The Native Story Index [Open; All Techs]

[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 ]
[ MATURE ]

Redemption



I am at the center of the sun...

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Walter was sitting on the side of the bed almost motionless, his elbows supported by his knees, his head supported by his hands. His feet were planted firmly on the cold floor below him and he was naked, covered in a layer of clammy sweat. His chest barely moved, despite the fact that his heart was beating beyond any discernable number. The sheets, sprawled around him, were moist with both his sweat and the humidity in the air. He was trying his hardest to keep quiet, afraid to wake the woman who was sleeping somewhat soundly in the bed with him. Her name was Julia but he doubted that was her real name. She hadn't been particularly expensive but she had been worth every penny of it and the recent memory of the things they had done swirled through his consciousness as he sat there, thinking, wondering, and trying to put his dream together. It had been less of a dream and more of a startling revelation of reality and it had startled him right out of his sleep. He wondered to himself, Is that really what my subconscious conjures?

He opened his eyes to complete and almost total darkness. The curtains were drawn but the windows were open, not that they did much but to bring in the hot, humid, stagnant, and stale air that was just as motionless as he was. His eyes had difficulty making sense of much in the darkness and he wondered why his alarm clock didn't show the time. It took a few seconds for him to realize that the power had gone out but it was obviously still nighttime, given that his curtains weren't absorbing any light from outside. He stood but carefully so as not to wake the sleeping prostitute, afraid that it would be awkward. She was sleeping on her stomach and she was just as naked as he was except for the jewelry she still wore and the garter belt that he had requested. That had been an extra ten shingrots and he was more than happy to pay it to her at the time, when this whole ordeal still seemed like a good idea.

Her hair was curly and auburn, long but in good shape. For a prostitute, she wasn't disgusting or grotesque. She was actually a well-kept and hygienic girl who just happened to sell her body and her talents for money. Walter walked into the living room, casting a glimpse at her flawless back that radiated beauty even in the darkness. She was beautiful and that was really the reason why he chose her. He wanted someone who was beautiful, someone who could remind him of his wife. He sat down on the couch and looked at the coffee table in front of him. It was being illuminated by the moonlight that filtered in through the curtains. There were two empty bottles of liquor, a byproduct of both his preparations for tonight and the last night of tearful, solitary sorrow. He leaned back and looked up to the ceiling. The air was just as stifling in here as it was in the bedroom but there was less discomfort from sitting in here. Julia was, of course, not in here, she was in the bedroom. He wanted to leave, to get out of his apartment before she awoke but this was his apartment not hers. He wanted her to have been gone before he awoke but that didn't quite happen.

Without power, there was no way to tell what time it was without looking at a watch or turning on a cell phone. He had no desire to do either and instead he reached for a pack of cigarettes and withdrew one. He had promised his wife that he would quit but she was gone now so what good was a promise to someone who couldn't benefit from it. He put one into his mouth and lit it, sitting back and enjoying the smoke as it wafted into his mouth. The orange glow of its embers barely lit up his face but it was a beacon in the night and that beacon was somehow linked to the bedroom and he heard the springs on the mattress begin to squeak and creak. Julia was stirring and obviously finding that nobody was lying beside her anymore. Walter took another drag and heard footsteps. Aw fuck! He thought to himself as she emerged from the bedroom, her hair glowing in the radiant moonlight that hit her perfectly as she stood there in the doorway.

"You're awake?" She asked. Her voice was too sweet and too innocent to be real. She couldn't have a voice that beautiful and be a prostitute; it simply didn't make sense.

"I couldn't sleep." He answered, ignoring her presence almost.

"After that you couldn't sleep?" She giggled. "Maybe you want to go again? I'm okay with it." He thought for a moment and didn't respond to her. "You paid for me for the whole night and it's still night."

"I know I did. I'm not so sure it's a good idea."

"Wife? Girlfriend?"

"Not really." She walked over and took a seat with him on the couch, reached for the pack of cigarettes, and took one out with her teeth. She looked at him as if she was asking him permission to have one but he only lit it for her. She put her feet on the coffee table and sat back, letting the smoke go into the air.

"Honey I don't mean to seem like I care, I know that's not my business, I mean I'm a hooker right? But you've got a lot of demons going on inside of you, don't you?"

"What makes you say that?"

"You're just so cold. Listen, I've been with a lot of men, I'm better able to read men than you know yourselves. I know what you're thinking, what you want, what you are embarrassed by, and everything in the middle before you do."

"Is that so?" He was cold still but more because he was uncomfortable with this whole situation, especially right now.

"Yes it is. You've got something inside of you, some guilt, something strong, something bad inside of you. It's pulling you down, isn't it? C'mon I came in I saw the empty bottle of liquor on the table and the other one right next to it. When you were in the bathroom, I looked at the receipt. Nobody drinks that much that fast if they don't have some sort of pain they're trying to kill."

"You think that's really it?"

"You are too well-kept to be an alcoholic."

"I'm not."

"You know I'm nobody, I'm nobody you'll ever see again. You shouldn't be embarrassed to tell me something then. I know it's weird, right? Why would I be asking this? It's not part of my job description." She giggled. "Maybe I just want to help you?"

"Nobody wants to help me. Least of all not you and maybe you feel guilty taking my money and doing half a day's work?"

"I told you I can go again baby that's your decision."

"I'm sorry," he detected the annoyance in her voice at his comment but it subsided quickly thereafter his apology.

"I had this client once, kind of like you. Something inside of him was bad, really eating him up. He wanted something to go out with that night. Next day, he put a bullet in his head. Police questioned me about it but I mean I was fine; I didn't do anything. I felt really bad I mean I cried the whole night. I don't want to see that happen to you." She leaned closer to him, put her warm hand on his arm and felt the clammy sweat. It didn't necessary put her off but she could obviously tell that he was having a rough time. "Please don't be that call I get."

"You care this much about your clientele?"

"No I don't but I see something in you that I saw then but this time maybe I have a chance to do something about it. Maybe I was meant to be here tonight."

"Like fate?" His answer was cold still and it put her off a bit. She was trying to be open and honest but she wasn't going to be rebuffed for much longer, especially when it was certainly not her business.

"Yes like fate, what you don't believe in it?"

"No, no I do. I really believe in it and karma too. I believe that fate has something for all of us and well, I'm on the wrong side of it and karma too. There's really nothing more to it than that. I drew the short straw."

"What happened honey?" She had practically ignored her cigarette and the line of ash on her cigarette was drooping now, ready to fall to the couch or worse, on her.

"Car accident. My wife and I were driving home from a party. She'd been drinking, I never drank a drop in my life. I guess I fell asleep at the wheel, I don't know. I woke up in the hospital a week later. She had died. Ejected from the vehicle. There were no other cars involved. Just ours. She was pregnant too. A little girl, maybe six months, I can't remember it too well. Most of what was before was a blur." Anyone else recanting this story might have been teary eyed but not Walter. He was so numb from it that his tear ducts had gone dry long ago. "Thing is, I can't remember what she looked like. I just have photographs but only a handful. She was behind the camera more than in front of it. So what memory do I have? Nothing but fake memories because photographs are fake. They're not real. They're just images." Julia leaned against him and hugged his body. She put the cigarette down in an ashtray that she saw in the moonlight and kissed his shoulder. "Tonight was our baby's due date, I couldn't be alone tonight."

"Aw honey that's terrible." She didn't know what to say. "You can keep going."

"There's nothing more to say. I haven't gone to work since before the accident. They said I can take as much time as I needed and that my position would still be there for me."

"What were you?"

"Director of internal operations, someone who made decisions. I bet there's photographs on my desk still of the two of us. I can't bear to look at them." Julia realized that there weren't any photographs in his apartment. She had noticed that the moment she had arrived. It only dawned on her now why that was so.

"I'm so sorry, I will stay here with you, I promise, we don't have to do anything." She left her head on his shoulder and closed her eyes, fighting back her own tears. He, on the other hand, didn't and instead he sat there, just as motionless and cold as he had on the side of the bed. Over the course of the night she had curled her body against his and he felt her warmth and though he wanted to shove her off and throw her across the room and take out the rage inside of him out on her, he knew that it would have been wrong and he would have been lying if he said he didn't like having her naked body against his, especially her breasts, which he had determined were very real and very perfect. The night continued onward and the moonlight faded as dawn drew closer. When the first rays of sunrise began to shine through the living room, he got a better look at the prostitute curled against him. She had been a real person, someone who treated him better than anyone else had in the past three months and she didn't even know him. That was something to behold and he cherished the thought as he reached behind the sofa and felt the cold and heavy metal of a revolver. It was then that she opened her eyes and like the sunrise, focused them directly on him.

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The Layartebian Chronicles
Part IV

[Hahklallah]

A fair warning, this story contains cannibalism, violence and questionable religious ceremonies. For this reason it has been labeled as mature. Read with caution.

[ PT ][ Mature ]

[ The Land of the People of Eden - 1 ]

The sun shone down through the leaves and branches of the mix of Oak and Fir Trees. Birds sang and flew about their business. Squirrels and rabbits scurried from tree to tree, looking for food. The air smelled of rain and greenery. A young doe trotted gracefully towards the crystal clear pond in the center of the clearing. She tilted her head from left to right, then bent to take a drink. She stood still, and drank for many more moments before lifting her head at the sound of a snapping twig. Startled she looked towards a distant tree and froze. She never saw the second man coming at her from the right. Ever so stealthily he lifted his spear taking aim before releasing it. The obsidian tip caught her in her front left shoulder, and she stumbled as she began to run. Three other men emerged from the trees, all equipped with three or four obsidian tipped spears each. The whispered to each other, then took off running after their prey. The doe would've out run them, had she not been injured. She was tired, and could no longer run, she made it ten more steps before collapsing near a large Oak Tree.

It wasn't long before the men had reached her, and were standing over her bloodied body. The tallest man of the group of four turned to another. "This one should be good eating, hmm? Look at the breasts!" The second man nodded slightly. "Mmhm, remove her clothes so we can get a better look at her." Two of the four men bent down and, with their obsidian knives, began to cut away her tattered and bloody clothes. They stripped away the remaining cloth until she was completely naked. The tallest man bent down next to her and smiled. "She's actually rather small.. but she should feed the village for another few days. Besides, if we take another, the Varvary may get suspicious and attack." The other three nodded, and the first man pointed at her feet, mouth and hands. "Bind and Gag her, we can have her trying to make noise, who knows who else is in the forest right now." Three men took leather cords and tied the girls feet and hands together, then gagged her so she couldn't scream or make noise. The tallest man smiled at the girl, in an almost loving way, then ripped the obsidian spear tip from her shoulder. "You will be delicious." The girl closed her eyes and cried a silenced cry of pain and fear. Two of the men picked her up and a third cleaned up the mess. Soon, all four were walking down a obscure path, towards a large mountain.

---

The small village was rather nice. Five or Six huts for the four families that occupied them. Small plants grew here and there, succulent berries hung low on the branches of shrubs littered around the landscape. Two small children ran about, with wooden swords and shields, playing war. A few women washed clothes in the nearby stream, the crystal clear water running so calmly down the gently sloped mountain. Men went about their work, be it sharpening obsidian knives and spear tips, or be it guarding the fringes of the small settlement. The grass grew long and green and gave the whole area a nice clean smell. Then a horn blew, and everyone looked to the west. A man, obviously a sentry, shouted towards the villagers. "They are back! Summon the Chief!"

A man silently rushed into a hut and emerged next to a tall and bulky man. They walked to the west, where they greeted the four men with their prey, who was nearly dead and struggling to stay conscious. The tallest of the four grabbed the Chief's forearm in greeting. "My lord, we have brought forth our next meal." The two men carrying her dropped her before the chief and unbound her hands and mouth. She let forth a terrible, agonizing scream of pain that seemed to carry on down into the valley. She was kicked in the head, knocked unconscious, by the Chief. He knelt to examine her, groping several areas of her body to measure the amount of food they could get from her petite form. The Chief stood at last and nodded. "She is a good specimen, Alexi, you have never failed to bring me anything but the best." Alexi bowed to the chief and motioned for his men to carry her to a hut in the distance. "I live to serve you, God and the people my lord." The Chief nodded to Alexi. "Praise Eden, for without you we would have nothing, Alexi." The rest of the villagers who were gathered raised their hands into the air and chanted. "Alliluĭya! Alliluĭya! Hvalitʹ Eden!" As the Chief looked upon them all, he slowly began to smile deviously. Each person he stared directly at, he sent chills up their spine. Finally, he looked upon the crowd in full and proudly ordered “Now, all of you back to work.” The crowd began to disperse from the area. In the nearby tent the girl was brutally dragged into, quiet cries of pain echoed out into the now barren center. The Chief looked up at the sky and laughed quietly at the Heavens, knowing that even the powers above, would never interfere with his divine will.

[Abruzi]

Why?

MT

The setting sun in the distance was obscured by the same ashen clouds that obscured the pale blue sky of northern Abruzi, the same ashen clouds that silently hovered above all of the Novaya Bolshevist Union, caused by the horrendous Atomic Event known as the, “Rectification”. A quiet chirp of a cricket was the only sound to disturb the lone watcher, something that was in itself reason enough to be on guard. Ever cautious, the solitary man slowly and covertly edged his left hand onto his belt, sighing with relief when his fingers brushed and then grasped the hilt of his trusty dagger. Caressing the silent blade, he returned to gazing into the distant clouds and wondering, “What was it all for?”

Another noise, not the chirp of a cricket or the distant howl of a wolf, but the all too human cry of, “Ak Sorok Sem!” Gas Mask and Kalash youths are wont to shout said phrase when their blood was up, and to the watcher this was reason enough to find shelter. Sliding from the bench he sat upon, the man crawled across the open park square and into the relative safety of the bushes. There among the branches and dying leaves, he gazed out into the open space and saw that mere moments after he had vacated his seat a young woman and a child had rushed into the area. The young woman was exhausted, that much was obvious, she was also partially naked; her clothing torn and her skin battered. The Child was no better, beaten black and blue. The stink of fear was overpowering and the watcher himself suppressed a shiver that ran along his body like a snake.

From behind the pair came no less than four Gas Mask and Kalash men, circling like a hungry pack of dogs. They were all dressed in rags, rags that once were surely Red Army Uniforms. Military men were the most dangerous of the Gas Mask and Kalash types, they had the training and often the experience to back up their loud words with violent action. Violence was in itself nothing remarkable, but coordinated and efficient violence was another thing all together. Because of this the watcher sat, content to allow the scene to play out before him. As if in answer to his silent conclusion, the young woman let out a terrified shriek that drew forth guttural laughter from her pursuers.

The first man to hit her did so with a sort of grin that spoke volumes of his character. The blow itself was vicious, his fist arching out through space to hit her square in the side of the head; forcing her to tilt wildly to the side to remain upright. The young child screamed and tried to retaliate against the man, but he was only pushed to the side and being around the age of five could only cry and scream as his sister or perhaps mother was hit again and again. After the third blow she no longer resisted, just laid in a ball, hoping that it would all end soon or that unconsciousness would claim her and save her the worst of the beating. One by one the men hit her, taking turns and calling out what they would do to the defenseless woman before them.

It was the smallest of the men who raped her first. It was like a rock being hurdled through a dam, as one by one the Gas Mask and Kalash men raped the now near dead woman. The watcher burned with rage but what was he to do? Armed only with an old combat knife from the VDV and wearing only a thick winter jacket he was hardly a threat. Desperately he drew his knife and waited, hoping there would be some way for him to intervene in the victim's favor. Suddenly the shout of, "Эй, есть кто-то в кустах там!" “Hey, there's someone in the bush there!” shattered the security of the watcher and he didn't even compute that the rough hands he felt upon him belong to an unknown fifth and sixth Gas Mask and Kalash man.

He was dragged out into the square and surrounded, the woman and child clinging onto him for protection. Timidly he raised a hand and slowly said, "Слушайте братья, пойдем. У меня есть пять тысяч рублей здесь, я дам их вам и мой нож, в обмен на нашу жизнь ... "“Listen brothers, let us go. I have five thousand Rubles here, I'll give them to you and my knife; in exchange for our lives...” The Gas Mask and Kalash men responded with the harsh guttural laughter that caused the initial shivers of apprehension to run up and down the watcher's back. The apparent leader choked out between laughs, "Что заставляет вас думать, мы будем не просто наполнить вас дырявый и продолжить наши забавы?" “What makes you think we won't just fill you full of holes and continue with our fun?” The watcher tried to respond but one of the men hit him in the back with a Kalashnikov stock.

Falling to his knees, the watcher was powerless to stop the men from shooting the woman and the child; their screams ringing painfully in his ears. They laughed once again and slowly fell into a line before the kneeling man. He knew what was coming next, it was obvious, yet in that split second he felt that he had dozens of lifetimes. The breeze, the trees, the cool concrete of the park square, and even the insects below all came together to give him one last jovial millisecond. A millisecond that was shattered with the quiet thought of, “What was it all for?” a thought that was answered with, “There is no purpose.”

[Jenrak]

At a whopping 294 stories, NSI is officially updated!

Let me know if I missed anyone.

[United World Order]

[ FT ]

Hurt

A Ruined Future

The smoke was intense in the sky. The smoke looked like it could block the gleaming sun raised high above the land that was mere chaos and death. A wasteland no one would want to live in or be cursed to for eternity. That wasteland was Varthon a now war torn planet from the impending conflicts between the Varthonians and the Unified Human Republic. For years people were dying left and right millions were already dead from its war and the devastation most of the planet now faced and had to somehow rebuild. The Varthonians were down to mere several million soldiers they had lost 41 million soldiers to the war and civilian casualties were even higher at least 200,000,000 Million died from genocide and getting caught between the wars.

The UHR had only half of the planet that was the last remaining planet the Varthonians owned. The war had lasted 50 years and had twenty planets consumed within its devastation that was felt by the people who didn’t fight and those soldiers that experienced it all. The UHR had suffered as well when its first solar system war began and when the twenty planets were under their control. 27 Million soldiers died and civilian casualties were high two planets that were the home planets of UHR were invaded in the process.

Private Keller of the Republic Third Army and a small platoon of his comrades walked down a freeway in a Varthon occupied city that was once marvelous but was now mainly rubble and dirt. Fires were not surprising due to battles still going on. They had reached the barrier of the freeway that curved as they looked out that was the city of Garlonia which was in shattered ruins with skeleton like remains of buildings and craters visible to the human eye from where Keller was standing. Smoke was constant there along with distant gunfire and explosions. Keller and his Platoon were headed there after 1 mile more of walking they would enter the city.

His mate Sargent Rodriguez was walking next to him with his lancer rifle with a under barrel chainsaw attached to it. His face was covered with dirt and smut from previous battles and fire fights they were involved in several days ago. Since then they were mostly quiet and only talk rarely since most remembered some events that changed them forever. Rodriguez glanced at the city and sighed cocking his Lancer and walked along with Keller, the rest of his platoon followed along with him knowing what was to come and knew not all of them would make it.

[Noitalosa]

[ MT ]

A forgotten patch of dirt

"Charlie!" A child's voice called into the air. The girl called once more, only to receive no word back. "Charlie, why didn't you answer me?" The girl asked to herself as she walked down the long stretch of beach that laid idly in front of her. He knew Charlie was bound to be nearby, as there really wasn't anywhere he could go in the small island that the duo found themselves inhabiting.

Neither had a habit of complaining about the unusual situation they had gotten themselves into. Fresh water was surprisingly plenty thanks to frequent rain that the island received and countless fish were available for capture at virtually every hour of the day. It had been two months since the passenger ship the two had been on sank during a storm and both had felt the chances of them surviving were fairly high.

The sun had finally reached its mid-day peak, apparent as the white glow reflecting off the turquoise-colored waters was noticeably brighter than it was typically throughout the rest of the day. The girl called out once more to Charlie in hopes that he would hear her. "Charlie!" She screamed at the top of her lungs, her throat already sore from the action."

Nothing, for a moment. And then a faint sound that reminded the girl of footsteps hitting against sand. "Girl!" a male voice yelled as the noise of footsteps grew louder and louder, prompting the girl to rapidly spin around. Her face lit up as she saw Charlie run towards her. "What ya been calling me fer, Angie?" Charlie's voice was thick and primitive in nature, but oddly soothing to those who heard it.

She giggled as she gave the gray-haired, dark-skinned man a hug. His skin was slightly sticky due to sweat, which seemed to be one of the few things Charlie had an endless supply of. "Nothing, Charlie." She said in an angel-like tone. "Just wanted to make sure you hadn't gotten swept out to sea or something."

He chuckled while scratching his arm. "Ya know I be a bit smarter than a bag o' bricks, right Angie?"

"I know, ya. I just don't want to lose you!" She turned her head and looked at the structure the two had called home. Charlie had joked that it was little more than a fancy, over-complex tent but it provided them comfort and shade on the little island they called home. It was a simple structure, built on top of the highest point of the island and made out of various wreckage they salvaged as it washed ashore from the boat they were on.

"Not me first time on an island, ya?" Charlie remarked as he watched a dying jellyfish wash up on the shore. "But hopefully me last."

"Hopefully this is my last too, Charlie." Angie said with a deep sigh. "I miss home even though I like what we have here. I miss my friends, my family, and I can't believe I'm saying this but I even miss my school!"

She sat down in the sand and Charlie soon followed suit. "I don't think they're looking for us any more. Been too long and I haven't seen any ships or planes on the horizon."

"Dey might not be lookin fer us, aye, but that doesn't mean that some udder people might stumble upon us." Charlie smiled for a moment before continuing. "That's why we keep da flairs dry and at least try to keep de sign visible, ya?"

"Ya Charlie." Angie saw something in the distance but gave no thought into saying anything about it. For all she knew it could have been a mirage. "I'm going to go take a nap, Charlie. Let me know if you need me, okay?"

"Okay girl. Sleep well, ya?" Charlie stood up and started to walk back to where he originally was before Angie called him.

"I'll try Charlie!"

She stood up, the mixture of sand and small pebbles course against her skin as she used her hands to right herself. She probably could have done the rest blindfolded, as it was a small journey she made every single day. Walking down a thin path, she saw all the various things the two had set up over the months they had been there.

The fire pit was probably the thing she was most proud of, as it was one of the few things she managed to build herself without Charlie having to help. It had a reputation for occasionally flooding, but anything that was exposed had a tendency to do that with the frequency of the rain storms that both provided them life and acted as one of their banes.

In large stones, there was the words "Help us" laid out carefully in hopes that an aircraft would see it, but so far it hadn't done anything for them. Eventually she made it inside the house the two had built together. An old oil drum they found washed ashore one day served as a table and the wooden planks that made up the floor of the building had various markings which displayed their former careers as cargo crates.

Some had apparently contained bananas, in others various hardware, and so forth. Angie would occasionally spend her time looking at all the various labels they had found. While nowhere near as entertaining in comparison to what the 16-year old had back home, it was a simple way to pass the countless hours.

She ran her fingers through her brown hair as she sat in one of the two cots the building had, Both were worn from constant use but provided a small level of comfort that sleeping on the floor wouldn't have. Slowly, she rolled herself into a position where she was fully in the cot and closed her eyes.

Hours passed. Day turned into night, and the moon had risen. Angie's hazel eyes shot open, perhaps the result of a nightmare or just instinct. She heard Charlie yelling. She couldn't make out fully what he had said, but she heard something involving the word 'flare'.

Rolling out of the cot, resulting in her hitting the floor, she quickly ran to the box where they kept the flare gun and grabbed it. She turned around and ran out of the small house they had built and instantly saw what Charlie might have been talking about. In the distance there were lights. Many white, a handful green and one towards the back with the color of red. It seemed to be in a pattern of a ship, and any chance to hail it would mean freedom.

She nearly tripped in excitement, her heart pounding as she flew down the small hill and towards Charlie; handing him the flare gun as soon as she could. "Thank ya Angie! We might be goin' home finally girl!" He rose the gun into the air and pulled the trigger. Within mere moments, a bright red light streaked across the sky.

Thirty minutes passed, the ship was still seen but there hadn't been any reaction from it. Silence was only broken by the occasional cry of a gull or perhaps a fish splashing in the water. Suddenly a loud honk sound was heard, breaking the silence and frightening the few animals that existed on the island out of their hiding holes. "They might have heard us Charlie! They might have heard us!"

"Maybe girl, maybe." Charlie stayed quiet as he watched the horizon. "I hope dey did, ya." A light in the distance grew closer and closer and the horn sounded once more. From the darkness, a dinghy emerged with two men aboard. "We're here!" Angie shouted, "Help us!"

"What are your names?" A voice called in the distance.

"Charlie and Angie!" She replied, a gigantic grin having appeared on her face and Charlie had a similar expression on his. "Girl, we be goin home finally." Charlie whispered in her ear.

The raft finally came ashore, and the two men aboard gave them a quick look over while talking to them. "Why are you here?"

"We washed up here about two months ago. Our ship we were traveling on sank."

"De Agatha, it was." Charlie chimed in.

"Yes, the Agatha. That was its name, I think."

"The Agatha?" The man thought silently for a moment. "There weren't any survivors according to the news. I don't see why you would lie though. Get on the raft, we'll divert back to port and get you two home."

Ten years later

After medical care, Angie returned to her home and Charlie managed to stick around. Staying close friends throughout the years, they had made plans to one day return to the island and that day had come ten years to the day they left by both coincidence and planning.

"Are you excited, Charlie?" Angie asked as the small boat they were riding to the shore grew closer and closer. It did not look much different than the day they left it, but the structure they called a home had obviously long since collapsed from disrepair.

"Aye Angie. Hopefully dis time we don't stay fer two months, ya?"

Angie chuckled at Charlie's comment. "Ya Charlie."

The two anchored the boat and dove into the water to swim ashore.

[Epicnopolis]

OOC: I swear a lot. I don't know why, just know that, so that you've been fairly warned. Also, I'd LOVE for feedback. Be not afraid, I'll take your criticism in stride. And ooooone more note, I meant no harm by the title. I thought it sounded funny. :{D

[ MT ]

[ (Possibly) Probably Mature ]

Good God, We've Got a Gay!

Crrrrrrrrsh! Lisa's head turned on a swivel, having been interrupted from her thoughts. She caught the fallen waiter's eye as he dropped the rest of his dishes, though she in truth didn't have much more time before she slammed the tip of her knee against the underside of the table, attesting to just how badly she'd been startled. "MOTHER FUCKER!" By now, not only was the restaurant and its customers up in a fuss about the fallen china, but also because of the livid, swearing woman.

"Lis! Lis! LISA! Calm the fuck down!" Of course, Lisa didn't hear Janet's familiar voice. All Lisa heard was her own 'agony,' and want to beat the waiter for scaring her so badly -- whether accidentally done or not! Her eyes quickly began to tear up, and she hit the table with her fist a few times, "FUCK. OW. OWWWW." She fell out of her chair, grabbing her knee and pulling it into her body, biting her lip in an effort not to cry.

Janet didn't know what to do. She had already gotten out of her seat, having jumped when the Waiter had dropped their food. She didn't hear his apology, or his promise that they would get their food soon. All the young lady heard and saw was that of her date, being a pathetic little twit. God I'm hungry... Was the only thought that kept going through her mind. She didn't mind dealing with Lisa's drama, that's just how she was: An easy goin' gal.

So there Janet stood, blankly staring at the now fetile Lisa. Eventually, everyone stopped looking at her, and went back to their food. Hell, even Janet's and Lisa's food had arrived! But noooooo, Lisa was being a little bitch about hurting herself. "...C'mon Lisa, the foods here. I want to eat." Came the standing one's tired voice.

Slowly, the fallen one stood up, gingerly wiping her eyes. "...It really hurts, JJ."

"I figured, honey. Man up." Janet smiled at her.

Lisa stared at JJ, before bowing her head, and simply staring at her food -- missing Janet's smile completely. Man up. Man up? The fuck? I'm a woman. Just because I'm a lesbian, or I -think- I'm a Lesbi --

She never had time to finish her thought. Janet had already begun speaking to her, somehow managing to do so and eat at the same time -- all the while maintaining her gracefulness. Lisa only nodded, with the occasional, "Yuh," and "Mhm." She couldn't follow! Try as she might, she was stuck in her own little world. She'd never done this before -- plus, her knee still throbbed like a bitch. But a date with a woman? For one, she wasn't even completely sure she was gay. Janet had asked her out, and she said yes without really thinking about it. Hell, it wasn't even a problem. It was within the Epicnopolian Creed that any gender may be intimate with the same or opposite gender, so criticism from the community was...unlikely. But from her friends. Kids were cruel, and sixteen year-old had learned that well.

Without warning, Janet stopped mid-sentence, and her mouth fell agape. Lisa blinked rapidly, "Whut?"

"I think that's a Wikipedian!" Indeed. She heard the accent (American). Though try as she might, as hard as she looked, she couldn't find the source. Aw well.

Lisa couldn't help but smile at her rather attractive counterpart, "Why's that a big deal?"

Janet played coy and shrugged innocently, "I...I'unno. I just think there accents are sexy, s'all."

Lisa leaned forward, "...Uh huh." Their eyes met, and the two simultaneously went in for a kiss. Mummy and Daddy raised a dyke. A funny thought, during a serious moment. Go figure.

[Dread Lady Nathicana]

In reading through some of the threads here, it occurs to me that there are players who are either ignorant of, not familiar with, or not caring about the PG-13 rating system we attempt to adhere to for the most part in posts here.

While this does not negate the ability to deal with mature, graphic, uncomfortable, and otherwise horrific happenings, it does mean you need to have a care in how you present them. Some of what has been read here (and subsequently removed, though only in going through these last few) has crossed the lines of acceptability.

For example, blatantly graphic representations of sex, violence, fetishes, etc - not ok. When in doubt, don't.

Will be either conducting or requesting a more in-depth look at this thread on account so that we maintain fairness for all players involved, and do not just pick out the first ones that come across our radar, leaving others who may have overstepped bounds.

[Abruzi]

Tit for Tat.

Shadows conceal much; they are to some ignorance, they are to others cover, and to a third group they are a home. To walk in the shadows between right and wrong, to live a perfectly neutral and human life, that is the only way to live. The figure obscured partially by shadows cast from a flickering candle was one of these people, a man who was the man for his time. His time was dark, a savage and brutal time that was known as the Rectification within the Novaya Bolshevist Party but to the great masses of people who lived it daily it was simply life. Flickering delicately, the candle was the only light source in the room casting shadows across a rundown bathroom.

The sink was stained with a mixture of rust and blood, the taps still covered with a mixture of skull fragments and brain matter. Alone and silent, the figure was casually smoking a hand rolled cigarette. Smoke rolled gently out of his hood, the shadows concealing all but the outline of his face to make it appear as if he was not there at all, as if he was simply a wool hood and quilted jacket, a being made completely out of smoke. Lying in the tub was his only friend and sister, Ana. Her naked body ravaged as much by time as by the four ragged slash wounds across her chest.

As the smoke collected around the long burned out light the figure closed his eyes and drifted off to remember the events of the last two days.

Two Days Ago
Utopian Dead Zone
Former Industrial Collective 0476

Fire glowed in the windows of the ominous apartment building that was surrounded by a sea of rubble, fire that betrayed it's occupants presence. A known outpost of Stalkers, the apartment building's neighborhood was bad by any standard. Gazing upon the lonely complex was no less than fifty Gas Mask and Kalash Men hungry for the only thing that their ideology ensured, violence. Like predators they emerged from their hiding spots, the broken ruins of buildings or the low scrub that grew in the radiologically contaminated zone. Meanwhile the Stalkers inside sat and joked, unaware that human enemies as opposed to dangerous mutants were about to descend upon them.

Grey smiled widely and passed a bottle of home-brewed vodka to Vanguard, the two men laughing between mouthfuls of the fiery drink. Four other men sat around them quietly eating from tins of meat or munching happily on stale bread. Of them only one was a proper Stalker and he had long since gone to sleep several floors above. The majority of them, like the majority of most Stalkers, were simply former Military Men who had migrated to the Exclusionary and Dead Zones instead of joining the growing number of Gas Mask and Kalash Gangs. Conversation between them was almost identical to the conversation between fighting men the world over, and it was particularly joyous as the only experienced Stalker joined the merry band.

Sitting heavily next to Vanguard, the stranger produced his own bottle of vodka and a sturdy ceramic glass. He poured himself a drink with a slightly shaky hand and offered the bottle to Vanguard who took it gratefully. There was silence for a moment as the group of newbies stared at the man, in awe of his mere aura let alone the man himself. Finally the veteran broke the silence with, “Аппети́т прихо́дит во вре́мя еды́.” (“The appetite comes during eating”) Which was answered with a burst of laughter from the newbies, a sort of nervous laughter that was the type people often forced when meeting with a respected individual in their field of employment or specialization. Vanguard being the most senior newbie present smiled and handed back the bottle which immediately went to refilling the emptied glass. He noticed that the veteran's hand was steadier, perhaps because of the alcohol or the company.

With a sense of trepidation he quietly asked, “So, where you in the Army?” The veteran took a quick drink and muttered, “Who wasn't?” They sat in relative silence, the entire group pretending not to listen to the conversation yet craving to pick the brain of the only real Stalker many of them had ever seen. Sensing their desire the Veteran took a quick shot and forced a smile, slowly saying, “I was based near Utopia, Commissariat of Contentment Liquidation Detachment 0201. Perhaps this explains my hesitation brothers?” If the men were silent before they were now incapable of speaking, silenced by a mixture of awe and terror.

The Liquidation Detachments of the Commissariat of Contentment were simply put execution teams. Highly specialized and utterly ruthless soldiers who's duties included putting down revolts and rectifying Population Documentation Errors, which was an official term for assassination. Led by Commissariat Commissars the Detachments were also responsible for field torture and interrogation as well as counterintelligence operations within the cities of the Novaya Bolshevist Union, something that made the very few living former members very skilled Stalkers. Swishing the bottle of vodka about, the veteran quickly said,"Они говорят, что кур молоко ..." (“They say they milk chickens...”) an old Anthropini Proverb that roughly meant, “Don't believe all the rumors”.

Just as the newbies were about to resume conversation, the Gas Mask and Kalash men decided to lob a hand grenade into the fire lit windows. The grenade landed with a loud crack, the metal pineapple rolling a few inches before detonating with an overpowering bark of unadulterated noise. White hot shrapnel shards flew into many of the newbies, amazingly leaving the veteran, Grey, and Vanguard unscathed. The trio quickly rose and unslung their rifles, firing blind shots into the surrounding area. Wet smacks and choked off shouts of pain answered their amazingly lucky first shots as they downed two of the Gas Mask and Kalash Men. The others burst through the doorway in a large group, betraying the untrained nature of most of their kind. The trio whirled about and fired three long bursts into the clump, their high velocity rounds all finding a home in the bodies of their foes.

With a soft sigh the final Gas Mask and Kalash man died, though not before they managed to fire an impressive volley of return fire. Gunfire that tore Grey and Vanguard apart. The two newbies sunk to the ground, their bodies laid open by the incoming rounds as surely as their outgoing rounds ravaged the bodies of the foe. The veteran was unscathed, and slowly he sank down next to Vanguard, offering him a gloved hand to squeeze. Too weak to take it, the newbie instead grunted, an act which caused a few bright pink bubbles to form on the edge of one of his chest wounds. The stranger pressed a hand against the most obvious one and quickly said, "Пойти туда на минуту, брат, я здесь не случайно. Вы Грей, известный также как Алексей Майков. Вы состоите в браке с Анастасией Filiponova, она моя сестра. Скажи быстро, где вы живете за наш брат Юрий умер. " (“Hang in there for a moment brother, I am not here by accident. You are Grey, also known as Alexi Maikov. You are married to Anastasia Filiponova, she is my sister. Tell me quickly, where do you live for our brother Yuri has died.”)

Struggling to speak, Alexi finally said, "Мы живем в бывшей партии Жилой комплекс к северу от утопии. Номер 0457 »между глотков крови. Кивнув Сталкер тихо сказал: "Они называют меня Loner, но мое настоящее имя ..." (“We live in a former Party Apartment Complex north of Utopia. Room 0457” between mouthfuls of blood. Nodding the Stalker softly said, “They call me Loner, but my real name is...”) It was however too late, and Grey was gone. With a single finger, Loner reached down and smeared the skull like symbol of the Gospodar Lubanja upon his forehead. Rising from the body, Loner muttered a few words and left the shattered bastion trusting that the corpses of the newbies would dissuade any more travelers from taking refuge there. Without a rearward glance he walked into the wastes, intent on reaching his new destination, Utopia.

"Ах Loner, как я могу вам помочь?" (“Ah Loner, how can I help you?”)

The old obese man croaked as Loner passed through his doorway. Sitting behind a waist high counter, the old man was obviously armed and the click of a cocking weapon was not hidden in any way. Smiling, the Stalker waved a hand slowly across his chest and replied,

"Трейдер, я здесь приобрести взрывчатку, чтобы не убить тебя". (“Trader, I'm here to purchase explosives not to kill you.”)

Trader visibly relaxed and placed a single hand on the counter, exposing wrinkled fingers that were adorned with a number of rings. Tapping his fingers rhythmically on the counter he slowly asked,

"Ну, что вы после этого?" (“Well then, what you after?”)

Smiling, Loner placed a wad of faded Rubles on the desk and said,

"Бомбы". (“A bomb.”)

[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.

There is a special thank you to Jenrak for being so kind as to give me the topic for this NSI.

[ MT ]
[ MATURE ]

A Desert Has Many Secrets



the feelings I once felt are now dead and gone

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A howl of wind swept past the filthy, weary, young man as he stood knee deep in dirt and rock, a long spade shovel acting as a support for his beleaguered body. Even this deep into the ground, four meters by the last measurement, the wind still bothered him, kicking up fine bits of dirt and rock and pelting what skin lay exposed on his forearms. If he weren't fast enough, those same particles of dust and small rocks would pelt his face where his scarf provided an opening for him to see. He had long since discarded his goggles, as they were too annoying and they pressed against his face and with the irritation from his sweat, they were more trouble than they were worth. Now he simply ducked his head, closed his eyes, and held his breath, waiting for the wind gust to stop. When this gust concluded, he looked up, saw the bright, cloudless, blue sky above, and ignored the sun, which was like a laser beam on him.

He checked his wristwatch and saw that it was nearly noon and that was a revelation. For the better part of the past six hours, he had been poised behind a shovel, taking cues from the backhoe operator who would dig, deposit the dirt, and then stop so that a half dozen men with shovels could probe the ground for anything dangerous. The backhoe would dig more, widening and deepening the hole and for six hours, they worked. What started as just a scrape in the soft, desert dirt had become a basement-sized disappearance that was twelve meters wide, at least that long, and four and a half meters deep. This particular section they were working on now was the last section of this hole and it couldn't come at a better time. The high, noon sun was blasting its heat onto the open desert, raising temperatures all the way to forty-three and a half degrees. It would get even hotter with a 15:00 temperature expected to be forty-eight degrees.

This was the desert though and such was to be expected. Daytime highs of forty to fifty degrees were normal, as were nighttime lows of zero to fifteen degrees. Sometimes it even went below zero. Last night, for example, it had been only about ten degrees and the thought of such a drastic change made the young man shiver as he leaned on his shovel, watching the backhoe pull the last bits of dirt from the hole. About time. He thought to himself as the familiar voice of his platoon leader echoed from a place unseen.

"All up!" The voice called and though it was an arduous task just to move, the young man made his way over to the ladder and began to ascend it, ignoring the person in front of and the person behind him. "Assemble up men!" The platoon lieutenant said with a grin on his face. A cigarette hung from his lower lip and its ash had been freshly flicked off only seconds earlier. "We've got the hole dug and now we just have to fill it in, so I want to take a five minute rest, you've all worked hard. Get hydrated. Then we'll work on the rest." The men dispersed like molasses.

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"C'mon man turn up the heat, it's fucking freezing in here!" Frank whined from the backseat. He was shivering underneath at least two layers of clothing and both a coat and his helmet. Next to him, George, manning the remote gun control system only shook his head and nudged Erik to his left with his elbow. "What man? I'm freezing!"

The armored truck vibrated slightly as its diesel engine idled at a few hundred RPMs, the hum of its pistols barely audible inside of the closed up cabin of the camouflage-painted vehicle. In the front seats, Jason and Tom shook their heads. Jason leaned back away from the steering wheel and lifted his hand to the heating vent. "It's on full blast dude, chill."

"Fuck you Jay, I am chilling that's the problem!" They all shared a laugh. Frank was from a part of Layarteb where the lowest temperature was twenty-four degrees and tonight's ten degrees was significantly colder than what he'd experienced before. Of course, the night before was as cold and he shivered and moaned just the same. "Dude Tom, you have to be cold man, you're from where I am from."

Tom, their quiet platoon sergeant, merely hugged his body and shifted in his seat. "Yeah but I know how to keep my mouth shut about it." Erik and George laughed as the radio cracked to life. "Thank Luna," Tom said aloud as he listened to it.

"Victor Bravo, you awake there?" Tom picked up the microphone and opened his eyes.

"Yeah Victor Alpha, we're awake; you got a place for us yet?"

"You're damn right I do, town's called Margann. Follow us, close column formation, I want eighty meters spacing, we'll maintain seventy until we're three klicks out, then I want us down to fifty and halve the spacing. When we roll in, we're at twenty-five with twenty meters spacing, got it?"

"Five-by-five el-tee, we're good to go." Tom put the microphone back and reached for his night vision goggles, which were hanging from around his neck. This platoon consisted of ten men, crammed into two vehicles, a pair of Dingo armored trucks. One, the lead vehicle, was under the command of the platoon's commanding officer, First Lieutenant Vincent Pagelli whom everyone just called Vinny. Sergeant Tom Drummond was the platoon's sergeant and executive officer. Everyone else, Jason, Erik, George, Frank, Ben, Russ, Lou, and Mike were a mix of three corporals, two specialists, two private first classes, and one private. That private was Private Erik Noland, who was the lowest man on the totem pole here in Delta platoon.

These ten men were part of an advance unit of the Layartebian army who had been deployed to the vast, Tnemration Desert to protect military outposts and border checkpoints. In the past decade or so, there was a lot of talk about secession from the desert states, which made little to no sense. Without Layarteb City pumping cash, resources, and attention into them, they would all die of thirst. The Tnemration Desert was massive and thanks to the Leurc Mountains, it received very little rainfall. Still, there were nineteen "major" cities, two of them with populations of over five hundred thousand. Those major cities were nearly omnipotent thanks to the distances they shared with Layarteb City.

Life in the desert was hard but then again, who expected it to be anything else. It was the poorest part of Layarteb, just below the region of Egar, which was where Erik was from, though he didn't admit it openly to his brothers-in-arms, lest they jeer at him endlessly. In the Tnemration Desert, aside from the nineteen major cities, there were at least two or three hundred small villages and towns, scattered all around. Some were over a hundred kilometers from anything remotely habitable and others were right on top of one another. The cities weren't really the problem although those within them were driving and leading the call for secession. The real problems were the small and remote settlements, villages, and towns, where hard-line secessionists cached arms and supplies. They made it a point to bring violence to their cause and, at first, it had caught Layarteb City by surprise. They ambushed military convoys carrying supplies to outposts and border checkpoints and even succeeded in downing two helicopters and one cargo plane in the bloodiest year of fighting. It wasn't long after those key events that military officials in Layarteb City obtained written but classified authorization to quell the secessionists.

The military waged a savage, brutal, and rapid campaign against the secessionists and after maybe six months of hard fighting, they declared the secessionists all but obliterated. Things quieted down and rumors of Layartebian brutality hovered in the air like a bad odor in a stagnant room. Though never substantiated, the rumors accused the Layartebians of massacring whole villages, towns, and settlements. If they were true, Layartebian soldiers burned whole settles, villages, and towns to the ground. They indiscriminately bombed hospitals, temples, and schools. They placed booby traps in playgrounds and outdoor markets. They waged campaigns of terror and eavesdropped on the most personal of phone calls. Hundreds of rumors and accusations flew after those initial days but none would stand to be substantiated. Most of what people claimed to be true was always heard from someone who heard from someone. Officially, none of it was ever true.

Unofficially, on the other hand, the Layartebians did all of that and much more. Whole villages, towns, and settlements ceased to exist. If one settlement, village, or town caused trouble, the Layartebians would roll in during the nighttime hours and go house to house looking for trouble makers. They would cordoned off the location and capture anyone trying to escape. Those who resisted were shot and killed and those who hindered the Layartebians were put in handcuffs and black hoods, never to be seen from again. By dawn, few in the village would remain alive and by dusk of the next day, the Layartebians would have erased all trace of them ever being in what was now a "ghost town." Things that got out of hand and became public news were squashed and if they couldn't be, they were attributed to some sort of natural disaster. Gas explosions were common.

Many a stories began as such, "Earlier this week in the town of 'insert town name here,' a propane tank ruptured and exploded. Due to the severity of the explosion and the dangerous conditions it created thanks to burning fuel and heating systems, firefighters were unable to extinguish the blaze and the town of 'insert town name here,' was razed to the ground completely. The estimates for the number of dead vary and we may never know the true toll of this disaster." The stories would go on about how important it was to ensure that propane tanks used to heat homes in the desert were unreliable and unsafe when left unchecked. A half full tank was always deadlier than a full tank, thanks to its fumes. The same was true about a gasoline tank in a car. Without fumes, a match would extinguish itself when dropped into a full gasoline tank, depriving of its explosive fuel-to-oxygen ratio or whatever scientific theory explained it.

Of course, nothing was further from the truth. The Layartebians were ruthless when it came to these secessionists. Over time, the Tnemration Desert had become a sort of sanctuary for outlaws hiding from the Layartebian authorities. It was vast and finding any one person not hiding out in a city was next to impossible. Most of the Layartebian agencies in the Tnemration Desert states were short-staffed and scrounging for resources. When winter came and the Leurc Mountains became impassable due to weather, supplies often shorted unless a supply flight could be arranged to fly around the mountains. Of course, those were frequent to the military airfields in the Tnemration Desert but in the desert, the military took the priority during the winter months, lest the secessionists get any stupid ideas.

Despite all of the hard and bloody work done by the Layartebian army over the years, the call of secession had risen again in the past eight months. Once again, military personnel were being ambushed by bandits. Secessionists used the hills and natural terrain to hide and they were incredibly patient. They were also incredibly intelligent and tactical. They were disciplined, organized, and surprisingly, they were also very well-equipped. They were to be respected but they were also to be defeated. In these past eight months, Layartebian army units had once again begun the systematic process of locating towns, villages, and settlements hiding bandits, their weapons caches, their food stores, and who were sympathetic to the secessionist bandits and, when found, eradicating them from both the map and also from history.

Margann was one of those many settlements. Too small to be a village and far too small to be a town, Margann was a quaint and peaceful little settlement about thirty-nine klicks north-northeast of Outpost 832. Outpost 832 was a relatively new base. It housed battalion of men who were equipped with armored vehicles and light armored personnel carriers. They even had a few infantry fighting vehicles. Outpost 832 was also home to an engineering element that brought with them backhoes, payloaders, excavators, and dump trucks. This construction unit wasn't brought to build though. They were brought for the more dubious purpose of covering up the evidence of OPPLAN-18W more commonly referred to as Operation CACTUS SPINE. Like the military's plan so many years earlier, it was brutal, it was shameless, it was merciless, and it was unstoppable. In the past eight months, Layartebian forces had come under fire ninety-seven times resulting in six fatalities, fourteen injuries requiring medical evacuation, twenty-seven requiring some form of treatment, and three prisoners of war. None of the POWs had been located yet and the search continued day and night.

At the same time, while the Layartebians faced casualties, so too did those in their path. Eleven hundred people had been killed and that tally included women and children as well. According to the definitions applied by the military high command, "Any man, woman, or child who gives material aid or support to illegal guerillas, insurgents, terrorists, or secessionists, is considered to be no different than those whom they assist. They are to be treated as such and considered the enemy." Any settlement, village, or town caught aiding the secessionists were suddenly secessionist themselves and they were brought under the full wrath of the Layartebian military. All-in-all, sixteen settlements and one village had been paid a visit by the Layartebian military. Margann was going to be lucky number eighteen. It was a shame that fate had aligned against them.

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It was a little after 21:00 hours when the two armored Dingos rolled into Margann, approaching quietly, without their headlights on, with perfect noise discipline. Erik, sitting behind the driver of the second vehicle, Jason, looked out of his now opened window, the grenade launcher underneath his rifle resting on the bottom of the window opening. "Victor Bravo, maintain separation, this place is just a little too quiet." The radio speaker said but it was barely audible. Tom had turned down the volume about four kilometers away from the settlement and that was when they lowered their windows. Frank, sitting behind Tom, grunted at the rush of chilly, night air. He knew enough though to keep his mouth shut, especially now.

The settlement was little more than a few dozen small structures, hastily erected using local resources. They resembled, in some ways, the mud huts of the ancient Tnemrations who lived in the desert. They were all generally the same size, consisting of three rooms or maybe, if the family was particularly wealthy, four rooms. There was always a large common room for sitting, for eating, and for entertaining. Entertaining guests was big in the desert and ingrained in their culture. The other room or rooms were bedrooms for the parents and any children. Most often, bathrooms were communal and located outside of the homes. They were little more than permanent Porta-Potties but they were always well made. Sometimes they were in better shape than the homes were. Mostly, a settlement was full of homes. There were a few "shops," which served the various tradesman of the settlement and there was a sort of central office, city-hall type structure. Settlements always elected or rather chose from a small list their representative. That office was usually also the only place with a telephone. Some were lavish enough to have televisions. Most reception was through satellite so it was costly.

Settlements ranged from anywhere from a half dozen people to about two or three hundred, by which point it was a bustling village. Towns generally were over a thousand and cities over ten thousand inhabitants. Margann was a medium-sized settlement of one hundred people. Outnumbered ten to one, the men of Erik's platoon were certainly nervous going into the quiet village. Even the most seasoned among them were nervous. Anyone who said they weren't, were either lying or mentally unhinged. Not knowing what to expect was a big motivator for their fear, anxiety, or nervousness. Erik was downright scared. He thought to himself, How did I ever end up here? It was a question he knew the answer to; although, he wished he didn't.

Erik was barely nineteen years old. He was a kid still but what he'd seen with this platoon had all but turned him into a man. There was no more youthful naivety in his step anymore. He hadn't seen it all but he sure as hell saw more than your average Joe. Erik grew up as the youngest of three sons in a family in Egar, a small state well on the other side of the Leurc Mountains. Outside of the Tnemration Desert states, it was the poorest region of Layarteb. Disaster-prone, Egar was overpopulated and underfunded. Economic turmoil hit the region early on thanks to a series of natural disasters and recovery had been slow. A series of corrupt civil servants, all of whom now served large sentences in harsh prisons, further cemented their poverty and now the government in Layarteb City struggled to normalize, stabilize, and fix Egar. There was simply no opportunity anymore therein though.

Erik's family faced just as many hardships. His oldest brother died at the age of twenty-one in a car accident. His vehicle was hit head on by a drunk driver doing eighty miles per hour. The drunk driver survived until Erik's middle brother, who was eighteen at the time, killed him in a fit of rage. Erik's middle brother, Steven, had been at the wheel and though the accident wasn't his fault, he was plagued by survivor's guilt and when Erik was fifteen, he killed himself while awaiting trial for the vigilante but justified murder of his brothers' killer. Erik was left alone from that point on but things weren't any easier. Grief-stricken, his mother became depressed and lost her job, despite her manager's insistence that what she experienced was so traumatic she be granted a special dispensation. The company's human resources people would hear nothing of it and she was let go without her pension that she struggled to build. Too impoverished to bring about a lawsuit, Erik's father took on a second job just to support the family. He was now an invalid thanks to a stress-induced stroke. Erik celebrated his eighteenth birthday in the back of an ambulance holding his father's hand, talking to him, wishing him back to consciousness.

The next day, Erik enlisted in the military of Layarteb. He had been previously excused from conscription due to his family affairs but he ignored the wishes of the conscription board and marched down to the army recruiter's office. The recruiter looked at his file, listened to his story, and took pity on the young boy. "Erik, you know what would happen if you were killed?"

"Yes I do sir."

"And you still want to do this?"

"Yes I do sir."

"I tell you what; I can't promise anything but I'll try to get you a safe post. There are some things happening in the desert right now but nothing major. Not a lot of people want to go there but I know a unit that basically sits around and doesn't do much, collects paychecks and all. You'd fit in well there."

"Thank you sir." By the time he was out of basic, things in the desert erupted and the recruiter shook his head with frustration. He was at Erik's graduating ceremonies since no one in his family could be, which was a tradition in the Layartebian military. Graduates had to have at least one family member there, for good luck and in their absence, their recruiter. It didn't happen often but when it did, recruiters put on their dress uniforms, polished their shoes and medals, and stood firm by the privates they recruited.

"Erik," he said on the young private's graduation day. "The desert has become turmoil. You shouldn't go."

"Sergeant, I think it would be wise if I did. I owe it to my family. Combat pay's been authorized."

"That is has Erik but are you sure still?"

"Absolutely Sergeant!"

"Then make me proud!" There was a salute, a hug, and Erik was off to his platoon. All but §35 a week went back to his family. He had no cell phone, the clothes he was issued were his only clothes, and the §35 a week that he took, he saved. He hadn't spent more than §100 since he'd joined the military. Now he was riding into Margann, wondering how his mother was doing. She wrote him every other week and, he kept her letters and, she kept his. He would send one and the night she received it, she would write one back, and so the cycle would continue.

Looking through his night vision goggles Erik noticed plenty of signs of activity. Smoke wafted out of chimneys from cooking or heating fires. The smoke drifted into the black sky a nearly invisible substance. Jason, who was watching in front of him, saw more of the same things too and whispered to Tom, "Sarge, everyone went inside just minutes ago. I can tell."

"Yeah I agree with you, they might be preparing for an ambush, keep your eyes out, okay? George, what do you see?"

"FLIR has a lot but nobody's really visible. There's warmth to their footprints, Jason's right." He was training the heavy machine gun on the room around, using the FLIR on the remote weapons station to scan the area. Just then, the town opened its mouth and swallowed everyone whole. A burst of smoke so thick, so vast, filled the sky and neutralized their night vision goggles. "SHIT!" George yelled out as gunfire instantly filled the cool, crisp, night air. This was outbound gunfire though, not inbound and it was being fired from the lead vehicle, now obscured by the smoke. "NO TARGETS! NO TARGETS!" George shouted. Fingers went to their triggers and everyone silently waited.

"We're being ambushed!" 1LT Pagelli shouted over the radio but still, all of the fire was outbound. There didn't seem to be any activity in the settlement other than the smokescreen and the outbound fire from the lead vehicle until there was a loud clunk and ding just below Erik's rifle.

"What was that?" Jason asked as he moved forward. Erik shrugged his shoulders, looked out of the window, and saw the reason. Standing there, maybe eighty meters away, if that, was a boy, maybe a teenager, an assault rifle in his hands, a scarf around his face. He had just fired a burst of bullets at the Dingo but in his excitement, missed wildly. Only one hit the vehicle and Erik had escaped death by maybe four or five centimeters. Then he fired again and the sound of inbound rifle fire lit up the sky along with his bright, three-foot flame of a muzzle flash.

Erik stared right ahead and looked for more hostiles but he only saw this one shooter, who missed the Dingo for a second time. "Contact, left, armed."

"Engage!" Tom shouted and Erik, the disciplined young private, fired off a two round burst. Both bullets connected with his target, bore through the center of this brave fighter's chest, and in a splash of blood, entered the fighter's heart, pulverized it, and pushed a fresh, red mist out of the entry wound. Both bullets exited the fighter's back, severing his spine in the process. He dropped to the ground, face first, lifeless, just a corpse that would bleed into the sands. The Tnemration Desert already absorbed enough blood in its lifetime so much so that a little more wouldn't hurt but one had to wonder just how much blood the desert could really absorb before it began to cough it back up, began to unveil what it had taken and hidden for so many years. The ground shook underneath the vehicles as the desert heaved enemies at the Layartebians. The smoke had begun to clear but yet it revealed dozens of armed men, some barely old enough to shave, others feeble and frail. The ten men inside of the two Dingos wished for the smoke to come back and wished to be back at their base camp. An explosion, out of nowhere, rocked the second Dingo and Erik immediately returned fire.

In a split second, a grenade had landed and exploded only a few feet from the Dingo but it was harmless. Fragments impacted the skin of the Dingo and went nowhere. Whoever had thrown it hadn't cooked off the metal sphere of death long enough. Erik saw the thrower, returned a burst of two rounds, and watched as yet again they connected with the target and bore through his chest. The splatter of blood into the air was lost on his night vision goggles but he hadn't time to analyze the impact of what he had done. The twelve-year old boy was dead, dead before he ever hit the ground and Erik, in the thick of armed and hostile combat, opened fire at his next target. Rounds were flying through the air to and from the two vehicles and then, all of a sudden, a voice shouted over the radio and it was not a voice from heaven or hell but rather a voice of authority and of complete and total confidence. "CEASE FIRE!" Erik heard it and so did everyone else and then there was silence. It was an eerie, ominous, spooky silence that echoed in their throbbing heads.

Before Erik could even open his mouth, he was shushed back to quiet. Bodies lay everywhere and the idling noises of the diesel engine pistons were about all that the men could hear. "All out! We're going house to house!" 1LT Pagelli said and then doors were flung open. The two fireteams met up between the two vehicles, scouring the area for security. "Alright Tom you take Frank and Erik and move to the west of our vehicles. I'll take Russ and Mike and go to the east. Jason, Ben, George, Lou, perimeter security around the vehicles. House to house guys, if it has a gun, shoot it. Directive 14-Charlie, understood Tom?" Tom nodded and a sinister, sadistic smile fell over 1LT Pagelli's face and even through their night vision goggles, they could feel the rage, the hatred, and the boiling devotion emanating and radiating out of 1LT Pagelli's pores.

Erik checked his watch and noticed that since they entered the village, until now, only eighteen minutes had passed. It had felt like hours, forever, an eternity even but it was just eighteen minutes. He checked again, nineteen minutes and then he looked up to see that he was falling behind, already. He scurried ahead, knocking himself out of the daydream and then remember what 1LT Pagelli had said, "Directive 14-Charlie." The first time he had ever heard that order given, it had shook him to the core, to the bones, to the very foundation of his body. Now he was numb to it just as he was numb to everything else around him now. If he were to take a step back in time, to the day he graduated from basic, and introduced himself, his old self wouldn't have recognized him. It would be an awkward and unfriendly conversation.

They stacked up against the door of the first hut they came to and quietly, Tom counted. Then, he held up his hand, stepped back, stood straight, and with a thrust of his right foot, planted the sole of his boot into the door, and watched as the door crumbled to bits and pieces as it flung inward. The three men went in after it, Tom holding his carbine, Frank with the shotgun, and Erik with his carbine. There was shouting, there was screaming, and there was terror as the three men loomed over a frightened mother of two and her daughters, neither of which could have been more than eight years old. Frank and Erik moved through the messy and otherwise disgusting living room with all of its clutter, filth, and poverty. They moved to the second and the third rooms, finding those empty of people and then they quickly returned to the living room, where Tom kept his rifle muzzle trained on the cowering women. The three of them were quiet and then, without warning, the three of them took a few steps back and Frank, the cautious man that he was, looked behind him before opening fire.

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

Five minutes came and went like a passing breeze and, there was noise again, as the engineer platoon started up their machines and life returned again to Margann as the soldiers and engineers, eyeing the empty, deep hole, began to go about the next phase of their mission in the settlement. "Alright, make sure the counter is accurate, alright guys?" 1LT Pagelli said as the first body was thrown into the hole. Two soldiers jumped in after it and arranged it neatly. They had to stack a hundred bodies into the hole and though it was twice the amount of space they would need, they wanted to make sure that none of the bodies were too shallow when they began to push the dirt back over the hole. Erik and Frank appeared with the frail and limp body of a four year old girl, still dressed in her footy pajamas.

Like Ben and Russ before them, they tossed the body into the hole and went to retrieve another. In that hole, two of the engineers arranged the body, made it so that it lay flat, and didn't take up too much excess space. For the next three hours, this went on, body after body, woman after woman, child after child, man after man until the entire settlement was lying in the hole. The two engineers, donning chemical protection suits, climbed out with the help of two other men who, wearing gloves, were hesitant. Blood, bile, feces, and just about every other bodily fluid moistened their rubber, chemical suits. "We're good?" 1LT Pagelli asked and one of the engineers nodded. Overheating in his suit, he reached up and pulled off his mask, reaching to wipe his forehead with his arm, catching himself only centimeters before contact. "That was close man!" 1LT Pagelli said, observing the man. "Someone get this man a drink of water or something, hose him down too, over there, away from here." 1LT Pagelli pointed to a spot about ten meters away from the hole.

Tom came up to stand beside 1LT Pagelli and shook his head in approval, "Yes sir, we counted it twice, we're good. All of them are in there. Shall we?"

"Yes, we shall." The engineers who had been in the hole had both moved over to a safer area to be hosed off while two, dry engineers came over and the entire platoon took a step back. They were wheeling a pair of black, fifty-five gallon, plastic drums. Both of them were sealed shut and they dropped the drums in front of the hole and removed their handtrucks. They casually opened the top of one of the drums, dropping the metal sealing ring on the ground next to it. Stickers of warning and hazard were all over both metal drums and the two, MOPP-suited engineers, dropped the lid onto the ground, and reached into the drum. They pulled the end of a plastic bag out of the drum and sliced one bag open. Inside was a white powder that looked harmless.

Within minutes, they were dropped shovel loads of this white powder into the hole, letting it fall onto the bodies and cover them completely. Nothing happened, at first, until the same men walked back to their truck and came back with two fire extinguishers. They committed to spraying some of the water into the hole, onto the white powder, and then, a chemical reaction began. Erik walked away, back to the truck, knowing what came next. The sun was still high in the sky and he pulled a cigarette from a pack that he had bought months earlier. He still had eight cigarettes left and he put this one to his lips, removed the plastic lighter from the pack, lit the cigarette, returned the lighter to the pack and the pack to his pocket, and puffed away, trying his best to ignore the smell that began to permeate the air.

This was the worst part and nobody disagreed. The slaughter was one thing. It was inhuman, it was barbaric, and it was unforgivable. Women and children lay dead after a raid like this and all for nothing. Weapons found were confiscated, and specialty teams came in with the engineers to prep the settlement for sterilization. Burying them was, of course, the right thing to do. Leaving bodies out was not only unsanitary but it was also too much evidence and evidence wasn't something they wanted to leave littered around the Tnemration Desert.

As the white powder reacted with the moisture from the water that had been sprinkled into the hole, it became a highly corrosive and extremely powerful alkaline. The powder had been lye and the men watched as the lye began to eat through the bodies of the deceased. The smell was the worst part and they could only stand it for so long before they retreated away from the hole. All of them, the first time they had gone through his procedure, had vomited and become deathly sick. The slaughter, the burial, those were terrible but this act, this act of turning the bodies into liquid so that even less evidence remained was even more horrendous than words could describe. The grotesque appearance of the bodies as they became faceless, skinless, would haunt each and every one of them from now until their own natural or unnatural, inevitable, deserved deaths.

Erik shook his head as the smell wafted towards him. He heard someone wrenching his guts out from nearby but he didn't see who it was. There was laughter at first and then the sound of someone else doing the same. Erik had seen it before and he didn't need to see it again. Seeing it once was enough. That image would never leave his mind and he ignored it for the time being until it became too strong, even for him. He sat down on the ground and reached back into his shirt pocket to remove a small, circular, metallic tin. Inside was a substance he didn't recall but with his finger, he made a single line underneath his nose and took a deep breath. The smell of the dead, decomposing, disintegrating bodies suddenly went away and he could continue to smoke the rest of his cigarette without his stomach turning like a whirlpool. God I hate this fucking desert, he thought to himself for a moment as he neared the end of his cigarette. This place is worse than hell, I should have never come here. Tom appeared before him and looked down as he was lost in thought, entranced as it appeared.

"Feeling alright Erik?"

"Yeah, I'm fine," Erik responded, looking up at Tom who loomed over him, blocking the sun. "Just trying to avoid the smell," he said. The same line was underneath Tom's nose too.

"Man it seems no matter how much of this stuff I put on, the smell never goes away."

"You're right Sarge."

"You know Erik," he sat down beside the young private. "I've been in this desert a long time and in all that time I haven't seen a single thing about this desert that makes me want to stay here any longer. Once my tour is up, I'm going to get out of here, go back home, start a family, and just forget all of this nonsense. What we've done here, what we've been doing here, the whole lot of it. I swear to Luna I'm not going to tell a soul, not even the family dog. Nobody, nobody can know what we've done here and nobody will know. Secrecy of the war, you understand?"

"Yes Sarge I do. Who would even believe us?"

"I'm sure there are some sickos out there who would get off on these sorts of stories. I don't think I want to meet any of them, I'd been too afraid I'd see myself in them. This, I can't imagine it anymore."

"Sarge?"

"This is between you and I Erik, nothing I'm telling you, you'll tell or you'll find yourself in that hole, you hear me?'

"Yes I do Sarge."

"A desert has many secrets Erik and like the bodies we put into it, those secrets ought to stay within it."

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

The Layartebian Chronicles
Part V

[Yuktobanian Republics]

[ MT ]

[ Violent content ]

Demons Above, Demons Below

“Варяг-третьих, подготовить для входа. Не стреляйте в пакете. Если мы будем снимать эту штуку, весь этот овраг идет вверх. Вы понимаете?”

“Varyag Three, prepare to enter. Do not shoot the package. If we shoot that thing, this whole ravine goes up. Do you understand?”

Dima Zolnerowich was a sergeant serving in the Spetssluzhby, the special forces of the UYR. His squad, Varyag, was to locate and kill a group of students trying to dismantle a nuclear weapon hidden in a ravine. “We need that weapon to destroy the Oseans,” were the words of his commander, namely Commander Yuriy Lev Filipov. All Dima knew was that there was a nuke in these hills, and he was specifically told not to shoot it, but rather to shoot everything else he saw or heard.

As Varyag Three entered the cave, they were met almost immediately with gunfire. The students had been waiting. Small pistol rounds were flying everywhere. The students had left some security guards with .45cal handguns waiting for them.

“Черт! Они вооружен! Найти укрытие!”

“Damn! They're armed! Find cover!”

Dima took cover with his partner, Yuliy Sokolov. “Yuliy,” Dima heaved, already feeling pressured by the situation around him, “What do we do?” Yuliy's response was cold and calculated. “We kill them, Dima. They are enemies of the state.” Dima tried to gauge Yuliy's emotions. They did not show any signs on his face. The shooting had stopped from the guards' side, and begun from Varyag. Dima and Yuliy began firing back. Even with night vision, trying to see anything through the thick smoke was pointless. Varyag Three One suddenly called out to the others.

“Там они есть! Стреляют и работает внутри!”

“There they are! They're shooting and running inside!”

Dima and Yuliy joined Varyag Three in pursuit. Even as they advanced, Dima grew increasingly nervous. “I don't like this,” he whispered to Yuliy. “I feel like we are being lured.” Yuliy hissed at Dima and told him to be quiet. Varyag continued to advance, even as they could hear the shrieking of what Dima figured must be four YF-23s outside. His brother, Volya, was in the Yuktobanian Air Force. He had forced his little brother to listen to every jet engine sound until he had memorized it and knew it by heart. It had been years since then, but Dima could swear the engines were YF-23s…but those couldn't be Yuktobanian planes. Volya was in Zenit Squadron. Zenit was stationed near the Oseans, near Sudentor. He wasn't even on the same continent. The YF-23s must be Osean, he thought, as the squad pressed on. The quiet in which Dima was thinking was shattered by an explosion.

“Черт возьми! Мы пострадали от врага ракета! Варяг команде, мы не можем помочь, это вишня вертолетом один, мы идем вниз, повторяю, мы идем вниз!”

“Damn it! We've been hit by an enemy missile! Varyag Team, we cannot assist, this is Cherry Chopper One, we are going down, repeat, we are going down!”

Varyag Three One instructed the men to halt.

“Черт, там идет наша поездка. Нажмите на мужчин. Мы не можем останавливаться на достигнутом.”

“Damn, there goes our ride. Press on, men. We can't stop here.”

Varyag Three continued on. The conditions of the mission required it. The men couldn't possibly escape. At the mouth of the cave was a 60-meter drop. The men had no parachutes, no helicopter, and seemingly, no hope. Dima began glancing around nervously through his gas mask. “Damn,” he muttered, “this just feels wrong.”

Yuliy was growing more impatient with Dima as they slowly searched the cave. “Dima, shut the hell up. We're not here to question our leaders. We're here to do a job. A very important one. Do you want the damn Oseans to win? We need to recapture the device. This is for the greater good, Dima. Remember? The good of the Revolution is the good of the people. We are the people.”

Dima seemed unconvinced. But he had no other choices. He could not run. He could not hide. He could only follow the orders of his officers like a robot. He was indebted to his brothers. Varyag Three took precedence. As soon as this thought trailed from his mind, however, the room lit up.

Varyag Three One yelled out over the fire.

“Дерьмо! Они Кокшаров винтовки! находить-”

“Shit! They have Koksharov rifles! Find-”

Three rounds found him at the same time. The others understood what he meant, however. Dima felt a round just miss his calf. As he lunged for cover, he yelped. “Dima, why are you acting like such a faggot? Stop screaming and get over here!” Yuliy yelled at him. Varyag Three Two and Three Three moved out to attack the riflemen, but both were cut down almost instantly. “Chyort,” Yuliy muttered, audible only through the earpiece Dima was wearing, connected to his radio. Only Three Four, Yuliy, and Dima were left. Those three, that is, until a round ricocheted off the cave wall, bouncing off of Yuliy's head. “Yuliy,” Dima said, “are you alright?” Yuliy was unresponsive. “Damn,” Dima thought to himself. “It must have caused some kind of internal injury.” He had seen it come in, and it looked to be moving fast, but not fast enough to puncture the skin.

He tried to fight off the Yuktobanian students, but he realized he would be overwhelmed before long. Three Four went down as well. Dima visibly threw his weapon and ran towards the cave entrance. As he did, he felt a hand grab at him from the shadows. He was dragged down, his gas mask was stripped away, and a blindfold took its place. Before he felt a rifle butt to the back of his head, Dima swore he heard a YF-23 outside screech by once more.

As he felt the rifle butt swinging toward him, he knew what it must be. “The Demons of Razgriz above us, and demons we were,” as he realized what must be happening. The rifle butt came down on his head, and he did not know what would come next.

[Yanitza]

[ [PT] ]

What is our Character?


Between 1911 and 1914 the various nations of Yanitza, all fought each other in what would become to be known as the war of Unification. Sparked over the spoils of war from the final Reclamation war (1909-1910) the war was to be fought between The Vatsardom of Vudja, and it’s ally the Grand Duchy of Chuzdenstrpolis, and the Miotone League, headed by the Republic of Mykosia. The war was renowned for it’s brutality and fierce trench combat.

13th of November, 1913
Staroc Fields, Kovnograd
9th Sythakian Infantry, Republican army



Stars danced vividly across the pitch black backdrop of nothingness. Stars and fireworks exploded across his eyes and danced only for him, his only persona show. They seemed to go on for ages and ages, however, gradually he became aware that the colours were dying out. They were being eroded by other senses which had seemed to have been silent for an eternity.
He became aware of what seemed like distant yelling and screaming, loud pops and bangs. Suddenly he felt a cold, wet, sucking feeling on his skin. Then the smell of blood and destruction, then the taste of earth and Iron. He remembered his name was Victor.

In what seemed like 10 minutes of superhuman strength, Victor gradually managed to open his eyes. He realised he was lying on his side, he could see the great muddy wall of the trench that was covered in blood, and he felt the mud cake his face. On instinct he rolled over on his back and looked up. Standing over him was another, man. His details unable to be picked out other than he had rifle with a large bayonet attached, sailing towards his face. It seemed to move is slow motion, and, by seemingly luck alone, skewered the mud beside him, spraying the dark, thick water on his face.

At that point, animal indicts kicked in, the near death experience causing a surge of adrenaline. His left leg on it’s own accord struck out and slammed into the enemies kneecap. With a sharp, pain filed yell, the soldier collapsed onto Victor. Not feeling the pain. Victor quickly scrambled to get out from under the enemy. He let lose one punch to the soldiers jaw, and then with both hands, attempted to smother him in the mud.

The soldier violently tried to shake him off , shaking an bucketing like a mad bull. Although Victor still had the upper hand, he could feel his animal surge waring off and his mid returning to it’s earlier state. Frantically looking around, he spotted a small digging shovel. Taking a deep breath, he stretched out his arm, desperate to grab the shovels handle, fingers brushing against it’s wet surface. The soldier bucketed hard, nearly throwing Victor off. Incidentally, he managed to curl his fingers around the handle.

He lifted his other hand off the soldier and let the soon to be dead man revel in half a second of victory, before bringing the end of the shovel down on his face. He turned his head away so he wouldn’t see his handiwork, but heard the wet smack and crunch. He repeated this five times before, throwing the shovel away and shakily getting up, covered in gore. It came as a shock that the whole incident took possibly a minute or less.

Looking around, Victor gradually remembered who he was. The trench was filled with the dead of both sides, the Western, Khaki uniforms of the Mykosian soldiers now more brown than green, the more traditional uniforms of the Vudjan’s spattered in blood. Outside the trench, what was once a pleasant meadow and grove was now a hellhole of mud, ash, barbed wire and blood. The screams of soldiers and sounds of guns spoke testament of the battle still raging.

Staring around the trench, Victor could see they had fought off the Vudjan assault, if barely. The faces of once lively, cheerful comrades now pale and lifeless. The sergeant, lay with his back against the wall, wheezing and holding his bloody side.

‘’I guess………..we…we…we showed them,…ay’’ he said between gasps.

A small murmur of agreement rippled around the survivors, it didn’t feel like a victory. It was at that moment a runner approaching from the South side of the trench line appeared, fac red and puffed.

‘’The Vudjan assault has broke through the centre and right, immediate withdrawal ordered’’ he announced breathlessly before taking off again. The soldiers gloomily stared at one another, they knew this meant a route, it was over. The sergeant however, saw it difffrently. Using a rifle to support himself, he pointed over the trenches , towards the column of Vudjan soldiers marching forward to the right of them.

‘’Look….there preoccupied’’ he said excitedly ‘’We…we ..wwwe can hit ‘em in the flank….make ‘em hurt one last time’’

As exchange of glances was shot around the trench. A small dirty, man shyly raised his voice.

‘’That would mean…..certain death. We may still be able to surrender’’

A reluctant nod of agreement happened. The Sergeant chewed his lower lip before saying.

‘’It’s over. We lost. The war itself may as well have been lost hear on these fields. I know that. But what is our national character?’’

‘’It’s being as stubborn as possible. That’s what this whole war is! When Yanitzans fight each other, we don’t surrender!’’

Five seconds of nothing happened, before Victor spat out a mouthful of bloody spit, grabbed his rifle and moved towards the edge of the trench. A smile spread across the Sergeants face as the rest of the men slowly moved to follow. They were dead men, might as well avenge their comrades. The sergeant, only strong enough to carry a pistol, brought the whistle to his lips and emitted a high pithed war cry.

‘’LONG LIVE THE REPUBLIC!’’

[Abruzi]

A Simple Wage Laborer

MT

"Интересно, это все, что есть в этой жизни? Я работаю каждый день в завод, я возвращаюсь домой каждый день, чтобы жидкий суп из картофеля и сублимированного мяса, а затем я ложусь спать,. Смакуя несколько часов у меня в вашем присутствии, прежде чем я отправлен обратно на завод "
“I wonder, is this all there is to this life? I work everyday in the factory, I return home everyday to thin soup made of potatoes and freeze dried meat, and then I go to bed; savoring the few hours I have in your presence, before I'm sent back to the Factory.”

The speaker ran a hand over his closely shaved chin, venting a ragged sigh that sounded just a step away from a death rattle. He was dressed in rags, tattered remains of what once was a suit of the highest quality mixing with the various clothes he had managed to scavenge off of the dead. His eyes were set far back in deep caves, the dark circles below blending with the worry lines on his forehead to make them appear similar to the lenses of the gas mask which sat neatly on the table between the two people. Thin ashen gray hair covered the very top of the man's head, gray hair that was only a few years ago full and brown.

Sickly light flickered out of the naked bulb that hung over the sparse table, illuminating a scene that was quickly becoming the norm. The Speaker was “gainfully employed” at “Novaya Promyshlennostʹ” as a factory line worker, mindlessly assembling components that were in turn used to assemble larger components that eventually became pre -abricated apartments and buildings. The work was dull, long, and often deadly; the workers falling prey to the whirring machinery that sliced, fit, and joined together bits of sheet metal and plaster in one swift motion. Having just returned home from a twelve hour shift, the Speaker had only six hours to eat, sleep, and shower before having to report for, “Political Correction Classes” at the local “Friendship Center”.

Sucking his teeth angrily the speaker softly muttered,

"Прежде чем исправление мы бы жить в роскоши, мой статус переносится интеллигент и мои предварительные Герой литературы Народный позволяет нам переехать в Ochagi или даже Тур. Я просто написал, что новое исследование на Новой большевистской за рубежом, и я был даже официально утвержденный на поездки в другие государства Конгломерат .... сейчас я просто наемный рабочий ".
“Before the Rectification we'd be living in luxury, my status as a tolerated member of the intelligentsia and my tentative Hero of People's Literature allowing us to relocate to Ochagi or maybe even Tur. I just wrote that new study on Novaya Bolshevist abroad, and I was even approved to travel to other Conglomerate States....now I'm just a wage laborer.”

His wife slid her hand across the table and firmly took hold of his, her soft fingers covering his worn digits in a way that made him almost ache with longing. She smiled, revealing her still pearly white teeth before slowly saying,

"Дорогой мой, ты так много работать для нас. Позвольте мне устроиться на работу швеей или, возможно, клерк, я буду помогать с векселями и тому подобное. "
“My dear one, you work so hard for us. Let me get a job as a seamstress or perhaps a clerk, I will help out with bills and the like.”

The Professor shook his head vigorously and replied,

"Я не получил нас в утопический город щит просто иметь моя жена раба прочь! Также я пришел сюда работать, как мелкие пролетариат! Как они могут это сделать? Они предлагают нам луна и звезды, если мы принимаем их истинности, а не истина партии, и все же они берут от нас наша гордость и эксплуатировать нас для усиления денежно! "
“I did not get us into the Utopian Shield City just to have my wife slave away! Nor did I come here to work as a petty Proletariat! How can they do this? They offer us the moon and stars if we accept their truth instead of the Party's truth, and yet they take from us our pride and exploit us for monetary gain!”

His wife grimaced with every exclamation and finally timidly said,

"Они обманули нас дорогие, они обманули всех нас. В хаосе после ректификации, мы, как народ нужен кто-то, чтобы вести нас, кто-то, чтобы показать нам путь. Мы думали, что их всемогущий доллар может вести нас, но слишком поздно, мы обнаружили, он пошлет нас на пути к nowhere.If только партия пережила в этом регионе немного больше времени ... "
“They tricked us dear, they tricked us all. In the chaos after the rectification, we as a people needed someone to lead us, someone to show us the way. We thought that their almighty dollar might guide us, but too late we have found it will send us on a road to nowhere.If only the Party had survived in this region a bit longer...”

Slapping the table the Professor responded with,

"Точно! Скажите, что вы о Новой большевизма, но по крайней мере, это дает нам цель, утопия, которая стоит борьбы за. Он предлагает каждому этой цели столь же долго, как мы работаем вместе, а это идеальная капиталистическая ведет нас только к отдельным самореализации и морального разложения!Адвокаты, люди науки, и учителя все стали простые наемных работников, мелких пешек некоторых буржуазии, которая живет вне родины! "
“Exactly! Say what you will about Novaya Bolshevism, but at least it offers us a goal, a utopia that is worth struggling for. It offers everyone this goal just as long as we work together, while this capitalist ideal leads us only to individual fulfillment and moral decay! The Lawyers, Men of Science, and Teachers have all become simple wage laborers, petty pawns of some Bourgeoisie who lives outside of the motherland!”

The Professor's wife withdrew her hand and slowly asked,

"Что же ... мы будем ... делать?"
“What then...will we...do?”

Lowering his gaze, the Professor could only reply,

"Мы ничего не делать. Как только вы являетесь частью этой системы, незначительный винтик в большой бездушной машины, которая является свободный рынок, вы оказались в ловушке. Мне нужно поговорить с другими работниками, может быть, в один прекрасный день мы можем организовать и разорвать цепи, которые связывают нас, но не сейчас. Теперь я должен спать, теперь я должен работать, теперь я должен ждать. В будущем, возможно, будут изменения, стоять, но сейчас, потому что теперь я должен соответствовать ".
“We do nothing. Once you are a part of this system, a minor cog in the great soulless machine that is the Free Market, you are trapped. I must speak with other workers, perhaps one day we can organize and break the chains that bind us, but not now. Now I must sleep, now I must work, now I must wait. In the future perhaps there will be a change, a stand, but for now; for now I must conform.”

[Garimidia]

[ MT]

Remember

There was no point to any of this anymore. Nothing had been gained, nothing had been worth it. I walk, bloodied, sad, numb, through the center of the ruins. Tears fall silently from my cheeks. I had told you that I would not let anything hurt you, that you'd be safe. You had looked to me for courage, for determination, for strength. I had failed.

I remember the time when these ruins were bustling with people; the sounds of feet, the mad lunch hour rush, the talking, the birds, the cars. The smell of food from carts, the food court, from people. I remember the happier times, the carelessness, when everything was alright. I remember the times when we would sit and watch the sky, when we would sit and laugh the night away. I remember the times when you would rest your head against mine as the sun receded. God if I could go back now.

I can't hear you know. I can't feel your heartbeat, feel your breath, smell your intoxicating smell, touch your skin. Can you hear me? From where you are now? I'm sorry, god I'm so sorry.

I walked in to find you at the desk, in a frantic mood. I garnered that you'd heard the news - the army was entering Durden. The country was truly at war; it was unsafe here. "Where do we go? Where are we going to go, dammit?" you screamed at me. I wished I had an answer, a real answer. I grabbed you by the shoulders and held you close as your tears flowed into my jumper. "It's going to be alright," I said.

"You'll be safe."

I collapse onto my knees, the emptiness of the city an almost cruel analogy to the emptiness that I have become since you left. There is nothing here anymore. Rubble lays strewn, rocks fallen, buildings collapsed. I scream as loud as I can, sobbing. Where are you? Just be there, please, just be there. Come and console me. Tell me that I'll be alright, that we can escape this hellhole. I tell you, having the flames of eternal damnation searing me is a better option that having to face life without you.

We had no choice but to drive slowly through the crowd of people who were evacuating Durden. You were as white as a ghost, I was trying to find a place to go. In the far off distance, there was the crack of explosions, the bang of guns, the prelude of a battlefield. The world had gone mad. As we were forced to come to a stop, I leaned over to you and patted your hair. You looked at me. I swear, you could get lost in your eyes and your face. You smiled your angelic smile. "I love you," you said. "I love you too," I replied.

Do you know what has become of me? I can't move, I can't think without thinking of you. Look at me. I walked forever, searching for you. It's not possible that you're gone. My feet are bare, scraped from the shards of glass and rocks that litter the streets we used to walk. Do you remember that? We used to laugh, kiss, shop, play on these streets. Drive to work on these streets. We owned these streets. Now, death stalks me like a cat after a mouse. Do you remember?

You screamed in terror as we moved in and out of the houses. I tried to calm you, but I failed. You were crying, which made me cry, and we couldn't. We had to keep moving or we would be dead. The shooting was so close to us, we could hear the army, feel the whiz of bullets. I screamed at you, "We'll get out of this! Just follow me, dammit!" Then that fatal decision.

You ran out the front door and I screamed at you to stop. I ducked as I saw you shot down. My life was destroyed, in an instant, as yours was lost, in an instant. As I crawled to try and save you, screaming at you to get up, screaming at you to stop, you looked at me one final time. But your eyes weren't resonating with the beauty that had made you, you; they were lost, staring into nothing, dead.

I'm sorry. The night you died, I died. I'm sorry I couldn't save you.

I'm going to end it now.

[United World Order]

[ MT ]

Land of War

The sky was bright with the suns graze in the afternoon day. The grass was a lush of green as the afternoon wind blew through the grassy landscape with few trees blowing in the winds. The sounds of footsteps and twigs snapping at the weight of a soldier’s boot. The blue sky with its light clouds gloomed in the afternoon sky. Soon blood was going to be spilled and men’s screams and moans would disrupt this peaceful afternoon. The rumble of tank tracks on the very ground nature grew from and the trail of tracks it made in the grassy ground as the rumble continued. The roar of engines from a variety of armored vehicles could be heard throughout the lands they drove on.

The clicking of the safety on automatic rifles and the commands being given by their respected commanders. The land was in for bloodshed and destruction and it would come in a fury of hellfire and death that hasn’t been seen for centuries. The small towns and there populace doing their daily chores of everyday life. Very soon that would all change and it wouldn’t be the same for a long time to come. The men inside the tanks load there respected incendiary rounds into the feeding tubes of their Type-10 main battle tanks. Suddenly the tanks fire with such ferocity as the rounds make a loud boom that shakes the land and the very people living on their normal lives.

The enemy T-90 tanks are struck by the Type-10s rounds and few survive as others are metal carcasses of twisted steel and metal and the smell of burning flesh and clothing. The crackle of gunfire erupts as the quietness erupts into full blown chaos. From afar in nearby towns, townspeople hear the far off gunfire and explosions and quickly make way for their homes and lock their doors and hide with there families.
The battlefield is intense with orders being shouted around. Bullets flying everywhere some barely inches off of killing some soldiers. The soldiers fire with everything they have knowing they must succeed or die trying. The enemy troops are struggling to secure positions north of them meeting fierce resistance as the battle continues on. Death and carnage reigned free as bodies dropped on both sides casualties were mounting. The first town saw combat as both sides fought for control.

Smoke was rising from the town. From afar townspeople were evacuating from the town and trying to find somewhere to seek shelter. Soldiers on both sides fought in bitter urban combat armored vehicles and tanks were present and would change the tide of what side took the lead in the battle. Jets screamed overhead. The jets launched several Anti-Tank missiles at the enemy tanks as they were engulfed in flames shrapnel flying everywhere. Jets from both sides fought in dog fighting as jets went down in flames some crashing into the fields of farmland or in trees. The land was being engulfed in death and carnage thus was what the townspeople dealt with everyday.

[Abruzi]

Hunger

MT

The hunger was within him, it was all that motivated him to move, all that kept him stumbling to the east, and it was also the only thing he could remember. Hunger for days, for weeks, a deep ache in his stomach that could not be filled by the mere pickings he and his father dined on. It was the silent yet most obvious enemy to his sanity, slowly gnawing at the edges of his consciousness just as much as the constant stress of living in a wasteland. At night he got little rest, his body wracked by hunger spasms and pains, though when he did manage to sleep strange and often violent dreams haunted him. Everyday the horizon spoke of a better place, a few less columns of smoke or a few more electric lights giving him hope; hope that was dashed with every new morning.

Just as often as they found that the lights were merely the remnants of some Novaya Bolshevist Checkpoint or Collaborationist Convoy, they found that they were ruins left behind by Gas Mask and Kalash Men. Smoking pits that were often lined with the corpses of the inhabitants, though occasionally those too were gone. Sometimes it was as if the horizon was merely a lingering vapor, a trail of smoke that refused to leave the room and instead wove intricate but ultimately empty designs. Designs that hardly did anything but stoke the hunger, build it up from a quiet nagging to a monstrous inferno, a silent shout of pain mixed with longing. Alongside him his father however was seemingly unaffected. Quiet, silent, the father trudged along next to his son; grimly putting one foot in front of the other and allowing nothing to alter his stone set grimace.

He was once a soldier, a proud infantryman in the mighty Red Army. Long ago however the father had traded the quilted jacket of a solider for the clean pressed suit of an engineer, something that at the time seemed wise but now seemed foolish. Unlike most wanderers they were unarmed, partially due to the fear that because of being armed they'd be killed and the fact that guns were hard to come by. The father said it didn't matter, but his son knew that because of their weakness they were forced to be perpetually hungry. Whispering winds were all that answered the son when he leveled accusations at his father, when he dared to suggest that his father's lack of bravery meant that they were forced to starve. It was shameful, and the son knew it, he knew it almost as well as the father knew that at it's core the statement was correct.

It was because of his selfishness that they starved, it was because of his lack of commitment to the Novaya Bolshevist Ideal that they were damned to roaming the ashen wastes instead of living relatively comfortably in the Turgovian Federal District. He had refused to give up his child to the Commissariat of Nourishment, an act which while human was ultimately inhuman as it damned them both to life outside of the State. It was true that collaborators lived decent lives, safe and fat off of the food of their masters in the Variante, but what was a life devoted to a foreigner's cause? By this logic the father led his child away from the gleaming cities and into the wastes, perhaps hunting for answers but finding only bloodshed and hunger.

Trees that stood as tall as mountains obscured the grim pair as they marched towards the east, the noises of the forest momentarily covering the endless drone of the hunger. Apart from the other noises however was the chatter of automatic gunfire and then the sudden silence of death. The combination so common that across Abruzi what wildlife remained hardly ever noticed, content to allow humanity to kill what remained of itself so long as they were not molested. To the pair however it was both noticeable and frightening. Silently they crept through the trees, finally coming to gaze upon a clearing that was full of bodies. Five men lay dead, a final one dying, all clad in the mixture of uniforms and civilian clothing that usually marked a Gas Mask and Kalash Gang. Seeing that the final man was only a moment from oblivion the father led his son into the open space and quietly gathered one of the rifles that lay upon the ground. It was battered and old but serviceable, demonstrated by how easily it spit four rounds into the dying man's chest.

Turning to his son the father said,

"Быстро мой мальчик, собирать оружие и упаковки. Мы будем толкать органов за этими кустами там и разбить лагерь. Если Lubanja благоприятствует нам, что они будут иметь продукты питания и инструменты, чтобы сделать огонь! "
“Quickly my boy, gather their weapons and packs. We will push the bodies behind those bushes there and make camp. If the Lubanja favors us they will have food and the tools to make a fire!”

The hunger sang in the child's ears as he shoved the corpses behind the bushes and laid their weapons at his father's feet. Eagerly they searched the tattered packs but to the child's dismay they found no food and no matches. Crying quietly the young man fell into a deep and troubled sleep while his father watched. Wracked with indecision, the father fought an internal battle between his desire for self preservation and his basic human instincts. Light and dark were at war within him, and out of the darkness loomed a shade with which he argued.

"Привет, мой друг".
“Hello my friend.”

"Я не твой друг Демон!"
“I am not your friend Daemon!”

"А то вы знаете, почему я здесь?"
“Ah then you know why I am here again?”

"Да, и все из ада Господар мне отказать вам. Я бы никогда не предмет моего собственного сына, что зло действовать! "
“Yes, and by all of the hells of the Gospodar do I deny you. I would never subject my own son to that evil act!”

"Что есть зло об этом товарищ? Вы голодают и умирают в дебрях, когда вместо того, чтобы вы могли есть и процветать ".
“What is evil about it comrade? You starve and die in the wilds when instead you could eat and thrive.”

"Процветают!? Какой способ процветания является нормой в вашей родине вы гадость? В лучшем случае я был бы преступником самых тяжких природе, а в худшем мерзость подходят только для уничтожения! "
“Thrive!? What manner of prosperity is the norm in your homeland you vile thing? At best I would be a criminal of the most grievous nature, at worst an abomination fit for only destruction!”

"По стандартной кто вы оцениваете себя?Партия Вам отказано во имя вашего ребенка? "
“By who's standard do you judge yourself? The Party you denied in the name of your child?”

"Я сужу себя по законам Господар Lubanja и его Mocnih!"
“I judge myself by the laws of the Gospodar Lubanja and his Mocnih!”

"Как глупо ты маленький человек для меня служить тот же бога. Не правда ли, что кровь друга так хорошо, как противника, так почему бы не рассмотреть пищу же "?
“How foolish you are little man for I serve the very same god. Is it not true that the blood of a friend is as good as an enemy's; so why not consider food the same?”

Several hours passed by this way, the father struggling to maintain his sanity while the unseen yet present shade fought to destroy it. Finally the son was awoken by his father who clutched one of the dead mens knives in his hand. With the smile of a broken man, the father pushed aside the bushes concealing the cadavers and softly whispered,

"Приходите сына, голод приходит во время еды!"
“Come son, hunger comes with eating!”

[Heliocalypse]

Diaries - Mila
Chapter's Theme

[PMT][Mature]

It was started as a new way to help, the disabled...

"Mommy, where are you going?"

"Mommy going to work, my dear."

But for each noble purpose there are bound to be ulterior motives...

"Doctor, we are eagerly waiting for your results. It's far too long now."

"Wait! Please give me more time!"

For each sides of matter there are bound to be supporters and neigh...

"Doctor, are you sure to do this? This is...uneth-"

"Wait! Don't say it! I had sacrificed too much to turn back now!"

Where had our compassion had gone, where had our humanity had gone?

"Mommy, are you bringing me with you?"

"Yes my dear, dress well."

"Thank you mommy!"

In the name of progress, are we truly deserving it, to sacrifice of what given to us?

"Can i still turn back even though i'm so far in my current study?"

"Oh no, Doctor. You must remember, you long left humanity when you signed for this project."

"Nothing? No assurance at all? What is this?!"

"It's stated in the contract, you yourself had warranted such action and now we just await for results.."

"No! No...just no...why is this..happening..."

"Now, get to work, Doctor, as you promised with us.."

In the name of progress, are we truly willing to face away and neglect our ancestors, our culture and ourselves?

"Mommy, are you bringing me with you?

"Yes..my dear..dress well.."

"Mommy? Why are you crying?"

"No..nothing...just go get ready.."

In the name of progress, why do we need to sacrifice so much, why do we need to abandon our own values?

"Have you seen the one worked with the project?"

"Yeah, she looked quite bleak when she heard the true terms of the project."

"Hm, i just hope it will end well."

"Perhaps, but she seemed to be affected with an emotional breakdown, sir."

"Must be hard on her, well she and I are about the same, except i don't have any living relatives, hahaha."

"Sometimes i wonder, how the hell you manage to pull off all that, sir."

In the name of progress, why are we playing by the strings of Fate? Why do we act as Gods?

"Sir, please!"

"Sorry Doctor, there is nothing i can do for you."

"But! Please save m-"

"No, Doctor. You yourself had brought it upon yourself and you will pay the full brunt of it. Call me heartless but look at you. Goodbye."

"Sir! I'm begging you, listen to me! Please...."

Where would we place our faces, when we are asked by our forefathers, our forerunners, our brethren, of what we had done? What will we answer, for the price of progress?

"Mommy? Where is this..? It's dark...i'm scared.."

"I'm sorry, Mila...i'm sorry..."

"Mommy? Why are you crying?

What excuses we can make, when we are asked of what we truly did for the name of progress?

"Proceed with the final phase of the project, doctor."

"NO! I won't let you.."

"Someone! Restrain her! She's interfering with the devices!"

What excuses we can tell, to the younger generations of what we truly did for the name of progress?

"Mommy? Where are you? It hurts...i'm scared..."

"Mommy's here...don't cry..."

"Mommy? Why are you bleeding?"

Do we bare to look of what legacies and consequences we might left for our younger generations due to our selfishness for the sake of progress?

"Can the project be saved?!"

"I don't know sir! It's critical now!"

"Hm..time to leave. This project is just an another failure."

"Wait chairman! I assure you that i will bring you resul-"

"Silence. You had served way past your time, and it's about time you joined hands with them."

"Chairman! Wait!"

"BANG!"

When we will learn that certain matters are better left by its own and to be not tinkered with?

"Mommy? Why aren't you answering? It's so dark in here...help..me..mom..my.."

Do we even thought of the full consequences of what we did for the sake of progress?

"Damn it...there goes my investment..."

"Are you Sir Machalov?"

"Yes, who is it?"

"BANG!"

Are we fully willing to pay the full price of progress?

"Oh my...what is this.."

"Ma'am, that's the project before it was terminated."

"Such a beautiful child, why does she need to suffer?"

"I don't know the full details, ma'am. I suggest that we leave this area for now."

¤ ¤ TO BE CONTINUED ¤ ¤

[Amerikians]

[MT]

[Mature]

Procedure

Viet Mai - 1967
112th Infantry Battalion - United States Army

The war without end raged on in the forests, villages and cities of Viet Mai's peninsula without sign of ending. The brutality here was surpassed only by what the Japanese and Amerikans had once done to one another in the Second Great War; the brutal practices of the Soviets and the vengeful Prussians paled in comparison to both acts, and this was a mere continuation. The village that stood before the remnants of the battalion was a small meaningless thing; many men had come to take it, and now few men left when it was taken. The Viet Maiese Army was better equipped and organized in the area than intelligence suggested, and the village was openly a collaborator with their own people; after all why wouldn't they be? A life that promised boots to own, food for one's family as an equal share instead of having to become a cog in the Amerikan machine, that was something worth fighting for. From the other side of the spectrum the Amerikans looked at Communism as a fantasy of the worst sort; to slaughter the intelligent and to divide up the hard earned between the lazy and useless; and this was the result.

The two conflicting ideologies met here in the most miserable place in the world to open conflict against one another. It was a place so beautiful that words could not describe; the natural forests, valleys, gulches and waterfalls, the bays and the seas here were so breathtaking that nothing in North America could think to challenge it, and it was all being ruined. The sounds of birds were replaced by the sounds of guns, the deer were long gone and the roar of what was once fine predators had become the bellow of battle tanks. The Amerikans and the South Vietmaiese, their puppets along with the North Atlantic Alliance on one end, and the North Vietmaiese and their Chinese allies on the other.

Every beautiful place was contested in Viet Mai, no where was safe, not one miserable inch of what was formerly Indochina was safe. The North fought viciously, with the tenacity of ten men each they battled for their homeland, their dreams and their loved ones in a never ending struggle against the strongest empire on Earth; and they were winning. Amerika was winning every battle, but North Viet Mai was winning the war; the hearts and the minds of the people went with them every day; because of moments like this.

The little village before the tattered remnants that was so insignificant; had ceased to exist. Where huts and homes had once stood there was nothing left but the burning wreckage of former buildings, and the bloated rotting corpses of soldiers, yes; but people as well. Not men of war; but women and children, sick and old; gunned down as they attempted to flee while the brave among them tried to hold back the wrath of the west. This was the price of resisting Amerika; this was what happened when you assisted the enemy, a lesson that would be repeated a million times over during the war in Viet Mai, a lesson of hate and blood and anger that would be embedded into the Vietmaiese mindset from now unto the ending of the world. They were no saviors; the Amerikans. They were devils, they were monstrosities born of nightmare worse than any empire before them and it was all done in the name of simple procedure...

[-Deus-]

Dead Men
(Re-Intro)

I thought I knew what pain and suffering and loneliness were. I honestly thought that with enough hard work and time I could get rid of those bad things. But life says otherwise. Life says I have to go on with the pain, and the suffering, and the loneliness until I drop dead. Well you know what I say to that? I say, fuck life.

I don’t know, maybe it was fate or perhaps it’s just…I don’t know. I just know that God hates me. He hates me and he’s decided to make my life shitty. He wants to punish me for some reason. I’ve never done anything wrong; but he’s pushing me to the edge. I have no wear else to turn, honestly. I just want it all to stop. I just want it all to stop so that I can start living life the way it was meant to be lived. But even now, as I stand here haplessly on the cold concrete sidewalk, my skin freezing with snot dripping down my nose and bits of flesh peeling off from the infected area of my left middle finger. ‘It’s freezing cold’ I think to myself now. It’s cold and I’m dying. I’m cold, I’m dying, I’m lonely and the tears have dried up…I’m nothing but a shell.

I take a step forward, and then slink back. I’m too frightened to go any further. I have no idea what to do, or why I’m even trying to do this. I guess I might as well; I am dying, after all and I have nothing to lose…

…So I suck in my gut even though I’m starving. I start to walk slowly, left, right, left, right, left, right, left, right and repeat. ‘God, it seems like infinity’ I mutter, but I keep going anyway even as the wind blows in my face and more bits of flesh peel from my rotting finger. I should get it fixed, but fuck it, I’m dead anyway; besides, the states gone to hell and I’m dirt poor like everyone else.

I cross the street and leap atop the sidewalk opposite of where I was formally standing. With physical pain and mental triumph, I begin my stride on the walkway, shuffling towards the door of this particularly red bricked house. It’s a nice house sure, just not my particular thing you see. Things start to get better, warmer, and the birds come out again. ‘Just like my dreams’ I begin ‘just like moms stories’ the whole exchange going down in my head. God I’m insane. I make it to the door, the sun fully out, a smile on my face and the pain that used to engulf my body is all but gone now. My eyes sparkle blue again, and I knock on the door…

…And then I wake up, back across the street in the freezing cold, my body burning up inside and out with horrible pain. I plead to god, I ask him to save me. But of course he doesn’t; the bastard hates me. I don’t see the red bricked house anymore, and the sun is dead. It’s all dead: the trees, the animals, the people, the state, me…just every single last living, breathing thing. All I see is a black, devouring hole. Sucking and gnashing its teeth that wisp up and form from the surrounding solid matter. It’s a vacuum, a void. I don’t give it any second thought though. This is of course what we deserve. We did this to ourselves; we killed our state, we poisoned our people and I killed myself, literally, I believe. It’s still God’s fault though. I had been taught that God did everything for a reason, but he’s still the one that caused my pain and sickness. Fuck it all; fuck life.

I look around, coughing up some sort of bodily matter. My finger’s pulverized now; it’s nothing but dust and water on the snow now. Everything is just dust and water.

[Garimidia]

[ MT ]

[ Mature ]

Trigger

"Pull the trigger Antony," Mark taunted in my ear. "Pull it," he hissed. I clutched my PSG1 sniper rifle, looking out in the distance to a meeting of about four rebel soldiers. They were lightly armed and would not be able to react fast enough after I had fired out the first shot, because after that, there would be a quick succession of more shots from my rifle which would immobilize them. I was looking through the scope of this rifle, which I hated. It was not my own. I had trained and used in combat the standard AS50 sniper rifle of the Garimidian Army Marksman Combat Group, but it had been damaged by an explosion and I was forced to use a cheap Swiss rifle of one of the rebels which had been taken off a Zyprian soldier. Luckily, however, the gun was silenced, or else it would have been unusable.

Myself and Mark were what the GAMCG calls an "operational squad". A two-man, fast moving, mobile, covert group dropped often behind enemy lines to take out anyone from a long range before the main advancing force makes it there. We had linked up in 2008 in the Combat Group School, which is the elite training school for snipers of the Garimidian Armed Forces. We had been through hell and back to pass the incredibly strict requirements and expectations of the GAMCG, and now we found ourselves in the snowy highlands of Zypra on an actual mission. I had passed the Combat Group School with flying colors, the best in my class, hit every damn target perfectly; but this was the real thing.

"What are you waiting for?" Mark was getting impatient. I could barely see him through the white camouflage ghillie suit we were both wearing. It was pretty damn good actually, and the fact that snow was falling heavily only helped our camouflage cause. But of course I expected nothing less, the GAMCG had spent $70 million and four years developing a white arctic ghillie camouflage suit for use for their infantry personnel. "Antony for christs sake, take them out!" Mark hissed at me. "Alright, alright, just wait. Remember what Command said? Learn any information possible before neutralizing hostile forces," I replied. We were 700m away, the wind was blowing heavily, snow falling everywhere, and a group of five rebels stood around a fire sharing laughs. Not for long.

"Well, what do you want to do then?" an increasingly impatient Mark asked. He had lost his rifle in combat and I was relying on him to keep me up to date with Command. I knew that if he had had a rifle, the rebels would be dead by now. "Let's move a little closer, find out what they're talking about," I suggested. Mark agreed. We slowly lifted ourselves and moved at a quick pace to a small hill of snow about 200m away from the rebels, who had been joined by two more. A grand total of seven. I could take them out in less than three seconds; taking into account weather conditions, wind, cold, the rate of fire of the PSG1, best range for the rifle and reaction time of the rebels. Piece of cake.

As Mark and I laid ourselves down on the hill, we heard a crunch behind us. My blood froze and I could see Mark going into "be the snow" mode. Another crunch, definitely footsteps. I slowly moved my head to get a view of what was behind us, and sure enough, it was a rebel soldier. But he had not noticed us, and he was stumbling. Drunk as a skunk he was, and as dead as a doorknob he was about to be. Luckily the sound of wind and snow was enough to cover my quick movements as I pivoted in the direction of the man, who was stumbling away from us, beer from his bottle spilling on the ground. Time to test the PSG1: one quick tap on the trigger and the mans abdomen was severed, blood falling out of his mouth and from the giant hole that had opened in the middle of his body. He fell, a pool of blood forming in the white snow, before I moved back to Mark. He was still looking at the rebels.

"Okay, fuck finding out what they are talking about, ready for some action are we?" I grinned to Mark, even though my mouth was concealed. He nodded slightly, and I aimed down the scope, which rested uncomfortably on the surroundings of my eye. I wasn't use to this, but it would have to do. I aimed the cross hairs on the first rebel who was laughing with a bottle of beer in his hand, another outstretched to receive the warmth of the fire burning in the barrel in front of him, a FN FAL strapped to his back. He would probably be the most dangerous; another with the AK47 next to him was second in line. Taking into account the wind and snow, I readjusted the cross-hairs, and fired the first shot. The man dropped like a fucking fly, his smile replaced with a gaping hole in the middle of his face and the tree behind him getting coated in his brains.

The second man took about three seconds to realize why his friend on his right was no longer standing, or, living. Unfortunately for him that was three seconds too long, and by the time I was finished with him, his neck no longer connected to his body. This sent the other rebels into disarray, one diving behind the barrel. I took out the moving targets; one was shot in the stomach, another in the leg (and another shot to his upper body to make sure he was no longer on the planet) and one a direct hit to the head. Fuck, this was just like training, except the targets spewed blood once hit.

The man behind the barrel took out a measly MK23 pistol, which was the standard issue sidearm for Zyprian soldiers, meaning he had stolen it. He looked terrified, waving out to his cowering friends for support. He probably didn't realize they were almost all dead. I decided to fire three shots at this man through the barrel, and this left him writhing in pain and bleeding to death. Moving the gun to the left, I spotted the last rebel soldier who looked like he wouldn't give up on his cause even if he had lost all of his limbs. The look on his face was one of pure 'not giving a fuck.' He ducked behind a parked truck, and I could not fire at him. When he reappeared, he had in his hand an Adaptive Combat Rifle, which was surprising.

He fired off a few shots around him. "FUCK YOU!" he shouted to us, despite not knowing where we were. I fired a shot at him, hitting his foot, but he just continued as if it had not happened. "These motherfuckers are committed," Mark said calmly, viewing the whole thing through his binoculars. He was correct, but bullets can stop commitment. Another shot hit his leg, and he yelped in pain, and limped around the place, firing shots off at random. Another shot of mine hit his stomach, and he fell back onto the ground, screaming uncontrollably but resisting the fact that he was bleeding fast.

The last shot I fired at him hit under his chin, flying out the top of his head and hitting the tire of the truck behind him. He fell silent; a life ended in a flash. I took a moment to survey this scene of death in front of us. The whistle of the wind and snow added an eery feel to the situation. Seven bodies lay lifeless, a massacre amidst a war.

Darkness was approaching, and we left.

[Rutheim]

The Tone Note - Leon and The Stone

[Pre - MT/ Fantasy]

OOC : This piece is set on the Industrial Revolution time period, and crosses into the near steampunk area.

Since the dawn of Time itself, since the conception of Mankind itself, Mankind never cease to chase for perfection. Of what propel the unrelenting chase of perfection form the core of Mankind are initially to survive, to strive, and most importantly, to live. And such, the enigma that drive the race forward, is the humble, simple but yet mysterious, Tone Note. It's no more than a simple stone, more useless than coal and even more useless than gravel itself, but upon God's will, one day it all changed. Suddenly, Tone Note start to revolutionize the very lives of the Man that wields it in multitude of ways for such the stone carries the new font, the font of civilization of no other than, Mankind.

From the smog colored and ridden towns, shanties and the unmistakeable pungent yet vile odour of carbonaceous layer plastered on everything built by Mankind, the simple Tone Note changed it all. Of what seemed to be a destined grim and rotted future of Mankind, Tone Note given Mankind a new paradigm, to lead a completely different life than before. The once pitch black skies of settlements turned no more, the once dusty, hazardous air breathed by generations of Mankind had all been disappeared, the soot coated food eaten by Mankind are clean again and such, the society of Mankind had changed as well. Pure water that once reserved for aristocrats and the coal powered steam plants which was denied from the slums of Mankind had been made available to every Human, eliminating the downtrodden, infested of plagues and the filthy scums of humanity, itself.

And the person that started and initiated the revolution was no more a simple, single, insignificant plebeian on the lowest hierarchy of Humanity before it all started. His name is, Leon Sans Tosh. And such the following shall discern of what is Tone Note, what does it do and most importantly on why it became the core pillar of Human civilization after the discovery of once junk turned gem material, and the material eventual centerpiece of a formation, of a nation.

---

Thecas Coal Mining Region Seven
District Forty Four
Steven Mining Corporation Temporary Housing Area
Slum Sector Eight

Leon, barely reaching of ten years of age walks through of many narrow passageways criss-crossing the settlement built by the massive international conglomerate company named simply as Steven Mining Corporation. The company had came for this land two decades ago, upon the premise of finding new deposits of coal to power some of the biggest industries of the world. It's true that they had struck gold, but the deposits lay on some of the fragile environment known to Mankind, a moderately large secondary forest to be precise. On the name of greed, on the excuse of advancement, the forest were torn down, burned and scorched to cinder. All for a lump of coal in the ground, such a waste it was. The once lush greenery with four seasonal changes are now no more than the shades of grey, black and white. The once pristine fresh and pure air no longer present but forcibly replaced by incessant churning of soot, ash and dust exhumed by vast mining operations in the area.

The water that once carved the land and formed a clear, sparkling river are now turned a bituminous and vicious flow of some type of fluid, perhaps can be no longer called as water. Dark clouds persistently cling on the area, with no intentions of letting go and causes the land to be in near perpetual state of darkness, dislodging the once clear blue skies. And when it rains, it rained of what no longer can be called water, as the rain will produce a sticky yet corrosive fluid which discolour everything it can touch and affect. There are no more flora and fauna, all had gone with the arrival of the corporation seeking to tore the ground for a lump of coal. Sounds of birds chirping that once can be heard are replaced the unmistakeable noise produced by various mining equipments used by the company to extract the riches of earth, the coal with no regard to the environment. For them, the coal are the most valuable material over everything else, which reality crafted by the voracious demand of such, dusty, dirty and black material by no other than vast industrial sectors that work non-stop starting from their initial inception.

Advancement in mechanical and steam technologies may perhaps be substantial, but they are expensive and tend to break down thus the corporation resorted to a cheaper alternative, which is raw manpower. Leon, a mere ten year old boy is the third generation of immigrants brought over by the corporation to empower their mining efforts. He never sees clear skies, he rarely tastes clean water and he never saw any of flora and fauna that should be found on galleries of Nature. To him, of what he faces right now is his perspective of the world, constant grim locked state of darkness, the soot flavoured water and food, and the carbon black tone of the earth. He never knew his parents either, all he knew that he is taken care of by the corporation, with twenty seven siblings as the company proclaimed. For Leon's naivety, the company kept shut of the real truth and indoctrinated him from an early age, if he wanted to survive, he must work and obey the commands of the company with no questions asked.

Although he is forced to work in such an early age, the boy never complained directly. The corporation provided him some shelter, water, food and some wage which the young boy sees enough although it's never enough for the adults that once worked for the corporation. They, the adults saw the true discrimination done the company and did revolted but was vanquished by the securities of the company, killed in cold blood. The stark reminder of what will happen if a person questioned the company left a fresh imprint of Leon's mind, everyday there are bound to be people being made as an example of such behaviour, daily. With his feeble mind, Leon concluded that he must maintain his loyalty to the corporation at any cost, to avoid ended up as some of the unfortunate ones which were simply discarded by the company with the most inhumane method known to them. It might be hell, but for Leon, such is his life, powerless to change it until one moment of chance out of millions, he discovered, the Tone Note.

---

Clad in soot covered ragged clothing, Leon enters the shelter the company provided for him, a small quarters no larger than half a metre cubic space, "Eila?! Where are you?!"

"Wait brother! Malech given me half a bread!" tones Eila, one of many 'siblings' of Leon. Near age of Leon, Eila is quite optimistic even though the current environment they made home of looked very bleak with nowhere to head. With her half stained teeth and near charred hair, Eila run towards Leon with the bread in hand, presumably a stale bread measuring no larger than an adult's palm, slightly tinted with carbon and soot.

In response of her statement, with delight Leon awaits as he watches his sibling run across the cratered landscape which peppered with vicious, oily fluid, "Eila! Don't run, or you will spoil the bread again!"

"Brother! Here you go!" hands Eila the bread to Leon's hand shortly before she skids and unfortunately ended in one of such filthy craters, creating a front of black, sticky mist in the vicinity of the duo.

Swaying his head from side to side, Leon decided to give a hand to Eila, now drenched in sticky substance with a pungent smell, "Eila! How many times do brother need to tell you, don't run!"

"Leon....? Did you....get today's wage?" sounds a voice out of many quarters in the vicinity, a weak and frail female voice.

After pulling Eila out of the crater, Leon angles his head towards the voice, "Yes, auntie! Today tha boss give me four erak as a bonus!"

"Really? Yay brother! Can i have..um...clean water today?!" rasps Eila over Leon's statement while an oily fluid slowly drips away from her tattered hair.

A few sounds of knocks, crash and thumps can be heard by the duo, "Yes Leon...take this money..and buy you and Eila a bottle of fresh water.."

"No auntie! I dont wanna borrow from you, you need it more than me!" glints Leon's compassion while he puts the hard bread over a makeshift shelf in his quarters. To his surprise, a few coins of erak flung towards his head and grants Leon with much annoyance, "Auntie, i said i dont wanna!"

"Uuu..brother! Why no clean water?" nags Eila with tone of sadness as her tears starts to replace the vicious fluid that drips over her face.

Leon slowly extracts the cold hard coins from his charred hat while trying to comfort Eila, "Eila, i dont work for it. The company says tha-"

"No! I dont wanna listen to you brother! Company this, company that! They could go all die!" storms Eila away from the area with much furor as tears starts to roll over her cheeks heavily and leaving Leon with a frustrated tone.

Staring at the stale bread with a nodded gesture, Leon is surprised that someone is patting his head and of him hears a frail voice whispering to his ears again, "Leon...you can't do this..you siblings need to stay together."

"But auntie! The company said it's not good to steal.." faces Leon over the origin of the voice. An old woman with similar attire of him stands nearby, with near torn and ragged clothes coupled with near persistent shaking. To Leon, he only knew that the woman is his aunt or somesort as Leon never had a chance to meet either of his original parents.

The old woman then stops patting Leon's head and decided to sit outside of his quarters, over the soot covered soil, "Leon..the company may give you items, but who can cherish you? Who..can stay with you of laughter and sadness? They..don't care these things, Leon...the company only wanted you..to serv-"

"Ah no auntie! You..and the adults...are all the same! Hmph!" hastily moves Leon out of an area after he grabbed his hard earned rusty wrench from a compartment in his quarters, measuring bigger than his thin arm.

With bleak gleam the old woman can do nothing than watch his shadow fleeing the distance, "Leon! Be safe..!"

---

Thecas Coal Mining Region Seven
District Forty Two
Mining Dig Sector Nine

Placating his steps across the bleached black terrain, Leon with tint of anguish hastily forges his tangent of movement to escape the statement that he heard before. To him, the company provides and it should not be questioned which Leon feared they may take some of his siblings to exact an example of disloyalty to others. Torn between near rational thought of being oppressed and the thought of safety first, with much chagrin the matter almost claimed his sanity. For now, Leon supported the idea of the company being right while pushing away other voices. He noted, such ideals may as well claim his life, although he do realize he's no more being used by the company and of him trying to negate such cold fact.

And such, he decided to visit one of many adults he knew which work for the company, a burly old man known simply as Miner. Similar to Leon, the old man once stated to Leon that he too, is just another immigrant, brought in by the company to work long hours in the mines, although the old man never mentioned from where he comes from or his parents. Leon duly known that the old man is the second generation of immigrants, raised and live in the slum sectors that the company generated based on the rare late night ramblings made by the old man, occasionally when he got drunk with some cheap liquor. Same as Leon too, the old man never watched blue skies, or some greenery but carbon flavoured food forms his tongue palette, added with somesort of vicious liquid for hydration.

As Leon moves ever closer to the location where he usually find the old man, Leon could see massive mechanical machinery in the area, relentlessly churning, turning and carving directly into the face of the earth and of them generating an unhealthy amount of flying ash, soot and dust which peppers the air. Black smokes and tainted puff of steams can be seen, belched by the machines as they work continuously, rarely stop for a break. He could further witness a maze of elongated black lines criss-crossing the area, moving the precious filthy stuff that the company highly sought for, the coal which mined directly from the ground, and of their partners of huge metal wheels which teeth measuring a few times more larger than himself, turning and churning the rock face, one by one. Noticing he is almost there, Leon carefully brakes his acceleration, shortly before colliding with a steel fence enclosing the location where the Miner works. With a collision made, he ogled his vision into the area, and of him seeing the Miner.

The Miner, with strength sways his heavy pickaxe over the ground while watching his assigned colleagues doing the same, "Work faster, lassies! You call that mining?!"

"Miner! Watch out!" sounds a voice shortly before a heavy wrench collides with the old man's hard hat and of making it a strong thud.

The impact of the wrench inevitably causes the vision of the old man blurred for a few moments and of him drops his pickaxe over the ground, narrowly hitting his left foot, "What? Watch out my ass, brat!"

"Miner miner! I have four eraks now!" proudly marches Leon over the area and of causing the old man's colleagues to stop working with his unplanned arrival or so it seems.

The old man with much grimace stares at Leon before throwing the wrench at its owner, barely hitting Leon, "You brat! Don't see i'm busy workin, huh?!"

"Ei boss! Don't be a meanie! Hahaha, serves you righ-" eyes one of the old man's colleagues before she immediately dodges the pickaxe thrown by the old man with fury, "Ei old man! Not the face, damnit!"

"Face my ass, get to work you lass!" lashes the old man's anger instantly before his attention diverted to Leon, "Brat! Get this coal to the convenyorr! Work naaaw, brat!"

"....stupid old man..! Bleh!" tongues Leon at the old man after he kicks a bucket of coal and sending it rolling to the old man.

The old man, not knowing the bucket of coal of course tripped over it, and causing his grey mustache and oil stained clothes dusted charcoal black, "Brat! Get back here and do work!"

"Ha-ha, bleh! No, im not goin to!" watches Leon with laughter as the young boy sees the old man tries to take a foot hold with his left foot chugged into the bucket and causing the man to constantly fallen to his knees.

With tempest, Leon flees the area before unfortunately his escapade truncutated by a simple formation of hard rocks over the ground, "Owww! Who put this here!"

"Im, brat. Now..." watches the old man with cold stare over the fallen Leon. It seems that the old man manages to dislodge the coal bucket from his boot.

In anticipation of being hit and scolded, Leon scowls into a smaller presence before one ping of curiosity strikes his eyes, "Hey..old man...what is this rock?"

"Urhh...that is...probably sulphur!" pauses the old man as he notices of Leon question.

One of his colleagues suddenly joins the conversation, "Ei boss! That ain't sulphur! It's marble!"

"No, not marble! It's stupidly hard and non burnable!" voices another of the old man's colleagues, in attempt to deny the previous statement.

With much uproar the old man voices his thunderous tone, "Lassies! Get back to work!"

"So..it's not..sulphur or marble..? What it is..?" grabs Leon over the rock with much enthusiasm filling his eyes.

The old man braces his boots a few steps backwards before grabbing Leon's clothes, "Brat. Don't think you can get away...get to work!"

"Can i have this stone, old man?!" asks Leon with a flak of musings as he notices the old man manages to catch him.

Dragging Leon over the dusty ground, the old man then places Leon near the conveyer belt, "Well yes..but work first, brat!"

"Okay, okay! I work naww! Bleh!" tongues Leon yet again towards the old man as he watches the old man leave the area.

Putting the stone on his left hand, Leon slowly being charmed of its tantalizing beauty, glistening in shades of rainbow over this carbon harkened world. As he was informed, such stone is no more a nuisance, nonburnable and taints the quality of the coal being mined. Such a mystery indeed, for a stone that cannot catch fire, as Leon suspected of till a bucket of coal lands squarely in front of his face, nearly hitting him. He noted that it's time to work thus Leon put the stone into his trousers pocket and starts to lift the bucket in order to empty its contents on the waiting conveyer belt in his vicinity.

[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 ]
[ MATURE ]

Nyana



you make me smash the clock and feel / I'd rather die behind the wheel

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

The sky was a canvas for a setting sun, who splashed the colors of purple, pink, red, and orange about so freely and liberally that it seemed the ocean's didn't contain enough water as was necessary to mix the paint that the sun required. Traveling down the two-lane blacktop, towards that colorful eternity, which was an oblivion beyond absolution and beyond perception roared a single vehicle, a black and white muscle car that was as loud as it was fast. The brown and dull green of the desert floor, illuminated against the backdrop of the end of Earth didn't seem to matter and the driver of this muscle car didn't particularly mind his surroundings. With the windows down and the roar of his V8 engine echoing into the cabin so loud it drowned out the hum of his wheels on the smooth, endless, two-blacktop, the driver sat a content individual, a man who said not a word but only listened.

His sunglasses reflected the scene before his eyes and though the air was beginning to chill, he maintained himself only in his t-shirt, which was filthy from the last twenty-four hours of wear and tear without care. The radio in the car played a series of riffs and cords that came so violently, so quickly, and so harmoniously that a squad of machine gunners would have been envious. The speakers all around him echoed that music, that heavy metal music, which fit both his mood and his surroundings with ease. The song, a favorite, had been selected at random by his MP3 player, which was about the newest gadget in his forty-plus year old automobile. The radio, which had been adapted with an auxiliary-in cord, equalizer, and a modern speaker and subwoofer system, received the audio from the MP3 player, translated it into something beautiful, and put it into sound for the world to hear.

However, just as the song came to a magnificent end, its final cords and riffs being akin to a fireworks show finale, the driver eased off of the gas pedal, pushed his left foot to the floor, depressed the clutch, and popped the vehicle out of gear. The roar of the engine instantly began to die as the tachometer dropped from three thousand and five hundred to an easy fifteen hundred. He released the clutch and with a smoothness not felt, he pushed on the brake, and slowed his car to a halt, pulling off to the side of the road. He had driven a mile and he was satisfied that he was a safe distance away from where he stopped last. When the car came to a stop, he leaned back, and yawned. He had been awake for some time now but it didn't faze him, yawing was merely an involuntary reaction. He looked up to the rear-view mirror, expecting to see something and his eyes fixated on it as the car vibrated underneath him, the angry rumbling of his engine still audibly prominent.

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

Hours earlier, when the day had been different on the calendar, he was in handcuffs. A man who was tall and muscular, he was subdued easily but he didn't put up any resistance, as if that mattered. With a knee in the back of his neck and a gun pointed to his head, he was about as submissive as a puppy. "Hold still!" The abusive officer yelled at him. He was practically in handcuffs already and if there was any resistance in him it was because they were bending his arm in an unnatural and completely incorrect way. Keeping his mouth shut, he allowed himself to be handcuffed, and then lifted off of the hard, dirty concrete. His eyes were strained from the dozens of flashing red and blue lights and he ignored the seedy looks of his neighbors in their pajamas, who looked at him with contempt as if he were a genocidal maniac, not even understanding why he was being arrested or what the circumstances were. In their eyes, he was guilty of whatever it was these police officers were arresting him for and the more abuse he took, the better of the erroneously infallible, Layartebian justice system.

Shoved into the back of a cruiser, the man ignored the cops as they scoured about the area. Tap was being rolled to block off the scene and two detectives in suits, with cigarettes hanging from their mouths, were reviewing notes with the first officer on the scene, the one who was too eager to point his pistol at the man's head. The man wished he'd pulled the trigger, it would have alleviated the pain that was captivating his body, paralyzing his will, and repressing his fears. "Why'd you do it?" One of the officers asked, coming to the still open door of the back of the police cruiser. "Huh? Why?"

"I didn't do anything, I want to speak to a lawyer," was the man's only retort to the snide officer whose teeth were covered in plaque. His breath smelled of rotten meat.

"Fine, have it your way." The officer said as he slammed the door shut. The back of the police cruiser was anything but comfortable and for a man of his size and stature, there was nothing he could do to be comfortable there. The seat felt seedy, as if one too many addicts or prostitutes had sat there, as if any number could be an acceptable number. The cruiser pulled away ten minutes later, the two officers in the front seat quiet, cajoling with one another. They'd poke fun at their passenger, trying to scare him into thinking that he was going to be murdered in jail. Truth be told, anyone trying to murder him would have a tough time unless that person was armed with a rocket launcher and plenty of distance to use it skillfully.

At the station, he was processed and thrown into the main holding cell. He was given his phone call and he placed it not to his lawyer but to one person he knew and trusted. Half an hour later, a lawyer showed up and demanded to speak to him. The police, wishing they could delay and deter the lawyer tried every trick they could until they realized that the lawyer they were dealing with was more than an old pro, he had practically written the laws himself. With little more time wasted, the lawyer and his newly acquired client were sitting in an interrogation room. Two detectives stood on the other side of the two-way mirror but they couldn't be seen. Supposedly and neither the lawyer nor his client believed them, the listening and recording devices in the room were not operating, per the law.

"So we've got a doosie here, don't we." The lawyer said as he put a tape recorder on the table, a pencil, and a legal pad. He leaned back, crossed his legs, and smiled at his client. "So tell me what happened."

"I don't really know. I was home one minute and the police were there the next."

"Okay if you will please retrace your steps, what happened today? Where did you go?"

"I didn't leave the house all morning or afternoon. I was off of work today," the lawyer began to scribble on his pad, which now rested in his lap. "Then the police showed up, kicked in the door, arrested me, and now I'm standing here. They haven't even told me what I'm being charged with."

"You asked for a lawyer though."

"Of course, I know how the system works, the reason I asked for a lawyer was because if they were kicking in my door, throwing me on the pavement, roughing me up, and taking me to jail I obviously needed a lawyer."

"But you don't know what the charges are?"

"Is calling in sick for work against the law now?" The lawyer laughed. His client had played hookey from work but insofar as the law was concerned, that wasn't illegal. What his client did he didn't know but he could tell that it wasn't office work.

"You're being charged with murder and not just anyone's murder, the murder of a governmental official."

"What?" The lawyer scribbled something down. In the viewing room, the two detectives remarked that his reaction was good; he had rehearsed it. No one could be that genuinely surprised. He was definitely guilty, at least as far as they were concerned. "Who?"

"Mayor of Bay Neck, you know him?"

"Yes." The lawyer's client looked down at the floor. "I know him well."

"How?"

"He stole my fiancée away from me last week."

"Did he? You know that looks like motive to these clowns, who shouldn't be listening because if they present anything it would be inadmissible in court." The lawyer yelled at the window. He was good and the detectives smirked to one another.

"I didn't murder him."

"Did you threaten him?"

"Yes."

"In person?"

"Yes."

"When?"

"When I found out last week."

"When?"

"Tuesday."

"Afternoon, evening?"

"Evening."

"Well I think you were angry, weren't you?"

"Furious."

"You didn't attack him, assault him, or anything?"

"Not physically. I just told him that if I ever saw him I would beat him until he'd need a straw to breathe."

"Looking at you I'd heed that threat. Yet he didn't file any police complaint." The lawyer said as he looked at his legal pad.

"When was he murdered?"

"This morning, haven't you been watching the news?"

"Television's broken."

"How'd that happen?"

"I kicked it."

"When?"

"Tuesday."

"You had some Tuesday didn't you?"

"Worst of my life."

"What do you do for work?"

"Construction."

"Your foreman can verify you called him?"

"Yes. I spoke to him before eight this morning. He said it was okay, I could stay home. I told him I had a stomach bug. Truth be told I didn't want to go outside."

"You haven't shaved in a while have you?"

"No," he said. "Can't bring myself to pick up a razor."

"Why not?"

"Hurts too much." For such a big grunt of a man, he had plenty of emotions, not something anyone would expect in him.

"Well I think that'll classify you for suicide watch, I hope you won't do that sort of thing."

"No, I won't."

"The police gained your name from your ex-fiancée it appears."

"How was he murdered?"

"Well he was stabbed four times in the chest and once across the throat."

"I'm not sorry he's gone but I didn't do it."

"No, no I don't believe you did."

The detectives in the room shook their heads. Definitely rehearsed.

"He was shot, not stabbed." The lawyer said. "That was my test to see if you are telling the truth and you passed."

"I didn't kill him."

"I believe you. All right so let's go back to today. What time did you wake up?"

"Half passed six." The lawyer took down more notes.

"Same time every day?"


"Weekday yes."

"Alarm?"

"Yes."

"What time do you usually leave for work?"

"Half passed seven."

"Hour to wake up?"

"Shit, shower, shave, coffee, weather."

"Every day, the same routine?"

"Yes."

"I want to question your ex-fiancée about this so please be as precise as possible. I have a gut feeling about something here."

"Good."

"You spoke to your foreman and then what?"

"Went back to sleep."

"Until when?"

"Noon."

"So another four or five hours of sleep?"

"Round about yeah."

"What did you do the rest of the day?"

"Ate lunch, listened to the game on the radio, looked through a few catalogues for car parts and at cars for sale, took a nap around three or so for an hour or two, had dinner, got arrested."

"What did you eat for both meals?"

"A ham sandwich for lunch and two hamburgers for dinner with mashed potatoes."

"Instant?"

"Yes."

"Who won the game?"

"I don't know, I stopped paying attention in the eighth, it was tied at zero still."

"Did you make or received any phone calls today?"

"No," the lawyer barely looked at him anymore; he simply scribbled notes as he fired the questions at his client.

"Have you seen the mayor or your ex-fiancée since Tuesday?"

"No."

"When did you see her last?"

"Sunday."

"And why the encounter Tuesday?"

"Took me that long to cool down."

"She told you on Sunday?"

"Yes."

"How long were they having an affair?"

"Six months."

"That's a long time you were together how long?"

"Eight years."

"Have you been unfaithful in the past?"

"No."

"Her?"

"Not that I know of," he seriously doubted anything she had ever said to him.

"Well I will be back, in the meantime I'm going to see about getting you into a confined cell because I still don't believe you about the razor remark. I don't need an innocent man offing himself, do you understand?"

"I do."

"All right, sit tight."

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"Five hundred and thirteen horsepower, five hundred and seventy pounds of torque, at the wheels. Dyno results are right here. Authenticated too. She's a powerful beast. That's a big block in there, seven-point-four liter, supercharged too. Done right, professionally too, I have all of the paperwork."

"So why are you selling it for only nine? What's wrong with it?"

"You're the ninth guy to ask me that," the seller said, laughing. "Other eight didn't believe me when I say that nothing is wrong. I don't want the government to repossess it. I'm back on my taxes and nine is below that wonderful limit where stuff has to get reported."

"Truth?"

"God's honest truth," the seller said with a serious face this time. "Take it off my hands, please. I just changed the oil five hundred kilometers ago. I have all of the paperwork on this thing going back to the day I brought it home from the lot. You know I only paid twenty-five hundred for it then? Talk about a lot of money."

"Start her up for me if you will?"

"Sure." The seller put the keys in the ignition and the car started with a roar. "I have a pen inside."

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

He looked in the rear-view mirror again and saw the approaching lights. Half an hour ago, he had lost them but they persisted, following closely behind. He had used that time to fill up the gas in his tank and it was only an eighth of the way down. The lights were still about two miles behind him and that was fine. They had a mile to go until they reached his little surprise.

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

"You know we've got a problem," his lawyer said. It had been a sleepless night for either of them. "Turns out your ex-fiancée was murdered about three hours before the police picked you up, they think you did that one too. To them it makes perfect sense. I'm going to talk to your neighbors. That car of yours, it's pretty loud isn't it?"

"Yes."

"Neighbors hear it?"

"Down the block and around the corner."

"So they'd know if you left?"

"And came home."

"Why don't you go make yourselves useful and start interviewing some of the neighbors?" The lawyer said, speaking to the detectives hiding in the viewing room. Even though he couldn't see them, he knew that they were there. "If you did that we wouldn't have to sit here and you could still go find the killer before he or she escapes."

"They're back there?"

"Yes they are, probably recording everything but you're doing fine because you're telling me the truth and that's what they hate. They want you to be the bad guy because it'll make them feel right. They don't want to have to explain how they arrested the wrong guy, beat him in front of his neighbors, and humiliated him on such a trying day."

"That's about the gist of it."

"Well how they connected him to her to you is beyond me. I have a feeling that someone else was involved. I reviewed some of the crime scene photographs from the mayor. I haven't seen her yet. Well this guy was shot three times. Execution style. There was no shell casings, no prints, and the gun was far enough away that there wasn't any powder residue on him either. Either that or the killer fired through an object other than a suppressor, which the police believe was used. Quite obviously, they haven't retrieved a weapon and though they scoured your place both high and low, they haven't found a thing. Are they going to find any guns?"

"Two shotguns and an assault rifle in a locked cabinet and a three-fifty-seven magnum in a box near it."

"Well the mayor was short with forty-five caliber. This looks too professional to me. I have a feeling our good old mayor was involved with some people he shouldn't have been involved with and coincidence and timing being what they are, you are simply in the wrong place at the wrong time."

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

The police cars neared him and from the distance, he heard their wailing sirens approaching. He smiled as suddenly he saw both cars veer off of the road, right where he had stopped previously. That was what he wanted but there was more to the show. Suddenly and without warning, the cruiser that had turned to the right had become engulfed in a cloud of dust that complete hid it from view. It would never emerge from that cloud. The car that ran to the left suddenly and in its own cloud of smoke, flip over onto its side, and with a level of violence seen only in movies where cars had no occupants, the cruiser began to flip side over side as it rolled along the desert floor. The driver continued smiling. A mile back, he had stopped and laid a spike strip across the breadth of the road. The spike strip was easily seen and both cruisers pulled off to the side of the road to avoid it but unknowingly they moved right into a trap.

Along the side of the road, practically hidden from view, he had laid out more spike strips. These were nothing more than elaborate tack strips but they weren't small tacks, they were large. Similar in appearance to the tack strips that installers used to secure carpet padding to the floor, they had blended in well with the desert floor. The car that had driven to the right caught one and lost both of its two front tires. The driver managed to skid the car to a halt but because of the elevation difference, his car was now invisible as the cloud of smoke drifted skywards, leaving the car behind. The car on the left however, had been less fortunate. The spike strip had blown out only one front tire and then it had caught one of the rear tires and the cruiser instantly lost control. It rolled a good seven times before it stopped and since neither officer was wearing a seatbelt, they were injured both gravely and critically by the vehicular accident.

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

"We've got another problem." More hours had gone by but it was still only the early afternoon. The lawyer's client had shaven and looked more respectable now. He was still alive though and the police were going to rescind the suicide watch. "They claim they have footage of you committing the murder but they won't show me."

"That's impossible."

"Surveillance footage is often of a poor quality and they usually get the people wrong but someone higher up on the food chain is blocking my access to it. Some judge I believe."

"Something's not right."

"No it isn't. You're going to be transported to central in about forty-five minutes, we'll resume discussions there."

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The cruiser pulled onto the main thoroughfare and into traffic without much effort. Handcuffed in the back seat, the man was left to brood over his predicament. There was only one officer in the front seat and he was driving. This was a transport and deemed easy but there was something to it that was unusual. His lawyer had thought so too and he was following the cruiser a few cars back. When the cruiser deviated from the expected route, the lawyer immediately became concerned and he continued to follow. He turned on his tape recorder and began to speak into it as he drove, following the cruiser.

They pulled into a seedy part of town and the cruiser took a right turn down a side street that was in the opposite direction of central. The lawyer inched closer but saw that the cruiser went down the street and stopped. The lawyer stopped too and got out of the car, grabbing a pistol he had stashed in the glove box. He had a license for it so he was breaking no laws in carrying it and something about this just seemed odd and unusual.

"Get out!" The cop yelled as he yanked the man from the backseat and threw him onto the ground. "Little pest you are," he drew his pistol and just before he fired, a shot rang out, and immediately grabbed his attention. He looked down the street and saw the approaching lawyer, whose pistol was drawn. He had missed but he had missed intentionally and in that moment, as the cop, who had turned into an executioner, realized his predicament, he lost his edge. The man kicked his legs out from under him and as the cop fell to the floor, quickly brought his hands around to his front and drove his elbow into the cop's face. He kicked him a few times, all of them hard and immediately grabbed for the cop's pistol. The struggle was fierce and the cop was strong but blow after blow he began to weak and with the lawyer in arm's reach, his pistol pointed at the cop, his client was able to get the gun away, and draw himself back to where the cop had dropped his keys, the handcuff key included.

"Are you all right?" His lawyer asked, with a deep concern on his face. The cop was unconscious and not moving but still alive. His client nodded as he dropped the handcuffs onto the ground. "C'mon I have to get you out of here."

"What's happening?" His client followed him.

"I didn't want to say anything in the precinct but there isn't a judge blocking this, it goes higher than a judge. Listen, you definitely are being set up to be a fall guy here. You've got to get into safety and I have a place for you."

"No way, this is ridiculous. A cop just tried to kill me!"

"Get in the car and we'll talk about it."

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He pulled back onto the road and looked in the rear-view mirror again. Behind him, there was only silence and he recalled those last moments as he snuck back into his house. His lawyer dropped him off a block away and he used every facet of his being to get into his house without being seen, avoiding a pair of cops in a cruiser put outside of his house to watch. By then, news of his escape was all over the radio band and the cop that had tried to become his executioner was in the hospital in critical condition with major swelling in his brain. He looked guiltier than ever but in fact, he was more innocent than he had ever been in his whole life. Timing was just not on his side on this one and he quickly packed a suitcase, careful to avoid getting too close to the windows or turn on a light.

He put clothes into a duffle bag, cleaned out his safe, which had a sizeable portion of cash in it, took what jewelry he had, grabbed a few other odds and ends that the police hadn't confiscated, including his MP3 player, and snuck into the garage. He tossed the bag into the backseat of his car and went back for the guns, which remained under lock and key. Those went into the car as well, along with whatever ammunition he had. He was going into hiding but he needed a major distraction to get out of the house and his neighborhood successfully.

The idea came to him quickly and he went around the house setting all of the timers for his lights to go on in five minutes. The entire house would suddenly light up, causing the alarm of the cops sitting outside. He also set the stereo and the television to go on and turned the volume on his stereo up to maximum. The entire house would shake. He set the alarm as well and then returned to the garage, put the keys in the ignition, and waited. His heart was beating too fast for words and, when the show kicked off, he watched the garage door open, the cops rush around the bag, and he was gone.

He depressed the clutch, gave one last look into his rear - view mirror, and smiled at the thought of everything. He put the car into gear and with an expert launch, barreled his muscle car back down the road, shifting into second when his tachometer reached six thousand RPMs, which was five hundred below redline. By that time, the engine was so loud and the supercharger whining so prominently that his radio was inaudible. He continued to shift until he was in third gear and doing well over one hundred and eighty kilometers per hour. He eased off the gas, shifted into fourth, and he cruised the rest of the way, as one last thought came to his head.

"Where will you go?" His lawyer asked just before his client parted ways.

"Nyana!" His lawyer nodded and held out his hand.

"Take my card, be careful, run as far as you can to this place, and get there fast and safe. Don't kill cops all right? I'll work on it here. Call me in three days. Get to Nyana safely." They parted ways and the lawyer committed the location to his head. He didn't want to write it down but it wouldn't have mattered. There was no such place named Nyana and as the muscle car barreled down the road at a smooth speed, its driver looked back into the rear-view mirror, saw no one coming, smiled, and returned his gaze to the road as the MP3 player switched to a song by a band called Shinedown. They weren't nearly as metal as the previous band but they had a song he liked that was named "45."

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

The Layartebian Chronicles
Part VI

[Prohibition Era]

“ALL THAT REMAINS” [PT]

THE SMALL DERELICT farmhouse stood lonely on top of the large hill, collectively abandoned by the family living in its shadow beneath the hill. The farmhouse looked out at a barren desert of once fertile, now decimated farms.

THE SMALL TOMATO farm the barn served for years before the nearly apocalyptical event – known as “The Dust Bowl” - was the same desolate and deserted condition. Below that dead hill, was the small, ramshackle farmhouse belonging to the Sank family. Still trying to make a living in the forsaken desert of Oklahoma, Buford Sank and his family lived on pennies.

THE FAMILY CROWDED around the dinner table, a mere plank of wood from the old barn propped up on four uneven legs. Slouched over at the head were Buford Sank and his wife Margaret, who held on tight to their newborn child. On either side of the “table” were three of Sank’s children, Eleanor, Eugene and Beatrice, triplets. Buford’s mother-in-law Dorothy sat at the end of the table in the corner in an old rocking chair with Warren, the last of the Buford’s large family.

ON THE DINNER table, in the center on a cracked yellow and red plate was the smashed and flattened carcass of what used to be a large prairie dog. Two hours earlier Eugene had been sent out to find whatever he could to help feed the family. He scraped up the prairie dog from the side of the road two miles off their property. Buford quickly began slicing up the carcass and passed it around to his family, who quickly ate the semi-cooked prairie dog without a second thought…

THREE DAYS EARLIER

THE SMALL PRAIRIE dog burrowed through the complex tunnels he and his family created under the dusty Oklahoma farmland. Since the massive dust storm that marauded farms and destroyed their crops, his family had to stray into the dangerous open landscape and scavenge for food every day, braving the hostile no-man’s-land patrolled from the skies by the Prairie Falcon, a dangerous predator of the Prairie Dog and his family.

THE PRAIRIE DOG and his family’s small underground town where he lived was situated deep within the formally fertile Oklahoman farm lands, and while scavenging he’d taken full advantage of the location of his burrow, stealing low-hanging crops, beets, tomatoes and potatoes with ease from the lean farmers working tirelessly to plant and then harvest the prairie dog’s improvised food source.

FOR SOME TIME now the prairie dog’s tunnels had been expanded eastward, creeping slowly on the dry and dead land of belonging to the Buford’s without realization of any kind of danger that the expansion meant for him and his family. His small claws scraped away the dirt and rock of the hard, dry soil, slowly making headway in his tunnel side-by-side with the rest of his family, who each began carving their own inter-connecting tunnels through the raw earth…

TWO HOURS AGO

THREE DAYS OF expanding his tunnels alongside his brothers and sisters the prairie dog finally emerged from underground. Slowly he and his brother stood alert from just inside the freshly constructed burrow entrance and scanned the horizon for predators. Neither heard nor saw an ominous Prairie Falcon hunting overhead.

THE TWO BROTHERS walked slowly out of the hole and cautiously stood on their hind legs searching for bugs or crops or any sort of food to bring back and feed their family. Soon, without finding food in the immediate area, they wandered onto a well beaten dirt road and sniffed for a scent. The Prairie Dog’s brother quickly picked up a sweet scent and wandered into the center of the road, leaving The Prairie Dog standing upright on the side of the road.

A SUDDEN, DEAFENING roar followed by bright flash of light from the reflective metal bumper attacked the brother’s senses, and he sat stunned in the middle of the road as a large Mack truck sped quickly towards him and crushed him violently and without hesitation. The Prairie Dog stared from the side of the road and quickly ran to his crushed brother, sniffing the crushed body with a confused look on his scruffy brown face.

OVERHEAD A LARGE Prairie Falcon emerged, cawing loudly and flapping its large wings, hungry for a fresh kill. In the distance the Mack truck continued to charge down the dusty road until it disappeared over the horizon. The Prairie Dog instinctively let out a high-pitched call and then darted back towards the tunnel entrance, quickly finding refuge from the hungry falcon deep inside his family’s new burrow.

AS THE SUN reached the highest it could in the immense blue sky a small boy skipped towards the body of the Prairie Dog's brother. In his hand was a shovel and a burlap sack. The boy had a huge grin on his face. When he spotted the dead carcass he nearly fainted out of joy and sprinted to the flat corpse. "Mmm! You're going to be a good dinner, Mister!" and used the shovel to scrape The Prairie Dog's off the dusty dirt road, tossing it into the burlap sack and then turning around, whistling and excited about tonight's feast-of-a-dinner...

[Cyrupe]

The Flags are Dead

[No specific tech]

We're trapped in the belly of this horrible machine, and it is slowly bleeding to death. The sun has fallen down; the flags are all dead. They sit atop their poles, masters long since faded into the shadows of the machine. Their tattered souls once representing a nation. In the dark, cold wind the smoke bellows across the sky: a faded memory of a once proud empire. The buildings tumbled in on themselves, man no longer necessary in the cruel cycle of life and death.

Mothers held onto their children, fearful of the outside world as their blinds were kept tightly drawn. Ignorant to the outside world, choosing not to care. Fathers stood in the rubble, searching for the last of their deceased kin. Rifles in hand, no desire to fire.

The skyline was beautiful on fire, twisted metal stretching upwards and awash in an orange haze. Broken men watched as their final days came, and went. You grabbed my hand, and we fell in. Like a day dream, or perhaps a fever? "Hail the Republic!" they all seemed to spew. They didn't care that it was no longer there. The machine was dead, killed by its own hand because of desire.

They were alone. It was alone. It did not care.

"May God be with you," they stated foolishly. There was no God. A world of peace and prosperity turned into a land of fire and violence. What God would permit this to fall upon its own creations?

"He is testing us." They would reply. No. There is no God in this world. It left us to our devices long ago, and we turned our own creations upon ourselves.

They would leave. They would howl that we were sinners and will burn in hell. Hell? We're already there. Look around you, we're not going anywhere if we want to suffer. We already burn. We burn for the machine. We burn for the other machines.

Like millions of civilizations before, the machine laid silent and lifeless in the shadows of its own. Millions more will follow, the machine will rust and fade. None will remember the civilization that rose. None will care that it fell. None will care that the blood it shed was innocent. None will care that the blood was its own.

The dead flag sat atop its pole. Man rested its eyes, the machine did nothing. There was silence. A voice called. There was no answer.

A shot rang out; a girl fell to her knees. Dead. Another victim of this machine. Yet the machine did not care. A mother wept, another life taken in this feverish land.

A pistol in my hand, the barrel smoking from its belch of fire.

The flags are dead, man is gone.

[United World Order]

[ Possible PMT ]

[ Mature ]

The Front

"His Majesty's Solders On The Front Are The Finest"


Golandian Western Front, Karlyntia Plains

The plains of Karlyntia that make the Golandian Western Front. The 5th Infantry company was one of several companies that make up the Western Front. So far the Golandian Invasion force that landed in Karlyntia five months ago had suffered 300 casualties in the invasion with twice as many wounded. The 5th infantry company had lost seventeen men in combat so far since they arrived in the Western Front. CPT Lynsburg had been serving in the Imperial Marines for three years and had earned several medals for bravery under fire.

Lynsburg was in charge of a platoon and had thirty men under his command and had lost four so far. One of them was Lynsburg best friend, Corporal Glenn who was killed by a Karlyntian Sniper when on patrol. He saw it with his own eyes and couldn't sleep for four days so he took watch at night during those days. The company was currently camped out five miles from Company command.

"Hey, hey Lynsburg." A private called holding his G36 in one hand by the grip of the rifle. Lynsburg glanced at the private and upnodded and walked over to him having his G36 slung over his shoulder.

"Yeah private what do you need?" Lynsburg responded to him as they heard some movement near the front of the perimeter 15 meters away. Lynsburg unslings his rifle and walks to where he hears the movement suddenly a explosion rings out yelling his exchanged followed by gunfire. Lynsburg ducked and continued moving as he jumped in a foxhole with dirt being kicked about from fellow marines moving to cover. He checks and sticks his head out seeing movement from Karlyntian solders rushing foward shooting from the hip.

Lynsburg looked infront of him and saw the private moving then he collapsed being shot twice in the chest as Lynsburg rushed over giving covering fire for a corpsmen to drag the body into a foxhole. Fellow marines were being shot and blown up by grenades and motar fire, their bodies littering the ground and some ending up in foxholes.

Lynsburg waved for some marines to move foward as he gave suppressing fire with several other marines near him as a group of marines from the back came up and got situated. "CAPTIAN WHATS GOING ON?" a corporal said over the gunfire and explosion.

"We got Karlyntians rushing out perimeter with rifle fire, grenades and motars!, We gotta hold the postion!" Lynsburg said as a explosion knocked a marine off his feet the shrapnel killing him but causing his body to slam againt a tree. Lynsburg grabbed a grenade and pulled the pin as he rushed foward towards a foxhole with Karlyntian machine gunner as he got close he tossed it and got out of the way.

The explosion killed the gunner as the fight continued. Marines and Karlyntians alike were dieing as casualties mounted. Lynsburg led a team of marines foward for a counter attack rushing the enemy with rifles aimed. Karlyntians were being cut down and some being bayonetted, Lynsburg shot his pistol into the face of a Karlyntian as the body slumped down in a pool of blood. Lynsburg and the marines continued on then the unexpected happened.

Golandian F-15s flew overhead in the bright blue sky. As they did they did a bombing run unleashing hell onto the enemy, Explosions filled the air as Karlyntians were tossed left and right their burned corpses littered the battlefield as the jets left and things were quiet. Lynsburg and the remaining marines walked along the battlefield glad to be alive.