The Native Story Index [Open; All Techs]

[Yohannes]

[ MT ]

[ Mature ]

Love; The Colour of [One]

---

Those pants made the man distrustful.

He'd never seen such a pale and sickly shade of cobalt. Cobalts ought to be vibrant and powerful, like the sky, or the tail of a comet. This cobalt was more like forget-me-nots and had no business being on pants.

She was pottering around the room, like she owned the place, opening and shutting drawers. They were sloppy pants too, draping themselves over her legs, wide and loose, like they aspired to be a skirt, but couldn't quite manage the effort.

"What kind of woman would wear such a thing?" He snapped at her when she tried to hand him a fork, jostling the flimsy tray table with his knees. "I don't need a nursemaid, woman", he said and tossed the fork back on the table. It missed and fell to the floor with a quiet thud.

"Now, dear, don't be silly", she said, her voice husky. "You have to keep your strength up".

She picked up the fork and tried to hand it to him again. He refused to take it. A crease appeared between her eyes.

"Bob, you love salmon. Just have a few mouthfuls".

She flaked the flesh with the fork and speared a good chunk of it. He followed the fish with his eyes. That salmon did look good. Crusty and golden on one side, and plumpy pink on the other. He opened his mouth and let her pop it inside, then savoured the oily taste. Might as well let the old biddy get her job done. She probably had a dozen more inmates to serve after him.

She fed him, pushed the tray table against the wall and went away. He closed his eyes.

"Come on, dear", she said in a flat voice. "It's time for your medicine".

Somehow she had snuck up on him again. She had a bottle with her, a squat little thing. The liquid, poured into a plastic spoon, was viscous pink. He sniffed suspiciously. It smelled like an old folks home. Not the sort of medicine you want to casually swallow down.

"You're trying to poison me, woman", he cried and pressed his lips together so the spoon bumped against them.

She spilled sticky stydd down his stubble. For a moment her blue eyes blazed. They were nowhere near as faded as her pants. I knew a girl with eyes like yours once, the man thought. The spoon dug part way between his lips, and propelled by her white knuckles. Then, the man flung up an arm and grinned as pink splashed all over her pants

"Bob, how could you!" she said and her voice cracked. "I'm already having such an awful day".

Poor woman, the man thought. After all, she must have a difficult home life. Why else would she be working in a place like this? He reached out to pat one of her hands. Her flesh was loose and soft. He could feel her wedding ring nestles solidly there, as though it grew from a bone.

"Please, Bob", she said. "Please, take your medicine".

He expected her to pull her hand away, but instead she smiled at him, a wry twist of lips that reminded him so much of his long lost lover, blue eyes and all. But, his lover would have never worn such hideous pants.

"Take those ugly things off!" He roared, pointing a long, lumpy finger and straightening his back againsts its natural pose.

She looked down at her pink splattered clothes, her mouth still twisted but no longer smiling. She glanced at the closed door. The man realised the only witnesses here were photos of grinning strangers that dotted the walls. He swallowed as she stalked to the middle of the room, and spun to face him.

What would she do?

[Wellboneland]

Story of Wellboneland

A man named Henri Rowland lived in a hut. He was a refugee from a country that shall not be named. The native Wellbonians looked up to him and named him their king. This man also drove out the Orasians, a group of people from the mountains who were harassing the Wellbonians. Henri has since died and his son Harald has taken the post of Premier.

[Maxen von Bismarck]

[ MT ]

A Cup of Coffee Before I Go

The café was intimate. Wassails of cappuccino-clutching hands filled the open air above the patrons’ bobbing heads. The concern was also capacious, due in part to the regal minimalism of the furniture. The tables were gashes of steel. The chairs were a designed collection of Euclidian precepts. As a result everyone had room to swing their elbows or to throw their hands up in gestures of exclamation. Electronics were also surprisingly scarce. The tables were full but rarely with materials from this century, plastic cups aside. On some, retree was carefully monitored. Legal pads covered with scribbles dominated their own fiefdoms. On others newspapers waged a valiant battle with the epicureans’ hardback novels: the universal sign of free time and prosperity.

Among the rasping of sugar packets, soft plunking of cups and scratching of pens were two men. Alfred Prufrock would have identified them both instantly. They had measured out their lives with coffee spoons. Between the two of them was the latest topic of discussion: Nabokov’s Lolita. First written in English and published in 1955 the novel is notable for its controversial subject: the middle-aged literature professor Humbert Humbert. Obsessed with the 12-year-old Dolores Haze he becomes sexually involved after she becomes his stepdaughter. His private nickname for Dolores is Lolita, hence the novel’s name.

The pleasantries had long been taken care of. The meat of the discussion soon became heated.

The man on the left talked the loudest was also dressed the loudest. Purples, blues and a hint of black collided in an oddly disarming way. Gray eyes, gray hair and deep lines, however, gave every indication of a grave demeanor. A long, narrow face was tapered off onto a pointed chin that was roofed by a pair of lips that were more a line than anything else. The face looked like a preacher, the outfit like an entertainer. In a twist of fate, perhaps there was some amount of justice in the world, his opposite’s features gave the impression that, in an earlier part of his life, he was an entertainer. Yet his black on gray clothing did not hint in the slightest to the lascivious lifestyle his wide expanse, as well as his perpetually masticating jowls, seemed to indicate. If anything his dress looked the part of the preacher, even though it seemed to house a true epicurean.

For our purposes the man on the left is ‘Preacher.’ The man on the right is ‘Playboy.’

Preacher encapsulates his point. I think you are absolutely wrong. The book is more than pornography. It is, to quote Berger, something that raises our consciousness. It is art.

The Playboy laughs, perhaps a bit too harshly. Nonsense, your old age is getting to you. It may not be pornography, and it may be better written than smut, but at the end of the day its most compelling features are its sexual titillations.

And so the conversation went. Two intellects whose wattage was somewhat belied by the ultimate amateurish attempt at dissecting the novel. In a word, fruitless but even fruitless adventures end somewhere; oftentimes where they did not begin.

The Preacher countered that Lolita is not given purpose by your atavistic urges, it is given purpose by our desire to explore the unknown. To see and feel and read something that is so far beyond our own daily grind. There are novels that work on our primordial urges, inherited from the ooze we evolved from, but this is not those.

Before Playboy could respond the café shifted on its foundations. The morning artillery duel had started a bit early. Many customers took it as a sign to leave. They folded their papers, their hardbacks’ spines and with a mournful jerk of the hand threw away the last vestiges of their morning’s escape. It was time for them to head home, though just as many saw it as a sign to get another cup. It could be their last and the barista made sure it would taste the part. The café, as the two men continued, shifted intermittently as the artillery of the two sides increased and decreased the amount of ammunition expended. It was internecine warfare and the Red Horseman was busy at work.

As the artillery shells fell among the city square one wondered if the artillery shells ever grasped their futility. Packaged and contained from birth their sole, majestic flight was destined to end tragically. Their life’s crowning zenith was proved to be utterly senseless and temporal. They couldn’t realize any of this, but if they could one wonders what their choice of profession would be. Who would it surprise if they chose a profession that maintained the futility which they escaped? Who would it surprise if they chose to become English majors?

Whenever the artillery seemed to abate it would restart afresh. What they were fighting over, what they were fighting for, didn’t seem to matter to either of them. If the two sides were fighting for the city, or over it, both were doing an admirable job of liberating it into rubble. Luckily, for the two men, the world began and ended at the edges of the café. When a trail of dust trickled down from the roof onto the Playboy’s collar he did nothing but offer it a small smirk. If anything, the deleterious circumstances the establishment found itself in gave the whole conversation a subversive feel. If there is anything that gets ‘serious thinkers’ going it’s subversiveness.

The two continued with an insouciant aplomb. The book was published by smut publishers the Preacher countered.

The Playboy shook his head. An artillery round struck the street outside the coffee house. We both know that is a mechanistic way of looking at it. A publisher doesn’t change the content. It has little to do with the content. He could have tapped a publisher of omophagy texts.

We cannot possibly ascribe to the erotica a meaning only understood by the recondite.

My friend, I am not trying to accouter the text with an exhausting and exhaustive interpretation. All I’m saying is that there is a deeper point there than merely electing a few giggles from the middle-class.

The conversation went like jetsam on a stream. There was no rush, it was carried this way and that with laconic ease.

What I found the most disagreeable is that reading it, with society’s newfound focus on victimhood, I question whether it is truly possible to understand Nabokov. It was a stab at prudery and a mercurial account of a lifestyle radically different than the reader’s. Those points, it seems, have been completely subsumed by understanding who was the true victim. All that seems left, then, is the sexual titillation. It joins Oedipus Rex as the works which we simply cannot understand. Instead of a tragic king, it is now a powerful allegory on Freud’s theory of psychosexualism.

The Priest nodded. An astute point, and one I concede except for one small consideration: is a changing understanding necessarily a dismissible one?

Ah, the New Novel?

Exactly, my dear sir. Exactly. It gains the energy from the reader. Perhaps, more than then, it is alive.

A particularly loud creshendo of artillery exchanges silenced them for a moment. The Preacher looked askance at his cup of coffee. The Playboy simply looked bored.

They did not resume. They stopped to chuckle over a perceived rival’s failure and subs. An ambulance’s siren approached. They winced at past memories together. It went past the café. They shook their heads over their wives. Another shell landed close by.

As their conversation wound down the two looked at each other. They smiled. I enjoy these conversations. I do too. If their conversation was a stream it was certainly picking up its pace. Do you need a roadie? No, thank you.

The two, with a firm grasp of the hand, departed. Playboy through the front, Preacher from a side exit, and neither looked back.

[United World Order]

[ MT ]

The Black Coats.

In the daylight of the surburban neighborhood in Urak a Crown Victoria strolled down the street passing numerous poor residential houses and parked cars on the curbs or in the driveways. The Crown Victoria stopped at a stop sign as a pick up truck passed by and the Crown Victoria drove on down the road and soon pulled up in the drive way of a two story house which was repainted cloud blue and was fairly nicer then the other houses in the neighborhood as the Crown Victoria parked in the driveway and the door opened and the black boots of a man clicked on the driveway pavement as he shut the door having black sunglasses on and looked around not seeing much out of the ordinary as he walked up the driveway and up to the front door of the house passing a window that he gazed at seeing the inside having a single four seat couch with a small TV inside. The man spit out his gum into the grass beside him as he knocked on the door standing on a mat saying "Welcome Home" which was a nice little touch to a house such as this.

Inside he heard footsteps as the man on the otherside of the door unlocked his door and opened it wearing a plain white T shirt and was in his boxers with socks on. His floor was tile for the most part as he looked at the man in black and up nodded to him slightly and stepped to the side allowing the man to walk inside the house as he shut the door and relocked it. The TV was on along with the noise of people talking upstairs which meant there were others inside. He took off his Black coat and nicely placed it on the couch which showed his black kevlar vest with a pistol strap showing on his waistband as he nodded to the man.

"Take a seat please, Ive come to discuss something that involves you" The Gestapo agent said as the man and him went into the kitchen and sat down as the man rubbed his face which he was growing a slight brown beard as he sighed and sipped some coffee that was sitting on the table. "So, What is this that concearns me officer?" the man questioned as he leaned back in the chair streching his arms out from being tired after sleeping in the afternoon.

"Well, My sources which are confedentional and will remain secret have told me you have been involved in possible interaction with a arms dealer that prowls in the area" The Agent said as he pulled out his USP pistol and cocked it smirking then retreiving a silencer and attached it to it laying it on the table and then stared at him. The man looked at the pistol and gulped slightly and was nervous as his hand started shaking from the pistol and the reason this officer was out to get him and knew what he'd been doing. The agent smirked putting a single palm on the handle of the pistol and kept his eyes on the man.

"Please explain yourself before i blow your brains all over this kitchen table and then kill whoever is upstairs" The agent said as the man was shocked at most but still scared. "Why...why would you do that?" the man questioned as he continued, "You'd never get away with it!" he said in a higher tone of voice as the Agent chuckled and put the pistol in his own palm and looked at it. "Oh i would get away with it, Tell them you killed them and then maybe you commited suicide" The agent said with a sickening grin as the man lowered his head.

"Tell me what i want to know..or die." The Agent said as the man looked at him and nodded. "Okay, Ive been consulting a arms dealer for the past two days about getting some assault rifles for my brother who wants to join one of the organized crime rings" The man said as the Agent nodded. "He didn't want to do it so he begged me to get him some rifles so he could run his own crew" The man explained as he continued. "I decided to consult a near by arms dealer who has a safehouse two blocks from here and i purchased several M4 Carbines and im waiting for them to be delivered, thats all i know officer" The man said as the Agent nodded and thought for a moment.

"Well, I thank you for giving me such valuable information and im glad i could have some of your time to get this out of the way" The agent said as he stood up holding the pistol in hand as the man rose from his chair the agent pointed the pistol at the man's face and fired several times dropping the man back into the chair blood splattering everywhere as he was slumped over dead. The Agent walked over to the couch and took his coat and tossed it on then walking upstairs to a bedroom where he heard the talking. He kicked open the door seeing three men sitting down conversing as they got up and looked at the agent.

"Farewell" the Agent said as he shot them all down and reloaded his clip as he finished them off littering there bodies all over the floor in blood as he holstered his pistol and took out a cellphone and walked out of the house. He dialed a number and soon the man was on the line as he opened the trunk of his crown victoria and took out some gasoline jugs and put them on the roof of his car. "Iv'e found my information and im disposing of them now" The agent said, "Good, Burn any evidence" The man said as the Agent agreed and hung up the phone and carried the two jugs of gasoline inside the house and put them on the floor and looked around the house. A Blue Humvee pulled up on the curb that was labeled "U.P.D" as the Hummer parked and two officers exited the vehicle and walked up to the front door spotting the black Crown Victoria.

"Hello Officer, Do you require assistance?" A UPD officer said as the Agent nodded pointing to the jugs of gasoline on the floor. "Help me pour gasoline around this house so i can dispose of this please" The Agent said as the UPD Officers nodded and help spray gasoline around the entire house as they left the house. The Agent smoked a ciggerate and after turning on the stove and cutting the gas lines which would cause a gas leak in the house he left and flicked the ciggerate inside and they watched as the House blew up sending pieces of wood and such everywhere. All that was left was a pile of wood and other parts. The bodies were gone and the job was completed.

"Thank you for the assistance" The Agent said as he entered his Crown Victoria and left the neighborhood.

[Abruzi]

Between.

MT

Ash was in the breeze again, it was everyday. The landscape had long since turned to a bland and ultimately featureless gray plain that stretched farther into the distance than the human mind could comprehend or appreciate. The ruins of one of the cities poked over the horizon, shimmering in the heat of another smokeless fire, the fuel being too slim to produce any waste just like the food. Nuclear Winter had come some said, though the small group of survivor’s last news was from a vagabond who had stumbled into their home some six months earlier.

Six months of solid isolation, a complete lack of foreign contact and unlike before they could not hear the chatter of the Kalashnikov. Now only the mournful wail of the wind was their only companion, for the first time in their lives there was no party and no Novaya Bolshevism. Despite their freedom now and the benefits of hindsight that showed how tyrannous the Novaya Bolshevist Ideal had been, each would have wished it upon the world a thousand times over. Order and tyranny were better than this, this silent devastation that offered nothing more than a quiet death and a painful life.

Mikhail had long since abandoned his old rank, cutting off the unit patches and discarding his chevrons. He like his two brothers all kept only their rifles, the predatory form of a Kalashnikov AKM kept close at hand. Their wives and children were all below, clustered in the cellar that offered some shelter from the wind. The wind tore at them, blowing all hours of the day and night with the intensity to flay the skin some said. Like the nuclear winter news though they only knew the wind was so strong in places because of a Vagabond who was most likely long dead.

Sweating beneath the gas mask despite the freezing cold weather of the surface, Mikhail shook side to side slowly and nervously scratched his neck. His tattered clothing offered little to no protection from the elements, and because of this he concluded that his sweat and tremors were the results of a fever. Something that would kill him out here, in this new life, this new hell. Choking back a cough, he opened his mouth beneath his mask to tell his brothers, but they appeared fine and he did not want to burden them with his illness. Slowly closing his eyes he instead said,

" YA sobirayusʹ zakhvatitʹ nekotorye spatʹ, sleditʹ ne tak li? "
“I’m going to grab some sleep, keep watch will you?”

Without waiting for an answer, he curled up beneath a faded blanket and dropped into a shallow sleep. The dreams were horrible, shifting semi lucid experiences that were coated in blood and clothed in insanity. He saw the death of the great cities, the evaporation of entire seas, and heard the death cry of millions. All pushing in on his already fragile sanity, only to be repelled by the shining image that was his young daughter Susan. Her immaculately innocent form was enough to dispel the madness tinged dreams and bring him back to the land of the living.

Slowly opening one eye, Mikhail arose slowly to find his brothers still watching and their families still sitting in the cellar. He approached Ivan and Dmitri from behind, placing a heavy hand upon Dmitri’s shoulder and resuming their vigil over the wasteland. The featureless gray was broken in a most disturbing yet hopeful way. Smoke, a thick oily stream of it was on the horizon, and it was moving. The three stared in silence, stunned by this development and fully aware that it could be Gas Mask and Kalash thugs or Gospodar Lubanja Zealots. Both groups had plagued them in the past and Mikhail still heard the insane chanting when he closed his eyes at night.

It inched across the horizon, moving just fast enough to remind them that they had to make a decision. The three could hail it and take what comes, or allow it to pass. Almost as if the unseen drivers could sense that they needed time to think, the column stopped and stayed in one place for a great deal of time, several hours. As night fell firmly upon the wastes it stopped, replaced instead by the glow of a fire. Dmitri and Ivan both retreated below to be with the families, but Mikhail kept watch and because of this he saw the second light in the sky. It was brief, nothing like a helicopter but more akin to a jet fighter or similar craft.

That was enough to bolster his spirits, spirits that had been worn low by the incessant ash and the dwindling food supplies. Realizing he was tired however, Mikhail slowly retreated to the basement doorway, closing it and sliding the bar into place. Within moments he was curled up around his daughter, protecting her fragile frame with his own. Sliding his gas mask off, he suddenly remembered his fever the sweat dripping into his eyes forcing the memory. With a shaking hand he wiped it away and forced his eyes closed, inwardly cursing their flickering as he desperately tried to sleep. When he awoke, the others were all dressed and standing which immediately made him nervous. Ivan crouched next to him and responded to the question he didn’t ask with,

" My sobiraemsyadyma brata. My vzyali na golosovanie , i eto podavlyayushchyee ".
“We’re going to the smoke brother. We took a vote and it’s overwhelming.”

Mikhail nodded and was once again cut off by his brother who said,

" My takzhe znaem olikhoradke ".
“We also know about the fever.”

With a look of profound sadness Mikhail closed his open mouth for a moment. The fever was a death sentence, the thing itself being nothing but the disease it suggested being the killer. Rising shakily to his feet, he grabbed his AKM and softly said,

" Nu ... mozhet bytʹ,drugie lekarstva? "
“Well…maybe the others have medicine?”

Dmitri nodded and said,

" Vozmozhno, no my nastaivaem na sobiraet·sya v pervuyu ocheredʹ. Nas isemyeĭ. My zhenshchiny , deti i bolʹnye lyudi . My okazalisʹ slabymi i my budem ispolʹzovatʹ eto, chtoby poluchitʹ dostatochno blizko, chtoby ponyatʹ proiskhodyashchyee . "
“Perhaps, but we insist on going first. Us and the families. We’re women, children, and sick men. We appeared weak and we’ll use this to get close enough to see what is up.”

Mikhail disagreed but said nothing, knowing that it would be futile. Instead he slung his rifle and whispered,

" Davaĭte budem potom ".
“Let’s get going then.”

Sitting as he was obscured from the group before him in the ruins of a bus, Mikhail had a perfect view of the area and a great place to shoot from. To his direct front was a squat and deadly looking all terrain vehicle, a cross between a truck and a tank that was definitely specialized equipment. Six uniformed men sat around it, clad in all black and all heavily armed. They were facing the families and his brothers who were speaking just softly enough to be inaudible. Mikhail thought things must be going well though, his people had been offered water and it appeared a medical man was checking them one by one.

He stood before them and waved a machine over their faces, taking care to inspect their eyes, probably for flash blindness or something. So far everyone had been checked out except his Susan, his daughter. The medic crouched down to be even with her and ran the machine over her. He looked agitated, checking it several times before turning to look back at his comrades. Mikhail knew what was coming next, he had been at the defense of Utopia and had fought in the running battles in the days after. Raising the rifle, he suddenly felt weak, tired, giddy. He had to defend his family, yet the fever overtook him and with a soft gurgle he collapsed. His eyes closed to the sound of the Kalashnikov, the long vacant chatter.

When he came to again, it was dark. The moon overhead just peaking through the oppressive cloud cover, amazingly piercing the winter bringing layer of death. A fire burned a short distance away and yet he felt as if he was sitting inside of it. Peaking over the lip, he saw the piled corpses of his family. He had known, he had felt it as they killed them and yet the sight of their lifeless bodies was enough to send him into a rage. He reached down for his rifle, but felt that he no longer understood how to use it. Instead he grabbed hold of a rock the size of his fist and tried to walk.

Wobbling at first, he managed to regain control of his limbs if only just. With deadly rock in hand he snuck closer and closer to the fire, using the shells of ruined cars to get close to the land rover. He saw that the six men had been joined by another truck, this one loaded with women and children, most likely their own families. It seems even the Spetsnaz or whatever these men were had fragmented as well, and that thought gave him solace. It gave him solace but he felt no pity.

Advancing on the first of them, he waited until one of the men split off from the group to urinate. Rising behind him, he clamped a hand over the man’s mouth with a strength he didn’t know he had. Smashing the stone against the man’s throat again and again, he only stopped when he was surely dead. Lowering the body slowly he realized how hot he was, the fever was getting worse and he was positively dripping with sweat. It was pushed out of his mind however, he was intent only on his next kill. Patting the man down he found a utility shovel and a hatchet, brandishing one in each hand and resuming his stealthy position.

The others called for the man, who obviously was unable to answer. They went out to look for him and it was then that he struck. Passing legs were severed with one hand while another sliced windpipes. Skulls stove in or arteries slit. The slaughter was wholesale, the unaware Spetsnaz unable to match his strength or speed. Strength and speed he hadn’t possessed mere days before. With the soldiers dead he turned to the camp and slowly advanced.

Coated in blood, he was like a primeval monster a nightmare of the Dead Zones loose in the wastes. Each tool was slick with gore and the women were too afraid to scream as he walked into their circle of firelight. He offered no explanation and they demanded none, knowing that their husbands and protectors were dead. They hardly resisted, their limbs and bodies coming apart under furious blows from the hatchet and shovel. The final one though, she had the courage to speak. It was no cry of hatred, no defiant last words, instead just the quiet statement,

"Vy zarazheny. "
“You’re infected.”

Mikhail replied with a hack that split her head in two like a woodsman splits logs. The bloodied halves hit the ground with a soft splat and he turned to the children. They were so young and innocent, and yet as he advanced one of them said,

" U vas yestʹMonstr bolezni. Oni nazyvayut eto , chto v Utopii ."
“You have the Monster disease. They call it that in Utopia.”

Standing over the small child Mikhail replied,

" U menya net nikakikh boleznyeĭ".
“I have no disease.”

The sweat dripped off him in rivers, his head ached, and he could feel a new strength flowing into him. He wanted to maim, kill, and burn. The child replied to him and his obviously violent posture with,

" Oni govoryat, chto prevrashchaet muzhchin s zhivotnymi, on szhigaet ikh mozg i prevrashchaet ikh v zhivotnykh. "
“They say it turns men to animals, it burns their brains and turns them to animals.”

Mikhail responded with,

"Lyudi uzhe byli zhivotnye. Oni vsegda byli zhivotnye, s samogo nachala. "
“Men were already animals. They always were animals, from the start.”

[United World Order]

Price of A Mile.
PT

What's The Price For A Mile...?


The explosions of the days battle was raging on. The wounded were moaning and begging to be saved from death. The dead lay on the battlefield rotting into the ground as the battle rages on for a mile of land which was the priorty of both sides currently. Both sides had already duked it out several times during the battle. The wreckage of tanks and other vehicles are left in the open terrain the fuel leaking making that smell as it stained the green grass. The Unitedian Werhmact were one of the sides fighting for this piece of land and had sustained minimal casualties then they're foes had. The field seperating the two sides was littered with Artillery craters the wreckage of tanks and bodies, The Unitedian Werhmact had been pushing to take it but the enemy showed much resistance. They're foes were revolutionaires and were currently on the third year of the civil war and casualties throughout the war have increased in numbers to atleast 250,000 dead which these deaths were from both soldiers and civilians.

On the frontlines Seargent Henderson was sitting in his foxhole with his Kar98k rifle in his hands and was putting in a fresh clip as he pushed it in and cocked the rifle pulling back the bolt on it. Henderson was atleast in his late teens and was a blonde haired regular kid serving in the military for the most part. Henderson looked over his shoulder at his fellow comrades who were in they're foxholes or in the trenches a couple yards away. Henderson looked foward seeing the littered field of twisted steel and fire, their was a tank battle yesterday which basicly was a draw almost with both sides pulling back. Henderson had also heard that a counter attack was being planned because of yesterdays attack by the revolutionaries. Henderson would be one of the many of soldiers having to push foward into the field of certain death and somehow manage his way of survival agaisnt the revolutionaries.

A fellow comrade was sitting in his foxhole biting into a piece of bread he found in his basket. He chewed as if he'd not eaten for days. That was the case since supplies were fairly low and some men had resorted to taking food off the dead which littered the area. As Henderson diverted his head from the soldier a whistle blew from behind which was the call for battle. Soldiers began rising from the foxholes and moving foward as Henderson did the same clutching onto his rifle as he advanced foward. The men's faces around him were nervous or just blank out of knowing what might happen to them. Henderson tried to keep the bad stuff out of his head as he passed a burned out Revolutionary tank which had it's hull crushed by a artillery round earlier this morning. As he advanced he looked around at his comrades once more seeing there faces untill he heard the crackle of rifle fire.

He took cover behind the wreckage of a tank as the rounds were bouncing off the tank and whizzing past him. The other men along with him took for cover. A infantrymen had been shot three times in the chest with a red splatter on a section of the tank as the man fell backwards motionless. Countless others were being cut down by enemy fire as they returned fire and advanced foward. Henderson stayed behind the tank scared out of his mind then he felt a hand on his shoulder and looked at the man who had a officer's insignia on his uniform. "CONTINUE THE ADVANCE COMRADE!, WE MUST NOT LET THE ENEMY KNOW OUR FEARFULLNESS!" He yelled over the gunfire as he shoved Henderson into the battle as bullets whizzed past him. Henderson advanced foward ducking low as he passed numerous bodies and he felt something at his feet as he looked down seeing a grenade. He panicked and picked it up quickly and chunked it back as he got down to the grass as it exploded killing several revolutionaries kicking up dirt and grass.. Henderson rose and raised his rifle as he looked down the sights and aligned the sights to a revolutionaries chest as he fired twice.

The revolutionary shook twice and a pink mist appeared as he dropped backwards into the grass. Henderson advanced foward untill he saw a ridge and took cover there with several other fellow Werhmact soldiers. He raised his rifle and aimed once again as he and the others began taking shots at revolutionaries in a trench. He aimed down the sights having a clear head shot he fired nailing the soldier in the head. A good chunk of his head exploded from the round as he fell backward spraying blood and brain matter everywhere. Henderson smiled as he moved his rifle and fired nailing a soldier in the neck as blood squirted out and he put his hands to his throat. Henderson chuckled and raised his rifle to the head and fired killing the soldier dead. Henderson then rose from the ridge and advanced foward as the revolutionaries began firing motars at them.

Henderson advanced foward as he was expected too. He had a rush of excitment in him as he unslung a grenade from his belt and spun the cap off the bottom of the stick grenade and lit the fuse and tossed it towards a rebel MG nest. The MG'er didn't notice untill it was too late and the grenade exploded as the two men flew out of the foxhole as smoke followed. Henderson rose and fired a shot toward a rebel soldier as he retreated away. Henderson jogged foward being in the moment as he pushed foward along with a handfull of fellow Werhmact. A motar shell went off and Henderson felt the impact that was several feet off to the side as he was blown sideways into a foxhole and his world went black. He was unconcious as a fellow soldier who was a field medic found him and checked him as he found out he was only unconsious. Henderson's eyes opened as he saw the field medic as the medic rose and rushed off as Henderson got up slightly shaken as he looked on the ground and picked up his rifle and looked foward as he saw the barrel of a rebel sniper rifle from a far. His eyes widened as he was shot in between the eyes and fell backwards into the foxhole. He was dead...another casualtie in the battle. The Price For A Mile...

[-Deus-]

Hollowed Forest
[Fantasy]

Tall, fit, dark haired and fair skinned was one way to describe the character of Garson Crowne of Tolk. Even at the age of forty-six he was physically capable of most tasks, yet still preferred to live simply. He lived now, in the village of Myyrth that was dug deep into the forest known as Isgrail. It was a simple village, populated by a tall, giant people with gray tinted skin and immense strength, but a deep-seated love of peace and all things that grow. Garson loved that about the giants and he shared their love of nature and life, and thus they had taken calling him “Tolkien” or “life-bringer”.

However, this morning, as the giant children woke up and began to plan their days; the man woke up and set off to packing. He strolled around his home that lay in the centre of the village. He looked around at the window pans, smiling, smelling the flowers and other plants that he had grown. He loved their beauty, their simplicity; he loved that they didn't have a care in the world besides surviving. He took a breath and then kneeled down, digging into a chest besides his rough looking bed. He pulled from it folded leather armor, scratches and scuffs on it as if it had seen many years of battle and war. He placed it on his bed, looking over it before pulling out a leather scabbard along with three tiny cloth pouches and a dagger. He placed all of these on the bed as well.

Standing now, he pulled from the chest leather paddings for his leg legs, and placed them on his well-fitting tan trousers. He pulled the leather armor over his loose white shirt, and strapped himself in after much effort. He put the dagger into a custom made scabbard built into the armor that lay on the lower left side of his torso, so that it was visible when looking at him from straight ahead. He tied the pouches to his right side, and taking the scabbard, unsheathed a sword that looked as if it had seen its share of combat. He smiled at it, looking at his distorted visage atop its metal blade. He sheathed it once more and securely fastened the scabbard to his left side.

After all was said and done, he smiled and looked at his reflection in a large mirror behind the main door of his house. 'Just like back in the day...' he smiled and muttered, modeling for himself in the mirror, rubbing his graying, stubbly beard. After a while of doing so he went back to the chest and pulled out a knapsack, throwing it on the bed. He walked towards the kitchen area, which was to the right of the house as opposed to the left where the bed was. Looking through the cupboards of his kitchen he found an assortment of tiny jars and pouches filled with dried out herbs and other such plants. He took them, stuffing them into the knapsack along with his blanket and pillow from atop his bed before tightening the thing so that nothing would fall out. He grabbed his light tan cloak and threw it on. He then proceeded to secure the knapsack onto his being, grabbed a long, oak staff that one would have presumed to be his walking stick, and set out into the world.

He smiled, and his giant neighbors waved, smiling at his approach as he walked northwards, towards the largest and oldest settlement of the giants. He took note of the fact that the giant village followed along a road that was long and shaped like a cross, with the newer, lesser giants at the bottom and the most important at the top. It was a curious thing to him and he always thought it over when he walked along the dirt road. He heard the giants talk and the children play, with the merry sound of “Hello Tolkien” filling the air and buzzing against his ear. He enjoyed being loved and he loved each and every giant back. Yet one he had more affection for than all the others combined. He was said to be the oldest and wisest of the giant people, having lived for nearly three hundred and forty five years according to some. It was said that Farin had in fact founded the village of Myyrth, but this was little more than myth as no one, not even Farin himself, could remember exactly.

But now as Garson walked up to Farins' house, the wrinkled, grayish giant wheezing and cackling with life and happiness. He rose from his wicker chair that sat on the porch of his house, and walked towards Garson. The human man was around six feet tall, yet the giant was around ten feet tall, wearing a brownish cloak and barefoot, shaking the earth as he walked. Garson was happy to see him as well, the giant picking him up with ease and hugging him tenderly. A look of happiness was on the giants face, yet still you could hear the sadness in his voice. “So my friend, you've decided, I take it?” He placed the man down, who dusted himself and looked up, shielding his eyes from the sun. “Yes, I'm afraid I have Farin.”

“But why?” The giant said, with pleading eyes now. “Ah, don't answer that...It's no business of mine. But oh my friend I will miss you.” He smiled and nodded, then, as if he had been hit by a mental brick, he sprung up. “Ah, I have just the parting gift...you'll love it...Yarin! YARIN!” He bellowed like thunder and Garson had to cover his ears or risk going deaf. “Ah, sorry, but that damned nephew of mine is nowhere to be seen. Probably off fraternizing with the women again. He'll end up like his father, I tell you. He'll end up just like ol' Darin, and that is to say, dead.”

A giant that was short for his size, with a greenish tint to his skin and light blondish hair stumbled from around the left corner. This was Yarin, the son of Darin, who was the brother of Farin. He was most certainly a giant of ill-repute. “What?” The ghastly thing uttered to its respectable uncle “I was...handling a very pressing matter.”

Farin looked at the boy-giant, and snarled. “Nonsense” he began shoving the youth towards his uncles’ gigantic home “I will have none of your lies in front of Tolkien. Now go and find my friends parting gift.” He shoved him once more and the youth disappeared into the house, the sound of stomping and clattering echoing out. Farins eyes went wide, shaking his head and sighing. “That boy won't come to any good, I tell you. By the time you come back, I swear he'll be the death of me.”

“When I get back?” Garson put his hands up and stopped him. He certainly wasn't attempting to put his friend down, and Farin took no offense, and the two shared a silent stare before breaking down into a friendly chuckle, but still something in Garson told him he wasn't going to come back in a long, long time. “Hrmm, but nonetheless, what is this gift?”

Farin chuckled and smiled widely. “Its elfwood leaves...I found them, four of them! Just sitting there one day in the meadow. I collected them and thought you'd like them if you ever did decide to go off.” Garson was pleasantly surprised and smiled, even going into hug his comrade. Elfwood, specifically its leaves, was a flowering plant known for its immense medicinal properties. It was a rare plant and when made into a tea it was said to bring grown men to tears at its delicacy and elegant tasted. Yarin came out just then, holding a silk, grass-green pouch that must have only been the size of a pebble to them, yet perfect size to Garson. He threw it to Farin, who snarled at the youth, and then the giant leader kneeled down and gave it to Garson. “I have the utmost confidence that you will use it wisely.”

Garson took the pouch then stored it in his knapsack. He hugged Farin once more, embracing him tenderly and smiling wide. Garson returned it as best he could and once the two were disconnected, Garson backed away and bowed. “Thank you, Farin of Myyrth...By the time, I get back, I reckon you'll still be breathing and going strong. I wish you luck.”

“And I wish you the same, Garson of Tolk...hopefully you will come back.” Farin bowed as well, and with that, no more words needed to be said. Garson headed southwards and turned to his left, heading west and deeper into the forest. The giants waved him as he departed, the man waving back, saddened that he had to leave his friends, the beings that he had spent nearly twenty years with, living and learning amongst them. It was heartbreaking, but still the man managed to press on, going further and further into the lush, dark green forest before finally the entirety of the village was lost behind him and the dirt road was nothing more than thickets of the dried out and fallen leaves.

As he walked through the forest, and came to an oak. It was a white oak, the tallest and oldest tree in the forest, the giants thought. And indeed it stood tall above all the rest. He came up to it, looking over it, touching it gently, connecting with it and the forest before coming to a mark in the tree. It was a mark in the shape of a circle with a smaller circle in the centre. It was nearly twenty years ago, but still he remembered passing this tree as a youth in the pouring rain, marking the tree so as not to lose his way. He took a deep breath and took out the dagger, marking next to his previous symbol, leaving only a large, unassuming and rather crude T before continuing on his way.

He continued on this way, heading west, distorting his path only slightly north along with west. He felt the life in the forest, taking note of the tiny squirrels and other rodents as they scurried around the forest floor. He listened to the trees as they whistled and bellowed, speaking to each other, sharing the secrets that only immense time can create. It was like any other nature walk for him, and as he walked along, pushing things out of the way with his large oak staff, the doubt grew in his heart, for doubt always grows in the hearts of man. Hours had passed before he settled to stop, the sun going down, painting the sky carmine red, a beautiful sight to most, but an upsetting, disturbing one to Garson. He setup camp in a clearing, placing down his knapsack and taking out his pillow and blanket, setting on the forest floor, folding his clock next to his pillow. He made a fire just as quickly, staying silent all the while, ignoring the red sky as best as possible as the moon and stars slowly began to appear.

Yet as the fire flickered and he nibbled on the apple he had found only a few metres away, the doubt inside of him grew like a parasite. He nibbled and munched on the light green, slightly golden coloured fruit and stared into the fire. He saw a battlefield in that fire, a battlefield covered in arrows and swords, bodies and blood. He saw it and felt it; he felt the cold of lifelessness, the fear of war and the pain of seeing death so close. It stuck with him and the carmine field and sky disturbed him. The images of war were jolted from his mind’s eye only after the hissing of a snake caught his attention. He looked around and found the serpent, hesitating, wondering if he should kill it. He looked at it with a serious look, as if it was something more than a snake, as if it was all his guilt and sin rolled into one bronze coloured serpent. He looked at it evilly, and then took it in his hand and the thought of simply chucking it in the fire crossed his mind more than once, but something held him back. Something stopped him as he took the creature and placed it quite ways away.

“What am I to do?” He said it aloud, staring into the fire once more, uncertain. 'I'm wondering out into the wilderness for nothing...I'm leaving my home and my friends for...for a pipe dream. Why? Why am I doing this? What is there out in the world for me?' He thought to himself, chewing over it, thinking it over. He was uncertain, he was doubtful of his choice. He didn't even know where he was going and that certainly is never a good thing when adventuring. He shook away from the fire once the battle called to him once more. He rubbed his face and stubbly beard, resolving to lie down and sleep, to find his way tomorrow. He did just that, laying on his side and letting his dreams – the dreams of the battlefield, with its arrows and swords and carmine sky – overtake him. Yet he could not escape the guilt or the sin, even in that dream.



Across the fields of green forest and colourful flowers, in the city marooned city of Zzorn atop the hill, where the children play in the gutters, the women sell themselves for bread and the men toil endlessly in the factories, creating cheap, durable products for the few that can afford them. Zzorn is a bastion of industry and it’s drab, lifeless colour and dying population are most certainly a testament to this. Yet high above the rest, in a pristine brick palace, with artsy hedges and a marble fountain, with well to do looking lords and ladies walking about, lives a family of warriors, the Draegmons as they were called. They were a fierce clan of Nordic looking folk, with each man having fair hair and skin and piercing blue eyes. The women were all just right in size and their hair ranged from a dark crisp red colour to a near white blonde. A beautiful people, known for their abilities in war and politics, they were also a dying breed of man.

The current king, Daniel Draegmon the fourth, was a cynical, callous, strict yet wise man. He was not known for his love nor his kindness, but for the sting of his words and the steel of his blade. He was just as likely to order the execution of a murderer as he was to carry out the execution himself. War, battle, hardship, they had all made him strong and superior to most. Only a fool would deny that his character was a like a mountain compared to other, lesser men. Yet locked deep away in his chamber near the very top of the brick and marble palace, there was such a weaker man. He was Daniel Issac Draegmon the fifth, the first son of his father and his father’s third wife. He sat there in his study, his desk covered in scrolls and parchments and other such notes. He locked himself away in that world of his, that world of gears, cogs, steam and soot.

Unlike his father, Issac as he was usually called was not exactly a wise or cold man at heart. At heart he was an inventor, a thinker, an artisan. Yet fate had something different in mind. Through twenty or so years of strict training Issac was molded into the arrogant, cold, lesser man he was today. He did not feel for others or even his own people, yet he did not share the practicality or wisdom of his father. He was not an authoritative leader, as his father was. He did not punish for a just cause, or act on well-drawn out thoughts. He was impulsive. He acted harsh and monstrous because that is what he thought was right, that was how he was taught, that was his character due to circumstance and harsh, nearly spirit-crushing regimen instituted by his father and supported by his mother.

For now the young man found sanctuary in his notes, taking a break and tires of the day. Tomorrow he would train, and train, and train, and then go inside and be forced to study before writing and training and training and writing before given his free time once the sun had gone down. It had been exactly like this for years and he wondered when he would be let off the leash. ‘But of course that won’t happen…old bastard…’ He thought it to himself, gripping the pencil in his hand so tightly so as to crack it.

He took a deep breath, looked out at the night sky and snarled. He hated the night. Too unknown, too unaccounted for. Things happen at night, bad things, things you can’t stop. It was the Gods only real sort of protection against man, was what he always thought to himself. ‘But soon that will end’ he found himself thinking ‘very soon, in fact.’

He had little to know idea of what the current time was, and so he stood, yawning, stretching, moaning like a satisfied cat and looked at his bed. He plopped onto it, looking at the ceiling, frowning as a glint of light and rays caught his eye. Oh how he hated his machines now as they kept him up all night, keeping him away from the only love he was permitted to have: sleep.



The sun was slowly coming up, the sky being washed in a sea of colours and vectoring shapes. Warmth hit the cold, formerly dead rock and brought all its creatures back to life. The fire is dead and the birds are chirping now, their songs ringing in his ears, waking the man. He rises from his slumber slowly and shakes his head forcefully, trying to shake life back into his old, creaking bones. It takes a while, and he sits atop his blanket, smiling, half-forgetting the dreams and thoughts he had, the doubt. Once all is said and done he repacks his blanket and pillow into the knapsack, puts on his cloak and grabs his walking stick. Once the knapsack is secured onto him, he takes in a breath and heads off, ready to return to adventuring.

His mind is still getting into gear, some thoughts and memories coming back to him from the past night, but for now the doubt and guilt are gone, buried away. He spots an apple tree after a few moments of walking, leaping and taking one, the bones of his legs creaking a bit at the sudden pressure. He shakes the slight discomfort away and begins to walk. A road is nearby and he sees it, using his oak staff to move small bushes and other such things away, out of his path, and with the grace of a dancer he emerges from the forest and onto the dusty, dirt path that he had seen only once before in his youth. He took a breath and looked to the left, towards the cities, towards the machines, towards the people with no souls left and then he looked up, northwards, so to speak, towards wilderness, nature and according to the sign, a town called Oakshire. Now he had never been or heard of Oakshire, but he believed that a place – at least, with a name like that – must’ve been some form of good compared to the city-states of the machines and industry, a region he hated more than most. As he often said “a man loses his soul when he stops to connect with his roots.” And even as they may be the ramblings of an aging man, at least they were partially true…to Garson, at least.

So, he set off on that dusty road, heading north, heading to Oakshire, a town he had never seen or heard of and could very well be a bandit trap. But of course, as optimistic as ever, he set off with a smile on his face, a bite of his apple and a tune, a soft, upbeat, adventure tune that he whistled after every few bites of his apple. He reckoned it wouldn’t take long to get to Oakshire, especially considering it was only very early morning and it had only taken him thirty minutes at tops to get ready, read the sign and head off. The sky was slowly but surely taking on its usual light blue colour and the aging man closed his eyes every so often and took in a deep breath, connecting with the woods, letting the smell of nature linger around him.

As he walked, he kicked a rock, keeping his eye on it and letting it clatter against the road as he kicked it every time it was in distance. It reminded him of the giant children, of how he would take them into these forests as they grew and entertain them. He was a very good friend and he saw more than one of those children grow into fine adults. He wasn’t certain if they remembered him, but the very memory served to push him on, even as the doubt began to grow, subtly, slowly, like a fungus. And then a tune came to him, a lovely tune, a tune he had not heard since fighting in the wars, since moving the bodies of dead comrades and enemies. He blacked out as the beat engulfed his mind.



Arrows, bodies, broken spears and mangled swords; the battlefield had come to him. He stood there, like he had always done during the wars and battles. Not a look of fear, nor a look of panic. Not a look of remorse or even focus. It was a look of enjoyment, entertainment, excitement and twisted, sadistic lust for more pain. As he stood there he began to grin wide, the hue of the scene a bastardly red colour, the colour of blood, of anger. He could hear groaning around him, the faint sound of formerly living, breathing people, but when the bloodlust over took him he simply ignored it. He took a few steps forward, and looked around, waiting, eager for battle.

There was a hushed fry, a whisper, like the sound of weeping in the distance, muffled by fair. Garson’s expression changed now from one of excitement of battle to curiosity. A titanic, lumbering beast began to emerge from the distance, light grey in colour and slow, dragging its weight along the ground. It was the size of nearly two or three giants, to Garson and he was awe struck, the beast throwing him out of his bloodlust that threatened to boil up at the sight of an enemy, finally. Behind the titanic beast were large ropes chained around the neck of the beast. They put quite the strain on him, and made the animal complacent and sluggish. On its face it had three horns popping out of its forehead, the first two large, one of them light, nearly translucent, so that a lesser man would be in denial to its existence. The second was also nearly invisible, yet a black tendril wrapped around it. Yet the third and tiniest horn was tucked above them, nearly at the top of the head. It looked as if it would shrivel up and fall off at any time, yet even so it was normal looking, and easy to accept as horn as opposed to the others.

Garson was puzzled to the meaning of this beast and shook his head at its existence. Yet looking atop the beast he came to his second image, which was that of a man encased in a metal suit. Hundreds upon thousands of tiny steel needles seem to stick out of his back, his shaking body a testament that he felt it. Yet still pain was added to him, and a large stake was suddenly shoved through his torso by a shapeless body, the one that whispered the cries masked by fire. However the man now contorted and twisted I pain, groaning and yelling, screaming even, pleading for help. It pained Garson to hear it and he dropped to his knees, only to finally look around and realize that this was his entire fault. That he had caused this beasts’ burden and this man pain. That he had started the fire that masked those cries….he was the problem. He was the bad guy. He buried his face into the open, dirty, splintered palms of his hands.



Slowly but surely, he began to pry them open, looking around to see reality, the real world once again. He was pained by the hallucination, shocked and concerned even. To have such a nervous breakdown over a song was something that he had never experienced before. He was breathing deeply and in sweats, and he lumbered over towards a tree on the side of the road, sitting down and regaining himself. ‘It wasn’t real’ he thought to himself, wide eyed, staring, wondering if his old age was getting to him. He took in a few quick, deep breaths and exhaled. “No, no. That wasn’t real.” He looked up and closed his eyes, “I’m not going insane yet…no, not yet.”

He sat there for a few moments, regaining the rest of his strength before standing up and continuing on the road, his concern over that…hallucination getting to him. He was doubtful that this was the right choice, to just up and leave all of a sudden due to a fear that was entirely rational to most men of his age. He couldn’t turn back now, could he? No, his pride didn’t allow it and he couldn’t stomach the idea of simply stopping and settling down. He resolved to keep travelling, but to where was simply unknown to him altogether.



An hour or so passed and he still found himself on the road, albeit a rockier and less well kept road, no doubt signaling neglect and low traffic. He was about a day away from Myyrth and he most certainly wasn’t going back now. He was still doubtful and frightened of his mental state and of where he was actually going, but he was going nonetheless, so that at the very least he could one day return back to Farin and say with pride that he had gone on some grand adventure. The forest was getting darker and thicker, the bushes growing large, intricate vines with pricks on them. This forest was dangerous and unkempt. He heard no scurrying animals or singing birds here, like in the old wood. He only experienced silence and the occasional crack of something moving…following him from the woods. Yes, after a while he could in fact pick up on a slight hissing, snarling noise as he travelled along the road next to the forest.

Naturally, he began to hold the oak staff in his left hand instead of his right and placed his right hand onto his sword hilt, just in case. Directly north of him, a large, wooden wall began to slowly appear and his mind clicked after staring at it for a while; it was Oakshire, at last! He quickened his pace just a little bit, yet whatever was in those woods didn’t like it and took offence, snarling louder, and growling now, the hissing deep and menacing. In front of the walls he could see four men and squinting he could see they were guards. “Hey!” He yelled to them, flapping and waving his arms, running now towards the gate as whatever it was stalking him was just on the verge of attacking. They spotted him and one called for the gates to be opened, the other three raising their arrows as Garson ran. He only looked into the woods once, two bright red eyes staring back at him, yellowing, rotting teeth greeting him and a putrid smell, like the stench of rotting skin and flesh, filling the air.

It was…otherworldly, and as Garson finally closed in on the gate which was just open enough for him to squeeze through, he stopped to the bewilderment of the guards and turned. They called out to him, declaring him a fool or an idiot, but he blocked them out and slowly began to back up towards the gate and into the town. He just wanted one glimpse of the thing…

“Kill it!” He heard a yell behind him, a volley of four or five arrows flying out as a large beast leapt from the forest, a look of beastly hatred and aggression locked away behind those two stunning red pearls that it had for eyes. The aging man flinched and three or so of the arrows actually hit, howls of pain erupting from the creature. In the brief time it held its grown and stared at the amassing number of guards and Garson, the traveler got a good glimpse of the thing. He could see it was large and well built, around six feet from what he could tell as it was on the ground with wiry, oddly grown out hair. It stank of rancid flesh, and patches of oozing, mange-infected skin were scattered around its body. It had a smaller, second pair of arms under the large, main pair and like the teeth, the claws of this beast all looked razor sharp.

The thing began to scamper off into the forest after a deeper howl rang out, and the guards yanked Garson into the city, shutting the gates quickly afterwards. “You’re lucky we were there” one said, there were guards on each side of him, yet he couldn’t count how many, but there must’ve been at least four and they were leading him through the town, “are you stupid? Or do you just got a death wish?” One of them suddenly said to him, a stern look on his face.

That prompted some confusion from Garson. “What?” He looked puzzled, “I’m just a traveler, I-“

“-Eh, well, that’s all well-n-good. But travelers got a way of, eh…dying on that road. It’s the Brask. Filthy creatures have been terrorizing this town since…eh, farse it.” He grunted, stopping himself short. The town wasn’t as large as a city, Garson noted, but it was certainly something compared to Myyrth. “I got no business telling you anything. The steward will know what to do with yea’ however.”

Garson stayed quiet and nodded. He didn’t want to cause any sort of trouble here and besides stopping to find his way, he had also come for supplies and the rest only a bed could give, but still he wanted to look into that creature. Something was going on if a guard couldn’t tell a simple traveler something like what type of animal just tried to attack him. The older man however took note of the guards younger age, yet also looked around at the rather crummy looking state of the town. It was falling apart, slowly, but surely and it looked as if the forest had already begun to retake parts of this wooden community. He saw a little Nrymen child, fair skinned and outwardly beautiful, yet the sight of the thing playing with a human child turned his stomach. He saw that dogs roamed the street, itching and scratching, suffering from the same skin condition as the beast. Things were off here. Very off and he couldn’t wait to meet this “steward” as the young guards started to slow their pace as they came to a large, unassuming, square building.


-Stuff was here, had to cut for length-


Garson had been sitting at this dirty wooden table for quite a while now, waiting for this “steward” the guards had brought him too. As far as he could tell, as he sat on his knees, his supplies in the far corner of the room, was that this man was named Lindle and that he had de-facto control over this small town. With a name like Lindle, Garson could hardly imagine the man in an appealing light. Quite rude indeed for a host to leave a guest – even an uninvited guest, such as Garson – waiting for such a time, yet finally the man emerged into the room. He wasn’t that tall, around five-seven, five-six and he was skinny too. He had beady eyes and a quickly receding hairline of brown curls. He had no real expression on his face besides a look of calm and he wore armour, like a soldier, a sword to his right side and a long cape hanging from his shoulders, artificially dyed purple. He smiled, as if he were king and walked towards Garson, sticking out his right, clenched fist into Garson’s face.

Looking at it, and quite confused, Garson raised an eyebrow, and then looked up at the steward as if he were mad. “Don’t they teach you manners from where you are from, traveler?” The scrawny man said it with a kingly dignity he did not possess, an air of pompous vanity surrounding him. Garson shook his head and chuckled. “Don’t they teach boys to drink their milk from where you are from, steward?” The steward only sneered and sat down; folding his legs like a princely guru in front of the still softly chuckling traveler. “Regardless” he went on, stroking his stubbly beard as he did, eyeing and inspecting this steward, “what can I do for you? What was that beast?”

A look of surprise came over the steward’s face and the scrawny man rubbed his chin. “You’re not a Watcher from the east? One of the nine sons of ancient king Agmron?” He was now in deeper shock as Garson nodded ‘no’ and a look of great concern came into the man’s eyes. “Well…I have no use for an elderly traveler than. Get your supplies and go…I need heroes, fighters, not greybeards.” He sneered once more and stood to his feet, taking in a deep breath as he turned towards the door.

“Wait a moment. What do you mean? What was that beast?” Garson stood as well and looked around at the floor and then back up at him, the scrawny man actually a bit shorter then he thought, yet still a strong air of self-importance around him. “I can help.”

Turning around now, Lindle started up, “perhaps you can, traveler. And it would only cost me a death of a stranger if you failed…” he paused and smiled anxiously, as if waiting for a reply; he never got one and thus continued. “Have you ever heard of Borishk of Oakshire? The old king that fought in the war against heaven, all those years ago; a very famous story, I reckon.” Garson nodded ‘no’, to the chagrin of his host. “How can you not have? Oakshire is a very important kingdom in this region and Borishk is a legend!” The little man shrieked out, nearly losing himself. Apparently his arrogance and narcissism also stretched into a delusion that this shanty town was an important landmark on the map. The old traveler only chuckled at his foolishness. “Huh…regardless, Borishk was a great king in this city’s history. He fought against Dargmos; the demon of the Wind…Fought it for three days and nights before finally he fell. In the end, Dargmos was only partially wounded and used the dead body of Borishk to create a creature…a horrible beast, like the one that you saw. We called it a Brask – freak man – and we burnt down the sections of the city that’s population had been turned into them by Dargmos. The entire city would have been lost if not for the Watchers…and of course my bloodline.”

He smiled at his ancestors triumph and had nearly forgotten about Garson’s ignorance on the subject. It wasn’t that Garson was stupid; it was just that he had never once heard a thing about Oakshire in all of his troubles and it was never listed on the maps. It was basically a ghost town, for all anyone knew. But getting back to the current situation at hand, he looked up and spoke, “so what have you been doing to combat the situation? Obviously these…Brask are still around…And those walls and guards won’t hold forever, I imagine.”

“Well” started Lindle “I had tried to send word to the Watchers for their assistance, but obviously they aren’t here now. We sent an expedition into the woods to go and find the beasts and kill them…They never returned…” he chuckled, “forty-five young men never again saw sunlight…” he mumbled under his breath. Remembering he had a guest though, he looked up and gave a weak smile. “Still! We have…optimism that eventually the beasts will die out.”

Garson looked down, thinking of something to do. He could lead an expedition in, and investigate, but that would put men at risk and he doubted that Lindle would be up for it. It was an adventure, after all and he still had no larger plan for this travel of his. Perhaps this would lead the way, he thought. He sighed and took in a breath, “I will go into the forest alone…see what’s happening; investigate, you know.”

“Surely you’ll be killed.” Lindle perked up, sounding at least a tad bit concerned, “I’ll send in two others with you, at least…Andras and Hran.” He said that last bit with surprisingly little concern in his voice. He nodded his head in the direction of the door, and waited for Garson to gather his supplies, which he did rather quickly before following the man out the door and into a large, ugly looking hall with tinier halls on the left and the right of him. Garson knew much of the Watchers of the east, yet had he seldom been called one. He knew them as an order of knights, all descendants of the nine sons of the ancient warrior king Agmron, a man who was said to be able to crush mountains just by the sound of his voice. His nine sons came together and formed a holy order during the war against heaven thousands of years ago, watching the eastern regions and protecting them from attacks from the Gods and their hordes of demons. After the war was over they took to simply watching and protecting the eastern forests from foreign and local threats, slowly declining in prestige as they were bound to the Draegmon family; a wretched clan he knew if only by notoriety.

In his ramblings however, Garson had lost himself and by the time he had snapped back into reality, two young men stood in front of him, clothed in leather armour with a bastard sword on their left side. They saluted him and bowed, staying silent and respectful in front of the steward, yet the scrawny pompous man only reprimanded them. “This is no Watcher you foolish boys” he shrieked “just a man…a dead man. He said his name is Garson and you’ll be going with him into the woods to solve our little…problem.” And then turning to Garson, he nodded, smiled slightly and said to him “they’re your problem now, traveler. Good luck.” With that he walked off, out of sight and mind, for the moment.

There was a moment of silence between the two boys and Garson, no one really wanting to say anything seeing as they were expected to all die on this mission. But finally the old man got annoyed with it and spoke up, shaking their hands, “So, which one of you is Andras and which is Hran? Are you brothers?” They nodded together, in an odd unison.

The first one spoke, five twelve with short curly light brown hair, “I’m Hran, sir.” He looked like a serious boy; the type to discuss politics and philosophy with the older men. He had cold, brown eyes and a look on his face that told the story of neglect, hardship and guilt. Andras walked spoke up next, the same height as his brother with the same type of short, curly hair except for his was auburn instead of the light brown of his brothers. “I, good sir, am Andras, the eldest of our duo.” This boy was much more noble, still with a serious look on his face yet hidden under a charming, optimistic smile…obviously fake, but good enough to fool most, Garson realized. These were his soldiers, for the day; just like the wars. Nodding, he led them out, heading towards the woods and thinking up his path simply on a guess.


-Stuff was here, had to cut for length-


The sun had nearly gone by down, the camp set up as Garson, Andras and Hran sat round the fire. It had been a silent trip through the forest, with little to no small talk really taking place as they had travelled through the forest. Garson had noted how empty and lifeless the place seemed, with the trees and other plants looking dark and twisted, as if to be corrupted by some invasive force. It was unsettling to be there for the old man and by now he had wished to lighten the mood amongst the three of them as they waited for day break to begin once more for the heart of the forest and the Brask, as Garson had planned earlier. “Hungry, either of you?” Without waiting for a reply or looking up he dug into his bag that had been set beside a tree behind him, taking out two bright red apples. He threw them to the boys, taking out a rather flat and dry looking piece of bread for himself, which he nibbled on as the two boys ate.

“Why so quiet?” He began to ask, opening his mouth to ask yet another question before being cut off rather rudely by Hran, “well you see sir. We’re happy to be going out of Oakshire and away from that bastard Lindle. But we didn’t want to come here to the forest.” Andras proceeded with the sentiment, “dangerous things live here. We’ve never left the town and we can hardly swing a sword. And no offences to you at all but you look rather…uh, old and unassuming.” Garson chuckled at their fear, and after putting his bread away, he shuffled towards the fire, sat down on the clearing of dirt and folded his legs. “Like you said, this must be better than being commanded about by the likes of Lindle. And if you need to be taught how to fight, I can teach you. I’m more than a pretty face and an aging traveler.”

The two boys chuckled along with him, but still they were unsure and increasingly uneasy. Garson could see this and wanting to help he began to sing, gently at first but with a slowly rising intensity.

Where kings are noble and queens just
Where heroes have fame and villains are slain
Where each oak grows tall and snow never falls
Is where the White Empire lies.
Where boys are sent to become great men
Where women sing songs written in pen
Where the pious never turn to horrid sin
Is where the White Empire lies.

He continued to sing this song for a couple more verses, his voice not in the least unpleasant but certainly not on a professional calibre. The two boys clapped when he had concluded, at least partially put at ease by the tune. Andras was a bit over taken by the land in which the song described and after some thought and silence spoke up and posed his question. “Are you from the White Empire? Is it really like that?” He was a young boy, and he would have no need to go there in his life, Garson thought, but still he would indulge him. “I am indeed from the empire. But no…it’s not like that at all.” He smiled to reassure him, “that song is the only one I know how to sing. I’m sorry if I can’t give you anymore entertainment.” Andras nodded, at least somewhat satisfied with his answer, but still the boy was curious for more and spoke up again, “who taught it to you? It must be pretty important if you remember it even now.”

Garson smiled now at that question and thought it over, hesitating. Hran had gotten at least partially interested now, and looked over at the two as his brother waited for the answer. Yet in the mind of Garson images flashed of that vision, that vision of the beast and the man in the armour. He closed his eyes tight to flood his mind with darkness, so as to cast the images away and after a while it worked. Opening again he could see that the two were both mildly concerned about his well-being, seeing that he had been in some form of pain. “I…uh, I think we should sleep now” he said with a heavy breath, rubbing his chin, “Yes indeed. It’d be best if we all got some rest for tomorrow.” He took out his pillow and blanket from his knapsack, placed it on the clearing and put his cloak next to his pillow, then lay down and closed his eyes. “Good night.” Two more ‘good nights’ followed afterwards and the man found himself drifting off into a carmine dream.



“Sir...!” Faint, and distant.

“Sir…! Garson!” It continued, stirring in the air around him.

“GARSON!” It jolted him awake this time and the man stood to his feet. Andras and Hran had been calling him, swords in hand. They were both terrified, shaking and shivering in the cold of the night. Garson took the hint and grabbed his own sword, placing the scabbard to the side. He stayed quiet and alert, the adrenaline already pumping through him. Surrounding the camp he could see…eyes, bright and red, low growling emanating from the shadows. He could smell them, the horrible stench of rancid, decaying flesh and skin peeling away, thick in the air. There were dozens upon dozens of eyes – around thirty, maybe even forty pairs in all. It was frightening for the two boys and even Garson began to lose his ease as he began to realize the odds and chances of survival. He mumbled something to the two, but it was intangible and hardly English, something along the lines of giant speak, perhaps.

With a howl, a beast stepped out of the shadows. It was tall, and had wiry dark grey hair. It looked fierce and smelt like dried blood and a rotting corpse. It had dark red eyes and the patches of mangy skin dropped and peeled from its body. Unlike other Brask, it wore a dingy breastplate, dented and horribly scuffed. It also wielded a bent and raggedly looking sword. It breathed heavily and stared down all three men, and with another howl, began to battle, the Brask leaping and charging from the shadows.

The beasts were strong, and this was apparent. Garson slashed about and still they didn’t drop, trying to keep them away, as their main weapon was primarily their claws and jaws. He cursed at them, and slashed at the ankles and legs of one of them, disabling it and running it through with his blade. It took a lot out of him, especially since the entire time he had to weave and dodge other monsters, while keeping an eye out for the boys who did a good job at avoiding death, at the very least.

Another one charged the man and he rolled under it quickly, slashing behind its knees and bringing it down before stabbing it through the neck, killing it. It gave him a rush he had not felt in ages and he smiled victoriously. He took three more down with the swing of his blade and the iron-clad Brask then stepped forward, staring down at Garson, breathing heavily. It roared in his face and then slashed downward, the man leaping out of the way just in time, yet in this moment the iron-clad monster seized him, his entire head fitting in the monsters palm. Andras and Hran turned, screamed and yelled for Garson, only to be tackled to the ground, and dragged into the forest by the Brask. Garson’s’ muffled screams could be heard as the monster began to squeeze, nearly to the point of death before stopping just short. It howled again, louder this time and what seemed like a laugh passed through its decaying, razor sharp teeth. It dragged the unconscious body it held through the forest, following its pack.



Though the ruffling and trip through the forest was rather loud, it was the howling and growling that awoke the trio of adventurers. They had been tied to the branch of a tree, dangling like fishes left to die. They were in the centre of that forest, the largest and most pronounced tree taller and larger than any such castle Garson had ever seen. Yet something was off about it – it was rather contorted and twisted and beat up looking, as if it had been scratched and neglected, even abused by the Brask. Even so he could see that the creatures would never do such a thing. He realized that they were indeed in a village, with makeshift buildings and other structures made of dried dirt and wood, dozens upon dozens of Brask all around, howling, and snarling at the trio as they hung on the branch. The iron-clad leader was there, and his troop, noticeably bigger and taller than the rest, denoting some sort of soldier class. He, the leader, lifted his arms up high and hollered around, showing his victory and status before jumping towards his catch and looking at them, staring into their eyes. The boys had grown ever more terrified by now and stayed silent, Garson more perplexed than frightened. He had seen and been in far worse things than capture by the enemy.

Sniffing around and then grabbing Garson’s chin, inspecting it, the iron-clad leader looked over them like a new shipment of fruit, before giving a toothy grin. His skin condition wasn’t as bad as the rest, but Garson surely noted that some of the beasts were nearly naked, with large amounts of rancid, exposed skin seeping from their bodies. He shook away in disgust, the man did. But then a surprising thing happened as the leader threw his face away and backed up; it spoke. It had a deep voice, and it sounded rough and guttural, like most feral things would probably do. “Sharp walkers come into the forest…” it said, sharp walkers being a reference to the guards and swords, perhaps? “They come and burn down tree. They shout and stomp through, disturbing home. They kill Brask, make Brask sick, make Brask hurt. Sharp walkers bad!”

“Sharp walkers bad!” Erupted an agreeing chores of the monsters, the trio all startled by their sheer numbers.

“Why do the sharp walkers come now? Is it to burn the Brask? To make Brask sick again? What?!” It sneered and commanded an answer, leaning in close to Garson’s face. The man kept his cool, as best he could in fact, so as not to scare the boys even further. He took a breath, then said “we…I, only come to solve a problem.” He faked a smile and beast moved away, at least partially satisfied.

“Problem?” It started, “problem is sharp walkers. Sharp walkers bad, kill the Brask!” They all roared and agreed, making quite the ruckus in the forest. “What is there to solve?”

“You’re killing the people of Oakshire!” Andras yelled out suddenly, to the surprise of everyone present. “Yo…you killed our parents. You burned down the stock house…you’re ugly monsters!” He was becoming angry and annoyed more and more, making a rather disgusted face at them and their disease. The leader snarled at him, “Brask did no such thing. Small sharp walker kills other sharp walkers. Blames the Brask. Sends in little ones....old ones…they all go to dust.”

Garson interjected now, and spoke up loudly, “small sharp walker…Lindle? Lindle is sending children and…and adult people into these woods to die? Why?!” It was quite the conclusion. “It’s not out of the question” Hran said, “I wouldn’t be surprised if the man wa-“

“No! No!” Andras yelled, kicking, screaming, “These stupid animals are lying. Lindle wouldn’t. He’d never kill and betray the people of Oakshire.” The leader of the Brask roared to shut him up. “Stupid sharp walkers. Always leaking water and making noise. Weak like little Brask.” The sun was coming up now, and Andras hung in silence, angry, sad, scared and confused on the inside. He was praying to whatever god he thought might help, hoping, pleading for them to save him. Hran and Garson had taken to conversing with the Beast, learning of the “little sharp walkers” deeds – they learned of his sending children and elders into the forest to die, of his burning of certain parts of town and the forest, of his plan to kill all the Brask with infection. It was troubling to Garson because Lindle was obviously a monster to the Brask, yet these people of the forest were so…feral.

“Let us go, creature” Garson spoke calmly and smoothly, trying not to upset such a delicate situation. The creature only snarled and roared at him, shaking its head. ‘MANGIN’ was scratched on the breastplate it wore, Garson could see that know. Mangin was a common name in the east, and he was certain this creature used to be human. Or at the very least was smart enough to steal and wear a breastplate. “Mangin” he started, regardless of theories, “let us go!” He spoke loudly now, with a seriousness in his eyes. The creature only growled louder, trying to shut him up with volume and ferocity. But Garson could see that when dealing with such primitive beings he would have to use an alternative to the usual violence and sword swinging. The boys were both quiet, Hran with his cold dead eyes glued to the old warrior and Andras looking off into the distance, emptiness in his eyes. The boy was estranged at the thought of Lindle betraying the village, even if he did dislike the man.

But forgetting the boys for just a moment Garson turned back to Mangin, and stared into the beasts face. “Fine then” he started, “you leave me no choice.” He frowned up and shouted ‘Asura’, red fire blazing from his nostrils and mouth, engulfing Mangin and a few other Brask, the iron-clad beast, howling and stumbling out unscathed, the others burned and the on looking savages thrown into frenzy at the display of “magic”. Magic was uncommon in this part of the world and Garson was no wizard. He was quite surprised he even remembered that word after so long. The boys were amazed, Andras’ only for a few moments before he stumbled back into emptiness. “Now…” Garson hesitated at the astounded creatures, some of them even cowering in fear at the man who was two, three, even four feet shorter than he was. “Let us go.”

Mangin hesitated, then looked around, and finally agreed, lowering his head in shame as he slashed the ropes and bindings holding the trio to the tree. They fell like rocks to the ground, and after the echo of the ‘thud’ had dissipated, the three felt their wrists and Garson stared up at Mangin. “Aged sharp walker controls the sun.” It howled towards the sky, now light out from the previous day and the other Brask soon joined their leader. Garson looked pleased, but knew he would have to tread a fine path if he – and the boys – wanted to get out of their alive and intact. He tried to keep his outward appearance neutral, so as not to set off the animals. “If aged sun spitter truly controls the sky and sun, then sun spitter is god.” Garson had an upset feeling in his stomach as Mangin proceeded to describe him as a ‘sun spitter’ and ‘god’. Such titles usually ended badly, and turning his head to the boys behind him, he nodded, and alerted them of his intent through that one action.

“Demonstrate power for us, sun god!” The Brask yelled and shouted and howled like animals, wild beasts of the forests, the horrible smell clogging up the air. Garson chuckled, and then backed up slightly, closer to the bottom of the tree where his pack had been placed. It was heavy for sure but he could still run with it His sword and staff were elsewhere though, lost in this big, black forest, lost until some wayward soul found them. “You want to see my power then?” He asked, peering slightly to the west, eyeing up the exit – ‘it’s clear!’ he exclaimed to himself. He smiled wider, then patted the boys on the shoulder, and shouted ‘Asura!’ as red flame and heat emanated from his mouth, engulfing the near entirety of the clearing as the beasts shrieked and growled, Garson grabbing his pack and bolting after the boys, who had already disappeared into the forest. By the time they had gotten a good few yards away, Mangin and a horde of his minions burst out of the flames and began to give chase, the three adventures sprinting through that contorted and twisted mess of thickets and branches.

“Hurry” yelled Garson to the boys. “Move into the thicker bushes. They shouldn’t be able to move through there as easily as us.” And he was right, as they moved into the thicker brush the Brask had to slow down. It was exciting as they ducked and weaved inside those bushes, thorns and prickly plants everywhere. The Brask howled behind them, still coming, yet slower and slower as the size of the thorns increased. Sooner or later even the trio – or at least Garson did – or risk being impaled or slashed by the ever growing thorns. Andras and Hran continued to run, sprinting through, hardly caring or even paying attention. They moved swiftly and carefully, like nimble creatures. Garson was happy this short bout of danger allowed them to feel at least partial freedom from that godforsaken town and it’s pompously delusional leader.

But the old man’s fears came to be realized as a yelp, and then a thud was heard about in the same distance as the two boys. Garson sprinted over to the scene of Andras standing over Hran, tears streaking down both of their eyes, a large slash running on the side of Hran’s torso. “I told you to be careful!” Garson yelled it out to Hran, also somewhat moved as he realized what had to be done. He by this time had forgotten all about the elfwood in his knapsack, throwing the thing over his back now instead of carrying it. He rubbed his eyes, and looked down at the two boys, sobbing together as the sound of the Brask grew closer still and the blood oozing from Hran’s wound seeped everywhere. Garson took in a deep breath, staring down at the Brask’s direction. He then shook his head slowly, and moved towards Andras who was babbling incoherently, small globs of snot running down his nose. The man put a hand on the boys shoulders and tried to pull him up, the distressed lad thrashing and fighting back, wanting to stay with his brother. Yet of course that wasn’t to be, even as Hran yelled and screamed with the last bit of his energy, clawing at the ground and reaching towards Andras and Garson, the old man still pulling away until the first glimpse of the enclosing Brask finally pushed Andras out of his frenzy. He yelled his brother’s name and then at the final urging of Garson continued to run what seemed to be northwest.

They kept running until the forest was far behind them, and they were on the road once more. It was an old and dusty road, nothing but a sign post pointing north with ‘Zzorn” horribly scribbled on the front. They had grown so tired and hungry that the hardly even bothered to setup an actual camp, simply collapsing on the side of the road once the moon had overtaken the sky. Andras cried, and buried his face into his hands as Garson only watched silently. It was the only thing either of them could do now.

Chapter Done

[Abruzi]

The Hydra.

FT

Silence reigned in the drop pod for the minute before impact. Each of the four Battle Brothers within reflected upon their vows to the Emperor, re-swearing oaths that were as old as the Imperium of Man in the space of a few instant. Quiet prayers of righteous fury or holy cleansing were muttered, and each Brother ran his hands over his weapon, checking and re-checking his wargear even as they stood on the threshold of combat. Suddenly the whine of deceleration became overpowering and their adamantine ferry shuddered as it engaged it’s last minute rockets. Slamming onto the surface, the pod’s doors blew off with a cough and the first Astartes out, Brother Chaplain Demos roared, “For the Emperor!”

Brother Lucian quietly muttered, “For the Primarch!” before sweeping his bolter up and firing two rounds at the shadowy outlines of the enemy clustered atop a rocky ridgeline. Even from this distance Lucian’s enhanced eyesight allowed him to watch with satisfaction as one of the targets dropped with a significant lack of a forehead. His brothers formed a phalanx behind him, a mighty square that fired as it ran. Surging over the broken landscape towards the ridgeline, they could hardly hear the boom of their Bolters over the whine of the Thunderhawks overhead, even with their enhanced ocular organs.

Four of the deadly assault birds roared overhead, firing their nose mounted weapons and accompanying missiles even as the Assault Marines they carried jumped from their rear. Each of the heavily armored figures fell for several seconds before activating their packs and taking flight towards the enemy position. Tracers zoomed through the air and struck several of them, their bodies spinning crazily until either colliding with the ground or righting themselves and continuing their murderous flight.

Lucian and his Brothers followed in the Chaplain’s wake, shielded as much by his faith as their mighty armor. The enemy was concealed atop a distant ridgeline, seemingly safe in their prepared positions that rained heavy fire upon the advancing Astartes. Bolter rounds peppered the stones around the four confirmed strong points, made visible by the heavy caliber tracer rounds that they spewed forth into the surging olive drab wave. Demos fired his bolt pistol without so much as a glance, and yet every round sent a distant traitor to his death. In his other hand was his Crozius Arcanum, crackling with deadly energy and providing a standard to rally behind.

The Emperor’s Warbringers followed behind their Chaplain, supported on the flanks by their Assault Squads and supported by close air support provided by Thunderhawks. Grinding down the traitors with an intensity that could be matched only by the most dedicated of chapters, the Warbringers quickly crested the ridge and were faced with the spiraling earth works of the Traitors. Comprised of the entire Third Company, the assault did not pause for a moment as it began to push the traitors from their earthen fortifications.

Drawing his combat blade and clamping his bolter to his thigh, Lucian took point and stealthily crept up the muddy trench. Gunfire echoed and to a mortal the scene could be a mixture of chaos and confusion, to an Astartes it was almost child’s play. Peeking around the corner, Lucian snapped his head back just as two traitor guardsmen loaded and sighted in a battered heavy bolter. He waved up two of his Brothers and they all primed a disk shaped grenade which they tossed around the corner. The crump of the detonations rolled over the squad and Lucian whirled around with his Bolter raised once more, one handed.

Two other traitors appeared from a sunken dugout, only to be blasted off of their feet by the powerful shots and as he stalked forward the battle suddenly changed. Brutal confrontation was replaced with a forced and altogether improvised shift to the rear as mysterious figures in Power Armor suddenly emerged from an undetected Stormbird, the antiquated design that had given birth to the Thunderhawk. Readying their weapons, the Warbringers were about to engage when suddenly a great and reassuring cry of, “Forward, for the Emperor!” rose up from the massed ranks of the mysterious figures.

Viewing the new arrivals with a combination of skepticism and acceptance, the Warbringers returned their attention to the Traitor Guardsmen and were joined in combat by their mysterious comrades. Blood was shed, and while the Emperor’s Warbringers were skeptical of the interlopers they could only admire their tenacity and prowess. Lucian however was too caught up in the chaos of the conflict to appreciate the new arrivals, instead standing shoulder to shoulder with the Chaplain who blasted away at the traitors with the fury of a primal savage and the skill of an artist of war.

Through the mist rose the enemy’s command point, a dilapidated yet still imposing prefabricated bunker that was daubed in obscene symbols. The Chaplain saw it first and raised his Crozius as a rallying standard before wordlessly charging towards it. Lucien and his brothers fell into step behind him and once again they ground through the melee without a second thought. Scores of the enemy had died, and yet the traitors had not yet surrendered, knowing that the mercy of the Astartes was no mercy at all. Lasrounds pinged ineffectually off of their armor and as they got closer to the bunker the enemy’s desperation increased.

Finally the squad reached the rusted door and fell into place on either side. The Chaplain waved forward one of the Brothers who magnetically clamped a melta bomb onto the portal. The Emperor’s Warbringers leaned away from the blast and for a brief moment the fury of a sun was visited upon an iron door. That moment passed and Demos kicked the still standing but obviously fragile door into the bunker. They were met almost immediately by hostile guardsmen who were one by one executed by the Warbringers.

Lucien fell into the rear of the formation, casting a weary glance over his shoulder even as the phalanx moved deeper into the fortification. The Chaplain led their advance with passages of holy scripture, quotes from the codex Astartes, and a liberal amount of gunfire whereas Lucien led the rear with cautious glances back the way they came. Finally the rest of the Squad seemed to notice their strategic situation and the Sergeant quietly voxed, “Brother Lucien, fall back and hold the doorway. It would be unfortunate if the enemy were to block us in.”

Nodding, Lucien pounded his chest with his fist in a show of compliance and quickly sprinted back through the claustrophobic passageways to the entrance. Just as the abused doorway came into sight however a meaty fist reached out of a side passage and struck the Marine directly in the center of his chest. Falling heavily, Lucien could only snarl in fury as he saw that his attacker was an Orgyn who’s body had been reduced by the Dark Gods to a mass of weeping sores. The offensive creature struck again, hammering his right arm with a massive hammer before placing one foot upon his chest. The weight and strength of the beast was incredible, obviously augmented by the Ruinous Powers.

Lucien’s armor began to crack, the solid adamantine buckling under the weight of the Plague Ogryn. Just as his vision began to flicker, the pressure began to ease and he could hear the distinct roar of a chain blade. Raising his head to glance at his enemy, Lucien could not help but notice the tip of a chain blade protruding from the center of the confused being’s mass. Before the enraged beast could turn about and attack his rescuer, Lucient swept up his Bolter and fired his entire clip into the head and upper torso of the beast, killing it messily.

Slowly rising Lucien was confronted by one of the mysterious newcomers, a figure clad in dark blue power armor and with an obscured dark green sigil. The warrior offered his hand which Lucien slowly took, noting that the figure’s power armor was of a design that was long declared obsolete. Tilting his head to glance behind the warrior, Lucien could see that there were only four of them, but that they were easily taller and obviously more powerful than the standard Astartes. Unsure of exactly what to say, the usually softspoken Lucien said, “Thank you Brother. Who should I write saved my life in my After Action Report?”

The strangers laughed slowly and the one who had saved his life replied,

“I am Alpharius and your thanks are recieved.”

[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 ]

The Soothing Light



then it comes to be that the soothing light at the end of your tunnel / was just a freight train coming your way

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

A cloud of dust kicked up beneath his feet as he walked on the dry, cracked, splintered earth. The sun, shining high overhead, beat down with an immense and inescapable fury that bewildered meteorologists just as much as it had spooked and frightened the wise men of the years since past. The bright, blue firmament overhead seemed but a distance tease to the colorless drab of brown below and for he, just a traveler of both time and space, it seemed almost too cruel of a scene to paint, let alone traverse.

He looked to the horizon, to the far distance where mountains jutted into the wild blue yonder, their peaks almost touching the stars and the heavens. From here, they were just as dreadful with the only abatement to that dread being their brilliant, white snowcaps. Years ago, they had been so far away, seemingly unreachable, unattainable, and unimaginable. They formed a wall that split the desert and the beautiful, green expanse of the Forest of Niap. Yet that wall was as much metaphysical as it was physical. He, a traveler of both time and space, knew all too well just how true and real those mountains were, and just what kind of a barrier they formed. He knew all too many people, especially at the clinic, who saw the mountains as the gods themselves and obviously, any such attempt to thwart, evade, or otherwise sidestep them was enrapt in a sin so egregious that no penance could lessen.

Those days, those people, even those thoughts seemed a million miles away, light years even from where he stood now, walking next to the most unnatural thing in a world that was as natural as nature could be. He followed them as they snaked along the desert floor, avoiding the ruts and drops where necessary, crossing them where required, and even balancing on them when necessary. These tracks, which carried freight trains over a kilometer long, were his highway. They were his guidance and they were his path. He walked around, next to, on, and amongst them towards whatever inevitability lay ahead in whatever his future held. He slept by them; he ate by them; he drank by them; he pissed by them; he shat by them. They were his home and they were far kinder than any home, any building, any tenement, or any clinic he had ever occupied.

In the baking, high, unyielding desert sun, he avoided actually walking on the hot metal of the tracks, crossing only when it was required. Though his boots would have been far from affected by their trapped and contained heat, he still knew better, the byproducts of a live, two decades and then some worth spent on the run. There had been a time when he reflected back on his past, on his life, on his choices, and on his path. He would have felt sorry for himself and for whatever parents his had been but sadly, that time was long gone. The desert, despite surrounding him, was long gone. Everything from the mountains back was long gone. What good had the desert been to him anyway? It gave him life but took everything else away from him leaving him with barely a shell of remembrance. He cared little for any memories and wished he could simply erase them from his brain and start anew. That was why he was heading east, towards the inevitable tunnel that lay ahead, towards the lush greenery that the Forest of Niap held. Dehydration wouldn't stop him; determination guided his way from here to there.

He knew the tracks would lead him to absolution and he knew that he needed to follow them but he wondered if he was really just following them or if they were leading him. What way was there to tell? Questions that led to questions and answers that led to answers held little value in his short but enduring lifetime. Whatever words they had offered to him at the clinic were far removed from reality. They were meant as soothing gestures of kindly guidance, which were designed to placate his more "unsocial" desires, whims, and thoughts. The experiments were more of the same but they were far from soothing or kindly. They, to a logical being like himself, served little to no value. They appeared to be conducted without regards for medicine, science, or reason. They were done for torture, for sadism, and for dominance. Animals did things out of a need to assert dominance and so too did human beings for they were, after all, merely animals, animals that evolved into bipeds capable of rationalizing the most horrific, evil, torrid, or filthy thoughts that animals neither had nor wanted. Humans didn't do the things they did to survive; they did them because they were fiends seeking to placate whatever bloodlust they felt in the blackest reasons of their mind, body, will, heart, and conscience.

Evil, after all, begets evil. He knew that well, all too well. Years upon years spent trapped by four walls and cages, bars and electricity taught him that the real world wasn't real; it was but a fantasy. There was no real world. There was only myth and myth was, for all intents and purposes, nothing more than savagery born beneath the layers of fear and indecisiveness. Layarteb was a name that meant little to him. It correlated in his mind to pain receptors, nothing else. The desert, the Tnemration Desert, was little more than an earthly prison that beat upon his brain and upon his nerves and upon his conscience only one messages: "You were put here to suffer, nothing more, nothing less, and nothing you can, will, or may do will ever absolve you of this purpose you serve." Who said that to him? Who made it clear to him that this was his purpose? Who decided that he was helpless? It may have been a futile quest but he had to try.

The tunnel appeared before his very eyes, a small black dot that grew and grew and grew with each step. The sun faded behind him as the bright, empty, blue sky gave way to more and more white, fluffy clouds the closer he got to the mountains. Now they were so close that the snowcapped peaks were all but visible. He was safe, or so he thought, or so he wanted, or so he willed. The tunnel welcomed him, casting him into a cool and almost polarizing darkness. His ears grew affixed to the sound of nothingness and he walked now on the rails just to find his way in the lightless slice. All was quiet, all was calm, and all was peaceful. He continued eastward, finally believing that he was free, that he could be what he wanted to be whatever it was that he wanted to be. He passed from the dead of the desert, into the darkness of this tunnel, and he knew that when he appeared it would be to life, to harmony, to nature, to rebirth. He walked and walked and walked, seemingly forever until suddenly he saw upon his eyes, a soothing light ahead…

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

The Layartebian Chronicles
Part VIII

[Abstract Imagists]

Warmth (FANTASY)

The snow fell slowly around him. It covered the stoop he sat on and the driveway he stared at. He shivered in the cold, he had the bare minimum on. He took long, slow drags of a blunt and sucked it through his body for warmth. He looked over at his house and saw his family enjoying the heater, he wanted to join them, but didn't know how to. A snow covered car drove past him and honked its horn.

His mother came out of the house and screamed at him from the porch, "Hey! Eddie, what are you doing out in the cold? Ge- What is that? Is that a blunt? Goddamnit Eddie you said you'd quit. - Angie, your deadbeat husband is smoking weed again!" a high pitched wail shot out of the open door and his wife sobbed uncontrollably as she shouted at the mother, "No! He... He wouldn't do that! He's clean, he's clean!" he sat out on the porch silently.

His mother turned red and shouted at him angrily, "You're such a goddamn deadbeat, Eddie, all you do it smoke and drink! This is the last straw - I'm done with you and your shit." she disappeared into the house and her voice mixed with the wails of Angie's sobs. "He can't be... he can't be, what about our baby!" she sobbed. His mother returned and tapped her foot on the snow covered stoop above him, "I've phoned the police, Eddie, hopefully this can help you fix your shit."

He couldn't move his head to look at her, he couldn't even move his legs. He forgot how. He mumbled something in a language neither of them understood and she went back inside frustrated. He inhaled the smoke from his blunt again and made smoke rings with his tongue as the loud sirens of police interceptors rang closer and closer in his ears. People in houses along the snow covered streets as a speeding police car skidded to a stop in the driveway of Eddie's house. Two officers jumped from the car with weapons drawn and shouted at him to stand up and surrender, "Drop the blunt and get on the ground! Do it now!"

Eddie didn't move, or talk. One of the officers fired his taser and shouted at him, "Stop resisting! Get down asshole!" Eddie turned rigid shocked his body over and over again. Both officers slammed their shoulders into his electrically shocked body and pulled him off the stoop. Where he sat on the concrete was burned black and his body felt rough like burned wood. The officers threw him around and slammed him against the concrete driveway as people cheered and his wife cried. His skin turned black and crunched under him as the police worked to handcuff him, "What the fuck, he's breaking apart!"

The horrified policemen watched as Eddie transformed and fought them, and his ears grew. "Why the fuck does he have pointy ears?!" the police looked up at his mother confused at the transformation. She shrugged and the police returned to cuffing her son. He was fully scorched now and looked like cracking wood. His wrists disintegrated and the cuffs fell to the ground useless. Eddie stumbled up and ran down the snowy sidewalk towards the woods beyond his block. The police, stunned, darted after him in a hopeless chase, "Freeze! Stop where you are, goddammit!" Eddie didn't stop, he kept running and slowly his body began to fall to pieces as he neared the woods.

Stunned and disheartened by their disintegrating foe, the police officers stopped at the end of the road. They gawked helplessly in confusion as the man turned to ash and fluttered into the woods on the cold wind.

[Libetarian Republics]

[MT]

iPad

It all started when our protagonist, Bill Brasky, woke up in a moor. It was the eighth time it had happened. Feeling exceedingly frustrated, Bill Brasky backhanded a salt shaker, thinking it would make him feel better (but as usual, it did not). Subsequently, he realized that his beloved iPad was missing! Immediately he called his friend, Leroy Jenkins. Bill Brasky had known Leroy Jenkins for (plus or minus) 20 years, the majority of which were enchanting ones. Leroy Jenkins was unique. He was charismatic though sometimes a little... oafish. Bill Brasky called him anyway, for the situation was urgent.

Leroy Jenkins picked up to a very ecstatic Bill Brasky. Leroy Jenkins calmly assured him that most capybaras belch before mating, yet marmots usually flamboyantly shudder *after* mating. He had no idea what that meant; he was only concerned with distracting Bill Brasky. Why was Leroy Jenkins trying to distract Bill Brasky? Because he had snuck out from Bill Brasky's with the iPad only four days prior. It was a enticing little iPad... how could he resist?

It didn't take long before Bill Brasky got back to the subject at hand: his iPad. Leroy Jenkins panicked. Relunctantly, Leroy Jenkins invited him over, assuring him they'd find the iPad. Bill Brasky grabbed his grandfather clock and disembarked immediately. After hanging up the phone, Leroy Jenkins realized that he was in trouble. He had to find a place to hide the iPad and he had to do it recklessly. He figured that if Bill Brasky took the '82 Corolla, he had take at least four minutes before Bill Brasky would get there. But if he took the Segway? Then Leroy Jenkins would be excessively screwed.

Before he could come up with any reasonable ideas, Leroy Jenkins was interrupted by ten stupid marmots that were lured by his iPad. Leroy Jenkins shuddered; 'Not again', he thought. Feeling pleased, he recklessly reached for his pencil and randomly punched every last one of them. Apparently this was an adequate deterrent--the discouraged critters began to scurry back toward the thicket, squealing with discontent. He exhaled with relief. That's when he heard the Segway rolling up. It was Bill Brasky.

As he pulled up, he felt a sense of urgency. He had had to make an unscheduled stop at McDonald's to pick up a 10-pack of chicken nuggets, so he knew he was running late. With a quick leap, Bill Brasky was out of the Segway and went charismatically jaunting toward Leroy Jenkins's front door. Meanwhile inside, Leroy Jenkins was panicking. Not thinking, he tossed the iPad into a box of paper clips and then slid the box behind his microwave. Leroy Jenkins was frustrated but at least the iPad was concealed. The doorbell rang.

'Come in,' Leroy Jenkins sassily purred. With a hasty push, Bill Brasky opened the door. 'Sorry for being late, but I was being chased by some oafish genius in a truck,' he lied. 'It's fine,' Leroy Jenkins assured him. Bill Brasky took a seat nowhere near where Leroy Jenkins had hidden the iPad. Leroy Jenkins grimaced trying unsuccessfully to hide his nervousness. 'Uhh, can I get you anything?' he blurted. But Bill Brasky was distracted. Subsequently, Leroy Jenkins noticed a funny-smelling look on Bill Brasky's face. Bill Brasky slowly opened his mouth to speak.

'...What's that smell?'

Leroy Jenkins felt a stabbing pain in his foot when Bill Brasky asked this. In a moment of disbelief, he realized that he had hidden the iPad right by his oscillating fan. 'Wh-what? I don't smell anything..!' A lie. A stupid look started to form on Bill Brasky's face. He turned to notice a box that seemed clearly out of place. 'Th-th-those are just my grandma's staplers from when she used to have pet bunnies. She, uh...dropped 'em by here earlier'. Bill Brasky nodded with fake acknowledgement...then, before Leroy Jenkins could react, Bill Brasky aimlessly lunged toward the box and opened it. The iPad was plainly in view.

Bill Brasky stared at Leroy Jenkins for what what must've been five seconds. Subsequently, Leroy Jenkins groped charismatically in Bill Brasky's direction, clearly desperate. Bill Brasky grabbed the iPad and bolted for the door. It was locked. Leroy Jenkins let out a enticing chuckle. 'If only you hadn't been so protective of that thing, none of this would have happened, Bill Brasky,' he rebuked. Leroy Jenkins always had been a little pestering, so Bill Brasky knew that reconciliation was not an option; he needed to escape before Leroy Jenkins did something crazy, like... start chucking spoons at him or something. Rather abruptly, he gripped his iPad tightly and made a dash toward the window, diving headlong through the glass panels.

Leroy Jenkins looked on, blankly. 'What the hell? That seemed excessive. The other door was open, you know.' Silence from Bill Brasky. 'And to think, I varnished that window frame four days ago...it never ends!' Suddenly he felt a tinge of concern for Bill Brasky. 'Oh. You ..okay?' Still silence. Leroy Jenkins walked over to the window and looked down. Bill Brasky was gone.

Just yonder, Bill Brasky was struggling to make his way through the cornfield behind Leroy Jenkins's place. Bill Brasky had severely hurt his butt during the window incident, and was starting to lose strength. Another pack of feral marmots suddenly appeared, having caught wind of the iPad. One by one they latched on to Bill Brasky. Already weakened from his injury, Bill Brasky yielded to the furry onslaught and collapsed. The last thing he saw before losing consciousness was a buzzing horde of marmots running off with his iPad.

About two hours later, Bill Brasky awoke, his face throbbing. It was dark and Bill Brasky did not know where he was. Deep in the enchanting moor, Bill Brasky was really lost. Out of nowhere, he remembered that his iPad was taken by the marmots. But at that point, he was just thankful for his life. That's when, to his horror, a big marmot emerged from the bush. It was the alpha marmot. Bill Brasky opened his mouth to scream but was cut short when the marmot sunk its teeth into Bill Brasky's abdomen. With a faint groan, the life escaped from Bill Brasky's lungs, but not before he realized that he was a failure.

Less than nine miles away, Leroy Jenkins was entombed by anguish over the loss of the iPad. 'MY PRECIOUS!!' he cried, as he reached for a sharpened fork. With a skillful thrust, he buried it deeply into his back. As the room began to fade to black, he thought about Bill Brasky... wishing he had found the courage to tell him that he loved him. But he would die alone that day. All that remained was the iPad that had turned them against each other, ultimately causing their demise. And as the dew on melancholy sappling branches began to reflect the dawn's reddish glare, all that could be heard was the chilling cry of distant marmots, desecrating all things sacred to virtuous men, and perpetuating an evil that would reign for centuries to come. Our heroes would've lived unhappily ever after, but they were too busy being dead. So, no one lived forever after, the end.

[The Grand World Order]

August 24th

[ MT ]

"Come on, Ricky! It won't be for much longer!"

Matt forcefully breathed in and out as he came over the crest of the hill, a forced smile on his face as he leaned forward and placed his hands on his knees. His eyes were rapidly scanning the horizon and the endless plains of Southern Wyoming- or was it Northern Colorado? A jammed highway could be seen in the distance in one direction, a Christmas tree farm in the other. It was August 24th, 2025, and already Christmas advertisements had begun invading the daily lives of people, an event that seemed to be occurring earlier and earlier every year. A cheerily waddling child, certainly less than 10 years old, plopped down beside the man.

"Dad, it's getting cold again! Where are we going?" he whined. Matthew responded, like he had so many times before, "You'll see, Ricky. It... it's a suprise!" He had essentially practiced his reply, like an actor practicing lines. Only, he wasn't an actor; not usually, anyways. He wasn't sure what he was now, aside from a father, but he knew he had been something along the lines of an accountant back in Golden. Not that it mattered at all now.

"I don't want a surprise! Why do we have to walk here, why didn't we just take the car?" the child snapped, unaware that their car had run out of gas many miles back. Again, Matthew had a prepared response. "You can't get there in a car, it's too far from the road. Now, come on, we're already late!"

Matt shouldered his backpack again before wandering off into the prairie again. He honestly didn't know what he was looking for. His son followed suit, proceeding with his leisurely bounce. The massive sea of emptiness was overwhelming for anyone who actually paid attention to it, and certainly was capable of driving someone mad with the present circumstances. But, to Ricky, there was something out there, something worth following his father on foot for miles on end in the wind for. Ignorance is bliss, isn't it?

Matthew's primary focus was trying to find somewhere safe to sleep. The forecasters, last he had ever seen a television, were predicting a storm for most of the week; he didn't have any clue as to how the recent events would have effected them. Of course, the thought of sleeping flat on the ground in the middle of a place like this was perhaps one of the most unnerving possibilities Matt had ever been faced with, despite the Remington 870 shotgun slung around his back, a stark contrast to his collared shirt and loose tie, blank to appease the conformity enforced by his boss. It never occured to him that he wouldn't need it anymore, as he hadn't taken the time to think about it. A chainlink fence, top strung with barbed wire, suddenly appeared to be in the duo's path to nowhere.

Normally, a fence would conjure so much as a brief glance or mental note from a passerby. Someone's first instinct in the face of a fence would to be to ignore it. But out here? It meant that there was something on the other side, potentially shelter. The "Restricted Area" signs posted didn't stop Matthew and his son as they followed it, looking for any sort of opening. Even if they were to be set upon by some sort of authority, Matthew would have welcomed it. Even a dead body would be welcomed company, now. The sun had fully retreated behind the Rocky Mountains now, with only an orange glow illuminating the landscape, and the formerly innocent looking Christmas tree farm had started to look like a terrible place with atrocities committed freely within it. Time was running out, and the fence so far had proven to be a perfectly maintained barrier.

As one would expect, the fence eventually came to a gate complex. No one was in the security booths, and the light had been damaged enough to no longer function. A few concrete barricades had clearly been moved out of the way, pointing outward, but not put back to their original locations. A series of fresh tire tracks, seemingly of an SUV, had disturbed the otherwise almost non-existent dirt road. Someone had left the area, in a hurry apparently, and had no plans on keeping anyone out any longer. The gate was wide open, almost begging for exploration. The booth would do for shelter, but now Matthew was curious, and intended to act on this. Normally, this would be a bad decision, once again, given the circumstances.

The dirt road extended past the gates in between two seemingly unnatural hills, with whatever was at the end of it undistinguishable. Matt held his son's hand and walked down the road, his eyes remaining vigilant as the end, now identified as a pair of open steel doors that led underground, came closer. When he arrived, Matthew unslung his shotgun before fumbling with his flashlight, shining it into the pitch black.

"321ST MISSILE SQUADRON - 90TH MISSILE WING - UNITED STATES AIR FORCE" was painted in black, crisp letters over a large mural of the missile wing's emblem, at the bottom of which, "IMPAVIDE" was featured on a banner. Matthew didn't recognize anything but "missile" and "United States Air Force."

Earlier, his eyes had seen a traffic jam. The cars had all stopped forever.
Earlier, his eyes had scanned the horizon. The skeletal remains of mushroom clouds lingered.
Earlier, his car had run out of gas. He didn't take the time to fill it after his TV told him that NORAD had detected massive waves of intercontinental ballistic missiles.

Everything he had known was gone. Boulder, Loveland, Fort Collins, certainly Denver, Cheyenne, and Warren Air Force Base were now all smoldering, radioactive craters. Places so full of life wiped out in milliseconds. He imagined that places like New York and Washington D.C., even cities such as Manchester, Berlin, and Tokyo had met the same fate. This was why his job didn't matter anymore, nor his tie, nor his money, nor his decency; he didn't realize until now that he had been keeping from crying to appease no one. Not even his pride mattered. And neither would his respect for authority; he raised his shotgun with obvious inexperience and proceeded into the bunker, his son still utterly clueless.

"Is Mom going to be here?" the child asked before Matthew could take more then a few steps. He fell to his knees, dropping his shotgun and his flashlight. Tears were streaming down his face. He didn't answer, his head still locked on the 90th Missile Wing's emblem as if it was to blame for the fact that his wife left for work before he even woke up, and that she, just like their hometown, was likely radioactive dust now.

"I don't know," he lied. It was so unconvincing that he wasn't sure that even this eight year old boy believed him. He slowly got back up, the emotional toll almost physically crippling him, and grabbed his posessions again. He wasn't sure if he wanted to explore anymore. He did anyways. A series of color-coded stripes wound their way along the floor and walls, similar to some hospitals. He didn't know where each one led, and a missile base wasn't going to have a typical directory at its entrance. Most of the rooms he came across were filled with computers, some of them still functioning and displaying readouts he didn't understand. He passed a barracks area, where the missile crews would sleep. No one was there. Towards what he believed was the middle of the facility, he found the silos. Ten missiles were here, just like any other Missile Alert Facility operated by the 90th Missile Wing.

As he expected, each of the ten silos were empty, and the blast doors in the ceiling were wide open. He didn't know much about what the military had planned in a situation like this, other than each one probably had ended up, or was bound to end up, in Russia, China, or maybe even Turkey. Most people agreed that NATO had been excessively brutal and "Nazilike" in Turkey after World War Three ended. Once again, that didn't matter anymore. The Turks were probably gone, too, and so were the Western European soldiers oppressing them. The thought that another missile was probably headed for the bunker crossed Matthew's mind. That was probably why nobody was here anymore. He didn't care, though. If there was a missile coming, at least it'd be painless.

The ground shook violently again, startling the both of them. The majority of the "war" had been confined to five hours; apparently some Russian or Chinese missile crew had finally decided to turn the keys, or maybe someone had found a silo just like he did, or maybe something happened somewhere at some time that he didn't bother to think about. He herded his son off into one of the missile crew cabins, telling him not to stay up late. Normally, he'd tuck Ricky in, but, as disgusted as he was at the fact, he didn't even really care about his son. They didn't have anything specific to do tomorrow, anyways, he thought to himself, trying to justify his train of thought.

Alone, he scribbled a quick note and stuck it in his pocket. He headed back outside, simply curious as to where the bomb landed this time. He stepped outside, walked his way up the side of the hill, and sat, hugging his knees to his chest. The temperature had gotten rather hot, easily a hundred degrees, but the climax of the heatwave had already passed. The bomb was far enough to not actually incinerate anything, and radiation exposure wasn't as much of a concern, since it was certainly out of range, and anything that would be able to reach Matthew wouldn't be new at all. On the horizon, towards what he judged to be Windsor, Colorado, a glowing fireball was dominating the sky. Many, many miles away, another explosion's light imitated the sun's before fading away.

Couldn't we all just get along?

He glanced at the note he had written.

"Don't look for me, Richard. You won't like what you'll find."

He crumbled it and tossed it. He was still alive, and another life depended on his. Negative thinking would get both of them killed. He almost ran back to where his son was before firmly hugging him and holding him, utterly overjoyed by the simple fact that they still were. The world may have been rebooted, but that didn't mean it couldn't be rebuilt. They certainly weren't alone.

-Psalm 137:1


((OOC: This is the "Final War" that birthed the GWO from a regular Joe's viewpoint.))

[Xiscapia]

[FT]

[Very Mature]

An Interview With The Captain

Here with us today we have Captain Sei Vydam, of the good ship Thoughts On Paying Rent. An intergalactic bounty hunter, mercenary and pirate tracker, Captain Vydam is perhaps best known for her involvement with "Saint" Terramo during the events that guided him back to the Republic of Setulan, though she has had numerous other equally fascinating adventures from the far side of this galaxy to the next. This interview was recorded Year of Our Lord Emperor Foxfire Rose 25, Birth of the Ice Season, on the Imperial world of Kawachi. In exchange for compensation Captain Vydam has agreed to answer all questions as honestly and completely as possible. Our questions are outlined in red, while her answers have been highlighted in blue.

You've transferred the funds, right?

Yes, Captain. The agreed upon amount has been deposited into your account.

Alright. Let's get this over with.

_______________________________________________________

What about you is heroic?

Heroic? I don't know I would say much of anything about me is heroic. I guess you could say my loyalty is a virtue. Nearly gotten me and those I care about killed more than once, but that's all I got. I'm not the Imperial military. I don't think someone's life is forfeit because they had a moment of weakness -especially not if it's one of my friends.

What about you is social? What do you like about people?

People can be the only thing that makes life worth living. When you bond with them through blood, sweat and tears it gives you something to fall back on. That's what I like about people, and that's why I bother. You take people out of things, and it doesn't seem like there's much of a point anymore. I think that's probably why I never got on well with drones, even androids. They don't really feel like people, even when they're programmed to be. Besides, they're even lousier at making conversation than I am.

Of what benefit could you be to an adventuring group?

Well, I can pilot. You'd be surprised how many people out there can't. And I'm not talking taking helm of a battlecruiser, either, some otherwise competent mercs don't even know how to fly a runabout. I can shoot straight, too. That's all you really need. Thing about my field is it's full of idiots, either young kits with stars in their eyes who get killed on their first run out because nobody bothered to teach them how to fight, or arrogant bastards who think they know it all because they've winged a couple pirates in their time, and end up dead at the hands of someone who actually knows what she's doing. It's what separates the hired guns from the soldiers of fortune.

Have you ever been a part of a closely-knit group that isn't your family, like a ship's crew or military unit?

Sure. I've worked freight-hauling contracts before, got pretty close with some of the crew. Then there's all the shit that went down on Charnel and the Spinor, never mind what happened after that. Kind of fallen in and out of them over the years. People are people. They break up, go their separate ways, reform when they can if they liked each other enough. Some of them I never saw again and still wouldn't trust to not stab me in the back if they thought it would give them an advantage. Others I'm still in good contact with.

I even get holiday cards.

What kind of contract or operation could you see yourself actively undertaking, as opposed to tagging along or just following orders?

To bail a friend out of trouble. Like, I was invited to go on those Crusades they were having in the Home Galaxy, or the Purges, or whatever the hell you call them. Didn't go for that. Religious wars aren't my thing, even if they are against a bunch of pirates. But when Terramo contacted me, asked for my help specifically, that's when I up and went. I don't obey the summons of any nation or organization, no matter how powerful they think they are. But one of my friends calls, and I'll come.

_______________________________________________________

Onto personal questions.

Was wondering when you'd start.

What is your real, birth name? What name do you use? What does it mean?

Sei Vydam. Nothing tricky about that. I've had a few pseudonyms over the years, for certain contracts. Sapphire. Laetitia. Marred. But everyone who really knows me, knows me as Sei. Last name is a family thing as far as I know, but my first name means "lonely" "wanderer" and "damned." Fitting, really.

Do you have a nickname? What is it, and where did you get it?

Does "fuzzbutt" count? That's just something Vii used to call me. Still does, sometimes. Then there's...well, chetsha. Necrian word. Manages to mean "slut", "whore" and "lesbian" all at the same time. That gem was from Rili. I think you can guess why.

Describe yourself in your own words. Include height, weight, hair, eyes, skin, apparent age, and distinguishing features.

Shit, I was never good at this sort of thing. Uh, short, I guess. I dunno, I'm about on par or smaller than most of the people I meet. Weight, fuck off. Eyes, usually scarlet, though I've hurt tell that when the light hits them right they can go violet. Hair, a tangled mop of blue and white. Skin, can't see most of it, but I guess the fur is pretty much the same as the hair. Blue on the outer bits, white on the inside. Apparent age...no idea. I think I've got a handle on it just from knowing roughly how long I've been alive, but I've got no idea what an old version of me looks like so I couldn't tell you. Distinguishing features...well, I'm blue and I've got a slender tail. Makes me stand out from those kitsune. What more do you want?

How do you dress most of the time?

Lessee here. Pretty much what I'm wearing right now. Boots, khakis, T-shirt, coat, hat. Belt and holsters for all the good stuff. I've gone lighter, and I don't have room for all my equipment. Gone in heavier and felt over encumbered. So this is good for most situations.

How do you "dress up?"

Look, my wardrobe doesn't have a lot of variation. I've still got an old Merchant Marine uniform back there, but I never wear it. One time I did have to infiltrate a party in a red dress, it was absurd how much time I had to take getting ready for that. There's full power armor that takes less time to put on than all that make-up and hosiery and shit! That's somewhere on the ship too. Don't ask to see it.

How do you "dress down?"

T-shirt and trousers, usually. Don't like to take off much more than that if I can avoid it.

What do you wear when you go to sleep?

Shirt and shorts. I don't sleep naked, not with how cold it gets on the ship. That's just weird.

Do you wear any jewelry?

Not anymore. I used to have a piercing in my left ear, little gold ring. Still don't know why I got it. Sold it to a fence a long time ago, got sick of having to blacken it or take it off every time I hunted a target. Had some dogtags too, from my Merchant Marine days, but I took 'em off as soon as I left the service. They're buried in a drawer somewhere. Only thing I still keep around is that amulet from my mother. It's a little metal locket, nothing special, I think it's actually made of scrap metal. Nothing inside it except an inscription. Never let your fear decide your fate. I went back to Xiscapia and found it after I met Rili. Don't wear it, but I keep it on me. Stupid, I guess, but I've got the same attachment to my hat.

In your opinion, what is your best feature?

Uhh...hmm. I don't know. I mean, I don't have anything special. Nothing that millions of other people don't have, at least. I guess I'd say my eyes. I've always liked my eyes.

What's your real birth date?

If I knew, I'd tell you.

Where do you live? Describe it: Is it messy, neat, avant-garde, sparse, etc.?

Just neat enough for me to get through it without tripping, but messy enough for me to know where everything is. Know what I mean? That's how they all are. From my cabin on the Rent, my berth on the Tal's Star, my apartment in the Star Empire, my quarters at the Imperial Palace in the Dominion, that's how they all are. Kept it like that when I was a kit, don't see any reason to change it now. You're not wrong about everything when you're young.

Do you own a car, ship or other mode of transportation? Describe it.

I got a ship. The Thoughts On Paying Rent, old Archer class gunship I bought secondhand from the Kitsune Imperial Navy. Ten meters long, she's a sweet girl, probably twice my age but all the tougher for it. Got a mass drive and an ion cannon on the nose, dual autocannon turrets on the spine, and a ventral missile rack I added once Vii and I started cavorting around Star Empire space, so she's pretty well covered. Defenses are basic, but I've never needed anything fancy.

Inside there's four compartments. Cockpit, common area, my cabin and then Enishi's quarters -or Terramo's or Vii's or Rili's or whoever happens to be there when Enishi isn't, if they're not sleeping with me or in the cockpit. I know some people go stir crazy, trapped in a area that sized for weeks on end, but it's always suited me just fine. But you got me talking about my ship again. Better stop while I still can.

What is your most prized mundane possession? Why do you value it so much?

Mundane possession? Well, assuming my pistol isn't a mundane possession, it's probably that locket I mentioned earlier. It's the only thing I have from my parents.

What one word best describes you?

Um...rough. Yeah. Rough. Like around the edges.

_______________________________________________________

Now for familial questions.

Here we go...

What was your family like?

Which one? My real one, or the surrogates who adopted me? Never knew the people who actually birthed me. The ones who raised me...typically kitsune. Obsessed with honor. Always pushing me. You know how it is.

Who was your father, and what was he like?

He was a merchant captain, so he wasn't around much. Classic, right? His trips took him around the whole planet and beyond, making supply runs to those moon outposts during the War. Big, as kitsune go, gray, quiet, stern. Not a bad man, all things considered. But I don't think I ever really lived up to his expectations. Spat in his face one too many times, literally and figuratively. I think at least some of those hauls he took just to get away from me. I was a little shit.

Who was your mother, and what was she like?

She was working as an electrical engineer for a company making service drones. Got to be home a lot more than my father, so she was the one who did most of my raising. I think I burned them out, her especially. They were old, you know? Old and tired. They'd been at this for probably two centuries already, had plenty of kids of their own, and she'd taken the brunt of all that. She was the one who did all my disciplining when I was younger, but when I got to the point that I was as big as she was she stopped trying. That's how I dropped out and moved away. She just let me go.

What was your parent's marriage like? Were they married? Did they remain married?

I think they were happy. They weren't really married, you know, kitsune don't do that sort of thing. But they had a tight bond, and they maintained it until she died. He went not longer after her, a few months. Whole family went to the funerals. I didn't. Off hunting Greali pirates or something. Wish I did now.

What were your siblings names? What were they like?

I don't really remember, to be honest. When I was born I was an only child, and my foster parents raised me as one. They had other kids, but they were all grown up and moved out already, scattered across the nation. I probably met all of them once, but not for very long. I don't think they approved of me any more than their parents did.

What's the worst thing one of your siblings ever did to you? What's the worst thing you've done to one of your siblings?

None of them were ever around me long enough for us to do anything to each other. Not to say nothing would have happened. I was a bitch and kitsune have been known to hold grudges, so that had some nasty potential. To be honest, my parents probably kept them out as long as I was around. I think they knew that we would resent each other deeply.

When's the last time you saw any member of your family? Where are they now?

It's probably been over ten years, now. I have no idea what's happened to all of them, and I don't think they know where I am, either. Couldn't even get in touch with them if I wanted to. And that suits us all just fine. I'm not one of them.

Did you ever meet any other family members? Who were they? What did you think of them?

Never met any of the others. Sorry.

_______________________________________________________

Time for childhood questions.

Shoot.

What is your first memory?

I don't know, exactly. I have a few that might have been first, and I can't tell which is. I do remember being held in my mother's arms, though -my real mother. She looked a lot like I do now. That's all I really remember, is a snapshot of her face. She was smiling.

What was your favorite toy?

It was this little holographic sphere. That's what it started out as, anyway. Then you threw it across the room, or dropped it, or kicked it or whatever and it turned into a different geometric shape, like a triangle, and went bouncing off some surface, and it would basically bounce around the room forever until you stopped it. When I was a kit I'd hit it and then actively try to stop it, but when I got older sometimes I would throw it and then just watch it fly around. I liked it because it was one of the few toys that I didn't break.

What was your favorite game?

Sneak 'n Sniff. Like that one game...what's it called? Hide and Go Seek? Yeah. It's like the Xiscapian version, except they use their noses more than their eyes. I was always good at it, concealing myself and finding people. Maybe a little too good. It got to the point where nobody wanted to play with me, and I had to just watch or act as ref or whatever. So I'd go down a few blocks and find another group to play with.

Any non-family member adults stick out in your mind? Who were they, and how did you know them? Why do they stick out?

There were a few. My main instructor at school, although that was when I was a bit older. As a little kit, I remember whenever we'd go to the market at the bakery there was always this one kitsune at the counter who would give me a cookie whenever we passed by. Mother didn't like it, but he made them special for me and I think she knew he liked giving them as much as I liked eating them. He was always smiling. That doesn't seem significant, but most Xiscapians don't smile that much really. Not just because they're happy anyway. He was a little different, like me. I liked him.

One day he wasn't there. I found out a while later he'd been conscripted. Got killed by the Korr out on the front. Replaced him with someone who didn't know me. That was the end of that.

Who was your best friend when you were growing up?

Don't know that I really had one. There were the kits on my street, and I was pretty good friends with them for a while. But I didn't have that kind of close, secret-sharing, friends-forever kind of thing. I was too weird to them, and they were too strange to me. I wasn't friendless...but I wasn't going to many sleepovers, that's for sure.

What is your fondest childhood memory?

Woke up from a nightmare one night. It was something stupid, probably to do with the Korr from one of those propaganda broadcasts. I remember crying into the pillow, and then I felt these arms around me and someone pulled me up against them and I fell back asleep. I don't know whether it was my mother or my father, probably never will either, but I felt so safe when they were hugging me. Like nothing bad could happen to me.

Not that it helped much, really. Later on I realized I was the bad thing. That's what spoiled that.

What is your worst childhood memory?

When they came and told me my parents were dead. I wasn't old enough to really understand it, why they had died or any of it. But when night fell and neither of them came through that door I knew they weren't coming back, and I started screaming at the officer to bring my parents back. He had to pick me up and carry me out of there. When he'd brought me to the house of my foster parents I remember the top of my head was wet, which was strange because it wasn't raining. I think he was crying too.

_______________________________________________________

Moving away from that, I have some questions about your adolescence.

Oh yeah, the best years of my life...right.

How old were you when you went on your first date?

Date? Me? Ha. You must be joking.

It is common for one's view of authority to develop in their adolescent years. What is your view of authority, and what event most affected it?

I disagreed with an instructor. She was going on about the "glory" of the Kitsune Empire, the Xiscapian spirit, the will of the people, blah blah blah. You know. Propaganda in a can -now for kits. Don't think they do that sort of thing anymore, not since the War ended, but it pissed me off. Probably because she kept using the word "kitsune" to describe Xiscapians and I, well, wasn't. They don't make those kinds of mistakes these days, but back then you could count the number of non-kitsune in the KEX with the fingers on one hand. So I told her how this race was nothing but a bunch of primitives fighting in the mud until advancement pretty much literally fell into their laps, and even then it took them hundreds of years to get anywhere with it. I didn't think it was anything to be proud of.

She didn't like that. Not at all. Took me up in front of the room, got the paddle out. I knew what was coming, so I cursed her out. Never been hit so hard in my life up to that point, couldn't sit down properly for a week. But I didn't cry. I used to. Not then, and never after that.

Fuck authority. Seriously. If I wanted a life of running and gunning I could have joined the military and been a lot more comfortable than I am now, but I can't stand taking orders and being spoon-fed information. Never could. Maybe that could change for the right person, that I actually trust, but I haven't met them yet.

What were you like in high school? What "clique" did you best fit in with?

I dunno, the loner one? I guess loners don't really have cliques, do they? That wouldn't make sense. No, I never made any effort to be accepted anywhere, and I sure as hell wasn't. I was never the brightest or the hardest worker, so those honors kits shunned me. Did alright at sports, but I hated the locker rooms, never mind having to play naked in the first place. Failed the physical class three years in a row because I refused to dress out, so that put me right out of that group. Kitsune are weird.

I was an outsider. Didn't wear the right kind of clothes -or not wear the right kind of clothes, I guess- or listen to the right kind of music, or share the same attitude or anything. Started when they realized I literally wasn't one of them, and that's where it ended.

What were your high school goals?

To get out of there. No, seriously. I hated high school. Got a job on a freighter my second year in, and started spending more time there than at school. Eventually it got to the point when I would show up at work more than school, and then I listed myself as a full-time worker and things just went from there. I was in my second round of my second year by then, and I think everyone knew I wasn't gonna graduate. Instructors didn't even try to keep me, too much trouble, and my parents let me go. I moved out not long after. So I guess you could say I succeeded there.

Who was your idol when you were growing up? Who did you first fantasize about in your life?

Idol. Shit. Couldn't say I really had one. I really appreciated John Reynolds, though. Yeah, the Alversian Admiral. Surprised? Heh. Not hard to figure out in retrospect. Once the Kitsune Empire and the People's Republic made contact he was pretty much to go-to guy between the nations, so he was always on Xiscapia, got a lot of publicity for it. I think they even said that for a good two years there he spent all his time either in Rio Casa or on his flagship, never even went home. So I got to watching him, and while the Xiscapian officials treated him a hell of a lot better than their brat kits treated me in school, I could tell how weirded out he was about some of the stuff he encountered. He was an outsider, like me. An alien. I liked that.

Fantasize...what, do you mean sexually? Huh. Well, there was this one rocker I always thought was cute. Won't tell you his name, but when I was a teenager I thought he was absolutely gorgeous, even for a kitsune. Funny thing is, I didn't even like his music that much, couldn't relate at all. But he was a big thing there for a couple years, all the vixens were after him, and I liked to imagine that he would choose me over them. Like I could finally win at something. Never even went to one of his concerts, but I used to have all the posters and shit. It's funny, I really liked the concept, but I doubt I would like the guy himself that much, even back then. It was a status thing. Shallow. I still don't remember the name of his band.

What is your favorite memory from adolescence?

Stepping onto the Yamaguchi for the first time. That's the freighter I got my first real job on. Petty officer walked up to me with a mop and a bucket, handed them to me, pointed to a corridor and told me to get to work. Didn't ask what I was or where I came from, because it didn't matter, all he cared about was that I di good work. And I did. Wasn't much, I did all the grunt jobs, cleaned out the ducts, washed the floors and dishes, sometimes got out on the hull and hacked away at the carbon scoring around the engine housing, but I liked it. Didn't get much of a chance to work with my hands in school, and the crew didn't care so much what I looked like or where I came from. I showed up, did good work and got paid, and that's all that mattered. Didn't have to try to fit in or anything, and the funny thing is that I still managed to. They just accepted me. I was happy.

What is your worst memory from adolescence?

Getting arrested the first time. That officer was a bitch. Xiscapian cops don't mess around. Look, if you're ever trying to hide something from them, take my advice; don't stuff it down your pants. They will go in after it with extreme prejudice. I joke now, but I was very unhappy at the time. My parents showing up to bail me out didn't make things any better; neither did the public service and humiliation I had to go through afterwards. That's probably what cemented "fuck authority" in my mind, really.

I never even got to smoke that bag, either.

_______________________________________________________

That's all for that.

Thank the dead gods.

Now, occupational questions.

Alright, let's do this.

Do you have a job? What is it? Do you like it? If no job, where does your money come from?

Yeah, 'course I have a job. It varies, though, depending on where I go and who I'm with. I do pirate hunting for the Kitsune Empire, bounty hunting for private individuals, freight hauling and mercenary work for the Star Empire and companies of it, and I used to be the Imperial Executioner in the Dominion. To be honest, moving cargo is the only one I really like, though pirate hunting isn't half bad. Anything that gets me out of the line of fire is fine by me. I'm good at all of them, though, or else they wouldn't keep hiring me. So I do what I can when I can; can't be picky on my kind of budget.

What is your boss or employer like? (Or publisher, or agent, or whatever)

Don't usually have one as such. When contracts come through they're usually simple and to the point; go here, drop off this cargo or capture this guy or shoot this girl and come back when you're done. I don't even usually meet my employer, and that's how I like it. Exception I guess would be Rili, when I was killing for her. She was great, didn't get in the way. Even gave me advice on it, though I didn't usually take it. I was the Palace executioner, not the dungeon torturer.

What are your co-workers like? Do you get along with them? Any in particular? Which ones don't you get along with?

Depends. I'm almost always working with Enishi in some capacity, and I get along with him. Don't let our insults fool you, he might be just a stupid kit but he's my best friend in the universe. Vii, of course, for the Star Empire and beyond. He can be moody sometimes, even if he doesn't let on, but we have a good relationship. We understand each other. I don't know if you could say I work with Terramo...but I don't work for him, either. I always found his religion strange, but there's almost nothing he won't do to protect me and I count him as one of my friends, so we're good. Rili...don't get me started. She's like a fucking roller coaster. In every sense of the phrase.

What is something you had to learn that you hated?

How to deal with talkative captives. Don't get me wrong, I'm glad that I did learn it, but I hate that I had to at all. I'm a bounty hunter, I've captured you, you're on your way to whoever wants your sorry tail. Our relationship is not complex. Don't try to seduce me, or bribe me, or intimidate me or appeal to my better nature. Don't care. Heard it all before. Sit down, shut up and don't give me a reason to break out the electro-shock staff.

Do you tend to save or spend your money? Why?

Save. You have to, living the life I do, because money isn't constant. I almost never have a salary. So when I finish a big contract, I save some of it, because I'm definitely going to have to dip into it later when pickings are lean. That's why it's hard to get ahead in this business. You spend almost as much as you make with all your expenses, and then anything left over gets used up when you can't find work. If I didn't save I'd probably be dead by now.

[Continued on next page]

[Xiscapia]

[FT]

[Very Mature]

An Interview With The Captain (Continued)

_______________________________________________________

Likes and dislikes questions!

Oh joy.

What hobbies do you have?

Piloting. I really love it, especially on small ships like the Rent. Space or atmosphere, doesn't matter to me. You just feel free and open, like you can go anywhere, nothing holding you back. Of course, half the time I've got drones or interceptors on my tail, so I just have to go anywhere but there, but that's just an aspect of it. When you fly you're really putting yourself out there -but you're safe at the same time. Because the ship protects you.

Who is your closest friend? Describe them and how you relate to them.

Enishi. He was this teenaged kit, Xiscapian, was my partner for a few years. Short, orange, wears blue-tinted glasses and eats all our food. Not going to lie, he could be annoying, but he saved my life more than a few time. I called him my tech support. I need something, information on a target, schematics, even a route charted, and he'd have it. Some people, himself included, have said we had a bit of a parental relationship going. I don't know about that. If you asked me, I'd say it was more like a big sister and her little brother. It's...complicated.

Who is your worst enemy? Describe them and why you don't get along.

Don't have one. People who become my enemy don't last very long.

What bands do you like? Do you even pay attention?

Not really. I'll hear a song, and I'll like it, but that'll typically be the only one I have out of the whole discography of that group. Not sure why. I like rock music, always have. Doesn't much matter where it comes from.

What tape or CD hasn't left your player since your purchased it? Why?

Skewerd's The Big Rock. I like to play it through the long runs. It's kind of fun trying to figure out what the hell the lyrics are.

What song is "your song?" Why?

Killing Time, by Infected Mushroom. Something about the refrain really gets me.

What's been your favorite movie of all time?

In Tenfour. It's this flick about a guy, a kitsune, who comes down from Kel to live in that city. It's one of the strangest films I've ever seen, he gets into some pretty trippy shit, even for the Xiscapians. But you find something new in it every time. Helps that he's easy on the eyes.

Read any good books? What were they?

Under the Twin Suns. It's a romance novel about a couple of colonists on some far off world. Yeah, a romance novel. Stop looking at me like that. Leave me alone.

What do you watch on the Television?

Don't really watch TV. Never anything on there I want to see anyway. I've got enough sex and violence in my life already.

When it comes to mundane politics, do you care? If so, which way do you tend to vote? If not, why don't you care?

Not so much. I'm not a citizen of any state so I can't vote even if I wanted to. Lean towards governments that have liberal social policies and conservative economic ones. It's good for business. Apart from that, I don't really care. It doesn't affect me.

What type of places do you hang out in with your friends?

Bars, a lot. It's funny, because I don't even drink that much. Everyone else does, though. My ship, for obvious reasons. Around trade station docks. Those sorts of places.

What annoys you more than anything else?

It's a tie between people who think I'm a kitsune and people who act like I'm the leader. I can see where they're coming from, I'm all furry and I come from the Kitsune Empire so that's a logical assumption, and I'm Captain of this ship so everyone aboard is supposed to be subordinate to me. Sure. It's still as annoying as fuck. Kitsune come with a lot of...I don't want to say stigma. Stereotypes, attached. Ones that I don't necessarily want associated with me. As for being Captain, you know I don't like authority, and that includes exercising it. People can do as they like, including my crew. The ship only needs one to run it.

What would be the perfect gift for you?

...I actually don't know. Seems like an easy question, but I have no idea. Something lasting, I guess. Couldn't tell you what. Surprise me.

What's the most beautiful thing you've ever seen?

Joanna's smile. It's just heartbreaking.

What time of day is your favorite?

I prefer space where time is only defined by clocks, but if I had to choose it would be early morning. No distractions, not a lot of people around, but it's not dangerous either. Just cool and quiet.

What kind of weather is your favorite?

Cold, calm and clear. The kind you get in winter, I suppose. Makes me appreciate my fur coat more.

What is your favorite food? What is your least favorite food?

Safa pasta with chicken, sun-dried tomatoes and greens is delicious. Pretty much all I ate during high school, got it from the vendors in the street along the way to and from school. Least favorite is a tie. It's either that slop the Huerdaens call food, or the paste they served me when I was a prisoner on the Spinor. Both taste nasty and fuck you up if you're not used to it.

What is your favorite drink?

Alcoholic or non? My favorite alcohol drink is probably the Rusty Nail. You know you're drinking when one of those bites into the roof of your mouth. Otherwise, I like milk. Helps me not throw up after I've had too many Rusty Nails.

What's your favorite animal? Why?

I've always had a lot of respect for wolves. Lupines in general really, like the Escan and the Rasthan peoples. There's something great and terrible about how a pack works together to bring down prey and support each other. Like a family. You don't mess with wolves.

Do you have any pets? Do you want any pets? What kind?

No and no. Don't have the time, room, energy or money for an animal. Or desire, for that matter. Last thing I need is another mouth to feed. Ship's too small for one anyway.

What do you find most relaxing? Not as in stress relief, but as something that actually calms you down.

Another person's touch. Might be why I got into so much trouble in my younger years. If I got mad I'd just get angrier and angrier until it boiled over and I hit something. All it takes is a hand on my shoulder or someone pinching my tail to remind me that I'm not the only one around, you know? I've got other people to think about.

What habit that others have annoys you most?

Dancing around the issue. If you've got a problem, say it. Don't make me have to figure it out. I'll probably bite, but you'll probably deserve it. Have some integrity.

What kind of things embarrass you? Why?

Exposing myself to people. Physically and emotionally. I don't like to lose control, even though it seems like it happens a lot. People don't usually need a stream of swear words in three different languages to get the idea that I'm pissed, but it seems like I can't help myself. Then there's just being naked. With most humans it's kind of commonly accepted that you have this thing called modesty, but most kitsune don't do that, so they would find it bizarre that I would keep myself covered so much. It gets to the point that it's almost more embarrassing that they find it strange to be embarrassed.

What don't you like about yourself?

Sometimes I wish I was smarter. I know I'm not stupid, but I didn't get much of an education. Seems like there's a lot of things other people know that I don't. I guess I know all I need to know about my job and whatnot, but I don't think that's enough. I wonder what I missed.

How would you like to look?

I know it sounds shallow, but I'd like for my tits to be bigger. Not saying I'm going to get implants or anything, but I would have liked to been born with naturally larger breasts. Then again I've heard they can literally be a pain, so maybe it's a blessing. My tail could be fluffier. I like the plumes the kitsune have. Ah, it's all stupid anyway. This was the body I was born with and I've chosen to accept it. Even if I got the chance to I don't know that I would change a thing.

_______________________________________________________

Here's the big one: sex and intimacy questions.

Oh boy, here we go.

Would you consider yourself straight, gay, bi, or something else? Why?

Bi, I suppose. I've always liked males, still do, but I never even looked at a vixen. Not until the horror that was Charnel and the Spinor anyway. First it was Joanna, then it was Rili. I don't think I quite realized it at the time though. Was right surprised when it happened too, because I acted on impulse.

Who was the first person you had sex with? When did it happen? What was it like? How well did it go?

That would be Rili. We were on her ship, the Tal's Star and it just...happened. I was troubled about something, and she pinned me down and wouldn't let me up until I told her what it was. We got to wrestling and one thing led to another. It was...different. When I met her she would have been one of the last people in the universe I would have expected to fuck, unless maybe if she was raping me or something. That, and her being a woman, and it being my first time, it was interesting. She did things to me I didn't think were possible. By the end of it I was stripped, bound, gagged and I'd orgasmed twice. By our standards that's pretty damn good.

Have you ever had an opposite-sex experience? Who with, what was it like, and how did it go?

Not yet, no. I suspect it won't be long in coming, though.

What is your deepest, most well-hidden sexual fantasy? Would you ever try it?

Ha! I've already tried my deepest, most well-hidden sexual fantasy, and things that make it look tame. I can't tell you what it is because this isn't a smut rag you're writing, but it was a hell of a lot of fun. If I ever do it again, you might hear about it.
On the national news networks.

What was the wildest thing you've ever done, sexually? Who was it with and when did it happen?

Well, the one I can talk about, that was also with Rili. Big surprise, right? I needed a little revenge on her, so I got her while she was sleeping, shackles, chains, collar, leash, the whole nine yards. Then I took her for a walk through a certain city. Oh, you should have seen her face. It was priceless. This was a while ago now, and trust me, she got me back for it, but that was the crowning moment as far as I'm concerned.

Is there any sexual activity that you enjoy and/or practice regularly that can be considered non-standard? (Bondage, Fantasy Play, etc.) Why do you like it?

Now that you mention it, I don't think I've ever had "standard" sexual activity. Whatever the hell that means. Bondage, role-playing, humiliation, pet play, S&M, threesomes, outright orgies...I've done all that. Some of it I liked more than others. There's something about the cycle of gaining and losing control that's intoxicating. When you're dominant it's a delicious feeling, because you have total power over this person at their most vulnerable. Then, when you give it up, it's a surrendering of responsibility, and that can be just as good.

Is there any sexual activity that you will not, under any circumstances, do?

What, do you want me to give you a list? Just off the top of my head I'll say scat, zoophilia and anything involving kits. Because the first one is gross, the second seems desperate and the third is just not something I would be comfortable with. You know how it is. There's some things you just don't want involved with your genitals.

Do you currently have a lover? What is their name, and what is your relationship like? What are they like? Why are you attracted to them?

Right now that would be Rili. Like I said earlier, it's a roller coaster. Sometimes reminds me of why I never much bothered with this sort of thing to begin with. Other times, it makes all the difference in the universe. She can be harsh, brash, impulsive. She's had a tough life. But you can say the same of me, so we know how to handle each other. You could say we feel safe with each other because we've been through so much together. The worst has already been thrown at us, so I'm confident we'll get through everything else.

Aside from that? Well, she's sexy. What more do you want?

What is the perfect romantic date?

The one where we stay in and just explore each other's minds and bodies. I've never been much of one for going out and partying or getting very drunk. I'd want to get to know a person before I did something like that. Call me cautious.

Describe the perfect romantic partner for you.

Someone who doesn't mind when the ropes chaff a little. I don't really know how to answer that. I don't think you can predict a perfect partner. It's not something you design. It just happens.

Do you ever want to get married and have children? When do you see this happening?

I'd like a kit. Marriage, or bonding, or whatever they call it I can take or leave, but I want to have a child of my own one day. I think that's why I "adopted" Enishi, really. Maternal instincts. It's not an urge I really mind. I don't see it being likely to happen though, at least not anytime soon. My lifestyle is too active, I can wake up on a capital planet the one day and be on a backwater moon in another galaxy the next. I couldn't raise a kit in that kind of environment. So it would have to wait until I settle down. Which might only be when I'm dead, but I'll be damned if I don't at least try.

What is more important - sex or intimacy? Why?

Intimacy is more important. You can have sex with someone without really knowing them, happens all the time. But when you're intimate with someone, sex is usually what follows. I guess you could have sex and then intimacy -that's how the Xiscapians like it- but that seems backwards to me. Besides, you can have a relationship that's just intimate without sex. Can't have much of a relationship that's sex without intimacy, if that's even possible.

What was your most recent relationship like? Who was it with? Does not need to be sexual, merely romantic.

Already told you about that. You could argue that what I had with Joanna was something, but I don't know about that.

What's the worst thing you've done to someone you loved?

Killed them.

_______________________________________________________

I'm going to ask you about your experiences with and opinions on drugs and alcohol.

Sure. Those are two subjects I'm familiar with.

How old were you when you first got drunk? What was the experience like? Did anything good come out of it? Did anything bad come out of it?

I think I was about fourteen? It's hard to tell when you don't know your own age, but somewhere around there. Too young, anyway. The Kitsune Empire's laws provide that anyone can drink, as long as they're mature enough. I wasn't. When my parents were out I broke into their liquor cabinet and got drunk off vodka. Choked down like a quarter of the bottle, just to see what it was like, and promptly threw up. I didn't even have the energy to clean it up, just crawled into my room, pulled the sheets off my bed and curled up on the floor. When my parents found me I got grounded, of course, which sucked, but there weren't any lasting consequences. At least I found out that you don't drink straight vodka.
Still didn't touch the stuff for another three years after that.

Do you drink on any kind of regular basis?

Yeah, I'll have a few drinks every week. It varies, sometimes I'll go a day or two without any alcohol and sometimes I'll down three, four in a couple hours. Thing is, I usually drink socially, so there's more or less depending on whoever I'm with. When I'm alone, I might have a drink, just for the taste of it. When I'm with someone, I drink more.

What kind of alcohol do you prefer?

I like most kinds. Never been much of a beer drinker, and to this day vodka makes me a little queasy, but other than that it's all good. Bourbon is good, when you get the right stuff. Sake is alright if you want something lighter, since the Xiscapians make it real weak. If I'm going to a bar, though, I'll get martinis and other mixed drinks. Don't usually like to drink straight whiskey or whatever.

Have you ever tried any other kind of "mood altering" substance? Which one(s)? What did you think of each?

Yeah, in my younger days. I used to smoke a lot of marijuana, something to take the edge off the days. I ended up stopping because I got used to it too much for it to be effective, and my boss didn't like me showing up to work high. It was pleasant enough though. Tried both LSD and psychedelic mushrooms once. First time was at a rave; to this day I still don't know how I got there, who gave the pill to me or what the hell I did, although I think it reacted badly with the alcohol I already had in my system. I just know I woke up naked in a ditch with a bunch of fur paint I don't remember getting. The mushrooms were something I did with a couple of other people on the Yamaguchi, and that was...indescribable. I really don't know what to say about it, but it's an incredible experience. I'd actually recommend it, as long as you've got a few days to come down from it. Even a week afterwards I was still jumping at my own reflection in the mirror.

Only one I still do is khat. I keep a few leaves around. It's kind of like marijuana, but you chew it like tobacco. Calms me down, puts me in a nice state. Not deeply, and not for very long, just enough to feel it. That's how I like it.

What do you think of drugs and alcohol? Are there any people should not do? Why or why not?

I don't like to use drugs or even alcohol that much because of my line of work. Someone gets the drop on you while you're drunk or high, and your chances of survival are dramatically reduced. Still nice for a once-in-a-while sort of thing though, and I don't condemn those who use them regularly. Sometimes you just need to feel good, or to escape from reality. I know I've been in those places.

There's some alcohol and drugs you just shouldn't do. With the alcohol it's mostly stuff that's made for people who are like twelve feet tall and built like tanks, because that drink will kill you. Some of the drugs manufactured by crime syndicates are just designed to get you addicted, and while you're high on them it can make you do dangerous stuff, like make you think you're invincible. I think if you're smart you stay away from that shit. Those are bad drugs.
_______________________________________________________

Morality questions!

If we have to.

What one act in your past are you most ashamed of? What one act in your past are you most proud of?

On Charnel there was a man called Haydin. He only did anything to help me and the others in our group, but there was something wrong with him. I still don't know if he was insane, or possessed, or just a really good liar, but he was a danger to all of us. When the rescue transport came, I stopped him at the ramp. I was afraid, so I shot him in the head. He didn't even have the chance to say anything, because I didn't let him. Sometimes I lie awake at night wondering if he might have survived and gotten help if I'd let him come with us. And I hate myself for killing him, because that good bit of him didn't deserve to die.

As for what I'm proud of. I didn't think a whole lot of it at the time, but I'm very proud of how I acted when I first met Enishi. He was trying to steal my identity, see, and right as I tracked him down some Syndicate thugs showed up to take him. It wasn't my business, hell I had half a mind to hurt him myself, I could have just stood back and let them do their thing, but I couldn't let that happen to this poor kit. He was a criminal, a thief and a cheeky bastard besides, but I still defended him, and I ended up getting him out of there. One of the best decisions of my life, as it turns out.

Have you ever been in an argument before? Over what, with who, and who won?

With Enishi. I mean, dozens of times, but the one that sticks out is right before the Requiem mission. He'd been chosen to go, wanted to, and I was deadset against it. Wasn't our problem, and to be honest I didn't want to lose him to those people I didn't even know. I didn't trust them anyway. He won because he was just going to walk off the ship anyway. I ended up making it clear that if he was going, I was too.

That's when I lost him.

Have you ever been in a physical fight before? Over what, with who, and who won?

I take it you don't mean a firefight. I've been in more of those than I can count. Like a physical confrontation with someone? Not with someone I didn't want to kill. I try not to fight the people I actually like.

What do you feel most strongly about?

The people I count as my friends. People who will stick their neck out for you, help you out when you're down, do whatever you need. That's a bond I practically hold sacred. If you don't have friends, real friends, people you can trust and count on, you don't have much of anything. That's why I don't tolerate people messing with those I care about.

What do you pretend to feel strongly about, just to impress people?

I don't. Fuck off.

What trait do you find most admirable, and how often do you find it?

Honesty. Outside of places like the Kitsune Empire or the Star Empire where it's culturally ingrained, people who tell the truth are rare. It's sad. I don't know why people can't be open with each other. Fear, I suspect. And I get that.
But you shouldn't let your fear decide your fate.

Is there anything you think should not be incorporated into the media or art (sex, violence, greed, etc.,)? If so, what and why, and if not, why not?

Not really. I mean, it's real, it's out there, so why censor it? That's one thing I respect the Xiscapians a lot for. A lot of what they do makes people uncomfortable, even me, but it's never just shock value. It's what they're really thinking and feeling. And that's a component of honesty, as far as I'm concerned.

Do you have any feelings in general that you are disturbed by? What are they? Why do they disturb you?

Sometimes I like killing. That disturbs me. Some people need to die, no doubt, and you do get a certain rush from proving your martial prowess over others. But there have been times I've killed with only the flimsiest of reasons. And that scares me. That's what a serial killer does. Sometimes it just seems like I'm too ready to pull the trigger.

What is your religious view of things? What religion, if any, do you call your own?

I think they call it apatheist. Like, gods might exist. I don't rule that out. With all the stuff I've seen Terramo and his orders do, never mind the Xiscapian Church and the Cult, I'm not going to outright deny that they could be out there. That's just arrogant. But I don't believe that they have any real effect on my life. And if they do, I want to take this moment to tell them to fuck off. This is my life.

Do you think the future is hopeful? Why?

Hopeful for who? Me? Yeah, I'd say so. I've been through some pretty awful shit, and as far as I'm concerned it can only get better. Maybe not in the way I'd expect or even like, but I really think that I can only go up. And I've got some plans, some contacts. I know what I'm doing. That'll be enough.

Is an ounce of prevention really worth a pound of cure? Which is more valuable? Why do you feel this way?

Like, is it better to deter something a little now than have to spend a lot later to get rid of it? Makes sense to me. Did I misinterpret that?

What's the worst thing that can be done to another person? Why?

Lied to. Killing someone is bad, raping someone is worse, slavery is probably the most despicable system that sapient kind has come up with, but when you lie to someone you betray them. It's a breach of trust. That violates honesty, and that violates loyalty, and those are two ideals I hold dear. That's why I'm okay with death for liars in an official capacity. It's the same as treason.

What's the worst thing you could actually do to someone you hated?

You don't want to go there.

Are you a better leader or follower? Why do you think that? If you think the whole leader-follower archetype is a crock of shit, say so, and explain why?

Nah, I think there's some truth to that. I think I'd prefer to be a follower but I keep getting thrust into leadership roles. It's annoying, but I have to deal with it. I just happen to know what the fuck I'm doing, and a lot of the times, I know it best. So that's what gets me where I am.

What is your responsibility to the universe, if any? Why do you think that?

I don't owe the universe anything. I'm not even sure how I could. It's not an entity that you can really love or hate, is it? It's just there. It's like asking if I have a responsibility to that asteroid, or this star. If you mean the people of the universe, I don't think I'm responsible for them either. Why would I be?

Do you think redemption is possible? If so, can anyone be redeemed, or are there only certain circumstances that can be? If not, why do you think nothing can redeem itself?

Redemption is possible. Rili's a good example, if you know anything about her. There's no coming back from some things, though. They're just too big to be forgiven. Sometimes I think it's more honorable to hold a grudge against someone and show that you have standards than to forgive them. And I never forgive when I don't mean it.

Is it okay for you to cry? When was the last time you cried?

It's okay for me to cry. That's just a part of the expression of emotion. I don't think it's good for you to keep that bottled up anyway. The last time I cried...I was having a heart-to-heart with someone. It was raw, finding out what someone thinks and feels like that. That's all I'll say.

What do you think is wrong with MOST people, overall?

Too greedy, too selfish, too afraid. I'm not saying people should be generous, selfless and fearless -I'm nowhere close to any of those things. But it's gotten to the point where it's corrupted so many peoples, nations and societies that places where you don't find them are the exception to the rule. It's become normal. And that's not good.
_______________________________________________________

Final round. These are just miscellaneous questions.

And I thought it would never end.

What is the thing that has frightened you most? Do you think there is anything out there that's scarier than that? What do you think that would be?

I was always pretty damn scared of dying. Nothing special, most every intelligent, rational thing that exists wants to keep it that way, myself included. Sounds pretty mundane, but I don't want to not be, you know? And I don't think I would be, afterwards. I don't believe in an afterlife.

Scarier than that...that's tough. Being alone, I suppose. I was alone for a while, and it's not so bad at first, but some days you look out the cockpit and realize that nobody out there cares all that much whether you live or die. And that's depressing as all hell -if it was forever, that would be scarier than death.

Has anyone or anything you've ever cared about died? How did you feel about it? What happened?

Enishi. He went down with the Requiem. It's not really surprising, in retrospect, I don't know how Vii and I survived. I was nearly dead afterwards anyway, and I remember crawling onto that freighter and just starting to cry. All the shock, the trauma, the pain, and the realization that he was dead...that might have killed me by itself if it wasn't for Vii. He saved my life.

What was the worst injury you've ever received? How did it happen?

Got stabbed through the chest on the Spinor. Some kind of tentacle-spear thing. Don't like to talk about it.

How ticklish are you? Where are you ticklish?

You went from death and mutilation to ticklish? Damn. Well, the fur really dampens things in most places, but I know of one spot. Top and inner thigh, if someone squeezes it the right way. And don't you dare.

What is your current long term goal?

Retirement. You don't find a lot of old mercenaries out there, and there's a reason for that. Most of us don't make it out alive. I'd like to, because I don't want to do this until a job goes bad or I get too slow and end up eating lead. That's my goal.

What is your current short term goal?

Ending this interview. No offense.

Do you have any bad habits? If so, what are they, and do you plan to get rid of them?

Bad habits. None that I view as bad. If you want dirt like that you'd probably have to ask Vii, or Rili, or maybe Terramo. They'd know. Me, I think I'm just fine.

If you were a mundane person, what would you do with your life? What occupation would you want, and how would you spend all your time?

A mundane person, huh? I guess you mean someone who doesn't kill people and run between systems for a living. Well, I've always liked piloting. I think I'd probably settle on one of those little interplanetary haulers, just make trips through a system I like. Make some money, live in the same place. Dunno what I'd do with my spare time. Normal people things. What the hell are they, anyway?

What time period do you wish you had lived in? Why? What appeals to you about this era? Looking at this as an attempt to change history doesn't count.

This one. I don't know why I'd want to live at any other time. Nobody knows what's in the future, and from what I know there's nothing fun about the past. Not that it seems like there's a lot different, from a ground level. It's the same old, same old, so why change?

How private of a person are you? Why?

Compared to what? By Xiscapian standards I'm practically a recluse. I don't think I'm that private, though. As far as emotional goes, well, I don't typically wear my feelings on my sleeve, but I don't go hiding how I feel either. I think I have a good balance.

If you were to gain an obscenely large sum of money (via an inhertiance, a lawsuit, a lottery, or anything else) what would you do with it?

Retire. Buy a villa in Rio Casa and relax. Or maybe a place in the Star Empire. I don't know. Probably couldn't keep myself there regardless, but it would be nice to not have to risk my neck just to survive anymore.

What would you wish for if you found a genie?

I'd wish for Enishi to be alive again.

What do you do when you are bored?

Sleep. No, seriously. It's a luxury I don't get that often, not when I can go on four hours in thirty minute intervals for a day. If I'm awake, I'll chew some khat leaves and clean my guns. Maybe read a book. If I'm with Rili, it's fucking. Yeah. Well, that's what she likes to do, and I don't exactly mind. But I don't get much downtime.

What is the most frightening potential handicap or disfigurement you can conceive of? What makes it so frightening?

Blindness. I couldn't do my job if I was blind. Dunno what I'd do. Not to mention I'd never be able to see any of my friends again, hardly be able to move because of disorientation. I guess I'd be able to get around with just my nose and ears after a while, but those don't help with piloting. I'd lose a lot without my eyesight.

_______________________________________________________

That's the end of it. Thank you for your time, Captain Vydam.

Great. Now get off my ship.

[Abruzi]

Nothing but Everything.
PMT

Silver light from the powerful orb rising behind him cast a shadow despite it being the middle of the night. The land was dark, as dark as the deepest pits of hell yet it was alive. It seethed with violence, with passion, the two often coming together to rule the lives of men. From kilometers away he could see the town, a bright spark on an otherwise empty horizon that beckoned to him while repelling him at the same time. He snorted, then spit; the brown tobacco laced liquid landing in the fine dust-ash that was the most tangible relic of the prior world.

His horse plodded forward tirelessly, one of those rare breeds that had been hyper conditioned by the Rystari in exchange for clues to the location of some technological garbage. He had traded them the ruins of a computer manufacturing plant, it’s Novaya Bolshevist murals and slogans still visible when on the inside. They had given him one of their prized Kalashnikovs and this trained horse, trained because it wore a rubberized Gas Mask on it’s face and would walk for days on end.

Each step of the horse echoed softly, crushing the dust and ash with a soft hiss that was akin to the dying breath of a man. Perhaps it was, perhaps the horse’s steps were extinguishing the memories of those who were the dust and perhaps he was going mad. He laughed inside of his head, madness was relative and to any foreigner the Anthropini were surely an entire race of madmen. For only the insane would live in the blasted land they called home, only the insane would be able to thrive as they have, only the insane or only the most determined.

The sounds came first, the deep pulse of music and the laughter of a crowd of people. It must seem foolish he mused, to try and enjoy life even in the face of so much devastation and brutality. Though in response to his own unspoken question he realized the answer, to accept the devastation as the end would be to die. The civilization of the past has been gone for four hundred years, why dwell on what they had lost when they could instead ponder what they have gained.

Passing some unseen threshold he was illuminated by a pair of spotlights, bright lances of illumination that dispelled the darkness and yet conjured even more shadows. Slowly raising a hand, he was greeted with a call of,

“What business do you have here stranger?”

Slowly so as to not risk being shot, he reached into his saddlebags and withdrew a medallion with a leering skull on it. Raising it above his head, he offered no other answer and earned a response of,

“He’s one of those Rangers. Let him in, the bastard must be hunting someone.”

Stinking sweat gave away the fact that the gate was not powered, and slowly the mighty metal portal was opened. It screeched as it slid aside, moving on tracks that were as old as the settlement and probably an entrance to a long demolished factory. His horse obediently plodded forward and the rider stuffed his token away. Settling back into place with as much fuss as it had opened the gate sealed the way back into the Wastelands and it echoed with poetic significance. There was no going back.

The sounds got louder as he went, not only the sound of the partiers but also an angry bark of chanted words. Two realities ruled the minds and hearts of most Anthropini, the reality of religion and the reality of life. Rider had found both, he had found neither. Throbbing bass dueled with uttered word and for a moment the two reached an equilibrium within the mind of the solitary traveler. In the next is was shattered with both ending abruptly. Silence filled the void until the next song played in the tavern and the Ritual ended in the Temple.

Guiding his horse to the tavern, he tied the reins around a pole and slowly dismounted. Patrons eyed him nervously from within and as he approached the doorway a barrel chested man stepped out and placed his hand upon the Rider’s chest. Shoving him back a fraction of a step the bouncer said,

“Your weapons, we do not permit firearms or blades longer than five inches.”

Nodding the Rider spread his arms and was relinquished of all but the small knife blade that was tied to his inner thigh. Lowering his arms as soon as the bouncer had locked away his gear and given him a receipt, he entered the shadowy smoke filled tavern. Sonically assaulted by the music that blared from a system that appeared to be powered by an ancient and inefficient generator, the traveler slowly made his way to the bar. Each step brought him before a fresher and more foul debauchery, though it was hardly shocking. The Anthropini knew nothing of limits and took everything to extremes.

Finally arriving at the bar, he leaned upon it heavily and signaled for the bar man who approached after a moment of serving other customers. Answering the question that had yet to be asked, Rider quietly said,

“Vodka, pre-rectification.”

Smiling widely and revealing his distinct lack of front teeth the bar man reached below the counter and produced a dust covered bottle. Four hundred years old, the Vodka of the past had some secret ingredient that kept it as fresh as the day it had been produced. Poured into a cracked and filthy shot glass, it was crystal clear unlike the usual brews of the modern era. Rider admired it’s clearness before knocking it back. Grimacing slightly as the high proof alcohol burned it’s way down his throat, he slowly asked,

“So…Comrade…any idea where I can find Vseznaika?”

Laughing the Bar Man said,

“He’ll find you.”

Rider shook his head and said,

“As I feared.”

He knocked back a second shot of vodka, smiling as it burned it’s way down. Setting it upon the bar the traveler leaned back and stepped into the chaos of the tavern. Forcing his way back to the door, he collected his weapons and made to remount his horse. His kit was secured and one hand was raised to haul himself upwards when a heavy hand landed upon his shoulder. The quiet hiss of several drawn blades made him slowly raise his hands and turn. Confronting him were five men who were armed with vicious looking swords, crosses between falchions and machetes. The leader meanwhile was armed with a slim but deadly rapier.

Rider stood silently and mentally tried to think of a way out, while the armed men merely stared. Finally their leader said,

“You’ve been asking questions regarding our leader.”

Rider slowly produced a thin cigar which he casually lit in way of an answer. Growing impatient the leader asked,

“Is this true?”

Lowering his cupped hands Rider opened his mouth to reply but instead flicked the burning match at the leader’s face. In the same instant he swept up the Kalashnikov that was secured to his side. Before the armed men could react he cut them down with a long spray of fire from the hip. The simple thugs died, but the vocally inclined leader was only wounded. Kneeling over him Rider stoked his cigar before taking hold of it with one hand while balancing his rifle on his shoulder. Casually he said,

“Yes, I’ve been asking questions.”

Reaching down with the cigar, he firmly pressed it into the man’s eye socket and earned not only a sickening burning sound but also a shout of pain. With a quickness that betrayed his high levels of lethality, Rider jammed his Kalashnikov’s barrel into the man’s opened mouth. Leaning over him again he slowly said,

“Now, I can smell incense on your clothes so I really don’t need to ask where you leader is. For appearances though, how about you tell me?”

Confront with the fact that he could at any moment cease to exist, the leader croaked,

“The temple!”

Smiling Rider replied,

“Now I’ll assume you said the temple because with this barrel halfway down your throat you’re not making much sense. Thank you for your honesty by the way.”

Pulling the barrel from the man’s mouth he re-secured the rifle to his side and instead grabbed hold of one of the deadly blades that littered the ground. Raising it over his head he brought it down swiftly and decapitated the wounded man. Grabbing hold of the head with one hand, he held it before him like a lantern and made his way towards the temple doorway. Crowds had formed on either side of the street now, no doubt drawn by the violence he had just visited upon the thugs and their leader.

Without a glance to them Rider stood before the temple doorway. Hushed with expectation, the crowd was rewarded with the doorway being kicked out from within. Ten men exited and formed a semicircle almost surrounding Rider. There was a pause before the final man exited, clothed in the Crimson of a Warmonger and armed with an oversized cleaver. He regarded Rider and the head of his lieutenant before shouting,

“You come before me reeking of violence. I approve.”

Rider threw the head down without a word and allowed the wet smack of blood upon sand do his talking. The Warmonger replied by raising and then lowering his hands, signaling his thugs to attack. Rider smiled and drew two short but deadly swords from his back, their nonshine black blades making them appear to be foot long manifestations of the night. Coming at him with shouts to the Gospodar Lubanja, the thugs died one by one. Felled by the expertise of Rider without so much as a scratch befalling the stoically silent individual. Covered in gore and surrounded by corpses, he stood before the Warmonger and finally said,

“Where is he?”

Laughing the Warmonger replied,

“The Heretical will never find the avatar of the Lubanja! He shall walk with impunity in the crypts of doubt and strike fear into the heart of all who know of War!”

Instead of closing with and destroying the Warmonger, Rider turned away and mounted his horse. Regarding the priest a final time he slowly said,

“Lucky I don’t worship your craven god.”

With that he threw the small knife blade secured to his inner thigh and rode off, leaving the Warmonger to die amidst the crowd of still silent spectators. His obedient horse pounded the ground as it raced through the crowded city streets, emerging from the sprawl near the very gate he had passed through earlier. It was ajar and the guards were dead, seemingly boiled alive. Cursing he lowered himself against his horse’s back and spurred him on, racing into the night that still seethed with violence and passion.

It was different now, he saw things through the eyes of a hunter and not a scholar. The landscape no longer was the remnants of an ancient and hateful society, but cover for a prey that ran form his with the swiftness of a tempest. He pursued, for hours and days he pursued, trusting minute signals that he saw in the landscape. Through the forest of the lost, through the broken valley of the east, and finally to the great gatehouse of Gorod Vitse. Lust, Passion, Vice, radiated from the city that stretched as far as the eye could comprehend. Rider knew that this was where his quarry had gone to ground, no doubt taking shelter with old comrades and other criminals. It was not without some trepidation that he entered, lost in the sea of almost pilgrim like visitors who hungered to lose themselves in the pleasures offered.

It was a city like no other, filled with electric lights and policed by well armed guards. Music and the passionate groans of lovers and sex slaves echoed from the seedy clubs and bars that lined every street. Habitation Blocks stretched out beyond the well lighted streets and shanty towns raced over the landscape for miles out. The walls separated the shanty half city from the well policed interior, but the stink of the crumbling makeshift houses was never blocked out. Filth both moral on the inside and physical on the outside gave Gorod Vitse it’s name and to Rider it was all repulsive.

His horse as always obediently plodded forward, spurred as much by it’s rider as it’s understanding of their pursuit. His finger always on the trigger of his Kalashnikov which he wore openly now, Rider surveyed the buildings and block upon block of shanty houses that they passed. Despite the fat that they were so well observed he felt strangely alone, and yet on the distance he could see, or rather sense, a kindred spirit. As he had mentioned to the Warmonger, he was not one of the faithful choosing instead to be the master of his own destiny and yet he felt the touch of something more than man.

Weaving through the crowds, the light grew to a raging inferno as he drew nearer and nearer to a squat building that was surrounded by a three foot high wall. The wall was not constructed of awkwardly shaped stones as he first surmised, but of skulls both large and small. Leading his horse down the pathway that was laid skull tops, he came to a doorway that was empty. Hitching his horse to a solitary stone peg, he entered and was immediately immersed in shadows that were deeper than the night.

He could not see the dimensions of the chamber, and it’s outside seemed to have no relation to the interior. He felt as if he stood in the largest of cathedrals and yet when he hissed his breath outward it felt as if it was being pushed back towards him by confining walls. A single beam of light shined into the room, and yet it was as if the light was not from the sun but somewhere else. It was as if the light was merely inside his mind, not a shaft of light but of thought. He took a single step towards it and was immediately beside the altar, not surprised to see that it was constructed out of human bones. He knelt before it, not because of reverence but because to do otherwise was simply unthinkable.

Like mists from a swamp a figure appeared beside him, clothed in leather that was dominated by infinitely minute symbols and script. He held out two hands that were covered in the same shifting script and with a voice that was as cold as the deepest of winters said,

“Death welcomes you my son.”

Rider could not answer, to answer would be unthinkably ignorant. Instead he merely bowed his head accepted the blessing of the Teni. Awash with the aura the man projected, Rider finally managed to say,

“I was called.”

To which the Teni replied,

“But you have yet to truly answer.”

With a shock Rider realized the spell was broken and he was alone. The chamber was empty and even the alter was different. It was not bone but wood and the chamber not massive but oppressively small. Rising he saw that before him was an old man, a caretaker, one who had just agreed to watch his animal and equipment while he visited the city in pursuit of his prey. Nodding an answer he had not thought and yet he had said, Rider exited and grimly fell into line with the reset of the pilgrim-visitors. Wretched examples of humanity that hungered only for momentarily fulfillment and nothing of a philosophical validation. Above the throng stood warriors, guardsmen who were armed with firearms as often as blades. Bowing his head, Rider swam with the current and was deposited near a massive building that could only be one of the Pleasure Houses of the Semʹya Pokhotlivye. It was ugly and yet appealing and for a moment Rider felt the pull of the lustful from within, smelt their sweating bodies, and tasted their sensuality. In the next however he remembered the sheer wrongness of their vocations and shuffled past.

He was suffocating amidst the masses of wretched humanity and in desperation entered one of the towering games houses that lined the streets. Immediately he wished that he had not for the interior was just as cramped as the exterior. Tables of card games and all manner of gambling crowded the great chamber he had entered and above it all nude women danced. Salvaged telescreens beamed brutal gladiator games and obscene pornography and in the distance he could hear the screaming of a tormented small child. This was wrong, this was a disgrace and to a disciplined Ryeĭndzher such as Rider, this was disgusting.

Pulling his overcoat closer about him he grimly forced himself through the throng yet again to confront a barman. This time however he did not request information and instead a drink. It was purple, the drink was purple and fizzed as he tipped it back. Immediately he felt the work of whatever drugs they had chosen and for a moment he swayed uneasily. Strong hands pulled at him and in what appeared to be a blink of an eye he was cast into one of the dozen of pleasure pits.

Naked women circled him and eagerly tugged at his clothes. Rider tried to resist, he tried to fight but his body would not respond to his mind. They successfully tugged off his overcoat and shirt, and his silent scream went unheard. Gently they kissed his mouth, chest, and arms slowly working their way down to his genitals. With slight tugs they pulled his pants and undergarments off, exposing his manhood. They cooed with excitement and stimulation, their blood streaming with narcotics. Rider’s rage broke the spell, shattered the drugs that held sway over his mind and suddenly he could move.

His anger was such that he reacted with violence and in a second his hands were around two separate girls’ throats. He crushed their windpipes with an inhuman strength and tossed them into their fellows. Sweeping up his clothing he shrugged on his overcoat and immediately drew his weapons. Climbing out of the pit he stood again before the barman and roared,

“Who ordered you to put it in my drink?”

The man was slow to answer so Rider vaulted over the bar and grabbed hold of him. Pistoning his fist into the man’s face again and again, he stopped only when he noticed that the fat man had stopped struggling. Throwing him to the ground he surveyed the crowd and was surprised to find them cheering him on. Violence and spectacle were largely one in the same and his killings were applauded as a simple display. Sweeping his eyes over the cheering mass, he saw the one he hunted, he saw Vseznaika.

It was the first time in ten years, and yet he instantly recognized the man. Tall, dark, and intelligent, he too saw Rider and immediately turned to run. Sheathing his blade and lowering his shoulder, Rider charged into the crowd and fought his way forward. Finally breaking free from the oppressive crowd, Rider saw that his enemy had fled without a trace. Cursing, he fell into a light jog that took him deeper and deeper into the city. Horrors akin to those inside the gambling halls greeted him, though they became gradually more violent. He saw women who he thought were nude, but turned out to be clothed in human skin. He saw a man hacked apart with a machete on a street corner. He saw children playing with human heads and people feasting upon body parts, and yet it seemed to fit naturally in the environment.

A sense of cynicism had settled upon him, a sense of acceptance that felt as natural as the altar in the temple to death. It was this city, this fucking city warped the mind and allowed for it’s debaucheries and horrors. Rider cursed and wanted to lash out and kill the closest person, but he realized that that was what it wanted. The malign force that looked upon this city hungered for wrongs, hungered for vices, it was vice and yet it fed off of it. The thought was sudden, unprovoked, and most assuredly correct.

Rider cursed again and forced his way down into a cellar and bolted the door behind him. Out of the darkness loomed several people, half caught in the act of lovemaking and half dying. It was an obscene combination, with the entrails of one slowly slipping out as their passionate act increased in intensity, obvious the work of some insane surgeon. Drawing his blade, Rider finished both of the participants before their sacrifice reached completion. The very thought that he had had to do that was sickening, it was disgusting, and yet if was right. It felt as if by killing them he had only fed the hungry Vice-thing more.

Stalking through the hallways, Rider witnessed act upon terrible act, yet instead of being revolted he felt strangely comforted. He again saw a flame burning on the horizon and it seemed to lead him through the corridors like a moth to a flame. Step after step he drew neared and yet it remained on the edge of his vision, as if he was not yet ready, had not yet seen enough. Rider became conscious of his surroundings just as the surgeon made the first swipe at him with a barbed saw. Jumping back, Rider responded by stabbing the man through the chest and the foe screamed in ecstasy even as he died.

That seemed to break the spell upon him and Rider was suddenly free from whatever taint had taken hold. He stood in a cold, wet, and dark chamber that stank of death and sex. It was disgusting and for a moment he longed for the sense of acceptance that had been taken from him. The Surgeon’s theater was a place of worship, that became obvious as soon as he inspected his surroundings. It led to an altar that was as much a graft of living tissue as it was a monument. This place was offensive and with a roar Rider swept the offerings from the Altar. There was no contact with a greater being this time, no old man, at least initially. Slowly a sensation grew upon him and with a gasp, Rider fell to his knees and then to the floor. Darkness forced itself upon him, and the final noise he heard was one of otherworldly laughter.

With a shudder he awoke, the landscape twisting before his eyes and for a moment he feared that once again he had been drugged. Thankfully it settled into place after a few moments and he slowly rose to his feet. Unlike usual he awoke from being incapacitated with all of his gear and a distinct lack of torture. Where was he? The question posed itself only to be answered with, “A Dead Zone.” It was obvious he was in a region of high Noosphere Activity because of the warped status of the stones and trees around him. Branches twisted upwards only to loop down, rocks formed irregular shapes, shadows stood where no objects rested, and the wind blew from every direction at once.

Shapes formed and then blew away on the edges of his perception, and as he took the first step forward he realized that before him towered a vertical rock wall where there had been nothing. The nature of the Noosphere meant that any thoughts, dreams, aspirations, or nightmares, could form and become reality. Often changing the landscape even as it became something else. Rider focused, and before him appeared a pathway suspended above the ground. Seizing his opportunity, he ran along it for exactly ten steps before his concentration slipped and it became a lake.

The dark water pulled him down and for a moment he felt a great tentacle grab hold of him. Even as he was being pulled down by an unknown monster, he focused on the image of a desert. Immediately he was surrounded by sand and the monster pulling him down turned into a harmless dune. Gasping for breath, he focused only on the dune, only on the dune, and that was his biggest mistake. Around the dune came monsters from nightmares, crab humans, sub wolves, tentacle wielding monsters, and bug eyed beasts. Rider only noticed them as they began to descend upon him and with a sense of desperation he thought of anything, anything but where he was, and that was where he was taken.

An altar was before him, made of human bones. A hooded Teni stood in the background, but stretched out upon it was his prey, Vseznaika. The man was spitted on a ridge of bones though he was still very much alive. Rider stood over him and slowly produced a knife. Reaching down he bared the man’s chest before plunging it in, to the hilt. Smiling Rider held out his token and said,

“Contract complete.”

The Teni in the background suddenly stepped forward and said,

“Oh you think that.”

Everything melted, it was not a gradual process but one that took place thousands of times faster than the speed of sound. The chamber, the Teni, Rider, his target, all melted and in their place the shocking familiar ruins of the Dead Zone arose. Deserts, cities, mountains, hellscape, utopias, they all flew by the bewildered traveler as quickly as his mind could spin. Impossible buildings towered above ant like people who were obliterated by giant fleshy fists that descended from the sky that was a sea of rolling madness. It had no beginning and Rider knew that he would go insane long before the end.

The only constant was the chorus, a distant cabal of voices that sang praises to a pantheon of bloodthirsty gods. Their guttural chants echoing through space and time, keeping him just sane enough to remained observant and yet disorientated enough to be lost to the seas of fancy and circumstantial thought. He stood in ancient cities and melting slag heaps, beheld the birth of planets and the death of stars. He was torn asunder and reborn millions of times per minute and the only word he could discern from the chorus was,

“Control.”

It repeated in an unending litany to whatever fell gods deigned to listen, control for the sake of it. It echoed throughout ever person in every nation, their thoughts awash with it and their bodies craving it. Love, rage, violence, it was all control. It all led only to control, for control was mankind and mankind was control. It was an ideology in itself and yet it was nothing, just a concept in a man’s mind. Yet the mind, the mind was the gateway to the ideal which was the portal to perfection. It was the fundamental truth and yet it was also the most basic of lies. Control was unreachable, it was nothing, and for untold hours, minutes, seconds, or centuries, Rider was nothing.

Finally he emerged, broken, bloody, and insane. His mind as warped as the experiences of the last centuries in his mind but perhaps only seconds in the real world. There was the temple, the altar, the skulls, and yet it was not. It flashed before his eyes and yet was millions of kilometers away. He was nowhere and everywhere, with whole realities mixing with the tangible reality despite him leaving the Dead Zone. He was a localized Noosphere crack, doomed to play out the million fantasies of humanity and yet able to live. He was as much a figment of a million, million people’s imaginations as he was a very real living and breathing individual.

Each step took years or was it milliseconds, each though profound and yet mundane. The only emotion he could accurately experience was the hunt, the pursuit, the search for prey he no longer remembered. He ran here and there, or did he stand still? He killed and ended hundreds of lives, or did he quietly dream? He was or was he not? The only word he could understand without difficulty and a million clashing realities was, “Control.” Over and over it was as much an unending chant to the gods in this reality as it was in the other, as much a prayer as it was a curse. Over and over, pounding his mind with great waves of disorientation, it refused to be forgotten.

He was back in the temple of the Lustful, and yet he was not. There lied the corpse of the Doctor, and the very same spot was empty. He crawled through the shadows, or did he fly? The wail of pitiful yet ecstatic lovers echoed yet there was also the most profound of silences. The Noosphere rippled about him and yet it was still. It cast shadows before his eyes and it also illuminated him to the workings of reality. He came upon enemies, or were they friends? Split their bodies asunder with a word or was it a thought? Freed himself from captivity or was it a final surrender?

Sprinting through Gorod Vitse or was he crawling? Racing through the crowds or sliding with the worms, he killed or did he save? Each step leaving a bloody or clean footprint? His weapons or hands stained with the blood of the guilty or innocent? It mattered not yet it was also the most important of facts. He sowed terror or was it joy? He brought glory or was it shame? Rider collected his horse. It was the only act he could distinctly recognize as being real. Of his own status he could discern nothing, not the color of his skin nor the temperature of the day.

Mounting it, he rode for hours or perhaps seconds. He traveled to every corner of Abruzi, all the while staying in only one place for centuries. Hunting, seeking, losing, lost, he sought what could never be found yet he had always had. Every time he threatened to break free from the madness, the chant returned,

“Control. Control. Control. Control.”

Unending and never beginning, horrible and wonderful, empty but full. It was life, and life was it. It was nothing and everything. It was the purpose and yet offered no reasons. It was simply put, Control.

[-Pinkville]

VALLEY

[FanT/PT/MT]

The village was busy. Both equine and human stood together in the center on a small mound. The humans were ragged. Olive drab uniforms were torn, black combat boots ripped, torn and rotting. Their teeth had never seen a tooth-brush and their hair had never experienced a wash. They held rusty weapons on their shoulders, as well as weapons carved from the trees around them. They were animals of the jungle, rejected by civilization. "Where'd them horses run off to, sir?"

The soldiers squinted and flexed their jaws. The equine tribals left them on the mound, alone. The sun peaked overhead and the squawks of jungle birds echoed across the silent village. "Right there." A large troop of equine slowly approached the mound, the troopers fidgeted with their rusty rifles and rough wooden stakes unsure of the situation.

"Sure is lots of horses, Sir." The procession stopped in front of them and a large, painted equine approached the mound. He stood silently in front of the G.I.s. The soldiers nervously gripped their weapons and eyed the village. Big eyes stared back from the shadows of the huts. The horse chief bobbed his head and spoke in a deep, guttural fashion, "What are you doing here, Man? This isn't a place for your kind."

One of the soldiers collapsed, a large wooden splinter jutted out of his neck so forcefully, his neck snapped and sliced through the other side, blood oozed and spurted wildly. "Aw shit! Spread out!" The men bolted in all directions to the edge of the mound, the horse chief neighed and kicked up dirt, running at a trooper armed with a rusty Colt revolver. The chamber revolved, one, two, three times. His soldiers were overtaken by a mob of horses stampeding up the mound, their heads down, ramming and trampling the soldiers who couldn't run.

The chief was dead, his long equine skull was shattered and his skin peeled back, blackened and shredded by the large .45 caliber rounds. He swung his giant cannon around and the chamber revolved a fourth time. The entire right side of a galloping horse exploded in a bloody bone-filled mist. The body settled violently on the muddy ground and blood gushed out of it's wound. "Get out of the village! Go!"

He cocked his revolver again and lifted it up, the hammer clicked back and the chamber turned, rolling a fresh bullet into the chamber. He gazed down the octagonal barrel -- inscribed with "Beauty" along the side -- and lugged the heavy thing to the left, aiming right at a horse tearing apart a screaming soldier. "I hate fucking horses..." the gun went off, the chamber exploded. In a flash his hand disappeared and he was thrown backwards onto the hard ground of the mound. The fighting slowly ended and the horses neighed and bucked over the dead soldiers.

"Uuhh... Fuck..." the soldier squirmed on the ground and spat blood. His view was crowded by vicious horses covered in blood staring down at him. A large horse, covered in blood and blind in one eye stared down at him, the wooden stake protruding from his left eye. "This is our land, not yours." He raised his hoof high while the soldier waved his bloody stump in the air as the hoof smashed into his skull and stomped it in until he went limp.

---

They slowly crossed the dense jungle, dead leaves and branches crunched under their old, torn combat boots. The jungle around them was thick and the sunlight above them fought the canopy of leaves for space to shine.

The line of men strained their ears for all the sounds, natural and unnatural. A dog whined loudly and sniffed the deck, catching a scent. "What you got, boy?" They stepped through taller grass, waist high and the trees started to thin.

"We're gettin' somewhere now." They picked up speed and began to jog slowly through the tall, thin grass. The trees thinned out, giving way to a large clearing and a rolling valley ahead. "Finally," The line of men slowed down and fanned out. The dog barked louder, frothing at the mouth. "Down boy."

They spotted the brown creatures and fell into a skirmish line. "Remember Walker..." The fire terrified the creatures, they galloped in all directions, towards huts, towards open fields. The fire was inescapable. "Alright, move in and burn it." They stood up, broke the line and readied their Zippos. The soldiers calmly walked through the village, a testament to primitive living. "Thatch roofs burn good."

[Karaig]

BLOOD ACROSS THE SNOW

Chapter III: The Rethian Run

[ FT ]

[ Mature ]

I can still see the boy, poor kid didn't stand a chance when that Cytroxis tank showed up. Mitchy was a nice kid, quiet, a musician. I still zone out, I see him, even with the blue visor covering his face, I see him. That last moment, tore apart, so much pain. That was what Tyror III was all about; pain, a pain we had to deal with and fight. A pain we still live with to this day. Rethian was a hard start, it wasn't an easy way into the war like the others, some might say it was harder than the first wave divisions that hit Isenkaras.

Tyror III wasn't the Cytroxis' to begin with. It was a joint colony between Karaig and the Arcturix Combine; an industrial world that was very wealthy. No wonder it was taken so quickly by the bugs, the minerals, climate, preexisting fortifications, all were perfect for them. Running across Rethian, boy that was scary; no cover, just purple. They rained hell on us, boy did they ever. If it wasn't for the HAZE, every last one of us would have been dead. When it was over, planting that flag, we knew it was going to be a rough campaign, but we knew we ha our foot in the door. We were waiting for the crowbar to take it off. After the Combine heard about us taking Rethian, their government called our government, congratulating us on taking their old base back. They wanted to know when we would have the planet secure so they could move their people back in. Our government told them to take hike or send troops to help us, bloody cowards.

It was the greatest conversation in our nation's political history.

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

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

Toren swung his SPKR, the assault rifle's heavy stock kissing the face of the Cytroxis Roach. With the cracking and popping of sinew and bone, the bug fell, warm orange blood spilling onto the concrete like ground. Isaac looked up to see his squad finishing up, Ellenwood yelled as he pumped more rounds into a Roach, Sergeant Brisonand and Corporal Carrousal planting charges onto a Cytroxis built AA laser. The squad was just under enemy fire, their trench that branched off from the web of courtyard trenches ending in a circular base of this AA gun. They had been hard pressed, the trenches were hard to hit from the ocean, many bugs hiding in them as the gunships had made their initial run. Luckily it worked both ways, the Cytroxis bunkers couldn't shoot into them.

"Alright, clear out, AA site is going up!" yelled the Sergeant as everyone moved out of the circular depression, back into the trenches. A few seconds later, a white flash appeared, followed by the howl of an explosion as the AA gun was tore up, shrapnel raining over the area.

"Ardav, how's Sciartins?" Brisonand said turning to the other sergeant.

"Stable, but he won't be helpful for the rest of this fight. When are we getting any medevacs?" replied Ardav as he looked over the trench. A bark from his gun, and a figure in the shadow dropped.

"Not until every AA gun is gone, everyone, check your weapons!' shouted the Sergeant, ushering the sound of mechanical clicks, whirls and the metallic sounds of clips being replaced.

Sergeant Brisonand stepped up beside Ardav, holding up a large box-like set of binoculars. He looked through surveying the battlefield. He panned the area, his sight piercing the debris and smoke with ease. He panned over a trench full of BRATs, their weapons howling and barking as they cut down small Cytroxis slave soldiers. He panned again seeing a blasted bunker and AA gun, Captain Fenix and his squad flanking a squad of Roaches with another squad of BRATs; the effect was devastating as the Roaches were swiftly cut down between the tungsten teethed guns. He raised his view up to a raised area of the base, four AA guns stood vigilant, only to be eclipsed by three massive naval guns. It was one of three identical batteries, and his target. Brisonand put down the scanner, turning back to his squad.

"Listen up troops; we're winning this fight, there are four more AA emplacements based at the naval guns, once they're gone, air support can help us hammer the base. Once that emplacement is gone, only two will remain, but they'll be easy once were on the high ground. Here's the plan; we're going to move up these trenches until we get to as close as we can. They we'll lay down some fire onto those bunkers from the protection of the trenches. What're we carrying for missiles."

"One launcher, six shots left, Sir." replied Lericia, as he hefted the missile launcher over his shoulder.

"Alright, grenade shells?" Brisonand inquired.

"Forty between me and Toren sir." said the rough voice of Rownandiaz.

"It'll do, make every shot count. Alright, we'll move up in two lines, I'll take-" Brisonand stopped, tapping the side of his helmet. Over the platoon's comm lines, the voice of Fenix rung.

"1st Platoon, this is the Captain. Listen up and listen well; we have twenty two minutes until our naval support arrives and these guns aren't gone yet. We need to haul ass people, or the navy gonna have a hell of a time helping us! Sergeant Sigfilas, move your mortar unit up to the ruined AA trio: see if you can hammer the enemy garrisoned around the naval guns, Beta and Epsilon Squad I need you up here now for support-"

the comms were filled with gunfire and yelling, different voices yelling curse words, commands, and cries of pain. More so was the piercing squeal of Cytroxis infantry dying and their ferocious battle cries. It quickly faded as the Captain returned to speaking.

"Fuck! Enemy troops are flooding out of a bunker under the raised naval guns, must be a tunnel exit, I need support now before-" he was cut off again by a massive roar, and another soldier yelling.

"OH SHIT BEETLE, DOWN DOWN!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!" more gunfire and the sound of heavy energy rounds, torn debris and grenades.

"I NEED SUPPORT NOW!!"

Brisonand turned to his men, hefting his SPKR-50.

"Men, the Captain is getting hell and we can't help him, we need to haul ass and get to a position where we can help." he paused, looking over the courtyard and at the bunkers up on the cliff.

"I'm going to ask you all to risk your lives in a suicidal action. Can you trust me?"

"All shit Sarge, you mean more suicidal than this mission is?" laughed Ellenwood over the squad's comms, "Well, you're Lifer, so I'll assume you have a plan to keep us alive; I with ya' and so's Isaac Toren here. We're all suicidal idiots who joined the army, we didn't sign up for fluff and easy going marine-hood, we came to the batshit crazy Infantry Legion. We be here to pull off the suicidal shit, and look sexy doing it!"

"Sarge, I hate to agree with Failure-First Degree," said Corporal Carrousal. "But we be in the shit, and we'll follow you to the end. Preferably victory, but all I want is some food right now." this brought about a chorus of groans about the army rations, which brought a smile to Brisonand's hidden face.

"Alright squad, we're running it. Captain needs us; its a three hundred meter dash across that open ground, we'll be shot at by bunkers and heavy energy weapons. Do you understand?

The squad shook their head, and made confirmatory noises, they were reading.

"Alright," he said as he tapped his comm. "Sergeant Hardsonan... yeah, feel like a run?... Good, two minutes..... yep.....uh-huh. Just book it... Good, very good." he turned back to his man, giving a thumbs up. "get ready. Sciartins, can we leave you?"

The wounded soldier looked at the Seregant,his visor cracked and waist bandaged. "Sure can, I have my gun I'll do fine."

"Good."

---

Don't Stop. Stop and you die. No matter what; DO NOT STOP.

Isaac Toren ran, which was an understatement: he practically flew. The BRATs dashed across the courtyard, violet rain tearing up the ground around them as the bunkers unleashed their tempest. HAZE nanite screens flooding the area as mortar support gave the soldiers their grace. Toren veered left just as a heavy laser punched into the ground beside him: a death blow no matter what he was in. Beta Squad was running along them, spread enough to avoid being cut down in one attack, but still close enough to hear their comrades swearing through their helmets. A symphony of fucks, oh shits, Altaria damn it, and the machine gun rapid bitch, bitch, bitch! All in all, it wasn't that badly sung. Isaac kept going, breathing heavily as he was both panicked and tired, and dared a glimpse over his right shoulder. He was just in time to see Beta closing in on cover, one of their machine gunners spitting death at the enemy. he unlucky gunner with swiftly cut down by three separate bunkers: his firing had only slowed him by seconds, but enough to spell death.

"GO GO GO!" yelled Ellenwood over the comms, bring Isaac back to focus. Up ahead there was a final trench, it circled the raised plateau like a moat, it's back wall part of the tower gun positions. Inside Fenix's squad were hunkered down, firing around the corner up some stairs which ultimately took them to their goal: the guns. Jumping down into the trnech, they were greeted by Alpha Squad: and a vocal greeting of holy shit you're batshit crazy! It was good to know they were appreciated.

"Brisonand, Hardsonan, that was ballsy, good fucking work!" said the Captain as he greeted them. "Surprised you only took one casualty! Listen, we're this close to the guns, but there's only one set of stairs. They can flank us from the battlements up top, we need to hammer them so I got Gamma preparing a mortar barrage. We'll saturate it, then storm it. I won't lie we'll get hit hard."


"Not a problem sir for the Sigma Company sir." replied Hardsonan.

"Alright, Delta was helping us flank the enemy, they're down the trench and on their way. Let's do this."

With that Fenix tapped the comms, barking a quick set of orders. Seconds later explosions rang out as the mortar storm began; heavy rounds slamming into the positions above, debris showering over as the mortars tore up the enemy line. Fenxi tiled his head as he heard a report, and turned back to the troops saying an AA gun just went up. Then came the whoosh sound as plasma shells feel, bathing the area in fire and death; the screams of the enemy troops up there was evident of that, a few even fell off, their burning corpses greeting the Karaigian troops below.

"Fuck man..." said Ellenwood in awe as the Cytrox fell.

"Yeah man.....fuck..... terrible way to.... fuucckk." replied Isaac.

The mortar shower kept raining, even though gamma only had four mortars, the revolving mags gave them a very fast rate of fire. Their munitions would be running low by that point, and the Captain realized this; he raised his assault rifle.

"Men," the raining stopped. "Make me proud."

---

The forty five men of the four squads stormed the stairs with ease, the fires above covering their advance. Captain Fenix was the first up top: his gun barking as he cut down three enemies instantly, counter fire grazing his right shoulder as he moved, the troops behind him receiving the full pelt as he was cut down. The troops kept moving, running onto the plateau of the naval guns. the plasma fire still burning in some areas as Cytroxis troops ran alight, toppling over each other. To the attackers' hopes, they had expected the defenders beaten. This was far from the truth.

Whole squads of Cytrox remained intact, many rushing out of bunkers towards the BRATs. Making up the first line, ranks of Grubs ran forward, the short and stocky bugs fulfilling the as the slaves of the Cytroxis caste system. They jeered and screamed as they fired off their small guns; submachine guns at best, the violet-pink blasts doing little more than blacken the Karaigian paint. Behind them, heavily armed, and actually threatening Roaches, pushed them on as wardens. Karaigian troops returned fire, their bursts cutting down the grubs by the scores, their orange blood spraying everywhere. Not even the Roaches behind got off many shots; the machine guns of the platoon howling as they tore the Roaches limb from limb. The platoon continued their storm.

Rushing forward, the BRATs cut down all opposition with gauss fire, the barking, howling, and wailing of their weapons deafening. They rushed past an AA gun as two Delta squad troopers through grenades on it. An explosion ripped outwards as the BRATs continued their advance. More Roaches stormed out, firing violet blasts as the BRATs dispersed behind cover, returning the gift. The firefight began as grenades were thrown and bullets slung. Isaac jumped down behind a shattered bunker, once again next to Ellenwood.

"See the universe they said, just carry this gun they said!" yelled Toren.

"Could be worse, we could have to be dealing with Grell shit!" Ellenwood laughed.

"TO-FUCKING-CHE!" Isaac said as two Roaches fell to his gun.

"Shit, flanking!" yelled a Delta trooper as seven Roaches stormed around the corner, firing with their guns. Isaac and Ellenwood turned and unloaded their magazines into the Roaches, along with have of Delta's troops as well. The BRATs fired, an few Roaches fell.

"PHALANX!" yelled a soldier as the smoke clear, each Roach covered by a circular purple energy shield strapped to their arm: their gun poking through.

"Get some heavy fire on them Toren!" yelled Brisonand.

Isaac angled his gun, and launched a grenade from his launcher. It whistled as it slammed into the Roaches, a fiery plume erupting as it detonated, absolutely vapourizing three Roaches. The rest were tossed like rag dolls, and fell prey to automatic fire, expect for one. The Roach pack's leader stood upright, his shield raised. A machine gunner from Delta squad opened fire, tungsten ripping at the Roach. Flashes shot out as the tungsten shots vapourized against the shield, and the Roach let out a bellowing roar; a battle cry and insult at the petty attack. It raised it's right arm, a massive whip in hand. The whip was actually made up of segmented blades, held together by the violet energy that was common to every Cytroxis weapon. It flicked its wrist, the energy whip coiling around the machine gunner like a purple python. With another flick, the coiled whip ripped the soldier's head clean from his neck; the heavy armour of the soldier nothing to the whip.

"TOREN!"

Isaac fired another grenade at the Roach. Seeing it coming with unnatural canny, only matched by its speed, the Roach spun, his whip lashing out taking off the head of an trooper from Alpha squad and lacerating a soldier in half from Delta. Its energy shield was angled perfectly: the grenade shell's head didn't every hit it, only the side. It deflect behind the Roach, detonating far from being helpful.

"What the fuck! I call bull on that!" yelled Isaac as he raised his gun.

The Roach raised its energy whip above its carapace head, ready to bring it down into a killing blow. It roared another battle cry as it brought its whip to attack Isaac. Then a loud crack and the Roach roared; this time in pain. Its wrist exploded as it dropped the whip, orange blood pouring down. It turned to see a BRAT with a HDHNTR designated marksman's rifle. Carrousal took a shot, the Roach raising its shield to protect its body, only to feel pain as the shot hit its ankle. Another shot, and the Roach tried to block its other ankle, only for the shot to tear through its throat. It collapsed dead.

"My whip." said Carrousal as he strode forward, putting another round into the fallen creature's head.

"Nice shot Corporal!" said Brisonand, as he rushed forward. "They tried to flank us, let's use that against them!"

Rushing around the corner, they stormed past a naval gun, gunning down its crew. The came out from behind the naval gun beside a line of Grubs. Barking rung out as they mowed down the line, orange blood cascading everywhere. A massive Beetle turned to see them, the nine foot juggernaut hefting a barely portable machine gun style energy weapon. It gave a massive bellow aiming the gun, just in time to receive a missile to the face from an unseen shooter. It exploded, the Beetle falling, its machine gun roaring a violent violet death across some Roaches. Rushing forward, Toren, Ellenwood, Brisonand, and several other BRATs flanked the Cytrox soldiers, cutting them down within seconds.

The ramparts were in their hands: the Navy was clear to bring the rain.

[United World Order]

[ PT ]

[ Mature ]

The Blood of The State.

"RUUUAAA!, RUUUAAA!, RUUAA!" They shouted from their trenches as they climbed out like sewer rats with they're rifles and submachine guns and charged through the desolate field toward our positions. I holding my Kar98k rifle which was bolt action as i pulled the bolt back and foward putting a new round in the chamber and i raised my rifle looking through the sights lining up my target. He was running with a submachine gun having his head ducked low in a way. I had a perfect shot for his forehead as i smirk and gently squeezed the trigger with my index finger. The shot rang out and i saw my victim's forehead blow to chunks of brains and blood as it stained the grass below him his body dropping dead to the ground as i pulled the bolt back and foward chambering a new round. I heard the explosions of motars which meant our fire support had arrived and began shelling the vermin who rushed foward like pitifull ants. These rebels didn't have clean well dressed uniforms and up to date rifles and some submachine guns. As i lined up my sights on another rebel who didn't even have a rifle i was about to squeeze the trigger when he zig-zagged and was blown away by a motar round. His arm being severed and thrown into the air as i watched it come back down. I looked at my fellow comrades taking shots at them and taking cover by ducking they're heads when they returned fire.


I reloaded and took a few more shots as the enemy began tossing grenades at us. I felt one agaisnt my leg and panicked picking it up and tossing it back. It exploded off in the distance as i ducked my head low catching my breath from that almost horrific experience. I got back up and heard more explosions and gunfire and then followed by a loud whistle as i looked and saw an officer waving his pistol ordering a charge. I sunk low into the dirt and retrieved my bayonet and connected it to my rifle as i turned over on my belly and charged out of the trenches with my brothers. This time the rebels opened up on us with gunfire of all sorts. I ducked my head low having seen one soldier get shot in the face with blood spewing in the air. I saw a crater from a moatar round and rolled in there and took deep breaths as another soldier jumped in aswell and looked at me wide eyed and nodded putting a fresh magazine in his MP40 submachine gun. Bullets were pinging and hissing over our heads as i pulled the bolt back and foward and turned over on my belly and lined up a shot on a rebel MG'er who was spraying rounds. I fired hitting him in the shoulder seeing the red spot on his left shoulder but he continued to shoot. I reloaded and aimed again and fired the shot having ripped through his chest as he fell backwards dead.


We had broken through the desolate field and jumped into they're trenches which were empty from the enemy retreating. We saw them running away like cowards as we shot them down as they ran. I lined up a shot and fired having blew the rebel's knee out as i watched him try to crawl away. I reloaded and fired again hitting him in the lower back which if it hit his spine he would be paralyzed. Once our MGs began firing they mowed them down in the field with no mercy as they layed in the grass dead. We came out of the trenches celebrating in victory as we scavenged through the enemy dead and took whatever we needed or just wanted. I found the man i shot he was paralyzed i aimed the rifle to the back of his head and closed my eyes. I pulled the trigger and his head exploded with bloods and brains leaving a gaping hole in the back of his head as i opened my eyes and wiped the blood away from my eyes and face.

END OF PART ONE. TO BE CONTINUED.

[Heliocalypse]

[MT]

Fly Into Rage

One shot...*heartbeat*

One chance...*heartbeat*

One event...*heartbeat*

One time...*heartbeat*

Now or never...*heartbeat*

Team leader Arress know that he only have one chance to land the decisive blow on the increasingly hostile Amrukian forces, their oil storage tank to be exact. Recent frictions between his home nation and the Amruk country have escalated in guarded tensions bilaterally, causing numerous propaganda machines and martial laws being immediately deployed in major population centers. Analysts from both sides had forecasted an inevitable war between each nation which causes are interpreted differently respectively. For Arress, he was there, witnessing the landmark meeting of delegates coming from both nations after long decades of icy relations between two moderately large nations. Each nation is competent in its own right, Amruk which is independent from the energy economy of the world at large and the home nation of Arress which is a successful nation on acquiring high turnover profits from international trades. He saw on how the delegates actually bickering with each other and resorted to violence immediately they met.

The resentment of both nations still run strong on basis of pride and malevolent ego which each nation unwilling to succumb to the receiving end, clearly represented by their representative diplomats. For Arress, the war shouldn't happen but instead the cooperation of both nations is of the foremost priority to improve the livehoods of the citizens respectively. The Amrukian lands do have vast wealth of black gold but its infrastructure and human resource development seldom severely hampered over simple problems which he sees attributed to lack of quality leadership of Amrukian administrative structure; poor or seldom nil efforts on implementing the painstakingly drafted development plans by the top minds of the nation, causing Amruk to experience a brain drain as more experts fielded by its education system changed into expats over better pastures elsewhere. His home nation on the other hand sees the increasing gap of between the poor and the rich; enough to make him vomit and wonder if his nation is run by politicians that cared for their people or just for lucrative profits while stepping on others.

An order is an order and him being a soldier means he can only do naught than obeying the directive given by his host nation. Sabotage the oil infrastructures of the Amruk nation without being identified by both of the opposing sides, flying without an insignia or any form of identification. He knew that such move may cause repercussions for both nations whereby it may spark a nationwide revolution of the citizens dissatisfied with their leaders. For his home nation's military think tank however, sees this opportunity of sabotage to eliminate the differences between both nations while transpiring a phantom enemy to be made into a common issue for Amruk and his home nation to agree upon. The risk on his life and risk being branded as a treacherous traitor if the military think tank decided to disclose his information are however very real for Arress. For his career of only doing routine patrol flights in the strangled border zone between each nation a few years back, he felt that this time the threat is real. A threat of being branded heretical traitor and a threat of death awaiting him just a few moments away or a few steps away.

Minute cascades of sweat run across his face although Arress wears a respirator mask in a preserved atmosphere. He could see the light reflection of his pearls of sweat over the darkened eye cover piece that comes with the respirator. With the sun on a twisted angle of sixty degrees behind him, a flair ribbon of crimson colour can be seen, sparse patches of stratoculus clouds to be precise. Selecting the dusk as the time frame of his mission, Arress is flying with only two wingmen, crabbing along the boring horizon to avoid Amrukian radar spikes. All of his years serving under the command of his home nation, he was a particularly proud squadron leader, leading up to six fighters in a sortie. And now he's reduced to a mere team leader, a phantom at best given he was barred from flying with any proper insignia or identification protocols in place. He firmly grips his craft's joystick, flying a few arcs over the dusty landscape while seeing whisking sand dunes as far his eyes can see. Amrukian efforts to mine their black gold had painted the desert in all of its glory, stretching as far as it goes as they relentlessly carry out oil exploration over their once pristine forest lands. At long last, Amrukian efforts hit a jackpot, five decades ago as known to Arress on their history which desert is the first and probably the last testament of Amrukian oil power if he happens to finish his mission successfully.

A familiar voice break his transcended trance, layered with the usual radio crackle, "Bravo One, Bravo One do you copy?"

"Loud and clear, Bravo Two." glances Arress view over his cockpit. Snapping into his usual serious mode, Arress focuses the focal point of his eyes over the radar display, "Bravo Two, so far clear. No hostiles."

"Copy that, Bravo One. Get cracking on the mission, over." replies Arress's communication tool.

"Weapons hot." glances Arress again but to his armament interface instead. A familiar tone calls for his attention till he realizes that his radar screen had picked up something that are approaching very fast, "Bravo Two, Bravo Three! Three bogeys approaching fast on six and seven o'clock! Break, break, break!"

In short temporal delay, his nerves twitches and Arress quickly wrestle control into his plane's joystick, causing the alloy frame of his craft to metaphysically scream. Flying half at the speed of sound, his craft's wing ailerons pop into position while carving directly into the misty air and generating a whipped trail of water particulates over the crimson horizon. Blood rushes into his head as his aircraft executes a sharp bend towards the x-z axis over positive displacement vector, before his g-suit tactfully activates its inflatable sections, putting pressure into his legs and causing Arress to snap again into viable consciousness. He could clearly see on his HUD that his companion wingmen had notified the same thing as well, evidenced by their changing vector. Did the Amrukian air forces had discovered his craft? Arress quickly shuffles his hands over his craft controls, trying to find evidence of active radar targeting logs and find none.

Another concern hammers its way on his thought process. It's far to quick for the Amrukian forces to notice his craft, and the occasional vanishing radar blip on his radar screen grant Arress with increasing worry. Did the Amruk nation got their hands on stealth technologies? And a fast plane at that? Knowing that it may not be a plane at all, Arress rapidly switches his craft's FLIR by pressing a button while waiting for the perpetrator to come over his craft's missile range. Suddenly, an eerie tranquility visits his piece of mind as the approaching radar blips disappears completely from his radar console. Arress frantically glances his head around, trying to visually locate the approaching entities given they seem to disappear from his radar's view.

His adrenaline increases further till a radio report shoot through his ears, "I'm hit, i'm hit! Mayday, mayday! Bravo Two is going down!"

"Bravo Two, bail out!" grips Arress on his craft's joystick, hoping his wingman would survive the head on collision. As he glances out of his cockpit on southeast azimuth, he could see a slightly burnt aircraft with a damaged left wing, generating a long trail of black smoke before another two missiles that launched from nowhere approaches the injured craft. His eye irises widens, "Bravo Two, nooo!!!!"

The craft as recognized by Arress is the Bravo Two, characterized by a simple insignia painted on its thin vertical left rudder, two small 'B' alphabets to be precise. The two-and-a-half meter long missiles streaked over the misty sky, inching closer to Bravo Two before exploding into a plume of bright orange smoke that claims the craft almost instantly. All that's left from the proximity blast is now a charred wreckage, barely recognizable anymore to Arress eyes. The wreckage quickly fallen out of the air, along with a thick dark smoke trail following it. He could do nothing than cursing in his heart as Arress is unable to stop the approaching missiles in time. Another quip props into his mind, what are these new entities? Firing without any warning at all? The Amrukian forces, even though they might be pissed, they would still fire out an angry verbal blurb over trespassing their airspace before firing a waning shot, as experienced by Arress first hand a few months ago.

Another crackle fires over his radio com, "Bravo One! Watch out, bandits at two o'c...wait..they're gone!"

"Keep out on the skybox, Bravo Three! Bravo Two touches bottom!" tacitly responses Arress upon knowing one of his wingmen is still alive over the short encounter. He then quickly presses two buttons which releases several rounds of sparkling flares behind his craft's movement trajectory, "Eat this, bastard!"

A barrel of luck struck Arress as the released flares managed to catch the tail of two rapidly approaching missiles, which ended in a bright orange fireball respectively. Whoever the attacker is, they're clearly adept at using stealth technologies while the hostiles decision to pick out him and his mates one by one is a true testament to Arress that he might just encountered a veteran wing. The blasts were clearly near, enough to temporarily blind Arress sights for a moment and shaking his craft's frame over the generated explosive shockwave from the now gone missiles. His craft's ailerons tremors for a full second before the installed automatic flight control initializes with two beeps in order to stabilize his craft's flight path.

"Where are you..." nervously nods Arress from side to side, in his another attempt to locate the hostiles visually. A stark fact hit his thought processes, the hostiles are not only stealthy and fast, but are using similarly fast missiles as well, up to the point his craft's missile warning radar didn't detect them in time. A crackle breaks his concentration once again, "Bravo One, target in sight, ten clicks! Bandits not in skybox!"

"Full alert and begin attack sortie, Bravo Two! Snake about!" orders Arress as he pushes his craft thrusters' into maximum output while still glancing occasionally on his radar interface and outside of the cockpit. Gazing his view as far he can, Arress can see the unmistakable shine of an oil storage facility over the horizon, a boring circular structure glazed red by the dusky theme.

His communication tool crackles yet again, "Copy that, Bravo One. Tee up coming right up!"

Arress's craft targeting radar quickly flares up from deactivation state as he readies his craft weapons, "Full salvo on that target!"

As he is close to press the weapon's trigger, out of the clouds peek two fighter crafts behind their position. A supersonic salvo of 30mm bullets streaks across the misty air and grazes one of the main turbofan engine of Bravo Three before the engine bursting into yellow flame, "I'm hit, i'm hit! Bandit's quick spurt!"

"Jink away, Bravo Three!" yanks Arress on the joystick of his craft. A slew of supersonic bullets then sharply follow after, barely hitting the cockpit of his craft. He could see the white hot bullets streaking past across his cockpit in a misty trail for a fraction of a second before it emanates a sonic boom which he could hear as a discrete buzz over his protected ears. Arress rapidly finding himself struggling to keep apace, away from the firing reticule of the hostile craft, "Ugh, buzz off!"

With his tactical move, Arress's craft churns even faster and of the craft's turbofan engines screaming as they're ordered to give out extended thrust longer than the norm. Two more salvos of the supersonic bullets are fired towards his craft, nearly hitting him as Arress struggles even more to get out of the range and still trying to maintain a direct course towards his objective.

"Mayday, mayday, enemy boge-*vzzt*" sounds his communication tool shortly before a static tone chimes in. Flinching his sight, he could see the once Bravo Three is now a fiery ball of smokes, exploding not far from his location.

Glancing his sights forward again, a frown hits his face, "Oh shit.."

"Damn you bastard!" exclaims Arress in his cockpit as his craft's missile warning radar flares up a few fraction of a second shortly after Bravo Three was taken down.

Arress twists his craft's joystick as much as it can take, in attempt to shake the missile off but with little success. The missile clearly faster than his craft, exploded in close proximity, blasting clean the craft's right wing. An injured bird, he was close to press the ejection seat button till he can see the oil storage tank directly in front of him, "Heh bastards...it's my win."

His craft collides with the oil storage tank, immediately blowing up the large structure. During his last moments where he can feel the increasingly warm heat, Arress chants a few last words, "God, save my country please..."

[The Rich Port]

[ MT ]

[ Mature ]

Θεοτόκου, Παντοκράτορος
Theotokos, Pantocratoros
or, When The Man Comes Around

I: Geiá Sou

She can't stop staring. The pew digs into her thighs, and the pain makes the wine taste all the more sweet, and the wincing turns into a hymn fit for the angels to sing. Her eyes follow the movement of her hands, the turn of the pages, her open palms bathing in the light of the heavens, the caress as they held the leavened bread. She doesn't want to look away. There would be no purpose in looking away, at least in her view; fallacious, but hers all the same, and the truth as far as she is concerned. She feels her heart beat faster as she saw the only priestess she ever saw before raise her lips to the cup and drink of the blessed drink, and the bitterness of the alcohol and the sweetness of the grape came rushing back to her. She drank of it full, and the swallow made her blush. She can't help but laugh a little as she notices the priestess struggle to focus her eyes towards the congregation again.

"And he said, 'This is my blood, blood of the reborn covenant, the blood of Christ, the blood of God. Drink of it with me in communion as my brothers, as my friends, as we become children of God and sing our praises in His name, He that created all', Amen. Come and drink of it, all of you", she said. Now, the congregation stood to shuffle towards the altar, one after the other eating and then drinking. She stands behind a man who smells like cigarrettes and in front of a man that smelled like alcohol. When she felt the alcoholic grope her, she stepped on his toes with her heel. He quietly suffers, and everyone behind him wonders whether he should be drinking sacramental wine in the first place. Now she's next, and she walks up the altar. She looks up and stares the saintly priestess straight in the eyes.

She can almost feel the eyelashes tickle her, they're so long. She is almost angelic. Looking away almost blinds her, her golden hair blending with the white robes, reflecting the light coming in from the stained-glass windows behind the altar. She takes the very stale bread into her mouth and swallows it whole, and drinks half a mouthful of the wine. It is pungent and heavy and blood red, and it makes the hairs on her arm stand up, and it almost knocks her off her own feet. The walk back to the pew is awkward and she only remembers everyone standing up a few minutes afterward to say the closing prayers of the ceremony. She smacks herself as everyone starts to shuffle out of the church. The drunken man who groped her fell down because of his broken toe, and someone kicks him outside. She hears a commotion, which she and the priestess pay no heed to, both having pressing matters at hand.

Bastards should have left sooner; the priestess is already in sanctuary, and an acolyte guards the door.

"Could I talk to the priestess?" she asks.
"Only during confession. She rests now" he says.
"I already confessed, and this is important; I have a message for her"
"You need to confess again. Any message you have you can relay to me. Approaching the Wall is blasphemous, especially of you are profligate"
"I don't approach it arrogantly; even if I did, I want to serve God"
"You have no respect for this church"
"I at least have respect for congregates and for my God's will; let me see her"
"Pietro?" A voice comes from behind the door. "What's going on out there?"
"Someone wants to see you" said Pietro the Acolyte.
"Oh, is it a girl?"
"Y-yes... Did you want to see this girl?" He gasps.
"Please, let her in"
"You're not supposed to go in there" he tells her.
"Get out of my way, you fucking welp" She elbows him out of the way.
"Profligate! How d-dare you..." He clutches his side in pain.

Behind the iconostasis lies the holy sanctuary... Or a bedroom; a very small, very private woman's bedroom. The walls are white and bare save for a mass of icons on the northwestern corner. Directly to her left is a coat rack holding three very large, very thick-looking fur coats in black, white, and blue, along with three matching tall fur hats. Next to it is a small cabinet desk, along with a simple wooden chair. Next to it, hugging the wall in front of her, is a very wide, short dresser, and next to it, hugging the same wall, is a large chest, at the foot of a single-size bed. Next to that, a night-table is topped by a silver reliquary at the foot of an old lamp. Directly to her right is a smaller, taller dresser topped by an old bunny-antenna TV, positioned so that it could be seen from the bed. To the right of this dresser is a doorway, through which she could see a recently-used bathroom. Sitting on the bed... Was her.

"Your All Holiness..." The girl looks away, tensing her body, covering her face with both hands.
There was a short quiet. "Am I so revolting?" said the priestess.
"What?" The girl looked back at the priestess, shocked. "No, of course not, I just..."
"Please... Don't do that" said the priestess. "I'm sick of people not looking me straight in the eye out of courtesy and respect and necessity and lust. Please... Just look at me"
The girl did just that. The priestess sighed, and smiled. "That's better, don't you think?"
"Yes... Much better" The girl relaxes her body, and they ache with exhaustion.
"Please, sit. The wind seems gone from you"

The girl sits on the desk chair without moving it, instead facing sideways to better see. "Okay..."
"You seem embarassed; your cheeks are flushed"
"No, I mean, yes, I mean, no... It's just that I've..."
"Never seen a priest in his underwear before?
"Never seen a priestess in her night gown before"
"You have seen a priest in his underwear, then?"
"What? No!"
"Ha! You have to calm down"
"I'm sorry, I'm so sorry... I'm just... Nervous"
"That's OK. Why are you nervous to see me?"
"Your All Holiness... You're her, aren't you? You're the Patron Saint of War Refugees, St. Teodora"
"That I am. What of it?"
"You're the Matriarch Of The Church. You're the one they all talk about"
"By 'they', you mean my patrons, and my colleagues and their patrons"
"Yes. They say you're lots of things"
"I am also that, and all of those things. What of it?"

"But you're..."
"I am a priest, nothing more, nothing less. A priestess, certainly, but a priestess nonetheless"
"That's certainly... Humble, I suppose"
"Thing about humble people. They do not see themselves as meritorious, Tanya"
"You know my name?"
"Yes. It's right on the letter you sent me, after all" Theodora reaches for a crumpled piece of paper in her night-table drawer and shows it to Tanya.
"Oh, right, that... I forgot all about that" Theodora laughs, making Tanya laugh too.
"I must admit, though, you're exactly what I expected"
"What do you mean, Your All Holiness?"
"That I would be nothing like you'd expect"
"I wouldn't say that... I attended the ceremony"
"Ah, you did. I see"
"Does that please you?"
"Pietro called you 'profligate'. What did he mean by that?"

"... He's mean"
"That he is. But he is a colleague's nephew under my tutelage. I ought to beat him for that"
"No, please, not on my account. He... He's somewhat correct"
"Certainly, but being a sinner is no excuse to punish one with words. He's an arrogant little shit"
"Wow"
"What?"
"I've never heard a priest curse like that"
"Nor a priestess. You're seeing history in the making"
Tanya laughed. "But he is right... I was a street walker"
"So was my cousin; lovely girl, big, strong hips. I would never be cut out for that kind of work"
"Well, neither was I. I felt... Dirty, almost all of the time. I stopped when I left my country"
"Ironically, prostitution is legal here, so long as you have a license to operate"
"Really? That's terrible"
"Not really. But I take it that you have another occupation, then"
"Oh, yes, I work in an office now, with lots of women! My boss is a woman, too"
"And yet you're here now, in my room, sitting at the foot of my bed, while I'm in my night dress"
"Well... I read about your life in a book about women leaders. About your priesthood"
"I seem to inspire many people. They asked me about my fashion sense, of all things. Yuck"
"I want to do what you do. I want to be a priestess. I want to lead the congregation"

Theodora is silent for a short while. Tanya felt like she should keep speaking, but was now afraid to speak. She could tell Theodora was thinking. Theodora then stood from her bed, her hair covering the top half of her back like a cloak. She meant what she said about not being suited to the life of a prostitute; Her All Holiness was built like a porcelain dol. She had a very small waist, and Tanya could almost see her cracking under pressure. She was very tall, standing almost six feet on slender legs. This was in some contrast to her arms, though. She had very broad shoulders, that supported toned muscle on two beautifully crafted arms. She used them, quite often. She walked to the bathroom, grabbing a glass cup from the night-table. Tanya noticed Her All Holiness's hands were covered in calluses, most likely from the same use her arms saw. She filled the cup with water from the faucet, and drank from it. She turned.

"Very well"

[Sumadesia]

[ MT ]

A Daughter of Sumadesia

I was cycling home from school when Jralong Malis fell to the PRAS.

For as long as anyone could remember, the hills surrounding our once-sleepy capital had been filled with the sounds of gunfire. The echoes of shells rocked us to sleep at night and rose us from our slumbers long before the scrawny cockerel could muster the energy to do so. The constant thundering of weapons – ours and theirs – was as constant and as reliable as the beating of our own hearts; for all too many it was more so.

I think I was about eight when the Civil War started, because I’m sure it can’t have been much more than a year after my Seventh Birthday. Sometimes, when the shelling became unbearable, I would lie awake in bed thinking back on that day – the day when, according to Sumadesian custom, I had ceased to be a child, and had become a young lady. It had been a huge affair; my parents were both teachers, and had bought me a beautiful pink silk outfit to wear. Memories of the way the shimmering cloth fell about my feet had acted as a lifeline, linking me to the happier days before the Revolution. Even now the memory of being presented with my first pair of shoes, or of having my tumbling raven locks cut for the first time ever bring a warm smile to my lips and warm tears to my eyes.

I had still had those little golden shoes and a little lock of my own inky hair right until the soldiers of the PRAS had kicked down our front doors and destroyed the remains of our old lives. Where they are now, I could not say, but if the smoky orange glow on the horizon says anything for fate of Jralong Malis, I don’t suppose I shall see any reminders of my youth ever again.

Even as I pushed my little bike through the front gates of our villa and up the winding, tree-shadowed path, I did not realise the extent to which my life was about to change. Only one of the double wooden doors to our house stood open – unusual, as my elderly grandmother preferred to keep both open during the heat of the day – and my mother stood silhouetted in the doorway. Usually as delicate and sophisticated a lady as any in the capital, that day she looked dishevelled, wasted. Her usually perfect hair hung limply around her pallid face, and her silk skirt was creased. She beckoned me inside.

As I began to peel off my elbow length gloves – it did not do for young Sumadesian ladies to tan in the sun – my mother shook her head and indicated that I should not bother. I shot her a confused glance, and continued to remove my gloves.

“But, mama, if we are to go out, I should like to bathe first!”

My mother clasped her hand to her mouth and let out a heaving sob. At this point my grandmother, who had apparently been standing at the top of the sweeping staircase, sailed down into the entrance hall and put her arm around her daughter. As she whispered soothing things into my mother’s ear, she shot me a look which suggested very strongly that I complied with my mother’s wishes. I hastily replaced my gloves.

Presently my father entered the hallway, and seeing the look of confusion on my face, he hastened to me and gathered me into his arms. He had never been a large man – a life of study and teaching had not quite given him the stature of some of the other men in Sumadesia – but his personality had always filled any room he occupied. I could remember clearly the day when the Civil War had been announced; we had been watching a traditional ballet performance on the RBC, when the programme had been interrupted with a special news bulletin. The weary face of Jatisumana Sugandhi – whom so few had become accustomed to calling “Queen” – barely made an impression on the screen as She read Her statement of the declaration of war by the People’s Revolutionary Army of Sumadesia – a new name which would soon become the horror of our every waking moment and the nightmare of every dreaming one. When She had finished, my father had risen to join the national anthem, and then guffawed loudly. “Well, that’s a new one!” he had announced cheerily, “An army of peasants challenging the Jatisumanas? You mark my words, the whole thing will have blown over by New Year. Now let’s all go for tea!”

But it had not blown over by New Year. Or by the next New Year. Or the next one. It had not blown over five years later, and here we stood now, the PRAS knocking on the front door of the city, the royal family fled abroad, and my father a shadow of his former self.

“Papa, what on Earth is wrong?” I whispered into his musky ear as he gathered me to himself. “Why is mama crying?”

“Oh, my little girl, my little jasmine flower. Can you not hear?”

I strained my ears, but could hear nothing.

“But papa, I can’t...” That was when it hit me. I could hear nothing. The guns had stopped.

“But papa! Surely it can only be a good thing if the guns have stopped!”

Even as I said this I knew it could not be true. My mother continued to weep, comforted by my solemn grandmother, and my father fixed me with a look of sadness and pride.

“Oh, my little angel...” He squeezed me tight and buried his face in my long hair, as though this was the last time he would ever hold me.

“Now hurry upstairs and fetch...”

There was the sound of a single gunshot. Then another, and another, until the entire city seemed to be singing with the noise of gunfire.

“Papa! Someone’s fighting back! All is not lost!”

For a moment a look of genuine hope filled my father’s eyes, before sinking under the weight of reality. As I watched the last shreds of optimism fade from his once-sparkling eyes, I knew. No one was fighting back. We had surrendered, and now the PRAS was doing away with the weak of society – those for whom their famed New Order had no place. Those whom had led soft, easy lives under the ancient monarchist caste system. Those like my family.

“My darling.” Said my father, his voice humourless and dead, “I want you to go outside into the garden and find your favourite tree – the one you and your brother used to hide under when you were young. I want you to hide away in your little hiding place and not come out until you can see all of the stars above the tree.”

“But papa!”

“Do it!” He said, his voice stern, unforgiving. “You are my daughter, and you shall do as I say.”

I dipped my head in deference and turned to my mother, who looked at me with unseeing eyes. My grandmother smiled a sad, haunted smile and gathered my mother’s head to her chest. Without realising, I had begun to weep. I turned to my father and fixed him with pleading eyes.

“But papa!”

“Polika. You shall not question me. You shall do as I have told you.”

“But papa...”

My father struck me sharply across the cheek.

“Polika! Do as you are told! A Sumadesian daughter does not disobey her father. She does not!”

I could hold back the tears no longer, and I ran from the house without stopping to slip on my shoes. Down the front stairs I ran and out into the fragrant gardens – once the envy of the whole of the Scholar’s Quarter. Making my way through familiar fronds and vines and branches, I found my way to the old fruit tree in which my brother and I had once played, and found the little spot amongst the roots where I could still just about squeeze myself.

And there I waited.

Waited as the scruffy PRAS soldiers marched up the garden path and kicked down the wooden doors.

Waited as I heard my father protest feebly and my mother sob one last heaving sob.

Waited as the gunshots tore through the sluggish afternoon air.

Waited as the PRAS made a funerary pyre of my home, the flames licking happily at the hazy sky as they consumed all evidence of my old life.

Waited.

Waited.

Waited.

It grew dark and the sounds of sporadic gunfire died away, to be replaced by shrieks of laughter and... Worse. After an eternity had crawled by, I cautiously poked my head out of my hiding place and looked up at the sky. There above me a million stars gazed down impassively, unseeingly, upon the destruction that had been wrought. They shed not a single tear for the lives that had been lost, the hopes that had been dashed, the dreams which had been forsaken. I turned away from them in disgust.

I made my way back through the foliage, and emerged into the open area around the villa. The fire had apparently burned itself out a long time ago, and all that remained of the old house was a smouldering pile of ash and rubble; the antique wooden structure having been consumed completely by the cleansing flames of the PRAS’s new society. I vomited on the charred grass.

Saying a silent prayer for my parents, who had at least had the twisted honour of a cremation, I turned away from the past.

As I emerged from the front gates of our former home, I could have sworn that I had stepped into Hell. All around me lay the twisted ruins of the Scholar’s Quarters. Fragments of homes, of vehicles, of human beings lay scattered around like so much smouldering refuse. In some places fires still raged as they worked to eradicate all memories of the Old Order, and a thick pall of funerary smoke rose into the velvet sky. The stench was unbearable.

For a moment I wanted nothing more than to give up. I wanted simply to give into my knees’ demands to buckle. I wanted to sit on the floor and cry until the PRAS soldiers discovered me and killed me – oh how I hoped they would just kill me. But no. I was a daughter of Sumadesia. I would do my duty to my country, to my Queen, to my family. As long as I lived, so did they. As long as I breathed, so did they. As long as I dreamed, so did they.

Taking a deep breath of the filthy air, I set off down the street. Surely there were others who yet lived. I would find them. Or they would find me. And we would survive. We would live.

I was a daughter of Sumadesia. And I would live.

[Urarail]

[ MT ]

[ Mature ]

[ Bitter Morning ]

Königsstein, ANP, Meritocratic Republic of Neo Prutenia

Blondes. Heaven bless them.

Jonas Kappel was an egalitarian man. He didn't hold it against any woman if she was brunette, blonde, redhead, or any other color of the rainbow. As long as she had a lithe body with curves that dipped to forever, she could even by bald, such was Jonas' equality on judging the fairer sex.

But blondes, they were the first among equals. So rare back home in Urarail, and so plentiful here in Jonas' new homeland. He considered it a sort of karmic apology, a "sorry about that" from the Universe after that lunatic ran Jonas and all others with even a hint of noble birth out of Urarail a decade earlier. And while Jonas Kappel von Letzelicht, Duke of the once-proud Imperial Peerage was now just another face in a Pruton university lecture hall, he at least found that being a desperate exile with his striking, pale looks made him quite popular in the Pruton university sorority houses.

And it was in fact in one such house Jonas found himself this morning. Staring up at a ceiling not his own and with a warm, Venus-like body pressed against his, blonde hair tangled and framing his face like an apple-scented theater mask, Jonas basked in the moment. Then again, Helga was a woman who was quite inviting to a man's desire to bask. She was extraordinary, and not just in the more carnal arts either; she was a cellist fine enough to play First Chair in the finest symphonies and philharmonics in either Aschenkeilern or Elysium, and her mathematical talents were a credit to her Prutonic upbringing.

Jonas had woken up first. He always did. He could swear that no matter how long he lived in this sun-drenched southern land, his body always awoke with the first rays of sunlight; it was after a rare and precious thing in the dark Northern winters. Helga though? She could "sleep through an air raid," in her own words. Jonas grimly chuckled at that thought; he wondered if she'd have the opportunity to test her claim. He glanced down at yesterday's paper, still on the bedside stand where it had been left yesterday. The headline was bold and damning still.

CRISIS! RUSICH FORCES INVADE VELESLAVIA
FULL MOBILIZATION DECLARED, FREIKORPS TO BE FORMED

Helga was awake. Jonas could tell; he'd slept and woke next to her enough to learn the rythyms of her breathing.

"When we're you going to tell me, Jonas?" Her voice was both accusatory and anxious.

Huh. She already knew. Then again, she was rather much a genius afterall.

Jonas vowed his head and steeled himself for the blonde's fury. "Today. At breakfast."

She snapped her head around, striking ocean-blue Prut eyes meeting murky, smoke-gray Urarailian ones.

"It's not your war Jonas. Hell, it's not even your people!"

Jonas sighed. "That's where you're wrong, Hely. It is my people."

He watched as she clenched her teeth in anger, before she bolted upright, and snatched a clump of papers from under the mattress. Clutching the sheets to her frame, she twisted back to meet his gaze, projecting an air of disappointed formality despite their mutual state of undress.

"Funny, these seem to be written in High Prut, not Gothic."

"Check closer, Helga. Page 3, last paragraph."

Instantly, the Prut damsel's eyes flew to the page and stanza in question. She decoured it, confusion clouding her face as read, then re-read it.

"This is...such bullshit!" She clenched one delicate musician's fist as her exasperation exploded. "A Urarailian regiment? Are there even enough of you here to even form a regiment."

Jonas nodded, a sarcastic smile spreading across his face. "Trust me Helga, there's enough of us. The Urarailians are very...thorough, when it comes to persecutions."

Her eyes narrowed to slits. "Are they thorough when it comes to stupidity too?"

Jonas shrugged. "That is a matter of some debate." He turned to face her more directly, extending a hand for her trembling fist, but she recoiled away. "Hel...try to understand me, well, all of my people, here. The Meritocracy gave us sanctuary. They could have easily turned us over to CMIS, or even the Imperial Inquisition, but they helped us in our hour of desperation. It's time for us to repay the favor. It's...it's our way."

Helga had calmed, but only a fraction. "So, because the Meritocracy saved you from death at your countrymen's hands you all collectively feel the need to tempt Death by charging at the Rusichlanders?"

Jonas shook his head. "Helga, it's a debt. A debt of honor, and of life. But more than that, the Veleslavs...well, we sympathize with them. Their way of life, their decision to join the Meritocracy, it's all been trampled by the Rusich. Its an...uncomfortable parallel to him."

Helga sneered. "He's going to rot in a dungeon til the end of his years. You don't always have live in fear and hate of him."

Jonas sighed. "But Maria's just like he was. So sure of their cause, they'd run over anyone to prove just how right they were. Until people stand up to tyrants like that, tragedies like the Red War, like this war, like every bitter war in history will keep happening."

It was Helga's turn to slump in defeat now. She knew it in Jonas' voice when he was decided on something. The anger retreated from her face, leaving only fear and doubt behind. "Jonas, please don't...don't go. I," and here her voice caught, as she realized what she was about to say, and the change and confrontation such a statement would bring. In frustration and in something more, she flung herself into Jonas' arms, blonde hair flying into Jonas' face and filling his senses. And then she began to quietly weep.

Blondes. Heaven bless them.

[Rethend]

[ PT ]

[ Fleur de Ma Vie ]

(Image)

Pour mon bien-aimé ami,
qui j'ai donné beaucoup pour,
s'il vous plaît connaissons aujourd'hui,
que je souhaite que je pourrais donner plus.

Quand tout était sombre,
vous avait montré l'espoir,
jamais se fondre dans le gris.

Le tintamarre des trompettes,
et l'homme sain était rare et rare,
les Chevaliers avaient roulé à nous appeler,
et je suis allé jusqu'à se joindre à leur appel.

Un dernier temps,
J'ai monté l'échelle,
que nous avons cassé la formation d'assiéger les hommes,
qui avait pris de nous tout-
de nos richesses à même certains de nos enfants, et les femmes.

Beaucoup d'hommes ont combattu et sont morts,
pour certaines raisons,
inconnue aux esprits simples.

J'avais moi-même tiré mon épée,
espérant toujours à régler avec un mot,
et avec un ennemi clairement lumineux,
J'ai été déjoué dans la mort et s'est engagé sur la lumière.

'Twas sur ce jour fatidique, les
le jour qui me brisa de vous,
et le jour où les hommes morts gisaient-
reste encore pour ce qui concerne vénéré.

En ce jour de jours,
quand nous étions à peu près comme les vainqueurs,
ma vie de courte durée quand les sauvages,
dans toute leur gloire,
dépouillé ma branche du fruit de la vie.

Alors, pour vous, mon cher bien-aimé,
qui j'ai donné beaucoup pour,
s'il vous plaît connaissons aujourd'hui,
Je voudrais donné plus.

For my dear beloved,
whom I gave so much for,
please know today,
that I wish I could give more.

When all looked bleak,
you had shown hope,
never fading into the grey.

The trumpets blare,
and the healthy man was scarce and rare,
the Knights had rode to call us up,
and up I went to join their call.

A long time latter,
I mounted the ladder,
as we broke formation to besiege the men,
whom had taken from us everything-
from our riches to even some of our children, and women.

Many a man had fought and died,
for some reasons,
unknown to simple minds.

I myself had drawn my sword,
always hoping to settle with a word,
and with a foe clearly bright,
I was outwitted into death- and proceeded onto the light.

'Twas on that fateful day,
the day that broke me from you,
and the day on which the dead men lay-
remaining still for revered respect.

On this day of days,
when we were just about to be the victors,
my life cut short when the savages,
in all their glory,
stripped my branch of the fruit of life.

So to you, my dear beloved,
whom I gave so much for,
please know today,
I wish I gave more.

[Jenrak]

Not a complete update, but updated with Unibot's help, so I'll add more over the next two weeks!

[Abruzi]

Post Rectification Confessional.
MT

"Ty bog? Vash bog , ne zdesʹ."
“You god? Your god is not here.”

A disheveled youth sitting on a crack toilet slowly said this to a hooded man who sat opposite him. Dressed in all black, the second man clutched a rosary between his sickly gray hands betraying his religious affiliation. Smiling widely, the youth laughed bitterly for a few moments, the giggles separated by bouts of ragged breathing. He too was a sickly gray, though he was not clad in a Priest’s black but instead in the faded olive of a cadet. He wore no trousers being on the toilet, but they were waded up next to the mighty porcelain basin. Stretched out before him was his left hand which casually rested on the stock of a Kalashnikov AKM.

As if pretending not to hear the youth, the Priest continued on quietly muttering his prayers. This was intolerable for the young man who cackled slightly louder than before and then eagerly repeated,

"Vash Bog ne zdesʹ."
“Your god is not here.”

This time the Priest took notice and slowly lowered his hood. He had a kindly face despite the obvious symptoms of malnutrition. Perhaps because he had not raised his voice above a whisper in a number of months, the Priest opened his mouth several times like a suffocating man gasping for air, the dryness of his gums made a sucking sound that was not that much different from the gasping of a fish. Finally the holy man croaked,

"Moĭ bog vezde i moshchnyĭ."
“My god is everywhere and all powerful.”

The youth responded by raising his Kalashnikov up reverently and slowly saying,

" Eto moĭ bog. On nakhodit·sya pryamo zdesʹ , i on yavlyaet·sya samym moshchnym sushchestvom v etoĭ komnate. Kak vash bog obespechitʹ dlya menya? On ne byl tam v temnoe vremya, on ne spasti moyu matʹ ili sestra , no moĭ bog . Bozhe moĭ otbili anarkhistov i dikikh zveryeĭ, on predostavil svoĭ ​​obed i mera uvazheniya , kogda v strannoĭ kompanii. Imenno iz-za etogo moĭ bog luchshe. "
“This, is my god. He is right here, and he is the most powerful being in this room. How will your god provide for me? He was not there during the dark times, he did not save my mother or sister, but my god was. My god fought off anarchists and wild beasts, he provided my dinner and a measure of respect when in strange company. It is because of this my god is superior.”

Sitting silently, the Priest smiled and jokingly said,

" Po kraĭnyeĭ mere, mozhno skazatʹ, vash bog chasov pri ispolʹzovanii sredstv."
“At least you can say your god watches while you use the facilities.”

Nodding darkly, the youth quietly said,

"Bolʹshe , chem vash Bog sdelal dlya menya."
“More than your god did for me.”

The pair say in silence, the youth breaking it only by grunting softly as he excreted a large amount of fecal matter. Out of boredom the Priest resumed his prayers and worked his way fully around the rosary before the younger man casually asked,

"Kakogo cherta ty zdesʹ tak ili inache? Vy poluchaeterost , nablyudaya molodye lyudi prinimayut derʹmo ? "
“Why the hell are you in here anyway? Do you get a rise from watching young men take shits?”

Again forcing a smile, the Priest said,

"Net, ya schitayu , chto eto odin iz nemnogikh sluchaev, lyudi yavlyayut·sya naibolyee otkrytymi dlya obsuzhdeniya. Pogovorite schelovekom syeĭchas, i on , skoryee vsego, prinimatʹvse moshchnye i vsem lyubyashchim khristianskim bogom."
“No, I find that this is one of the few times people are the most open to discussion. Speak to a person now and he is more likely to accept the all powerful and all loving Christian god.”

With a soft chuckle the youth nodded once and muttered,

"YA predpolagayu, chto eto odin iz sposobov , chtoby sobratʹ bolʹshe vashyeĭ very."
“I suppose that’s one way to gather more to your creed.”

Silence reigned a second time, until the youth stood unsteadily and slid up his trousers. Without flushing the toilet he approached the sink and calmly washed off his hands. Halfway out the door, he leaned back against the frame and slowly said,

"Takim obrazom, nekreshchenykh stradayut navsegda v vashyeĭ very?"
“So the unbaptized suffer forever in your creed?”

Confused the Priest thought on his answer for a moment and timidly said,

"Da, oni nakhodyat·sya vne sveta Khristova."
“Yes, they are outside of Christ’s light.”

Stepping back into the room the youth muttered,

"Vot chto ya dumayu."
“That’s what I thought.”

In one fluid motion he unslung his rifle and fired two rounds into the Priest’s chest, delighting in the small spray of blood. Knocked backwards off of his stool, the Priest floundered on the floor for a moment before lying still. In incredible pain, he tried to breathe through perforated lungs causing wet pink bubbles to form around the two sucking chest wounds. Kneeling over him, the youth spat in his face before saying,


"Moya sestra Anastasiya , moĭ otets Semyan , matʹ Ivana , moĭ mladshiĭ brat Petr , moya zhena Sara, i moĭ rebenok rebenok Stepan. Eto moĭ mertv, mertv , kotorye muchayut dlya vechnosti vashyeĭ zhestokiĭ bog. Teperʹ idi svyashchennik, lozhnyĭ svyatoĭ chelovek, i skazhite boga , chto on luchshe ostavitʹ eti zemli , potomu chto my , kak pʹyanyĭ trakh. Kstati, moĭ bog odin, vash bog? Erozii ."
“My sister Anastasia, my father Semyan, my mother Ivana, my little brother Pyotr, my wife Sara, and my baby child Stepan. These are my dead, dead that are being tormented for eternity by your cruel god. Go now Priest, false holy man, and tell your god that he better leave these lands because we are pissed as fuck. By the way, my god one, your god? Zero.