feeling sick to my stomach.

I woke up to a message from my wife, back on the homeworld. She said it was there. She looked at me, blood coating part of her face, asking if I was alright. I could hear gunfire behind her, and could see two people watching the door, calling for her to hurry. We couldn't talk long. I hope she made it. A few hours later, it started here. I was on shift, in the upper decks. Suddenly, the comms lit up. Nobody knew what was happening, nobody wanted to handle it. First coherent report we got was "They have the spinal chamber". After that, the Shield went to work. Three decks above, you could hear the gunfire. I guess the rest has been a blur. For a while, we clustered into the mess hall, talking it out, deciding how to deal with it. We have a Nogitsune detachment on board, so we checked on the Xiscapians. I couldn't believe what I saw.

The Xiscapians, blood and swords and all, were doing about as well as us. The thing was everywhere, made us wonder if it was Rethast, but they were hanging on. A few of the Tails even got messages out to their families, smiling and crying. We all watched, hugged those that could get through. A few...couldn't. We lived through them, for a little while. Then we looked elsewhere.

The Setulanites, torn apart by their war, never had a chance. Nothing is coming out of there, almost nothing was before, but sat images just show roving hordes. Exiles, Republicans...it's over down there. They're all gone. Our boys in the 'Home Galaxy', on the far side of the gate, are scared, and nestling in close with the Tails. Together, we can make it out.

Alversia went quiet after a little while. They just didn't have the guns, or the will, or...something, but it's all dead there. They can't even send rescue teams to the few that are holding out. Those in the stations are forced to watch from above, fighting for their lives and left with only still-rolling news feeds to look at in gruesome horror.

That was when we checked the Rethast. We thought it couldn't touch them, right? My god, were we wrong. Ships, empty, hanging in space. They sat there, dead. Gone. The team that went to contact them turned back when they got no answer, but there are pictures. You can see it there. The ship itself, it was...dying.

The Kiith, damn them all for what they did, even they didn't deserve this, but they're gone. Another black hole in the empty void of space. No traffic, no news. Some screams. There's word there were a few billion out there, somewhere, holed up, fighting, but I don't know where. Vague promises of a fortress, their precious drones keeping away...them. It sounded like a last stand.

The Ticks are gone, too. Too little, too late. They never really had a chance. Too slow to react, not enough of them left when they did. We locked down Bludheim, but it's going to be temporary. Billions. Trillions, maybe, gone. It feels like overnight. No word on the bright little Jad'Suveen. I heard the Commodore almost broke ranks to go find her. A member of SolCom, wanting to go find his family. I can't fault him, but...it's a bad sign. The greeks, too. Their line came back dead, every time we checked. We didn't try for very long. We know what it means, now.

At least someone else got it right. Those damnable Vocians, and their damnable stubbornness, they're still kicking at this thing, too. Almost makes me want to get a line out their way, see if we can link up. But they wouldn't have us. It's on our ship. Until we clean up, we're on our own.

Oh, the Sen. Bless their hearts, the poor bastards tried for us. Kept their gate open as long as they could, but they were never the warriors. A few lone technicians, sitting with us on that final call, crying, trying to joke as we could hear the doors being slowly torn open. They were family, for a little while. Cousins. We had to shut the channel down. It was our last line to the KIN. I swear, the last one apologized to our Tails. Said they would try to get it back. Two of the Nogitsune cried. We all know better.

We gathered up with our battle group, but there wasn't much to say. A destroyer was down. Most of the ships were about the same as us, or worse. We decided not to send teams over to the destroyers, the Chosen Oblivion slung them into a star. We can't spare the men, but it hurt, to watch our own burn. Captain promised if we start to fall, we're getting out on the dropships. I don't know how, one of the bays is already theirs. The other is near the front. We're reinforcing, but we can't hold them if we can't hold the deck. All love to the Shield for what they've given us so far. My brothers and sisters come back grim-faced as a child of war, empty inside.

A Red Eye group showed up. Their ships were clean of this thing, and they grouped up fast to help us out. Kitting out, they just grab grenades. I don't understand, we use grenades, it doesn't make sense. The things need to lose their head, but the 'nade takes out the legs and feet, and leaves a carpet of bodies, moving and twisting. It doesn't make sense. I go on the line tomorrow, I guess I'll know.

--

Day 6, I.M.S. Empty Sunrise, Deathbringer-Class Cruiser
Crewman's Log, Gunner's Mate Corporal Fai'Karra

My hands are still shaking, even as I say this. It took me four tries to get the machine to record, I just could hit the right button. I've never been in a fight like that before. I know now, why I could never be Imperial Shield. Why the instructor told me to be Navy. Gunner's mate. Distant. It's different, firing across the depths of space, watching the detonations. Exhilirating. But there...my turn at the front, I could barely believe it. And yet they did.

And the Red Eyes. I know now why they grabbed only grenades. They weren't here to fight. They were here to protect their empire. They were...bait. The only way to make sure one of these things got its head near a grenade was to have that grenade near a big source of meat. When the horde came on, they went in cheering like they had finally passed their schooling. Men, women, some barely past being children. One young girl, she had sat with me while we waited, and we got to talking. She wanted to be Devil-Kin, their special forces. Dreamed of victories, and of sharing the meat of the kill with her friends, her sisters. She couldn't have been over 16. She smiled, and told me she was virgin, and had never had a lover.

When the horde came on, she begged me to kiss her. I did, thinking she would come back and I could joke with her about it. She was...passionate. Feeling. The way she looked at me, when she pulled away, I felt as if she had been my lover, for that moment. She put everything into that kiss. Ria Gollod was her name. Looking it up, she was just shy of 15 years. The last thing I saw of her as the grenades tore her body apart was her smile, telling me I'd be safe because of her. For that moment, I owe her to call her my sister. I braved the bodies to bring back the ear-ring...thing...I don't even know what they call it, but she wore it. It's here, with me now. I want to keep it among our family momentos. She belongs with us, now.

They all did it, too. The Red Eyes, they weathered wave after wave. Dozens would come. A handful would meet them, and we'd be safe, again. One of our medics begged them not to go, that we had plenty of ammo, but one of their officers, a colonel, just smiled.

"We have to go" he said. "You saved our people. It's our turn to save your Empire. Our people will endure, but this...this construct you have created, which defies lies and deciet, and holds against all other nations, can stand proud in the galaxy...this is worth protecting. So we go. To do anything less would be unbefitting for the kindness you granted us."

I remember the words. They echo in my head. That deep, raspy, confident voice. There was no question, there, no doubt. Like the most earnest believer you could hear, certain in his vision. He held the hands of his three fellows when they went to the line, carried the things backward out of our sight, laughing as the things tore at them. When the blasts came, the blood flowed back in a wave, like a part of a dam had been broken down. It's always there, now. The blood flows about our feet, it covers some of the bodies down there. They crawl out of the lower decks, covered in it, like they had to swim out, but we all know why. They had been laying in it. Dead, rising again. They broke into the other hangar this morning. The Shield beat them back with one of the tanks, and set up more defenses to hold it, but the mines are spent. The gun positions are in need of maintenance. Even now, the barrels still steam. They never rest.

We got word back from the Xiscapians. I can't believe it. Somewhere along the lines, they met up with our guys in the Home Galaxy and re-secured that gate. Opening it may not be the best idea, but we're not alone again. The Sen are...gone. It was over for them well before we got to them. A few thousand, I think, is all we've found. The bodies are piling up. Even on our own ship, the smell of the dead we can't afford to clear away overwhelms everything. It is life, now. You used to be able to smell them coming. Now they're all you can smell. The Vocians still grind away on their worlds. Piles and piles of dead down there, from what I've seen. Black smoke fills the skies around the cities they had to eradicate. Fire and bodies fill the streets, but they fight on. I guess I shouldn't be surprised. They fought us with the same, stubborn resistance. I guess I'm glad it came out this way. At least someone else may make it.

And oh my lord, we found them. We found the Kiith. Amidst the piles of bodies, scorched by nuclear fire and worse, we found them. Surrounded by their drones, but by more bodies than anyone cares to count, it looks like they went at it all at once. Drew them into chokepoints and let loose with everything. One of our ships stopped by after we caught a few of their missiles going off on long range scans. They used them to dig trenches, to lead these things into traps. The things keep coming, and they keep burning, like ants under a microscope. Writhing, steaming. The view was...horrid.

Xenohumans called out to us recently. They're burning, too. I'm not surprised, either. Looking at us, there aren't a whole lot left, but we're taking our toll. Even here, on this ship, we're hanging on. We're catching up. I think there's more dead now, than living and turned together. The Emperor put out a statement a little while ago, that we were going for a cure, but the cost to the military to try was too great, and we quickly changed back. We're going to try to hold. We're going to hang on. My life for the empire. Oh, Empire protect. Empire forgive.

They called from home. Naila couldn't talk, so her sister told me. Our baby is gone. Our boy, 14, was turned in one of the rushes. I was told yesterday. I haven't told anyone here, yet. It's hard to admit. He's...gone.

I feel...cold.

--

Day 18, I.M.S. Empty Sunrise, Deathbringer-Class Cruiser
Crewman's Log, Gunner's Mate Corporal Fai'Karra

It's been over two weeks, now. We're used to it, really. We look like them, we smell like them. We don't talk much, anymore. That makes us a bit more like them. They took the other hangar ten days ago or so. A week ago, we cleared it out. They're just...not holding on. After long enough, we finally have gained the upper hand. I'm sorry to say, it wasn't by any of our doing. It was something so, very simpler.

Just hanging on. A few days ago, the Emperor tried again to re-gear us toward finding a cure. To solve the problem, save some people that we hadn't had to off yet. Nobody really believed in it, but we tried. We're one of the few governments left, now. The Xiscapians held on. The Hierarchy is somewhere down there, in their pits, playing with their science. I spent a day and a half at my old gun, loading, managing, maintaining, firing. They said somewhere down there, the Hierarchy boys were making a difference, doing what our scientists couldn't. We couldn't pull our forces out, so we just kept shooting. We're low on ammo, but they've almost run out of bodies. We're down to the original line, now. The blood still lingers. Progress is slow. Every room, every hall, every nook and cranny, we have to check. Every corpse face-down in the blood, we have to put a bullet into. Or a knife, or a hatchet. We can see, now, what the Red Eyes did for us. How much they really gained us.

The bodies that they left are strewn back, hall after hall. If I had to guess, I'd say we would have fallen on day 9 without them. The bodies I've seen here, they're no longer bodies. More of a sustained goop that fills the halls. You wade through it. After the first floor like that, they forbid the ISN guys like me from joining. There was enough of one in the blood to get a bite in, and we lost another man that way. So it's just the shield down there, with that last flamer, burning away the blood and gore and stomping out the skulls. We stopped caring they were down here two weeks ago.

The other armory, in the lower deck, apparently it never got overrun. They locked it down, jammed the doors, sat it out. Two offed themselves, but the rest hung on. They look...stunned. Like they were sheltered from it, somehow. They were. The event started, they were isolated, locked themselves away...like if the ship went down. I bet they thought it had. Looking at their faces, it was like looking into a mirror of how I was. I...can't talk to them right now. I know others are the same way. We hunch our shoulders, look away. They didn't do what we did. They didn't look into the eyes of their friends, and pull the trigger. They don't know. They don't understand.

The Kiith, too. Coruc-Tel still holds. Somewhere under that writhing mass of bodies, there's a little under two million left, holding on. Dragging it out. I heard one of our battle groups stopped by and hit the mess from above, a clean cruiser went down and we let loose with guns and rockets into the horde, but as much as we did, it didn't seem to dent it. A six day campaign, they said. Over a billion dead. I couldn't tell you where they struck two minutes after they were gone.

We found others. The Vocians hung on, too. I figured they would. It only makes sense that they would. None of us care to fight anymore. We ran into one of their ships, even, docked up with her. Neither of us were sure our ships were really clean, but we shared a meal. Shared a few faces that weren't our own, for just an hour or two, then back away. It doesn't matter. When it's all over, they'll say we were cavorting with enemies. Maybe we were. I don't care. I fucked a girl then, not because I wanted to, but because...it's what we did. We had to stay alive.

I talked to Naila again. She knows. She slept with her sister, she said. Then my brother. Every night, they lay in each other's arms. There were thirty of them bunkered down in a garage for a while. I didn't ask how it happened, or why. The Force came through after a while, cleared it away with the old dependable Hades. Walked in, looked around, left the door open. Somewhere in the back of my mind, I think I should be mad about what she did. But here, now, I'm not. I understand. She had to stay alive.

One of the other quadrants, it sounds like another group lived through it. Federation of Miyager or something. Never heard of them. A few ships mentioned them in passing. The Eternal Night dropped us a message, too. They wanted to "harvest". We shut down the comms. We'll handle our own problems. They didn't seem offended, I don't think it was the first time they got that from Huerdaen. Maybe not even just us. There are a few Rethast left. A few of everything, it seems. Not much. The face of the empire will change. The face of everything will change. They say someone made a cure, and it's coming out, but it's too late for most of us. We know we're some of the only ones left. Even with a cure, it's just a formality. Another wound that we'll have to heal. Those few that we didn't find to kill, they're lucky. They come back from the edge. Those who get wounded pulling them out, they're lucky. But we all bear the scars.

We all remember the screams. The sound of flesh and bone breaking as it tore against armor. The sound of fear and pain when it worked.

I still can't forget her smile. Ria Gollod. I told me wife. She told me she loved Ria, too. There's something there. I'll show her what I have of the girl. Maybe somehow, we can earn this. Maybe we can right these wrongs. On this ship that seems so dead, now, without the screaming, and the fighting, I am more unnerved than ever before. My hands shake on the controls again. My eyes can't stay in one place. I can't concentrate. The air behind me threatens my neck. Threatens to dig teeth into my skin.

I will always remember, the April Dead. I will always love Ria Gollod. The woman whose last act was to choose me, to kiss. The little girl who grew up fast, just to save us. I wonder if the Red Eyes didn't do it because they knew we couldn't, or if they really believed that they owed us. It doesn't matter. It's our turn to owe them. There's less than a quarter the old crew of them left. Those few, they stay with us, watching over us. It's funny how the roles have reversed.

I can hear them celebrate still. Somehow, the stench of their revelry smells better than death. They celebrate it. They won. They'll bear children, spread, go to the world again. It's how they live, how they fight. It's their name, too. The April Dead. Maybe it's not about us. Maybe it's about them.

The April Dead. Ria Gollod and her brothers and sisters. They're our April Dead. The ones who saved us from ourselves.

[The Silent State]

^{[ EROTEME No. 0593 ]}

^{[ ?T · MATURE ]}

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sur·re·al·i·ty
^{A CURIOUS INTERVIEW WITH MISTER WILLIAM D. ARGILE}

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"Mister Argile?" The button-down Oxford gentleman was becoming short – terse even.

"Hm? Oh, I'm sorry," Mister Argile lolled from his meditative dazing only to find his train of thought returning to what a terrible place for an interview the room the pair sat in constituted. Surely there were better places to conduct this sort of thing than such a cramped and lackluster "office"; little more than a closet stacked ceiling-high with unfolded cardboard boxes, spilling their paper and print-out innards out across the floor. He still hadn't decided if the advertisement was entirely sincere about the "important" and "life-changing" research supposedly conducted between the white-washed concrete walls of such an unassuming shoebox.

"Are you ready to continue, Mister Argile?" the equally uninteresting associate queried. He was a short, fat little man with bloated cheeks and a veritable mosaic of pink and purple varicose veins running along his cheeks, ringing his insect-like eyes in vines of stress and sleep deprivation. He smelled of baby powder and and pencil shavings.

"Yeah, sorry." Mister Agile was always one to apologize. "I'm just a little hungry," he noted, "I didn't think to pick-up anything before my appointment. Then again, I didn't really think I'd be here this long." What a man will do for a little cash.

"I am sincerely sorry about that, Mister Argile," those beady eyes trembled under a hedgerow of a brow, "but we're a bit backed-up at the moment. Our advertisements brought in more volunteers than we previously expected. Are you ready to continue?"

'You've asked that twice now.' Mister Argile hated people who asked questions already answered.

The associate could read body language fairly well. "You were asked to define 'verisimilitude'," he uttered in the nasal tone of a man who spent too much time bent over a keyboard, inhaling the ancient mounds of dead skin cell flakes that piled-up between keys like sludge in a sink trap. The shortness, however, had faded considerably. He might as well have been breathing septic air.

"Ah, yeah," Mister Argile scratched anxiously at his left elbow, "I was never much of a good student, man; I'm not even sure how you'd spell that." He was beginning to believe the two hundred he was offered by the advertisement wasn't worth it. A nervous glance to the clock over his left shoulder indicated he'd been in the hellish little cubicle for over an hour.

"That's fine, Mister Argile," the associate gave a dismissive smile; the way his cheeks stretched made it appear as if someone was pulling his mouth open by some mechanical means – like a sock puppet. "There are no wrong answers for this," the button-down academic assured, yet made a small mark on his clipboard nevertheless. "It means 'to have the appearance of being real', or, such to say, 'to appear like reality.'"

"Great," Mister Argile murmured under his breath. Again with the itching. He didn't much care for this man in front of him; at the beginning of the session, the bloated little pencil-pusher had introduced himself as "research associate" Claarke. It was an unimpressive name for an unimpressive man; a man with wispy strands of oily hair that, Mister Argile was sure, were probably the result of a failed hair transplant procedure. He'd heard about such ridiculous money pits on late night infomercials; they always promised it to be "like the real thing" or "better than the hair of a twenty-something." 'I guess that's 'verisimilitude'. The irony.'

"When did you begin using, Mister Argile?"

"'Scuse me?" Mister Argile was sure he'd heard the question wrong.

"When did you begin injecting? When did you begin using?" Claarke repeated the question, passively using his pencil to indicate the itching. "It leads to dermatological irritation around the sites of injection, no?"

"Uh, yeah, what does that have to do with anything?" The tone of Mister Argile's voice had risen in pitch considerably as the anxiety of suspicion crept into his veins.

"It's just a question," the associate – again – assured, "You don't have to answer if you do not want to. It just helps clarify our results."

"Yeah... Well..." Mister Argile thought for a moment, weighing the consequences of outing himself to a man such as Claarke. He could be turned over to the police or, worse, not get his promised reward for enduring the pedantic inquisitiveness of the "Ivory Tower" sorts. He'd given them a false address; well, that wasn't entirely true. It was a real address; the address of his former residence. He'd been evicted three months prior, since living life hopping from shelter-to-shelter, trying to hide from thieves while hunting for their close cousins under distant overpasses and subway maintenance tunnels.

"Two years ago," he finally responded. Getting paid was more important, even if it meant the payment could only be used for another few hours of freedom.

Associate Claarke nodded with about as much interest and enthusiasm as a wet sack of potatoes. Yet another mark made on the clipboard. It was quite mundane. So mundane, in fact, that the anxiety in Mister Argile's veins began to drain and, once again, he began to wonder how long it took for a man to die of starvation. Then how long it took to sharpen a pencil down to the metal eraser clip if you never stopped sharpening it. He wondered if the fat globule named "Claarke" was married, ever had a date, or – oddly – if he was a virgin. He thought he was, but he couldn't be sure; there was always the possibility of homosexuality.

"When was the first time you noticed a disconnection from your present temporal reference and took note of a distinct dislocation of causally-bound phenomena?"

Mister Argile jerked back from his dazing, just as he was beginning to repeat his previous thoughts like a dog chasing its own tail. He'd only half-registered what the pudgy twerp had asked, but was sure he didn't understand any of it. The expression on his face reflected the internally boiling idea that the lard sack was deliberately trying to belittle him; it wouldn't have been the first time that type had tried it, and Mister Argile was of the mind to show "research associate Claarke" the same courtesy he'd shown them: a swift "fuck you" and a bruised eye or two.

"I said," Claarke stared across from his clipboard, the small, black eyes shimmering under the fulminated light above their heads, "'When was the first time you noticed your tolerance to increase, requiring ever higher doses in order to achieve the desired effect?'"

A look of puzzlement was plastered across Mister Argile's face. He began to wonder if the drugs really were causing his marbles to jangle a bit too loosely. Though it took him a moment to compose himself, he eventually responded – if but curtly: "Around three months after I first started using. Can we go onto another topic?"

"Of course, Mister Argile," the associate smiled again; it was true, he did look like a sock puppet. "I apologize if some of these questions I've been asking you seem a bit personal," Claarke continued, "As the release you signed earlier stated, none of the information gathered here will be sold or otherwise utilized beyond the expressed purposes detailed in the release. I know some of our volunteers are a bit... concerned as to whom might be reviewing their individual reports. I assure you: your questionnaire will not leave this office."

With the amount of paperwork strewn across the floor, Mister Argile was fairly certain that was true. "It's fine," he waved his hand in an attempt to diffuse the sudden elevation in tension, but realized too late he was trembling, and quickly steadied his hand in its twin. "Just," he went on, "can we start to wrap this up? No offense, but your office makes me about as nervous as an emergency room. I'd like to get this over with."

"When was the first time you began to sexually fantasize about your mother?" Claarke issued almost immediately.

"What?" The pounding of Mister Argile's heart turned to a thudding baritone. "What the fuck? I've ne—"

"I'm not here to judge, Mister Argile," the insect-eyed associate interjected, "I'm merely asking the questions they gave me. If you'd like to terminate the survey, you are free to, but understand that is in violation of the consented release you previously signed, resulting in a forfeiture of the indicated two hundr—"

"Listen here, fuckwad," Mister Argile's voice rose in pitch once more as he began to lean-up from the uncomfortable slouch in his chair, "I've never fuckin' fantasized about sleeping with my mo—"

"When was the first time," the dismissive researcher interjected once more, seemingly ignoring the actions of his subject entirely, "you noticed a disconnection from your present temporal reference and took note of a distinct dislocation of causally-bound phenomena?"

"Yeah, I'm sorry, I'm just a little hungry," Mister Argile found himself responding. His elbow itched. He didn't like the look of the office; it reminded him more of a closet. He'd begun rubbing his left temple, pondering how long he'd been having migraines. Last he could recall, he'd always had them, but he couldn't seem to actually remember ever having them outside of the recent months. Something to do with stress, the eviction, the addiction, all likely candidates, he assumed.

"Before the present," a squat man in front of Mister Argile began, "what is your most recent memory?"

"When the police knocked on my door and evicted me," the answer flowed almost instinctively from Mister Argile's lips. He didn't feel any need to hide anything from Claarke; on top of getting paid, the man seemed like a respectable fellow. He was, however, curious as to why his hair seemed so thick and slick; Mister Argile thought it might be a very good transplant – like the one's he'd seen advertised on late night infomercials. If such was the case, their boasting of "being better than the real thing" was quite true.

The associate smiled. "Do you know where you are? Do you know how long you've been here?"

A quick glance assured him. "About fifteen minutes, why?" Mister Argile asked, a bit puzzled about the question. The clock was over his shoulder, well within view of Claarke; he assumed it was something to do with acuity or reflexes or something. It didn't really matter; what did matter was the piercing headache that he had. At first a mere dull ache, the rubbing of his temple seemed only to exacerbate its effect; it seemed to be spreading over the entirety of his skullcap and neck. 'One of the worst yet...'

"I'm not sure; I was young, though," Mister Argile thought, biting his lower lip at the admittance.

"Did you ever attempt to consummate these fantasies?"

"No," Mister Argile laughed uneasily. "My mother was a strict Catholic," he elaborated, "if she even knew I'd thought about her that way, even if just being curious, she would have likely beaten me more than I'd care to think about."

"Did your mother often abuse you?" The associate was writing again.

"Only when I did something she felt was wrong..." The headache was pounding; it obliterated his sense of thought and familiarity. He didn't like the feeling, like a jagged sliver of glass sliding in-and-out of his skull, cutting through tissue and matter like cold, yearning fire. He had to get relief; had to get some sort of reprieve from that agony. The thought to run and get help or shout and demand his fix was becoming overwhelming. Anything to cut it; anything to make it stop...

Mister Argile jerked-up from his couch, grasping his skull in vain as he stumbled toward the small, unimpressive kitchen of his single bedroom apartment. He knew he'd stored some of his stash back, just in case; he knew it. He had to have stored some of it. He rushed, he hurried, barely capable of walking by his own two feet. The pounding was intense, loud, and voices were shouting for him. Voices were demanding of him, screaming of "police" and "open the door". He didn't much care. All he cared about was getting the torment that poured behind his eyes like molten lead to lessen, to stave it off for a few moments more.

"Mister Argile?"

"Hm? Oh, I'm sorry," Mister Argile was always one to apologize.

"Are you ready to continue, Mister Argile?"

[New Freedomstan]

[ Mixed Tech ]

8th of August, 2031

Devil Horses

They had persevered. His people had survived everything, the Revolution, the Counterrevolution, the Civil War, the Second Revolution, the Second Civil War... The Moving Soviets, the Plainsmen. Given leave by some long-forgotten ruler, they had adapted to whatever new rulers the country got from the south, or the east. As long as they retained their Ancient Rights, they would fight for anyone. Monarchists, Republicans, Fascists, Communists, Liberals, Nefreedian Socialists... They had taken up arms for everyone at some point or another. Throughout their proud history, they had always served the Fatherland, nor matter who ruled it. Fought for anyone. It was only in the last few decades they have had to fight for themselves.

432-488 spit on the brown ground. He was young. He had seen twenty winters pass, although since his childhood had been spent in the Long Night, 'seeing' hadn't been that common. Like most of the People of the Moving Soviets, he was relatively pure. Fair skin, blonde hair, green eyes, eleven fingers. Babies and children with severe... defects, were dealt with. Subhumans were not tolerated, even if they were born from humans. It had kept the Moving Soviets strong. Stronger than those content to live in one place, and be corrupted into halfhumans or even subhumans. He was dressed in the typical Plainsmen Soviet uniform for the raiders, although the veterans tended to add whatever they could find to make themselves more distinct. But the brown uniform and ushanka was universal, though. No plainsman soldier could raid without it.

432-488 looked across his MilSov. His father was the Overseer, so he had been granted his first command now. A hundred men and women, mounted on their... horses. Yes, horses. They called them horses, even though anyone who had ever seen a horse, such as 432-488's father, claimed they were not, in fact, horses. He had said the new horses didn't look remotely like the old horses. 432-488 had never seen a 'real' horse. The only thing he had known as a horse, was these horses. These scaled, horned, magnificent beasts who could outrun the slower trains with their six legs.

432-488 was young, and he had never led a raid before. The Moving Soviets had survived the Second Civil War, but only just. Herding was not enough in the harsh land the Fatherland had become. 432-488 knew the stories, of course, of the Fatherland before the war. A glorious land of hundreds of millions, who toiled every day to make the Nefreedian Socialist Dream true. A land where food was given to you, and all men had a purpose. A land where it was safe to live in the wilds, and the few remaining cities weren't crime-infested hellholes. A land where people could expect to see their grandchildren be born.

"Kamratsoldatær!" 432-488 shouted under the grey sky, mounted on his horse, and distracted himself from the fairy-tales of the Old World "Vi veit formåle våres! Vi veit va vi må jørra, for Sovjetanes beste! Vårt patriotiske fatterland sier at vi må straffe hallmenskane, å ta tebake maten å tinga deres!"
"Comrade-Soldiers! We know our purpose! We know what we need to do, for the good of the soviets! Our patriotic Fatherland commands us to punish the halfhumans, and take their illgotten food and goods!"

"Hurrah!" a hundred voices screamed in unison. They were a mere day's ride from the current main camp of their Moving Soviet, and a week or so from most of the other Moving Soviets. They were soon moving southwards, as the local areas had been bled dry. They didn't need much food, as the cattle provided plenty. What they needed was clean water, and the halfhumans seemed to have a knack for finding it. They were a mere five minutes' ride from the spotted town, now, but the pure humans of the Moving Soviets needed only a few minutes respite before they attacked.

"Framåvæ, Kamratsoldatær!" 432-488 shouted, and loosed a shot in the air to let the entire MilSov hear it, spurring his horse onwards to the town.
"Onwards, Comrade-Soldiers!

They hit them without the halfhumans rallying much resistance, their assault coming unexpected as usual. The town wasn't large, perhaps a few thousand inhabitants, who toiled the few fertile fields and the local hydroponic factory. Where they got the water from, they didn't know, but they sure had enough of it.

The hundred raiders of the Moving Soviets hit the defenders fast and hard, the Plainsmen only needing to fire a few shots as their horses tore the militiamen apart. They rode onwards into the town square, past shacks and some pre-war housing, scared halfhumans looking out from the windows. As always, 432-488 was amazed at how much the halfhumans looked like humans. If the Overseer, his father, hadn't told him they were halfhumans, he'd never guess.

A man with an old Commissariat uniform shot down 482-387, but was trampled down and eaten by 291-377's horse. 432-488, using his favorite handgun, had done away with two of the militiamen. He couldn't see or hear much over the vicious brawl that had unfolded within the town. Dozens, perhaps even a hundred, men and women of the town had met them for combat now, but they stood no chance. Poorly armed, poorly trained and they had no horses. It was a massacre.

182-478, the old veteran, was blooded from the fight. 432-488 had stepped down, in front of a statue of some kind. Pre-war, he could recognise due to its lack of a face. The dozens of corpses were left on the ground for the horses to eat, as his men and women were systematically plundering the city of anything of value. The occasional scream also told of some of them taking some pleasures as well.

"Rart, ærikke?" 432-488 told his adjutant, his adviser.
"Strange, isn't it?"

"Va, Kamratkommandør?" 182-478 said. The man was old by Soviet standards, at nearly fifty years, with a mild paunch that told of his skill as a raider, and greyed beard that told of his position within the Moving Soviets. The higher up you were, the longer you could grow your beard. 432-488 resented the fact he had not yet been able to grow his beard to match his position, which was the reason some of the old guard snickered at behind his back.
"What, Comrade-Commander?"

"Statun. Førkrigs, I gostann. Lokkalfolka ser ut te å ha tatt go vare på'n
"The statue. Pre-war, in good shape. The locals seems to have taken good care of it."

"Vaså?" 182-478 said, shrugging and twirling his beard idly. He didn't personally raid these days, what with having two daughters who joined the raids. "Jæ trukke den æ vært å ta vare på, å devi vært vansklig å fån åpp."
"So what? I don't think it's worth carrying around, and it'd be a bit difficult to tear up."

"Jæ mente ikke å ta'n," 432-488 said, annoyed his so-called wise adviser was so slow on the update "Detta bettyr kansje at di va NyfSos."
"I'm not thinking of taking it. This might mean they were still NefSocs."

"Vaså?" 182-478 said again "Hallmenske æ hallmenske æ hallmenske. Betykkeno varri trur."
"What does it matter? Halfhuman is halfhuman is halfhuman. Doesn't matter what they think."

432-488 sighed, and patted his adjutant on one of his broad shoulders "Kamratløytnant, kan ru få et hallmenske hit jæ kan preike me?"
"Comrade-Lieutenant, could you bring me a halfhuman to talk with?"

"Me'n gang, Kamratkommandør." he said with a salute, and doubting eyes. 432-488 was used to those. None of the soldiers thought he had it in him to lead a MilSov. He was the youngest MilSov commander, and everyone said he was too young. Too inexperienced. That he had only gotten the position because he was the oldest son of the Overseer. He intended to prove them wrong.
"Right away, Comrade-Commander."

182-478 came dragging one of the halfhumans. A girl, early teens. Perhaps older, perhaps younger. 432-488 didn't care. She was dressed in a simple grey uniform, pre-war design, and crying quite a bit. Brown-blonde hair, blue eyes, nothing real unusual about her.

"Jente," 432-488 said "Preikeru Nyfridisk?"
"Girl. Do you speak Nefreedian?"

"J-ja..." she replied, in broken hushed tones, staring shocked at the corpses eaten by the horses, and cried a bit more.

"Bra!" 432-488 said, and pointed at the statue. "Va æ detta?"
"Good! What is this?"

The girl continued to stare at the horses devouring the men and women who had resisted, some of them fighting a bit over the same corpse. 432-488 kind off wished more had stepped out to fight them. Would have meant more food for the horses. She muttered, barely under her breath: "Djevelhestær..."
"Devil horses..."

"Jente!" 432-488 said, and slapped the girl into focus, and pointed up at the statue again "Va æ detta?"
"Girl! What is this?"

"Æ..." the girl began to say, looking up at 432-488 scared "De æ jo revolusjonsheltær..."
"Is... That is the revolutionary heroes..."

"Ærru Nyfridisk? Vettu va Nyfridisk Sosialisme ær?" 432-488 continued, and the girl stared up at him, clutching her cheek.
"Are you Nefreedian? Do you know what Nefreedian Socialism is?"

"J-ja..." the girl said, still crying, but not daring to not talk "Jæ... vi... vi æ alle nyf... nyfridere... Å vi vil... bygge åpp... å...å..." she bit her lips, and couldn't speak much more, it seemed, as she collapsed to the ground, whimpering.
"Y-yes... I... we...we are all nef... nefreedians... And we will... rebuild... and... and..."

432-488 sighed, and looked up at 182-478 and waved his left hand. "Ta a tebake derru fant a. Jæ veit nok."

The trucks had arrived now. The signal that the battle was over had been given to the truckers, who was ready for 432-488's men to unload their plunder, with the Commissar taking notes who plundered what. While a tenth of it would go to him, as the commander, and another tenth would go to the Overseer, the rest was for each to keep. Water, mostly, but also ammunition, food, gasoline, pre-war devices... Everything of value, they took. They had killed all who would fight them, and the rest of the townsfolk hid in their looted cities, staring at the Plainsmen. It took only half an hour before the trucks were full, but of course people would be taking something extra to carry in backpacks. They were all gathered now. Some had found rare objects, and others were trading ammunition worthless to them, for water or ammunition that'd be of use. They had, sadly, not found a pre-war armoury to loot, but one couldn't always win.

"Kamratsoldater! Vi drar!" 432-488 roared, and the hundred men and women mounted their hourses to leave. Three plainsmen had died, and more had been wounded, but considering their odds this was a success worthy of the Son of the Overseer. As he mounted his horse, using the scales to do the jump, he thought about what the girl had said. Devil horses...

He smiled as he led the convoy out of the plundered town, a hundred men and women falling in row behind him, and trucks full of plunder. The corpses of the militiamen, and the three plainsmen, had been eaten to the bone by their horses, leaving nothing for the carrions. Indeed, this was a victory worthy of the future Overseer.

[The Silent State]

^{[ EROTEME No. 3623 ]}

^{[ ?T · MATURE ]}

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red light · green light
^{ADAYINTHELIFEOFANOPERATOR}

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I dragged myself to it with the enthusiasm of a man with diarrhea moving toward the toilet: I had a compulsive need to get it out but had some months earlier come to the conclusion that all I was producing was shit.^[1]

Daniel had read that line more times than he cared to count, and it never failed that each time his eyes scanned the single line, he felt the overwhelming desire to put the book down and forget how to read.

It was an insult to his intelligence, he presumed; the irony of that presumption was that the supposed insult, written some ten years before his birth by a man by the name of "Rhinehart", was taken in offense upon the nature of the presumption of the aforementioned author. Such is to say that, specifically, Daniel presumed the author – Rhinehart – presumed that every Joe Blow would understand the feeling of being unable to properly place thought and idea to written form and be satisfied with the drivel it produced.

The idea that it was a rather comical affliction of the bowels that Mister Rhinehart hoped individuals could relate to had never so much as bubbled to the surface of the water-filled sack between Daniel's ears.

That doesn't matter, however; merely an equally comical bit of insight into the mind of the thirty-something known as "Daniel".

You see, Daniel is what one would call an "operator". What does he do? Well, he operates. Of course, unlike the rather arduous and mundane – if but social – profession for which Daniel's own gains its name, there is not a single switchboard in sight, not a single "bleep" or "bloop" of a monophonic relay, not even the satisfying "clink" of a coin against a lever. No, quite the opposite; Daniel does not work with cords, coins, or clanks, but with lights and names. Fancy, no?

Daniel – an operator – sits in a nine foot by nine foot by eleven foot hovel of a cement cell somewhere underneath the humble town of Homegrown, Arkansas – a town known for little more than a particularly devastating beetle from the 1920's and that during the civil rights movement, it was one of the first places in the perpetual union to voluntarily integrate. It is filled with blue collar workers who all, in their eternal toil, rise at dawn and fall at dusk; it is filled with mud-farmers and and their daughters who, indubitably, are far less sacrosanct and virtuous than their good, Lutheran upbringing might imply. As you can imagine, Daniel quite likes Homegrown, even though he's the rather dim son of a damn-near-ivory collared executive from some publishing house based out of Austin that is known mostly for publishing various new interpretations of the Lord's own holy book that are, equally indubitably, filled with various testimonials meant to attract the young folk to the good word.

The degree of success of this tactic is arguable.

On with the digression...

For ten hours a day, every day for nearly six years, Daniel has sat in a flat-backed, wooden chair and stared at a six foot wide, nine foot tall machine. This machine is what he operates, as Daniel is an operator. This machine is composed of three cabinets filled with precisely three hundred, thirty-three different individual modules, each with a split-flap display composed of thirty-three individual little rectangles and – you guessed it – three small, diode lights. One is green; one is yellow; one is red. Attached to this behemoth of oddly exact proportions, is a small, slanted shelf, upon which is laid three buttons; again, each coded to a color and each coated in the appropriately bland and cliché hue. All Daniel must do – for ten hours a day, every day of the year – is each time he sees a new name, press the green button. Each time a yellow diode glows, press the yellow button. Each time a little red sparkler ignites, press the red button.

It's quite simple, isn't it?

Nothing complicated about the task, which is good considering the rather... lacking mental faculties Daniel possesses. Even so, Da— Oh, interesting. Daniel just got a sparkler; it's the first one in nearly a two months. "Tabitha" gets purged from the block this time, if our benign hero can manage to stop reading the drivel he seems to despise so much.

That is one complaint Daniel has: the provided reading material isn't what he'd call a "blockbuster". Like any good, red-blooded patriot, he's a fan of guns, God, and girls. Mister Rhinehart and his talk of dice and psychoanalysis doesn't really tickle his pickle; of course, the scenes describing debauchery and orgies are always a highlight, but are few and far between – all things considered. He once asked – half-jokingly, you'd think – if he could bring a Penthouse into the room, but none of his co-workers seemed to catch the joke.

There is, in fact, a step below "dim", and that, my friends, is pious. Welcome to Arkansas.

Looks like "Tabitha" gets flipped to black. Good job, Daniel; once again, he's proven himself to be a loyal and dutiful employee. That is one thing he has going for him: he's never been derelict in his duties – as few as he may have. Of all his co-workers, he's the only one that hasn't failed to press a color-coded button before the little siren on the machine started to wail; not even once has he heard the klaxon call. Congratulations, Daniel; they're going to just have to leave your picture up on the wall this month.

Which, again, when all consideration is taken, is rather odd; given his time on the floor, he's become rather adept at operating. In all of his professional capacities, however, he has noted a discrepancy: for nearly a month, no new name has been added to the blinking-and-flipping wall. Not a one. No new "Tabitha"; no new "Charlie". No new "Mathias", "Debra", "Kevin", "Johnathon", not even a "Frank" has flipped into life on the glorified alarm clock. Every red blink has resulted in a button pressed and another line of black little rectangles; not a white Latin in the bunch.

At first, Daniel didn't much notice it, truth be told; but as the amount of names dwindled, he did. When he attempted to ask about the occurrence, each and every one of his humble, homegrown co-workers brushed him off as if it were just another part of the job. How they could think this, even Daniel was unsure; all they were required to do was press one of three damn buttons. How could there be "more parts"? This, to Daniel, was a discrepancy – a flaw. Something more sinister, more sublime was at work here...

You see, this was the first real job Daniel had since high school. The route to college didn't hold-up for him, even though he'd been assured a scholarship thanks to his rather successful senior year as running back for Delmore High School. (Go Razorbacks!) He, like so many others, let that dwindle away until it was too much of an embarrassment to try and attain some sort of academic degree, much less shoot for the majors. Of course, he wasn't without opportunities. For nearly a year he worked as a file clerk for his father's employer, but that fell through when he was discovered jacking-it in the disabled stall of third floor men's restroom.

Again: one step below dim. Welcome to Texas.

After that, Daniel decided he needed a break from the mundane boredom and deterministic life of the average Texan. So, in seek of excitement and adventure, Daniel made his way to Arkansas. (Daniel is rather dim.) His father, loving – if but mostly absent – as he was, funded the entire ordeal, hoping that his son might one day see the wrong of his ways, right his wrongs, become a Republican, and stop dragging his feet about the world like he was some pup that had been kicked one too many times. Unbeknownst to his father, Daniel was already a Republican, he just was generally too lazy to go and vote.

Eventually, he found himself in his current predicament, and, as they say, the rest is history. History, my friends, only matters to people who plan on making some and, in the case of Daniel, the only history he's about to make is if he doesn't plan on pressing the red button for "Louis". Thirteen seconds, Daniel... Good.

Another line of black added to the wall, and Daniel went back to reading his little novel, no doubt thinking about something far from intellectual – not to say it isn't stimulating.

What's been bothering Daniel, however, is just how many black lines have been added. Daniel, for all that he lacks in schooling, is quite clever; he understood soon after he noticed his "discrepancy" that, assuming no new names get added to the tick-tocking flaps, he'll be out of a job. To say the least, Daniel isn't much to be motivated to seek out further employment – especially after such an easy job as his present one. Sure, it might be a bit dull, but it's a job that pays the bills for doing almost nothing each day. Even so, that's not all he's thought upon...

What happens when a button is pressed?

Daniel has devised a myriad of situations that could arise for each button pressed. For green? Well, he's clever, but not smart. For yellow? For yellow he's quite convinced a machine somewhere – perhaps quite like the one he himself operates – has broken and he's merely fixing it with each tick of the yellow circle. For red... Well, that's where things got interesting.

Perhaps it is the influence of the novel provided, but Daniel has crafted many a fantastic circumstance that might arise from a depressed red trigger. Be it simply deleting of a name from a database (as his co-workers all seem to be convinced is, indeed, what happens), or something far more contrite and acute. Presently, Daniel's most favored fantasy is that, somewhere, there is a ticking, clinking little machine that, when a red sparkler glows bright in the dank of his cubicle, if he doesn't press that button right then, something terrible will happen to a person with the name.

So enamored with this fantasy is Daniel that, once, he almost did hear the klaxon call. The name was "Mary-Jane"; Daniel tells himself this name means nothing but, in fact, it does. For all intents and purposes, though his memory is rather obtusely disconnected, it was this instance that actually inspired the fantasy. You see, in his adolescence, Daniel loved comics; he loved the idea of superheros and damsels in distress. He nearly broke his own leg trying to fly from the four foot porch in his father's backyard; luckily, it was merely a sprained ankle and a scolding from his father on the uselessness of such flights of fantasy. Yes, gentlemen, that pun was, indeed, intended.

Though he never did hear the siren's bleating, he still remembered wanting to know its sound. Over time, he began to account for each name; he began to concern himself with each sparkler intimately, devising both outlandish and positively dull circumstances from which he might be saving his given names from hurt and harm. In Daniel's mind, each time he pressed the red button, he saved a life, and each life he saved, he was fulfi—

Oh goodie, another blinker. Red? Red. Go get 'em, Daniel. Good boy.

Regardless, he believed he was fulfilling a purpose; he was being useful – a condition his father seemed to demand of everything (and everyone) when he could bother to be present to care. As much as Daniel despised this idea, in the late summer nights, when it was too hot to sleep, it crept into his mind and prodded at something and made it stir behind his eyes. He usually washed it away with a swig of the good ol' J.D., but sometimes that wasn't enough. Sometimes Daniel had t—

A fourth in an hour? I guess Daniel is a bit pre-occupied. "Clark" gets to be turned into another black line. Congratulations, Daniel, you saved someone else.

Back to the digres—

"Elizabeth", back to black.

Yes, Daniel, that counted as a fifth.

Sixth.

Seventh.

Eighth.

Ninth? Nope. Yellow.

What a busy night, aye, Daniel?

Continuing... Sometimes Daniel had to take more than a swig; sometimes it was two, other nights it was the whole bottle. To say Daniel was an alcoholic wouldn't quite be correct, but he was most certainly working on it from time to time. It didn't really surprise him; he did, in fact, have a predisposition to it. The proverbial "gun to the head" situation.

Regardless, Daniel wasn't a bad guy. He went to work, he came home, and on the weekends he minded his own business. He was never one to meddle – outside of wondering about the abundance of black lines removing his chance of being an operator for life. You might suppose, however, that the nature of that inquisitiveness shouldn't be a surprise. He is clever. Even so, Daniel didn't have much of a life, and likely never would. He was a man who had his book written by a C.P.A. and, as a humorous tangent, hadn't filed his taxes for two years. So, aside from his forgetfulness having forced a degree of tax evasion, Daniel was "good people", as they say in Arkansas. He didn't cause problems, and he avoided conflict whenever he could. It would be a sh—

"Henry". Daniel knew man named "Henry" once; he was the tenth grade chemistry teacher. Looks like "Henry" got saved from an accident in the second floor chemistry laboratory. Also looks like "Ulysses" also gets cleared. Daniel knew a man named "Ulysses", too; "Old Ulie" as he was called in Homegrown. He was the barber just off Main that would only cut mens' hair for moral reasons (Piousness is next to godliness.) and could only cut it in one way. He would, however, talk a client's ears clean off their heads.

"Peter". Daniel didn't know a man named "Peter".

"Irene". He knew a hurricane named that. It had torn up the Florida Panhandle pretty severely a few years prior to his moving to Arkansas.

"George". There was a man named "George" who worked for his father back in Austin. He didn't much care for him and, sincerely, hesitated in pushing the red button.

"Danielle". Daniel dated a "Danielle" once soon after he moved to Homegrown. Last he heard, she'd had a kid and moved into the trailer park a few miles west of town, out in the wheat fields.

"Albert". Odd. There was an "Albert" Daniel knew well: he was one of his co-workers. The professorial type, as it were; always talked about how the machine they operated was a relic of the Cold War. Albert quite liked the flaps and the "te-te-tehink" they made when cycling back to black or to a new name – apparently a rare occurrence as of late.

Daniel looked to the large machine before him. He didn't like the way it looked rather suddenly, and didn't like the suddenly sinister sparkler in the top-left corner of the first cabinet. He didn't much care for it at all. He didn't like the name.

Old boy, looks like they may have to take your picture down next month.

Daniel looked at his name, sighed, and listened as his record was broken by the wailing cry of the klaxon call.

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[1] The Dice Man by Luke Rhinehart (George Cockcroft)

[The Cowboy Republic]

Big Iron
FT

"To the town of Agua Fria rode a stranger one fine day. Hardly spoke to folks around him didn't have too much to say. No one dare to ask his business no one dared to make a slip. For the stranger there among them had a big iron on his hip."
Marty Robbins: Big Iron

Someone once told me the peacemaker won the West, the mighty pistol that tamed the unforgiving land west of the Missouri. What people fail to understand is that the West isn't exactly West anymore, it's up, and far away from the rolling plains of Wyoming and the beauty of Amarillo. And no matter how much iron and lead you throw around in the new West, there is always someone else with a bigger gun, a better ship, a stronger posse. The landscape, the people, even the business hasn't changed. No it's the rules that have changed on New Galveston, and that has made all the difference.

There is no East to tame the new West, there is no Federal Government, no true lawmen. Sure there is the Cattlemen Confederation, but they don't have the manpower nor the money to protect those that live beyond their major communities. Out here there is one law, a law based in the most basic of human instincts. Kill or be killed, a code that all ranchers and farmers beyond the Cattlemen Confederation's boundaries followed. A step onto a man's property, a glance at his woman, even winning a card game could and more often than not would get you killed. The new West is no place for children, and yet here, among the savages of the Frontier is where I call home.

My name is Stephen Williams, though to most people around here its just Steve. I was born in the "town" of New Tulsa, technically Cattlemen Confederation territory but then again the whole of the damned planet is. In reality New Tulsa sits in what we locals call the pit, named after the massive mountain ranges that surround the plains on all sides. The official name is something Spanish, but God knows I can't pronounce it let alone spell it. In reality the Cattlemen Confederation doesn't have a damn thing to do with the place, the only government we have around here is the mayor who is "elected" every four years or upon death.

As I said before people haven't changed on New Galveston, the mayor is ushered into office by whatever Cattlemen has the most money at the time, which, more often than not is one of the Browns or the Harrisons. More so the major, whoever he may be at the time is a figure head that doesn't know his head from his ass and stumbles around the town giving speeches on the "Coming prosperity" under his new, or in most cases returning reign. Likewise the Sheriff is an old Starship pilot who probably started showing signs of dementia thirty years ago, his deputy is in the Browns' pocket so he isn't rightly worth the shine he rubs on his boots everyday.

Like my father, and his farther before him and so on I learned, and began practicing, the cattle trade at six years old, ten or so years ago. We owned one of the smaller beef farms that couldn't really be called anything more than a glorified substance operation that sold a few cattle every year to make ends meet when the mayor came around and collected taxes for "The Good of New Tusla." Like my father, and his farther before him and so on, I don't give a rats-ass about New Tulsa, in fact more than once I have prayed that the almighty might strike the horrid blight from New Galveston. Though, if he was any sort of just God he'd eradicate the entirety of this planet.

God is not just, fair, or kind, I learned this when my father died, followed shortly thereafter by my mother and brother. They called it "the dark days," a cliche if ever there was one. A sudden plague that swept over New Tulsa and killed dozens, most likely small pocks but people do so love their names for periods of distress and darkness. The preacher at the Baptist Church said it was a sign of God, that only the pious would be saved from the blight. He died in the second week of the outbreak, the irony was not lost on me.

After we survivors buried the dead, life seemed to continue as normal. We got a new preacher, a Louisiana all the way from Earth coming to deliver his "Firebrand" message. The mayor, who had spent the entirety of the crisis holed up away form the city returned, the sheriff and his deputy (damn them all) in tow behind him. Rather, life continued normal for everyone that hadn't lost someone to the blight. I was not one of those fortunate bastards, I was thirteen and the lone owner and operator of a free lance cattle operation on quite possible the worst planet in the entirety of the galaxy, lucky me?

Coming home to an empty house is not fun, but I fixed that soon enough, drastically I might add. Within a week of the "legal proceedings" that transferred ownership to myself I sold the house, farm, and everything on it to the Harrisons who I deemed more worthy of my family legacy than the Browns with their ridiculous deputy. I owned a grand total of five things, a pair of clothing, a reasonable (for the area) sum of money, a bottle of liquor, an old stetson, and a gun. In the coming days of all the things I owned I, much to my surprise found the gun to be the most useful.

First thing I did after taking the cash was amble on into town, feeling big and rich like some sort of Baron from Blackwater. Despite my age, I found it rather easy to procure liquor, as did everyone that didn't look like he'd just come off the teat of his mother. I found myself in the town's only saloon, a place aptly named "The Pit" after the geographic formation it was located on. Though, to be more correct the place was more likely named after the immense amounts of money the crooked dealers and roulette operators conned off the people foolish enough to spend their money on games of "pure luck," as they called them.

I myself was wary of these games, especially considering the "accidents" that often followed in the wake of big winners. But, after a fair few shots of liquor than what was appropriate I found myself sitting down at one of the tables that played Texas-Hold-Em. The game itself is rather simple and fun most places, not so on New Galveston. One does not try and beat the dealer in Texas-Hold-Em, one tries to beat the fellows around him, and in saying such the possibilities for bad blood run rampant whenever the game was played. As I stated earlier winning a card game could get you killed, I found this out the hard way.

I was holding a full house, two kings on the river, one on the flop and pocket aces. The man across from me might have been the worst player in the known world, he was smiling like a damned idiot, practically waving his cards in front of everyone as he pushed his money forward. Everyone else folded, I called, the man came up on a full house, kings and queens. He began reaching for the pile of money before I had even flipped my cards, I caught his hand halfway, flipping my cards up as I went. I said but one thing, "Full house, king and aces," there was, as I recall a deathly silence in the room.

That is to say, there was a deathly silence in the room before the man across from me began shouting things about my mother and went for his gun. We were both drunk, both pissed, and both trying to kill each other. Despite my general lack of love for the Lord I must say that I do appreciate the miracle that allowed me to draw my gun first and drop six rounds into the fellows chest before he could clear his holster. He seemed to hang suspended for a moment, caught up in the quagmire of blood and smoke that had filled the room, and then, anticlimactically fell face first onto the table. Someone screamed in the background, a woman, I didn't stick around to see who she was exactly.

In an instant I reached over the table and grabbed the pile of money, and then, with equal swiftness darted out of the saloon. I didn't stop running until I got to Agua Fria, one of the towns close to mine. It was apparently named after some backwater in Arizona but it sounded more Mexican than anything to me. Course I didn't care any place was better than New Tulsa, and from the looks of it Agua Fria looked relatively well maintained. Armed men stood outside the bank, the sheriff sat dozing on a chair in front of his office, his deputy nearby leaning up against the wall. There was even a starship near the outskirts of town, someone important must be making a deposit I had thought.

Yeah Aqua Fria seemed alright, till the deputy fell over and did not get up. I heard a shout coming from the bank, one of the armed men was gesturing towards me and tell me to come over. I did as I was told, I remember the utter feeling of dread in the pit of of my stomach as I finally came face to face with the man. The image of the dead deputy still burned into my head like a branding iron, I could naught but muster one thing to say to the man. "Are you...Outlaws?" The question as I recall seemed to remain unanswered for an eternity, the gunman simply staring into my eyes with a sort of appraising fire that made my skin peel.

At last the man shook his head yes, I had no immediate response, my mind raced with possibilities. At last I managed another sentence, this time more forceful and yet also delivered with much more fear. "Can I come with you," was what I said. Again the man seemed to appraise me, his eyes darted first to the gun on my hip, and then to the blood stained money that was almost falling out of my pockets and finally they came up and met my eyes for the second time. And, as before the man shook his head yes, and for the first time spoke.

"What is your name and what do you do." Was all he bothered to say, his cold and hollow voice seeming to reverberate within my mind.

"I am Steve Williams, I live by the Big Iron."

[New Freedomstan]

[ Mixed Tech ]

2nd of August, 2013

It's Not Over Till It's Over

821-984 was not a man who gave up easily. Or at all. It had been six months since they had locked themselves in one of the broadcasting bunkers of the Information and Education Section. Over the course of the next six months, all of the people he thought of as his comrades had revealed their true colours. All of them had been dealt with accordingly. 821-984 ate his daily ration of Rationpaste slowly while watching the sole remaining, functional, monitor, washing it town with his daily ration of vodka. He read this... 'Celestial Chronicle'... This... report on some alleged destruction of the Socialist Worker's Republic of New Freedomstan.

821-984 sighed deeply, and stretched his neck. Hansen was next to him, silent as always, the old tease. In his mind, she was still as beautiful as ever, with flowing blonde hair and skin as white as the glorious socialistic Nefreedian winter. He did not notice the rot, or the two bullet-holes in the side of her head. In his eye, she was watching this Celestial Chronicle's report along with him. 821-984 offered her a bit of his vodka, and when she did not respond, he emptied it himself, and took a look across the rest of the bunker.

They had holed up here when the alarm had sounded. Holed up with hundreds of kalashes, enough ammunition to exterminate every single dissident in that shithole #8, and enough food and vodka to last them a century. There were twelve of them, twelve Commissars, employed by the Glorious Information and Education Section in order to spread the Word of Nefreedian Socialism to all the Lands of the World. They still had connection to the internet, and power through the glorious people's power plants located underground. Of course, it was quite a bit more dusty now. Nearly a year had passed, after all, and that worthless janitor had not cleaned anything ever since he spoke Dissidentry.

821-984 shrugged, and resumed his Sacred Duty, for the Good and Wellbeing of the Revolution. He read through this... this... filthy lie of an article, which said the Socialist Worker's Republic of New Freedomstan had destroyed itself in nuclear war. Hah! Mere Nuclear Weapons could not End the Revolution, or the Socialist Worker's Republic! A mere Nuke cannot do more than STAGGER THE REVOLUTION!

821-984 furiously began writing in the comment field these liberal pig-dog decadent imperialist newspaper bastards had opened. After a furious two minutes of typing, the result was as clear as the message of Lenin:

"This article is nothing but FILTHY LIES perpetrated by SCUMBAGS WHO KNOW NOTHING! I, 821-984 of the GLORIOUS COMMISSARIAT OF THE SWRNF, am sitting here in the SWRNF RIGHT NOW!!!! This is nothing but a piece of BOURGEOIS TRASH! This is nothing but an ASSAULT ON THE REVOLUTION! This faggotry cannot stand, and the GLORIOUS SWRNF DEMANDS THAT IT BE PULLED DOWN! The Glorious SWRNF, the Shining Beacon of New Freedom and Socialism, cannot be, and has not, been destroyed by the faulty Nuclear Arsenal of our Weak, Pussified, Dissident, Puny, Liberal, Fascist SLAVERING FOES! This article is nothing but LIES! Lies and DECEIT! The AUTHOR WILL BE THE FIRST UP AGAINST THE WALL WHEN THE GLORIOUS NEFREEDIAN SOCIALIST WORLDWIDE REVOLUTION OCCURS! SUCH IS THE WILL OF THE PARTY! SUCH IS THE WILL OF THE MARTYRED DEAD!

- Commissar 821-984"

821-984 hit the 'enter' button, and saw his righteous condemnation of the lies of the bourgeois puppets appear on screen. He nodded contentedly to himself, and turned to Hansen.

"What do you think, Comrade?" he said, and stared at her for a minute, and got a furious expression.

"WHAT DO YOU MEAN?" 821-984 shouted at Hansen's corpse "You seriously think that a few nuclear missiles can do ANY LASTING DAMAGE? That is BORDERLINE TREASON, Comrade HANSEN?!"

Another twenty seconds passed, and 821-984 started frothing at the mouth at the 'insinuations' he 'heard', and picked up his service pistol and shot Hansen's corpse in the head.

"Such is the fate of all traitors," 821-984 said grimly as Hansen's corpse jerked "Such is the fate of all who speak lies against the SWRNF. Let that be a lesson to the rest of you," 821-984 said and stared at the other corpses, all with numerous bullet-holes in the head, that sat around the remaining monitors, or were lined up against the wall.

821-984 was briefly, ever-so briefly, tempted to retrieve another bottle of vodka. There were thousands, tens of thousands, down there after all. But he shook his head. He was allocated a single bottle of vodka a day, and he'd be DAMNED before he STOLE from the SWRNF.

[Tzinleithel]

[ MT ] | [ MATURE ]

The story of a tragic villain attempting to make amends.

FREEDMEN'SQUARTERLYPRESENTS
TESTAMENT OFREDEMPTION
THEDEATHOFPAULSKEIDING

~

Shortly before daybreak on the morning of April 2nd, first responders of the Incorporated Lomhyr Security Forces of Ashazikoginia's Ihrilsvar Lomhyrate responded to frantic reports of a gunshot in a residential apartment complex in the southern outskirts of Cmhrashyana. Inside a small, cramped one room apartment on the fourth floor was found a most unlikely figure: Paul Skeiding, a Kratorian refugee and expatriate who had defected to the Aldarminian state under the threat of death in his native homeland. Authorities believe that the elderly Skeiding, 82 consumed a fifth of a bottle of native Mzungu-blended whiskey before putting a 9mm Carabina to his left temple. Resuscitative efforts proved futile, and he was pronounced dead on the scene shortly after 7:35 AM.

The story of a man escaping the oppressive, discriminatory practices of a dictatorial police state to the liberal ideals of freedom and self-determinism present in Ashazikoginia would make for quite the yarn in and of itself, to say nothing of the sad irony of his self-murder after escaping from the horrors of Kratoria. Thus, the twist which singles Paul Skeiding's sad tale out: the oppression he sought refuge from was of his own doing. The architect of the Mzungu Union's horrific Skeiding Plan which first gained implementation in the 1960s, the expatriate's hands were drenched in the blood of millions of black Hond peoples who his machinations had either enslaved or murdered. When a crisis of conscience and faith led him to try and dismantle the system, the system nearly killed him.

On Skeiding's person was a letter of testimony—a suicide note—explaining his regrets over his life's work, and explicit details over his involvement in the segregation, enslavement and genocide of his birth nation's colored population. At the bequest of Skeiding's last remaining relatives living in seclusion in Ashazeth, we have decided to publish this graphic and unflinchingly honest description of one of humanity's darkest and reprehensible regimes. It is our hope that, through the testimony of one of history's most tragic-yet-criminal figures, some measure of redemption may be found in his forlorn struggle to destroy that which he had created. Special thanks to the Incorporated Lomhyr Security Forces of Ihrilsvar Lomhyrate and the City of Cmhrashyana for their assistance in in this piece.

I escaped from the Mzungu Union at 3:52 AM on the twelfth day of March in the year nineteen hundred and eighty-three. For the past thirty years, I have been a prisoner to the watchful graces of history, living out my futile days in a foreign land that I know not of, even now. Not since Jehovah put the mark upon the brown of Cain has a man been so utterly detested for the workings of his hands; yet I would challenge the few who take pity on me to understand how righteous and appropriate such a punishment was. When I fathomed the undeniable irony of entrusting my very life to a Hond man who smuggled me through the demarcation zone into Ashazikoginia, I knew that I was receiving the judgment of a creator who was most displeased with the toils of my days.

In my past life, I served as an early-appointee comptroller with the then-fledgling Mzungu Financier and Commerce Bureau, the Revolutionary Mzungu Front's punitive first step into ratcheting up the pressure on the 'undesirables'. At that time, most of us working under the graces of the RMF didn't even think a black man was actually a human; we thought them to be nothing more than a domesticated animal ripe for our exploitation. That was our role, see: despite the formal-sounding name, we were really just a political auxiliary to the Boogskutters, our paramilitary terror corps that made sure no Hond got a good night's sleep twice in a row. We were tasked with figuring out how to undercut the radical elements of the militant Hond groups that were appearing.

I'll never forget my senior supervisor, a pudgy little man with snapping, piggy eyes that in retrospect looked for all the world to be the walking embodiment of avarice. He came to us in February 1965 with the charge of creating contingency plans to help the RMF deal with the resurgence of a cultural palingenesis amongst the Honds. The night I had come up with the plan which now bears my name, I was watching the evening news depict a scene that seemed to sum up the necessity of my department. A Hond man had raped and murdered three young Mzungu women in their home not five miles from where I had grown up as a child. My thoughts were full of wrath and retribution, as I recall: if they struck at the place of my innocence and my youth, then so could I in return.

Even now, with the full knowledge of the ending of my short season here in Ashazikoginia, my hands quake. I spent two days over a long weekend writing up a proposal that changed the paradigm of my homeland's collective ethos. The stratagem called for a phased reduction in the civil liberties of the Honds—what little they had left—to the aim of creating a homogenous, submissive servant caste that would never identify with its multicultural history: only the whitewashed, sanitized approved version the Revolutionary Mzungu Front gave them. Some Honds would be left in ghettos and slums to eek out a meager existence, while a larger proportion would be stripped of their human rights and sold off into slavery. To keep them in line, we began to shoot 'em.

I never contemplated the notion that we were committing genocide against human beings; we saw it as a necessary tool to enforce the new cultural laws that were being put into effect. A civilized race especially would never go willingly into the bonds of slavery; they needed enticement, so we gave them all the motivation they would ever need. I remember once in 1967, two years after my plan had been adopted when they gave me a walking tour of their first detention center, for all intents and purposes a concentration camp. The Boogskutters working there took great pride in showing me how the strongest Honds were put to work in the factories and fields, and how the undesirables were eliminated via asphyxiation, highly poisonous agents and painful toxins.

I would rather not remember what they did to the women, but a part of me wont let my soul forget. The darkest-skinned Hond females were almost invariably mutilated; their insides cruelly removed without anesthetic to prevent them from overpopulating the camps. Those of mixed-ancestry, the mulatto females were sometimes shot-on-sight for their 'insidiousness', though some were kept for the amusement of the guards—forced, crude sexual purposes if you must know. An entire generation of bastard children were produced this way; less than a percent of them survive today. Most were used as hostages to keep the women subservient and obedient sexually, letting them think their children were still alive; in fact they'd been used to feed the slaves.

There is no possible way to absolve myself of the crimes of medical experimentation or mass-murder; I not only approved of the measures, but in many cases I authorized them. The 1974 raid on the Hond enclave at Mjidogo was my handiwork, along with a handful of other punitive operations. The story was always the same: the Boogskutters would move in under the cover of darkness, burning their settlements with molotovs before shooting the stragglers who managed to stumble out into the street. The elderly and the youth got it the worst; they'd be filleted out in the open, often in view of relatives who were made to hold watch for the psychological effect. Sometimes they would put the corpses in chutes and airdrop them over Hond settlements for the fun of it.

The experimentation was far worse, though. Between 1974 and 1980, more than two million Honds died under the supervision of veterinarian physicians who utilized crude, amateur-surgeon techniques to try and better understand the chattel they were trying to produce. Surgeries were always performed without anesthetic to help prevent the 'contamination of the results', as they used to call it, and our physicians got disgustingly creative in trying to determine pain thresholds in the Honds. One particular incident that I remember watching was of a poor soul who had been opened up without cause, then closed up with shards of glass left in the six inch-long incision before allowing a Boogskutter guard to pummel their wounds until they finally died from it.

I had been too efficient for my own good; by the late 1970s, we were eradicating the Honds faster than they were allowed to reproduce under the government quota, and our slave labor force was shrinking to unsustainable levels. That's when we had to reverse course and begin implementing fertility programs to repopulate our free labor, which had become indispensable to our economy. There were so few Hond males who had not been castrated left by that point that we had to start paying Boogskutter guards or even our country's soldiers to rape and impregnate female Honds. The darker-skinned children were immediately reared for servitude, while the lighter-skinned offspring of the soldiers and the Hond women were requisitioned as a chattel food source.

Oh, the screams... I can still hear them in my waking mind today; the screams of the women who watched as their newborns were judged straightway out of the womb. Most that failed a visual inspection were exterminated inside the room before their mothers. The plan was successful, but at a terrible cost—the emotional damage done to the soldiers who watched the product of their seed being enslaved or murdered outright and used for chattel feed was too much to bear, to the point that not even paying most of them could get them to perform. Only the masochists and the sadists volunteered after that, but the purpose of the plan had been realized in full. From the 1980s to the present, Kratoria has never wanted for a continual supply of Hond chattel again.

It was working with the mothers of the children who were slain that somehow sparked an awakening of my humanity, which had long-since fallen dormant by 1980. Some of them wouldn't eat or drink anything after watching their children die; others would try to commit suicide before reaching term to try and keep from having their children born into such horror. I'll never forget watching as a child was brought up for inspection and found to be undesirable. A sanctimonious prick of a human being thought it to be funny to shoot the infant in the abdomen instead of quickly disposing of it. Somehow, the child miraculously survived being shot for a short time, stunning all who were present. I remember the mother praying, begging God to take the child before...

Before it suffered. That's what ultimately broke my will to continue on; I don't know the exact date, but I remember walking through the maternity ward of our largest camp outside of Juweelstad, staring through the windows at the expressions of the postnatal Honds. It finally sank in that these weren't animals, but living people who had a soul just like the Mzungu did. I remember throwing up on the spot, purging harshly before clawing at my hair, trying to fathom how I could've allowed myself to be blinded from the truth. I nearly shot myself on the spot, but a little voice inside stayed my hand for a season. I think that I knew how futile it would be to try and convince others of my epiphany, but my punishment from God demanded the effort at the very least.

I began going before the Commission on Hond affairs, urging them to end the killing and to reassess the enslavement of so many people. They merely laughed me down at first, before understanding that I was no longer able to serve as their instrument of subjugation. They tried to order me to handpick a Boogskutter outfit to go in and begin weeding out undesirables in the capital; when I refused, they had me stripped of my post and relegated to the status of proverbial anathema. I tried to get the word out about the horrific abuses that were going on, but they began to hunt me down no matter where I tried to flee to. No one was brave enough to listen in Kratoria, and by that point my courage had fled entirely. All I wanted to do was to escape with my life.

Thirty years ago, I took the coward's way out. The people of Ashazikoginia were largely oblivious to me, thanks to the tightly-controlled flow of information out of the Mzungu Union. What few people there were that did recognize me wouldn't even so much as go near me. When Stentralestad learned that I had been smuggled out of the country into Ashazikoginia, they began painting me as the architect of the entire plan, making sure to denote what I looked like so that the 'close-minded, false Mzungu' could find some measure of satisfaction against me. This is how I came to be a prisoner in my apartment here in Cmhrashyana. I haven't left this room for more than fifteen years now; the four walls around me were the extent of my world. My sanctum, and my prison.

I knew that I had failed, that I had created a system of pure evil that could not be stopped by the pleadings of a vile and wretched old man. As my skin began to wrinkle and my hair gray, I could see the pale husk of a soul staring through me from the inside, beckoning for absolution. I could not bring myself to watch television or listen to the radio; I was tormented with the voices in my head, lamenting my failure to justify a life spent killing so many. But oh, how I wish that I could. How I wish that the world had never known my name, or the fruits of my labor. I guess, in the end, it was meant to be. And now, I can only hope that someone will one day destroy that which I built. I guess I woke up today and realized that I couldn't bear to hear their voices anymore.

[New Freedomstan]

[ Mixed Tech ]

8th of October, 2013

It's Not Over Till It's Over II:Electric Boogaloo

"Another day, another GLORIOUS DAY FOR SOCIALISM!" 821-984 said as he marched through the glorious hinterlands of the Central People's Collective, the bustling capital of the Socialist Worker's Republic of New Freedomstan. Accompanying him was Comrade Hansen's head, who he had placed on a stick stretching up from his backpack. Due to the air being contaminated with dissidentry, both he and Hansen wore their gas-masks and full-body environmental protection uniforms. Of course, since Hansen was just a head, she only needed the mask and cap. 821-984 marched along, clad in the full Commissarial outfit, grey trenchcoat and all, and armed with a couple pistols. Just in case he found an outbreak of dissidentry.

"Truly, this is a glorious land fit for the sons of our martyred dead!" he continued. He was about a kilometer from the Information and Education Section's bunker, and the fatherland has... changed slightly since they entered. Of course, the mere dissident nukes could not have done any lasting damage, but he did notice how the central parts of the capital no longer seemed to exist. That the sky seemed to be perpetually covered in dust also seemed new, and the wrecked cars, occasional corpses and ruined buildings in the outskirts of the capital also seemed quite new. He had looked at the sky for a while when he first left the bunker. Somehow, the sky shone mildly, barely illuminating the ground, despite there being no sun nor stars in sight. Luckily, the PCC's environmental protection suits were with typical Socialist long-sightedness prepared for this, 821-984 only needing to wait a minute or so until the night-vision kicked in.

"Well, Hansen, I must admit," 821-984 said hesitantly, the gasmask turning his voice metallic and somewhat wheezing as he continued to march down the abandoned littered street, looking for a superior officer to report to "It might seem like the dissident nukes may have caused some short-term temporary setback for the SWRNF." 821-984 idly kicked a skull of the rest of its skeleton, disregarding that the bones had teethmarks on them.

"Of course," 821-984 continued, before Hansen's head could interject "THIS DOES NOT MEAN THE END OF THE SWRNF! This is NOTHING but a TEMP..." he stopped, and looked slowly back at Hansen's head, still peeking from the stick it was attatched to. "HOW DARE YOU! YOU BITCH! If I didn't need you for BACKUP, I'd have you SHOT for TREASON!"

821-984 stomped ahead for a few metres, and stopped. "Oh, don't be like that. Of course I wouldn't shoot you." he continued for a bit more, and slowly turned to where he had just stood, and exasperatedly threw his arms out. "Okay! Okay! I'm sorry, Comrade Hansen, for threatening you! Can we continue now? We're on a damn mission here! A MISSION FOR SOCIALISM!"

821-984 continued down the street, contentedly noticing that Hansen's head was still with him as he stopped suddenly, and withdrew his pistol. "Shh!" he whispered, and crouched behind a bus-stop "I heard something. Might be rebels."

The sound came from ahead, but 821-984 could not see anything. He waited, when he started to notice the ground... bulged a bit. And the bulge was coming towards him. "Damn rebels!" he muttered to himself "They are tunneling between the overcity and undercity! Those BASTA-"
821-984 was interrupted by something leaping at him from the bulge, pieces of asphalt shattering around it as the thing went airborne towards him. "HANSEN! COVER ME!" 821-984 shouted as he opened fire on the thing, while unholstering his knife with his left hand. The thing didn't seem to react to his well-placed shots, and Hansen was useless as always. 821-984 kicked the burrower, but the thing did not flinch as it bore at 821-984's center of mass, tipping them both over.

The thing punched at 821-984's chests. He was out of air. 821-984 tried to fire. The thing had clenched his right hand to the ground. 821-984 tried to kick again. The thing pierced through his uniform. Blood started flowing. 821-984 rammed the knife into the thing's neck. It gave a howl and twitched. Tried to run. 821-984 shot it twice in the back. It fell.

"Fucking..." 821-984 said as he stumbled up "Fuck! Hansen! Get me the fucking first aid! Hansen! Fuck it, I'll do it myself." 821-984 retrieved the first aid from the backpack, staring angrily at Hansen's head-on-a-stick as he did so. Luckily, the thing had only pierced a small hole in his uniform, but the bleeding was still a problem. He retrieved a lighter, and cauterized the wound while gasping for air, the sound from the gasmask sounding like shrill laughter. "FUCK!" he exasperated as he removed the claw, and closed the uniform with some tape. It wouldn't hold, and he was fairly sure he was already radpoisoned, but that'd need to be dealt with back at the bunker.

821-984 held himself up by the knees for a few seconds, gritting through the pain, and took a look at the thing that had attacked him. It looked... strange. He kicked it a few times to make sure it was dead. Its blood had been dark, nearly black, and it had no eyes. It was long, but thin, with two arms and short, stubby legs that didn't seem to be used much. It looked nearly snakelike, or wormlike, if not for the fact that apart from that, it still had an overally humanoid frame. It looked nearly human... With fangs, claws, sure, but other than that...

"Filthy dissident subhuman," 821-984 said "If it was up to me, you TYPES would have all been LINED UP AGAINST THE WALL AND SHOT! You hear me, YOU BURROWING FREAKS?" he roared into the city as he extended his arms in the air, and thrusting suggestively a few times, in order to challenge them "BRING IT ON YOU DISSIDENT REBEL SUBHUMAN FREAKS!"

No sound from the city.

Good. They were scared of him.

He looked down at the burrower again, and though no-one would see it behind the mask, he grinned. He dragged the knife out from the thing's throat, turned it to the jagged end, and whistled as he sawed the thing's head off. He put on his backpack again, and carried the head with him back to the bunker, muttering a few responses to Hansen on the way.

"What? If I had a reason to cut the subhuman's head off? Of course!"

A few minutes later. "Barbaric? BARBARIC? This is a TROPHY of SOCIALIST VICTORY over the BARBARISM of DISSIDENTRY, Hansen!"

Only a few minutes before he reached the bunker, he also muttered: "Of course it bloody hurts. The thing tore into my bloody chest!"

Tapping in the entrance code, the bunker slowly opened. Truly, a wonder of socialist engineering. Despite being located just a few miles from where the closest nuke had dropped according to Hansen, the bunker stood firm. The power functioned perfectly, and nothing could get in or out without the access codes. Including the few dozen skeletons located outside. 821-984 remembered how they had knocked and knocked and screamed about being let in. Overseer Fredriksen said it'd be security risk, of course, and 821-984 has dutifully executed Yngvarsen and 192-743 when they tried to violate a direct order and open the bunker to potential DISSIDENTS.

He put the burrower's head on a spike outside the bunker, using a metal rot to keep it in place. He whistled as he entered the bunker, down three stories to the main rooms, and whistled as he put the bag and Hansen's head aside, and removed his uniform. Inside, it stank of blood, mostly his own, but at least his wound had been sealed. It didn't look good, having gotten a faint green tinge around it, and he had already gone numb there. 821-984 headed into the decontamination chamber, which washed him clean, then sighed as he knew what to do.

He downed a bottle of vodka, picked up another knife, and opened the wound again, green ooze and blood pouring out. He saw the problem immediately. A piece of the thing's claw was lodged inside, and he took it out with a stammering grunt. "Fuck. I'll need to use my luxury rations to get some antivenom, it seems. WHICH IS PROOF THE SOCIALIST SYSTEM WORKS!" but first, he sealed the wound with needle and thread, searing it again with the lighter to cauterize it. He whistled the Internationale as he strolled to the medical supplies, pondering how to use his luxury ration card to retrieve the antivenom, then decided he could just remember he'd spent it, and report to the Development & Planning Section the moment he found a DPS Overseer. Injecting the antivenom was easy after dealing with the wound, but it still felt numb several minutes afterwards.

"Guess I should just get some work done... For the FATHERLAND!" 821-984 muttered as he started up the functioning monitor, and browsed the web for anti-SWRNF news. Some... newspaper called the Wasteland Weekly from some bourgie hellhole called the Hobbiest Republic had an article. 821-984 started fuming as he read its description of how 'the socialist dictatorship in new freedomstan had nuked itself to oblivion'

"WHAT IS THIS SHIT!" he shouted, and he furiously typed another comment, with the full support of the corpses of his coworkers around him, applauding his well-written retort.