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 ]

To Feed the Sharks



you go down the longest road to nowhere

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The fog rolled in not long after the sun rose on the eastern horizon. There, along the cold, unusually calm waters of the south dock about two dozen boats, ranging from small yachts to sailboats, bobbed up and down with the waves as they came in from the ocean. The fog came in from the ocean, swept past the boats, over the docks and piers, across the beach, and inland, bathing the entire region in a cool, moist, creepy cloak of air. It was autumn and fog in the morning was as common in autumn as snow was in the winter or sun during the summer or rain during the spring. The four seasons of Earth affected Layarteb's every corner and every region, some more so. In this particular region, summers were hot, humid but breezy, autumn was foggy, wet, and chilly, spring was rainy but pleasurable, and winter was undoubtedly stormy, harassing, and brutal.

This morning a man, wearing a long, leather coat hobbled down the dock, turned when it turned, and walked where it lead him. He walked with a gain and the old man was scared visibly on his face where one of his eyes had been removed, surgically during a torture session years earlier. A glass eye adorned the socket now but it was more for others than for him. Speaking to a man with one eye was a bit uncomfortable for most people and so the glass eye, though obviously noticeable, seemed to make things easier for his conversations. The loss of that eye though eliminated any depth perception and this old man, who had once been able to fire ten rounds out of a pistol through the center, ten ring on the bulls-eye from one hundred feet every time, was now just a courier, of sorts, so to speak.

The man with the cane walked up to a small yacht that was sitting docked at berth eleven and the yacht was invisible, at first, covered by the fog. Yet, as he got closer to it, the yacht began to material and then its gang plank and then a pair of armed guards, dressed in black, holding submachine guns. Both of them were about his size but younger, uninjured, not weathered by time, war, and duty. They watched him approach and though they did not aim their weapons at him, they immediately focused their attention on the approaching, old man who still tucked a pistol inside of his coat. He had told his driver to keep the submachine gun that they had brought with them and use it in case a "situation" arose, not that he expected any to arise. This was a meeting with an old friend, a long time friend who had supplied him and his organization with more than their fair share of goods. The old man, a foreigner who was born elsewhere, rather than on Layartebian soil, was distinctly Slavic in appearance and these two guards were entirely Layartebian in appearance.

"Stop right there," one of the guards said, his voice authoritative and though it was not loud, it certainly carried in the silence of the dock. The yacht bobbed up and down behind them and they eyed the old foreigner who stopped in his tracks. "Do you have an appointment?"

"Yes I do," the old foreigner spoke, his voice accented as if his first language was Russian and not English. His English was still understandable and clear but it was definitely this man's second language. "I am here for a meeting with Elipsis."

"Hold on a moment," the guard spoke into a transmitter that was in the palm of his hand. He whispered and the old foreigner didn't hear what he said. "Come here and put your arms up, are you carrying any weapons?"

"A pistol," the old foreigner approached and did as he was instructed with the one guard patted him down, the other watching intently, remaining professional, his finger hovering near the trigger, his gaze fixed right on the old foreigner being searched. The guard found the pistol and removed it. "Is this a problem?"

"No, it is not." The guard handed him back the pistol and stepped aside. "Elipsis is waiting for you."

"Thank you," the old foreigner said as he stepped up to the gangplank and ascended its mild incline onto the deck of the small yacht, which bobbed underneath his unsteady feet. Я ненавижу лодки. [I hate boats.] He thought to himself as he held onto the side of the cabin's exterior wall just to keep himself steady. He walked slowly, slower than he had on the dock, having great difficulty with the bobbing boat. Though the boat itself was in calm waters, the waves were enough to make an old foreigner who needed a cane to walk have a workout just walking in a straight line. When he finally came to another set of guards, both of them dressed in the same way, carrying the same equipment, holding the same weapons, he was sweating.

"Please, enter," one of the guards said as he opened the door and stepped to the side. "You're expected."

"Thank you," the old foreigner kept his manners despite the arduous ordeal that walking had been for him and though he wanted to be short and yell that he hated boats, meetings on boats, the motion of boats, and even the appearance of boats, he kept his poise. An old man of war and of politics, he was a dignified gentleman at all times, even if in his heyday he had been a ruthless killer who wouldn't think twice about speaking both his mind and his heart to whomever stood in his path.

"Валентин, мой старый друг, пожалуйста имейте место. Я могу получить Вас напиток?" [Valentin, my old friend, please have a seat. Can I get you a drink?]

"Конечно Вы, Вы знаете, что я презираю лодки, может исправить?" [Of course you can, you know I despise boats, correct?]

"Ю знает, что я презираю водку?" [You know I despise vodka?] From the shadows of a corner, another man emerged. He was as old as Valentin but he moved much better. Like Valentin, he had been a man, a soldier, and a ruthless killer of both war and politics. Yet, unlike Valentin, his fortunes had been better. Whereas Valentin suffered for duty and for his truths, this man benefited from luck, skill, and opportunity. The two men were equals though, Valentin brought down physically by his years in service to the state and this other man mentally by his years away from his family.

He crossed the room, handed the glass of cold vodka to Valentin, and sat down on the couch across from the old foreigner. "К нам Валентин?" [To us Valentin?]

"To you by friend, to you." Valentin responded in English and the two men took a swig of their cold vodka. "Do you know why I am here this morning?"

"I trust it isn't for another request? Our last one was so soon."

"My dear Andrew it is more than that."

"Is it now? I am all ears." Andrew leaned back and loosened his tie. Valentin removed his coat and the two men sat in the closed, warm, cozy cabin. "What is it I can get your organization?"

"We need to acquire body armor, the newest kind; we need to acquire guided rockets, for taking out tanks; we need to acquire flame throwers, the kind from the old days; and we need to acquire laser designation systems."

"That is an usual order for your organization, is it not? It seems those are nothing you cannot buy on the black market."

"We can but we need discretion in our purchase and we're willing to pay for it as I am sure you will have to acquire these through third parties." The men had more of the vodka and sat in silence for a moment.

"It is not a question of my obtaining these things for you but I must ask you, why do you all of a sudden need such things. Since when have you become a combat organization?"

"Andrew, you know these are questions I do not wish to answer."

"How long do we go back Valentin?"

"Forty years? Fifty years?" Again, silence while the two men drank.

"We served in foxholes together, have we not?"

"We have," Valentin pushed his cane to the side and relaxed a little, finally feeling his knee again. Shrapnel from a grenade had been lodged in his knee for the better part of twenty years now and it was just one of the seven reasons he needed a cane.

"Then why must you need this? Please let me know; let me be wise counsel to you Valentin. Since when has your group become a combat force? You have never needed such heavy weaponry before. What is it that you gentlemen are planning? It cannot be wise."

"Andrew you do not know the status of our organization anymore. There have been some changes and I am afraid that we have splintered. The younger men and women, the zealous ones, the foolish ones have gone their separate ways and now they have stoked the fire and kicked the hornet's nest of a larger and more powerful organization, a militia that prides itself not on helping the people it protects but on torturing anyone to confess in six hours or less.

"I am afraid that now they have gotten themselves into trouble and they have become prisoners of war. We don't believe any more than fifteen are left alive but as they are young ones, it is our duty to protect them, to bring them out, and to rescue them. We wish to assault the militia's headquarters, where they are being kept. That is why we need these weapons and we need them tomorrow. Can you help us? Can you help me Andrew?" Silence again filled the air as the small yacht bobbed up and down in the waves. Valentin felt himself grow slightly queasy but he downed another gulp of vodka and closed his eyes, exhaling deeply.

"You aren't going to be seasick are you?"

"No, no I am fine."

"You ask much and not that I cannot do it, I can, and I will but I must caution you away from this act. Preservers of the ancient secrets of your land you have always been. Why the sudden change?"

"These young ones have found ancient texts of revolt and drew inspiration from them. A local militia one settlement away encroached upon us at that time; really, it was coincidence at best. These young ones, inspired, would not stand it and for three days, we argued in our council chambers about how to act. I proposed nothing. The militia far outweighed us and they had left us well alone, ignored our library, and continued on their way. The young ones believed that it was just a start to abuse and mistreatment. Some case might have been like that four hundred years ago but not today. The militia was lost; they wouldn't dare do it again.

"So the young ones, not listening to reason, separated, and went to avenge what they saw as an affront to our organization. They believe that they are doing it out of pride and honor. When has pride ever been good for our lands?"

"Never Valentin, never." Silence came again and more drinking as both men finished their glasses. "Another?"

"If you would please," Valentin held out the empty glass and Andrew stood, retrieved it, and returned to the dark corner, where the bar was, and where he refilled both of the glasses. He returned, handed it to Valentin, sat down, and neither of the two men said a word as they continued to drink. "You know the outcome of this, don't you?"

"Yes Valentin, I am afraid I do. It does not bode well for you."

"Why is that, don't you have confidence in us? It isn't as if I shall be leading the fight," Valentin laughed. "What I think I would be cut down before I drew my weapon.

"Yes that is true you must be agile to pull off something like that."

"Others will lead this and they will bring about the safe return of our young ones."

"And what of the library if the worst should happen and you are all lost?"

"We have contingency plans in place." Valentin took another sip of his vodka and Andrew shifted himself so that he could be more comfortable.

"That is good to hear. You know, one day, I want to see this library that I have so heavily funded."

"Within it are the greatest secrets of my land."

"That is what I suspect. I would hope so; I have paid your organization a lot of money for it."

"Yes you have and we are most pleased. Who would have thought that after my wounds, I would become a librarian? All of the evil we did in the world and yet a librarian is my fate?"

"Well it isn't necessarily your fate, just what you are doing now Valentin, just what you are doing now."

"That may be but I do not believe I am long for this world anymore. Another couple of winters and I shall be done with this."

"Don't say that my friend, don't say that." Silence again while they had another drink. There was a knock on the door and Andrew rose. "Excuse me," he said as he walked to the door and opened it just a crack. A guard stood in front of him. "Yes?" The guard whispered something and Valentin tried to hear him but he couldn't. Andrew closed the door soon enough, returned to his seat, and sat comfortably but Valentin noticed that there was something slightly uneasy about him. "I'm sorry about that, it seems that harbor patrol is driving around here."

"Is that a call for concern?"

"Not at all."

"Good then, so you will help us?"

"I will Valentin, I will but I warn you one last time, you are about to go down the longest road to nowhere."

"Good, tomorrow morning I will be at my warehouse for pickup. Is that enough time?"

"You haven't said how many of these things you need." Valentin pulled out a piece of paper from his pocket and handed it over to Andrew. It was written in Russian but Andrew could read Russian so it wasn't an issue. "Tomorrow morning it is."

"Thank you Andrew." Valentin finished his vodka, stood, and walked to the door. Andrew beat him there and opened the door for him. He allowed Valentin to walk out of the door first and then followed behind him, shutting the door. They shook hands but Andrew held on for just a moment. "Is something wrong Andrew?"

"No but if you will, please come here. I want to show you something, follow me." Andrew led him to the aft of the small yacht. Since it was docked bow first, the aft was facing the ocean.

Standing there, Andrew watched as Valentin came by, somewhat clumsily. "What is it you wish to show me?"

"There, I have renamed her." Andrew pointed up to the name above and as Valentin looked at the name, his eyes began to well up in tears. "After your daughter my friend," Andrew said. Valentin braced himself on his cane and then, in an instant, slumped over forward, and slammed face first onto the deck of the yacht. Andrew stood behind him, didn't budge, and then, calmly, lowered the suppressed pistol that he had used to shoot Valentin in the back of the head. It was over in a moment and Valentin was lying dead on the deck of the boat. Two of the guards appeared a moment later with his driver, who was equally as dead. "Goodbye Valentin," Andrew said. A guard dragged a tarp over the bodies and within minutes, the yacht was backing out of its berth for sea.

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The Layartebian Chronicles
Part VII

[North Defese]

[ MODERN TECH ]

A Show of Force

Misha Filatov took her seat at the polished mahogany desk of the conference room. She was the Minister of the Armed forces and the only woman in the Emperors Circle; a group of his most trusted Ministers and advisors. Not only her station, but her very appearance was intimidating to most people. She wore a sleek black military uniform, her jet black hair tucked back into a professional looking ponytail. She was the normal height for a Defesian at 6’2”, intimidating to the foreigners she had frequent dealings with. But hidden behind her beauty was a fierce determination that put many other men to shame. It was one of the reasons she got away with openly being a follower of Vinnispakr, something heavily frowned upon in the religiously obsessed country she lived in.

Also there was the Minister of Foreign Relations Denis Baranov and the Emperor Vladik Gradysk. The meeting room had been full of officials, generals, and Ministers the last few meetings, but this was just a formality to wrap up all the details and any lingering doubts.

"Sergeiveich,” Misha spoke up first, “the capture and annexation of the Aquadis Island will give us a significant Maritime base in the Thanatosin Sea, allowing us a convenient refueling hub when we must send our fleets out of the region. The savage natives there are technologically backwards with a military mostly consisting of defunct 1980 weapons and vehicles. The population sits at around 760,000 with most of it concentrated in the capital city of Dovei, the rest scattered in the various villages and towns. My office and I believe that with the 3rd Fleet and 7th Shikovundr Division, we could easily crush any resistance,” she paused, seeming to remember something, “not does the island benefit our Maritime forces, but we could easily begin importing able bodied men to become Mandatory Workers.”

“That‘s my field of discussion, Sergeiveich Filatov,” Denis broke in, glad to have a chance to embarrass his rival. Turning his attention back to his youthful Emperor, he began to speak.

“The successful conquest of this little tropical paradise, while seemingly minor, will have far reaching implications. A show of force this soon before the reunification of the Empire will give us a valuable psychological edge when going to the negotiating table. States who would otherwise think twice before joining the Dominion would hesitate before denying us. And it would let us test out our new army, we haven‘t gotten to use them ever since we did away with the wasteful Rangers and reformed the Regulars into the Shikovundr.”

The Emperor had been sitting quietly during all of this, listening carefully as both of his Ministers spoke. At the last bit of Denis’ speech, he spoke up with a curious tone.

“Are you sure that we won‘t be hassled by some do-gooder with a chip on his shoulder about slavery?”

Denis held back laughing at the thought and settled for a humored shake of his head.

“My Emperor, why would anyone spill blood with us over a collection of savages?”

District 60
One week later

The harbors and dry-docks of District 60 had been abuzz with activity for several days. The entire 3rd fleet was being mobilized, and all of the ships had to be serviced and checked before allowed to cast off. Then they had to load up the 7th Shikovundr Division, which meant a lot of tanks, supply trucks, and APC’s. Once everything was said and done, the 3rd fleet and accompanying troop ships sailed out of the Defesian Gulf and rallied in the Thanatosin Sea east of Vortiaganica. Admiral Janko Pavo was leading the Fleet. He was stationed in the Gradyskau-class Battleship “Emperors Fury”. He was standing in the bridge surrounded by the hustle and bustle of officers around him, staring out towards the distant horizon.

“Sergeiveich Admiral,” a voice scattered his thoughts, and he turned around to see a young officer looking up at him, “the fleet is in position and all Captains have reported in. We‘ll reach the objective in a few hours.”

“Thank you.” Janko responded simply, mentally picturing the fleets layout. The flagship he was on would be in the center with the two supporting carriers. Supporting destroyers and cruisers would be surrounding them in a loose box formation with the transport ships tagging along in the rear. Ahead and behind the fleet there were a handful of submarines hunting for any threats underneath the waves, while several squadrons of aircraft flew patrol around the fleet, including an AWAC that boosted their visual range to several kilometers. All in all, it was a prime example of Defesian maritime skills.

Aquadis
Two weeks later

Odintyr Radoslav Rolan walked down the deserted street in the middle of Dovei, the three Prokhor in his fire-team following close behind. The streets were riddled with bullet holes while craters were scattered around the street, but the four Defesian soldiers didn’t seem overly concerned. This part of the city had been pacified three days before, when the local commander had offered his surrender after the prolonged siege had starved out most of the defenders. Most modern cities weren’t built to withstand that particular tactic, which had been used in warfare since ancient times.

“Sergeiveich Odintyr,” one of the Prokhor called to Radoslav, “when will we start cleaning out the bodies?”

Radoslav finally noticed the bodies laying around amongst the debris. Many of them were emaciated, stark reminders of the harsh punishment that a simple siege can inflict.

“My guess is that we‘ll start cleaning this place out soon,” he responded as he slung his LAN-47 over his shoulder, “then we‘ll get to make the live ones start repairing all the damage they made us do here while the rest are shipped back home to do some slave work. Will probably be the only bit of honest work these inbred shits ever done.”

[Abruzi]

The Morning of Existence

Fantasy/Religious Tech

When creation was still young, and the awning gulf of Ginnunga Gap not quite forgotten, the Lubanja walked the still molten earth. He drank from Hvergelmir itself and crossed blades with Surtr long before Ymir created Audhumla. In the shadows of the still moist darkness, the Gospodar observed the birth of Thrudgelmir and the subsequent birth of Bergelmir. It is true what the Scalds of the Eastern Mountains say, the Lubanja was for a time brother to Bergelmir and thus Godfather to the Ice Giants, and yet he was also ally of Buri and in time came to fight alongside Borr.

It was during the earliest stages of the Long War that the Lubanja was first Thane of Buri's Court and an attendant to the marriage of Borr and Bestla. It was his axe, the great weapon known as “Death Eater” that helped the still young Odin, Vili, and Ve to slay Ymir. In the chaos and confusion of that epic struggle, the Gospodar's blade was said to have taken in a fraction of the ancient malevolent personality of Ymir forever binding the wielder to that evil.

Yet in their moment of victory the early gods turned upon the Gospodar Lubanja partially out of fear and partially out of jealousy. Casting him out of their abode they forced the still blood drenched warrior to take to flight with Bergelmir who then founded Jotunheim and gave birth to the Frost Giants. Thus forgotten by the Aesir, the Gospodar worked in a great forge below Jotunheim in order to prepare for his eventual return to the halls of the Gods.

Midgard was formed from the flesh of the slain Ymir as was the trees his hair, the heavens his skull, and his brains the clouds. Given over by the gentle powers for the sons of men, Midgard was at first a quiet place as mankind had yet to drink deeply from the cup the Gospodar offered. While Nordi, Sudri, Austri, and Westri took up their posts and held the mantle of the heavens upon their shoulders, the Lubanja worked to craft a great cup which was known among giants as, “Shrift Gneva”.

Mani and Sol arose to the heavens and our Lord did not notice so consumed was he by the crafting of the Shrift Gneva. It was through this intensity of focus that Skoll and Hati were born, formed from the anger forced sweat from the Lubanja's brow and bonded with the fires of wrath that raged both in his heart and in his forge. Because of their creator's disdain for time and the passage of it, something he deemed was for mortals alone, the two wolves were set to eternally chase after Mani and Sol.

Quickly the Lubanja's children were noticed amongst the residents of Jotunheim and the other outcasted Gods. Vasud himself attended to the Lubanja as he stoked his great furnace, smelting and casting the Shrift Gneva without paying particular mind to his guest. It was said that out of anger and humiliation Vasud the icy wind lent his own power to the creation, thus giving birth to the term, “Icy Hatred”. Another was the great giant Hraesvelgr who gave the Gospodar a feather from his own eagle plume raiment, thus giving the Lubanja the ability to motivate the winds to do his bidding.

Thus outfitted, the Lubanja was able to finished casting and creating the physical form of the Shrift Gneva, but he was as of yet unable to give it the otherworldly powers that would make it appealing to the race of man. It was during this time that he left his forge in Jotunheim and wandered existance, defying the Gods just as their focus was shifted to the maggots of Ymir's corpse. When the inhabitants of Svartalfaheim and Alfheim were assigned their labels of good and evil, the Lubanja was in attendance and was the first to offer the Black Dwarfs a bargain. He would give them the first sip from the Shrift Gneva if they swore fealty to him. Quickly the offer was accepted, the Dwarfs realizing that the powers of rage would allow them to mine and hoard all the more precious stones and metals.

With his forge moved to the land of his first followers, and his own body outfitted with the gifts of Vasud and Hraesvelgr, the Lubanja determined that it was time to re-assert himself and claim the title of Aesir. When he appeared upon the plain of Idawold alongside the descendents of Odin he was greeted with calls for his death and the condemnation of all but the Allfather himself. Because of Odin's silence the Gods allowed the Lubanja to bear witness to the great council of the gods in Asgard, where it was determined that there would be no violence within the home of the Gods. Attempting to heal relations, the Gospodar offered his forge, an offer which was turned down and openly scorned. It was for this reason that the Lubanja returned to Svartalfaheim and vowed to continue the great feud.

When Odin, Hoenir and Loki beheld the trees Ask and Embla the Lubanja too was in attendance. Lingering behind the three Aesir, The Gospodar watched with a slight smile as the newly created mankind was given thought, hope, work, and mortality. It was time to perfect the Shrift Gneva, and though Yggdrasil was only just planted by Odin, the Urdar Fountain already flowed freely. Before the Aesir came together to drink deep it's magical drought, the Lubanja drank. He drank deeply and when he raised his head from the bubbly font he found that he was completely refreshed. Dipping the Shrift Gneva into the fountain, he pulled it forth only seconds later yet it already was pulsing with the most pure of magics. Armed with this, the most tempting of offers, the Gospodar changed his shape to that of a mighty wolf and went off to find the leaders of the early human tribes. Offering them a sip of the liquid of the gods in exchange for their allegiance, the Lubanja smiled inwardly when he heard the human chieftains argue that with the power of the gods they could simply crush the feeble wolf before them.

Three out of the dozen early tribes of man drank the Lubanja's offering, and while they received the power of the gods for that first day, they did not know that the Aesir daily drank of the Urdar Fountain. It was then that the Gospodar delivered to his new servants the first of his four lessons, trickery as a means to an end is justifiable.

[North Point]

[ PT, circa 1984 ]

[[All the stories I write from now on will carry this disclaimer. By continuing to read this story you agree to the following terms: 1. That my writings may contain mature content, i.e. sexual themes, racial or homophobic slurs and very strong language; and 2. That my skills as a writer are still developing and my storywriting will not blow you away.]]

And Then They Came For Me

Columbia. The capital city of the world's only neutral nation. It always rains here. It's always dark too. North Point is not a land that lends itself to beauty, at least, not this part of it. When the Four Kingdoms were united in the 1930s, everyone thought things would be dandy. Then the Yuktobanian Unification Wars began and everyone was fearful. They still are. Belka's resurgence in the 1970s increased tensions. Now I hear talk about the Oseans possibly conceding land to the Belkans. But our government is shrouding us from the madness of the modern world. Here we have peace. We are neutral. We are secure. We are united. And God is with us and our king.

This land is safe from all the insanity. We work in peace. We work under the watchful eye of our leaders, who we can trust. They protect us. They comfort us. They provide what we need. We are not lacking. We are not wanting. If we are wanting, we are satisfied because our leaders will satisfy our wants.

It is a perfect world. It is utopia. But it never comes without a cost. I personally hold unorthodox beliefs, but I never had to worry about my feelings. They went after the homosexuals, the godless, the communists. I never had a thing to worry about. My ideas of democracy were safe inside my mind, just as my body was safe inside my homeland.

That's what they had me believe.

I know better now.

When the homosexuals were pursued, I did not speak up. They were unraveling the fabric of society.

When the godless were pursued, I did not speak up. They were destroying our unity.

When the communists were pursued, I did not speak up. They were threatening our neutrality and peace.

But when the pursuit of the democracy adherents came, nobody spoke up for them.

I was a believer in democracy. And then after the homosexuals, the communists, the destroyers of our land, they came for me. And I did not expect it.

They beat me. They tortured me. I saw more of my own blood in those first days than I had in my entire life before then. They demanded information. They wanted to know where the other Demos were. The democracy terrorists. I told them I didn't know. I was beaten and tortured more and more as I told them ever harder that I did not know. Time and time again, I was bruised and bloodied.

If only I had spoken up before.

As I write this, I can hear the footsteps of the guards marching with determination. I fear I have no time. Take this in peace, brother. Stand firm. We cannot reclaim our land if we do not speak up.

Yours in confidence,
Edward Ansel

[-Deus-]

Thus Spoke God

I move left, then right. Twisting and turning; swiftly heading off into the northern lights. My boots clatter against floor, my cape sways against the wind. My mind is still, my soul is at peace and my heart, as they say, is as free as a bird. I am ready.

I step upon the stage and greet the crowd with a smile. This is my crowd, my children, of course and I will feed them, as any loving mother would do. Some looks from the crowd suggest I’m looking rather pompous, but for them to think so is…quaint, for I am the leader and they the children. Utterly quaint. I bow once, twice, heh, three times final and give them a lasting, charming smile. Show time.

“Attention, attention” I begin, my eloquent voice filling the basin, so to speak. I glance to my left, “tonight we have a show for you, ladies and gentlemen”. And then to my right, “we, the members of this club, wish you a most delightful and intriguing experience. We hope that what we do will open your…inner eye” the lights go out “and awaken your mind to the unknown world, hidden from view” the spotlight is on me, the crowd in awe, the sparrow perched now against my shoulder.

I bow once more, the applause building me up, until I straighten up and disappear behind the large, crimson curtain.

My colleagues give me pats on the back, “another job well done” they say. I give my love a kiss, their soft lips tantalizing mine. I shake the hand of everyone’s shared master, his debt nearly repaid. So close, so close to freedom. I suck in my gut, chug the glass, and exhale deeply. Nearly an hour has past and it only seems like three minutes time. Showtime, once again.

I get up to the stage, right behind the giant curtain, the crowd on the other side, waiting, watching, eager to dig into my act and critique me. Crowds are like lions; dangerous, yet when slain, beautiful to hang up on a wall. Heh, a little joke. I button up my waist jacket, straighten my tie and slick back my hair. The curtain beings to rise, and all fear escapes me as I am no longer scared and alone.

I put my hands up, showing the crowd my empty palms before giving a cock smile, flicking my wrists, the tarp below me and twirling my body to produce baton in my right hand. I swing the baton as the crowd cheers. I see our master to the side of the stage, glaring, paralyzing, killing; utter loneliness. I look at the ground, then the crowd, and begin my greatest feat.

“Ladies…Gentlemen, a favour” I begin, as always. I feel sick already, “imagine for a moment a beautiful landscape. Flowers, love, happiness, music flowing, the entire human population unified as one; no war, nor famine, nor pestilence.” I tap the ground, once, twice, thrice, and the machine begins to rise. “Can you see that world, ladies and gentlemen? Can you feel it? Taste it? Smell it?” The machine stutters and shakes, but the people are unmoved. I have them. “Now ladies and gentlemen imagine if I could take you there, free of cost. Yes, I know, amazing. But I will, all you need to do…is count to three.”

“One” I begin, “say goodbye to hatred”. “Two” I say, hiding my face under my hat, “kill all doubt…” I pause. I waver. I always do, when it gets to this point. But it must be done, even as the machine jolts and stutters and slams against the floorboard like a raging beast. “Are you ready, ladies and gentlemen, for a world beyond good and evil? Are you ready for the brave new world, which waits?”

I smile and with a whisper, the room is hushed.

[Malhavok]

[ October 6th ] [ MT ]

Truth is not only violated by falsehood; it may be equally outraged by silence. - Henri Frederic Amiel

On the 6th of October 2011, almost 400 ethnic Solmese citizens of Malhaven, the majority of them women and children, were killed in an attack on the rural town of Ithmus. The following account is that of Jabe Garellos, the Chief Investigator in the province that the attack occurred in, as told to Malhavok's State News Service. Mr Garellos was not paid for his story, and faces up to 35 years in prison for revealing this information. Of the 3 soldiers Mr Garellos interviews, one committed suicide, another died of his wounds and the third is currently facing extradition to Solm to be tried for attempted genocide.

Outrage, I thought to myself. Anger. Murder. Genocide. Also came to mind.

State-sanctioned? I asked myself as I looked over the reports.

378 dead in an 18 hour orgy of violence. Around 30 heavily armed gunmen attacked a school party to mark to the 125th anniversary of Jack's Landing, the first Solmese settlers to land in Malhavok. Most of the victims were students and their teachers and they died in their dozens in the first few hours, before the gunmen started a deadly game cat-and-mouse with their victims, searching the school and it's grounds, before armed police finally moved in 16 hours after the massacre began. Just 3 of the gunmen survived, all wounded but in stable conditions.

The number of victims was first thought to be around 150, until police checked the school hall and found almost 1,000 people either wounded or dead. The gunmen had herded them in there, and then sprayed the crowds when the police started to move in. A knot in my stomach tightened as I remembered the photographs shown on the news, the walls splattered with blood and bullet holes, windows broken, and pools of blood on the floor. One of the surviving gunmen had been in the Hall, and had tried to hide among the survivors. I would speak to him last.

I sighed to myself as I watched the midday news, loosening my tie and collar as the heat began to hit intolerable levels, as the summer heat waves continued. I had spoken to a few of the ART officers who had ended the attack, and they spoke of how, even days after the fact, they remembered the smell of the bodies that had been sweltering in the heat. One remarked that the smell was an odd combination of sweat, guts, shit and firearms. It was a smell he would likely never forget, he said.

The funerals for the dead had already begun, and the students of Ithmus Secondary School had been given an indefinite time off, whilst the investigation was ongoing. Maybe were still traumatised or injured, with almost three dozen still in hospital. 4 would die between the start my investigation and the end, and a year on, another 7 have committed suicide, bringing the total number of victims to 389, over 300 of them under the age of 18. The youngest victim was just 5 years old, the youngest of an entire family who were wiped out that day.

As I watched Nicarro Marcos vow to punish those responsible, "conspirators and gunmen both", I looked around my office, and at the increased amounts of staff that I had been allocated for this investigation. Departmental rivalries had always existed in the sprawling Malhaven state, but they were, I hoped, being put aside in light of this massacre.

"Investigator Garellos?" I turned as one of the new staff members addressed me. I nodded for the man, dressed in a brand new suit and shoes polished to a shine, to continue. "I am Agent Jaime Forres. I've been assigned to your team from Internal Operations.

I narrowed my eyes at the mention of Department XX. "What interest does Internal Operations have in my investigation?" I asked.

"None, except that this investigation is concluded as expediently as possible. We have the gunmen, your job is to res-"

I looked at him and his resolve seemed to fail. I reflected that if Dept XX had sent this Forres to intimidate me, then they had sent the wrong man. "My job is to investigate this massacre. That means questioning those gunmen that survive. If Internal Operations have a problem with how I run this investigation then they are free to take it up with the Judicial Investigations Guild. Otherwise Department XX will not interfere with this investigation. You are free to stay and work under me, or leave and have Internal Operations send another in your place, but you will not interfere in the integrity of this investigation, myself, my staff and this office. Are we clear?" I finished, looking him straight in the eyes, holding my gaze until he looked away.

Minutes passed, before he finally nodded and said, "I will stay then, if given permission to?"

I quickly nodded back, and gestured to a nearby desk. "Liaise with the cops at the hospital where the gunmen are. I want hourly updates on their condition. And no one is to see them without my permission, doctors included, unless there's an emergency." I watched Forres get to work, then turned to the rest of my team, new and old faces alike.

"All right, we've got a lot of work to do, I want forensics teams either at that school, the gunmen's homes or in the lab at Ithmus central. There's an assload of evidence to document and sort through, so get to work. Your reports go to Colour Sergeant Fionne Karr, kindly donated to the department by the Military Police's Forensics Department." I gestured to a middle-aged woman at the back of the room in military uniform. Fionne was a solid investigator, if a little unimaginative. But I had asked for her because of her legendary organisational skills. In an investigation like this I was going to need all the help I could get.

"There's also a huge number of witness reports to go through. I've asked Station Master Jay Reynolds to organise teams to go through them, follow up any leads and then report back to me. He'll be based out of this office, and all your information goes to him first, before anyone else, we clear?" I looked at the faces of the men and women in the office, from over a dozen different branches of government, seeing them determined as anything.

"Finally, on a personal note, I know some of you are locals, and knew victims of this massacre. I also know that the urge for revenge is strongest at times like this. But the law is the law. These men will hang, I give you my word. Now lets get to work, and let's get the bastards." I finished speaking and nodded, setting my staff to work, and leaving the office.

Now, I thought to myself, I will get answers. I must.

A few hours later...

Hospitals. No matter where you are in the world, every hospital has some similar characteristics. The whitewashed walls. The bleached floors. The tube lighting. And that smell that only hospitals had. I think it's the smell of death. But it could just be the bleach.

This particular hospital currently housed the three most hated men in Malhavok. News of their presence had leaked out, and already police had arrested half a dozen people as they tried to sneak into the secure ward. I ordered the police guard to be trebled and upgraded their status to armed when the last attempted intruder had several grenades and revolver on him.

The crowd outside was sizeable, and had pelted me with questions and comments as I had arrived, most of which were along the lines of 'couldn't you just smother them now?'. I resisted replying, as I knew the pain they felt. It was a pain that I too felt. Even the nurses and doctors on the ward looked like they would rather be elsewhere, and I didn't blame them. "Which of the three is most stable?" I asked the lead physician.

"That would room 3." The elderly man replied. We walked to the main nurses station and he pulled out a chart. "Gave his name as Jiai Lago, then wouldn't say anything else. 5 bullets taken from his chest and ribs, body armour slowed them sufficiently to save his life. We had to take out his right kidney, and he's fighting infection now."

I nodded. "Where did police find him?" I asked.

"He was one of the two taken on the playing fields. Police crept up on him looting bodies, and knocked him out." The Doctor stopped for a minute. "Looting bodies, y'know? As if it was a fucking mugging or something. Shame they hadn't fucking killed the cunt. The other two as well." He paused again. "I'll do my job here, y'know? Get em well if I can, and make sure they're not in too much pain. But I wish I didn't have to. I wish they'd just die quickly."

I nodded, and said, "I'll need an hour with him, then I'll speak to the other man from the field if possible."

"And the third?"

"Him, too. Perhaps one of them will shed some light on just why this happened."

The First Man

As soon as I entered the room I was aware of a steady gaze upon me. This Jiai may have been seriously injured by the ART, but his mind was still there. I moved the lone chair and sat upon it, regarding him as he did the same to me. I guessed he was around 6 foot 4 inches, and well over 200 pounds by his bulk. His chart put his age somewhere between 30 and 50, and I guessed he was a military man gone to stead. I pulled out my notepad and spoke to him.

"You are Jiai Lago, yes?"

The man, nay the murderer nodded.

"You know where you are?"

Again, a nod.

"And what you did 9 days ago on the 6th of October?"

Hesitation, for the first time, before, again, he nodded.

"Why did you do it?"

No answer this time, although a smirk was starting to spread across his face. I wanted very much to smack it off. I took a deep breathe and tried again.

"This... act. What was your motive to do it?"

And again no answer, except this time his smirk spread into a toothy grin that sent a shiver down my spine as he held my gaze, blue blood-shot eyes holding steady. I got up and walked over to the window, looking down towards the crowd some three floors below, both the civilians and the TV and newspeople. It was then I had an idea.

"There is a crowd out there, you know. Maybe two hundred strong." I saw something in the man's eyes now. Before, it had been a cold confidence, but now it was new, the look of caution in someone who knew exactly what they'd done...and could imagine what that crowd wanted to do in turn. "If they rushed the building my men would stop them of course. But they wouldn't shoot at them. Not in a hospital. And in the crush, what's to stop 4 or 5 of the crowd getting through?" I smiled at him, imagining the scene myself. "It's a big hospital," I added quietly, "and they could get here long before we find them."

I moved closer to the bed and leaned over him, fighting the temptation to fulfil the Doctor's earlier wish. It would take but a moment... My hands twitched slightly and I took a step out of range, trying to regain control of myself. "How long would it be before my men came to your rescue? An hour? Two? A day even? There are many who would like you to die slowly." Gone was the smugness. Gone was the smirk, and beads of sweat had begun to drip down his face and into his three-day old stubble.

"We..." He began, "did it for Malhavok."

"Malhav-" My startled reply was cut off by shouts from the corridor, and for a second I wondered if the crowd had actually stormed the Hospital. I looked at Jiai, and a little part of me, deep in the pit of my soul, saw his terrified look, and laughed. I stood, and walked to the door, pausing at the door and turning back towards him.

"I think 4 will get past my men." I will also remember the look on his face when I said that.

I quickly turned my attention to the commotion in the hall way, my heart rate quickening as I saw nurses wheeling a crash cart past the room. I opened the door and followed them, breaking into a run as I saw their destination: the room of one of the gunmen.

I was almost knocked off my feet as I skidded to a stop on the hospital floor and a burly orderly grabbed me by the arm and told me to stop where I was. I watched helpless as the medical team tried to save this man's life, that small part of me that had rejoiced at Jiai's terror in ecstasy as the medical team realised he was beyond saving. The rest of me felt deflated as I realised that just two of my three leads still lived.... and that the first had given me nothing.

The Third Man

Tailin Jal, the chart named him. Murderer, the knot that had grown inside me called him. Child killer, it screamed, my fists clenching. This... man, this monster, had been the one in the hall. He, along with 12 others, had herded hundreds of children into this hall, and when it became clear that the police were attacking had proceeded to kill over 200 of them, injuring hundreds more.

And then he had hid, diving down among the bodies when the police broke in, taking a single bullet to the abdomen when he was identified as one of the gunmen and had gone for his own gun. He was lucky to be alive, I noted, the observation inflaming the knot even more, echoing the thoughts and desires of most of Malhavok, demanding revenge.

I had read about mass murderers, serial rapists and other such scum in the past, both professionally and not, and most, when you looked at them, you could tell were criminals. Oh I know, as officers of the judicial system we aren't supposed to think that way, but... it was a fact of life, and the job. Others, however were n-

"You look in malcontent, Investigator."

Others were like the man who had just interrupted me, Tailin Jal. Jal looked like an everyday, normal person, although he was much fairer skinned than most ethnic Malhaven's, of which is name implied he was. His colouring was almost Solmese, as were his eyes, smaller than most Malhavens. He was of average height and build and yet, he gave off an air of both toughness and respectability. Jal looked like a 'normal' member of society.

And yet he had killed or helped kill almost 400 people, most of them children.

"Who are you?" I asked him, determined to keep my cool around him.

"Of course, my apologies Investigator. I am Tailin Jal, Colour Sergeant in the Malhaven Armed Forces, Department IV." Jal spoke matter of factly, almost as if he had rehearsed what he was going to say. If he were Department IV then he probably had.

"You mean you're former Department IV?" I asked, my plan for how the interview was going to go now in ruins, and the knot had seemed to lessen, replaced with a feeling altogether more insidious. If Department IV were involved... were others?

"Unless something has changed since I was given my orders, and I doubt this," Came the reply, "then no, not former. Although now? We knew we'd be abandoned afterwards." Jal looked resigned to his fate, almost... cheerful, somehow, and this brought the knot back more than ever.

I picked up the folder I had brought with me, and move the bed's attached table so it was in front of him. I took out a photograph and laid it facing down in front of him. He looked at me questioningly, and turned it over, revealing the bloody body of a child. "She was 14 years old. Honour student. Tipped for success. You killed her." Jal was unmoved. "Her name was Tasha Lewis."

I took out another photograph, and again placed it face down. Jal turned it over. "He was 17. About to graduate. Had a job in the capital lined up and everything. You killed him." I looked at the bloody, bullet ridden body in the photo. "His name was Michael Tipton." We did this for some time, repeating the process, me revealing a photograph and giving a biography of each murdered child.

We had got through maybe two dozen when I drew the final photograph, and laid it down on the table. "This, this is a very special photo." I said quietly, "Go on, pick it up." I watched as Jal reached out with a hand, and was sure I saw a tremble there, gone a second later. He slowly picked up the photo, then dropped it a second later, looking away. Gone was the calm, relaxed look he had earlier, in its place a distressed look, sweat starting to gather on his forehead.

I looked down at the photo, and the knot reared up and took over. I grabbed Jal's head, ignoring his grunt as I wrenched him forwards. "Look at them," I growled angrily, "Look at them. Six of them. Father, a teacher, James Kenn, 38. Mother, Karoline Kenn, 36. Four children. Louise, an accomplished swimmer, 14. Kyle, the school's chess champion, 12. Sarah, who had insisted on coming with Mommy and Daddy that day, 9. And Jason, 5, who was supposed to spend the day with his Uncle, but he was busy." I released Jal's head, pushing him backwards hard against the pillows.

I leaned in close to him, and said, "And you killed them."

I gathered the photographs, and went to leave. I was halfway to the door when a voice heavy with emotion said, "Wait... ju-just wait." I turned. "We were ordered to attack that school."

My mind was reeling, but I pressed him for more. "Who gave the order?" Jal hesitated and I almost ran across the room to him. "Who gave the order?" My own voice was low and dangerous, and Jal cried out as I pressed down on his stomach as I spoke.

"Wai- what are you doing? You can't do tha-aaaaahhhhhhhhhhh." He lapsed into sobbing cries as I pressed down again.

"Who gave the order?" I asked again, looking him straight in the eyes, my gaze steady, his panicked and filled with pain. "Who?" I almost shouted, pressing down again.

"Ahhhhhh. Ahhh. Ah. AHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH." His yells were high pitched, but my men were outside the door, the medical staff dismissed. "OK. OKOKOKOKOKOKOK. I'll tell you. J-j-just stop. Please. AHHH." I pressed down once more, and looked at him.

"Who?"

"I don't know his name. He was a Department man."

"Department IV?"

Jal looked at me. "XX."

A Week Later

I'm being watched. I know this. Whether it's Department IV or Department XX, someone's watching me.

Well, I've decided to give them something to watch.

I don't whether it was Department XX who closed the investigation, or whether the murderous corruption extends beyond Internal Operations, but when I gave my report to my commanding officer his reply was telling. The man wouldn't even look me in the eyes, although Agent Forres was there, smug smile playing upon his face, as the Chief Inspector told me not to pursue this further.

"These orders come from on high, Investigator Garellos." He said, not even bothering to look up. "Charge the remaining two with their murders and move on. You've done well, we've got the bastards. Case closed."

I began to argue, but was cut off as he repeated himself. "Case closed."

I had been tempted to resign there and then, but instead mustered as much self control as possible, saluted and left. That was 6 days ago, and I had been watched ever since.

I zipped my coat up further, looking around as I locked my home and seeing my ever present tails. They had already broken in twice, locked or not. Not that they had found what they were looking for. My files were gone, and had been since the day before I gave my report.

I walked down the main road, glad to see the traffic on both the road and pavement was light. It wasn't long until I reached my destination, a basement diner below a tailors. I nodded to the owner before proceeding to the back of the room, and through a door.

A man stood, and smiled at me. "Good to see you again, Investigator."

I gestured at the table. "Sit, sit, my friend." I said, doing the same. I drank a sip of water, before opening my coat and pulling out the folders I was carrying. "In these folders, I have the story of your career..."

[VietMai]

[ PT/MT ]

So it Resumed

North Viet Mai
January 30th - 1968

"Grace của Đức Chúa Trời đứng với chúng ta ngày!Hôm nay chúng tôi lái xe trở lại man rợ và lấy lại đất nước chúng ta!" The loudspeakers blared, the engines of tanks roared; the T-64s imported from Russia soon to smash against Amerikan lines to the south; the sleek bodies of MiGs, the intermixed units filled with their Chinese allies. Today; was the day of reckoning, today was the start of them sending Amerika reeling, that they avenged their brothers, their sisters, mothers and fathers that the Amerikans had massacred. A most glorious offensive that had forever been planned down to the most articulate detail would commence; and the westerners and their southern traitor allies would be sent scrambling. Yes; all was ready.

"Hôm nay chúng ta kết thúc sự kiêu ngạo của họ, tàn sát và giết người của họ!Hôm nay chúng ta thấm nhuần niềm tự hào tổ tiên của chúng tôi và khôi phục lại vinh quang của nhân dân ta!Hôm nay, chúng tôi đi đến chiến tranh!Chuyển tiếp cho Nhà nước!"

As one it began as a symphony; the combined sounds of warfare a piece of music so beautiful that all the masters of art were silenced in awe. From the jungles in southern China to the tips of the Vietmaiese Peninsula; all answered the call as the forces surged forth with such force that God himself shook in humility. In clear, measurable English came the final calling over the crackling speakers. "Crack the Skies! Shake the Earth!

War that was coming, had come.

[Tiurabo]

[ MT ]

Streets of the Nation.

"Hold up."

Terry put his arm out, stopping his little sister from darting out across the road. Sherry was still just a kid at eleven, a whole two years younger than himself; not grown up enough to feel the danger. Leaning out a bit, his arm still solidly in front of the girl, he checked up and down. No vehicles in sight, no gunshots, not even any people looking their way. There wasn't even any crowd, seeing as how he was already behind on getting Sherry to school. So why did he feel so tense about crossing an empty intersection? Was it the road?

He looked down at himself, checking for anything out of place; drab canvas coat, unzipped, black shirt, faded, fatigue pants, also faded, combat boots, laced. His knife was on his belt, billfold in his pocket and everything was as it should be. Giving Sherry a once-over, he saw that it was the same with her; hair-clips kept her trimmed red curls out of her way, light jacket and flowery blouse on straight, blue jeans belted up and devoid of embarrassing damages. Her trainers were even laced, a total wonder for that girl; no matter how he laced them, they were always flapping loose.

On a sudden impulse, Terry took his arm from in front of his sister, keeping her in place with a grim "Stay," that sent her into sullen stillness. Even a kid like here could tell when someone else thought there was trouble. Dropping down to the cracked, sun-hot cement of the sidewalk, he put chest, hands and ear to the pavement and quit breathing. There, by the uncaring gods, was the answer. Transferred dully through his body, a dull rhythm, a heavy thump... thump-thump... thump. It felt like music, but it was moving somehow, fast, and moving towards the intersection!

Suddenly terrified, Terry shoved himself to his knees and up on his feet, grabbing Sherry by the arm and dragging her back from the street. But where was he supposed to go? He didn't know this street, it was her first day at the new school, he never had time to plan a route... there! Hauling his wooden-faced sister almost off her feet, the boy ran for a dumpster, tipped on its side against the bricks of a tenement. No one would claim that, and it might be enough. Just as he slammed his back against the metal siding and slid down, pulling Sherry onto his lap, the thing he feared turned down the corner with a squeal of tires and the mounting thunder of a rap beat.

Keeping a tight grip on his sister's arms, Terry leaned out just far enough to see the enormous truck roar by. It jounced onto the sidewalk hard, right through the space he and Sherry had occupied just a few moments before. There were four men in the bed, huge men with rifles to match; Terry could see all that, because one of them bellowed a cuss and slammed the butt of his weapon against the rear cab window in anger. Tires squealed again as the truck slammed to a halt, throwing all four bruisers into a tangle of arms, legs and steel. More hollered curses, doors slamming as the driver cut the engine and jumped out, a passenger seconds behind; the driver was shouting too, both of them as big as any of the guys in the back. Terry pulled his head in to avoid being spotted, but he could still hear them all too well; too close, his frantic mind screeched, way too close!

"For t'love of fuckin' shite, Drake? How'd you learn t'drive, jerkin' off you ma?"
"What about you, split-face, knockin' iron on my window? I oughta--" That was probably the driver, who sounded as pissed as the first man.
"Tom-Tom's right, Drake! An' yer windae? I bought 'er, with a crew-chit, not your side-won tollars!"

Someone else started in on the three brawlers, probably trying to head off a real fight; it was different in tone, if equal if roughness, not mad but impatient. "Enough fuckin' around! Drake, in the back, Tom-Tom, up front. Baliol, you drive." Terry expected a renewed flurry of bickering over the reorganization, but they were silent as the new voice plowed on with relatively quiet authority. "Did you forget why we're out here? Fire-flingers on the Row, people! Let's go bust 'em up before we got another blaze to deal with."

Still the men were silent, and after a moment there was squeak of shock-absorbers and less violent shutting of doors as everyone piled back into the truck. With less haste than before, the truck pulled off the curb almost sedately, heading down the street with a smooth shifting of gears. A full minute later, Sherry shifted on Terry's lap and muttered, "My leg's sleepin'."

Grunting apologetically, Terry let go of her shoulders, surprised at how stiff they were from the white-knuckled grip he'd had. Getting to his feet after her, he looked down the street for a moment, then back at here. Reaching down, he tugged her light jacket straight, then ran a hand over her pinned up red curls; still fine, perfect for her first day at school. "Sorry, sis," he said at last, like it was his fault. It was his fault, dammit. "C'mon, it'll be fine by th' time we get there." She gave him a blank look. "School, hey?"

Going a little pale, she shoved back her sleeve and checked the watch he'd given her last Founding Day. "Shiiit!" She took off like a greyhound, right across the intersection and down the sidewalk. Terry had to put on a burst to overtake her, even with his longer legs.

"What've I told you 'bout that mouth, Sher! An' slow down, we ain't that late!"

[Kylarnatia]

[PT]

[Mature]

[Hounds of War]

Allied Lines, Town of Nancy
The Third Republic of France, Europe
2:11am, 14th December 1917

"Come on you imperial bastard, where are you?"

It was a very early morning for the sniper who stood at his post patiently for quite some time, gun resting into the front muscle of the shoulder. His uniform wasn't so blue anymore having been in all kinds of positions in the mud hole they called a trench. Mud went all up and over his coat and trousers - it even stained the scarf his mother had sent to him only two weeks ago - the imperial dogs of Germany were to blame. His sight out over the enbankment was still fixed.

Only a few minutes ago had almost what seemed to be randomly fired shots came over, bringing him out of his on-duty nap. Did they do this on purpose knowing that he was asleep in his dig out, or were they really orders to open fire? Either way he couldn't withdraw from his post now and go back to sleep (which he wasn't supposed to be doing in the first place), he had just been fired on. Minutes went by, and still no movement over on the enemy lines. It was pitch black so he wasn't able to determine what was going on clearly anyway.

Silence still filled the air around him. Taking some steps back he lowered his rifle and made his way into the enterance of the dug out behind him. He wasn't very settled with the way things were going so he decided to get some support. Going through the faintly lit tunnels which were supported with simple wood, he came eventually to a door which had a cross nailed to it. Feeling its outline he knew he'd reached his intended destination. Knocking on the door with rifle still in hand he spoke with a slightly broken voice. Having shouted so many times over the sound of artillery fire had put a strain on him. "Clemance, get up!"

There was a rustle from inside the room as the soldier had to continue to stand in the cold and bitter darkness of the tunnel. Eventually the door was opened by a man who was lit by the candle he held. "What the hell is it Luc? It's still your duty..." The soldier, Luc, smacked Clemance around the back of the head "Shut up, you old fool! I was fired at, or at least I think I was the target..." Clemance brought the candle forward, so both of them were illuminated in the light. He looked tired even though he'd just been sleeping. The accomidations weren't exactly five-star quality. "So you left your post? Are you mad?"

Luc rolled his eyes and began to make his way back to the trench "Just come on!" He shouted as he soon disappeared into the darkness. Clemance stood there with the cold slowly consuming him before he leaned back into his room and grabbed the rifle that sat against the inside frame of the door. Still dressed in sleeping attire (which was rare as most had no choice but to sleep in uniform) he ran up the corridor as he tried to catch up with Luc. Coming out of the dug out he was truely consumed by the night. He quickly put out his candle and by straining his eyes found his way to the outline of Luc at his post.

The two of them said nothing to each other as they both now concentrated on the enemy lines all the way over the other side of what was nicknamed No Mans Land. Still nothing moved nor nothing made a sound. Clemance looked over to Luc, who kept his eyes down the sight of his rifle and only there. After some passing of time, Clemance groaned from the cold that stabbed at him like a million knifes. Moving back he went to where he placed down the candle, and pulling a box of matches from his sleeping trousers, he re-lit it. Luc saw the light from the corner of his eye and waved his hand back to him in order to say "Blow it out!" Regardless, Clemance ignored him.

"Luc, there's nobody over there. Relax and let me go back to--"

CRACK. The sound of gunfire rang out again, which startled Luc. He scanned across the enemy lines with limited vision, before turning back around to see that Clemance had hit the floor but not by choice. Blood poured out of the side of his temple, and he squirmed for a little bit before finally going limp. Luc stomped on the candle and put it out once and for all, before looking down on the dead body before him with disgust. "Clemance, you stupid fat ass..." Another CRACK. Luc hit the ground, almost hugging the body of his dead comrade and once again getting soaked in mud. This was all he needed to convince himself that the Germans were planning to attack. There was more still to come.

A light hiss developed above him, and soon it came closer. With huge impact a shell hit within a few metres of the trench, shracknel raining over Luc. More came thundering down in a sea of hatred and destruction. Quickly and with a high heart rate, he ran back into the dug out with rifle in hand. "WAKE UP! WAKE UP! WE'RE UNDER FIRE!" He screamed, his voice restrained once more. Soon soldiers began to file out of their small holes with weapons in hand, some with nothing, and out into the trenches. Other parts of the line were already firing back and with that their screams also grew to the pitch of the shells. Though there was no time to be inveloped in their pain now. They all had to fight to survive.

It took a few minutes before the full power of the allied line was responding to the German guns. Though they were already struggling to fight back. Luc was consumed by fire and fury as he almost fired out across to the enemy completely blind. He heard the shouting of his fellow soldiers as some threw grenades over the top of the trench in panic, knowing very well that they wouldn't do any significant damage. There was no order, only chaos. Reason being, there was no true leadership on the front. Somewhere, about twenty miles away from the front lines, the commanders were oblivious to what was truely happening. They were pathetic, weak, and useless. Only the rare few knew what they were doing, and they were generally ignored.

Luc peered over the slope of the trench and began to see light coming from the other side. The German troops were now flooding out of there much more superior dug outs and were preparing to push the allies back from Nancy. They'd only obtained it a few months before. Moreover, with the Eastern Front (the line supposed to be held by the Russians) continuing to fall back after the fall of the Tsardom, the Germans were able to concentrate more power on the Western Front, where the Americans were now involved. Though Germany wasn't exactly the best anymore either, but their war effort still did not fault.

However, Luc now had perfect vision of them. Grabbing his rifle and reloading it with a new clip he began to use his experience from hunting as a young boy in the Mid-West of France to his advantage. Almost one by one he shot at the heads of the German soldiers, a red mist almost beginning to settle over their lines. They fired in response, but were not able to hit them like he had them. Some bullets however, did come dangerously close. Luc didn't hesitate as he continued to fire with more falling at the impact of his bullets. He grinned "That's is for all the friends of mine you've killed, mother fuckers..."

Though like everyone else who'd felt the same superiority as he did then, his glory was short lived. The hiss of another shell came down and before Luc was quick enough to get down it exploded a few metres before the line. The shraknel hit his face and instantly took him off his feet. Everything went silent for him then as he lost his vision. He screamed but couldn't hear anything still as all he could feel was the blood trickling down his face, and from his ears. Slowly but surely he did regain some ability to hear as he heard the screams of other comrades and the firing of others. He was paralysed, and forced to listen to the horror around him.

Painting the picture in his mind from the sound, he could see the raging fire of the remains of artillery fire burning before them. People were falling in the mud as rifle fire rang out across No Mans Land, which the Germans were now preparing to advance through. The sound of other people screaming told him that he was not alone in his position, and he could only but imagine the twisted forms they had turned into. The coldness of winter continued to bite, and in all this destruction snow began to fall. He felt the icey drops kiss his skin as he continued to struggle to do anything.

Then, the German guns fell silent. Within a few seconds of silence the powerful roar of the Germanic Warriors came over No Mans Land. Luc was powerless when they came. He felt their footsteps pound around him as the screams of his comrades were silenced. The struggle did not last long. Soon, he was alone in his own sector of the trench. He couldn't see them, and could only just hear them. "Easy target, eh?" His mouth could only sound the words as he imagined them near him.

They did nothing. They simply continued to stand around him for a few more minutes before a few actually began to grab him, but not to harm. Luc stayed silent as they did so, carrying him off somewhere. He had no idea, but he felt no point in arguing - not anymore. Soon he felt the ground rise as he could tell they were leaving the trench. Thank god, he was leaving that hell hole. Didn't know where he was going, but it had to be better.

It had to be better...

[Abruzi]

Voodoo Chile

Insanity Tech

Fire as dark as the deepest night, yet as pure as a newly spawned sun burned around him and yet he felt no pain. His birth scream was the death rattle of millions, his first breath the final of untold thousands. Hatred, the very primal nature of it flooded his still malleable mind. What was the purpose? The question posed itself as naturally as his birth defied the laws of reality, to be answered with the very center of the Novaya Bolshevist Question. Control.

Wobbling legs, still hot from his unholy patron's womb took tentative steps that ravaged continents. Blood stained prints followed him, deep craters filling with the mottled biological fuel. No longer a city, no longer reality, Tur lied before him in all of it's horrible beauty. Smashed buildings covered powered skulls, all coated in a fine ash that was the product of a million incinerated bodies. Survivors stirred at his step, irradiated sub humans that fell out of their holes like rats out of their nests.

They were maggots, they cried out and to the newly fleshed godling their words were little more than an inhuman bleat. He killed them, reveling in their terror as he ripped free their flesh and made it his own, killing them for no purpose other than that he could. No merciful god was he, no weakling crowned in a halo, no journey blessed humanitarian, he was a god of hatred and violence, of debaucheries so foul that the very acts gave birth to Daemons. As he killed them they posed questions, their final thoughts exploding outward in a messy burst of consciousness, infecting the Noosphere with their mortal taint. They asked his his name, they demanded his name, he had no name.

Yet he had many names, names that meant nothing, names that meant everything, perhaps it was his mortal name, his oldest name. With a slow smile that spoke of atrocities unimaginable and horrors that even the Daemonic would loath he uttered one word, his name, Petrov.

[Jenrak]

Updated stories.

[Polska rzczpolspolita]

[ PT ]

...And then there was one

_{Quoted from the Polish Codex}
"In the beginning, there was nothing; such a tale has been stated many a time, though only in a broad sense.
No, every people has a god, a Hars-mena'ela, a Guardian from above. The Mu have their Triune, the Romans have their god, and who, thy ask, have the Poles?
"After the spark of life created our world, many a god formed for each civilization that comes to pass. There was one such young god known as Baha. For millenia, he did not know his people. He grew to be a wise god, learning from the great beings of past civilizations. Finally,in his omnipresence he stumbled across a group of Birkainians and Belkans. He took a human form, wishing to interact with these strange people, who coexisted from two separate peoples. They said they were nomads, following a herd of aurochs north.
Baha felt a strange connection, and felt that these outcasts of the two peoples were meant to form a new, great nation. He told them, "I am Baha, and I shall lead you to a land of glory and splendor."
One man by the name of Alaric spoke, "How do we know you do not lead us to our demise, outsider?" Baha spoke calmly, "I shall prove to you my worth- I am god in the form of man. Thou shall follow me, and become one people. I shall sustain you."
The same man spoke: "You are nothing but a madman. Prove to us your godhood," he held out a dagger made of bone, "Turn this dagger to gold and I shall believe you." Though short of temper, Baha did as the man asked, and did not only turn it into one golden bar, but ten, then those then to twenty. 'Do thou believe me now?' he asked. Alaric was stunned, and he bowed before Baha. Alaric was a fearsome warrior, well respected; so the others followed. Baha glowed with his might. "Alaric, you are an intelligent man, smart to question those that may hurt your tribe- and to stand up to a god, bold. So to you I bestow the responsibility of leading my people. You shall take the name Ala'Reik, and lead my people to their promised land."
Ala'Reik nodded, and Baha motioned for him to stand. "Their shall be six prophets after you, one in the promised land, one to the east, and one to the west. When these men's teaching come to your people, they shall be respected as my own."

And so, the Tribe and Baha set off for their Promised land. Baha disappeared, his divine voice guiding Ala'Reik. After years of wandering about Belkaland, across varying terrain, Ala'Reik passed on to the next world. Baha appeared once more to bestow the honor of leader to a new man- this man was Bolesius, who became Bogeslaw- glory of god. Finally, he lead the Poles, now thousands in number, across the Waldreichs and into the fields of Polska.

And finally, Ala'Reik and Baha appeared once more. They said, "This is your promised land. From here to the Oder in the west, to the Zbruch in the east, is yours. However, turn away from God, and you shall lose it all. You shall call it Polska, land of fields, and you shall be Polakiem, people of the fields."

Now the poles were a true people, becoming one of the great powers of the Waldreich region.
The six prophets Baha promised came to pass- Katoslaw, the founder of the Polish religion, the Budah, harbinger in the east, Mohamett, founder of Izlam in the far east, the Bab, founder of the one Baha'i Faith, Baha'ullah, writer of the Kitab-i-Aqdas, Abdul-Baha, the man who completed the work of the Bab.

[Greater-Prussia]

[ PT ]

[ Mature ]

Refusal

They gathered in the thousands. White uniforms glinting in the sunlight like no other thing could; even armour did not stand to such brilliance in that single moment. Column after column, one by one the tens of thousands that formed the 1st Imperial Infantry Army of the Japanese Empire came to the front. In formation without hesitation, the months of training these boys that were once farmers, ferriers and stable boys into soldiers had been long ones. General Klaus Schuhmacher, Baron of Saxony could finally say with some amount of pride; that those months were not wasted. He had turned civilians into soldiers, from their chosen path of life into something more. He had taken refuse and turned it to gold.

Now; they stood in their formations to be put to their ultimate test. Their Prime Minister had deployed them on their own soil, to destroy those who had once stood as their guardians; who now rebelled against the modernisation of their nation and people; who took offense to the destruction of their way of life. Upon knolls over looking the field of combat there were cannon, and the American made Gatling Gun.

"Ready!" The words came from the General's own lips as the down the line of formations men primed their rifles, cocking hammers and preparing. "Aim!" In the distance, the Samurai had gathered; their numbers fewer still than they ever had been; their rebellion, neigh as they believed it, their service; had cost them many brothers in arms over the seasons, now here on this spring day, the last of their kind would decide who won this day, who preserved, and who became unto an annul of history.

It was a sight so defiantly beautiful, that words could not describe it. Banners of men armed with sword and spear, with bow and armor; against the modern world and they stood as one, resolved to their fate and that they would meet it head on could not be described in any other way but absolutely gorgeous. Yet, it was so very sad; because it was known who was going to win, for whom the bell would toll and who that history would write as the winner; and even they knew, it would not be them.

The General calmly rose his baton, before he dropped it entirely. Even a Prussian could not put to death something so absolutely magnificent as this. "These here...Sword to rifle; armor to cannon, horse to bayonet. They are brave men, this action, this one last act of rebellion is nothing short of admirable...I absolutely refuse to watch the destruction of such a beautiful thing." And he turned his back; as a Colonel gave the order to fire; and the cavalry charge began...

[-The West Coast-]

1833-34

PAST/MODERN

Gila Crossing, at the Salt River. During the early moon preceding the dusk meteoric shower the Yumas, armed with clubs, bows, and arrows, attacked the Maricopa village south of the crossing.

Many Yumas surprised the sleeping Maricopas and captured most of their women, they surrounded and tried to take away with them on horseback. They made for the crossing on the Gila with their captives when the Pimas quickly arrived and attacked them to get their women.

The women freed themselves and took advantage of the confusion to escape the fleeing Yumas into the nearby chaparral. The Yumas all fought bravely, but were quickly overpowered by Pima numbers and very few escaped to tell their village of their terrible defeat.

Several moons after the attack in the early wintera a big meteoric shower took place. This event was followed by heavy rains that caused floods in the Salt and Gila rivers in the summer.

The spectacle of the falling stars was to the Pimas an augury of disaster and defeat, and the succeeding floods of the Salt and Gila were regarded as a punishment by the Great Spirit for sins which they had committed throughout the year.

What sins might the Pimas have committed they did not know exactly, but they had concluded that they must have offended some medicine-man who possessed great magic power over the Pimas.

Many of the Pimas in their camp believed it was the powers of the medicine-man Old Owl who brought this terrible calamity upon the Pimas because they had not properly shown him the respect that he believed was due him.

They have said that when the rivers flooded at its highest point Old Owl climbed a large cottonwood tree and then proclaimed to the Heavens in a loud guttural voice that he would then perform certain miracles and magical tricks that would prove disastrous to the Pimas of the land if they did not listen to him and show him the respect he deserved.

Others in the Pimas camp vehemently declared that the mighty floods were caused by the two sons of an ancient goddess, Takwa.

When the goddess discovered the flood threatening to overwhelm the Pimas and Maricopas camps she declared to her sons: "Give me back the milk and then you can drown my people in your waters. The land is yet what it was when it was new." This puzzled the two brothers greatly.

The brothers knew that they could not return the milk that had nourished them in their far-away infancy, so they decided not to allow the flood to rise any higher or endanger the Pimas and Maricopas any more, so they caused it to go down.

[Zypra]

Penitence (MT)

“Good evening,” the young man smiled courteously, before a nascent realisation that whoever obliged to open the door and stand in the doorway came to him that it was not his good friend, rather the father of the young lass.

“Is Hannah at home?” he inquired; a dubious look arose on the old man’s face. It was as if the aged man had been given a question he had never heard before, which is ironic, considering that with age, man acquires experience through the repeated process of inquiry and solution. “And you are?” he asked, leaving the same puzzled look on his face. The young man shivered, loathing the current situation.

“Karl!” exclaimed a shrill voice from behind; the young woman, only known as Hannah, tried to actuate her father and drive him away, only to fail as he remained in-situ. “Dad, he’s a friend of mine,” she smiled, hoping to convince her own father. His stern appearance slowly incited into the lenient, moving away from the doorway and into the living room. He did, however, maintain visual contact of the two, still suspicious of the young lad who had unexpectedly appeared at their doorstep. Perhaps, he thought, he was a homosexual. Karl continued to replay his perception of the old man’s thoughts before Hannah’s voice brought him back to reality.

“You came over,” her eyes seemed to sparkle, watering in the process. He knew that she had not seen him in a very long time, prompting an emotional cognition from herself. Karl did take notice of the small tears flowing down her cheek, similar to that of forked streams, yet he could only allow his hand to graze her cheeks, wiping the pain away. He wanted to elicit a tear in sympathy, but failed to weep, for his emotions could not appropriate. The cool breeze swept into the house, motivating Hannah to invite him over into the dining room, still under the watchful eyes of her very own father as Karl lugged the small briefcase along with him.

“I got you something,” he grinned, slowly unlatching the case. The fibre-glass lid slowly unsealed, revealing a sea of contents that even he himself could not believe. He was carrying a few souvenirs from his trip, and convincingly as Hannah had felt, her gift was the most expensive of them all. A fur tail, strapped to a miniature chain and hook, hand produced and gathered from the forests of the unknown. Artificial it was not, for the tail, its particular purpose serving as an accessory to a woman’s fashion or a particular object of desire, was of the carnivorous kind. She squealed with great passion, delighted at the new endowment before her eyes.

“It’s beautiful! How much was it?” she asked, clutching the tail in her hands before pressing it against her face. Little did she know of the value the item possessed; the young lad spent a princely fortune for the item fit for a bride. He laughed whole-heartedly, triggering a gaze from the young girl’s father, who imperatively expressed admonishment of the sudden meeting. All the father could do was to sit and stare at the younglings, praying for the man to carry holy intentions.

“It’s nothing, really, not much of a gift,” he gazed at her lovely pair of eyes, slowly depriving his own sanity. The young man couldn’t breathe to a certain degree; neither could he move, as if frozen at that very spot. It was awkward for the young man to sit across the table, several feet away from her, but he dared not, fearing the consequences of an unprecedented move that could jeopardise his relationship between the young lass and her father. He knew very well that the lack of judgement would impair the already fragile bond between the two.

“I really have to thank you, Karl. This is something I am going to really, really cherish,” All the young lady could do was stare at her gift, stroking the fur in a gentle motion. The thick burnish clump of fur contradicted her tight petite figure, in which her white graphic shirt and slim dark jeans hugged generously. This provided him with an excellent view of his body, an object of desire that most men would kill for, but only if they were as close to her as her boyfriend was. Either they had pre-marital sex or not, Karl was certain that the couple’s relationship took them far beyond the moral threshold of the modern day.

Karl had known Hannah for nearly a year and her boyfriend for two and a half years. Their relationship had never been stable, so much as a rollercoaster ride, as the two never exchanged any verbal interaction halfway through the year. She had only started talking to Karl a few weeks before she found Dean, a close friend of hers turned boyfriend. He could not bear the couple in the first week of discovering their relationship, barely making through the first stages of discovery; denial, regret, anger, remorse, and the final stage of acceptance followed before he could recover from such an experience.

He felt immense regret in the foreboding, a prediction which proved to be accurate. Two weeks on a holiday proved to be immensely utile; he wasted away the opportunity to pursue her, blinded by narration that portrayed ecstasy and beauty in remaining untouched by the opposite gender. Greed, pride and the lack of compassion also struck this young man’s heart, for it had turned as cold as night, often burning with vigour in anger. No longer did the man meddle in the affairs of love and belonging; Karl had produced theories which disproved the emotion and even disregarded the entire sensation of love altogether. Old family and friends became distant, new acquaintances returned to strangers, and the occasional beleaguering by contemporary affairs did not surprise him.

He was lost at sea, sinking deeper and deeper into the water, anchored in place by a whirlpool of antipathy and negativity. He believed the saying that ‘there were more fish in the sea’, but did not grasp the opportunity when it sprang into his visual field. Perhaps the young man was too hesitant? Was he not ready to return to the battlefield? One may have completely understood his opinions and feelings at that very moment, but surely they would accuse him of hypocrisy when they discover the man has evolved into the more forgiving?

An additional six women distracted him from the real truth; the stark truth that his own mind constructed cognitively in the hope that he could see his misdeeds and misjudgement, slowly paving the way to repentance. There were indeed signs and predictions of the presentiment to come, but he was deprived of the ability to conceive that he was to experience immense regret. All because Karl was allured into deception, an act he later saw the ultimate fate for his conduct. It was ‘Karma’ in his eyes that made him rueful for his very own misdeeds, and for the misfortune that followed which quickly grew accustomed into his mind that implanted into his consciousness that he deserved it.

---

Karl rushed past the ticket counters, ignoring the cries of a child who was pushed away, and the deep anger from the couple that resulted from his actions. It was a quarter past six, and the flight that would leave for Dastin City was drawing near the boarding time. In half an hour, Hannah would depart to start a new life; Karl was determined to meet her for one last time, engaging him in a very tense activity that he hoped proved rewarding, but it did not. His constrained stale apologies to everyone he bumped into began to grow dim and impolite, before airport security took notice and began to chase him through the baggage area. Five minutes passed, and after running through a sea of disgruntled people, he could not locate Hannah, neither could the airport security locate him. Perhaps they had given up, he thought to himself.

The search became vast, for he could not find the young lady amongst the hundreds of people that were squeezed in. His run encumbered, feet sore, he was left no alternative but to sneak past security undetected and continue his search for Hannah in the departure hall. He no longer needed to, as the woman he was searching for presented herself in front of him at the exact moment. She had seen him run around in circles, desperately finding someone, before realising that it could've been her. Hannah approached Karl and embraced him with open arms, releasing a shower of tears that rained onto his shoulder.

"Do you have to leave, after all this time?" Karl asked, his joints now sore from running. "I have to. There is not a single thing I wouldn't give up just to stay here, but I can't." Her eyes seemed to be placed on his; every movement was mirrored with great accuracy, or so he thought. "Leaving you was the biggest regret of my life. Yet when I left you it was routine, but you chose to weep over it. I'm sorry for what I've done," His apologies, although repeated over the past two years, seemed collateral to his actions back when they first began to flirt.

"I realised of how a joke I've been. I've made the biggest mistake of my life, starting from the very moment I lost interest in you. I'm sorry Hannah. I really am. I love you. I've missed you. You're that person I've been looking for all my life."

There was a staccato echo throughout the hall before the final call for Hannah's flight was announced.

[The Mighty Islands]

Tag#002

[The Scrin Collective]

Even When Dying

My Name is Legion, for We are Many. - Human Ideological Quote

Tel-4, Solar System Alignment
Ichor Harvesting Planet - Alpha 46
Terran Calendar: March, 2047

As one, a continuous flash of light boiled against the shielding of the advanced warships with amazing success. The scalar inferrometers scorching boiling holes through the metallic and biological constructs with ease. "Native Resistance; Threat Level; High." It did not speak; so much as it thought. The Hive Mind reverberated with the thought, these simplistic bio-mechanical drones were not the true Scrin race; which shared no such quality, the individual existed, there.

Several of the ships in the formation, which was tightly packed; fell away from the formation as the lancing beams of the scalar inferrometers came up from the southern hemisphere of the planetary body. These were soon joined by more; from the northern hemisphere. Then came the missiles; the crude nuclear weapons were... Devastatingly effective; the fireball contacts overlapped repeatedly along the few larger vessels and the fabled 'fire of the gods' as lesser civilizations called them tore into the constructs with ease, metal being torn away before the liquid Ichor erupted violently.

The formation was shattered as many of the vessels did the only logical thing remaining, they made for the planet in a bee-line for the most Ichor-infected zones. More, without pause were scathingly removed from the fabric of existence; the particle beams and nuclear fire did not relent, the planet was already dying so what did a little more radiation matter? So thought the inhabitants as they fought off their interstellar invaders.

As they closed to the Earth, missile batteries, laser banks and fighter craft joined the fray that was started in the upper echelons of the atmosphere.

Oh, Humanity; even as they lay dying.

[United World Order]

[ PMT ]

A Day of Lies

My whole life. What i believed in. It's All Lies. The Oppression Has Snuck Under Society's Nose. I Am Nothing.

This day was suppose to be the greatest day of my life. I live in a small suburban neighborhood inside the big city that i love so much with all my passion. My mom and dad reside with me for im a single child and i have no rejection toward it. It's my birthday today im turning 19 today and im very excited, im a junior in highschool where i play football for a varsitey and im the qaurterback. I love my friends and the team everytime we win a game i feel so proud of myself and for what i am. Along with that me and the love of my life Jennifer are going to be engaged very soon since we sat down and talked about it for a long time and im glad we are. Once we get married by the time i turn 20 we will be happily married and i'l be moving out of the house and living with my love in a apartment somewhere downtown.

But something interesting caught my eye on the televison today. They said tha reports of troop movements and increased hostilities between countries are rising. Diplomatic solutions have been overrided and are useless and they say war is imminet and people are scared and fear this may be the end of our very existance. This isn't happening, it's my birthday and the world goes to shit right infront of my eyes on the television. The country is under a high readiness and nuclear weapons and other deadly weapons are expected to be used and that people will die in the following day where they've suspected hostilites are going to break out.

My mom told me everything will be fine and that my birthday will still be celebrated. So after awhile my family and my love got together and ate at the house. We ate alot of food and had a good time talking and sharing our times together before the suspected global war the news is talking about erupts tommorow. Live life to the fullest like as if it was your last day is what many people tell me over the years since the begining of highschool. By noon so far the house is quiet with the tv on with more reports of hostilities erupting already skirmishes are taking place and people are dieing. Im glad i got to spend my last few hours or so with my entire family and my love because that's all i really ask for. If some chance that tommorow we don't die that second but later, Im going to propose to my love to get married and before we die were going to die being married and bound together in love.

It's All Lies...My Whole World Has Been Turned Upside Down. What Happen?

My eyes open and i find that im not dead. The morning birds are chirping and i hear my mom and dad talking in the kitchen amongst themselves as i arose from bed and throw on some clothes and go into the restroom and groom my hair and brush my teeth. Washing any the drool from sleeping as i dry my face with a brown towel and shut the light off and head down the hallway and into the kitchen. My mom and dad look at me i can see the despair in there eyes as i wonder whats going on?. Why are they so sad?.

"Mom...Dad?, whats going on?"

There was no answer from them as my mother pointed to the televison as i followed her finger and gazed at the televison. A insigna appeared on the televison. A man wearing a black trenchcoat wearing a gasmask and a black uniform helmet appeared on the screen showing no emotion at all. I looked at the tv wondering what the hell is this?. What happen when i was asleep? as i sit down on the couch and focus my attention to the televison as the next few minutes im utterly horrified. People being executed such as the president himself being suspended from the building with a bullet in his head. Numerous world leaders being treated the same way as the same men wearing the clothing march down numerous streets world wide with rifles.

A voice is heard by a mysterious man wearing a suit and having no emotion at all. His voice was calm and no emotion at all as he spoke to the world that was now under his control. "People of Earth, And it's respected nations. I come to you today as your leader, A World Government has taken power and we will lead Earth for the remainder of your pathetic lives" the man said as i kept my eyes focused. I couldent belive what i was hearing as the talking continued. "This world will only work ruled by one man, Enforced by one army, Influenced by one goal" the man said as he continued. "Earth does not deserve to be ruled by indiviuals with claims on land with there own respective militaries" the man said as he chuckled. "We rule now, Resistance is futile, All hopes are lost. Welcome to our new world" The man said as the tv turned to stactic and i sat there can't believe this would happen.

It was all lies. The global war and everything all lies to keep us to shut our mouths and not pay attention to what was really going on. I sat there looking down with no hope and no sake of happiness and joy. Now for the rest of my life i will be under the boot of oppression forever to be ruled by one man with an idea and a army never seen on this earth since the begining of man. I hope to whoever is watching me from above that me and my family and my love are safe from such torement. I hear a bang at the door and the screams of my mother as i look and she is brutaly shot up by men from the tv with machine guns. My father places his hands up and his dealt with the same way as blood spilled everywhere as i got up shocked in horror.

"WHY"

"WHY HAVE YOU DONE THIS TO ME!"

"WHAT HAVE I DONE TO YOU!"

One of the men hits me over the head with his rifle and my mind goes into darkness. This is it. It's all over now. Society has been put under the rule and influence of a tyrant. No hope of me doing anything. Im probably dead right now. These times are dark and oppresive. I hope i never awake again having to live the horrors of this new era.

[One Soul To See]

[ MT]

♦ One Long Night and Day ♦

It was always cold on the desert floor. The black of the night beat down unmercifully out here, a specter of inky darkness that hid men away from their dreams and infiltrated the very souls of each with nightmares unseen by day. Icy winds whipped the sands like a blizzard of dust, tossing the sun-dried particles into the freezing air and sending them as a kaleidoscope across the night sky. A coyote painted a brush of color into the deadened evening, its howl unearthing a last vestige of vivacity here on the dead canvas. No city spoke its constant hum, no wildlife crissed and crossed a pattern memorized by millennia of nature's reinforcement - here in the night desert, death itself vacated the premises to leave a dark and barren land.

The prison camp had a useful purpose this far out in the desert, and no man of his own free will would venture this unforgiving land of a dry kiss of soulless remorse. One-story shacks lay like tortoises asleep on the dusty ground, covered in browns that camouflaged the edifices in the unending sandy sea. The cracked ground merged into each wooden shack like a wave on the ocean surface, mere blips of the same that carried on towards the horizon. Out here, only a dry, two-lane road stretching on towards no real land, no true night or day was the sole reminder that human civilization was even real - and that fact could be hotly disputed. No truth lay under this midnight sun, no reality besides the one the cold desert chose to bestow.

Sander Aston had known but this dead world for too long - seven years (or was it seventeen? Time was a label best used or a type of man that did not exist in these parts of the world.) Long ago cast out for some crime he may or may not have committed in a city that may or may not have stood, Sander only saw sands and gravel. That was his world - his reality. For the twenty other men that called this beaten-down prison ranch home, Sander was a face of the remnant of the human species. He was merely words and actions, movements and decisions that could neither be defined nor humanized. Out here, nothing made sense - nor was it meant to. Things simply were, and that was not to be questioned.

The flash of headlights in the dark nothingness painted a life onto the empty prison canvas, awakening Sander from an empty slumber of months. An audible thump echoed as a voice in the silent night, bringing news of a world that existed far from here - a planet forgotten to the men of the prison camp long since removed from any particular world outside their own. Newcomer - that was what the bump meant as the screech of tires indicated the departure of the truck. Every ten months or so a new one came by, often replacing one whom had died in the previous year, and by Sander's casual count, this one arrived right on schedule. Who now? a murderer, defiling society's expectations of respect for life and dumped amongst his kin? A rapist, vilifying simple boundaries of flesh? An arsonist, utilizing tools given by nature to illustrate a mural demonized by man as destructive and dangerous?

Sander had assumed a post as leader of the motley prison band, and went forth to break the man into the small village here in the forgotten world. Pointing to a hovel, ensuring he wouldn't kill anyone just yet - all of that was Sander's responsibility, and he alone ensured this band of deviants accepted as much civility as one could assume in the lost land. Sander's fist clenched as he strolled ahead of the sleepy compound, his wounded leg dragging behind him - a reminder of a fight breaking in the last one that had never quite healed.

The newcomer was an oddity - slender, thin, and most of all, decidedly average. He looked up at Sander with eyes that pierced the dark night as gems in this arid darkness; brilliant things that struck the old camp leader as odd. A freshness like a spring air radiated from the newcomer's face; filling Sander with a warmth inside that he quickly attempted to extinguish. What feelings were these? What newcomer was this - some vague idealist with hopes of making a world out of a tomb?

"What're you in for?" Sander inquired gruffly, settling his butterflies and assuming control once more.

"General deviancy," the newcomer spoke with a voice that sounded off, light as a dove. "It's strange, the reactions of man when you only want to share your gifts."

"Funny way of putting it," Sander replied, ignoring the prose. "Yer shack's this way. C'mon."

The man trailed Sander with a noticeable quiet, his eyes lingering on the older man's limping leg. His hovel was a short and stout one near the camp's northwest corner - a small thing with two holes in the roof and only adorned with a flat board representing a bed and a shaggy blanket.

"You have a limp," the newcomer asked quietly, his voice falling into a low tenor. "Is that a reminder from where you have come?"

"I ain't come from anywhere," Sander answered bluntly. "This is all I know now. There ain't another world, ain't anywhere else. This is the world. The horizon? That's the end of the world. If I went out there, I'd fall off it. There ain't no real city, no humanity, no civilization - just one long night and day that stretches on as far as I can tell. This is how I have always been, this is where I'll always be, far as I need to know now. You too - this is your world, your reality. Better get used to it."

"Let me see your leg," the newcomer said, sitting down with Sander and stretching his limp limb out. "My name is Epitheus, by the way."

"Weird name," Sander muttered. "Where'd that come from?"

"A long time ago," Epitheus replied. "A very long time ago, for a meaning long since forgotten. Is your knee the limp part?"

"Yeah, but I don't think it's gon-"

"Please, relax."

Epitheus placed his hands on Sander's knee, kneeling over it and closing his eyes. He breathed softly, a short exhale like a summer wind caressing a young girl's face - a comforting thing, and a warmth like hot cocoa filled Sander's soul. He felt at peace, rocking along a tide that carried him to a world far away from this one - a world unknown from this small planet that stretched only to the desert horizon and fell off into space after that.

"Try standing."

Sander broke from his trance, glancing around with an air of shame in being lost momentarily. What had that been? Who was this newcomer, and what had he done? Drugs? Some wound? What was -

Sander got to his feet, testing the knee - where was the pain? He stood on one leg, leveraging the limb against the hard floor of the shack, incredulous. The man - Epitheus - had healed it! No medical thing was this - a miracle! No - no miracles in this world of loss and emptiness - but what was this?

"What - what'd you do?" Sander groped for words, lost for an expression.

"Your knee should be healed," Epitheus smiled, a comforting thing. "But please, avoid such conflict in the future. Such things are not any actions to be proud of, and they lead you to worse."

Sander almost uttered a thanks before realizing that the door had been open this whole time - and three men stood in the doorway, their faces almost as shocked. Everyone knew Sander had a serious limp, and just like that it was history. In immediately curing the older man's leg, Epitheus had brought an entire life to the small planet here on the desert flats.

"Wait a minute," one of the men, a brutish figure by the name of Kyle Larson, exclaimed. "That's some hokey. If you're really some magical guy who can cure wounds, cure this."

Larson drew a crude shiv from his belt, and to the shocked onlookers immediately stabbed the man to his left. The victim, a shorter man by the name of Ryan Schofield, gasped at the pain as the shiv dug into his abdomen. Epitheus exclaimed as Sander tackled Larson to the ground, with the newcomer quickly coming to Schofield's side.

"Hush, hush, you will be alright," Epitheus soothed the wounded man, his voice caressing like warm laps of a calm sea. "Stay calm. Rest your muscles."

The man gulped in pain through ragged breaths as Epitheus stretched his hand over the wound site - and lo and behold, flesh began to wrap its way back across the injury! Blood lapped its way into the hole, scar tissue quickly forming and shedding back into muscle over the man's painful entry wound. Epitheus grabbed a small, hollowed-out rock nearby as several other prisoners had collected at the door - and with a point of his figure and a narrowing of his eyes, water - conjured from air as if magic itself had fallen across this barren world. He pressed the rock to the incredulous victim's lips, his eyes reflecting caring and nothing more.

Sander was, by this point, so aghast that he had let go of an equally stunned Larson, the two ex-convicts gazing on at the miracle performed in front of them.

"Wh - how the hell do you end up here?" Sander gaped out. "How could society dump you here?"

Epitheus turned back towards Sander after ensuring that Schofield was alright, his lips turning into a comforting smile: "Though we are all sons under the world's sky, it is amazing what people will reject out of fear of a norm. A church, eager to cling to power of the material variety, will cast out its greatest believer. A government, desperately wanting to levy controls over an idealistic population, will destroy its very foundations. A family will reject their greatest son or daughter after the simplest deviation from what society deems 'acceptable' and 'normal.' We are all human, my son - but what it means to be human is such a subjective term that none of us can ever construct an accurate meaning."

"So," Larson's voice quietly filled with remorse as he spoke words. "Can you...can you help us here?"

"Of course I can," Epitheus nodded patiently. "I must be here for a reason - even in this tiny world, we are all individuals under the same sky. We can all reach it if we try together."

"So you can just do these things on command?" Sander asked.

"Yes," Epitheus replied. "It was a gift from birth that I covered up for many years, thinking myself a reject from society's whims and standards of normalcy. But when I came of age, I accepted myself for who I am and decided to use my gifts for good - though society disagreed with my stance. However, even here I can still follow that vow to a limited extent. However, I will not use my gifts for selfish means - I aim to help, not to feed addictions. If we all strive to rise as better people, I will be more than happy to bring us forward."

"Hold on a minute," one of the other prisoners at the door, a scarred man by the name of Tanner Rostol broke in. "Why do you get to say what you use these powers for? There's more of us. I think we should vote on this."

"Vote?" Larson broke back in, his voice catching anger. "I'm bigger than you. Fuck your voting."

"Screw you, I want some of that," another prisoner broke in. "You're a fuckin' rapist. You don't deserve all that."

"Who the fuck are you to tell me what I do or don't deserve?" Larson yelled back. "I'm gonna take what I want!"

"Please, all of you!" Epitheus hurriedly tried to stop the verbal sparring. "Everyone can benefit from my gifts if we work together and balance things out. I won't feed someone's mindless craving for a drug rush or drunken habit. We should better ourselves, not destroy this small little world even more."

"You're fuckin' new," Schofield, having immediately gotten up and quickly forgotten who healed him, shot back. "You don't know how much I miss some shit."

"I'm the fuckin' leader here," Sander finally spoke up angrily, even he now forgetting to see Epitheus as a person and only catching himself in the gifts. "I'll fuckin' say what we do or don't do, you damn punks."

"Fuck you!" Larson shot back. "I'll fight you for it."

"Oh yeah?" Sander roared. "Do it. Do it, you damn coward. Fight me."

"Wait!" Epitheus pleaded. "Listen to yourselves! If you try to each selfishly get what you want, none of you will succeed!"

"One of us will," Larson logically concluded, licking his lips. "And it's gonna be me!"

Larson lunged at Sander, tackling the older man to the ground as the two traded punches. Seeing an opportunity, Schofield grabbed Epitheus's arm before Rostol hurled him against a door frame. A general melee broke out between the twenty men who had assembled, each vying for a gift they and only they could envision themselves using as it was meant to be used - and each ignoring that the gift had a name, a face, and a heart.

"Stop!" Epitheus shouted once more, closing his eyes - and across the room fire shot across the ceiling, sulfur rocks hurled upwards from the wooden floor as disgusting fumes wafted about. "Stop your fighting! You accomplish nothing!"

"Someone get him!" Sander yelled, envisioning the things to come from Epitheus's gift as he battled Larson with blows and bites.

The healing, the water from nothing - Sander saw full bottles of the best liquor before him, his shack no longer a wooden prison but instead the finest villa overlooking a view of the lake. Everything he could not have was now at his fingertips as he threw Larson off of him and coughed from the smoke of the fire overhead.

"Epitheus, get over here!" Sander roared, knocking Schofield out of his way.

The fire raged on but the sulfur rocks abruptly ended - a strange coincidence seeing that the fighting between the men continued forth. Sander crawled along the floor to avoid the smoke, searching, searching - and stumbling across something fleshy. He gaped around, his eyes adjusting to the smoggy room - and before him lay a body. Whose? Which prisoner had been killed by the other - and where was Epitheus?

In a shock, Sander realized it.

It was Epitheus. A shiv - Larson's shiv, stolen off his crude hide belt - was buried deep in Epitheus's cranium by a rash and poorly thrown strike, shoved deep into the gray matter of the man's brain. His eyes, once pearls in the night, radiated only coal and carbon ashes from their orbs. The skin of the radiant man cooled into a pale hue of darkness as he lifelessly stared up at Sander, his face bent in a pleading cry for the salvation of the prisoners around him. Each had been cast into this prison from a society that did not understand them or did not want them any more - and the only one who had come with the best of intentions now lie dead on the floor. All of Sander's hopes and dreams of using Epitheus's gifts to ease his little dry world fell, draining like the blood of the body below him.

Sander crawled out of the shack, his voice screaming rage like a mother bear witnessing her cubs killed. He gaped up at the rising sun, a bloodshot morning greeting him with a vindictive laugh of color and vivacity. His own life sapped into the morning sky as men wrestled and killed behind him in the smoke-filled shack, his own future fading away like the night receding into the horizon. No longer was the world once more at his fingertips, no - that horizon that accepted the night once more ended his small planet out here on the desert flats, with one long night and day greeting him in the sky, a future laid out to an unending loop of regret.

One long night and day came forth into another as Sander fell lying the ground, laughing at humanity's folly.

[United World Order]

[ PMT ]

Kameraden.

It was a bumpy ride for me sitting inside the infantry fighting vehicle with my fellow soldiers who i considered my brothers. The sound of the engine roaring and frequent radio chatter from the driver and the passenger. My fellow soldiers were mostly calm as the ride went on and we sat there hoping we werent going to be the unfortunate ones to be killed or captured in combat. We were straight out of basic sitting inside this armored beast to be dropped off in some unforsaken warzone that i heard about. Most of us went to highschool together and joined and did athletics together. Alot of out mothers knew eachother and always would talk about there days and how we were doing. I remember when i graduated basic and i hugged my mother wearing my clean uniform with the ribbons on it. I love her so much and when i was shipped off to this place i missed her more and more.

They told us the drive over is almost over and that we'd be breifed by an officer who had been there for over three months now. He must have alot of stories to tell about what's happened in the past. My father served for two years and i would always get together with him and listen to his stories like they're bed time stories and fall asleep in his arms when i was little. I miss him aswell and currently he's working in a auto repair shop fixing up old cars and the like. He always wanted me to take over the buisness when he decided to retire or he passed away, i always said i would be a good mechanic and make alot of money and be the man of the house taking care of mother and my father. Then i got interested in the military when i went to the mall with some of my football buddies and signed up. The recruiter was wearing his uniform with all those shiny neat looking medals. I thought to myself that i could do that and earn all those medals and serve for my country and come back a hero. Thats when i signed up with my buddies and went into basic.

Basic was hell for the first few weeks. The endless training and physical fitness that was required in the first few weeks of training. When i got to hold my first rifle which was a G36 assualt rifle i felt like i was in charge. As if i was the judge of life and death and loved shooting it. A very trusty rifle to have and i made sure that it stayed that way and would some times stay up cleaning it. Over and over i'd clean that rifle till it looked spotless as cleaned dish plates. Fireing it was even more of a joy and oh did it fire well. Then after six months of training and preparation i was on a plane going to do my tour of duty to my country. That is how i ended up inside the mechanical beast with my fellow soldiers who signed up with me. The 35th Mechanized Infantry Divison is where i belong to and i know we are one of the best out there and can show the enemy we mean buisness.

The vehicle had stopped by now as the driver told us we had arrived and the soldier closest to the hatch door pried it open and then we got out one by one. When i exited the vehicle i took a gaze at my surroundings seeing numerous soldiers around and vehicles of all sorts. I even saw a tank go by which was quite a sight. My buddy Johnathan tapped me on the shoulder as i turned around and smirked at him i've known him since my junior year in highschool and when i was in basic. He looked at me with a smile to match mine.

"It's quite a place ain't it?" he said to me looking around having his rifle slung over his shoulder and his combat backpack on. I chuckled and took a gaze myself and nodded.

"Yes it is, i can't believe were actually here" i said to him as some of the men in my platoon went off to find the officer so we could report for active duty.

"All that basic training experience is going to good use being here" he said to me as we moved to find the officer as we moved through the soldiers resting and talking. Walking by numerous vehicles as then we heard shouting and we looked to a man with a clipboard who was waving us over as we looked at eachother and smiled then walked over to him. This was the man he was wearing combat fatigues and had the patch of an officer on his forearm. He nodded to us.

"Listen up, you've come here to combat a new enemy, that enemy is several miles out from here and waiting for you fresh meat to get over there" the officer said as he continued.

"Now i've been assigned to assist you all in staying alive, so your best bet at survival would be sticking with me and paying attenton, Understood?" the officer said as the men of the platoon and me of course responded with "Understood, sir!" then he nodded and told us to get inside our infantry fighting vehicles and be prepared for the drive to the front.

******

We're finnaly here and already i feel nervous. We've been walking for the past hour after leaving the protection of our Infantry fighting vehicles which were warmer then it is outside. It's still snowy after almost an hour of walking im already shivering from this cursive cold thats blowing through like no tommorow. We're walking in some forest that supposedly is a hide out for the enemy and that there known for being crafty diggers and have built fortifications out of the ground and up. The trees are mostly like skeletons since their leaves are gone after the fall and because the snow is covering all the fallen leaves that crunch under our boots. It's really quiet here and it's a sign of peace here traversing these forests that the enemy are probably here watching our every moves like cowards.

"Aye Johnathan, when are we going to shoot some?" a private said as he chuckled and walked beside him and patted his shoulder blade and adjusted his combat helmet.

"Well private, officer said they could be underground right now or hiding behind tree's and such" Johnathan said as the private gazed around and as he walked looked at the snowy ground below him.

"Really.." he said as he got quiet and Johnathan laughed and we continued walking having some humor to ourselves on the account of Johnathan and his jokes.

As we got into a clearing which was surrounded by the lush of skeleton trees and brush. We started making our way to the other side where the supposed enemy was located at and our objective was to flush them out and kill them if needed. Now this is when things go wrong when we hear gunfire in the distance and we look around breaking formation as more and more erupts in the distance then it goes silent. Me and Johnathan look at eachother wondering what was all that about. As we look at eachother a crackle of gunfire erupts and johnathan's head explodes into small pieces of flesh and blood. I'm standing there shocked with his blood on my face and my clothing as the platoon went into combat mode and the fight began.

I snapped out of my state of shock and raised my rifle to try and see if i could catch one of them moving around. I spot one and line up my sights and fire which i nailed him in the chest twice as he went down. My platoon is shooting wildly trying to combat these ghost like enemies that show up out of nowhere and just kill you. We start to slowly fan out and start to push the attackers back but we loose men in the process. Bodies were fanned out in the snow which was mixed with blood and in the tree line there were some bodies of the enemy. The fighting was over and now i stand over Johnathan's body and regret ever convincing him to join. I remember when me and him were playing catch with a football i had since freshmen year and i bothered him about joining untill he himself got interested and joined up with me.

We made a deal to eachother that we would stay alive and get out of the war intact and have long talks with eachother about the memories of what happen during our tour of duty. Now i stand over his corpse feeling dead on the inside as i choke up my emotions and walk to catch up with my platoon who have already made head way into the tree line. For the next two years this will happen and i will always remember my friend Johnathan. My Kameraden.

[Maxen von Bismarck]

[ MT ]

An Interrupted Letter

Father Juval,

S.V.B.E.E.V.

I write to you with grievous news. Brother Areia was killed by an unbeliever. I delivered him his last rights and I have no doubt that he will be with our Heavenly Father soon; may we all be so lucky. It was an unfortunate and unforeseeable series of events that we were ever spotted. During a routine stop inside a local store for incense our understandably distinguishable Lpqic ikons were stumbled upon, from our traveling bags, by a group of individuals associated with the heretical Inquisition so prevalent in this country. Why they were there in the first place only God knows, but those heathen cries to their god for victory were justly ignored. We killed the two of them, the shop keeper fled; we shall only hope our gesture of mercy shall be repayed, in this life or the next. In any event, Brother Areia was the first to go down and he shall not rise again until our Glorious Father finishes the final judgment of humankind.

We have learned much since arriving here, including the whereabouts of Sister Alexi. She is being held by the Abaddon Ministry. At what installation, exactly, is unknown. Both Brother Apelennius and Brother Baal'us are both united, such as I am, in one reality: to bring upon this Earth at it is Heaven no matter what obstacles are placed upon our path.

Tyrus Himilco dabbed his quill in the inkpot on his desk, he preferred the archaic over the contemporary with a suave ease. The oak chair that he perched in creaked as he shifted uncomfortably in it. It was neither the subtle poking of his other two, favorite, metal quills in his pocket which made him uneasy, nor was it the feel of the chair, or the tedious retreat which the Brothers of Augustine found themselves in. The former was a rickety, mean spirited thing that contrived to inflict a whole manner of insults upon anyone desperate enough to sit on it. The latter, a low, grimy, two-story affair was a temple to filth and rats. The neighborhood was hardly better. Looking out the window, a small rectangle that only served to remind the room's occupant how much he was missing out on, he could see a few sawdust bars across the street. A one-night hotel slumped on the corner, just like the patrons who deigned to visit it. Another construct to the depravity of the modern age, Himilco sniffed. Yet none of those things could explain that smell, that feeling, that something was just not right. It was closer now and as he gently undulated back and forth on the balls of his feet, he glanced out onto the street again.

Two men creaked up the stairs. The one on the right was bulkier and in relatively plain clothes. His partner, on the left, was smaller and whose attire hinted at a shadowy existence. The hallway lay exposed before them, the second floor was more of a glorified loft than anything substantial, and its four rooms. The glare of a single incandescent bulb brought out a sinister glare from doorknobs incongreous to the surrounding environment. The proprietor had decided for reasons unknown, even to himself, to install horrendously gaudy fixtures to supplement the general feeling of despair which pervaded his business concern. They stuck out like sore thumbs, or pikes.

Himilco felt a single bead of sweat trail its way down his ribcage. His lucubration was forgotten.

Brother Apelennius was the first to die. Asleep in a chair, in front of "1,000 Catechisms of the Lpqic Orthodox Church," he did not feel the small caliber bullet rip through his brain and carry a healthy portion of it along and out to the wall.

Brother Baal'us was garroted by the larger one with uncomfortable ease on the floor of his bathroom. The white tiles were marred by the black licks of his kicking feet.

Himilco was veritably drenched with sweat. The uncomfortable feeling had risen to a crescendo and was now a foghorn blaring in his ears. Tyrus looked at his closet door, inside was his bag containing a selection of knives and--most importantly--his pistol. In two steps he was opening the closest door, he had almost opened the abutting door to the hallway, but his inner sense was telling him that time was short. Ungraciously short as the door directly to the right of him crashed open with all the ferocity of Armegddon as the two men surveyed the room.

The room was empty. The desk was empty, but the light was on. Both men knew that the third man was in here but reality seemed to be acting a tad disagreeable. The door hit an obstacle, stopped. The man on the right quietly looked to his partner and breathed a silent question. That was when, of course, Tyrus Himilco reached around the door and casually stabbed with the quill he had been using. In a fluid motion he took pierced the man on the right's pupil, quested through the lens sack, cleaved through Vitreous Hu, pierced the choroid and pulled. Orbital muscles popped with a few, subtle, sighs and in a moment the man on the right was on his knees screaming. The man on the left, eyes bulging and mouth agape, backpedaled fruitlessly.

Tyrus grinned. He slammed the door on the howling man's shattered face and stalked after the second individual; who proved to be not nearly as inept as the shock of the attack wore off. His pistol was out in a second later but at this point a crucial mistake was made. The pistol, with its attached silencer, stuck momentarily on one of the overly ornate door handles. The fixture gleamed maliciously as Himilco seized the moment with a running tackle. His head, mid-flight, hit against the incandescent bulb and it began to rotate back and forth across the hallway. Shadows and light danced in the confined space like a fight of demons and angels. The metal quill glittered in Tyrus' hands, partially satiated with the heady mix of ink and blood. He and the assailent wrestled inconclusively for a few moments; both unsure of each other's strength in the disorientating lighting. Crying, partially in frustration and partially in an instictual fear that had seen the situation turn from excellent to deplorable, the swarthily clothed man raised the butt of his pistol.

Himilco did not even glance away at his attacker's face. His right hand lanced out and punctured the man's wrist in two locations, cutting through his median nerve. The man breathed a silent, pained 'O.' Tyrus' left hand, which clutched his opponents with an eerie, fervent, strength, allowed his right--the one wielding the quill--to lash out at the exposed wrist of his opposite again. The man grimaced in pain but continued the swing. Yet the swinging butt of the gun, which aimed to be a game ending move, merely glanced off Tyrus' thick skull. The Areo smiled thinly, he could see into the darkly clothed man's eyes. He could see the slight ridge where the iris dropped off into the blackness of the pupil. He could see it contract and dilate, ever so slightly, to the man's heartbeat and the swinging of the bulb. If there was ever evidence, he thought, of original sin then this would be it; that impenetrable darkness which seemed to know too much. He twirled the quill enthusiastically in his hand and drove it down. It, understandably, met resistance. The gun had dropped with a clatter and the man, who now attempted to feebly kick, used both his hand to stop the unrelenting pressure of the Augustine Brother.

"Shh, shh." Tyrus whispered. "Shh."

The man whimpered slightly as he saw, as no doubt so many had seen before him, the end of his life.

"It'll be all right," Himilco continued "you'll be fine."

Even as he spoke, the quill descended ever closer to the struggling man's jugular.

"Shh now, it's all over. It's all over." And with that the quill pricked the skin of the man's neck. He whimpered.

"Trust me, it's fine. Everything is fine. Shh now, shh." The quill sank into the man's skin and he gave out a shout, accented by a bucking of his body and a last ditch effort to kick his killer senseless. Nevertheless, the quill sank deeper until it pierced the artery.

The man, eyes bulging, looked nothing more than what he was; a scared individual, realizing that the jig was really up. Tyrus smiled at him, "I told you it wouldn't be hard. Everything is all right."

As the attacker began to make gurgling noises, Tyrus Himilco eased himself off. He looked down at his hands. They were covered in blood. He grimaced and went back into his room. The heavier man was mewling pitifully, a common reaction to losing an eye and experiencing a concussion. He pulled out another quill from his pant pocket. His soul was at ease but he could still smell the sin. The sin which seemed to pervade every inch of atmosphere around this man. The Brother knelt beside him and even though the smell was overpowering he felt compassion. He held the man close and began the man's Last Unction, what was called in more contemporary religions the 'Last Rite(s).' He felt loss for his brothers but, he sighed, there was nothing he could do about that. It was all up to the Lord now. He looked over to his desk's clock, only a half-dozen minutes had passed. He nodded happily, only a few minutes lost? He could deal with that. The quill poised over the man's jugular. Tyrus Himilco finished the man's Last Unction and then quietly thrust the quill deep into the man's neck and back away; no need to get anymore blood on his clothes. Death was quick embrace for the would-be assassin, but before the reaper even reached the neighborhood Tyrus was back completing his letter.

I am now unsure how this letter will ever reach you, Father, with both of my other brothers now gone, but let me assure you; I will not quit. I will not falter. I will not fail.

I go into the dark with a clean soul and a pious mind.

Dura lex sed lex,
Your humble servant Tyrus Himilco

He noticed that there were blood stains on the parchment, another nod to the past, but decided that they were unavoidable. After all, there was a very good chance that the letter would be buried with his corpse. Mentally shrugging he fit it easily in its envelope twin, and deftly put it in one of his jacket’s pocket. He peered from his vantage point in front of his desk at his room’s bathroom. A small mirror in there hinted at his ragged appearance, his bloodstained face and hair. He sighed, and rose from his chair to begin cleaning himself up.

An hour later, blood was an impossibly difficult substance to remove in a timely manner; he was sitting in the sawdust bar that he had spotted from his room. The noise, and entertainment, was cheap. He wasn’t a man prone to vices, but as he quietly ingested a pill—an ‘amp’—with his non-alcoholic drink, there were times and events that were exceptions to that rule.

[Snowflaken]

[An Ancient Force Emerges, Pt. 1]
[PMT]

On board the SS Freelance
Ross Ice Shelf, Antarctica
18:00 hrs

Captain Edward Milton was on the bridge overlooking the horizon with his binoculars, searching for something important that could change his life forever. He was the captain of the SS Freelance, a scout ship commissioned by the Snowflaken govt. to search for the one thing that the people were disputing over: the Caranara, national animal of Snowflaken.

The Caranara was an ancient animal found in archaeological records in Snowflaken long before Antarctica froze over. Fossils were found of the animal and through many strides in imaging technology, Snowflaken scientists were finally able to piece the fossils together and form a valid image of what the creature looked like: A prehistoric sea monster in its own right, with a green scaly serpent-like body, a tail similar to a goldfish but greener, and the head was like a Chinese dragon's head, with a marine-like mane, 4 or more eyes, and some strange alien mouth that when it opened, several smaller mouths protruded from it like triffids.

For centuries many sightings have been reported of the creature's appearance to survivors, and more recently the sightings seem to have stopped; the cause of this still remains a mystery. Some speculate that the Caranara is now extinct, while others refute that the Caranara never existed in the first place. Captain Milton swore to change that; he promised the govt. that he would provide evidence of at least one surviving member of the species, and this is how the search began in the Ross Ice Shelf, during the summer months of course.

Captain Milton was busy searching the horizon when the ship bumped on something large and the ship tilted to the right a little. "Engineer! Find out if we hit an iceberg, and check the engine rooms to see if anything is damaged."

The engineer, who was in the bridge at the time, complied with captain's orders, "Aye, captain. I'll see what's damaged." he then ran off to the engine rooms. Captain Milton continued searching the horizon, but still came up with nothing. As he turned away from the setting sun to his right, he thought he saw something in the water near the starboard side of the ship: Something long, scaly, and above all green. He quickly blinked for a few seconds and the sighting was gone just like that. The engineer came back to the bridge and made his reports to Milton, "The engine rooms are fine captain and there are no signs that we hit an iceberg. As far as we're concerned, we can continue with the investigation tomorrow once we dock back in Iciclacier City."

"Sounds good, now let's turn around and head back to port." Milton was just about to turn the ship around when all of a sudden the ship bumped into something yet again and kept tilting left and right constantly, tossing many of the crew everywhere around the ship. Milton was able to reach the comm channels and report to the crew, "All crew on board, be on high alert for we are being attacked by an unknown entity. Make sure no one goes off-board either, that is all."Then the moment Captain Milton waited for happened: A massive object rose from the water in front of the bow, and the crew's eyes popped as they saw what rose forth from the surface...

[Maxen von Bismarck]

[ MT ]

One, Two, Three, Four

The water dripped from the ceiling. The ground did not seem to mind, hirsute with an oddly sinister looking moss. Arthur minded. He minded a lot. He had always been inclined to a captious personality but it was a fair assessment that his current accommodation was lacking. Few would disagree and he augured that the long list of friends he had alienated over his altogether too brief life would be hard pressed to maintain an attitude of even moderate optimism.

His stay had started with a small tour of the complex, which mostly consisted of being thrown down stairs and yelled at by the guards. There was no acerbity in their actions and yet that only seemed to make the whole affair more distressing. It was one thing to be actively hated, but it was another thing to be a footnote. How could his coruscating wit express itself if the most he had to work with were bored grunts and absentminded backhands? Worse yet his current predicament found himself in the jailor’s ersatz penthouse suite.

One drop, two drops, three drops, four drops.

The suite had more than an annoying leak and unconventional carpet. After all, if that was the only problem it’d still put it a head above government housing. It’d put it a head and shoulders above his residence. Certainly, the lighting was atrocious and the interior decorating deserved the appellation of ‘Hell on Earth.’ But tenement housing wasn’t exactly easy living either. At least in here the smell of government cheese didn’t permeate the place. What really set the place apart was that that the jailers believed that his domicile was actually fit for cohabitation. His new suitemate, if the present circumstances allowed the word, was an execrable piece of humanity.

The newcomer had an impenetrable insouciance. He adapted to the current situation with an alacrity that defied easy categorization. Arthur would throw a mordant comment his way. The only reply would be an enthused, naïve response that seemed designed to infuriate him. He didn’t seem to notice that his ‘wardens,’ as he cheerfully referred to them, were accoutered with the gristle of fellow prisoners. He could deal with an intellectual equal who held an outrageous view of the world. Yet this man wasn’t his equal, and he saw the world as it was. He simply did not see any reason for it to hamper the excellent time he was having.

One drop of water slowly crystallized and fell to the floor. Another, another and another.

His ‘suitemate’ looked every bit the befuddled intellectual. The man was a bit awkward, he didn’t enjoy looking anyone in the eyes, and prone to somnambulism—especially irritating considering how loud the chains could be in the small hours of the morning. His hair was graying; he was a bit on the jowly side and had managed to preserve his belt. A belt, by the way, which looked liked it was keeping back a sizable amount of lard. The only compelling features were an aquiline nose and a pair of extremely bushy eyebrows that framed an accompany pair of bright blue eyes. They held a perpetual inquisitive air that was at the same time compelling and annoying.

The jailor opened the door with a brusque wave of his hand. No one had seen him smile. The closest he had ever come, the memory was forever burned in his mind, was the fifth birthday he remembered. Even then, however, his own mother had described it as a “mere revealing of his teeth.” Since then his face had been permanently frozen in a minatory grimace. Worse, it hid a truly despicable mind. He seized upon the subtlest surration with a vengeance and coaxed from the unwilling—or the innocent—admissions to every crime they had—or had not—done. Oftentimes he would just check in on the two, but other times he came to gloat.

The water dripped ever so slowly. The second was slower than the first; the third was slower than that. The fourth defied time.

“How are you?” the jailor asked.

Arthur replied with a shrug. “I could be better.”

His nonchalance was somewhat undercut by the cough that expectorated what on first glance, and on second glance, seemed to be a piece of his lung.

“Don’t let that undercut my point.”

The jailor’s lip twitched a bit. In amusement? Who knew. “It seems like that’s a bit of your lung.”

The jailor was finishing a busy morning. It seemed like bits of vital organ were sprayed on his shoes like morbid confetti. The glue was, of course, the blood of particularly intransigent political prisoners. Other than that, interestingly enough, the man truly did not look the part. Benign looking, if expensive, handmade leather shoes coexisted with a simple two-piece suit. He even allowed himself a faint whiff of cologne. A smell, admittedly, that was many prisoners’ last but a respectably middleclass one nonetheless. To top this all off was a face that was immediately forgettable. Perhaps that was why he was so vicious. No one ever remembered him when he was a child.

Arthur felt an atavistic surge up his gut. There was a third reason why the jailor visited: when it was time to die.

The water continued to drip. One. Two. Three. Four.

He did not want to die. Certainly he did not grab onto it with both hands. His past life attested to as much. He scintillated from dangerous narcissism to redolent nihilism. His friends considered him truculent and, at other times, devastatingly judgmental. He chided the roaring in his ears for being unreasonable. He had spent little time for himself, it had been sucked up by his professional obligations. But these rationalizations, in a burst of certitude, drifted away. He felt a vociferous appetite for life and all its attendant irritations.

Drip; one. Drip; two. Drip; three. Drip; four.

The jailor propped himself up against the dark slabs of stone. He stared.

“You know what you remind me of?”

Arthur smiled tentatively. “Your childhood d?”

The jailor, like the man who stood silent in the corner, took the comment at its face value.

“I was never jailed as a child.” He slowly plucked a small orange from his pocket and began peeling it.

It was infuriating. The only thing he, the prisoner, could think about was the unwrapping of the fruit. It seemed to coincide with the water that, still, dripped. It had made a small lake on the floor and the puddle was surrounded by a shoreline of organic growth. The ripples seemed to move in motion with the jailor’s hand.

His suitemate decided to opine on recent events.

“Kill him.”

Arthur looked at him for a moment. He couldn’t believe his ears. “What?”

“Kill him.” He replied simply.

“No.”

“Kill him.”

The wonkish man’s words carried weight. They possessed an incontrovertible charisma that seemed to echo around in the dank bowels of the jail. “Stop speaking.”

The jailor looked up from his orange. “Hm?”

The jailed shook his head and grinned. “Nothing.”

“Kill him.”

“How can I?”

“Look to your wrists.”

He looked at his wrists. Bordering on emaciated they were, in a word, bony. Much, much skinnier than when they had first been locked to the wall behind him. He imagined that if he tried, if he really tried to hold onto his life, he could get at least one of his hands out. It could break a bone, possibly even two, but he could get his hand out. He looked at his suitemate. “How did you know?”

“Shh.”

The jailor finished his orange and was looking at his charge with bemusement. “What did you say?”

“Nothing.”

“Kill him,” insisted his suitemate.

The water continued drilling a hole in his mind; delving ever deeper.

“Can I, at least, have one cigarette?”

The jailor suavely replied with a flick of his wrist and, like a magician performing a trick he had done entirely too much for his own liking, produced a cigarette. After a moment of fumbling out of its packaging he also produced a lighter. Walking over to him the jailor gently placed the cigarette in his mouth. After making sure it was safely pressed between his lips the jailor pulled out his lighter. He looked into the man’s sunken eyes.

“You were a good prisoner.”

Arthur smiled. “You were a good human.”

With that repartee he breathed deeply on the cigarette.

The end glowed with glee and with no small amount of satisfaction jerked forward and buried it into the jailor’s eye.

Cursing, he backpedaled. As he did he slipped on the mossy floor. With a sickening crack his head rapped against the unyielding floor. The jailed yanked his first wrist, his second through the cuffs. He broke a bone, possibly two, in his left hand. He didn’t notice the pain though, for his jailor was already regaining his feet. With a terrific yell the jailed ran forward and, deep in a fit of madness, headbutted his chest. They both went down in a pile, the moss again playing the role of a third opponent.

The result of the fight, however, was never really in doubt. The jailor was fed. He knew how to fight. More importantly he was pissed. He grabbed onto the formerly jailed and mercilessly punched, kicked and bite his way to victory. After a few short minutes he held Arthur’s throat in his hands. He squeezed.

One, two, and three. The drops pattered onto his forehead with a monotonous intensity. It was the last thing Arthur felt.

[Syleru]

[ MT ]

A Journey Of Silence Pt. 1

Every nation has something beautiful about it, whenever it be luscious long rivers, filled with a plethora of amphibians, arthropods, arachnids and general creepy-crawlies, all relaxing in the tranquil, luke-warm bed of water that flows downstream at a lazy rate, carrying all the sorrows and remorse of those who visit away with it. Or may it be the technologically-advanced buildings and skyscrapers the loiter the streets, beaming with flashy holographic advertisements, iridescent tint windows that reflect the light in such spectacle, that even the most adapted citizen would look and stare, admiring the multiplicity of colors. Yes, Syleru had both, but it wasn't the dauntingly long rivers or abnormally advanced buildings that Syleru was recognized for, it was the rainforests.

While most nations practiced massive deforestation on a daily basis, the dictatorial government of Syleru loved afforesting and reforesting regions not yet used by Syleru's efficient tall skylines, and massive sprawling wind and solar farms, as it was cheap, pristine and certainly yielded them a lot of lumber at the end of the day, a good trade-off for the small miniscule seeds used to plant the darned things. Many flock to the forests to take pictures, admire the scenery and generally enjoy the amazing environment, and that is what local citizen Amelia Gerium decided to do that day, a decision that would change her life forever.

"I'm tired of this," Amelia complained, wiping sweat of her brow and sulking down on her plush bean bag bed (made with domestic cotton and wool, all natural!)

"Of what?" her husband said, cleaning off the food residue on the fine china, just used for a hearty meal of lasagna

"Of, all of this!" she groaned, doing several prominent arm gestures and a weak fist swing, "And that would be...?" her husband responded, slouching beside her after he finished the remaining dishes

"The government, all they've done. Sure, we have a job, pretty much everyone's employed, but we don't get to do anything together. Police will walk and tell us this is government property, this is banned, that is illegal..UGH!" she lamented

"That is true, but be thankful, we have little Tommy, who is as cheerful as ever. We have a nice house, and we're making $120 000 Syle Bank Notes every annum, dear." he argues, putting his comforting arm around her

"Don't you sometimes wish, for silence?" Amelia said, turning her head to him and made a desperate look (which always somehow reels him in) "Don't give me that look," he chuckles, which makes Amelia giggle in response, Tommy joins in and the trio are eventually laughing harder than a night at Just For Laughs.

"Dreams are dreams, the government can do what it does, we're fortunate, and you've got to be thankful for that." he says, wiping a tear of joy out of his eye and adjusting his glasses slightly

Suddenly, Amelia hatches a plan, one that may of been thought of as simplistic, but Amelia was intelligent and made a quick, rough excuse to get herself out of the house "I didn't pick out groceries for this week yet, I'm going to drop down to the grocers to purchase some!" she says to her husband (Who is named Kevin, by the way) and gets up from the plush bag, which has almost engulfed little Tommy, who crawls out and makes a few blathering "goo-goos and mamas" when Amelia exits the door.

Amelia taps he waist and the car door slides open swiftly, she hops in and lies down "Engage interface," she commands the AI <<Interface engaged, please select option {Amelia Gerium}>> the computer responds in an almost feminine robotized voice, (That roughly sounds like GLaDOS, from Portal)

Amelia goes to work and selects 'Maximum Solar Extraction' then 'On' after a few seconds of wait, then shifts the solar car into 'Drive' and slams the pedal, converting solar energy into electricity and that electricity into propulsion.

She zooms down the network at high speeds, but still under the speed limit, of course, and heads directly to one location "Computer; reroute course to Syleru's National Park" she orders the computer <<Course rerouted {Amelia Gerium}>> the voice responds, and the car shifts to the left and heads to one prominent location of the National Park "Rainforest, here I come, and freedom awaits me..."

<<Part One: Ended, have a nice day {Name Here}>>

[Maxen von Bismarck]

[ MT ]

A Walk Out

Mifsud Achinoam walked out of the lobby of his tenament. He shut the choked atmosphere behind him. The tenement owner enjoyed fast women and slow ponies; he cut corners whenever he could. He ignored the cries of his tenants and the building’s antiquated ventilation with only the smallest milieu of regret. The door's design was layered with several patterns—an ersatz homage to past artistic achievements consigned to the banality of the local home improvement store. The insignificant stippling, one layered over the other year after year, satisfied some pseudo cognoscenti's feelings of superiority. There was no indication that the paint ever noticed the thousands of lives pass by it.

Ten minutes later he was perched on the stool of a nondescript bar. The sawdust collected on the floor like the dunes of a desert. He nodded to the bartender, delivered him a note of gibberish, and promptly departed after polishing his drink. He left a twenty-dollar tip. Few heads turned. He was dressed like any in the neighborhood. His eyes were the customary blank of a mind forever numbed to the world around him. It had taken him time to mimic the look. It came naturally, locked beneath the weight of the decadent culture that surrounded him.

The walk back to the apartment was more eventful. Walking to his apartment was the same it had always been. Panhandlers didn’t ask him for change, he had a look about his eyes that they naturally shied away from. He spotted his apartment's peculiar door but as he did a shadow of a man sidled into sight. It would have been a chance encounter, with neither remembering the next day, except for what happened next. With hardly a sound the shadow put a gun to the apartment door owner's temple. The mugger made it clear he wasn't looking for a fight.

"Give me all you've got, buddy, because I want your money and not your life. But if you try to make a move I won't think twice."

Mifsud Achinoam looked up at his would-be mugger with the smallest hint of a smile. Then he looked over the shoulder of the shadowy man, and seemed, for a moment, to be utterly astonished. By his expression one would assume that God himself had descended in a shroud of light. Honestly, who wouldn't have looked over their shoulder? The mugger, however, didn’t. He had long ago given up on his eternal soul. Besides, this wasn’t a cheesy cop drama.

Mifsud looked at him. Did you have any idea how important this day would be to you?

Hand over your wallet. You don't understand. I do, now give it over. The conversation continued staccato.

Mifsud didn’t flinch. His cold, blue eyes—eloquently framed by a pair of slim eyebrows—continued looking at the mugger with a quiet intensity. They seemed to look not merely into his soul, but past it. They seemed to hint at the dark, hopeless abyss that Mifsud expected him to embrace after death.

The mugger paled. You have to give him credit, he did not run.

He spoke about his children. About how they were going hungry, how they needed money and how if the world was a nicer place, if it wasn’t as mean and cutthroat as it was, he would never have been here.

Mifsud, with a nod towards Tolstoy, remarked that while he may not be interested in evil, evil was very much interested in him.

The man’s right eye twitched.

I don't care. Your children, you, your whole life has come down to choices. Choices you’ve made. You are a sum of your choices.

The mugger retorted that he was tired of this philosophical bullshit. He cocked his gun.

Mifsud closed his eyes. He did not relinquish any of his objects.

The gun could never grasp the senselessness of its actions. If it could, one wonders what it might have felt. Would it find itself bemused, terrified or ecstatic? Did the ultimate end of its construction fill it with blissful release or did it dredge up a sense of mournful impotency. Surely it must have some other reason for existing other than to end lives?

If such thoughts did exist, the inability of the weapon’s firing pin to properly work speaks to the latter rather than the former hypothesis.

Misfud looked at his would-be assailant. One always dies too soon or too late. Yet now, here, on top of this pavement the line is drawn, and it must all be added up.

The mugger opined that he did not give a shit and struck Mifsud across the face.

With a suave ease that belied Mifsud’s long history of ending lives, perhaps he saw something of a sign or connection between him and the weapon, he swung out his own sidearm. He fired once, twice and thrice. All in the father’s stomach.

"You don't understand," the father grinned “there's no rest for the wicked." Mifsud calmly put a round between the man's eyebrows. He reholstered his gun.

He would have to leave the apartment, he knew, but he considered it a small loss. He had been living in an walk up that had been vacant for, by his reckoning, the last few years.