The Native Story Index [Open; All Techs]

[Cybus1]

[ PMT ]

A journey into the Blacklight Virus Mindset:

Jane Green never knew what hit her. She was a young woman, who had just immigrated to the Empire. She was walking to the nearby CybusBook shop when, a crowd of screaming people came barreling at her, running from something down the street. She decided to investigate. After a moment of walking, she saw the disturbance, and saw that it was not a disturbance at all, but one of the members of the Rule of Two, the two leaders of the Empire. In this case it was Alexander Mercer, a living virus. He glanced at her, and said “I thought I commanded all civilians to leave me be. This is what you get for not following orders.” What happened next was a blur of red and black tendrils enveloping Jane, consuming her. Jane saw herself in a black fog, blind. A light flicked on suddenly, and she ran to it. She peered down a hole, from where the light was emitting, and found herself peering into a warzone, full of black-clad soldiers using primitive ballistics weapons, gunning down shambling, bloody, creatures, which were swinging their arms in vain trying to hit them. A young lady, looking very similar to herself, ran down an alleyway, at the troopers, screaming “help me”. Her dress was ripped, stained, and blood-soaked. Her hair and skin were covered in various debris, and soot. She landed in a troopers arms, who stared at her for a moment. A unearthly scream emitted from the alleyway, and 5 more creatures stumbled forward, and were promptly shot. A gruff voice said “Her too” and the woman, who was now crying with joy, looked up at her savior, only to be shot in the forehead. She saw Alex leap down from a roof, and kill a trooper with single punch. The others were impaled by black tendrils and consumed, as Jane was. Hundreds of similar scenes flickered by, and Jane realized, that it was not in the Empire. A memory of a blue and green planet in space appeared, but was enveloped in red and black tendrils, as Alex smirked in the background. She had seen that on a propaganda holo-poster somewhere, with Alexander holding the planet in his palm, it was enveloped, absorbed and crushed. Jane realized with a start that Alex was not the holy merciful, god he was depicted as in propaganda, but a evil, wicked being. Jane awoke from her nightmare with a scream. Later that year, Jane Green was executed for attempting to kill Alexander Mercer.

[New Federation China]

Some of the last of my ideas before I reboot the PRC

[ PT ]

Pride

The People's Republic of China
1950

"Enter." The voice from behind the steel door was muffled, the small man adjusted his spectacles and heaved the door open with his light frame. "Close the door." The peasant who spoke was wearing one of the "Mao-suits" that the revolutionary officials had taken to heart, the bespectacled man felt sick at the very sight of him. The room was spartan, two tables laden in papers with one man each behind them, the speaker and a silent one. "Sit." The Peasant ordered, the bespectacled man obeyed, lifting a single piece of white chalk from a rickety stool in the center of the room.

"There are two types of prisoners here." The Peasant seemed to have an inability to know when to shut up. "There are what we called toothpaste prisoners; men who talk for a while and then need to be squeezed and pulled lest they forget to keep forgiving. Then there are what we call watertap men, who need only a good hard push for it all to come gushing out." He paused for a minute as though he were being dramatic. "Now you are an intelligent man, I am sure; you understand what this man." The man with the glasses nodded.

"What is your name."

The man with the glasses did not divert his eyes to the floor like the peasant expected; rather he looked headlong into his black soulless communist eyes and spoke clearly. "Aisin-Gioro Puyi." The official did not bat an eyelash.

"Write it."

Puyi frowned, though it was not visible to the two communists. He knelt for a few quick seconds, hand moving quickly with the chalk leaving a string of characters 愛新覺羅 溥儀.

"Do you know why you are here?" The peasant goaded as Puyi sat down once more. "I am here because I am accused of being a traitor, collaborator and counterrevolutionary." Puyi spoke lightly, the sarcasm in his voice was evident to the most stupid of people; and was not lost on the official who lost his cool.

"You ARE a traitor, collaborator and counterrevolutionary!" The little man had stood up in a fury, and he did not go unanswered; Puyi stood up rather suddenly and while he was not overly tall his figure was rather and suddenly imposing.

"I am the Emperor of China and Lord of Manchuria, I am the Son of Heaven and Lord of Ten Thousand Years, your peasant eyes do not belong on my figure you pathetic communist dog, how dare you address me as some common criminal; I am just, I am DIVINE!"

The two officials shrank back as the door was opened from the outside, a security guard coming. The Emperor did not show fear, rather from on high he stares down his nose through his glasses at the man. "Strike me if you wish, it does not change your station peasant."

[East Klent]

[ MT ]

Jack of All Trades

Soldier, Spy, Body Guard, Cop. He is all of these and none of these. He is the best at what he does, even though he does not exist. He is the man who knows everything and yet nothing. He is the man that lurks in the shadows. He is Agent Gram Conner...

---

Part 1: The Soldier

"I have not yet begun to fight!"

January 12th, 1994
District of Klentia

The streets would normally be clogged with the drunken masses cheering and singing in celebration of Foundation Day, the day than the oppressive Badinian Monarchy was overthrown. The sky would be etched with smoke from illuminations commemorating the historic date.

On this day, however, there was no cheering; there was no singing. The streets were flooded with blood, gunpowder, and soldiers. The night sky was set alight by ammunition and shrapnel. Wounded men and women took refuge in any crevice that was not already taken by death and destruction.

Western Cuba had practically taken control of all Klent; the capitol was all that remained.The hero president, Morris Williams, was assassinated by an enemy sniper the year before as had his successor. What was left of the Klentian forces were now under the command of General Henry McCurter who had assumed the Presidency. It was no longer a matter of if but when the Republic would be defeated.

Corporal Gram Conner had been drafted into the Marines a year earlier at age seventeen, back when the Klentians still had a fighting chance. Yet, as he stood guard at the makeshift field hospital within the Executive House, he looked up into the stars, and realized that there was no hope of victory. He was, after all, the last man alive of of his unit.

Conner's unit was ambushed while on patrol in the outskirts of the city. Their commanding officer stepped on a land mine that sent his body sky high and the others on their backs. They had barely enough time to recover when the Cubans starting laying a blanket of searing lead down upon them. They dove for cover into a ditch and returned fire. A grenade soon landed in the middle of the men.

By the time Conner had regained consciousness, it was twilight. He struggled to lift his sore body off the ground, "I must've blacked out," he croaked. He glanced around for his comrades. Each one of them had been killed by the blast. He cried out in anger and grief. Yet he was able to regain his senses and began heading towards the capitol, hoping to run into another unit. He reached the Executive House by nightfall; he received treatment for his wounds and was placed on guard duty.

As Conner stared up into the darkness, a voice came from behind him, "Stay alert, son."

Conner turned, "Pre-President McCurter, I-" he fumbled his rife while attempting to salute.

McCurter salutes in response, "You have a name, Corporal?"

"Corporal Gram Conner, Unit M-7, Fourth Marine Special Oper-"

"Gram it is then." McCurter interrupted.

"Yes, Sir."

"Are the stars on your mind, Gram?"

"No, Sir."

"Then what is?"

"Sir?" Conner had not yet fully recovered from the shock.

"What is on your mind, Corporal?"

Conner lowered his head and shuffled his feet before answering, "The War, Sir, we're not going to win, are we?"

The President turned his head towards the distant fire fight and let out a long sigh, "No, we're not, the Western Cubans will occupy our homeland," he paused, "But that doesn't mean that we don't keep fighting to protect our families, our friends, and our very existence as a people for if we do not, our enemy will not only be victorious on the battlefield, but in the hearts and minds of our people as well; so if it means making a last stand here, then so be it," he turned to face Conner, "Are you willing to do that, Corporal Gram Conner?"

"Sir, yes, Sir!" Conner barked.

"Good, then keep your eyes straight and focused!"

"Sir, yes, Sir!" Conner saluted, then gripped his rifle, aiming it at the horizon, "I have not yet begun to fight!"

---

Part 2: The Spy

"...maximum information given with minimum politeness."

October 1st, 2009
Conna, Noravea

Agent Gram Conner waited in his car for his asset to appear. He was eating yogurt, which he had become accustomed to in order to pass the time while waiting, which, as he found, took up a majority of a spy's time. He glanced over the file containing information on his asset, Colonel Jarred Stevens of the famous Unit A-1, "Cuba, Jlop, Mostrov and now Noravea, why you get around now don't you," he muttered to himself.

The car was not exactly his; he 'borrowed' it during the chaos outside the Pavarotti Opera House in Romacini a month earlier. The riot gave him the perfect cover, and opportunity, to find a mode of transportation which he sorely needed. When he was assigned to keep tabs on the happenings of Noravea, all that the higher-ups had given him were weapons and Intel, nothing else. He filed the necessary Equipment Request Form, but he never got a response. So, as he had done before, he relied upon himself to get the supplies that he needed, which included a fast automobile.

Conner's mission was track events of the ever escalating political climate of Noravea, a former enemy and ally. Other agents of the Secret Service Branch had been sent on similar assignments to Western Cuba, Stoniaso, Chezovolvia, and any other nation where East Klent's interests were involved. The Independence War against Mostrov had paused momentarily due to a cease fire, which Conner himself had 'contributed' to, and so the government wanted to keep allies close in case matters took a turn for the worse.

To Conner's surprise, matters had taken a turn for the worse in Noravea, an entire revolution had erupted. President Ramon Jupoi ordered Unit A-1 from the front lines of the war with Mostrov to intervene on the rebels' part. Conner watched each of the team members with intense alertness and eventually found evidence of a traitor. He sent word back to Director James Hawthorne who in turn informed the President. Conner was ordered to tell Colonel Stevens and Lieutenant Wilson Perry separately of the situation, "And how exactly do you expect that to turn out?" Conner question his superior over the phone.

"That's their problem not ours, just complete the assignment and you're through." Hawthorne asserted.

Conner gave a frustrated sigh, "Yes, Director."

"Good, and when you get back home, there's a new career opportunity I'd like to discuss with you."

"What?"

"Presidential Guard."

"I'll sleep on it," Conner answered sarcastically and hung up the phone.

Yet, as he finished his yogurt, he seemed to have a change of heart, I guess there wouldn't be anything wrong with becoming an over glorified body guard. As he continued to mull over the offer in his head, he watched Unit A-1, along with a few of the rebels, enter the tavern across from him, "Showtime," he whispered as he put on sunglasses and a fedora on.

Before he entered the tavern, he said to himself, "Remember, maximum information with minimum politeness."

---

Part 3: The Guard

"Fear is the foundation of safety."

September 5th, 2011
Saunders Stadium, State of Williamsburg

Two years. Two years Gram Conner had served in the Presidential Guard and did so without incident. Until now, that is.

The day started on schedule; Democratic Candidate Cash Willows left his hotel room at 0735 hours, had breakfast at Quincy's Cafe at 0750 hours, gave a speech to the Saunders Veterans Association at 0845 hours, and then had lunch at the Qua Pub at 1215 hours. He finally arrived at the Democratic National Convention at 1420 hours.

Conner stepped out of the car and opened the door for Willows, "Maverick is in the open," he says into his sleeve.

"I wish the Guard would change my code name," Willows jokingly complained.

"Yes, Sir," Conner responded flatly.

There's no chance of that happening, is there?"

"No, Sir."

"Well, I tried."

Willows waved to the crowd that had gathered outside the back entrance into the stadium, "Please try to stay away from the ropline this time, Sir," Conner requested.

"Gram, I know you and your agents are just doing your jobs, but with all do respect, I've fought in five wars, I think I can handle a few overzealous voters," Willows argued.

"With all do respect, Colonel, who do you think obtained the Intel for you during those wars?" Conner shot back.

"Touche."

Conner and the other agents on Willows detail lead him into the stadium, through service tunnels, and up the stairs into the impromptu headquarters of the DNC set up where the box seats normally would be; it was 1435 hours. The Vice-Presidential candidate, Conald Fredricks, was also there with his detail, lead by Agent Joyce Finnick, "How are things?" Willows asked Fredricks.

Before he answered, Fredricks looked nervously around the room; Willows seemed to know why, "Give us the room please."

One they and the others were outside the office, Finnick approached Conner "King Gideon of Menassa, right?" she asked concerning their earlier assignment.

"Yeah," he replied.

"Knew it," she glanced at the door, "What do you think that was all about?"

"I don't know, I don't care."

"C'mon, aren't you curious?"

"It's not our job to be curious."

"Thirteen years in the Secret Service and you're not curious."

"Yep."

Slightly perturbed by Conner's monosyllabic answers, Finnick decided to change the subject, "Who do you like?"

"Like for what?"

"President, of course; Jones, Jupoi or Willows?"

"I'm not political."

"You've got to have an opinion."

Conner blinked, "You're not going shoot my head off, now are you?"

"I never liked that movie."

Just then, a voice came through their earwigs, "We've got a fax here Conner should see."

"I'll be right down," he said into his sleeve; he then turned to Finnick, "You're in charge, Vincent," he ordered Finnick.

Conner checked his watch; it was 1450 hours.

***

an agent handed Conner the fax as soon as he entered the communications center,

ВНИМАНИЕ:

Для кого это может касаться, я поставил очень взрывное устройство Где-то в Сондерс стадион в знак протеста против независимости Клент от Мoctpob.

-Дмитрий
1500

"It means-" Conner interrupted the translator, "I know what it means; Attention, to whom it may concern, I have place a highly explosive device somewhere within Saunders Stadium in protest of the independence of Klent from Mostrov. -Dimitri 1500 hours."

He then raised his hand to his mouth, "Bomb threat, evacuate!"

Conner ran out of center straight into the mass exodus from the stadium. He made his way up to the roof of the stadium where the other agents were rushing Willows and Fredricks into a helicopter. He jumped on and began to brief Willows of the situation when Director Zachary Banes contacted his earwig, "Conner, Maverick must go to Home, I repeat, Maverick must go to Home."

"Sir, I don't under-" Conner was interrupted by Willows, "We already knew of the bomb threat a few minutes before you did, it's not legitimate; you'll understand as soon as we meet the President."

Conner was confused for the first time since his service against Cuba, "But why; why cause such panic?"

Willows answered, "Fear is the foundation of safety."

---

Part 4: The Cop

"Once you eliminate the impossible, whatever remains, no matter how improbable, must be the truth."

November 18, 2011
Hotel Internazionale, WAHQ Vicinity

Marc Petri sat on the staircase of the art deco styled hotel as he waited for Ambassador Dugan of Post-Apocaliptia to walk in through the main entrance. The Don had ordered him to 'escort' the now former Mob Lieutenant to the river to have a 'discussion'; in other words, he was supposed to kill him.

Gram Conner, however, was ordered by the Klentian INTERPOL Bureau Director James Hawthorne to apprehend and interrogate the WA ambassador. He had personally chosen this undercover assignment in order to avoid Klent. Ever since he was involved in Operation Monte Cristo in September, he wanted to stay as far away from Williamsburg, D.K as possible. So, he accepted Hawthorne's offer to become an INTERPOL agent. At least here one only shot criminals, not assassinate officials

Dugan slammed into the revolving door and fell into the lobby. Marc snickered as he stood up, "Long night again, Dugan?"

Dugan glared up at Marc from the floor, "Drinking contest against... Klentian... Stevens," he sputtered.

Marc grabbed Dugan's arms and lifted him up into a standing position; he recoiled as soon as he got a whiff of the alcohol, "I take it you lost."

"Limey bastard out drank... me."

"Relax, it's just your ego that's damaged, otherwise you're fine."

Dugan drunkenly raised his brow, "Me fine... that's... hilarious; I've got the WA breathing... down my neck, the Don is getting fed up with... me, I'm in debt all the way... to the ceiling, and now to add... to the shit storm, I've been beaten by a bloody Brit descendant in a drinking contest; I'm far from fine!"

"Look, you've had a bad week, but we've got go see a dealer, you and I, understand?"

Dugan smirked, "Petri, I know what you mean, Don's ordered me put down, hasn't he?"

Marc nodded reluctantly, "Afraid so, but-"

"Ah, Marc, there's been a change of plans, I'm taking Dugan to the meeting, you're going to track his dame," Vick, the other lieutenant, interrupted.

Conner was running out options. He had to arrest Dugan to get the Intel he needed, yet he absolutely could not blow his cover, "You sure, Vick, 'cause I can handle th-"

"Yes, Petri, I'm sure, now shut up and give me the drunken idiot."

Marc hesitated for moment but eventually handed the now unconscious Dugan over to Vick, "There, now, you said something about his girl?"

"Yeah, find her," Vick told him as he left the lobby, with Dugan over his shoulder.

Conner had to think fast. His asset would soon be dead and permanently silenced if he did not act soon. He sprinted out into the back alley and jumped into his car; he was going to follow Vick.

"What's going on Conner?" Director Hawthorne's strained voice emanated from the radio's speakers.

"Vick's got Dugan, I'm tailing," Conner answered as he drove out of the alley and onto the main road.

"Attempt to recover, but if you can't, it's fine, we've found that the guy's a bit of a psychopath anyway."

"Understood."

Conner made sure to stay far enough behind Vick's car so as to not arouse suspicion. Vick turned onto an abandoned road that lead to the river; Conner followed halfway down the road and then removed the key from the ignition, blending in with the night's darkness. From his position he could see Vick shuffling about in the driver's seat, as Dugan sat motionless. Vick then stepped out of the car, walked over to the passenger's seat and carried Dugan over into the driver's seat.

Conner opened the glove compartment and grabbed his G17 and earpiece, just to be safe, and opened his door.

He could now see Vick mess with the seat belt, "What are you doing?" he whispered to himself.

Conner received his answer when Vick pushed the car into the river, "Damn!"

Vick pulled out his cell phone and dialed. Conner quickly answered his cell to prevent it from ringing, "Petri," he answered.

"I'm done with Dugan, you got anything on the girl?" Vick inquired.

"So far nothing; you sure he had a girlfriend?"

"Girlfriend, boyfriend, faience, wife, something he wouldn't shut up about the other day."

"I'll keep looking."

"Do," Vick hung up and trotted away.

Conner waited for few more minutes and then rushed down to the river. The rear lights glowed red under the still surface of the water. Dugan was dead, that was for certain, what with the amount of alcohol he had that night, and how tightly Vick had strapped him in.

"Oh well, day late and a dollar short," Conner started to head back towards his car when he heard a gurgling sound.

He turned to see bubbles rising from the sinking vehicle, "What the-"

Dugan erupted from the water and pulled his gun on Conner, "Petri, you did this!"

"No, no, Vick took you before I could do anything; Vick's the one who drove you into the river," Marc defended himself, aiming his gun at Dugan.

Dugan's facial expression changed from pure rage to sudden tranquility, "I see," he threw his gun into the river, "Well then."

"Well then, what?"

"Well then I'm off!" Dugan declared with slight hilarity and he trudged onto the concrete shore.

"Off to where?"

"The Stranger's Bar of course; Christ Petri, no need for the third degree," Dugan wobbled away in his wet and ruffled clothing.

"Let him go; Delegate Stevens might be interested in taking him down later," Hawthorne told Conner through his earpiece.

"He's... alive; that's impossible," Conner stuttered.

"Gram, there's one thing I've learned from my career and I suggest you take it to heart."

"What, Director?"

"Once you eliminate the impossible, whatever remains, no matter how improbable, must be the truth."

---

Soldier, Spy, Body Guard, Cop. He is all of these and none of these. He is the best at what he does, even though he does not exist. He is the man who knows everything and yet nothing. He is the man that lurks in the shadows. He is Agent Gram Conner...

Jack of All Trades

Gram Conner Will Return...

[Registug]

Would you prefer I copied and pasted my stories, of have one post with a bunch of links to where I posted them?

[Central and Eastern Visayas]

[ MT ]

[ Mature ]

Exsurge: Cardinal Castillo's last Mass

Virgilio C. Cardinal Castillo, OP, DD
Cathedral of the Guardian Angels (Cebu Metropolitan Cathedral)
06-18-2011
1253 CEV Time

"'Which of you fathers, if your son asks for bread, will give him a stone? Or if he asks for a fish, will give him a snake instead? Or if he asks for an egg, will give him a scorpion? If you then, though you are evil, know how to give good gifts to your children, how much more will your Father in heaven give the Holy Spirit to those who ask him!¹'

"The Gospel of the Lord."

"Praise to you, Lord Jesus Christ."

Virgilio Cardinal Castillo was the preacher-presider of the Mass Against the Heathen. At sixty-eight, the Archbishop of Cebu wasn't in a bad shape--even if you heard the news. You see, there was a reason for the Mass Against the Heathen: there was a nation that essentially treated Catholics like Jews to their Nazis, pardon the comparison. Many of my co-religionists faced the genocidaires' bullets, blades, and bombs, slaughtered like sheep, made to endure the atrocities these murderous swine had concocted for them. Prison camps, gas chambers, extermination camps, even. It was indeed a Catholic Holocaust in that country².

"Please be seated for the homily."

As we sat down, His Eminence gave us the reason for the Exsurge Mass in the homily. None of us really expected it to be his last.

"Brethren, it is with great sorrow that I speak to you today. Recently it has come to our knowledge that yet another nation-state has begun its pogrom against our brothers and sisters in Christ. This is why today's Mass is different: This is the Exsurge Mass, traditionally prescribed as the Mass Against the Heathen.

"Pray, brethren, for those who find themselves facing death and doom for their adherance to Holy Church. Give them sanctuary should they choose to flee. Arm them should they choose to stand and fight the oppressor. If you can alleviate the suffering of your brethren in Christ, then by all means do so, for what you do to the least of your brethren is what you do to Him.

"In the past century, government-sponsored genocide was something that appalled the civilized man, assuming such a horror was revealed in all its indignity. The Holocaust, the Purges, the Holodomor, the Great Leap Forward, the Hundred Flowers Campaign, the tyranny of the Khmer Rouge in Cambodia, the ethnic clashes in Rwanda, the Armenian Genocide in the Ottoman Empire, Saddam's acts against the Kurds, Milosevic's acts of ethnic cleansing... so many examples of mass murder sanctioned by governments of the 20th Century. Now, another state has seen fit to create a Catholic Holocaust! If any of you have heard the news--"

None of us saw it coming. At all.

A bomb³ hidden in the lectern exploded, killing the Cardinal and five others outright. I could never erase the aftermath from my head: Horror. Panic. Death. And to top things off, it didn't come from the murderers he was referring to!

I suffered some minor injuries: lacerations from shrapnel, to be exact, treated on the spot by a physician who happened to be a few rows behind me. Two others weren't so lucky; they died from internal injuries sustained in the blast.

As I write this, I hear over the news that an Islamist terrorist organization was behind the bomb attack. Frankly, I hope they get what's coming to them: as enemies of all humanity⁴, a bullet in each head. And I hope the genocidaires that are killing fellow Catholics meet the same fate; neither they nor the Islamists deserve any sympathy.

Never forgive. Never forget. NEVER AGAIN!

(Sgd.)
Jonathan G. Jumao-as
06-21-2011

This is a journal entry from one of the survivors of the bomb attack that killed Cardinal Castillo. Note the situational header; this was added by the editor, who was also present during that day.
¹ Lk 11:11-13. These are the final verses of the Gospel prescribed for the Mass Against the Heathen.
² Most of this is unconfirmed.
³ Given the blast pattern, the bomb used in the attack was made to impart most of its energy towards Cardinal Castillo and company.
⁴ The original term used was hostes humani generis.

[Tnemrot]

OOC: This topic may or may not contain mature content. You take that risk when you read my work. If you are easily dissuaded by mature content, faint of heart, eager to run to moderation and complain that something isn't "intended for all audiences" or that "you are offended," overly critical, afraid to read long posts that might be in excess of two thousand words, or a crybaby, please do not continue. You're under no requirement to read anything that is written below. If, of course, you are none of these then I invite you not only to read through what is below but also to telegram me with your thoughts, opinions, critiques, and constructive comments, regardless of their positivity or negativity. Please enjoy this and thank you for getting through this semi-satirical disclaimer.

[ MT ]
[ MATURE ]

Death Is Rarely Permanent

In the history of Tnemrot, there lies a varied many eras but none are more recognizable in Tnemration society than those of the modern ages. When the Era of Enlightenment began in 1700, no one in society anticipated it lasting 109 years nor did they anticipate what proceeded it, the Era of Gothicism, heralded with the birth of a god-incarnate, Edgar Allen Poe. Tnemrot became rapt with Gothicism and thus this era lasted until 1922, but it reached its height in 1897, upon the publication of Dracula by famed romantic author, Bram Stoker. Gothicism in Tnemrot reached new apexes as Tnemrations reached deep within their hearts, souls, and conscious's to explore new realms of romantic and gothic thought. It culminated with the release of the silent film Nosferatu in 1922, but unfortunately, for a rising many within Tnemration society, this was the straw that broke the proverbial camel's back.

Thus out of this reaction arose the Purists, a group of "traditionalists" who aimed to return Tnemration society back to the "old days of darkness" whereby morality was dictated from the gods through scribes and impressed upon society without question. The Era of Purification began with unrepentant violence as Purists sought to erase every piece of history from the Era of Gothicism and though they nearly succeeded, their efforts were in vain. The repressive, closed society that the Era of Purification ushered upon Tnemrot was simply too intense to last for very long and in the late 1970s, the metaphorical walls that had been erected around Tnemrot began to develop cracks.

There ushered from lands afar a movement existing in, of all places, music. From lands afar came a form of music called heavy metal and bands such as Led Zeppelin and Black Sabbath pioneered this genre. It was through the black market that this music began to creep through the censors and infuse the Tnemration youth with the spirit of rebellion. By the end of the 1970s, heavy metal, punk rock, and a third musical form called industrial had penetrated the deepest reaches of Tnemration society, cemented its fervency for rebellion within the youth, and began to shake the mortar between the bricks of those metaphorical walls.

By 1980, the rebellious youth wholly rejected the concept of purity but their rebellion remained placid throughout most of the year until December 4, when, through the censors, came word that the band Led Zeppelin had officially disbanded. A sharp lightning bolt slammed into the underground of Tnemration society and an entire youth culture, who felt nothing short of robbed that this band could never have been experienced directly by Tnemrations set off the largest earthquake in Tnemration history. The government's coffin was finally nailed shut and the Era of Purification ended as the reigning government splintered to pieces amongst a fervent and cyclonic youth that pushed against them with the force of a tsunami, opening the flood gates and filling Tnemration society with heavy metal, punk rock, and industrial but with them came impenetrable societal divisions. To be one meant you could not be either of the other two and to attempt to bridge two alienated you from all three.

Society teetered on the brink of self-destruction as Tnemration youths danced within the ruins of Purgatory. Then, on March 15, 1983, punk rockers and metalheads clashed during simultaneous, outdoor, day concerts. Not to be left out of the fray, industrialists joined the fracas and by the end of the day, a street war had become a national epidemic. Society erupted and turned upon itself; the divisions turned to violence and destruction to conquer one another. Never before had such strong opinions been held and the unswayable reasoning and logic behind which music was better had finally leapt from the philosophical shadows and alleyways within society and into the fold. For six years, civil war enthralled, silenced, and held back Tnemration society. Hundreds upon thousands upon tens of thousands upon hundreds of thousands upon millions lay dead, dying, or forever maimed as the civil war raged. This wasn't a war fought with tanks, fighters, or soldiers but with gangs, it was fought hand-to-hand. Violence was vile, barbaric, and far from civilized. Those fortunate enough to die a quick death were few and far between as the history of Tnemrot was forever changed day by day. Welcome to 1989.

¤ ¤ ¤ ¤ ¤ ¤ ¤ ¤ ¤ ¤ | ¤ ¤ ¤ ¤ ¤ ¤ ¤ ¤ ¤ ¤

Death is rarely permanent…

I can feel the heat of the night flooding in through my open, bedroom windows but with it comes my favorite smell of all time, the smell of fire. The breeze blows in a cloud of smoke; the fires must be real close; the neighborhood is safe though. I'm not worried as I pull the covers off of my body and look over at Violet. She still has her platforms on and I hate it when she falls asleep with them on, my room might be a mess, and it is, but I like to keep shoes off of the bed. I give her a nudge on the leg and she groans, moaning a little.

"Wake up, it's nighttime," I say and she turns over underneath the covers. Her shoes are still sticking out of the edge. "You fell asleep with your shoes on again."

"Sorry," she says through a tired voice. She knows it annoys me but who cares, the deed is done; the night awaits us. "Good night for tonight…" Her spirits lift as she smells the fires from afar. I get up, walk over to the radio, turn it on, and a CD, which has already been loaded, begins to play. The volume isn't high enough so I make it louder and the glorious sounds of industrial fill my bedroom. I flick on black lights and Violet gets out of bed to dance. She's energized, which is good, tonight's an important night for us, for our movement, for all things industrial. Tonight is the night that Asylum is going to be hosting a new band, a veritable Parthenon of gods known as Nine Inch Nails. Violet and I have backdoor access and the show starts in two hours.

The night breathes its breath on us and we are alive with energy as we dance in the bedroom. This band's first album, named "Pretty Hate Machine," is debuting tonight, in full. It cannot begin to summarize in words the impact it has had on our movement. This band will forever change the face of industrial and Tnemrot and to think, they're from here! We could only be so lucky.

Since September 15, we've been listening to "Down in It" on the radio and what could be said about it other than raw, untapped energy. Violet goes crazy, the excitement is surging through her and I stand back, watching her naked form just dance away all by herself. The music flows through her ears, down her spine, and into her bones. She's my Valkyrie and with her by my side, I am invincible.

"I'm going to take a shower," I say as I wrap my arm around her waist and bring myself close. She dances away, grinding on me, her hand goes around my neck, and grabs the back of my head. We kiss and I feel the energy from within her flow into me. It is a surge and I let out a roar as the music plays. She dances, and we look out of the window to see the horizon glowing red with the flames of purification. We dance a little while longer, watching the flames, watching the cleansings afar. Then I sneak away, trudge through the clutter that is our apartment, plant my feet in front of the toilet, and let out what remains of the alcohol that has been filtered through my kidneys. It feels heavenly and I look through the clear shower curtain into the shower and smile. The window is open and the scent of fire fills the small bathroom. From here I can hear the song change to the next track and I don't doubt that Violet is still dancing.

After I flush, I turn on the shower and with a shudder, the wall shakes a little, and the spout bursts fourth a glob of water. Seconds later, the globs of water become constant that steam as they fall through the air. I drop my boxers, climb into the shower, and feel the water's heat on my skin. My muscles, sore from last night's dancing, begin to loosen, and I close my eyes and take in the heat of the night, the heat of the water, and the smell of the distant fires. Something calls my presence and I open my eyes to see Violet, standing outside of the curtain looking in with that same mischievous look that has, time and time again, compelled me to do whatever she says, and into the shower she slips, a whisper on her lips. "Want to?" She asks, as if I'll give her any other answer than "Yes." She's only toying with me by giving me the choice, as if I have it, and embrace we do. The night has given her an energy that transfers to me through her body.

The night comes to fruition and we leave our humble abode and stalk into the night. Despite the glowing fires in the distance, it is pitch-black and we hold hands as we move invisibly through the shadows. We're dressed in black, head to toe, and it's good Violet and I fucked in the shower or else, with what she's wearing, we'd be in a back alley right now.

Music flows into the night and it courses through our body with no hindrances. As we near Asylum, the music grows louder, the night air grows hotter, and the smell of fury becomes stronger. Here we go! We bypass the line of fellow industrialists hoping to get a chance to enter. They are screaming and cheering, what energy they have! Only Violet could have more and she does. We walk up to the back entrance and with my fist, I rap nine times. The door opens and a mammoth stands in front of me. He fills the entire doorway and I look up at him with a smirk, "Doom!"

"Where are you two off to?"

"Why inside!" I answer with mischief on my face just as Violet had it on hers earlier. She leans in close and gives him a hug. He's her brother after all but she's five-foot-two to his six-foot-infinity.

"C'mon in guys," we shake hands and into the club we go. Tonight we're going to be Electronauts, dancing in the ruins of our Purgatory and when we're done, Homeward!

Well every man has to die sometime, even if it's just for a short while.

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This is the first part of a serial story that takes place in Tnemrot during the Era of Violence and The Emergence, two periods that are pivotal to Tnemrot's current society. Stay tuned for the second part, which is, of course, coming soon! Can you spot all of the industrial references within this story? If you can, you could win a prize, you never know.

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[Saurisisia]

Maintaining A Civilized Society

[ FT ]

[ Mature ]

"Get up, motherfucker."

The young Drakonian panted as he lay on his scaled belly, his bloodshot azure eyes staring out at the thick leather boots of the policedino who had just beaten him. His sky blue shirt was badly tattered, exposing his muscular (and right now, very bloody and scarred) torso at numerous spots. His wings were bent and the fabric torn here and there. His tail broken and bruised, twisted in several painful angles that agonized him. The pants he wore were badly torn, revealing his legs were no better off than the rest of his body. Panting, he coughed up blood as he lay on the concrete ground.

Whimpering as he lay his bruised blood-encrusted head on the ground, the Dragon tried to remember how he had gotten here. His memory jogged as he received another kick from the figure standing in front of him. His name was Faethan Dramcair, a 27-year old Drakonian who had a job as a dock worker at a manufacturing plant, helping in running the machines which moved products from the assembly line to the awaiting trams, trucks, and shuttles. For a few years, he had engaged in a secret relationship with one of his coworkers. However, it wasn't a female, but another male, a 25 year old Utahraptor named James Griffin. He'd always felt a little guilty about the whole thing since such relationships were not just completely taboo in Saurisian culture, they were banned. Yet, he carried it out anyway, maybe because he hadn't been very successful with females prior to that and he figured he'd give males a try... Besides, Jimmy was actually not a bad-looking Dino, at least, when he didn't have those coveralls on-

Whack!

He felt a seering pain in his gut as the figure kicked him, hard with his jackboots. That caused him to roll over onto his back, coughing sporadically. A voice growled, "I said get up, you damn faggot!" Another voice, coming from the Drakonian's other side, spoke up, "What's the matter, trying to imagine us in some disgusting gay fantasy?"

Slowly, the Drakonian got up, hunched over as he coughed some more before he received a kick right in the groin. Groaning loudly, he placed a hand over his crotch as he slumped back to the ground. He heard laughter ring out in the dirty alley as, holding back tears, the Dragon wheezed, "Aw, come on... guys... can't you... give me a... a... break?" The second voice spoke up again, "Oh no, it's not like you're gonna score with a chick anytime soon."

Then, he felt the stinging sensation of someone stomping on his tail with a heavy boot. He yelped and began to tear up as the laughter continued. He moaned as he lay on the ground, bruised, bloodied, and badly-beaten. It was then that a new voice rang out, "Eh, enough of this shit. Let's get him back to headquarters." He was then helped up by two of the figures who had surrounded him. Being able to stand up on his weary feet, he could see that there were four of them, an Allosaurus, a Stegosaurus, a Lambeosaurus, and a Dilophosaurus. All were clad in the distinct black uniforms of the State Police, or SP, who patrolled the streets of Saurisian cities and the fields of the country day and night, looking for any signs of Crimes Against Society. The ones handling him were the Allosaurus and Stegosaurus, who were the ones who were shouting and taunting him. Faethan, looked down wearily, panting softly as he saw the Lambeosaurus, dressed in an officer's outfit, standing in front of him. Suddenly, the Dilophosaurus pistol-whipped the Dragon with his blaster, much to his superior's chagrin. "Dammit, Lawrence, I said enough!" he barked.

The Dilophosaurus complied, sliding the pistol back into its holster. Nodding, the Hadrosaurus then stated, "Alright, let's bring him to headquarters. I'm sure the boys and girls over in Corrections will be able to straighten this deviant out." With a sadistic chuckle, he led the way while the two officers dragged the Drakonian behind him. The Dilophosaurus towed behind, his blaster rifle now out as he scanned the vicinity for any threats. One thing was sure, Faethan knew in his mind, he wouldn't be totally the same coming out of there.

[-Deus-]

[Somnia Dramatica]
Act One

FT

[The Titan Falls]
Part One

---

---

Space is not an ocean. To look upon the cosmos with it's myriad of stars and celestial bodies, and think of the cold, unfeeling sea is ignorant at best. Space is a boundless expanse, a dark void of matter and the place where time dances and flows. Space is my home, the home of all Erenauts. Our souls are bound, not by planets, but by stars. We are one with it, and we feel it, we hear it and speak to it. However unspoken, space is our God.

While I feel a journal is unnecessary the Casus Verein feels it is a "beneficial" asset to keep. I doubt, in the future to inevitably come, anyone would be interested in my journal or historical record, however I will indulge my employers. I was born Arneva Urd Mors, but I've long left that life behind and I am now called Minerva Moros; Moros is how I am commonly addressed, and the name Mirth is not uncommon either. The date is...221 AVC, third month of the cycle and twentieth day of the month. However, for the utmost comprehension of the story, I will begin at the beginning.

I sat calmly in the chair, my hands clasped together on top of my thighs, my boots planted firmly on the tiled ground, bits of dirt falling off of them and ruining the perfection of the tiles. The Casus Verein base of operations is notoriously ornate, gilded fixtures and plated gold pieces of furniture with painted and sculpted works of art adorning the halls. Even now, in such a simple hallway I felt surrounded by wasted money, the pleasing visual aesthetic of the intricately designed wallpaper complemented by faint music that emanated from the ceiling. None of this was necessary but the Erenauts have become a very indulgent and excessive people. It's unsettling, the vanity and pride, but I can't help but feel happy for my fellow spacenoids. It's not often we're awarded such a victory.

"Ms.Moros!" I heard my named called from behind me, his roar loud enough to pierce the walls despite it being meant to show haste rather than anger. I promptly stood up, straightening myself and my skirt. A note, on fashion in Nous Vatriae: it's very annoying. The women dress to appease the men and the men dress to appease themselves. I feel uncomfortable in leggings and a shirtdress; I feel like a doll, a puppet forced to wear this just so I'm not stared at in public and considered a freak. It couldn't be helped, however, as I sucked in my awkwardness and stoically marched through the twin doors on the right side of me. He, Erin Vist, smiled widely as I walked in, staring like a hawk as I sat down and tried to contain my need to scream. "Ms.Moros, Ms.Moros you look beautiful! How are you, yes yes, how are you?"

"I'm fine, Mr.Vist." I disliked this man if only because he is pompous and an example of that disgusting vanity. He was fat, with blonde, slicked back hair that was slowly balding and his cheeks were like that of a rodent with a mouth full of food. Yet he was my former employer, the proverbial "king" of Casus Verein. His smile morphed into an odd frown, his forehead crumpling up in an off-putting nature. "Sir?" I said calmly, my expression neutral and flat.

"Ms.Moros, I..." He sighed and shook his head. "I would just like to say it's a pleasure having you back at Casus Verein. It hasn't been the same without you, truly; our current members are incompetent and have slowly been dragging our name through the mud. We need you back, Ms.Moros." He looked at me with big, blue puppy eyes and as far as I knew I hardly made a move. However at that point in time I hadn't the nerve to rejoin Casus Verein. A note on this "illustrious" organization, before I continue. It's often said that only the stupid follow bastards, yet I've seen smart men fall at the actions of those same bastards. Casus Verein, a "private exploration company" contracted by the government to map the galaxy, is run by those bastards. It's sad, in a way. I had left because I couldn't take their games, their idiocy. And now they wanted their poster girl back...Sad.

"Mr.Vist, you know as well as I do that-"

"Please hear me out!" He nearly launched himself over his desk. I nodded slowly, quite puzzled and concerned but curious at least. "Madam, I assure you that any previous transgressions you've had with Casus Verein will be completely looked over. Your record? Gone. No one will even remember what happened...It'll be history. Worst than history, it will be fiction!"

"I-"

"You will be reinstated as Commander First Class." That lit something inside of my brain, my eyes going wide. I guess Vist could see my sudden excitement because he smiled widely and settled back into his chair, taking a deep breath and folding his hands. "And I suppose you're wondering about your ship now? It's a new one, experimental Class-Ouranos with an long rang mass diametric drive built-in. It's a pinnacle in cruiser-sized exploration vessels." I took a deep breath and sighed. Space called to me, echoing inside of my brain like the call of a mother to her child in a cave. And I fall into it, I fall right into his game as I nodded and shook his hand. "Excellent" he said jovially, his cheeks a bright red from the blush he put on them. "

"And my assignment?" I asked. I knew he didn't want just me, there was always a catch, a quest that the king needed to be handled. The fact that he needed me meant it must've been something dangerous.

"Huh, well yes...Hrmm" he pulled a thin black, rectangular device we call a "televiewer". He pressed a button at the top of the device and near instantly a deep blue holographic representation of paper appeared. He used his fingers to flick away useless bits of information, looking for the file and smiling once he found it. He turned it over to me, and I looked over it slowly. "We've documented a system in the area, an alleged "safe" system in that it probably holds habitable planets. However our interest lies in the resources of these habitable planets. The Signora is looking for alien contact. Either way, we need to at least explore the system." I had quickly scanned over it, nodding slowly to myself. It seemed simple enough, but something was up or else they wouldn't have called me in. I decided, for whatever reason, to accept it nonetheless.

Aliens aren't unheard of in Nous Vatriae. We've made contact with a civilization or two before, but Signora is always interested in meeting more to increase trade and to potentially open Nous Vatriae up to advanced technology or culture. But I felt excited that night once I had returned home, not because of my returned job or even the chance of making first contact, but because I would be wrapped in space's embrace once more instead of trapped by gravity. As I slept that night, my apartment empty and desolate as I had already packed and cleared the room for it's next tenants, I dreamed of stars and planets flickering in a black abyss. It felt like centuries since I had last had a good dream, my sleep usually filled with darkness and empty thoughts. Commander...Commander First Class.

I still don't understand why I had accepted his offer, or if it was the right choice, but even now as I write this I feel at least somewhat overjoyed by the lack of gravity. The next morning after that day I had quickly gotten dressed, eaten breakfast and scrambled off to the vessel bay. It had been awhile since I had been there with a purpose and I remember feeling elated, my bag slung over my shoulder comfortably. Industry was all around, the frantic motions of men in dark orange jumpsuits quite a familiar experience, their yells and screaming replies nothing but banter to me.

And then I saw it.

The Ōrr Echelon was, and still is, a very beautiful ship. It wasn't as large as most other ships docked at the Casus Verein area, but it was certainly something to behold. It was painted white with a two thin black lines going across it from rear to nose. C.V.E Ōrr Echelon, Class-Ouranos was spray painted clearly above the top black line in the rear and I smiled as I slowly approached it. The guards in front of the fence surrounding the Casus Verein area saluted me, one pressing the gate to allow me in and as I walked in I kept an air of pride around myself. It was a very busy section of the CVA, but I was used to that by now and only had to find the briefing room, which as I expected was located in a small building on the far left side of the compound. Before I walked in I took a deep breath and composed myself, shaking my head slowly to get myself under control.

Inside of the briefing room I was greeted by fourteen faces. Twelve were men, one was feminine and one was synthetic. It was a basic crew layout, and I could guess many of their positions just by looking at them. Many of them were quite surprised by a female commander entering the room however. Women seldom worked in the military or any other section of Nous Vatriae industry, for that matter, yet there were a few exceptions. The common unspoken rule was that you'd only hire a woman if she was attractive. Unfortunately that was a very common rule that was deep set in the business culture, and I could see that the other female crew member would turn out to be a thorn in my ass as she straightened and fretted with her curly red hair like an idiot. However there was no time for such social observations as I took my place in front of them. I remained professional and calm as a few of them chuckled, amused by the idea of a female commander.

"Hello there" I started "I am your commanding officer, Commander Moros 1st-Class. I don't want to beat around the bush, so I'll get straight to the point: I will not take any shit from any of you. You are my crew members, and thus under my command. You will follow my command, or else you face a quick and severe punishment. I am not your friend, your pal, your buddy, your boss or your enemy. I am simply your Commander, and if you treat me with respect, I will treat you with respect." I paused and watched as a few of them nod, most of the stoic and transfixed at my image while one chuckled as quietly as he could. "I want this mission to go through successful. How do I define success? As returning home safety with none of my crew dead or horribly injured. And I'm sure you've read the file, so you know we're heading for uncharted territory. Therefore, I ask that you keep your head about you; we have no idea what we'll find out there. Any questions?" They were silent, and it was an odd silence as if they were all purposefully staring at me, seeing if I would break before the mission even started, scanning me for flaws, testing to me like animals to make sure I deserved their respect. It was unsettling. "Good. The Ōrr Echelon launches in thirty minutes. Thank you and good luck."

I turned and left, hoisting my bag over my shoulder, sure that I had made an impression at least a few of them. Either way, I headed straight for the ship, footsteps behind me as six of the fourteen members of my crew followed me. I slowed my walk, and assimilated myself into their group. They were nice enough and I had a hunch they'd be loyal, productive members of the crew. There was Andson Vers, one of the pilots and the guidance and control systems engineer. He was very tall, with a shaved head and small blonde goatee. He was friendly and gregarious, respectful and courteous. Next was Meikahl Danton, the second pilot and electrical engineer. Compared to Andson, Danton was very calm and shy, a bit reserved but as per my specifications to Vist, he must have been good at his job. Besides both acting as pilots of the ships, Danton was the navigator and overseer of the electronic systems, wiring of the ship as well as handling the fusion reactor that powered it all. Andson was responsible for the guidance, navigation, and control system hardware. This includes flight computers, radar, lidar, flir sensors, attitude jets, and all the connections. They direct repair robots perform spot inspections.

Caalus Vern was propulsion engineer. He looked over and maintained the diametric drive that propelled the ship as well as the mass diametric drive that enabled FTL. He was some what odd and socially awkward, a balding man with a slicked blonde comb-over similar to Vist. He made me a bit uncomfortable and breathed rather loudly out of his mouth. Doctor Adaam Vasil was the medical officer. He professed to be well versed in dentistry, botany, biology, medicine, psychiatry, radiology, physiology, and basic to advanced work as a physician. He was an arrogant man with good intentions, but was very loud and commanding, with an inflated sense of self-worth. Being a doctor, however, perhaps he was just as important as he thought. Kestrof Maxiim was the environmental engineer in charge of the life support systems and making sure that there is enough food, water, heat, and breathing mix to keep the crew alive. Everything from food storage to air vents to water faucets to air scrubbers is under his command . Being that the life support systems were located near the medical bay, Kestrof seemed rather frightened of Adaam, the small engineer a quiet spec compared to the loud, tall and imposing doctor. I felt a little bad for him.

Ventrice was the automaton. He was around seven feet tall, with a gleaming metal chassis that had been painted to match the colors of the ship. He had one gleaming red eye that could spin around his head, giving him 360-degrees of vision. He was rather lanky, but in all he looked very similar to a living space suit. He was respectful and submissive like most synthetics, but he also had a deeply hidden pride in his being and seemed to enjoy his assignment to the Echelon. He was to be integrated into the ship (his body being remotely controlled if needed) to assist with all systems and piloting. While I had a bit reluctance to work with him given the Erenaut history with AI, I put that aside and decided to trust him.

Once we were on-board the ship we split up to our assigned room, my somewhere near the bridge and quite large compared to other captain's quarters I've had before. I quickly unpacked my belongs, and after getting comfortable I opened the closet to find my uniform. It was, as I thought, painted to match the color scheme of the ship except that my uniform had a black star on the side of the chest, designating me as captain. I slipped into it easily, most uniforms being comfortable to wear despite it being similar to what I wore when I spoke to Vist. Perhaps it was my slow pace, but by the time I walked out to the bridge, most of the crew had found their places and gotten into their uniforms. I straightened by captain's hat, took my seat on the commander's chair, and took a deep breath, sinking into the comfortable leather of the chair and digging my fingers and nails into the armrest.

The integrated communications officer, a man named Auss Ledich, appeared at my side suddenly to tell me that we were cleared to launch. I nodded, and instructed him to make a sweep through the ship to make sure everyone was fine and that the ship was functioning. The INCO was...odd. A shifty man, with deep, sunken eyes, he seemed like a coward or a rat. Perhaps it was just my expectations of what a good adventurer should be. Regardless, he saluted me and disappeared. I opened up the holographic file of the crew, skimming over the names of the remaining seven. There was Enser Ledich, brother to Auss, whom was the Payload Officer (handling cargo, supplies and the like). There was Dr.Ursen, the physicist and Ms.Reddan, the mess officer. Carter, the linguist and anthropologist, was someone I had worked with before and was a trusted friend. The three enlisted men, Ven Benet, Lucien Orthello and Meikahl Sturrn were the ones who had chuckled at me during the briefing. Oddly enough, that was too expected from those most likely to die. The final crew member was, well, listed as a "historical record keeper" but I knew that just meant that he was the writer, the dead weight. I didn't catch his name as the ship began to move, shaking and rumbling like a monster.

Being inside of a relatively large, artificial and hollow planet, it takes a bit of time to get to space and the process is odd. First we were turned, the ground beneath the ship rotating so that the nose pointed toward the wall of the world. And then the large metal wall began to open up slowly like the mouth of a demon, the Echelon slowly being pushed through the tunnel. We had to burst through the artificial atmosphere that had been created, so to do that they had to quickly propel us at very high speeds. It worked similar to the AMDCS (Astronomical Mass Driver Catapult System), or in laymen's terms, a railgun. At first things were calm, and then I felt the force of the catapult propelling us forward. It was like the release of water from a dam as we pushed through into space, surrounded by a black void stretching infinity in all directions.

Soon there was only the faint view of a metallic sphere in the distance behind us, the crew and myself clapping as we neared the AMDCS. It was an incredibly large, flat runway like structure with a rectangular protrusion on the bottom. There were at least five catapults on this flat structure, the ship ringing with the voice of the AMDCS control crew. "CS-3, please" they instructed us.

"Diametric drive fully operational. We're green across the board, Commander." Andson cried from in front of me and I nodded as he turned around to check for confirmation. "Let's go then..." he turned around and took the handle, slowly pushing on it as the whir of the diametric drive came alive. A diametric drive, for note, uses the force created by two opposing forces to propel a ship. It's rather ingenious, if I do say so myself, and I find it works better for us than most other forms of propulsion. As we neared the AMDCS butterflies fluttered in my gut. I had only used the AMDCS once before when I was a child, and the thought of using it again made me excited and giddy. "What a machine..." came voices from behind me, and as we locked into place on our arranged catapult, I chuckled to myself slowly.

A loud mechanical click started the process, and while I couldn't hear it, I knew it was moving back and tightening up for the push. Andson relayed the coordinates to the control crew, and the AMDCS slowly rotated in space, position itself downwards as well. Once it had reached it's position, I couldn't help but feel another sensation tingling in my brain. It was subtle at first, but then it slowly built until it was all I felt. Perhaps it was the gravitational field, or excitement, but the lights began to grow unnaturally bright, sounds loud and echoing, voices crawling up from every niche and corner of the ship.

And then all I could feel was an immense pain all over my body as the catapult launched us forward. I screamed and held my head, falling to the ground as the ship moved at ludicrous speeds. The world was nothing but a cascade of colors and shadows, my ears bombarded with sound from all direction. My mind felt like it was being pulled apart and squeezed, the claws of some cosmic entity digging into my brain and torturing me slowly. I tried to run, stumbling on the ground, the crew members surrounding me, the medical officer sprinting to me worriedly. The world slowly began to fade to black as the shrieking tingle in my brain shrunk into nothing more than a whisper.

[END PART 1]

[-Deus-]

[Stories of Lrae-Epsos]

MT

[The Painted Daughter of Mars]

---

---

There is a world beneath the soil, a world that is still driven by the hatred and aggression of men (as opposed to the ignorance and greed that drives it now). This...story, if you will call it that is a deeply held secret of mine despite it being one of the most publicized stories in Lrae-Epsos. I suppose it is a gritty reboot or a retelling then. Nine years ago, I was an eight year old girl alone in my bedroom. I had remembered being afraid, startled by the thunder and lightening outside of my room as rain pelted my windows. I believe this was the start of my insomnia, however that is only my own speculation.

I am a daughter of Mars, a child of Arcus and for that uncontrollable fate I was awarded with an ever present sense of dread and paranoia. My waking moments, even as a child, were centered around death. Is this the day Nraeva dies? I'd ask myself, whispering to the night and on certain days it would answer back with a slow and silent no as I drifted into sleep. But perhaps I wouldn't wake up? Perhaps I would be found the next morning swimming in a pool of my own blood, the Anarch's daughter and heir deceased due to some revolutionaries sick, depraved sense of justice just because he feels he should gain a title.

But that night, the night this story begins, was different. It all began with fire, bright and consuming like a gluttonous demon, ravishing my childhood home as if it was nothing. Fire does not stop for a title or a seemingly "sovereign" man. As it raced through the monochromatic palace, I head quick bursts of gunfire, screaming like a terrified little girl (because I was one) and watched in horror as my door was kicked down, men clad in black and armed with assault rifles or SMGs appearing before me. They did not approach but instead took on some odd formation and waited, watching me as I screamed and cried and beg, their eyes hidden behind their devilish grey masks.

This was the first time I was to meet Keres.

He emerged from the fire outside of my door like a ghost, unafraid of the red beast that ate away at everything slowly, his hands tucked behind his back as he slowly approached me. I continued to scream, at risk of damaging of my throat, as his boots stomped across my ground until he was hovering over me. He knelt down, his mask making him appear like a demon, and stared at me, his light blue eyes inducing more tears and screams. He must've have been smiling because he chuckled soon after, took hold of me by the waste and then leapt out of the window. We were on the second floor, and we landed on an inflated cushion, his soldiers following after us as I kicked and screamed, his arm tightly clenched around my waist.

He took me to the front of my house, my parents there with guns to their heads and tears in their eyes as our home burned behind them. I can only call their names as Keres laughed."My dear, dear Anarch" he began "this is nothing personal. The Children of Polemos are above such contrived methods. We prefer to be like the fire that now ravages your home: destructive and encompassing. However my dear Anarch, this has been nearly ten years in the making and now it will begin. Perhaps it will take another ten years to complete, but you have no need to fear for your life...yet. You will die, hanged by the beings you lead and then this land will burn so that a new one can rise."

He spoke eloquently and calmly, my mother bursting into tears and frantically crying. My father only stared angrily, the rage and hatred he had been holding up inside of him for years slowly spilling out. I could see that even as a child this was deliberate. nodded slowly and turned, moving towards a large truck a few feet away, his men following him like ducklings as my mother shrieked behind us. He whispered kvet into my ear as my shock overtook me and I drifted off into sleep.

I would not die tonight.

Once I had awoken I found myself in a prison of rock and iron. I cried and frantically raced around the tiny room into Keres slowly appeared from the corner, staring at me as he had done through his mask. It was a grey mask, with a red streak crossing it diagonally, sharp, elaborate teeth making it look unnatural and frightening. "Hello" he said to me slowly. He spoke in Ironian, slowly approaching me, the same imposing black boots stomping across the ground and frightening me. I was a child then, eight years old and if you had seen me then you'd have thought all I could do was cry. "No, no Kvet do not be afraid of me. I am your friend...I am your protector!" He was rather proud of himself, I remember. He was very calm though, hardly as violent and demonic as he was the previous night and he carried himself in a dignified, gentlemanly manner. "You will not be hurt in these walls, little one..."

"W-w-w-why did you take me?" Perhaps I believed I could reason with this man, or perhaps I was just being a child. If he were to appear to me now, I may just ask it again.

"To save you, to ensure that you grow up safe. To ensure that, once this system is done away with someone can lead it and make it strong." He knew I wouldn't fully understand at a young age, but perhaps he was telling it to himself so as to bolster his impetus. "You...you are a flower among boars and while you will not stay long among us, you will be made strong." He looked over me slowly, his eyes scanning like a hawks until he finally nodded slowly and approached me. I was sniffling, but I was not afraid by now. "Come Kvet" he said as he took my hand, opened the cell door and walked out. I was still in my pajamas, my bare feet being poked and stabbed by the jagged rocks beneath my feet. He must have seen me flinch and squirm because soon after he picked me up and hoisted me on his shoulders. I hate to admit that I felt safe...comforted almost.

It became apparent that this was more than just an underground cell. It was an entire city, a thriving urban center of men and some women and Keres was obviously the leader. They had built structures into the rock, using iron support beams to keep the ground above stable. It was amazing, and even now as I think about it I feel that such a level of engineering requires a high amount of genius. Keres remained quiet as we took our walk and I suppose that it was meant to make me observe and recognize the strength the Children of Polemos possessed. Great furnaces burned, their dark flames licking at the subterranean air and men meditated and sparred, singing ancient songs, some of which I knew from my studies.

Eventually we reached a small cave inset into the large stone wall of the north, the woman manning the "store" as it appeared bowing fervently as Keres walked in. They spoke some odd language I neither knew or understood and once some sort of arrangement had been made, I was taken upstairs by the woman, bathed and clothed in a dark tunic with shearling boots, my hair bound up and my face painted with red markings. I was presented to Keres as if I was a trophy, the woman proud of her work as he commended her in their odd language. He once again took my hand and I walked on my own, able to now with my boots. I felt like I was emulating this man and I still detested him. Or...at least disliked him.

"What is a name, Kvet?" he asked me suddenly as we walked. His hands were rough and callous against my own.

"A name is what you're called..." I said slowly. "A name is your name. Everyone has a name. You wouldn't know who was who otherwise." At the time, it went over my head but now as I remember it makes surprising sense.

"A name is simply a word. A word is a sound with meaning. Meaning...Meaning can be anything. How can you trust something so malleable? So subjective? Granted, what I'm saying to you know is jut as subjective, but the difference between my word and others, is that I am right. Your name is Nraeva Drrak, the daughter of Roman Drrak. But I could just as easily say you are Amelia Keres or Iris or Jacob or Kennedy. A name is nothing, my dear. What matters is this" he pointed to his head and directed me towards a rock made to look like a bench. We sat down overlooking a large portion of the subterranean city, and just as I said it was truly breathtaking. "Your mind, your soul...that is what is important. This physical world is only temporary, useless and disgusting. Our duty is to wipe it away, destroy it all so that our God may and remake it anew. Yet before we may destroy it, we must make the people strong. And for the people to be strong, they must have a stronger leader. Are you strong, Kvet?"

I nodded slowly, and I could tell he was smiling. "Bu-but...I don't know your name and you call me Kvet. Isn't that something?"

He chuckled at my simplicity. "I call you Kvet because you are a flower. And if it will satisfy you, my name is Keres. Anann Keres. But you miss the point...It does not matter what I say so much as what I do. Even you, a child, must wish for a perfect world. Even if your greatest problem is not getting the toy you want, you subconsciously yearn and grasp at the hope of perfection. You and I are only human, yet I'm certain you feel the way I do, even now. And as you grow, you will continue to feel it until it burns inside of you like a fire; and then you will act." I nodded at him, in awe of his presence and might and couldn't help but feel a bit of respect for the man. "In three weeks...three weeks you will find yourself alone and isolated from the world and if you are truly strong you will survive, my Kvet."

He stood up without saying anything more and took me took an open area where they were meditating, chanting and sparring. At the time I wouldn't know it, but these men were practicing an old spirituality known as Selas Si. It taught that purification of the mind and soul came after strengthening of the body, that the world was corrupt and unjust in all it's current incarnations and that the truly strong and righteous must do away with the world so that Selan, the Moon Goddess, would descend from her throne and wipe it all away to make it anew. And so now, as a child, Keres had me meditate and train to prove my strength. Imagine it, and eight year old girl sprinting barefoot across jagged rocks because her kidnapper told her too. If I were to hear it now I would laugh at such a ridiculous story.

Yet it happened and I feel I wouldn't be who I was now if not for it.

I was taught songs through repetition and while I had been taught the religious hymns and dreamsongs of my people, these were different. These songs were said to grant strength and valor in persecution, speed when in danger, hate and anger when in doubt. They were malicious and aggressive, their tone and tempo frightening at times while others reserved their malice. I didn't understand them, but I remembered them, storing in my brain as if they were an important part of my being. I began to think of myself, not as Nraeva Drrak, but as a flower. I meditated with the older men, following their lead as they chanted in their dream like state. Perhaps I did not fully understand the full consequences of my actions, but I did so anyway. I did so to prove that I was not only strong, but to please Keres. Keres, at least for that time, became my surrogate father and my mind shut out the former life I had possessed.

The final night before I was to be sent away, he came to me however. It was like any other night where he'd come and lecture me on the Selas Si philosophy. Yet now it was different, a somberness in the air as we both knew this was the end and that by the time I stepped out of the darkness of the cave we'd be enemies once more. Enemies in a world full of blind, plastic people. "Kvet" he started slowly, not a trace of emotion besides pride and perhaps an inkling of respect in his baritone voice "this is your final night here...Your final test, I suppose. Are you afraid? Are you sad?" I shook my head no and I could tell that he was smiling. "Good. You will need what you've learned to survive tonight and tomorrow. But before you go, remember...Remember that one day we will meet again, and perhaps we'll be enemies. But you must also be strong and lead our people to their pinnacle. And then...then we can wash it all away, yes?"

"Yes...yes Keres." I hugged him tightly and I feel he didn't expect that at all. Perhaps I would've cried if I was still who I was when this began, but now I had come too far. I felt older, stronger, better even. My mind, as young and undeveloped as it was, had been opened, if only partially. I hadn't even remembered that my birthday had passed over five days ago. But now was not the time for that as he took my hand and led me to a chamber far above the city. It was lit by candles and many of the elder men whom I had come to befriend where there, in their meditative states and singing songs of strength. Yet not strength for them...strength for me. As we entered the chamber, a robbed and hooded man took hold of me and placed me in a chair, strapping my body and neck to the chair as well as my legs.

Keres looked on stoically and I couldn't tell if he was as fearful as I was. He was a man of no fear nor earthly emotion...but perhaps this once he made an exception for his flower as the man revealed an ink tipped needle. I wanted to scream and shriek when I saw it, but of course that came next as he began to stab into my right arm, making the outline. I hollered and shrieked like a monkey, fighting back the tears of pain. I could see Keres wince at my sharp cries of pain, the man jabbing rather quickly from the palm of my hand to my shoulder. I could just barely make out the design of an elaborate tree surrounded by and composed of archaic runes and symbols. He covered my entire arm from my fingers to my shoulder and all the way around, coloring it in with vivid shades of blue, purple, green and red. I continued my shrill screams of pain, the intricate design something to behold, a masterwork of tattooing and scarification.

And then the other arm began.

It wasn't identical to my right arm, yet it was centered around another tree, albeit a stubbier, fuller looking one. It was painful to watch the needles stab in and out, in and out in quick succession into my skin until it was finally finished, my arms a beautiful piece of artwork that should've been in an art gallery. They reminded me of my father's tattoos, and as they unstrapped me from the chair, the elders finishing their songs on a low, trembling note, I shook and stumbled, falling on my knees more than once. No one came to my aid, and I breathed heavily, sniffling as my nose bleed from all the trauma. I stood in front of Keres, the world around me shaking and bobbing, the colors fluctuation between a beautifully painted scene to a macabre, monochromatic photo.

After that moment, I only remember murmurs of Kvet until I awoke in woodlands, my eyes maladjusted to true sunlight after such a long time of submersion. I was in pain, hardly able to move my arms and I let them hang loose. They had been wrapped in linens and was still in the dark tunic and boots I'd been given. There was a pain on my neck and as I began to walk, I wondered if I would die. I asked if this was the time I died, and I yelled. I yelled and screamed and cried, letting all of the pent up pain out before collapsing...No, no was the answer I was given. I was not going to die; I was too strong for death.

I stood back up and walked, slowly treading through the forest, calling out for help. I didn't know where I was. I didn't know if I was even in Lrae-Epsos anymore. I followed the my own path as I went, tripping and falling over every so often or bumping into a tree, causing the pain in my arms to rocket across my body and send tears to my eyes. It felt like an eternity and all I thought about was not disappointing Keres. I was strong, I was strong and I was going to prove it. By the time I had made it to civilization, a small town that was distinctly Epsonian, I collapsed onto the ground. I had made it...I had made it and not died. When they found me on the ground, half starving, dehydrated, sleep deprived and in tears, they assured me my ordeal was over. They thought I was crying because I was in pain or even joy at being saved; but they're wrong.

I was in tears because I had proved myself to Keres.

[END]

[New Azura]

The Martyr of Svael
[MT] | [Mature]

THE CONTACT'S NAME+

was Kovas Drazkan, and she was expecting his team within the hour. John Cailean had never had the pleasure of visiting Lrae-Epsos before, let alone the crowded streets of Svael—the small nation's capital city and administrative center. As mission locations went, it was somewhat of an ideal location, if such a term could be applied to the scene of a professional hit. The West Azumethronnian Government had spared no expense in making sure that today's contestant received his final comeuppance in due course, quickly and quietly. When the Anaximanders required the long reach of a less than reputable force to quiet the noisy little children of the world, Cailean and Drago Squadra got the call. What can you do about it; it's a living...

So is prostitution. Better to fuck others than to get fucked.

Discipline was the trick in the business of releasing souls from the hold of the mortal coil. To rub someone out of existence required the patience of a hunter, for in fact one tends to hunt down the victim of the hit order—in essence the prey of this particular equation of malice. Taking a human life was rather simple; one only feels the recoil of the rifle while performing the coup de grâce on a poor bastard. It was the prep work that went into setting the stage for the assassination equation that took patient, vigilant planning and a keen eye for detail. Sloppy assassins and wannabe professionals always focused on the killshot—arguably the least important aspect of the entire hit. His focus and specialty was on the planning of the set-up. Any fool could walk into a trap unwittingly, after all. It takes a damn good soldier to weave a larger web around the prey's trap through which to pin him down.

Cailean rounded the corner onto the narrow boulevard that would take him to his final destination, walking quietly in deep reflection. The mark today was a real prick—the kind of greasy twatwaffle that he didn't get to kill enough of anymore. Make no mistake: taking a human life could never be taken lightly, nor the purposes for which one would engage in such action treated with wanton, reckless abandonment. John didn't always consider the line of work to be a sacred calling from God—on occasion though, his occupation could be deeply gratifying. The target was a convicted child molester and serial rapist who had fled from Kitron-Koa in possession of several hundred thousand dollars worth of stolen property after murdering the family of his latest victim—a small girl of the age of five. The rape of her innocence had moved the government to act; it didn't hurt that the daughter's father had been a powerful consul to the Achæon's father...

It's all about who you know...

In any event, the personal nature of the mark's grievous crimes against humanity were of little concern to him personally—if he was issued a directive to silence someone, his team answered the call quickly enough. That the dickhead was kind enough to was give everyone on his squad reasonable cause for malicious efficacy was a perk as it were, le cerise sur le gâteau. He had taken flight from West Azumethronnia after having screwed himself royally, and spent nearly five years trying to hide himself away in every cesspool imaginable. Unfortunately for his future living prospects, the stench of his rancid ass overpowered any shithole he sought refuge in—the state constabulary of Lrae-Epsos had made a positive i.d. on the subject, and had personally traced him to a grimy pub in the financial district of Svael. Cailean's team could take it from there once everyone got into position.

Speaking of...

The weathered façade of the Revnend & Sons establishment was visible up ahead and to the right. As he neared, John could distinguish a few landmarks from his prep work, notably the gold scrawl on the front windows. Potted plants outside the door indicated the fanciful touch of the set decorator, but inside the resemblance of a coffee shop ended. It was a rather grimy pub, pure a simple—a place were large quantities of alcohol and narcotics could be consumed without rhyme or reason. The elegant veneer was a distinctively creepy mirage hiding the various iniquities which held their abode there. In taking into account the nature of the target he and his team was hunting down, it seemed... relatively apropos to find such a weasel of a man hiding in a glorified brothel of sinful pleasures.

Cailean quietly pulled open the door, stepping inside as conspicuously as possible. It only took him a few seconds to comprehend the gravity of the situation. There were perhaps a dozen people enjoying a late nightcap by the bar, while half a dozen more were entreated to various beverages and drugs on the main floor beside the bar, which made a rather lengthy 'L' from the far wall towards the middle of the establishment before jutting back towards a door which led to the stairwell connecting the upstairs loft. John straightened his tie, comfortable with his rather stylish choice of wearing business dress attire to the pub. His contact was seated by herself to the right of the mahogany-made bar counter, right where she should be. She was wearing a flowing white sequin gown, brilliantly accentuating her long, auburn strands of hair. Her eyes were deep, glossy, and full of apathetic brilliance.

My kind of woman...

Cailean nodded ever so slightly to the woman, coming to stand across from her at the table. He silently began repositioning the chair to his liking while focusing on the contact's lush, pouting lips. "Ma'am, if you would be so kind as to humor a fellow? Come sit here in this chair, please?"

The woman cocked an eyebrow as she leaned back in her chair, holding onto a frosted mug of microbrew loosely. "In your country, is it also considered kosher to ask a woman to change panties before you take them off of her?"

There was no mistaking the challenge of her response—mildly indignant with a twinge of insouciance. Cailean felt tickled pink: "Only if money is being exchanged. Now, I request that you comply for posterity's sake."

The woman sighed deeply, standing up while taking a short swig of her beverage. Walking around towards the chair facing the stairwell door, she spoke laconically: "Only a hard ass faces away from the door where his marks are going to enter."

John grinned ever-so-slightly as he seated himself across from her. "I work out," he said coyly, sliding a pair of shiny sunglasses across the table. "Put these on for me, dear. Thank you kindly."

"Oh, no trouble at all," Kovas muttered. "I always enjoy wearing sunglasses in a crowded pub at night."

"Don't we all?" Cailean responded in kind. His charm wasn't lost on her.

"Mr. Cailean, I appreciate the expediency with which you arrived. And while I'm sure you've dealt with quite a few dandies in your day, I'd appreciate the integrity that your people are noted for here. Besides, I would be remiss in my duties as the point woman for my government's end of this operation if I were to be so naive as to assume that your team wasn't already nearby—"

"They're already in place," Cailean nodded.

"Of course they are. My point being, this isn't my first rodeo, Captain. I've dealt with professional assassins and grade-A dickbags in my day, and have made a career out of humoring every walking erection that made an earthly stop in the vicinity of my premises. You seem competent enough, but might as well be a putz for all I know. I would appreciate the skivvy on your little operation here ricky-tick so that I can start getting sufficiently shitfaced. A girl has to forget every once in awhile, right?"

"Oh, absolutely," John said pointedly, checking his watch with a purposeful intent. "The plan is relatively simple, Ms. Drazkan—in about forty-five seconds, my target's guards will have no recourse but to confront me here in the restaurant. My goal is to draw them down here, which is why I was retarded enough to let my face be seen. Once my diversionary trap is sprung, the guards will investigate down here, allowing my operative the ability to sneak past undetected."

"And just what kind of diversion do you plan to create?" Drazkan asked, suspicious of his ploy.

Cailean shrugged, scratching at an incessant itch on his left wrist. The delay was timely; all around them, the relatively low furor from the bar became disquieted. One by one, the patrons inside began to grow strangely quiet. Kovas looked on, mildly impressed as the various drunks and addicts began to keel over onto the floor. Within moments, they were the only two occupants in the bar still conscious.

"I believe your special chef in the bag added a special ingredient to the club's fare," Kovas muttered bemusedly.

"Aye, that would be a special little concoction that my associate Denila cooked up for the occasion. I must admit, even I feel a bit of pride when her handiwork goes on display—you wont believe the effort it takes to knock everyone out within the same window of time."

"Does seem a trifle bit difficult," Kovas conceded. "Though a dedicated hit team has plenty of tricks—"

Cailean quickly pulled a 9mm from his jacket holster, turning the gun upright while resting it on his right shoulder. He intently studied the glossy shades that Kovas had put on for him, watching intently for any sign of movement. Suddenly, the door to the stairwell burst open, and a trio of heavily armed men came through—their semiautomatic rifles trained on his head. With a rapid squeeze of the trigger, John sent a pair of slugs into the chest of the two assailants on the right and left. The third man was prepared to shoot when Cailean fired a third shot into his temple. Kovas watched quietly as the third man's head snapped backward on its way to the floor, sending a spray of blood and tissue matter onto the closing door.

"I'm sorry," Cailean spoke candidly, putting his handgun back into its holster. "You were saying?"

Kovas shrugged. "A dedicated hit team knows how to get shit done. You can always tell the dedicated teams from the low rent operations by the way they handle themselves in the moment. Pudknockers like to show off big guns and wag their dicks around while pretending to know what the Hell they're doing."

Cailean arched an eyebrow. "How do we strike you, ma'am?"

Kovas shook her head incredulously. "What? Are you asking if your outfit is making me horny? A girl requires more than ridiculously good marksmanship to get her good and wet. I would've thought a man of your advanced age would understand that, hot dog."

Cailean shook his head, making a tic sound with his tongue. "Now, now—I'd like to think that it's my suave charm."

Drazkan smiled ever so slightly. "I'd let you take me to bed, but I'd better be wined and dined pretty fucking great first. I'm only sleazy when it gets me liquored and fed like a queen. Accept only the best from a sucker willing to shell out the ass for some pussy."

"Pussy is overrated," Cailean purposefully evaded. "It drains the life out of otherwise-functioning men."

"—Says the person who doesn't like to see women naked," Drazkan responded.

Cailean shook his head. "Laying pipe is a prodigious enterprise for lesser men. Me, on the other hand? My peers will never, ever measure me by the pedigree of my dick. A man has to have standards."

Kovas cheekily nodded, raising her mug: "Here's to your standards, Mr. Cailean."

John nodded sagely, taking note of his associates entering the room through the view in Kovas's sunglasses. Denila Gisa'vun was flanked by his communications specialist, Sa'ral Corsan, who was wearing a very similar get-up to John's. Xelimizu Sureya appeared behind them a few moments later, carrying the severed head of their target in a clutched fist. She was remarkably sexy-looking to be holding the exasperated face of the very-dead pedophile-murderer.

"Just like Cailean," Denila muttered as she came to stand behind the seated team leader, "enjoying some quiet time with the scenery while the rest of us slave our asses off like good little boys and girls."

"Ha, speak for yourself," Sa'ral added as he sat backwards in the chair positioned next to John. "I quite enjoyed rerouting emergency calls from the pub this time—it gave me a chance to utilize 'artistic license' for a change."

"Where did you reroute the calls to today?" Cailean asked hesitantly.

"A late-night porn service. You really don't want to know what kind, either."

John laughed, shaking his head as Xelimizu placed the decapitated cranium on the table in front of him. "You know, it seems a trifle bit unfair that Sa'ral gets to play pranks while you do the dirty work, m'love."

Sureya chuckled. "I needed some practice with my knife."

"Oh, dear," Kovas said with mild amusement. "Where did you get him at before you finished him off?"

"I stabbed him in the crotch," Xelimizu said gleefully. "I made sure to shank him a good one, twist twice, then bury it inside his throat. Child's play, but spirited—wouldn't you say?"

"Indeed," Kovas said while raising her mug. "To his dick: may it rest in pieces."

Cailean nodded sagely. "Verily."

[United World Order]

The Flowers of Bloom That Blossom In The Valley of Ruin

P/MT

Part One; Inhabitants of The Ruin

---

Desolate was all that could be said about the valley. The Valley of Ruin was what it was called by most of it's inhabitants, which was a graveyard planet used by many fledgling empires as a garbage dump for things they didn't need anymore. These empires spanning the galaxy knew that it had been in it's current shape for centuries before some of there time. The entire planet was only inhabitable by what remained of it's former population and robots that had rebuilt themselves with what parts they could spare from the piles of endless piles of trash and machinery parts. The landscape was depressing and void of anything of life in the form of plants or animals, such miracles as those didn't exist in the Valley of Ruin. Legends had it that a plague swept the planet and caused everything that was alive to wither away and die slowly and in large numbers, leaving the entire face of the planet a desert wasteland empty and void to most outside of it's atmosphere. It's very inhabitants that were amongst the void and depressing landscape were not many and were not to many considered normal or at the very much had any sanity left within there souls or lives for that matter. They scowered the planet, looking for something to call home. Looking for some form or way to get off the forsaken planet of misery and pain, most found such ways through methods of suicide.

I Have Returned My Savior..To Your Palace of Worship.

The towering remains of a cathedral that once stood here somewhere within the Valley of Ruin, before the plague struck. Centuries ago, the so called knights of light had been sweeping through the planet. They deemed themselves crusaders of the Lord above and fought many battles and wars with those who wished to bring darkness upon them and there place of worship. So many men fell in those campaigns that would last years upon end before reaching it's climax and quickly becoming a conflict of the past for soon a new conflict would rise, and more would take the previous ones place. Upon entering the shattered remains of a once holy place, the painted glass windows that showed small stories and important figures of what many believed and fought so hard to preserve and protect. A simple man riding on a donkey having been sent by God and deemed as his son. The virgin that was the mother of the son of god, deemed to be savior of humanity and all things holy. The famous remains of a large cross, that had been painted in real gold but had rusted and lost it's true color over the centuries especially when the plague made it's presence on the planet known and killed millions.

Yet among the inhabitants that were scowering the ruins of the Valley. The robots that had rebuilt themselves from the galactic junk that was tossed by fledgling empires that roamed the space above them. Most of the robots had been without emotion and still following what programming they had left within there mechanical bodies that had not rusted away or fell apart. Most had joined together into groups that spanned the planet and had resulted into fighting each other primarily for who would be deemed ruler of the wasteland that was The Valley of Ruin. Along most of it's routes through and around the planet that most of it's inhabitants used for transportation means, charred or piles of rusted broken mechanical beings would be found. They thought more differently then the more human like population did that were left in the Valley. Most of the robots were ancient nomads for there time, scowering the planet for something worth of being called a temporary home. If they could not find a home anywhere, they would build one from the ground up. Mechanical trash and other debris would be built and transformed into mechanical fortresses of twisted metal and steel.

Through the night time in most parts of the planet the stars and other space like objects within looked like bright streaks of light of a multitude of colors ranging from so many beyond comparison. Clouds were nothing in the planet, they did not exist anymore when the plague came along. Amongst the robots and the nearly sane holy driven people that inhabited it, there in the darkest parts of the planet those places that not even a robot would venture in was inhabitable by a sick and unimaginable evil that was said in legends to be a child of the plague that multiplied and made more of it's self. They called the caves and the underground caves their homes and were six legged abnormal beings surrounded with some sort of black aura that when someone not of there aura approached, it gave the beings a sort of mad hunger and drove them insane. A feeding frenzy to those that sadly did not escape when they had the chance. Therefore piles among piles of bones and skeletons were left behind near the entrances of there domains that were laid out around the planet. A heed of warning for those that dared enter...

End of Part One

To Come Soon.. Part Two; A New Evil To Arise Out Of The Ashes

[-Deus-]

[Stories of Lrae-Epsos #2]

MT

[Insanity]

---

---

Everyone is trying to kill Scott Drake, and why they want to kill him is a mystery. Wobbling around the alley, waiting for the morrow to come, Drake stood out like a scrawny white spot. He was pale with dark brown hair that was frizzy and very unkempt; his eyes were sunken into his face and dark ridges formed around them. He dug his hands into his pants pockets and continued going up and down the alleyway, muttering hysterically to himself. “Rats!” he said. “Rats, rats, rats! Imperious rats with golden crowns and noble squiring flies!”

The alleyway was empty besides for Drake, and he took advantage of this by doing as he pleased in the small, secluded space. Why was he there? He didn’t know. He wasn’t even sure which city he was currently in or what time it was. When a rare soul would pass by and ask him what he was doing and if he was in need of help, he would simply shout “on the morrow!” and they’d scamper off like frightened mice. The building to his right side was a gargantuan thing made of very high class materials that attested to its function as a meeting place for the wealthy. The building to his left was equally cyclopean in size, however it was made of a cheap brick that chipped and cracked; the mortar very uneven and grotesque. The ground beneath his feet was made of cobblestone, and puddles formed on the more concave areas of the alley.

There was little trash that littered this alleyway, and so it was mostly cleared besides for the raving mad man pacing up and down its long area. At the end of each side was a staircase going up to the sidewalk so that it appeared the two buildings were an island, fast moving fish swimming through the bloodstreams of the city. “Indubitably” Drake said, “indubitably, this is a mess. These rats…these rats are infectious. Burn them, burn them, and SCREAM!” He launched a rock from his hand, the misshapen object soaring through the sky and smashing through the building to his right. There came screams from the window, and a man angrily yelled.

As if it was no time at all a short man appropriately dressed for one of the upper echelon appeared in the alleyway, his face pudgy and very red, his perfect teeth clenched together and gritting slowly back and forth, back and forth. He was wearing clothes. Yes, clothes as Drake recalled, which made him odd because Drake himself was also dressed in clothes. Or was he? Refer to the first paragraph. The little, fat faced man screamed and cried, his wife and a little child at the top of the stairway leading to the street on the north side. “Dog! You rotten, filthy, putrid scumbag! You scurrilous devil! Vagrant! I’ll have you arrested, I’ll-I’ll have the constable here within ten minutes!”

“Fornicate the constable!” Drake screamed in reply, and he laughed very enthusiastically with his belly heaving air in and out.

The fat faced man gasped, and called for his wife. “Martha, Martha!” he said “Martha! Quickly, quickly darling, phone the constable at once.” His wife ran away into the house, his ass nice and fat, bulging from behind her dress. Drake liked that, he liked that a lot. But he liked the little girl more as she stood there. She must’ve been around seven, but she was the most beautiful creature he had ever seen and he eyed her up, staring transfixed and entranced.

“Fatty, how much for the girlie; I like the look of her…I want her. How much?” His mouth curled into a devilish smile as the fat faced man turned white with fear and disgust. The fat faced man, one Phineas Finn, was a very important man. A very important man and Drake then narrowed his vision on him. He supposed it was time to get the job done, at least. Then he could take the girl. He charged him, hollering like a mad man and tackling him to the ground. “Squeal piggy, squeal before I bust those pretty little glasses of yours.” He then proceeded to smash his fist into the poor man’s face, cracking his nose rather violently as the fat faced faggot squealed. He wore no glasses.

The little girl cried, and yelled for her father, but Drake only laughed and cackled and jumped all around him. “Quickly, quickly little girl. I’ve a cock here and it needs to be talked to. You like chicken, right? Haha, his name is Richard.” He burst into a fit of hysterical laughter, kicking and punching the fat man on the ground, periodically screaming into his ear like a mad man as the girl and her father cried. “The lord of flies is waiting for you piggy; the lord of flies is waiting! Now get up, get up and pull those pants down!” He yelled and heard the sound of sirens far in the distance. They wouldn’t be here for another fifteen minutes.

Finn lifted himself up, bleeding from his mouth and nose, bruises and lacerations lining his face, both of his eyes swollen and black while some of his hair lay in clumps on the ground. Or was he bald? Check his introduction paragraph. He dropped his pants and Drake howled as he dropped his own, the girl screaming in surprise. He quickly pushed into Finn, and both of them yelled, one in fear and the other in excitement. Can you guess which is which? “You fuck good, piggy.” Drake whispered it into his ears, and smiled, biting on his ears very forcefully while he gripped his hair and pulled on it. “You fuck really good! I’m sure your daughter will grow up to be a faggot-hating whore now that she’s seen this.” The poor man only cried along with his daughter.

Soon after, Drake stepped back, thrusting his hips around and gyrating them for the little girl as her father slumped on the ground, silent as blood trickled down his legs. “Well…it’s been fun piggy.” And with that he kicked at Finn’s head with his boots, stomping, stomping, stomping away at the fat head until the skull began to crack and break under the black shoes. He was sure Martha, the wife, was watching and screaming, too much of a cowardly bitch to do anything. Drake loved that in people, their fear and cowardice. He shook his head slowly and laughed as blood flowed like a river from the fat heads’ broken skull.

He sprinted over quickly towards the girl, took hold of her hair and slapped her in the face with his member, his pants still down. How did he run over there? I suppose he held them up, and then dropped them again. Once he had done that, the stench welling in her nostrils until she began to gag, her pulled and fastened his pants, and then began to lead her away by the hand, whispering something into her ears to keep her quiet. Martha, being predictable, ran out into the street after them, crying and hysterically calling after her daughter. People thought she was mad and Drake was sure to ignore her until he had put the girl into the car, and once they had made it to the car, he was sure to curse at her until they had driven far into the night.

[Aleckandor]

[ MT ]

BLAYKKE'S BALLOON

[OOC: Heavily-inspired by Don Hertzfeldt's 'Billy's Balloon'.]

A fine Summer noon was about above the small, peaceful, and verdant Founder's Idea Park in the Central District of Pandomonita. Then, in the middle of the park's grassy field - the ambience of chirping hummingbirds and the cars or trains of the city - sat soundly the cockeyed 2-year old Blaykke. He had a brilliant one-tooth smile about his face, staring off into the distance as his mother was talking with some of the other mothers on the bench. In one hand, he had a Aleckandorean-flag themed rattler, and in the other, a short red balloon.

Sitting there and dazed, little Blaykke was silently having fun to himself with his rattler. Once every five or six seconds, he'd shake it in a moderately fast succession, and smile warmly at the view of the glass skyscrapers ahead of him. He paid very little attention to the balloon, save for the fact that his hand grasped at its miniscule, plastic string. One moment, the monotony of the situation abruptly changed. So it seemed, the red balloon leaned over to one side - almost as if it was a sentient entity - and deliberately struck Blaykke's head. The boy's smile disappeared off of his face, only to be replaced by a genuinely confused frown. He refused to wail and cry like most other children in the world did, but instead, stared at his red balloon to see if it was the culprit of the travesty.

And indeed it was; the balloon, as if it had its own vile intentions, struck Blaykke's head again. And again. And again. And again. Blaykke, refusing to call out for assistance due to his infantile mannerism of not being able to speak actual words, tried to stand up and run. However, the balloon had hit him in the head so many times, that the boy was pretty much off balance; he fell face-first onto the grass, and the evil red balloon hovered over him, and began pummeling his back. Blaykke tried to crawl away, but the satanic inflatable fabric followed him, pulverizing his little and weak body. With a sense of renewed urgency, Blaykke tried to run in the direction of his unwary maternal guardian, but the balloon cornered him at every turn. Soon, the two were running in circles of each other.

Blaykke tripped on a rock near a tiled pathway nearest the kids' sandbox, and the balloon seized its chance; it started to wrap its string around the Aleckandorean boy's neck, and began to tightly constrict. For a few seconds, Blaykke fought for his very life against this regularly-inanimate agent of pure evil. His face was turning blue, and was unable to pant as the red balloon choked him without a grain of remorse or conscience.

The thin-stringed noose wrapped around little, poor Blaykke's neck was tightening to the point of exhausting all the life out of him. The balloon, faceless and emotionless, continued with its dangerously detrimental resolve. The boy's mother, still within conversation with the other mothers in the park, was many yards away from her assailed child. Blaykke desperately wanted to call for help, but his infantile mind hadn't developed the shreds of coherent vocal communication. His face was turning purple now, and was on the verge of blacking out. Suddenly, he was violently released from the chokehold and sucked in air with an exasperated succession of panting and yelping. The balloon hovered motionless in the air, showing not its true state of iniquitous wickedness, as per after all, it should have been something that had no mind of its own. By the end of its string, it floated graciously at a lateral direction, and returned with the rattler, placing it in Blaykke's hands.

The boy sat there in a silent montage of fear and mesmerization, as he slowly accepted back his rattler. Subsequently, two adults commuting to various locations passed by on the cobblestone pathway without noticing the helium balloon magically fixated on the air just above the surface, and the reddened circumferential bruise around the 2-year old's throat. Without realizing the balloon's true intention in that small moment of supposed reconciliation between him and his red balloon, Blaykke started playing and fidgeting with his rattle callously once more. For a half-minute of peace between the two, Blaykke's generic smile and cockeyed facial expression returned, the balloon hovering close by at his side. He shouldn't have decided to let his guard down. When the two adults passed each other and finally went to the point where they were out of sight, the rubberized cacodemonic balloon made its move.

Silently moving around the boy's back, it wrapped itself tightly around the wrist of Blaykke's free hand, to which the child chose to ignore. With all the amazing and inexplicable strength it came to possess, the balloon started rising vertically...carrying little Blaykke with it. For a few seconds, Blaykke had yet to realize that he was ascending off the ground. By the time that he did, the smile was wiped from his face once more, and he looked up at the merciless red tormentor that shuttled him off to a pinnacle of heights. At approximately 50 feet from the air, the balloon abruptly stopped, and Blaykke just stared at the ground, unaware of the sinister nature of his situation. He experimented by dropping the rattle to the ground. About half-a-second lapsed before it hit the grass. Unraveling its string around the arm, the balloon released Blaykke. Without pity, and without remorse. Just like that.

Ten minutes later, the mother found his boy's mangled and shattered body in the grass, and began to weep and wail. On that day, she never noticed a red balloon sailing off into the sky...

[Abruzi]

Fraternity.

PMT.

My eyes could hardly stay open. It was late, I think, though time was no longer as easy to track without a chronometer. The sun you see, it was gone or at least so obscured by the debris clouds that there was little difference between night and day. A shrill wind whipped into the small hollow me and my love Katherina knelt in, the sound of wind was something new to me still and I savored it's high pitched wail. Somewhere far off a tree fell, maybe that was a good omen? After all fewer trees meant fewer Leshys. Omen or not it reminded me how if I had still been wearing the mask I wouldn't have heard it.

Like most Lyudi my entire life was spent inside a gas mask. I'm not complaining, the masks keep us safe in our tainted homeland. They are oppressive though, subtle sounds, tastes, smells, they're lost in exchange for the ability to survive on the surface. Katherina was still in the mask, her face was one of the common Worker's Variants being olive drab and rubberized. My own had been remarkably similar save a small crimson star marking me as a member of the Revolutionary Army. Though truthfully I was little better than a glorified file clerk who happened to be issued a sidearm. Rifles thesedays were reserved for actual soldiers of distributed freely to some of the Gas Mask and Kalash Tribes in the wastes.

Swaddled in a mixture of winter clothing and woolen blankets, Katherina's beauty was completely hidden, which was good. Post Reunification the Novaya Bolshevist State was still unsafe and while it was likely we'd be stopped by Party Members, it was just as likely we'd hit a Gas Mask and Kalash Party that had grown tired of policing the Dead Zones. They were never particularly good at that, policing, they were however good at killing and the endless tides of nightmarish monsters that pored from those sores in reality were always plentiful enough to distract them from the much harder to kill Revolutionary Army. Still, I'm told there is nothing like killing another member of your own species which can explain why they occasionally decide to hunt down Stalkers or make raids into Novaya Bolshevist Territory.

I smiled at Katherina before rising, my legs and back were sore from walking all day with a heavy pack but I let none of thes pains mar my loving smile. She needed support now that we were far from Utopia, it was so different out here in the Zones, so different than the life we lived in Lower Utopia. Replacing the towering support columns for ancient trees, the cluttered tunnels and chambers for wide open dead lands, the tasteless Nourishment Product for....tasteless Nourishment Product. I think the most radical of changes was the lack of supervision though, the Party was so much a part of everyday life that when you finally received their permission to try your hand at Stalking you could never anticipate how different it felt to not be watched at all times. Though in the Zones you had to act as if you were, otherthink was still otherthink after all.

Like every morning I turned and faced the south to mutter some ridiculous prayers to a forgotten god. Religion is the Opium of the Masses, I'm told this and believe me after the amount of history we are indoctrinated with I understand that it truly is, that said some things the party cannot stop and one of those is the rituals passed on by a superstitious babushka who died just after Reunification. She never told me which Reorganization era city we hailed from but from her choice of god I'd say somewhere to the south-east. Drawing a small penknife designed just for this purpose, I scratched my index finger and softly whispered,

"Otets smerti, ya predlagayu vameshche krovi prolito i zhiznyeĭ yeshche poteryano. YA predlagayu vam svoĭ sobstvennyĭ tolʹko togda, kogda vse moi instrumenty i provel moi vragi mertvy. YA predlagayu Vam moe serdtse, moe litso , dusha moya, i moya Kalash . YA predlagayu vam v nadezhde, chto vy predostavlyaete mne uspekha v moikh nachinaniyakh."
“Father Death, I offer you the blood yet spilled and the lives yet lost. I offer you my own only when all of my tools are spent and my enemies dead. I offer you my heart, my face, my soul, and my Kalash. I offer this to you in the hope that you grant me success in my endeavors.”

My mutterings complete I leaned back on my haunches and sighed. Tainted air was strange, it smelled alright but I knew that it'd kill me in only a year or two. It was worth it, the surface had to be experienced and if I was lucky enough to find something of value to the Commissariat of Nourishment I'd be able to requisition a pair of those new artificial lungs that acted as filters themselves. That was a long shot though, finding something valuable was hard and while we were close to the rumored location of the blasted city of Ochagi, there was no guarantee that it hadn't been picked clean by other Stalkers.

Beckoning to Katherina we continued our march, each step was a pain upon my aching back but I powered through it. Comrade Mother had always said that they made a mistake putting me in an Administrative Unit though I should thank my lucky stars I wasn't among one of those poor boys sent to Sanctuary. I lost many friends there, most of them in fact, killed in the flood of insanity or lost to the New Society that is being built there. I would've survived I think, survived to be one of the Otherthinkers who now live in the new city. I'm tough and strong, I always made sure to ingest all of the proteins and nutrients they fed us at the Commissariat of Nourishment Indoctrination Center and it showed.

Hours passed by slowly, several times I hear the almost nonexistent whisper of, “Control.” that revealed an anomaly was only a step away. That saved my life more than once and Katherina's life dozens of times. Other anomalies that did not reek so heavily of the Noosphere I spotted by the breeze, when leaves do not stir in a gale force wind whipping across a mostly dead wasteland, then something is not right! Anomalies alone were hardly the least of our worries though because more than once I saw a distant party shadowing our movements. At first I thought they were Commissariat of Contentment but the fact that they didn't shoot us dead then and there showed that I was mistaken. Once I managed to catch one with my binoculars and it turned out that they were Gas Mask and Kalash, even better since we'd be eaten after we were dead! Regardless of the dangers we kept on though, all we needed was one artifact to establish ourselves then we could transfer to a quieter Zone and live a simple life.

Night was falling, the gray sky turning an even darker gray and making the ashen landscape into an oppressive shadow of a place. We needed shelter and with those Gas Mask and Kalash thugs wandering about I knew that a hollow wouldn't cut it tonight. I chanced another hour on the march, Katherina was tired but we needed to keep moving and I still had yet to see anything that would pass as adequate shelter. Cresting another dune of rubble my eye spied just the place an ancient service station. It's faded red sign marked it as, "Техническое обслуживание станции 543 шоссе Народной Ochagi" “Maintenance Station 543 on the People's Highway to Ochagi”. Not only was this a reassuring reminder of us being near the fabled city, but it was also a perfect bolthole.

After three kicks the door gave way in a shower of dry rotted splinters. I swept inside aggressively with my M1895 held at the ready only to be met by spiders and shadows. Katherina stood by the door and kept a watch outside while I went room to room looking for any signs of occupancy sometime after the Rectification five hundred years back. While I did find evidence that it had been used by some Stalkers in the past I also found that it was for all intents and purposes completely forgotten. We started a small fire in an old cooking stove in the back, heated Nourishment product was always better than cold Nourishment Product after all. Quickly after our meal Katherina and I made love, though it was hardly satisfying due to the nature of our environment. She seemed to enjoy it enough though as soon after she fell into a deep sleep and I was left to keep watch.

Sunlight upon the wastes was rare, moonlight even more so. Tonight however there was a full moon above the clouds and just enough of a break in them that visibility was actually rather good. At first I just admired the wastelands, they were beautiful and to a product of Utopia like myself completely alien. This was my country, I told myself that several times. This was my country and yet this was the first time I had ever been truly within her. Novaya Bolshevism taught me that we were merely the first step in a wider International Revolution, this was true, however we were also the most important step. The Novaya Bolshevist State was a proving ground that showed regardless of what was thrown at it, the Vanguard can and will survive.

Movement on the horizon shocked me out of my ideological musings. I couldn't tell what it was at first, that is until it saw me. Black eyes as large as saucers snapped wide open and the horrid shambling monstrosity began to sprint towards our hideaway. I fished out my M1895 Revolver and held it shakily, the rattling of the pistol against my trembling hand keeping time with the monster's hideous gait. When it was only ten yards from me I let fly with all six barrels, the rounds smacked into it's wet flesh with a sickly thud and to my joy the beast staggered. Happiness was short lived however as it's wounds began to close before my eyes, the flesh pushing the bullets out and remolding itself over the injuries.

It reared up, claws emerging from it's folds and I was certain that my life was measurable in only moments. Just as the beast began to descend upon me the heavens opened and rained hot lead upon it. Massed gunfire shattered the night and it's regenerative qualities couldn't hope to keep up. Ten figures armed with Kalashnikovs appeared out of the darkness surrounding it before finally dousing it with fire. Molotov cocktails burst upon it and as it burned the beast's body shriveled and finally dissipated. The flames illuminated our unexpected saviors and to my horror they were the Gas Mask and Kalash men from earlier.

Dressed in a mixture of rags and kill totems, they all surrounded one man who towered over the other due to his Rytsari Exoskeleton. It was this man who moved to stand before me before saying,

" Nu ... ty ne khocheshʹ priglasitʹ nas v ?"
“Well...won't you invite us in?”

*

Seated around the now smoldering fire the Gas Mask and Kalash men proved to be as vulgar and unsavory as they were cast, that said I could not help but feel a strange energy about them. These were men who answered to no Party, these were men who lived as they desired and while I was by no means advocating their Anarchism, I must admit that I was intrigued by it. Dancing shadows outlined their myriad kill totems and ragged tattoos, all of which I'm sure told a tale of the bearer's prowess.

Their leader was a heavily scarred and tattooed monster known as Advokat and as the night wore on I found that he and I were having an interesting conversation about the differences separating his Lyudi from me and my Lyudi. It seems that the Gas Mask and Kalash Tribes were not as different as suggested by the Commissariat of Nourishment, they like all Novaya Bolshevists paid respect to Comrade Otets and Siloviki. They also commonly offered the Revolutionary Army their most promising youths for service in the Penal Divisions. Surprisingly they also had a branch of the Commissariat of Contentment that was made up entirely of Gas Mask and Kalash men known as the Ordo Sufficentia.

Finally after hours of discussion I knew enough to simply ask,

"Tovarishch Advokat , pochemu by ne vernutʹsya v gosudarstvo Novaya bolʹshevist·skaya ?"
“Comrade Advokat, why not just rejoin the Novaya Bolshevist State?”

Our conversation stopped abruptly and he sat in silence for many minutes. Tossing a small log back onto the fire he poked at it until the flames reached just high enough to resume their casting of shadows, musing all the while on how best to answer my question. Finally he sat heavily beside me his Rytsari Exoskeleton whining in protest at the relatively delicate motion. Glancing over casually he began to speak.

"Nu tovarishch ... eto slozhnyĭ vopros. Eto pravda, chto my odin narod , i geneticheski chistoĭ LYUDI i vse pochitayut tovarishch Otet i idyealʹnaya Novaya bolʹshevist·skaya . YA polagayu, chto luchshim otvetom yavlyaet·sya to, chto moĭ narod,protivogaz i Kalash plemen , zhili v i vokrug zony na protyazhenii vekov . My originalʹnyĭ Stalkery i ne mozhet zhitʹ bezchuvstva svobody, kotoroe prikhodit s etim obrazom zhizni. Krome togo , my poruchili partiya ostaet·sya , kak i my , votkhodakh , nablyudaya i ozhidaya uzhasov mertvykh zon na ryvok vpered.

Vy vidite, chto eto ochenʹ slozhnaya situatsiya, no komissariata Pitanie ubezhden, chto ot·sut·stvie pokloneniya Gospodar Lubanja privedet k sobytiyu my nazyvaem« vspleska ». Volna nochnykh koshmarov , kotorye podkrepleny v noosfere budet izlivatʹ , i ona budet prinimatʹ vse Voenno-revolyutsionnogo ,komissariat Udovletvorennostʹ i protivogaz i Kalash plemen mozhete brositʹ na nyee bitʹsyaNelyudyeĭ nazad. My sledim za etim sobytiem , chto nashi babushki nazvali, " Tide " i opasayut·sya, chto eto ochenʹ skoro. Tak chto moĭ drug, pochemu my ne mozhem vernutʹsya v gosudarstvo Novaya bolʹshevist·skaya i zhitʹ tak, kak nashi rodstvenniki"Gorod LYUDI."
“Well Comrade...that is a difficult question. It is true that we are one people, both are genetically pure Lyudi and all revere Comrade Otet and the Novaya Bolshevist Ideal. I suppose the best answer is that my people, the Gas Mask and Kalash Tribes, have lived in and around the Zones for centuries now. We are the original Stalkers and cannot live without the sense of freedom that comes with that lifestyle. Additionally we are instructed by the Party to remain as we do, out in the wastes, watching and waiting for the horrors of the Dead Zones to surge forth.

You see it is a highly complex situation but the Commissariat of Nourishment is convinced that the lack of worship to the Gospodar Lubanja will lead to an event we call a, 'Surge'. A tide of nightmares that have backed up in the Noosphere will pour forth and it will take all the Revolutionary Military, the Commissariat of Contentment, and the Gas Mask and Kalash Tribes can throw at it to beat the inhumans back. We are watching for this event that our Babushkas have dubbed the, 'Tide' and fear that it is very soon. So that my friend is why we cannot rejoin the Novaya Bolshevist State and live as our cousins the 'City Lyudi'."

Nodding slowly I replied,

"Vy ne mozhete vernutʹsya nam vse zhe my golod dlya artefaktov ya uveren, chto plemena imyeyut mnogo . YA i moya devushka zdesʹ , kak stalkery , okhota naartefakt , chtoby zarabotatʹ mnevnutrenniĭ pasport dvizhenie k odnoĭ iz vtorichnogo gorodakh na yuge strany. Chelovek mozhet delatʹ khoroshuyu rabotu tam, yesli on mozhet Stebelʹ."
“You cannot rejoin us yet we hunger for the artifacts I'm sure the Tribes have plenty of. I and my girl are here as Stalkers, hunting for an artifact to earn me an Internal Movement Passport to one of the reclaimed cities in the south. A man can do good work there if he can Stalk.”

Smiling Advokat produced a shining orb from the side of his armor and placed it in my hand. It was warm and deceptively light for it's seemingly dense appearance. I glanced from the artifact to Advokat who quickly said,

"Tovarishch vo imya sotsialisticheskogo brat·stva YA dayu vam etot artefakt . Eto to, chto my v plemena nazyvayut" metr ". Metrov v silakh obnaruzhitʹ mutantov v radiuse sta metrov,rasstoyanie dostatochno bolʹshoe , chtoby gotovitʹ sebya pered uzhasami poyavlyayut·sya. Pri etom vy mozhete sdelatʹ dostatochno zelenyĭ komissariata Pitanie zarabotatʹ na pereval , kuda vy khotite yekhatʹ ."
“Comrade in the name of Socialist Fraternity I give you this artifact. It's what we in the Tribes call a 'Meter'. Meters have the power to detect Mutants within a hundred meters, a distance large enough to ready yourself before the horrors appear. With this you can make enough green for the Commissariat of Nourishment to earn a Pass to wherever you wish to travel.”

About to thank him, I was stopped by a heavy hand. Advokat smiled and answered my unspoken question by saying,

" Eto protivorechit Kodeksu poblagodaritʹ drugu na pomoshchʹ. "
“It is against the Code to thank a friend for help.”

I raised an eyebrow quizzically in reply and asked,

" To, chto kodeks? "
“What Code?”

Advokat smiled in response and said,

"Sekretnoĭ . Maska gaza i Kalash zhizni bolʹshe, chem prosto Anarkhizm i rasskazatʹ vam bolʹshe bylo by narusheniem kodeksa s moyeĭ storony. Budʹte blagodarny ya dal tebyeartefakt i pomogli Vam ot imeni Novoĭ bolʹshevizma , kotoryĭ yavlyaet·sya chastʹyu koda , yesli by ya dyeĭstvoval vo imya protivogaz i Kalash ya by iznasiloval svoyu zhenshchinu i dostavili cherepa dlya Lubanja."
“A secret one. The Gas Mask and Kalash life is more than just Anarchism and to tell you any more would be a violation of the code on my part. Be thankful I gave you an artifact and helped you in the name of Novaya Bolshevism, which is part of the code, if I was acting in the name of Gas Mask and Kalash I would've raped your woman and taken your skull for the Lubanja.”

Unsettling words to sleep on.

[Central and Eastern Visayas]

[ MT ]

[ Mature ]

This story is Part One of a Mature-themed series.

Beyond Borders: Call of Vengeance (I)

Atty. Horace G. Ponte, Ll.B.
CEV Air Academy
0241 CEV Time

Horace Ponte was expecting three helicopters from the WVA just near the Air Academy's facilities. This was his first big break as a sworn agent of the CEV FBI, and as all big breaks go, he went through much trouble not to mess things up. Flanking him were two other men, a brother agent from the Dumaguete Field Office and a Gendarme from the Argao Station.

"So, how long do you think it'll take before they're here?" asked the Gendarme.

"No idea, Lagaac. No idea," replied the agent from Dumaguete.

Ponte remained calm amid the noise--the Air Force Officer Cadets were having a night exercise. And then he could hear something amiss.

"You guys hear that?" Ponte asked.

"Doesn't sound like one of ours, Ponte," replied the other agent.

"And you know this because...?" Lagaac asked.

"Field office is just half a kilometer away from the airbase."

"How do you manage not to lose your hearing, Mantua?" Ponte then asked.

"Earplugs." Lights were blinking as Mantua replied. The lights started to close in until the three could make helicopter shapes.

Mantua was right: those three sets of lights weren't CEVAF helicopters. Three AS565 UB helicopters carrying a total of twenty-four members of the Western Visayan 33rd Special Operations Command-Assault Regiment were closing in on the designated spot.

Eric D. Larida
City of Argao
0301 CEV Time

Eric was a rather wealthy man. To the public, he was a benevolent and charitable personality. Underneath that facade, however, lay a merciless soul; he was one of those who served as benefactors to the organizers of what people knew as the Bacolod Catholic Pogrom. And he was in deep sleep, not knowing what would befall him soon.

Callsign "Grog"
Feet-wet over the Tañon Strait
0326 CEV Time

Grog was one of the members of the 33rd SCAR sent by WVP for Operation NEVER FORGIVEN, the systematic hunting of people involved in the Bacolod Catholic Pogrom. Learning from his superiors of what the operation would entail only served to fuel his determination. The Pogrom had orphaned a nephew, who was now under the the care of his long-widowed mother.

"Well, I hope you like it here, guys," said Zachary Mantua, one of the CEV liaisons attached to the men. Grog looked at the guy with ease, mainly because it reminded him of that brother he lost.

"Hey, Grog? Ten says we're gonna attack at dawn," challenged another SCAR operative.

"Nice try, Sade," he replied.

"Twenty, and it's tonight," countered another SCAR operative

"Sure about that, Nighthawk?" Sade asked.

"By tonight, I meant around 2300 or so, Sade!"

"Alright, guys. Listen up!" interjected Mantua. "As a gesture of goodwill your flight will have liaisons. Do you guys know what to do?"

"Fuck yes!" screamed the SCAR operatives as one voice.

Callsign "Plot"
Feet-wet over the Tañon Strait
0338 CEV Time

Plot heard the CEV Gendarme say something over the radio. From what he could gather, Jon Lagaac was saying something about a safehouse.

Plot then went into a semi-drowse state, attempting to drown the noise of the HH-60G, but every time he did, he could remember Bacolod. Martial Law had been declared, and he had been among the first SCAR operatives during the hunt for Pogrom ringleaders. The UNO-R complex was heavily damaged, men, women, and children were killed...Plot could never get the image off his mind. And it showed.

[-Deus-]

[Stories of Lrae-Epsos #3]

PT

[The Cave]

---

---

I was born a man in darkness. I do not remember falling into the darkness of this cave or anything before that point. I am left to assume that I was born here. My first waking thought as I lay on the ground, my entire body shaking and nothing but blackness all around me, was 'I am dead' and that is what the people called me, Dead. I was not alone in this cave, you see, for even though there was darkness there were people that had learned to perceive without the senses. An entire village of people, not just surviving, but thriving like shadows. They had not the faintest clue of what I or their world looked like, yet they seemed at peace with their environment, a loving blissfulness instead of frustration and hate at their peculiar conundrum. When I awoke first to the cave all I could do was scream and cry like a child because I could not see; I felt the world collapse around me and I felt dead.

They left me to my despair at first, bringing me food and water from some unknown underground source and they left me there. I had no sense of time, place or direction and I would've starved myself to death if not for Sen. Sen was a kind man, much older than I as he told me, with no living family of his own. He took me into his home and fed me, clothed me and kept me safe from the world outside. It wasn't pleasant, but it was living. He spoke to me daily, telling me stories or describing the things that passed us by and I simply sat on my cot and tried to make sense of it all. How did he see? Did his eyes produce light? I asked him many times and all he would do is chuckle, and tell me "I will explain on the morrow". But the next day never seemed to come. It was an eternal night for me, and for him, he knew that and he felt so content with that knowledge. I could hardly even tell if I was asleep, dead or awake.

It all felt like a dream.

But eventually dreams have to come to an end. It was like any other time, silence for the first quarter, Sen's stories in the second, food in the third and a final story in the fourth. Yet as I began to drift off into what I sensed was sleep I was quickly jolted alive by water. Cold, stinging water that shock me violently from my half-dead sense of being. I leapt to my feet immediately and I remember peering my eyes so tightly, only a faint figure being made out from all my effort. Sen laughed at me and I felt he had shook his head before the tone of his voice suddenly changed. "Do you wish to die in this place?"

"No...No I do not. I do not want to die in this place!" I suppose this meant that I was alive.

"Then why do you seat there on that cot without even attempting to live? You are already dead, acting like that...So wake!" I was alive. "WAKE UP!"

he next lessons were ones on touch. I felt around with my hands and feet, slithering like a worm on top of the rock floor. It was hard at first but eventually I learned the positions of the furniture and their shape, texture and size. I could differentiate the different plates by the ridges in their designs, and I was able to recite words from scrolls and scraps of paper by the small bumps produced by the jabbing motion Sen used to write. I was able to at least experience the hut on a different, more satisfying level now that I could move around it without fear.

From that point forward everything changed. Sen next taught me to listen, to take in the sounds around me. I was able to at least get a sense of position as I stumbled around his small hut. I listened for large things first, like the crackle of fire or the movement of furniture and cries of people outside of the house. It slowly became little things though as my ears honed in on the smallest tap against the rock by water, the air forcing itself through the small cracks in the ceiling, the trickling water slowly slithering along the ground, grinding it ever so gently. I felt better, empowered even and I took my first steps in what must've been at least a year outside of that hut. I conversed with people, made friends even and I felt alive.

I was taught to smell again, to use identify people by the sound of their voice and their special scent. After awhile every rock took on a different personality, a different scent and sound and feeling that made them individual. Where you see a simple, dull looking rock, I see a child of the soil. A living, breathing piece of our planet that cannot help that it was born so simple. And slowly my sense began to grow. The world was no longer dark, but a fine painting to me as I waded through the different sounds, smells, textures and even tastes...I was alive again. By this time I had long ago forgotten my name and while they called me Dead I felt the name was inappropriate. So I became Tree, and as I dived deeper into the mysteries of perception I was awarded with an equal amount of answers. Time lost it's meaning as Sen and I grew old and died many times, our souls long since evolving past their primitive base.

I became everything as everything became I.

We were no longer bound to earth by gravity and we began to grow stronger. We trained our bodies and mind and grew into Titans...We were at complete bliss, our world an Eden the likes of which you will never even begin to comprehend, for when there is no time, no body, no soul, no death, no life, no anything...It is indescribably pleasant.

And I suppose we were ignorant to assume the world outside of our reality would follow our conceptions. Eventually, there came a loud rumbling, a cracking of the earth around us, a flood of new, violent sensations that sent us into a panic as our world fell around us. Light, light flooded through from the outside world and we were scared to look upon it. They had been digging for gold but instead they found us, people so far evolved that they did not comprehend us when they pulled us from our paradise. We were stripped apart and we became individuals again, and I looked upon the world with disgust. I could just barely recognize my fellow man after such a long time and fled from them...I fled from them in a rage; an emotion I had not felt in several lifetimes. And rather than look upon such an ugly world I did the only natural thing, and took away that which allowed such depravity into my mind. To bliss I have returned, yet I am alone in my pleasure. The doors have been opened by me and I wallow in the paradise beyond, yet the doors were not opened alone, nor shall they ever be opened by the individual.

I only write this now so that you may follow me into the cave.

[End]

[Jenrak]

Updated!

[Jenrak]

[ P/MT? ]

[ They Make Things Right ]

She woke up, sitting upright on the bed. Her fingers touched the tips of her eyelids, and she winced a bit. It’s hard to get used to it. Standing up, there’s still the stench of tobacco on her shirt, followed by a few dried blotches. “Fuck.” She whispered, rubbing her forehead. It’s never gonna go out. Creeping out of her door, she looked down the hallways.

There were no shadows in the hallway, just sunlight. She walked down the hallway to the room at the end, and slowly opened the door. The room was bare and eggshell white. She knelt down by the small bed, the little boy tucked neatly as his hands were on his ears. He fell asleep in that position. She smiled, and grimaced a little bit at the smile. It still stung. Her fingers on the boy, she parted a bit of his long, growing hair.

Slowly, bright eyes opened and looked at her with a groggy, inquisitive stare. “Mommy?” He asked, his hands slowly moving to touch hers. The pain didn’t matter to her – she smiled for him, her hands on his cheeks.

“What, baby?” She asked.

“Are you okay, mommy?” He asked, looking at her.

“I’m fine, baby.” She whispered, and kissed his forehead. “Do you want some breakfast?” Her voice was soft, like the gentle utterances of an angel. “Mommy’s gonna make breakfast soon. Do you want some?”

He never broke eye contact. “What happened to your eye, mommy?”

Her gentle smile quivered and there seemed to be a lump in her throat. But she didn’t cry. There were no tears. Her hand still ran through his hair, and she kissed him one more time. “Nothing. Mommy just had a little problem, honey.”

“Is it daddy?” He asked. There was no expression. Just a boy, staring blankly at the throbbing mess of purple and red.

“No, sweetie.” She said. “Mommy just had a little accident, but she’s okay now. Come on, let’s get up. Start our new day.” Her voice was dry and hoarse.

He touched her lips with his small hands, but she kept smiling. It didn’t matter to her. She kept smiling for him.

---

He learned to drink when he was eleven. He found a certain solace in the warmth of alcohol. He picked the locks of the poorly designed cabinet away and opened it up, revealing a dustless cavern of whisky and brandy and scotch and bourbon. His first love was the smell of Daniel’s and Karkov’s and his first love had percentages.

When he’d hear the shuffle of the garage door, he’d stash it away, standing there with his eyes downcast and the feet of his mother’s walks through the doors. She’d make something super fast, super quick. The two of them would eat, and then he’d go to sleep.

He heard the man come home every night. His footsteps were loud, like the stamping of a beast, and he’d always start off with a sigh. Then a groan. Then a curse.

Then a thump. It always ended in a thump. Sometimes two. Sometimes she’d shriek at him, and he’d yell back. He never grew out of sleeping with his hands over his ears.

Sometimes, he’d never come home until the morning. During those days, the boy would think that the man would never come home at all. During those days, he’d smile and run to her, but she’d just sit there, smiling back whenever he did. She waited for him in her chair, her hands on her knees and sitting upright as the bandages would peel from her face.

Sometimes it seemed like he’d never come home. Those days, the boy thought that he’d be happy, but he never was. He never smiled during those days. He couldn’t.

She didn’t.

---

When he grew up, people called him a genius. They called him an unbelievable man, of insurmountable ability. They called him the next Einstein, and he had nothing to show for it. Empty words and empty praise, but unbelievable pressure. They expected things from him that he never wanted them to. They wanted things from him that would fix world and make everything better. They wanted him, a man, to play God.

One of his new friends, however, did not. She was beautiful, in a way that he could only describe as perfect. She was everything he wanted to be, and everything he wanted her to be. She was kind, understanding, and caring. “Don’t care about them.” She said to him, and he’d grip her hands tight. She’d wince, but would smile back. It sickened him.

But it wasn’t right. Everybody wanted the Grey Matter locked up him his skull, wishing for that mass of flesh and empty electrical waves to tinker at anything and everything. “So much waste potential”, they’d say. Who were they? He didn’t know.

He didn’t care. Fuck them, he’d think. Fuck them all. It doesn’t matter what they think. Some nights she’d make him forget about it all, but it never went away. It never truly goes away. One day, he accidentally pushed her to the side of the bed. She groans at the bruise, and he hugs her. “I’ll never do it again”, he said. He wasn’t him.

---

One day, his mother is dying. She’s rushed to the hospital, and the two of them enter the room. It is bereft of company. That man is never there. It is empty. It is eggshell white. She tells him to be anything he wants to be. She tells him that it doesn’t matter. “You don’t have to be anything you don’t want to be.” She said, laying on white sheet surrounded by four panels of cold steel and a small ring of doctors. “Be what you want to be.” She said. “You’re always my angel.”

His mother grew older, frailer, and quieter, but never forget him, and him. And it infuriated him. The small bulge of the cut lip was still there. It had been there since he first remembered it, and he knew that he knew a way to fix it. That Grey Matter would be needed one last time.

And yet, sadness is a terror. It is a vile terror. It’s a knife, carving its way into his soul. He clutches at it, and the girl holds him close. She cries with him. She rarely cries. That night, the two of them sit and talk, wondering about the future, about themselves, about the past. She kisses him, and he kisses her back. They break out a bottle of whisky, and together, they entwine themselves in drunken passion. She utters the words ‘I love you’, her nails digging into his back.

He never says it back.

---

The two of them marry, and the world remarks the union of their brilliance. But time is a harsh thing. It never goes away, those memories. The dreams become nothing but shrieks and howls, and he awakes in a cold sweat. “Baby, what’s wrong?” She asks, waking up to his cries, her hands on his back. His very tendons quiver and he seems to rattle with pain. He gets up, goes to the cabinet, and takes a drink. His feet feel light and his step is heavy, and he returns to the bedroom.

With hands clasped together he kisses her and she tastes the brandy on his lips. She’s disappointed, but she doesn’t say it. She doesn’t groan or moan or cry. She rarely cries.

That night, they’re together beneath a red moon.

In nine months, he has a son. He is beautiful, with bright and inquisitive eyes. But even with his joy, the nightmares never go away. That man is still out there, alive.

That man never showed up when his mother died. He simply disappeared.

---

Time degrades his mind. He takes solace in alcohol and thought, poring over books and pieces of work and numbers and derivatives and logarithms and algorithms and fractals and everything in between. His walls at work become entwined in a dance of ‘what ifs’ and a mess of physics and philosophy. His eyes are red and he prolongs his waking days with coffee and soothes the jittering twitches of his muscles with alcohol. When he goes home, she’s there with her arms crossed, shaking her head.

He doesn’t remember much but a redness in his eyes and a blackness in hers. “I’m sorry.” He says, crying every time. He means it, but it bubbles in him. He needs to fix those nightmares. Every time. Every single time. He wakes up in a cold sweat, takes a drink, and goes back to bed. Sometimes she resists, but he’s stronger than her. Alcohol warms his cooling blood now. Soon, it will become his blood.

---

He rarely sees his sounds. “He’s just like you.” She implores, begging him during the days she waits for him. “He’s like you. He’s smart, just like his father. A true genius.” She stays at home now, looking after the son he never sees. All he sees are the capillaries of light and arteries of optic cable and the glass and steel and everything in between. He’s found a way. He’s found a way to cure those nightmares.

That man is nowhere to be found, but he’ll find him now. He’ll find him at home. He’ll find him when the man would still visit his home. He’ll find him. He’ll find and he’ll make him understand. The becomes more of a child to him than his own child. No more nightmares. No more nightmares. No more memories of terror and hands clasped over his ears. All he has to do is fix it. He needs to make it right.

He’ll find him. He’ll find in the stream of God, unabated by time and events. He loads his pistol, steps into the machine, and flips the switch. There is a bright blue light, and he blacks out.

He wakes up in the machine, back at his house. There is a glimmer of light beyond the door. He knocks on it, but nobody is there. He hears the frantic shuffling of boots, and quickly grabs the doorknob. He flings it open, and shoots with his eyes closed, hearing only the noise of gunshots and a loud thud. He drops the gun, and runs.

He’s free now. He’s cured. He cured! No more nightmares! Now he can return home and be the person his father never was! A real father.

A caring father. No more nightmares.

He jumps into the machine, and goes back to his own time. He smiles for the first time in a long time. He sighs and jumps out, landing in his house. He’s perplexed, but it doesn’t matter to him.

Then, he hears a knock on the door.

[Central and Eastern Visayas]

[ MT ]

[ Mature ]

This story is Part Two of a Mature-themed series.

Beyond Borders: Call of Vengeance (II)

Atty. Horace G. Ponte, Ll.B.
FBI Safehouse, City of Toledo
0432 CEV Time

"I hope you guys are all here," Ponte said to the SCAR operatives. "Have any of you ever been to Moalboal? Off-duty, of course!"

"Yeah. Is it still a fun place?" asked one of the operatives.

"Thought you'd never ask," Ponte replied. "Tell you what, maybe one of those days we can all meet there for some R&R." This got the operatives laughing.

"But I digress. Moalboal will be our last stopover before you guys do what you do. We leave at 0800, so you guys might want to give yourselves a good bath. Breakfast is at 0630. Hope you guys like a full English breakfast, tea included," he continued, smirking. "I personally prefer coffee, though," Ponte then added, chuckling.

Eric D. Larida
City of Argao
0445 CEV Time

The alarm rang for Larida; it was time for him to wake up and perform his morning ritual. While it did take him a few minutes to work out some of the cricks he accumulated over the night, he was ready to exercise. At 53, Eric needed the exercise if he wanted to live long enough to further his goals.

Sgt. Ebenezer F. Quiel, WVA
Callsign "Shogun"
CEVFBI Safehouse, City of Toledo
0452 CEV Time

"Nobody drop the soap, alright?" requested Sade. Petty Officer Jan "Sade" Rosal was the team's resident smartass. Normally, this would earn him a bitchslapping from a superior officer, but damn, that wiseguy can snipe.

"Wouldn't even think of it, Sade," Shogun replied as he entered the bathroom.

PO Ryan P. Yan, WVN
Callsign "Seaking"
CEVFBI Safehouse, City of Toledo
0459 CEV Time

"Fuck yeah, Seaking!" cheered Grog as Seaking left the bathroom, fully dry. Sergeant Hector Sales of the WVAF was Yan's buddy on and off the field, and antics like that were rather common.

"Well, you're next, Grog. Don't take too long."

Sgt. Georg K. Lim, WVA
Callsign "Nighthawk"
0513 CEV Time

Nighthawk was sipping some of the English Breakfast Tea while thinking about that day. The memories felt so clear...

Callsign "Nighthawk"
FOB "Seraphim," City of Bacolod
1925 WVP Time

"Listen up: Martial Law had been declared by PM Lopez as a result of the anti-Catholic massacres that took place. While it is normally not our place to pacify such a threat, massive loss of life and damage to property has been wreaked by the perpetrators--in fact, certain civil groups have actually requested that it be considered genocide.

"But that is not why you are here. Members of SCAR, your mission is to search for personalities that lead this group of homicidal maniacs. Gentlemen, Operation NEVER FORGIVEN has begun."

Those were the words of the CO of the 33rd. "Never forgive" indeed.

"Nighthawk, Vector, Archer, I want you three scouring District 40. UNO-R was hit rather bad... See if you can check for survivors. If you find any, call it in and the Territorials will handle the rest. Clear?" asked the field commander.

"Crystal" was our reply.

"Rules of engagement, sir?" asked Archer.

"Weapons tight--no civilian casualties."

[East Klent]

[ MT ]

The Millennium Project

Chapter One

"New Millennium, Same Game..."

Unknown Location
December 25, 1999

The sound of running feet on the wet cobblestone streets echoed throughout the night. They were steadily paced even though they were quick. Evenly spaced intervals allowed the runner full control through the turns and maximum speed on straight pathways. This was the result of careful training and experience.

The footsteps of the persurers, however, where uneven, undisciplined; as such, they clambered noisily in pursuit of their target who was widening the gap with each passing step. However, they did have one advantage, their weapons. They needed not to be close to their prey to disable it, which is what they intended to do.

The man out in front of the hunters knew all too well the imminent threat that was posed against him, yet he continued his escape with a calm determination. He took note of any landmarks he could see in the darkness in order to navigate his way through the ancient city. He made sure that each turn he took was deliberate, trying to avoid any contact with anyone, for he did not want to put any innocent lives in danger. He reached into his holster and pulled out his pistol; even though he was a safe distance from his would-be captors, he gripped the weapon to ensure his protection.

The man came to a stop in front of a row house and jostled in his pockets for the key to the door. Once he had the key, he inserted into the lock, opened the door and dashed inside, closing the door behind him. He placed his gun back into his holster and stepped up to the top floor on the spiral staircase.

He then headed down the hallway of the top floor and came to the last door on the right. It was ajar. He removed his gun from the holster keeping a tight grip on it as he pushed slightly on the door; it creaked open. Even in the darkness he could see the dead bodies of his team sprawled across the floor. He recognized the sound of an automatic rifle being aimed at the back of his head.

"You might want to surrender now," the owner of the rifle growled.

"You massacred my team, you've chased me throughout the city, do you honestly expect me to let you arrest me?"

Before there was a response, their was a shot.

End Chapter One

[Nous Vatriae]

[Somnia Dramatica]
Act Two

FT

[Pavane for a Lost Soul]

---

---

"So what'cha in for jack?" His teeth have long since rotted and while there is a shower with soap in the facility he still smells like an ass.

"Theft" he snickered and smiled, the signs of a younger man. A stupid man. "Tried ta' get a PFV so I could get down to, uh, Bacchus." They shuffled along, trays in hand, seemingly oblivious to the poison being slapped down on their plates. Is this living? Three meals of gruel laced with so many chemicals and synthetics that it could be considered plastic by now. Then this young man turns to me and asks "what about you Red? What brought you in here?" The first man grits the ruinous remains of teeth still in his mouth and then gives a crooked smile. "Can'tcha speak bruv?"

I just stare at him. "Murder" I whisper slowly, my eyes fixating onto the ground in a deranged gaze, "I killed a man...Thirty years to the day." I slap tray from his hands and walk out of line, smirking. 'This is not life', I mutter to myself, yet it's been life for thirty years. Walking through these filthy halls of broken, cracked concrete with cells piled high with soot and decay, men with no spirit nor soul left in their bodies. They...No, we are husks of men, our souls lost in antiquity. And I am the worse, I feel, for I don't feel any despair or sadness over my condition. This is not life? Well I enjoy being dead!

My name before any of this was Vergil Aneas, but now I am known as Red. I was a typical person of Nous Vatriae; curious, compassionate, blissfully ignorant and so on and so forth. But we are animals, of course; simple beasts of the field which have grown to used to the pleasures of space and luxury. The storm is coming for us all, but not yet...For now, or in correction, at the time it, it only grasped hold of me. And now I rot away in this place, this prison in which there is no man worth himself that is not yearning for freedom. But I find my solace in here among the soulless and claw at the inner sanctum of the mind instead of wallowing in self-pity. My mind and body have been trained in this metaphorical darkness and the day I emerge from it, I will be a titan among those that dress in fine clothing and buy useless items to mask their internal animal.

Over the years, I have developed an intense hatred for humanity. You people disgust and haunt me because you are so...so fake, so shallow and plastic like dolls. The day will come when you're all bent over the stone, the axe coming down over your neck. And on that day I will laugh at your suffering and embrace death warmly. Nihilistic, is it not?

The cells have no bars, yet we are still trapped. The bars had rusted away a long time ago and instead of, say, implementing shock collars as other prisons have done, they allow us to roam free and kill each other. And they still expect us to change so as to be released when all they've done is allowed us animals to turn from simple beasts into grotesque monsters and caricatures of humanity! I can recall now, as I lay on my cot within my cell, the pain I felt when I first step foot into this hell. I wept and begged and pleaded, falling into a pit of depression that nearly ate me alive. But the prison changed me, corrupted my soul and tore it out as an offering for my well-being in it's torturous depths. I emerged from that pit as a free man, rather than a prisoner; my mind long ago unlocking the secrets of true perception and freedom.

As I lay now on my cot, staring up at the ceiling which shimmers in the light, I know that soon this will be over. I realize that I will either die tonight or embark on my life's purpose. These man around me have begged too long for some form of revitalization and rescue. I offer them sanctuary and revenge. And now...Now, as the prison rocks and shakes, the few guards that remain yelling and screaming, talk of
"explosion" and "fire abound", I feel I owe them at least the chance to escape the fire that is to come and live life in the world the inferno will create.

Our pavane will not be for nothing, it will be for lost souls. It will be to reclaim what we've lost. It will be to restore what was stolen from us! Are we not allowed that right?

[END]

[Layarteb]

OOC: This topic may or may not contain mature content. You take that risk when you read my work. If you are easily dissuaded by mature content, faint of heart, eager to run to moderation and complain that something isn't "intended for all audiences" or that "you are offended," overly critical, afraid to read long posts that might be in excess of two thousand words, or a crybaby, please do not continue. You're under no requirement to read anything that is written below. If, of course, you are none of these then I invite you not only to read through what is below but also to telegram me with your thoughts, opinions, critiques, and constructive comments, regardless of their positivity or negativity. Please enjoy this and thank you for getting through this semi-satirical disclaimer.

[ MT ]

O Brave New World
An Exerpt

¤ ¤ ¤ ¤ ¤ ¤ ¤ ¤ ¤ ¤ | ¤ ¤ ¤ ¤ ¤ ¤ ¤ ¤ ¤ ¤

February 8, 2012 - 01:15 hrs [UTC-4]
135 mi west of Terra Nova do Norte, Mato Grosso
Amazon Rainforest
(10° 51' 58.86" S, 57° 7' 56.42" W)

The slapping of rotors filled the deep, night air as CPT Haley and his men checked their watches. Right on time… CPT Haley thought to himself as he grabbed the infrared strobe, flicked it on, and tossed it into the clearing. It wouldn't matter which way it landed, it emitted infrared light on all sides. "Hold the perimeter," he ordered as he moved up closer to the clearing, and then took a few steps into it as the black body of a helicopter appeared. He silently cursed underneath his breath that it wasn't an Osprey but a ride home was a ride home and he gave visual direction to the pilots as they brought the powerful helicopter into a hover about fifty feet off of the deck and then slowly descended into the clearing, the main rotors clearing the trees by no more than ten feet on all four sides.

"All right, board up!" CPT Haley ordered over the radio as he walked over to the lowered, rear ramp of the MH-53 Pave Low. Not that he could tell whether it was a "J" or an "M" model but he guessed, correctly at least, that it was a "J" model, which the Achesians possessed. The MOI would ensure that the airframes that they used were akin to those used by neighbors and with a few false numbers around the aircraft and no visual identifications proving it to be Layartebian-operated or Layartebian-owned; the helicopter was "clean."

Counting in his head, CPT Haley gave a smile to SFC Cooper as he stepped onto the ramp. The last man on the ground, CPT Haley stepped onto the ramp next and gave a signal to the helicopter's loadmaster that everyone was onboard. A few words were spoken over the intercom, the ramp began to rise, and the helicopter lifted off of the ground. Like the rest of his men, CPT Haley collapsed into a seat alongside the hull of the helicopter and let out a deep, long breath of air. The loadmaster barely let him finish before he was standing over him, tapping on his headphones for CPT Haley to put a pair of headphones on, "Captain wants to talk to you." The loadmaster mouthed since the noise of the helicopter too great to allow conversation.

Reluctantly, CPT Haley put the headphones on, knowing that there was nothing to say. He just wanted to close his eyes and rest until they were back in Pará. "Captain, go ahead," a voice said over the intercom, it being from the loadmaster.

"Gentlemen, welcome aboard," the captain said, unaware that only CPT Haley had the headphones on, "I wasn't given your names and I know you don't want to give them. It's one-eight-zero miles back to friendly airspace, we'll be flying nap-of-the-Earth the whole way, so sit comfortable. We should have an easy ride, route is pretty clean… Andre wanted me to thank you personally, he was called away and he won't be at the airfield when we get back." That was it and CPT Haley gave the thumbs up, pulled off the headphones, and slouched into the seat. 1LT Lashley and SSG Bugsy were already asleep and so were the two Delta commandos, SGT Micks and SFC Ferdinand. Before the helicopter had gotten back up to cruising speed, CPT Haley was asleep.

¤ ¤ ¤ ¤ ¤ ¤ ¤ ¤ ¤ ¤ | ¤ ¤ ¤ ¤ ¤ ¤ ¤ ¤ ¤ ¤

Forty-five minutes later, CPT Haley was dreaming what could be akin to a nightmare's nightmare. He was lost in the Amazon Rainforest, the dog tags of his entire team in his shirt pocket, his own rifle blasted apart by ricochets, his map gone, his GPS and compass lost, and it was nighttime. He had no night vision goggles and no weapons, just his bare hands and in the distance, he heard the rumbles of thunder. He couldn't see them let but the flashes of lightning were clearly on their way and whether he was being chased or not he couldn't ascertain but he was running, running with all of his energy, trying to get away from some unknown, perhaps lurking enemy. Perhaps the enemy was all around him and no matter where he ran to, no matter how fast he ran, no matter what rocks he hid under, this enemy was always watching him, always seeing him, always hearing him, always listening to his thoughts. There was, quite simply, no escape from this lurking enemy.

CPT Haley never got to see if that lurking enemy was going to find him as he was violently ripped out of one nightmare and quite literally thrown into another. He opened his eyes just in time to see the helicopter's floor rapidly approaching his face. His hands went out and only just stopped his fall. The lurching motion of the helicopter was violently and CPT Haley felt barely any control over which way he was going to be tossed next. The smell of burning rubber and metal filled the air and he turned over to see the red cabin lights augmented by the orange and yellow flames of a fire rolling across the ceiling. Bodies lay everywhere and as the helicopter was flung about to the port side, CPT Haley, not strapped in or anything, went flying with it, momentarily feeling as if he were floating in outer space.

He hit the fuselage wall hard and barely kept himself lucid as someone slammed into him. He heard a groan but the way he had been pinned wouldn't allow him to turn his head to see who had sandwiched him against the fuselage wall. A klaxon sounded and he thought he heard the words "Mayday, mayday…" He couldn't be certain though. There was so much noise. The engines above were as loud as they had been on takeoff, maybe even louder. There was a horrible grinding sound and he could hear screaming. The helicopter lurched again, this time to the starboard side as the helicopter very violently oscillated back and forth. CPT Haley had barely enough time to get his hands out in front of him before he was slamming into the fuselage wall or the fuselage floor.

He felt the heat of the fire above him and heard the noise of a liquid previously under high pressure spraying around the cabin. Hot droplets landed on his face but it didn't register. There was a bright flash and suddenly the air temperature in the cabin doubled, tripled, quadrupled, in just milliseconds. He was flung to the side again and this time he was able to get himself turned around to see the bodies of his men flying around like ragdolls. Only MSG Robertson and SGT Lane, the two paratroopers, had enough sense to strap themselves in after takeoff. Both of them were still against the port side wall but they didn't look as if they were very responsive. SGT Lane had his chin tucked into his chest and MSG Robertson's arms flung around very limply.

Another lurch, another sound, another flash of heat, another echo of voices, and then suddenly, the helicopter dropped an immeasurable distance and CPT Haley was flung against the ceiling. His back smashed against the rolling flames and he felt the heat sear right into his clothes and then he could smell burnt hair as the helicopter lurched upwards at what seemed like a vertical angle. CPT Haley fell to the floor, rolled, and found himself on the ramp, clinging to the seats for dear life, hoping that the ramp wouldn't suddenly lower and deposit his body into the rainforest below them.

The noise instantly became deafening and the helicopter lurched yet again but this time so violently, so horrifically, and so suddenly that CPT Haley had no time to do anything. His head slammed into the fuselage and he saw nothing but bright colors and starbursts before his eyes as he fell down onto the seats below. Warmth trickled down his face and in a brief, final moment of clarity all he could hear was "One-twenty-one-bearing-zero-five-five…" Then all was darkness…

¤ ¤ ¤ ¤ ¤ ¤ ¤ ¤ ¤ ¤ ||| ¤ ¤ ¤ ¤ ¤ ¤ ¤ ¤ ¤ ¤

O Brave New World
This was an exerpt from the above story. If you want to read the rest, follow the link.

[Saurisisia]

[ FT ]

[ Mature ]

Correcting A Female's Mistakes

She awoke, breathing heavily, a severe pain throughout most of her body and lying on the cold floor of a small bare concrete room with only a single light overhead and a lone bunk on the far side. Sitting up due to a chill rising through her body from lying on the floor, she realized that she was clad in only her underwear, with bruises and cuts here and there on various parts of her body. Her clothes were nowhere to be seen, their whereabouts a mystery to her.

She got up all the way onto her three-toed feet, albeit with difficulty due to a terrible, aching pain in her abdomen, which she had to grip as she stood up. The blue-and-white Megalosaurus (with some splotches of black on the sides and back of her head around the eyes, shoulders, and upper back) nervously scanned the room, trying to figure out how she had got here. She was also attempting to piece together the events that had occurred previously.

It was then that she heard the sound of clinging and heard the sound of a steel door on the other side of the room opening up. She turned around to see three black-clad figures, all Reptilian judging by the scales on their necks and faces and the thick tails swinging behind them. The one in the center, the tallest of the three and clad in a long trenchcoat with a large peaked cap covering most of his face, approached her. Her heart rate quickening, the female began to back up as she saw that the figure was eying her suspiciously, cold blue eyes seeming to penetrate her very soul. She quivered, not just from nervousness but from the cold air within the room, with nothing but her underwear to keep her warm.

Finally, the figure spoke in a contemptuous tone, "So, Ms. Miranda Fitzgerald..." Gulping silently, she replied, "Y- yes... th- that... is my n... name." The figure spoke again, "Yes, Ms. Fitzgerald, I know a lot about you, from what your friends, relatives, and neighbors had to say about you. You live in Apartment 4C, 3220 West Brook Avenue. You work as a waitress in a popular diner downtown. You like hanging out at the beach in your spare time. You like cars, snakes," he then paused, looking sideways before continuing, "and apparently," his eyes narrowed as he glanced menacingly at the Megalosaurus, "Humans," he hissed in a quiet voice that dripped with disdain.

A quizzical look formed on her face, raising an eye-ridge, as she queried, "Humans? What in the Mesozoic are you talking about? I've never liked Humans." This caused a sinister smile to appear on the Reptile's teeth-lined snout before he responded, "Oh, do you not recall? Have you forgotten? Did you forget the reason you're here, milady?" He had emphasized the last word in a way as to mock the female and passive-aggressively display his seeming disdain for her.

Continuing to eye the figure suspiciously, she snapped, "What are you talking about? You're really making no damn sense at all. Just stop with the questioning and get the hell out of here! All of you! I just want my clothes back and to get out of this freezing shithole. Do you not fucking understand that-"

Her angry demand was interrupted by the figure grabbing her by the neck. She could feel the power and strength in his three-fingered hand that had wrapped around her skinny neck. Her heart rate increased as she looked in panic and fear into those cold blue eyes. He growled, "Listen, bitch, I could seriously hurt you for your blatant disrespect for an Officer of the State Police." It was then that he let her go, the female trying to calm her panicked breathing after feeling the release of that powerful grip from her throat. He clearly seemed much stronger than he looked, his trenchcoat hiding the shape of his body. He then continued, this time in a much gentler voice, "But I would never dare to harm such a lovely young woman as yourself." Leaning over, he began stroking the underside of her snout. As he did so, she happened to notice with horror a predatory glint in his eyes. "At least," he whispered to her with a grin, "Not much."

Eying him warily, the Megalosaurus was taken by surprise as she felt a cold sting slashing across the side of her snout. The force of the blow, obviously from him, had sent her head sideways before she refocused her gaze back to him. Putting her right hand up to her snout, she felt something warm and wet, and when she pulled it away, she saw that it was blood. The female glanced back at the officer, who was smiling at her.

It was right then that she again was taken off guard by him, this time he violently pushed her back. This sent her backwards, collapsing partially to the ground, having managed to get a firm grip on the ground just before her snout had impacted on the hard floor. Stumbling up, her wounds aching her, somehow her memories began jogging and she finally remembered what had happened previous to her uncomfortable awakening.

She remembered how she was at the beach one sunny day when she had a Human who was... actually not bad for a Human. They swam, played catch with a beachball, and generally had fun together on that beach. Then they spent some time together as the sun went down and pretty much everyone else left and got to know each other as they watched the sunset. Then, one thing led to another and... It was that moment, when she recalled what they did together while dusk wearied on and night was approaching on that empty beach, that her red eyes widened, a shocked expression on her face.

Out of the corner of her eye, she could see that the officer was smiling while his tail swayed. She continued remembering, how she and the Human met in private once in a while to carry out their little "get-together", whether it was on the beach, or her apartment, or his house, or in a forest, or in a tent out in the wilderness, his car, or her car. She then remembered what had happened that had led to this. The two of them were in her apartment, carrying out their usual acts of intimacy, and were relaxing in the aftermath of the event when suddenly, a number of black-clad figures similar to the ones in the room right now were. They were SP, somehow having monitored both herself and her Human lover for some time. After forcing the two of them to get dressed, the officers forced them outside where they were put into an SP vehicle which then promptly took them to the central SP Headquarters where they were then forced into cells deep underground.

She remembered being stripped to her underwear and beaten by the guards handling her. Then they left her alone and she collapsed onto the ground, crying, before she finally fell asleep. And when she had woken up, well, that's when all this started. Wearily looking back at the officer, she could see that his smile had widened into a grin. Her expression clearly indicated that she had finally remembered, as he spoke up. "Ah, I see it has finally come back to you. So now you remember your disgusting act and defiling of all that your ancestors struggled for?"

"For your information," she snapped back, "my ancestors were Humans who converted to your kind. Plus, I really don't see what the big deal was, both of us were alone, frustrated, and stressed out from work, we felt a connection that evening on the beach. I-"

"Then clearly, your ancestors kept their disgusting monkey habits when they should've abandoned them after becoming one of us," the Officer growled in reply. "And just because you were lonely and horny doesn't give you an excuse to do what you did."

"It's my choice to decide who I get to sleep with, not yours," she answered. "As it was my ancestors' choice to keep the habits they had as Humans. I really do not see what the problem is."

The Officer replied harshly, "The problem is that you allowed yourself to be ridden by a Human, of all things! That is something that is completely forbidden in our society. Even our original leaders and founders strictly forbade it as they sought to build up our great nation and saw it as an abomination, as an affront to what they had gone through."

In her increasing emotional rage, the female roared, "Yeah, well FUCK them and their opinions! Jeremy and I are what matter in my life, not some decrees by a bunch of long-dead old farts!" The Officer tensed up, clearly enraged, before he suddenly swung around, hitting the female on her right hip with his tail. This sent her sideways before tumbling to the ground, snout first. Now she really ached, as the fall hurt something in her and the impact worsened the pain she already had.

She then felt four hands that were quite strong (but not as strong as that of the Officer which had gripped her neck earlier) grab her, two by her shoulders and two by her wrists, lifting the wounded, weary, and half-naked Megalosaurus up onto her three-toed digitigrade feet. The Officer, smiling contemptuously, stated, "Alright, boys, you may do that thing you were talking about doing to her later. Just, don't hurt her too much, she's too much a pretty girl to see get hurt too badly."

One of the guards, who continued to hold her, grinned at her salaciously, his sharp teeth glistening in the light. The Tarbosaurus hissed, "Oh, we'll sure to have some fun with you." Panicked, the female gulped before struggling. However, the two strong Therapods held on despite the struggle as the Officer began walking to the door. Turning to face the three Dinosaurs, the Officer, whom she finally realized was actually a Giganotosaurus (explaining his greater size and strength than herself), said, "Meet me at the Corrections Center once you three have had your fun. Preferably in a couple of hours."

With that, he opened the door and stepped out into the hallway outside. After the door was shut, the two guards grinned at the female. Gulping, she looked first at one and then the other as she realized she was in for a rough ride.

---

The next morning, the female was exiting the enormous towering building in which she had spent the night in, for reasons unknown to her. She was fully-clothed, wearing the black T-shirt and jean shorts she had worn prior to her memory becoming black until the point she had awakened in her cell, wearing only her underwear.

Unsure of how she had got there, she got fed, got her clothes back, got dressed, and was able to leave her cell and the building as a whole. She was glad, for the whole place seemed so dreary, despite the generous amount of strong young males in those seemingly tight-fitting black uniforms that seemed to roam about this place. As she exited, she paused for a moment, letting the morning sun shine down on her before continuing down the steps that led to the street below. As she passed by the guards that stood in front of the entrance, an officer took off his hat in greeting and said to her, "Good morning, ma'am."

Nodding in response, she replied, "Good morning to you," before continuing down the steps. Some of the SP guards happened to take quick glances at her behind as she headed down. Reaching the bottom, she took a taxi which took her to her apartment. It seemed such a beautiful morning, though she wasn't looking forward to another hectic day at the diner. She had no recollection of the previous night's events, having had specific recent memories concerning the Human, what they did together, and how ended up there in the first place wiped from her memory.

Which was good for her, since she could move on with her life, not feeling guilty for what she had done (since she no longer remembered it) and could find solitude, comfort, and more in Reptilian males. All for the good of herself and for society in general.

[East Klent]

[ MT ]

The Millennium Project

Chapter Two

"New Millennium, Same Game..."

Unknown Location
December 25, 1999

The shot activated an program within the simulation, with a flashing red light filling Gram Conner's eyes with the words FAILED echoing into his ears, "I shot first, how did I die?" he asked in frustration as he flung the simulation glasses off of his face and onto the floor.

"A sniper shot from the rooftop of the adjacent building just as you shot your attacker, Agent Conner, and may I remind you that this technology is fragile and incredibly expensive," training specialist Duke Samson responded as he gathered the now shattered equipment, "The Agency may have funds but we can't afford you destroying everything you use!"

"The Cubans would never use that strategy, they are purely the hit-and-run type," Conner protested, completely ignoring his instructor's complaints.

"Need I remind you that the Western Cubans aren't our enemies anymore, but our rulers?" said Samson as he programmed the simulation for a new pair of glasses.

"If that's true, then why did President McCurter and Congress approve this machine of yours behind their backs?" Conner asked as he recieved the glasses from one of Samson's staff.

Samson ignored Conner, "The government's goal for the Service is to prevent any further conflicts that this nation can't afford."

Conner snorted, "Duke, Klentians are a stubborn and proud people, of course we'll go to war again."

"In that case the Service's goal is to obtain as much Intel as possible on our friends and rivals and use it to our advantage," Samson replied as he began re-initializing the simulation.

"Hence the Millennium Project?" Conner blurted out.

All the technicians and engineers froze and fell silent as Samson slowly raised his head from the machine, "Give us the room," he ordered, his voice just above a whisper.

Conner raised his brow as the room emptied, "Was it something I said?"

"How the hell do you know about Millennium?" Samson demanded, "It's the Service's most top secret project, no agent knows... er... should know about it!"

"Oh, one day I just popped into the Director's office and noticed an odd file on top of his desk, so I though I'd take a look in case my services were needed. After all, that is what all this is for, right?" Conner said with a confident smirk on his face.

Samson let out a long sigh of exasperation and shook his head, " Gram, Gram, Gram, when will you learn that there are rules in life?"

"Probably the same time I recognize the rule of the Cubans," Conner chortled.

Samson stared at Conner for a moment and then called his staff back in, "Let's try this again shall we?"

Conner put on the glasses, "Definitely."

Samson entered the programming to start the simulation, and the sound of running feet on the wet cobblestone streets echoed throughout the night.

End Chapter Two

[Kylarnatia]

[NO TECH]

[Marilyn - A (Disfigured) Haiku]

Beautiful, Graceful
Talented, Loving and Clever
All Crushed by One Man's Fear