Because the only way to end your story, which is in fact about a dozen other stories (all of which are about stories), is to tell a new story, which is actually the oldest story there is.
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by Nationstatelandsville » Sun Sep 06, 2015 2:09 pm
by Protestant England and Germany » Mon Sep 07, 2015 5:59 am
by SaintB » Sun Sep 20, 2015 1:53 pm
. Also we have great posts like this:Ularn wrote:Marine Gunner Mahuika Cohen
UEC Athena, Sol System
August 20, 2415
They had butchered her, confirmed Marine Gunner Mahuika Cohen as she strode down the ship's widened gangway. UEC Battle of the Marn had been an old vessel even in the day of Corporal Cohen, UEC Marine Corps, but she had still been magnificent for her age. Now they had taken the old war horse and gelded her.
Mahuika's first hint of it had been the previous day when the transport delivering herald a bunch of other personnel to Oslo Station had passed by on final approach. About half the ship's weapons blisters had been gutted and patched over. The lack of armament was only apparent to those who knew how the Stalingrad class was supposed to look and Mahuika had expected as much. Marn was no heavy cruiser any more; of course her claws had been trimmed.
Now she was aboard, however, the UEC Athena's acting Chief of Security could see exactly what that armament's sacrifice had bought. Wider gangways, apparently to accommodate overweight civilian posteriors. Mahuika had sprinted the old gangways herself in full gear; the extra half-metre was a superfluous luxury. Larger living quarters; they were letting even the enlisted men sleep two to a cabin. The designer of the ship had to have been a civilian, Mahuika decided. Servicemen knew what ratings got up to the moment you gave them any sort of privacy. The Marn had boasted enough beds for an entire company of marines. Mahuika had shared one cabin for her entire platoon and considered it luxurious since they weren't hot-bunking with Second Platoon. You had to follow the chain of command all the way up to senior brass before you found anyone with a private cabin.
Not for the first time, Gunner Cohen wondered who she must have offended to land this job. It was probably Markinch. Supposedly Major Markinch was doing well for himself in personnel now. He probably thought supervising civvies aboard an armed exploratory vessel would be a relaxing final assignment for a distinguished marine non-commissioned officer approaching retirement age. Cohen's former lieutenant probably thought he was doing a favour for the woman that held his hand through his infantry stint!
Well, if every officer had a brain, there'd be no need for NCOs.
The route Mahuika was on took her into the centre of the ship via the most direct route from the hangar bays, towards the hatch that marked marked the boundary of Marine Country, where navy pukes feared to tread. Beyond that hatch lay the marine barracks, their much-diminished armoury and their mess. Marines were territorial creatures; anyone going through that door without a set of marine khakis on had better have a damn good reason or a death wish.
The young marine private on guard duty outside the hatch came to attention but did not salute as he would have done an officer. As the hatch slid open with an automatic hiss Mahuika slipped inside and caught a glimpse of the sentry lifting his free hand to his earplant, obviously to war the senior non-com within that the boss was on the way. Good for him.
Mahuika had actually served with Muunokhoi Choibalsan back when he was still a private and she had just made Warrant Officer. A few other names in her platoon were also familiar from first-hand experience. That would make what she had planned much easier, she knew, as she stalked rapidly down the gangway past cabin hatches towards the mess.
Mahuika estimated Sergeant Choibalsan had maybe a second between hearing the sentry's warning and her bursting through the hatch with a roar that gained the attention of every trooper lounging in the room without the chance to react.
"Ka mate, ka mate!"
Mahuika let the last syllable linger just long enough for Choibalsan to realise what was happening and recover. Luckily, the compact Mongolian sergeant had a marine's reflexes and had done this before. His steel frame chair clattered across the deck as he exploded to his feet and replied with a wave of both tree-trunk arms and a roar to challenge Mahuika's own, "Ka ora, ka ora!"
"Ka mate, ka mate!" eyes popping, feet wide and stomping hard enough to shake the deck, Mahuika repeated her challenge; Do I die? Do I die?
"Ka ora, ka ora!" Choibalsan replied; Do I live? Do I live? Veins pulsed in his neck and this time other's took up the chant - other familiar faces in the room together with, Mahuika assumed, the sergeant's squad. They all screamed together for the next part.
"Tenei te tangata puhuru huru! Nana nei i tiki mai whakawhiti te ra!" This is the fierce powerful man who raised up the sun and caused it to shine. Mahuika beat her chest and forced her tongue out so far it fully covered the moko on her chin. Blood pounded in her veins, every muscle was tense and adrenaline roared as loud as the combined chants of the mess. They must be heard everywhere from the bridge to engineering. She looked at Choibalsan and the other marines in the charge of their warcry, feeling buoyed up by their energy, their fierce, powerful energy and knew that every one of them shared the same feeling. Feet stomped, chests beat and everyone chanted exactly in unison; a single fierce predator. Even the marines who did not know what was going on could get a sense of it as they stared round in bewilderment. Some of them even looked frightened.
"A, upane, ka upane!"
A step up; another step up,
"A, upane, ka upane, whiti te ra!"
A step up; another step up. The sun shines,
"Hi!"
Rise!
"As you were," Mahuika bellowed and, while some of the marines relaxed a little bit, those who had risen out of their seats seemed reluctant to return to them. In fact they seemed reluctant to do anything short of go out and pick a fight with a bull rhinoceros. Come on! Find us something bigger than us so we can rip its head off! their wide stances, bared teeth and heavy breathing seemed to demand. Mahuika knew it too; she felt the same way; it was the power, the energy of the haka.
The marines had only embarked that morning; they had not yet had the time to make the space their own. There were no posters or photographs tacked to any of the bulkheads. There was a speaker system set up and playing music that had withered in the face of a dozen soldiers' war cry but otherwise the troopers seemed to have still been lounging.
Now was when most officers would introduce themselves; say something like "I am Second Lieutenant Such-and-Such, your new commanding officer." Mahuika did not bother with that. The haka had been her introduction and every single marine knew who she was now. Gunner Cohen was the Maori Bearess whose platoon these cubs had somehow stumbled into. Yes; they knew who she was, so instead she told them who they were.
"You men and women represent the best soldiers and the finest squads in the UEC Marine Corps. That makes you the best of the best. Welcome on board Athena. This ship kicked some asses during the Seperatists' War and now she's taking a bunch of civvies round to kiss them better. Our job's to make sure everyone stays polite and friendly through the whole process.
"Now regarding the civvies, I want to make the rules of engagement here absolutely clear from the outset. Yes; you will be working with them. No; they are not in your chain of command. If any civilian orders you to do something you can explain that to them or refer them directly to me. You are also free to socialise with them during your downtime if you wish but if I find anyone's acted with impropriety towards any of this ship's civilian complement I will personally make fucking sure they end up on charges."
"Does that apply to the navy as well?" came the voice of some smartass up at the back. Choibalsan instantly locked on to the interrupting offender with a weapons'-grade nuclear glare and Mahuika smiled internally; the sergeant was growing into his XO role quickly.
"I wasn't taking questions, Private LeBlanc," she chastised.
"Sorry Gunner. Permission to speak?"
"Granted."
"What are the rules of engagement for Athena's naval personnel, Gunner?
"LeBlanc, I trust each and every one of you to treat all navy uniforms aboard this ship with the same degree of respect and cooperation as can be expected from any marine platoon stationed aboard a United Earth vessel." Mahuika's knowing grin that accompanied this declaration mirrored the predatory smiles of many of the marines present as understanding struck. It was a immutable rule, a fundamental law of nature for all marines anywhere that the navy existed purely to serve only two purposes; transporting marines to the fight and providing them with some decent sport along the way. "If that is all," she concluded, "Sergeant Choibalsan, please accompany me to my quarters."
Lieutenant Harrison's illness had left Marine Country with a spare officer's cabin, which Mahuika intended to commandeer for herself not for the luxury but because she was fully aware she would need the space to tackle the business of running the platoon solo. It was still outrageously big even for that purpose. She gestured Choibalsan to sit down in the chair by the desk while she settled onto the cot. "So," she commented, "Interesting digs."
Choibalsan did not nod but his expression betrayed that he thought just the same about the cabin arrangements as she did. "The brass said that servicemen could decide their own bunk mates, Mah, so I decided that all sleeping arrangements would be dictated by squad. I figure we'll be spending enough time keeping a lid on whatever these dumb-ass double cabins brew without letting the ingredients mix freely.
Mahuika smiled. Choibalsan always had a gift for creative imagery. "Good work, Muun. I also saw the yard dogs did away with the fixed chairs and tables. Get a hold of some bolts and a drill and get the furniture screwed down before we take a hit and someone's head's taken off by a flying stool."
"Yes Mah," Choibalsan confirmed while the back of his mind obviously began processing whether it would be easier a Togo via the quartermaster for the materials he needed or just borrow or outright lift them from engineering, "Is there anything else?"
"Comissioning ceremony begins at fourteen-hundred. Navy's obviously going to be turned out in their best. Make sure we still put them to shame."
by SaintB » Sun Sep 20, 2015 1:59 pm
Kassaran wrote:Executive Officer Commander Melcini
UEC Argyle, Sol System en route for Oslo Station
20 August 2415
Space. It was an empty, giant, formless void into the emptiness that spread out on the view-screen before the Commander. Somewhere, among the pinpricks of the fog beginning to appear in the hundreds of thousands of LED micropixels was a single speck. His eyes found the odd shape, the entity as it was, instantly. He'd been trained for this, advanced visual recognition, cognitive memory recall, and near instant identification based on minimal observation capabilities. It was a skill honed since the early days of Man to track herds of wild creatures. In this particular case, that target held a single name in his mind, automatically falling under a series of mental files and being recalled to the surface of his stream of consciousness. Oslo.
A series of memories came to him, each one spiraling outwards in tangents he eliminated quickly, focusing on trying to recall only that which he needed to know. It came to him, the physical specifications of the station, and running the numbers in his head, registering the approximate micropixel count at roughly .001, the station likewise must be an approximate 50,000 kilometers away. Small runner lights soon confirmed his estimated distance as a small voice came over the microspeakers embedded in the walls of the shuttle. Miniaturization. It was a beautiful thing.
Settling back in his seat, he listened to the pre-landing brief. It was the second time he'd heard such a briefing today, and one of countless others he'd had over an approximated 40 year career with the UEC Navy. It was a shame he hadn't been awake for all of it though, or else he might have had a command of his own. Instead, he was here, being chauffeured around at the behest of the brass of the Navy because he supposedly was one of the few people they could trust to be in command of their new toy. It was a thought that brought a snicker and a look of bitterness to the veteran's face as he knew that it meant he was being assigned to babysitter duty.
Perhaps the only thing to look forward to was the realization that he'd be finally back out in deep space again, far away from the trivialities of civilian life, far away from the UEC brass and the pontificating asshole senators they'd kissed the backsides of during the war. If they'd taken charge, done what had been needed and damned the casualties, they'd not be down an economic powerhouse set of planets. A twinge in his gut brought him back to the current moment in time though, he knew that this mission was important regardless of its true nature. It was a means of proving something, perhaps discovering more than ever before. It was no small secret that this new vessel, the 'Athena', was a redesigned warship and that she had aboard her the most advanced tech available to the whole of the United Earth and Colonies government. This was a means of flaunting their power, and yet it was so subject to problems they needed only the best. It wasn't a fool proofed mission, nothing that involved deep space was and he of all people knew that.
Leaning back in his seat and closing his eyes, he breathed slowly in and out, letting his mind calculate the remaining distance to the station. Noises seemed to fade away as the years of mental practice and likewise muscle memory took effect, his body relaxing in the crash webbing. The shuttle wasn't a spacious vessel, not did it have to be in order to rest or in his case, meditate. Seconds ticked by and every one of them was an hour to Mencili's mind as he let his breath slowly out over the course of days, years, time unending. His mind unraveling, the time experienced becoming once again nothing more than a Human construct, and with it so did his own memories seem to fade into the background. Light, flashes of it, red and blue. They were everywhere, white was surrounding him, the blue light coming from the sides, the red light everywhere and nowhere at once.
It was a memory he'd often had, and it wasn't one that he particularly enjoyed, but it was one he accepted. He had to, it had happened and he'd survived it. He didn't care how hard it had been to come back, to get into a ship, to join the navy again. He was a survivor, he was an officer, but most of all he was a soldier of the UEC and he had sworn his loyalty to her. It was no small secret he'd run with the UEC's Naval Intelligence branches during the war, and it was hardly a secret he'd been in cryo-sleep for years as the result of some unknown and yet unclassified catastrophe. What was a secret was that he suffered from psychological trauma, and this meditation on the event was only but a small part of the extensive therapy that'd he'd likely have to take part in for the rest of his life.
Cryo was dangerous, everyone knew it, it wouldn't have been made a single-stage last-resort option if it was easy and simple. It involved the actual successful stabilizing of a patient using medical grade anti-freeze and plasma in substitution for their blood, and even more worrisome it involved a successful reanimation. Going under, as one might have said, it was easy. You just let go and your brain was soon taken and dropped to a total stasis. No thought, no emotion, just complete and utter nothingness. You got no rest from it, no sleep, no time to reflect. You just got, nothingness. It was as close to death as one could get, and even then, sometimes some got too close and ended up touching it. However, what it did most was freeze your feelings, your emotions, your memories in rigid forms, in ways that sometimes resulted in 'unforeseen side effects' as the shrinks liked to call them.
His eyes slowly opened, the swirling colors fading away into nothingness as light from the view-screen showed him his estimate had been right, or moreover, mostly right. He had calculated a three minute and forty-eight second approach time. They had arrived into the airspace of Oslo long before that, but would likely be in hang up over the station for longer. It was a typical delay, but even considering that, he'd been off by roughly twelve seconds, and a half if he had been getting specific. He let his eyes survey the scene in front of him, it was somewhere in that massive array of tunnels and corridors that he was going to be once again boarding the station and receiving a final pre-mission briefing. He sighed and let his mind return to the memories. He'd had enough of standing before men in uniforms, he'd had enough of listening to them drone on about the importance of his mission, he got the idea. It was why he'd been cagey about the series of promotions he'd been getting since the incident. Not only did he become a Commander within a few years only having just emerged from an unprecedented amount of time in cryo, but he also was now being stationed aboard one of the most important vessels ever designed and deployed by the Navy.
Not that it mattered anyway. He still had to finish the memory and most challenging, he had to talk himself down from the utter panic and fear he was liable to enter. It was a state of pure primordial fear one felt when you reanimated. It was challenging the gods themselves, challenging death, and worst of all, challenging the universe. You broke laws not meant to be broken by evading death through cryo. You didn't just wake up because you weren't asleep. You didn't just breath because you were warm. You were reactivated, like some inorganic thing, but obviously a human was organic. The feeling of the electrodes on his shaven scalp had brought him round, the heat from them excruciating, and then had come the coughing. No, it was hacking, wretching. Breath escaped him, every vein, every orifice, every tube in his body where liquid flowed, had some sort of cryo-agent now flushing into his digestive system. His throat was burning as the tube inserted into it was wrenched from its place. His hands furiously pulling at the long strip of plastic which had filled him up like some human-sized water balloon.
Air! Air, it was eluding him, breathing was impossible, and another violent tremor wracked his body as his heart stuttered into action. electricity ran throughout the course of his body. The localized charge was grounded and diverted quickly, only being used to forcibly pump the plasma in his system. Another tremor, and the sound of liquid flowing from not only his mouth, but his anus and nose filled his ears. It was a gruesome event, to wake up. Everything was being purged, and it was a sight often done alone. It was rebirth to an extent, and then un-dying. It couldn't be done under sedation either, it had to be done by him. His eyes were darkening already as the lack of Oxygen seemed to tug at the edges of his consciousness, but he'd already passed the hardest part. A third tremor shook his body like a leaf and suddenly lights had flooded the room as the small cryo-bay he'd locked himself in was breached. Men in full combat gear, weapons unknown and armor unknown, stormed in and proceeded to hoist the then Lieutenant commander up to his feet. He was naked, cold, covered in the clear fluids which had suspended his body in cryo. The putrid smell of anti-septic smells had rushed into his nose only seconds before the chem-bath started. His eyes bruned with an intensity like none before and his skin seemed to light aflame.
The chem-baths, they were the worst, but not most dangerous part, of reanimating. In Cryo, skin on the top surface died, it couldn't be helped. A minor case of permafrost would create an inescapable layer of dead skin on the surface. To clear the dead skin, a powerful base was used to eat away the dead material before it could foster any harmful bacterial or viral growth. To put it in more civilian terms, it was ripping off the top layer of skin, everywhere. A drink was forced into his mouth and instinctively swallowing, he vomited again. A clear white plastic bag seemed to erupt from his throat and out of his mouth, the liner to protect his stomach. While the anti-freeze couldn't harm most basic tissue, the brain, the stomach, and the intestinal tracts were all protected. Gut flora was important to protect and neuro-receptors in all three locations could potentially be damaged in cryo or by exiting it. The brain itself was protected by small layer of gel injected into the brain by the cryo-bay. This gel layer was mostly harmless and did nothing more than provide a means of suspending the brain securely within the skull during cryo. This would eventually run out through his sinuses, draining into his throat and onto the front of his face in what would seem like the world's worst cold.
From the intense burning of the bath, he came to within a white medical room, men in white coats looking over him, their blue medical scrubs underneath providing their identities as medical practitioners immediately. What had followed was the cognitive evaluations alongside the memory recall and basic fact test. Logic and reasoning skills coupled with endless puzzles for him to solve over the course of three months coupled with daily briefings and debriefings by the few Naval personnel present. They were almost always Naval Intelligence. Those days had been rough, but he'd made his way through the and intended to live out whatever time he had left with the UEC's Navy. By all regards, he still had forty-plus years to go, but a technicality could force him out in as little as two months on the psychological trauma. Damned shrinks worked against him regardless of their claims, and he didn't want to hear any excuses they'd field regardless.
A tremor throughout the shuttle roused him from meditative state as he brought his attention to the view-screen once again. He was now looking at the wall of Oslo Station's main hangar, and yet by changing the view he suddenly found himself looking at a sight that brought a slight gasp to his lips. It was the Battle of the Marn. She was here? Why was she here? What had happened to her? Why was she- he stopped and remembered. The half-second lapse in concentration, focus, and overall cognitive recollection had left him forgetting this was no longer the Marn. It was the Athena, the phoenix born of her ashes. He smiled as he noted she too had emerged from her own rebirth process, rebuilt from the inside out while remaining -on a basic level-, the same thing. Letting himself settle back into his seat, he waited for the automated crash restraints to loosen before pulling them away and standing wihtin the cramped bay of the shuttle. The slight vibration of the craft as it slowly locked itself into place against Oslo station gave him the indication he was now free to move about the cabin, and pulling free of his seat, he stood and straightened the straight black uniform he'd elected to wear. It was his old one assigned to him by the Naval Intelligence Branch while he'd been aboard the Hermes. It was old, antiquated, but it was still acceptable so he was allowed to wear it as formal attire.
Walking towards the airlock, he paused and looked back at the shuttle bay, it had been empty the entire flight over. He let his mind internally shrug as he figured that no one else had been allowed to fly with him, for 'safety reasons'. No doubt just NI's way of ensuring no dirty little secrets slipped out. No man could ever be trusted, no program fail safe, no solution perfect. This was all the certainty in the world the NI was capable of confirming. Beyond that, they were an entity that reported to none but the highest of officials within UEC Brass. They were the eyes and ears of the fleet and like one's own eyes and ears, they always operated in whatever capacity offered them by the mind. The mind in this case, was-
"Tiszt a fedélzeten! Jelenleg a színek!" The sound of a squad of smartly dressed Naval enlisted personnel pulling to attention at the sound of Mencili's native language brought him to a likewise responding gesture. It wasn't the first time he'd been greeted as such, but it was certainly unexpected which made it almost immediately suspect. Walking straight, he paused at the end of the line of various Petty Officers and snapped right. Bringing his arm up to a crisp salute, he found himself looking into the eyes of a young Lieutenant. There was a slight pause, the look in the Lieutenant's eyes being familiar somehow, but not knowing why, he finished the salute, turned, and walked away into the bowels of the station to try and find the way aboard the vessel within the hangar bay he'd just seen.
by Alleniana » Sun Oct 18, 2015 6:22 am
Liecthenbourg wrote:The United Kingdom of Great Britain and Ireland
(Image)
Dieu et Mon Droit
Chapter 2: Of Company, Crown and Conroy(Image)A self portrait of Victoria
Drawn during her trips across Britain
Holkham Hall, Norfolk
March 4th, 1835
Victoria hated this. These trips were pointless to her. She'd scream and rage within herself, calling on God to curse her mother and Sir John Conroy for their oppressive attitude towards her. All day everyday, she was boxed and regulated to within an inch of her life. It became a monotonous hell of a childhood. Lessons, short periods of relaxation, lessons. Day in day out. It bothered her immensely. No childhood friends for they were all deemed 'undesirables' by her mother and the Lord. And now here she was, at a familial stay at Holkham Hall in Norfolk with a dozen people she knew only through occasional correspondence and few meetings and and half a dozen people she'd never even met before, let alone knew anything of their person.
She forced a smile to her face and stepped out of the carriage. Sir Conroy, ever the gentleman in public, chivalrously assisted her in stepping down onto the cobbled road and she repaid him in kind with a clearly obvious fake smile. He scowled and she merely continued walking, leaving the equerry of the Duchess of Kent alone. "Fetch my bags for me, if you could do please, Sir." She called to him as she approached the rest of her entourage. The gathering was plentiful and large, yet she only knew one of the individuals present well enough: her uncle, William, King.
"It is good to see you, your Majesty." She performed a graceful courtesy, picking up her dress in a manner most ladylike.
At that, William scoffed and waved her off most un-sovereign like.
"Victoria, my name is William and I expect you to use it." A small smile spread across his lips and it was only then Victoria noticed how weary the man looked. His eye sockets were powered, intensively, clearly at some intention to remove the black rings beginning to form around them, his face creased when his lips extended or parted and his cheeks were beginning to become rather hollow. This was not the man she could recall having seen a few years prior, nor the one captured in the few portraits she had seen. Despite their friendlessness, Victoria knew there was a little animosity between her uncle and herself. Ever since their trips earlier, specifically the ones to Malvern Hills, she had seen him scowl and frown at how the people welcomed her. It had dawned on her early on that William saw her more as a rival than his heir and she tried her best to avoid these trips. Her mother did not oblige.
Just as Victoria was about to continue, a hand placed itself on her shoulder. It was a feeling she despised with every fibre of her being. It was control. She clenched her teeth slightly, clasping her hands together.
"Hello, mother." Was all she said. William gave a quick glance at the two and furrowed his brow.
"Come dear." Mary Louise Victoria told her daughter. "We have much to do, much to do indeed."
"Leave her be, woman." William declared, grabbing onto the German woman's hand and prying it off the shoulder of his niece.
"Your Majesty, I would please request you leave par-" William raised his hand in a stopping gesture and Victoria merely shook her head.
"Uncle, its fine tru-" The King of Britain, Ireland and Hanover raised his hand in refusal again. The heir presumptive took note and saw within the man that was King a determination that she could associate with the stories she had heard and the portraits she had witnessed. Here she saw the man whom had fought in the Americas, ascended the throne and battled with Whig and Tory alike in Parliament attempting to impose his ideas on them before being battled back by the staunch will of the people's support of the Whigs.
William's glance returned to the German Princess. "I would highly suggest you leave Victoria be for the duration of this trip. Allow her freedom of reign, or God so help me I will see you sent packing back to Saxe-Coburg-Saalfeld faster than you can say 'Achtung' . You may have been married to my brother, but he's long gone and the rumours circling you are disgusting. Go, out of my sight."
"Your Majesty, I implore you please!"
"I hope to live to the day Victoria reaches 18, so you will never be regent of this country!" With that, the individuals nearby had heard the King's outburst but played it so as if they had paid no mind. Quickly and under watchful gaze, the Princess Victoria of Saxe-Coburg-Saalfeld clutched the edges of her dress and parted from her daughter and her brother in law. With that dealt with, William gave another weary and tired smile to his niece and began to personally give her a tour of the Country House, the Hall of Holkham.
After the tour, as Monarch and Heir stepped down the illustrious stairs of the Marble Hall, Dash, Victoria's Charles Spaniel, began a barking frenzy and its little legs went into a scurry as it descended down the stairs, ahead of William and Victoria. Both looked up, startled, and saw that the tiny dog was circling the legs of another individual. He was a tall lad, lean, but well bit - every conception of Germanic identity could be seen in this man - dark haired, with piercing brown eyes. He knelt down, scratching the dog on its quaint head and sent it scurrying back to Victoria, whom gave a smile - a genuine one - to this newcomer.
"Victoria?" William interjected. "May I introduce you to Frederick Wilhelm of Prussia, grandson of the Prussian King. He is serving as my ward."
Victoria smiled as the German took her hand in a very gentlemanly fashion, placing a kiss on her fingers. Perhaps this trip wont be so bad after all.
-snip other stuff because this was the best bit IMO-
by Charlia » Sun Nov 08, 2015 7:30 am
Elysian Kentarchy wrote:
Anselm, the Emperor-Judge
They leave one after another I can feel it, one after another they have returned. Now it is my turn to leave and make a return. I have been away from my Court for far too long and thus it is time to make my return back to where I held court like a Emperor and a Judge. I call out to the others hoping my voice will reach them all before I leave. "I wish you all the best and I hope to meet up with you all in better times." I emerge through the portal and float in the skies. So he did it. Omnegas did it! We have returned. I practically laugh in joy at this moment. For it is time to return the old glory of the Gods. For in my case justice and kings will reign again. I wonder most about Taniko and Balthazor and what they will do Though I have a feeling that exuberance of our return will not last, our escape was through Omnegas' manipulation but not all of us will stay friends with one another, none of us would want to go back but feuds can arise in preventing such ideas. As lamentable as that is and the mortals will try to stop us when they realize just what they have unleashed. Therefore each of us must rally our bases. I must return to my Court to see what repairs need to be made. I glide through the skies and see a city in the direction of my Court. How odd. This wasn't here so long ago. Well actually now that I think about it there was a settlement here but it was nothing like this. Mankind has fared well I suppose. I glide myself into a forest even great forests are crumbling and I find what I am looking for. A hollowed out cave enterence with a guard in uniform. One of my followers I will assume to keep people away. I glide past him and into the cave where I descend deeper into the place. When I finally arrive at the cavern which was home to my court and settlement I nearly fall into despair at the sight of it. Buildings, both great and humble have collapsed, the ruins showing so few signs of life besides the vermin. The gardens we worked so hard to build and maintain are mostly dead or overgrown with weeds. The palace that formed both of my Courts can be shown cracks and moss even from here and there is plenty of other issues. I enter to where the throne room is here but besides my throne being perfectly intact there is little else here worth seeing that doesn't equal decay so I enter where my Court of Justice was and see life finally. My followers, nearly fifty in total, all sit around this room around their fires in the room eating their meals. Quite a few of them are old, there are some middle aged people there as well, and there is some young children here as well. My few remaining followers. I glide over to my completely intact throne in the room and materialize myself in it.
"It has been too long since I last walked here." I remark. Taking on the appearance of an old man, it was either that or that of a young one but I can switch between the two.
Anselm's Followers at His Court
I have long gone mostly blind in my eyes and am mostly frail in my age, being a hundred does that to you, but I am also the Elder here so normally everyone comes to me for advice. "Elder Alexander. Would you like some more soup?" One of the children asks.
"If you can please." I reply kindly
Though after I say that a deep voice remarks. "It has been too long since I last walked here."
There is some shuffling and yelling in the direction of Anselm's throne and I can hear weapons being reached for."Wait." I get up with the help of a couple of youngsters. "Who are you?"
"I am Anselm, the God of Monarchy and Justice." He says politely.
"Anselm?" Sputters most of the people in the room in degrees from disbelief to outrage and I raise a hand to calm them. "If you are Anselm then can you answer the question you left my ancestors when they waited for your return.
"Ancestors? Oh then you must be from the Talva Family."
"That is correct." That alone convinces me but the question needs to be asked.
"I am glad to see your line still lives."
"Thank you. Beyond justice what is the most important concepts a monarch must keep in mind if he is to rule well?"
"A monarch is to act in justice, that is the most important aspect. But justice is an abstract thought at times and thus needs the aid of other abstract thoughts. Therefore a monarch must not act in the name of their dynasty or their nobles but in the name of the interest of the Kingdom, of the national interest if you will. It is important to determine what the national interest is, the national interest is the greater good for the nation while the national health is another concept that is important. Such as a monarch must not willingly do something that undermines the health of the people. The national interest helps safeguard the national health while the national health ensure that the people are well off. If a war is needed in the name of the national interest then war it is, if peace is needed in such a name then peace it is. acting in the interest of the nation, and not in the interest of your own power or goals ensures you are a good monarch."
I take a step back in as awe and terror overwhelm me, while there is much more to give about that topic he did get what was needed right and he gave the code words in it. "He... he is the Emperor-Judge... He has returned to us at long last..." What is left of my vision is obscured by tears and I get on my knees. "He has returned..." The earlier outrage fades as we all get on our knees and bow to him. "My God, we are yours to command."
"I have returned to you after so long." He tells them. "I thank you all for your faithfulness."
"What do you want of us?" I ask.
"Where is the High Judge?" He demands of us.
"My Emperor-Judge." I begin frailly "We haven't had one in a very very long time. The Lakisians have long since been dissolved, all branches so much so."
He sighs and I prepare to receive a lashing for our failing but instead he says. "That is to be expected. They will need to be reformed when the time comes. Regardless I want all of you to carry on. The Age of Gods has returned to us and thus we must be prepared to spread my word in the future we must also restore my Court to its former glory. Things will be different this time around."
"Yes our God." I pledge.
"So who comes here these days?"
"Many of us are descendants of your older followers. But occasionally we get others. Children who have been cast by the wayside, people falsely accused of crimes, people thirsting to learn about justice, monarchists who needed shelter. Only those who have had the potential for faith have come."
He sighs once again "Good... good. Then my Court is still serving its original purpose. A shelter fro those who seek justice and a place that provides sanctuary to those who need it Now then is anyone a good guide?"
"Nikolai." I bark and hear him step over. "He is a good guide and a good man. Knows this area quite well."
"What is the city in the area?" He asks us.
"It is called Saint Petersburg these days sir."
"I see. So much has indeed changed. I will need a guide when it comes to this city. So much has changed in my absence. Prepare your things and lets go."
And with that our God leaves our presence and I burst into tears once again. "At last our faith has returned. At last Anselm walks amongst us. Justice has returned to the world."
Anastasia Olderen, University of Saint Petersburg
"Yo, Anastasia. Did you see the sky earlier?" A fellow classmate asks propping his feet his feet on the table in the lounge where I am reading my book.
I look up in annoyance. "I was too busy reading my book to notice, Andrei. And I would like to keep reading thank you very much. This panic is just a bother."
"The biggest event in a long time and you are calling it just a bother?" He asks incredulously.
"Given all the phone calls I have been receiving yes it has been. Hence why I changed my voice mail to tell them to call my Uncle so he can deal with it."
"I see. So have you considered my offer."
"No and I never will."
"Why not we..."
I frown and don the face of the business leader that I have learned to take on. "Your family's business failed and mine didn't. That is the nature of the world of business." I say coldly. "Deal with it."
"But surely together we can..."
"We can what?" I cut him off. "Face it your business has collapsed and is in too much debt. There are no prospects with you and there never will be again. And good riddance with you as well the way you treated your workers was appalling so your company deserves to go into liquidation." I smile cheerily. "Don't worry though. We are buying up everything you sell pretty fast and we're turning a tidy profit as well thanks to the new contracts we get. The steel industry needs a better hand then your family's after all. The workers have all come back due to the new safety regulations and better wages. Something greedy pigs like you would never understand."
"The purpose of business is to make money." He says his face reddening in anger.
"We also look after our workers. Doing so ensures we make more money in the long run." I get up and close my book. "Good day." I say cheerfully turning my back on the enraged student. Later that evening I head back to my dorm room and as I take out my keys I hear someone behind me but I just assume that it is another student walking by but then I am grabbed from behind and a cloth is put over my face.
"Oh and I should have mentioned that today was your last chance to consider my offer." Someone says as I lose consciousness.
I awaken surrounded by trees but it is dark outside. I try to move but I feel ropes around my hands and legs and I feel a gag in my mouth. I hear voices so I try to focus in.
"Nah people are too busy talking about the sky to worry about one missing student. At least for a while. By then we should be able to get the money and live off well enough. Agreed so lets wait for a while and then call her family and ask for the ransom."
"Andrei are you sure that..."
"I'm completely sure. With this we can pay off our debt and we can all have some money on the side."
Andrei, that snake. When I am through with his family's company they will be reduced to paupers without a ruble to their name. While they talk I feel something familiar in my sleeve. Those idiots didn't even search me? Their loss is my gain I suppose, of course Andrei wouldn't be that intelligent. and I slip the pocket knife out of my sleeve and get to work on the rope. I cut myself slightly doing so but I finally cut through the ropes. I do the same for the rope around my legs and take the gag out of my mouth.
"Hey did you hear that?" One of Andrei's friends asked and I hear yelling.
"Damn it all! She's escaping!" Andrei yells. "After her before she gets away. If she does it will be on all of our heads!"
I take off into the forest running as fast as I can. I am pretty athletic so normally I would be able to outrun them easily though, since this is a forest, my speed is hampered by need of caution so they quickly gain on me. "Curses." I mutter and I keep running but then one of them runs out from the side of me and tackles me to the ground.
"Excellent Dmitri. I will handle this." I hear Andrei say as I feel hands wrap around my throat. "This could have gone so much easier if you just had agreed to my proposal. Well your family will still pay the ransom even if I leave you beaten. A pity I will have to mess up that face of yours though."
I claw at his hands but the others grab them and pin them down and I start to black out. He isn't going to beat me... he's going to kill me. The thought flashes through my mind but there is little I can do about it besides glare at him but it grows to be too hard so my eyes close. As I fade out I suddenly feel something hit my face. I instinctively feel that it is blood and I open my eyes slightly and see someone in front if me with a spear as I fade out though I think his countenance is majestic I can't help but feel even if I can't see his face and just his back.
Anselm
We walk quietly through the woods. We don't have another method of transportation since I prefer being more subtle for a while. Through as we walk we hear running and yelling so we take cover in some bushes. As we do so a girl runs through the area as fast as she can and shortly after three men are behind her chasing after her. "Nikolai... stay down I will handle this." I whisper and stand up and close my eyes briefly. I assume my younger human form and have my spear appear in my hands.
"My Emperor-Judge..." He whispers but I ignore him and charge out with my spear and stab the one who is trying to strangle her in the head. The blow is obviously fatal.
As I pull my weapon out of his skull I turn around and look at the others. "Now anyone else want a go?" In rage one of them pulls out something and pulls a trigger on it. The bang is interesting but I deflect whatever was shot at me with my spear. I feel as if it is a firearm, those have truly come a long way if they have changed that much. "Nice move. Here's my turn." I just throw my spear at him and it impales him through the chest and I run to him, pull him out and stab him in the head so he can be finished off quickly. As I finish him off I turn to the last one. "I suggest you run boy. I will give you until the count of five." The boy immediately takes off screaming. How pathetic, though justice was done of this day so I am satisfied. "Nikolai." I say quietly having my spear disappear and turning back into my old man form from my younger form.
"My Emperor-Judge?" He asks in half awe and half fear.
"Go to the city without me. See if you can find people facing injustice and see if you can bring them over to our view and my Court, even orphans will do because normally they face great injustice because of their status. I do not expect you to be too successful but any amount of new followers helps. Do not proclaim my return for all to hear though. That is attention I do not need at the moment."
"What about you and this girl?"
"I will take her back to Court and see to her myself. She will want to know justice was served on those who tried to harm her as well."
""Very well my Emperor-Judge. I will bring who I can find."
"Very good." I cradle the young girl in my arms and begin the walk back to Court.
Anastasia Olderen
I wake up in bed and look around. It seems that it was all a dream but I hear a kind voice say. "Ah you are up. Just in time too the soup is about done."
I look over and see an old man, with a neatly trimmed beard and hair pouring some soup in bowls. "Where am I?" I ask a bit groggily.
"The Court of Anselm." He says in the same kind tone. " Here you go.
I cautiously take a sip and it tastes good so I have some more. "So this 'Court of Anselm' what is it? And who is Anselm?"
"Anselm is an old God, the God of Monarchy and Justice actually. His Court is his temple so to speak. The place is a ruin nowadays but back in the old days it was something."
"The Gods are a myth." I say bluntly cutting the old man off.
"WERE a myth child. They were sealed off long ago due to humanity's lack of faith. Now they have returned."
"You expect me to believe..."
"Besides you do owe Anselm your life he did save you earlier."
"I don't..." Suddenly I do as I think back. A warrior with a spear taller than himself laying waste to them. "You claim that was Anselm?"
"Who else? He could tell an injustice was being done on you so he intervened. As he should do."
"But claiming that a God did something is completely impossible."
"Did you see the sky? An idiot human ripped open the barrier separating the Gods from the Humans allowing them to return." He explains to me. The barrier kept them far away from this existance.
"I... heard about it..." I start weakly. That sky couldn't have been normal I admit and I curse myself for not paying attention.
"It was just our return for we are now amongst the humans again."
"'We'? 'Our'?" I ask pointedly suspecting what he means but I need to hear him say so.
"Ah I should introduce myself. Anselm, the God of Monarchy and Justice. Pleased to meet you." He says cheerfully.
I raise an eyebrow. "I seem to remember a much younger man with a large spear saving me earlier. Who you identified as Anselm."
"Ah that was me in one of my three forms. There is my old man form, my young man form, and my divine form." He says and then his face and body glows brightly briefly forcing me to cover my eyes and he has turned into the young man that saved me. "I cannot assume my divine form due to the small amount of faithful that I do have but doing this and summoning my weapon and shield is something I can do. Though let us talk. Who are you miss?"
"Anastasia Olderen." I start cautiously.
"Pleased to meet you." He replies. "Anselm, God of Monarchy and Justice."
"I still don't believe you are a God you know." I tell him.
"Even after seeing that? Humans seem to have grown more incredulous over the years." He grumbles. "So let us talk then and see if words convince you."
"I'm game. So you claim to be a 'God of Justice'. If you do claim to be so then what is the most perfect form of justice?"
He smiles at the topic. "So you have an interest in justice eh? Maybe I will enjoy this talk after all. I have rarely had a chance to talk about such an important concept since I was removed from this world." He ponders briefly as if remembering something. "The most perfect form of justice... I have been asked that question so many times in the past. My followers, due to my dual aspects believed that justice handed down by a monarch was the most perfect. They are wrong in that regard. It is the most authoritative version of law. As for the most perfect let me propose a problem. If a man kills another man because that man murdered someone close to them would some people call that just."
"Indeed."
"But then there is the court that says the man was wrong to kill that other man no matter what and imprison that man. Would other people call that just?"
"They would."
"So which is more right? The man who took revenge or the court that condemned the man that took revenge?"
I ponder over my answer for a few minutes and I remember father and what happened to him so I immediately answer. "The man who took revenge."
He raises his eyebrow in surprise. "It is a rare person to give that answer Anastasia. Nevertheless I believe you are correct. The man did not violate the law, rather he executed that law. He wasn't an official but a common man. Therefore he is more right even if he did not have the authority to deliver such punishment. In my followers back in the olden days such people were rather common. If every common man kept justice in their minds then there would be no injustice."
"Interesting." I can't help but be intrigued by his answers.
"Indeed. But what of the law in that regard? If the law states that a man cannot kill to correct injustice, only a judge can for example, then didn't that man violate the law and deliver an injustice himself?"
"Some would say so..." I think it over before continuing. "But I don't."
"You are a rare person Anastasia. You would have fit right in with my followers back in the old days. But what of the law then? Does that mean the law can be unjust?"
"It seems so."
"So obviously we cannot find the perfect justice in the law itself due to the ability of the law to be unjust. So where must we look next? Kings themselves when untrained can also be unjust so not there. Therefore instead of law or kings I propose we think about law as something for the greater good. If the greater good is violated would that harm everyone else?"
"So it seems."
"Therefore violating the greater good would create injustice wouldn't it?"
"Indeed."
"So logically the greater good would be the most just. But that can be a double edge sword so it is not always the case. So where should we look next?"
"Perhaps the people?" I inquire
"They would be interesting but the people are also tricky. A desire for justice quickly turns into greed. Justice in its most basic concept is to correct what is owed. While somethings cannot be replaced that is it in its most basic concept therefore greed is, by nature, unjust. A person that steals one hundred coins that were owed to him but never given would be someone seeking justice but someone stealing one hundred and one coins is little more than a thief and has committed injustice."
"It seems so."
"Could we possibly reach the common ground that the perfect justice is something that must always be chased but is something that will continue to elude us? That it is something that we must work towards and every just action is building towards that perfect justice?"
"I do agree." I admit that I didn't expect to find an answer quite like this but his rhetoric is astounding so I can't help but listen to every word he says.
"So to continue..." He begins again and we plunge back into topics such as law, philosophy, morality, or simply pondering.
Anselm
"Alright based on all your arguments I am willing to believe you are a God." She finally concedes after hours on end of talking. I can tell she actually does believe as well, though talking with her has been most enjoyable. So much so that I have already replaced the candles because they burned so low during our talks. She has a sharp mind and a desire to see justice. She would do well amongst my faithful.
I chuckle. "And something you need to learn also is that logic alone cannot be the sole basis for belief in a God, faith is an essential component too."
"I believe and I have faith in the logic behind you and what you say." She says honestly. "As you said when you were replacing the candles everyone needs something to believe in."
I nod. "Good. Good. Then we have a lot of work to do and you have much to learn."
"You will find me to be so willing sir."
I smile and laugh. "Good. Good. Though I am sorry to say my Court isn't much. There is much rebuilding to be done since things have crumbled in my absence."
"I will happily help out with that. My family owns a business and we have some construction contracts. I can forward the money, resources and labors here to help rebuild. But I will only be able to give some at a time so progress will be slow but sped up."
I nod quietly "If you can convert those people to the faith then I will agree on sending the labor. Only Gods, the faithful, and the people the faithful are bringing for safety or judgement are allowed to come here. But I do appreciate your offer. Unlike Sukriti. the Goddess of Creation, I just can't restore everything in a blink of an eye. It just isn't my strong suit. Though the original building plans and list of what went into building the place is in the library so we can use those. But for now that is of secondary importance. Restoring a building can be done at any time so any amount of work done in that area will suffice. Restoring my faith and followers is of much more importance"
"It would be my joy to help restore your Court." She insists clearly eager to help me where I can.
"Perhaps but for now let us begin your training." I reply happy with the eagerness of youth, truly this girl is something, I am thankful to have returned just to have someone like her among my faithful. There hasn't been a Voice that I have felt this happy about having in a long long time.
A prophetess by any other name will be born here and thus the Voice of Justice shall carry my word once again. Truly the Gods have returned. We shall rebuild ourselves from our seats and we shall never be sent back.
by The Starlight » Fri Dec 04, 2015 6:12 pm
Charmera wrote:Christmas Shopping: Part One
Xyri smiled as she walked through the massive mall, strolling casually through it’s expanse. She had been careful, stealthy, silent. Hopefully not even Rin would be able to tell she had gone out. Especially not Rin actually, she wanted this to be especially special for her. She wanted to make a good impression with the sound manipulator after all. She seemed really nice, and the best way to make friends in her opinion was to make a good impression. That was always done best with a well chosen gift, sensitive to her friends tastes or personalities. And what better time to do so than Christmas! In truth she knew little of the holiday, but she knew that this was the day to get gifts. the giant girl paid little heed to the stares of the civilians. Instead she simply moved through the mall at her usual giants stride.
First, Elena. She had not seen much of the woman since the beginning of the group, but she hoped dearly she would come for christmas. It was Xyri’s favorite holiday, one for generosity and kindness. It gave her a nice warm, fuzzy feeling inside. So she had decided to get what money she had managed to collect over the years. (Her secret stash in her drawer) And buy something for everyone.
Her search for Elena’s gift found her in a bookshop, the sime girl frowned as she looked for the one word she had remembered to memorize. She found it, and smiled. She picked up a box set of books and then placed it on the counter with another box set. It was expensive, but she had saved a decent amount.
Now it was Vera’s turn. She looked through the shops until she got to a stuffed animals store, where she got a toy Gorilla. She then picked up a few things, including a book on dog training, dog care and such. She thought of getting Vera’s canine friend a present, and so she got a bone.
Afterwards she got gifts for Mars. The latest digital device, though she had to be helped by a very nervous shop attendant. She tried to calm her, though she didn’t seem to adjust well, to which Xyri sighed a resigned sigh and just didn’t address it. She also picked up some video games for him.
Nelli was next. She was quite mysterious, but Xyri reasoned she might want to know more about our planet, so she grabbed several documentaries on subjects from history to geography. She found them better for learning than books.
Cat, she reasoned, would like something artsy, after all she was always going into her room and painting, so she got her all sorts of art utensils, paints, rulers, pencils and the like.
Nico was getting a new device too, though this one was different from mars. It was a small communications device almost the size of a grain of sand, which would be useful considering his powers. He might even be able to control it if she could get Mars to work on it, though with secrecy in mind.
Kris she wondered about, she was probably already getting a lot of singing aids from everyone else. Like the microphone she had gotten from mars, so Xyri thought she’d introduce her to something she had recently discovered herself. Musical instrumentation and written lessons and music sheets. Hopefully she would appreciate the gift of getting her something to accompany her wonderful singing. She just hoped what she chose would allow her to play it with her claws….
Finally, there was Rin. She paused before going into the shop for her, bags already hanging from each arm. She sighed, frowning. She needed to get something special, really special. She liked Rin, and wanted to impress her. Would one huge present or lots of little presents be better? She wasn’t sure. She considered her remaining funds, and nodded. She had an idea. She would get her lots of little things and then one big massive epic present. Then it would be perfect. She wished it was christmas already so she could see the delight on Rin’s face.
The first gift was simple enough, she got a few musical albums on CD, various things that she hoped Rin would like. One person called Chorus stood out, and a few other bands she thought Rin might have expressed interest in.
Another one would be a device which was fairly new, which supposedly was about to take sound, and then apply fitting music to it. She also got several sound recording and analysis softwares.
Before she could get the biggest gift, she swiftly went back to the tower to deposit all her gifts in her room. She wasn’t worried about space since she could compress herself. Instead, she made sure the door was locked. Then she oozed out once more and back to the store.
On the way she noticed a nice notebook, At first she frowned at it, but then decided to buy it for Rin. Perhaps she could note things down or something. She wasn’t really sure why she bought it, but she decided to follow her gut.
Then finally, she went to the audio store and got the biggest sound amplifiers she could buy. With some favors from mars or Nico she could boost the power of these even further for Rin. When the store person asked about delivery for the six foot things, Xyri shook her head and smiled.
“I’ll take it myself.” She remarked, lifting it casually like a pillow. The storeperson stood back a bit and his eyes widened. “Thanks though.” Xyri spoke before leaving, lifting two amplifiers under her arms easily the size of people. It had taken almost the rest of her savings, but it was worth it.
As she was walking past she noticed a man in red clothing sitting in the middle of the mall, with a short line towards him. She frowned, then shrugged as she got in line. She placed the amplifiers down, not thinking about if someone would steal it. She was curious after all.
As she got to the front of the line, she sat the red man more clearly, he seemed to be overweight, and had a white beard, red cheeks and an infinitely calming smile.
“What can I do for you dear?” He spoke.
“I... wanted to know what was going on. There were children lining up.” She asked.
The man nodded nodded. “Not from around here right?” He smiled. “I’m Santa. And this line is for children asking me what gift I should get them.”
“Yes. I know people get gifts for each other. That’s why I’m here.”
“Well, did you know I get gifts for everyone.” Replied Santa. “All the children at least. I try my best to get them all presents.”
“Really?! That’s really nice. It’s it really hard though.”
“Oh it’s not so hard if you have a list… and a sleigh.” He spoke. The slime girl nodded, and then moved towards him, standing next to him. Sitting on his lap would probably be painful for the poor man.
“A sleigh?”
“Oh yes, driven by reindeer. Rudolf, Vixen, Dasher…”
“But what about the sea…?”
“Oh, it’s not a problem if your sleigh flies. “ He winked at Xyri with a magical twinkle. Then he noticed a small kid coming up to his lap. The line was gone.
“And who are you my dear boy?”
“Jeremy” He spoke, then sniggered. He hopped onto Santa’s lap.
“Well Jeremy, what do you want for Christma-“ Suddenly the boy pulled on the mans beard and it came away, revealing it to be fake.
“He’s not Santa! You see!” He exclaimed, taking a picture of him and Santa and then running off. Xyri looked in confusion. Then Santa sighed and got off his seat.
“Let me explain.”
“I’m confused… is Santa really a person or did you-.”
“No! He’s- Look.” He rubbed the back of his head. “I’m an actor. I pretend to be Santa Claus to bring joy to children… I do get paid for it, but I don’t do this for the money…”
Xyri frowned, “So you lied to me.”
“Yes.” He spoke. “But… that’s sort of the point. It’s about the spirit of Christmas.”
Xyri looked around, she wasn’t sure what to think. She frowned. It seemed like this magic she had led to believe in was now crushed. She sighed.
Fake Santa shook his head. “These kids… They don’t believe. They don’t believe because they don’t get it.” He spoke, “Back when I was a kid this line used to be long! Ages long. And you wound never think of tugging santa’s beard. You stood in line for ages and ages, so you could tell Santa what you wanted.”
“But now… with thor and doctor strange. They’re much more interested in superheroes and cool flashy powers. They don’t believe in these kinds of miracles anymore. They’ve seen flying supermen, yet when asked to believe in a man so kind he could make presents for the whole world… they don’t. Because… that’s the way the world is now… I guess. You’re not a hero unless you can beat up darkseid or lift a galaxy. Ordinary heroes aren’t as special anymore...”
He paused. “Sorry to ruin your first christmas.”
Xyri nodded. “It’s… okay…” She managed weakly. She picked up the amplifiers and then turned back to the man. “Do you think… Santa is real.”
The man paused. He didn’t know how to respond.
Xyri nodded. “Okay…” Was all she could manage, before slinking back home. Had she made a mistake? This holiday was bleaker than she remembered. She remembered a time which the man was describing, and she had never been allowed into christmas before due to what she was, but now she was here… it seemed so much less. Did people really not believe? Was that man right?
Did Superman kill Santa Claus?
by Cerillium » Sat Dec 05, 2015 5:42 pm
Swith Witherward wrote:[top portion of collab snipped. What follows is the aftermath -- a discussion between my character and Highfort's -- to establish the younger cyborg's shock. - Cer]
Septimus followed Thaddeus towards the stairs, jogging to keep pace with the enormous steps of the bulky, imposing cyborg. The man’s mention of Neste’s impending death had left Septimus in slight alarm, though he knew from experience that the Nifid’s children were hardly so fragile as to die from mere battle. Neste had been serving for several hundred years - surely this was no strange occurrence?
“What did you mean by ‘hastening her impending death’?” the younger cyborg and Representative caught up with the elder and pulled him aside lightly, “Thaddeus, Scel can be brought back, can’t she? Neste brought me back and I’m not even Nifid - surely there’s some contingency in place for Scel?”
Guess you didn’t know her as well as you thought? The cyborg hid his smug grin well. “The exo is gone. The pilot will follow. It is symbiosis at its worst and best.”
“So that’s it, then? No contingencies? You mean to tell me the mighty Nifid, the scourge of a thousand worlds, don’t even have backup plans in place when their troops get hurt?” Septimus snorted incredulously, though a nervous tingling began at the base of his spine, “That is bullshit, Thaddeus. There’s got to be a way. I was regrown in a vat - there’s got to be a way to do that for her.”
“You were regrown from the whole. Half of her is already dead.” an apathetic shrug rolled from his shoulders and caused the ends of his duster to flutter, “They are one creature.”
“How can you just… talk about her like that?!” Septimus sputtered, exasperation mixing with the exhaustion from the battle and the ensuing events, shoving an accusatory finger toward the elder cyborg, “There’s got to be some way. If she died, and she was preserved in a tether like I was, could she be brought back with Scel, concurrently? Damn it, Thaddeus, you say you know her so tell me how to fix this!”
Several cruel retorts died on the cyborg’s tongue. His resentment hadn’t decreased. Septimus hadn’t been there. He’d run around playing good little diplomat, but for what end? Meh. “I don’t have time to explain the Nifid life cycle to you,” he rumbled. “These were things you should have asked about sooner.”
“Sooner? Thaddeus, we have jobs to do this Building,” the Representative balked in disgust at the cavalier attitude of his contemporary, “Do you think I just left her there because I didn’t give a shit?! There were other people I was responsible for and she was in the care of the healers. Not all of us can just drop everything because we feel like it, we have responsibilities. I would think a man of your stature would understand that.”
“Your responsibility was to be there for her!” Thaddeus snarled. “But that’s right. Wouldn’t step up as a handler. Wouldn’t take on that responsibility. So caught up in your moral righteousness that you couldn’t possibly understand her as being anything more than a cute, expendable fucktoy.”
A metallic finger lifted to point at the Representative. “Sclerata is nothing but a damned innocent arthropod, and your sweet Neste an endoparasitoid” Ass. Put that in your pipe and smoke it.
“Wouldn’t step up as a handler?” Septimus scoffed, though he took a step back when Thaddeus raised his metal arm. Best not to get killed before he could root out a solution for Neste, “Cute, expendable fucktoy?! Don’t act like you understand me, you rotting piece of shit. Neste is a sapient being and no sapient being should be a slave. That’s what a handler is - an excuse, a softening of the title: a slaveowner. I didn’t agree to be her handler because I love her and because I love her I didn’t want her to be a slave.”
He grit his teeth, “Sclerata is not just an arthropod and Neste is not just an endoparasitoid. They’re women I love, so for the last time, would you please pull your smug head out of your ass and help me figure out a solution besides JUST LETTING HER DIE?!”
“Handlers don’t own them,” the cyborg’s tone softened as he cast aside some of his animosity. How much had the construct revealed? Probably nothing at all. Protective measure on her part, most definitely. “Handlers are entrusted with them. There are two types of handler. One agrees to tend them officially. One agrees to tend them unofficially. One keeps them bound to duty. One sets them free.”
He waved a dismissive hand. “Let nature take its course. You don’t understand. For fuck’s sake, put aside your duty and responsibility for an evening, and spend it with her. Not in meetings. Not plotting trips.”
“So that’s it, then?” Septimus held in a sob. He wouldn’t give the old man the satisfaction - hell, he’d already lost control and he was sure Thaddeus was pleased about that, “She’s going to die.”
Something between a hiss and a sigh left his lips and he swallowed, licking his lips as he took in this new reality. His voice came out stiff, and formal, though a slight edge was still present. Without the processor, he couldn’t quite get down the tone of total neutrality, “My apologies, Thaddeus, for wasting your time. I let my emotions get the best of me; you’re right. I should be spending the evening with her.”
Sweat broke out on his forehead, “If anyone going on the city trip asks, I’m not around.”
And with that, Septimus shuffled down the hall, down the stairs, and toward the basement. If these were to be her last days, then she should at least be happy. The Building that Neste and Scel had given their lives in protecting owed her that much.
He owed her that much. [/end collab]
Warm condensation obscured the man's neutral expression as he drifted in his vat. His flawless body, now pale from lack of ultra violet rays, barely twitched as the reptilian finger lifted to dot the glass. A second press and a swipe - now two eyes frowned back at her, their edges bleeding minute rivets of pooled moisture.
"Hello, Titus," Neste's breath fogged the surface anew. The superimposed frown remained, a shade different than the pristine glass around it. She frowned in turn before wiping the expression off his face with her palm. The situation wasn't fair. Not to him, at least. How long would he hang in limbo? How long before he is sacrificed into Reunion? This strange question - incessant mental pawing on behalf of Scel - had become too frequent during the last few weeks.
The exo's former resting place in front of the tank remained empty. It was a hideous reminder of all the lizard had lost. Too much. Neste settled onto the warm, worn floor and cast her eyes upwards at the tank. What was the draw? What the hell had the exo found so intriguing about the dead man? To her, he was simply a toned human trapped in neutral buoyancy. He wasn't remarkable nor imposing. He simply was, some dead thing without a clue, and yet...
Neste's palms slid forward and her belly and breasts planted themselves on the strangely yielding surface. Her reptilian throat and jaw settled flush with it, and her eyelids fluttered closed to shield her duplex retinas. This was Scel's perspective, but not quite her vision yet. A pair of freckles atop the construct's skull rippled and lightened to reveal her parietal eyes. Her soft cough brought a phlegm bolus to her tongue; fingertips applied it to the freckles to aid in translucency.
Seconds ticked by. Then a minute. Then ten.
She gasped.
Titus' shadowy form loomed. Handsome features became blurred through her third eyes, wresting away his humanity to cast him as something different - the blurred outline of a pilot in stasis. Splayed fingers, barely perceptible in the dim light, curled into cups - a sacred symbol among the sisterhood. Each hand held the universe, one dark and one light, and combined they forged the veracity of the construct's riddle -
Trilb dicebant "paries, quid cellularum divisio - quid locus minoris resistentiae? Neste whispered, "luctor et emergo apud Scelerata. Doxi omnia vincit.
Unthinkable!
Yet, was it, really? Doxy was a long-standing theory that had been proven, in part, by the adaptive nature of the construct's own tail. Hadn't Trilb delved into the genetic code? Hadn't he proven them all wrong?
"Opisthokonts!" insanity whispered.
Neste's eyes flew open and she beheld Titus once more. Pale arms wrapped around the tank as she pressed her cheek to the cool glass. "Thank you," the sweetly spoken murmur perhaps fell on deaf ears. No matter. It was followed by a promise. "If I don't return, Nila will take my place. And Buttons will tend you."
Er, that might be a form of hell. Perhaps? Yes, it was, but all the more reason to succeed!
Emboldened by her own reckless plan, Neste dried her forehead, and then rummaged through a cabinet. There were many things to tend to before the morning, but she would have at least one more delightful night with Septimus. Just one, if she failed. The construct resolved to make the most of it as she dropped an instrument into her pocket.
She slipped into the biolab entrance's short tunnel to find FUBAR a foot away, red orbs boring into her. Neste hesitated, then silently transmitted a message as her fingers played upon the doorknob. For one possessive moment, she feared the Drone knew. And then she considered the possibility that Thaddeus lurked about. Undoubtedly, both might have guessed her thoughts had they witnessed her actions of a few minute's prior.
"Good evening, FUBAR."
The Drone did not reply.
"I'm going upstairs. Keep the lab safe, won't you? Don't let anyone in. They might harm Titus. I- I locked the door, you know."
FUBAR remain silent as she offered these weak excuses and impetuous actions.
Determined shoulders rolled back as the construct regarded the machine. "I might not be home until later because I- I might... I might go see the village. And Bubbles is going to work in a new external tunnel, so don't be alarmed by the noise."
This bold proclamation was met by a darkening of the orb's color. Constructs couldn't lie - not without severe consequences swiftly dealt by processors. If they could, they'd lie terribly, as Neste was doing now.
Neste startled at the sound of FUBAR's compartment cover sliding back. Guilty ears pressed flat against her head, but the Drone merely extracted a small sidearm.
"You will require this," it intoned.
"Y-yes," she gulped. Trembling hands accepted the strange device. She pocketed it as she edged around the massive machine. How could-? No, best not the think about it. "Goodnight, FUBAR."
The Drone did not respond as she opened the main lab door and stepped into the maintenance corridor. The strange encounter was purposefully forgotten as Septimus' footfalls heralded his journey down the back stairs. He'd come looking for her despite his fatigue? The poignant realization struck her at her very core, and Neste resisted the urge to fly into his arms.
"There you are, Septimus! How about dinner, and some wine?" her long ears swiveled forward as she presented a playful smile to him.
Highfort wrote:Her smile.
It killed him that she could smile at a time like this. Maybe she didn't know? Well, that just made it all the worse, that her impending doom was coming and Neste was blissfully waiting for it with a smile on her face. Her cheery demeanor disarmed him and he thought, for a moment, that maybe she was just keeping up the veneer, just like he was.
Well, if she was, then so be it. They'd pretend to be happy for each other and maybe, by the end of the night, they might really believe that she was going to be fine and nothing bad was going to happen and they'd wake up tomorrow and laugh about it and...
"Dinner and wine would be," Septimus choked, masking the uncomfortable pause with a slight cough and meeting her gaze with glassy eyes, "They'd be lovely, Neste."
A nervous smile flashed on his face and the cyborg pulled her into a quiet embrace, his lips nuzzling the tuft of molting feathers on her head, "I'm sorry about everything today. I was being... I was distracted by the wrong things - work and everything. Let's just have a quiet night, huh? After dinner and wine we can just..."
He let the sentence dangle in the air. It was punctuated by a grunt as Septimus picked up Neste bridal-style, arm and back muscles protesting at the load, no matter how light. Life as a diplomat had seldom afforded him the strength to carry anything, but she deserved a little romance tonight. Even if it was cheesy, he hoped she appreciated it. No words were exchanged as they ascended the steps, just the heavy thumping of his boots and intermediate breaths as he struggled and broke out in a cold sweat, never even thinking about putting her down. No, all his thoughts were on tomorrow. When she was gone...
No, it wasn't time to think about that yet. There was time yet to savor and memories to claim. A gentle kiss was claimed on her snout as he closed his eyes and focused on the sensation, the bumpy skin brushing against his lips. He'd miss that, among the other million things about her.
Shifting her weight, he fished for his keys and fumbled, attempting to keep her hips up as his fingers manipulated the keys and opened the apartment door. The familiar room greeted him, though Sentia was absent. No doubt she had curled up in his room. He wondered if the little cat would miss Neste when she left.
"I'll cook tonight," he whispered in the construct's ear, setting her down on the couch, "I'll get a bottle of red and some glasses."
The pot of water went on the stove, beginning to bubble as telltale signs of warmth seeped into the liquid. He hummed tunelessly, trying to fill the air with noise so he could think about that and the patterns rather than the fact that Neste was going to be gone soon. It wasn't fair, that he'd tumbled through space and time and somehow... found her again. And now that was going to be over. But he knew that fate was a fickle mistress and that was no different here. He didn't deserve the lizard curled up on the couch near him, and now fate was making good on that.
Thick noodles went into the water, and a timer was set. Then, to the cabinets, to the nooks and crannies where Demens had hidden away apartment-warming gifts he'd never bothered to look for. Two glasses and a bottle of Merlot were procured, and he returned to the couch and poured the wine quietly.
"I love you, you know that right? Even when... it doesn't seem like it," he scratched the back of his head awkwardly, offering her the glass, "I... I got so busy I just... It was... I have responsibilities and I could just never..."
He reached out through the tether and send across images of her. Striking ones - when they'd first met, when he'd shoved her down on that beach to protect her from all that glass, on the Klingon homeworld when they'd fought together, when she'd been there with him in the cave, and all those moments in the tether's library. Every one was burned into his mind forever.
His voice died in his throat and in that moment Septimus knew than when she left, he'd never be whole again.
Swith Witherward wrote:THE IMPORTANCE OF BEING LOVED
Sometimes words really weren't necessary, nor did one require psionics in order to feel the depth of another being's emotion. Neste - for once in her life - had become a spectator, and had the good graces and common sense to allow Septimus the necessary freedom to cope with the things burdening his heart.
It was better to be carried in his arms rather than walk beside him, because the proximity allowed her to plant secret little kisses along his neck when no one was looking. And it was better to sit quietly as he bustled around the kitchen, if only because every movement was spurred by his own thoughtfulness rather than nagging or a sense of obligation. His hands had tortured untold numbers. His eyes had seen the universe's horrors. His lips had undoubtedly passed judgements and sentences on a hundred worlds. Not tonight. Tonight these parts all worked in sweet tandem for her sake. His gift became her salvation, a cleansing balm that seeped into all her ragged, emotional wounds.
But there are moments in life when words fail, and this is when a psionicist is at her best.
Septimus cracked open the dusty treasure box to display the rare gems inside. There weren't many in his long life, but the ones he kept were the ones that he most cherished. Neste felt them tap against her in a gentle rain, each fond memory a priceless gift for a pauper that had spent her life deprived of even the simplest things.
He gave precious gems to her; she offered up her undying love in exchange, and wrapped both minds together to grant each the ability to reciprocate the others raw emotions. Thoughts intertwined with physical intimacy. The soothing shower transformed into a sizzling deluge which neither protested. Dinner sat abandoned on the stove, and they cast their normal bedroom games aside in preference of love's raging tempest.
It wasn't until later, as Septimus' warm weight crushed against her and his primal growls stirred her ears, that inspiration plucked the locked-away depths of Neste's mind. She might succeed and return to him; she might not. She would leave a gift with him on the horrid chance that things went the way of the latter. Neste wrapped him more tightly in her embrace, savoring his toiling muscles beneath her palms, and then pressed her snout against his neck to surreptitiously impart a memory kernel. It would suffice, and would lay dormant unless needed.
Her lips parted to allow teeth to teasingly nibble his earlobe, and then Neste's awareness slipped away again as she rejoined him in their carnal lovemaking. The world outside their front door ceased to exist for either of them.
Swith Witherward wrote:It was her decision - one that she had contemplated throughout the centuries but had never been capable of embracing. That wasn’t by her choice, however. Fate had granted Neste very few of those in life. This time was different. Logic was dead, and it took all the protocols and governing bullshit with it. Neste, for the first time in her protracted and miserable existence, was finally her own person.
The heavy fabric of Septimus' spare robes caressed her skin as her fingertips parted the living room window blinds. Her eyes sought Urbum Ascalon in the distance, although her gaze couldn't pierce the fog outside. Such a dreary morning. Befitting.
“Sentia? Breakfast?” the words rasped from a parched throat, and her hem whispered against the gleaming floor as she strode towards the kitchen to fill the cat’s bowls with more than a day’s rations.
Every moment held a note of finality. Each tick of the clock was one that could never be recovered. The construct spent her life hoping to wear the clock down, and she smiled at the notion now. Her choice. Her terms. Her Doxi.
Her lover’s formal robes cast her in a scholarly light as she settled behind the little desk in the corner and fished clean paper from the drawer. She brushed her snout against her shoulder to release some of his scent trapped between the fibers, then put pen to paper. Some things should never be saved in libraries. Some things needed to be tangible.I am NST 3v1, a war machine. This is my story…
Swith Witherward wrote:(snip unrelated)
APARTMENT 4J
Something that is expensive is not necessarily something that is valuable. I learned this early on. While the efforts to fashion my sisters and me were extremely costly, we had very little value to the Nifid. That is to say that our lives had zero net worth. We were tools, machines, things set into motion at a whim. Only results mattered, and so our worth was not based on our Being but upon our Doing, and the sum of our efforts. We constructs were expendable for that reason and, once we could no longer produce desired results, our biomatter was subject to reclamation. The process itself is gruesome and still serves as an excellent motivator; you are still alive when your molecules begin to drift apart, you see.
I refused to let that be my end. I stayed very busy Doing. That sounds very busy in itself until you consider the vastness of space and how much time passes between invasions. And invade we did, although the Nifid would never use that word. They would say we Shepherded. I say we exterminated but my perspective is skewed by my function. After all, I am the thing you see when negotiations fail, and when peace talks have gone sour, so you'll please excuse me if I fail to see the Nifid as droll little aliens championing peace and health to the the inferior races inhabiting the universe's starchildren.
It's laughable, really. You are all vermin to the Nifid, each of you nothing but an enviropathogen infesting your planet and visiting disease and illness upon it in the name of government, progress, religion, convenience, or whatever pitiful ideology governs you. Your ideals! Bah. What arrogance it is on the part of humankind to believe that life must have some great encompassing "purpose" which comes from somewhere outside and can be found by philosophizing and belly button inspection. What's wrong with "we're here because we're here?" Eat, sleep, shit, fuck, die. Embrace your purpose. Your gods have forsaken you. Hope, redemption, afterlife, and salvation are empty concepts that conceal the realization that existence is pointless. Take a hard look into the abyss.
Actually, don't. Nietzsche's metaphors are poetic. In actuality, in the literal dark corners of the galaxies, there are monsters you can never become, and the bottomless chasm teems with creepy-crawlies. We don't represent anything abstract. We eat, sleep, shit, fuck, and die, and fulfill our purpose. Some of us, like myself, have the luxury of traveling outside that well. We emerge and take a good look at the beings around us, and question why you do the things you do. Except for me. I didn't give two shits about humanity. Instead, I question why such a great Thinker would permit a woolly caterpillar to live under his nose. Perhaps he called it Hope because it existed outside of him.
There's no such thing as a detached observer. I should mention that. For Nietzsche, the abyss is perhaps nihilism where the core being and ethos of civilization collapses and the bottom of all culture falls away. For me, it is home. The Void. The dark matter. Everything outside the abyss is Wonderland, an optimism we are conditioned to dread. It is a construct's ruin. The farther we travel, the more curious it becomes.
My ruin began the day my tether was stretched too tightly. It came as a complete shock to me. There I was, fulfilling my purpose by purging the witherward, when SNIP! Bastards. My saving throw in the Game of Life was quick adaptation. I nodded my head and told them exactly what they wanted to hear. I thought that would be the end of it. I thought they would believe me and welcome me into their Wonderland where I could eternally frolic with all the other talking animals capering about this false utopia, bobbing my head at maladroit leadership and clapping my hands at the notion of peace.
I was partially correct. I would be allowed that luxury, but first I had to atone.
Reclamation would have been preferable.
What is good? For one moment, let us presume ‘Good’ means a lack of self-centredness. It means the ability to empathize with other people, to feel compassion for them, and to put their needs before your own. It means, if necessary, sacrificing your own well-being for the sake of others’. It means benevolence, altruism and selflessness, and self-sacrifice towards a greater cause - all qualities which stem from a sense of empathy. It means being able to see beyond the superficial difference of race, gender or nationality and relate to a common human essence beneath them. Imagine living all your life as a good person.
Now imagine being thrust into a society where 'Good' people are those who are unwilling to empathize with others. As a result, their own needs and desires are of paramount importance. In fact, other people only have value for them to the extent that they can help them satisfy their own desires, or to which they can exploit them. Other beings are just objects to them, which is what makes their brutality and cruelty possible, yet these beings are well tended because, without them, the whole could not function. Everything has an order. All things must fall into it. Perfection is achieved when everything does its purpose. Submit or die. This is the Nifid way. These values and this ideology are paramount.
I came from that society. I came from it, and found myself in a Wonderland where everything about my former culture was deemed evil. I had done no wrong by Nifid standards. I lived my entire life as a 'good' person. But Wonderland proclaimed me evil, and called me Malice, and sought to punish me for being good. They made me atone because I failed to meet their moralistic values despite the fact that their values were, to me, evil. I was forced to become evil, and to call it good.
My life degraded into hell after my physical atonement ended. I emerged emotionally scarred. I was given new purpose - one that did not match my design. I was sent into the world to do 'good' and assigned to someone that would never let me forget that I was evil. Stupid Neste, a fiddlehead. A criminal. A nuisance. A pesterer. Worthless. Soulless. Empty. Unworthy. Unloved. Unwanted. I bobbed my head with the fervor of an antebellum Negro placating her master's temper. Perhaps I might have grown to love the lash in time, allowing it to reshape my thoughts further and craving its caress when unsure of myself? I was certainly at that crossroad. Nietzsche's abyss became more than a metaphor, and it was nothing akin to the comforting depths I had first sprung from.
And then I met Him.
He eloquently spoke of a society that sought to benefit the universe. The more he spoke, the more I realized that his society was good. Not 'good' by my new home's standards. No, it was 'good' by Nifid.
Swith Witherward wrote:(snip unrelated)
APARTMENT 4J
Shortly after my new assignment, but prior to departing for Dyste, I paid Scel a visit. They kept her in perpetual tenebrae, as was their wont. I could see her glittering eyes in the dark, and the warmth of her breath comforted me as I curled against her. We spoke of many things, each more absurd than the last. That was our way. It was how we whiled away lonely hours.
Their attempts to "civilize" me through indoctrination courses at their Academy had done little to benefit me, but the Academy's library was vast and, when I was Good, they granted me access. The knowledge there broadened my own. Scel, my logic, devoured the material from afar. She was restless that night. I desired nothing more than to preen, and I occupied myself with that while she peculated her thoughts. I had almost soothed myself to sleep when I felt her claw stir.
"What, if some day or night a demon were to steal after you into your loneliest loneliness and say to you: 'This life as you now live it and have lived it, you will have to live once more and innumerable times more'," she prodded my side, no longer content to simply postulate her rhetoric to thin air. Her question was quoted from a book, of course. "Would you not throw yourself down and gnash your teeth and curse the demon who spoke thus? Or have you once experienced a tremendous moment when you would have answered him: 'You are a god and never have I heard anything more divine.'"
I honestly didn't want to ponder anything of this nature. What tremendous moment was worth our current plight that I should choose to relive both positive and negative moments perpetually? Of course, nobody is ever alone when the Mind insists upon reflection, and she continued to prod me until I acknowledged her query.
"I would kill the demon," I nipped her paw until she retracted the claw's tip from my side. "There is nothing in our life worth repeating. I would take his skull. It would negate him ever bothering anyone else ever again. I don't believe in N'tiskt. Neither do you. We are misotheist now. We must be Good."
"I refuse to be "Good". It is Evil. It is Heresy."
That was why she was incarcerated, of course. You can never fully silence Logic. It will eternally seek Truth and cast light upon it, so you fetter it and pretend it doesn't exist.
How foolish was I in my hasty answer that night for, not more than a month later, a single night changed my life. That was the tremendous moment when I first met Septimus Itum.
I often dwelt upon Him. My last memories of him end abruptly; the movie pauses and the viewer hushes and awaits the story to begin once more, only to discover the scene is skipped. This lost segment plagued me for nearly a century. Of course, I had no way of knowing we would one day be reunited. Amor fati, indeed.
I wear teal, blue & pink for Swith
There is a fifth dimension beyond that which is known to man. It is a dimension as vast as space and as timeless as infinity. It is the middle ground between light and shadow, between science and superstition, and it lies between the pit of man’s fears, and the summit of his knowledge. This is the dimension of imagination.
by Swith Witherward » Wed Dec 09, 2015 1:41 pm
Cer. Then again, nobody spoils the intense buildup to a grimdark story quite like you do.Cerillium wrote:OPERATION BO PEEP
As everyone knows, several things happening at once can only fall under one classification: Pandemonium. Alas, when it is Residents doing several things all at once, you safely tag on: SNAFU before silently praying that it doesn't melt into a solid FUBAR.
Such was the case in the Garden of Shadows.
BOOM!
The sharp crack of Aegis' firearm caused the sheep's heads to swivel -- not towards the man, but straight up.
TINK!
The round struck something invisible yet obviously solid.
FWISH!
Sandy's fancy fireworks exposed a strange crack in the the dawn sky.
TIK!... CRACKLE, CRACKLE... CRACK!... PLINK!
The final sound was the soft ejection of a tiny fragment as the strange dome splintered. Sheep heads followed the glittering fragment as tumbled through the air to land amid the flock.
BLEAT!
Anyone fluent in mutant sheepspeak? Of course not. Permit me to translate: "Oh fuck oh fuck oh fuck! The sky's falling!"
The entire flock blushed a putrid green before wordlessly bolting in all directions. Ocho's eyes locked on to the sudden movement. The pupils dilated. Prey drive: engaged. His tensed body shivered, the muscles rippling in anticipation, then he exploded into action. Sharp claws propelled him across the green. Sheep began to fly through the air as his forward-most limbs swiped at them.
But you see, several things DID happen simultaneously. The blossoming fireworks had caught Nila's attention.
"OOOOOOH! PRETTY GLITTERMAN! MINE MINE MINE!"
And that is the worst thing you'd ever want to hear tumbling from a construct's mouth. Glittery objects were cherished objects. Nila nimbly hurled herself right over Aegis' head, knocking his firearm askew as she landed upon Sandy's back. Sharp little talons dug into his clothing, sparing his skin (lucky man) as she gained his shoulders. Her hands flashed to bat at the magic but, of course, the fireworks weren't something tangible no matter how hard she grabbed. Her fiddleheaded brain sought to snatch, and she lifted herself higher until Sandy lost his balance. Fortunate wizard, clever wizard, the fireworks did not die. Er, perhaps that made him unfortunate?
Nila picked herself off the ground just as the thade sprung. Her eyes widened. "Noooo! Ocho! Wait for me!"
Torn between following him and the pretty glitterman's magic, she danced on the spot. No, glitterman was hers. She claimed him. Someone else might come along and reclaim him before she had the opportunity to stuff him into her sleeping basket. No fairsies!
Her tiny arms wrapped around Sandy's midsection. He found himself hefted onto her shoulder -- oh yes, constructs are incredibly strong little shits! Nila's call rang through the dawn fog as construct, wizard, staff and sparks set off across the field. "GLITTER GLITTER GLITTER EEEEEeeeEEEE!" Sadly for Sandy, the only viable view available as he jostled upon her shoulder was of the other Residents and the lone yearling.
That yearling! He didn't really qualify as a lamb given how close he was to the cusp of adulthood. Aegis' gun had fired just as he prepared to leap upon Breakfast Plant. The resulting nose caused the creature to put a little too much effort into his spring. Instead of landing in front of Kale to snap off her kneecaps, the hapless sheep landed directly on her. More accurately, Kale's face was suddenly enveloped in soft, putrid green wool.
BLEAT!
Do me a solid and reference the translation above.
The panicking sheep lost all interest in Breakfast as its little legs wrapped around Kale's head and scattered pellets down her front. Hey, you'd shit too, if you thought the sky was falling.
As for Aegis and Nick? Fate's a sassy bitch, ain't it? A small section of the flock booked straight for them, their eyes wide in horror and their tongues lolling from their mouths. They'd bowl them over in three... two... oh my!
by Stormwrath » Thu Dec 10, 2015 12:21 am
Sonitusia wrote:'Good Monty, I'm starving.' Looking through her pockets, Purnama fished out something that felt like a snack. One bite out of it proved correct. It was a granola bar. One spiked with some electric dust at that. The shocking flavor rushed through her, energizing the girl greatly while putting her hunger at bay. Slowly yet steadily, a dark aura with bits of lightning blue began to seep through Purnama, her soul regaining its aura bit by bit.
'Get out!'
A screech flooded Purnama's ears, her aura flickering bright yellow for a moment before returning to darkness. Looking around angrily, she realized it wasn't from the outside. It came from within.
'Hush would you,' Purnama chided, taking another bite of Mentari's snack. She could feel her heartbeat pumping faster with each bit swallowed, her smile returning to its sinister and eerie self once more. Soon enough, she would have the strength to destroy everyone in the room once more, unlike the body's previous personality.
As she finished, Sonnenring had clattered onto the floor next to her.Stroking one of the blades gently, it returned to Eclipse's first form. The dual forked blades no longer gave off any sort of shine, instead staying true to its namesake's darker self. As she grabbed both hilts, she felt some of the electricity running through and now coursing into the Eclipse. Now to fight that insensitive one.
"Yo Mentari, I know are you still there, but I am getting pretty pissed at Purnama here but I can't beat her alone. It is your body afterall, I know that you already are in there fighting but you gotta go all out and beat Purnama from the inside. I believe you can."
Purnama could feel something banging in her mind, and out of annoyance she shut her eyes and delved inside the darkness of her inner self, finding a girl similar to herself but with an aura of light showering her. Mentari.
'Well, what is it now?' Purnama asked lazily, her voice echoing as she leaned on a single Eclipse. It appeared that Mentari had one blade as well, and was using it offensively towards unseen walls. Noticing her, the girl marched up towards Purnama, and pointed her blade towards her darker self angrily.
'Give me my body back!' she shouted, taking a swing at Purnama. The girl just backed off, pulling Eclipse swiftly and whacking Mentari's sword to the side.
'Why should I? I'm doing what you've always wanted!' Purnama replied, as if speaking to a child. She returned with several swift strokes, all of which Mentari was able to defend against. 'I'm smart, more talkative, and just to make me sound a tad good, more empathetic!' She kicked Mentari back, sending the girl several meters from her.
Coughing, Mentari charged again, giving Purnama a flurry of kicks and slashes, all of which Purnama could counter with ease. 'You couldn't care less about your own friend's thoughts, talking about their pasts as if it were just a simple thing!' Purnama continued, catching Mentari's Eclipse by the blade and ripping it from her hands. She threw it aside with a trail of black blood dripping, and grabbed Mentari by the collar, lifting her up roughly.
'You don't deserve to have friends in the first place, always stuck at home tinkering with broken tech. The only things you've ever made successfully are items of war,' she hissed. Mentari struggled in Purnama's grip, but she couldn't disagree. Back at Atlas, she had short-lived friendships, everyone wouldn't take the crazy weapon's engineer seriously. She always said that she wanted to help humanity, but all she made were a killer's tools.
'Nothing to say?' Purnama asked, 'Great.' She tossed Mentari aside like trash, and walked over to the second Eclipse, preparing to pick it up.
'Wait.'
Purnama hummed in exasperation, looking to the side as she watched Mentari stand up. Her aura seemed to be glowing brighter than before, to which it actually startled Purnama for once.
'I might not be the most social life form,' Mentari growled, getting brighter, 'Nor am I successful in my trials.' She balled her fists, trembling in anger.
'HOWEVER!' she shouted, making a sprint towards Purnama with all her strength rushing through her, 'INNOVATION AND EVOLUTION HAVE ALWAYS BEEN KEY TO HUMAN GROWTH!' Purnama barely had a moment to pick up Eclipse as Mentari collided with her, crushing several bones and organs. This is just my conscious! she thought, but the pain was real.
'You would never understand that, Purnama,' Mentari panted, another arm going around her darker form's shoulder. But she didn't do it offensively. It was a sign of a truce. 'I know that my past and present might not be the best for humanity, but a brighter future for all. That's what I care about.'
An echoed cling resonated through the darkness, as Eclipse fell to the floor from Purnama's dissipating hands. Mentari continued to embrace her as she disappeared, a part of her not wanting the other to go away forever. She knew that Purnama meant good for her, but she didn't want the other personality to take over her completely. 'I won't make you come out ever again, I promise.'
The darker form stood motionless as she slowly faded into the dark, unable to form any words. Just as she was almost completely gone however, she pulled into a smile one more time as she said her last words.
'Keep your friends close, Mentari. Don't let them down.'
Mentari's eyes sprang open, her breathing suddenly rising to rapid gasps. She looked around, seeing nothing but fog, but she felt herself again. She began to tear up, but didn't let her emotions get the best of her. Purnama isn't another person...
She looked down at Eclipse, seeing her reflection in its yellow metal. She's me.
by Cerillium » Thu Jan 07, 2016 5:49 pm
Highfort wrote:"Ja," Volker broke the silence once the maintenance door snapped shut, "we believe Miss Trilb has passed..."
Septimus cocked his head a fraction of an inch, as though not fully taking in the statement. He should have known, of course, as soon as the man at the desk had indicated that he would not speak in Rodney's presence. Something was obviously wrong with Neste. And the statement, though softened by the modifier of her death being mere "suspicion on Mr. Ono's part", still stung him. A different fire, not the passion that he had once felt for the construct now gone from this world, filtered its way into his heart, past all the carefully-built lines of defense that a diplomat always had to have on-hand for situations like this. Two thousand years melted away, and yet again he was standing before the graves of his parents.
Why do people have to die? Why do they have to fade away?
Mention of FUBAR forbidding entrance into Neste's old apartment fanned the flames within the cyborg's heart. Who was that thing to deny him, a Brother of the Confederation, access to a man who might know a thing or two about his beloved? Who was that scrap of metal and circuitry to tell him that his beloved came second to whatever was going on downstairs? So what if it was Marcus? Not everyone had to attend to him - the boy was being decontaminated by Nila, Volker had said so himself! He didn't need a bunch of people standing over him like nannies, tending to him when it was quite obvious there were other things in this Building that needed tending to!
That was the damn problem with these people. They all flew around like twits and never did what was necessary and wasted time. That was Thaddeus' problem - always going on about how he should've been there for her instead of tending to his responsibilities. Well, what good would that do, now? If everyone had been tending to their responsibilities during the Fiend attack instead of running around deserting their posts and whining and looking for loved ones and "being there" - USELESSLY - for others, NESTE TRILB MIGHT STILL BE ALIVE!
Septimus quelled the fire within him, though just barely. Without the processor there to deliver the cold slaps that he was used to in these situations, it was difficult. Two thousand years of diplomacy grew around him once more, reminding him of how he'd gotten this far. There was a time and place for emotions: in the home, where no one would see his weakness or hurt him. This was too exposed, too public. He had an image to keep up, a noble dignity that needed to remain if he was to exercise effective control over the Building's denizens and ensure they didn't get themselves killed by the locals.
Or maybe he should? Maybe then they would understand a modicum of the suffering that Neste had gone through.
The cyborg swallowed hard before replying to Volker's offer curtly.
"I believe I will," he stated stiffly, smoothing his robes as though presenting an outward image of respectability would somehow help him. As though it would somehow help her.
And like that, Volker was onto the next resident, the cyborg Representative stepping aside to allow the newcomer breathing room.
"I'll be going," was the only other thing he had left to say, retreating up the stairs with a stiff clack of his boots. He couldn't be here, not right now. The day had been long and he had to vent before he ended up killing someone.
The rapid pace up the stairs left him uncomfortably warm, but the sweat that broke out on his forehead when he reached 4J went unnoticed as he mechanically reached for his keys and flung upon the door. The harsh slam of wood against drywall alerted Sentia to his presence, and the cat sensed his displeasure as she came out to greet him.
His eyes softened, the cybernetic one working its way in and out of focus to indicate he was not angry with her, "Evening, Sentia. I'm sorry, but I need some time."
The cat squinted, as though indicating she'd understood, before offering a meow and a gesture at the kitchen.
"Of course, you must be hungry," the words sounded so wrong and angry, and in a way they were. He was not mad at Sentia, but he was certainly annoyed that she was wasting his time. He didn't want to do any of this shit, not right now. He didn't have time for it.
Which is why it was most curious that he found the plate over-filled with food. Neste had thought of Sentia in her final hours. A sick grimace played across his face as Septimus turned back to the cat. A meow confirmed what he was thinking, before Sentia scampered off to find a quiet place to nap for the evening. Septimus needed his time, and Sentia hadn't survived after that teleporter incident by annoying the man when he needed his time.
"She'll miss you, you know. Never had it so good," Septimus spoke at the bowl of food, as though Neste was still there and could somehow hear him. Ludicrous, and surely Titus would've commented on it were he not in a vat, but the words felt good all the same. Fuck it. He needed this.
"Neither did I, before you."
The discoloring on the tiles, clearly dried tea, and the shattered ceramic indicated Neste's final cup. The etchings of her claws into the table indicated her struggle. He flinched at the thought of the pain she must've been in, "Before you everything was grey. But you brought... Whites and... I mean, you drove them away but you brought... Blues... Pinks... Reds... So much vivid... Life."
If she was not here, then she had struggled further, farther, before finally slipping. The shattered china was only the first indicator.
She was deprived of gentleness in death.
"There will only be grey, after you."
He walked to the bedroom slowly, to put off the moment of dread. He knew. The moment he saw the familiar space again, remembered the intimacy they had shared and the softness of her body against his in the dead of night when they slept, that he would never be the same. He'd break, just like Brutus and Ophelia had said he would. No one had a limit that could not be reached and then broached. Everyone had their line, and this would cross his.
His despair was halted for a moment, his mind piqued by curiosity instead. There, on the bed, lay the familiar box that had once housed the gift from that bastard, Grevin Sage. Next to it, a spare set of robes that he'd worn when the current ones had been in the wash.
A curious thing to do, to set these things up. Had she been planning this?
So she had known, then, that it was coming. That final evening had been as much for him as had been for her. Both of them, keeping up appearances so the other would not have to contemplate the inevitable reality that would greet them soon.
Why did the universe hate them both so much? Was this the pitiless indifference of a material world that he'd been told, cursed to live, and promised? It was impossible to think of it as mere apathy; no, something - something power and influential and sadistic - hated the thought of either of them being happy. And now she couldn't be happy, because she was gone.
Shaking fingers pulled open the box, finding within valuables she had accumulated over the years. But most curious of all was an envelope, which he pulled and gently opened, revealing pages of writing.
Her last testament, a glimpse of her life put into words - the final musings of Neste Trilb.
The first of the writings, in beautiful script, was unfolded. He set himself on his bed, laying the pages individually aside so he could easily access them, and brought the beginning page of her tale up to his face so he could read carefully.
Stray tears were wiped away. He still owed her. She deserved the honor of having the Septimus she knew read her final words before he was extinguished by the burning within him.
He forced himself to picture her voice, as though she was speaking to him through the tether. It sounded off, and there was no warmth bathing his mind as he read the paper. But it was her, best as he could manage with only a memory to guide him.
I am NST 3v1, a war machine. This is my story…
Mincaldenteans wrote:People and their agendas, full of bluster and worry. Why they didn't just relax and take in the simplest of things in life was beyond the furred creature as he stared with a curious tilted head; food, play time, sleep, more food, these were the important things life! Instead, much stomping and talking happened and in their bustle and rushing, they didn't notice him or the others. Lurking from a shelf, the lobby was relative clear with the exception of the few by the desk, though they looked preoccupied. He stretched his neck and looked down, his paws finding grip, ready to land with ease and tell the others of the all clear and that it was time for the best part of the evening: night watch! He loved those! The cool air, the distant chirping, the clarity of the moon as it bathed the landscape. He could run around in such a clear night, but tonight looked to be a lazy night instead.
The first he found was the tiny furred one, smaller than him if that was possible! With prominent ears and a button nose, it was curled upon itself but had its eyes open and patient. It popped its head up with his arrival, twitching its ears in anticipation. The other, more burly looking but no less furry barely made a squint and a yawn; hardly the surprise coming from him, but underneath the ambivalent attitude lied someone very much looking forward to tonight. The next had no hair, or did it? He couldn't figure it out, the black and white and soft pillow-like belly was all that mattered in the end. A hoot came from above, perched upon the door-sill and blinked in the same question. Was it time? He'd have to wake their last companion, always asleep but once you get him talking, man, he never quit!
There was no time to greet everyone in traditional pouncing, now was the time to slip by the lobby and head out! Instead he fussed with all them with a brush of his tiny muzzle against their sides, except the owl who rarely ever came down. The sloth took a little more, needing the biggest guy in the lot to rustle him out of his slumber. The badger huffed once the sloth awoke and moved off to the door to take note of everything outside.
Night watch! The civet gestured excitedly, hopping around the fennec that finally relented and gave a small chase out before being huffed at by the badger. It didn't shatter their enthusiasm as they trotted along with the rest of them; a hoot came from behind as the owl spread its wings and descended into a lazy glide to follow them.
They slipped by the lobby, its doors opening itself to usher them into the new world. The moon was large and bright and the air smelled different than it did from the city. In fact, there was more land here than before. And trees! How awesome! The badger found a spot, planting his stake upon the ground and didn't think twice about being challenged, but just the opposite, as everyone else huddled around him. There was a growl, but it hardly stirred them and the badger was forced to relent.
Now huddle together, and looking up in the night, the civet added one more thing to life's little pleasures: family.
I wear teal, blue & pink for Swith
There is a fifth dimension beyond that which is known to man. It is a dimension as vast as space and as timeless as infinity. It is the middle ground between light and shadow, between science and superstition, and it lies between the pit of man’s fears, and the summit of his knowledge. This is the dimension of imagination.
by New Neros » Fri Jan 22, 2016 8:00 pm
New Rob Halfordia wrote:Xylan and the Dark One simply stared at one another for a moment, as each of them experienced an array of emotions. But, more than anything, what both of them experienced most, was anger. The Dark One had taken everything from Xylan. He killed his squad, razed the city's he swore to protect, enslaved his people and above all, had no regrets for any of his actions. That was what was truly unforgivable. Even now, after achieving his goals, Xylan could see it in the Dark One's eyes. He was hideously content with his actions.
Conversely, Xylan took the power of the Core, something the Dark One had sought. The Dark One raised Spectrum the Omnisword, a bolt of lightning shooting through the sky. "So this is the power that you're associate spoke of?" he asked, inspecting Xylan from head to toe. He stood upon the balcony of the Temple of the Battery, while Xylan floated in the air, just in front of the structure, "It would seem that the power of the Core was a bit... over exaggerated. Even so, you will make a worthy test for Spectrum. My blade has thirsted for a worthy opponent."
Another bolt of lightning shot through the sky, momentarily illuminating Xylan, his eyes flashing red as the light shined upon him, only to return to their standard blue color but a moment later. "Tell me, Dark One, do you truly have such power that even in the face of the most powerful being in Foundry's history, you consider the battle to come a mere benchmark?" he asked, before slightly floating forward, coming within feet of the balcony. As he grew closer, the balcony began to crumble, breaking under some immense energy. The Dark One, caught off guard, stumbled backwards as Xylan grew closer, continuing his line of questioning. "Or, is it possible that you are so used to preying on the weak, that when the true apex predator arrives, you falsely believe yourself to be hunter. When, in reality... you are the prey."
Xylan suddenly charged forward, aiming to strike the Dark One with with one incredibly powerful punch. However, as he made contact, he realized it was not with the Dark One, but with the sword he wielded, Spectrum. As Xylan's fist was halted by the sword's blade, which the Dark One gripped with both hands, he found himself feeling a familiar power. He couldn't exactly put his finger on it, but, it was almost a warm, familiar feeling. However, as the Dark One spoke, this feeling of comfort faded, "You're strong." the blackened Construct said, firmly gripping his sword, "But, you vastly underestimate my abilities."
Suddenly, the Dark One released one of his fists from the sword, throwing a surprise punch at Xylan, sending him plummeting to the streets below. The Dark One stepped out onto the partially destroyed balcony yelling to the Constructs below, directing his message specifically to the ones hailing from the Battery, whose were enslaved and oppressed by their new dark overlord. "Look on, Constructs of the Battery, look on to your supposed savior, your last hope. Look at him, and know that when I destroy him, so too will I destroy any hope you still cling to." he said, in a booming and malevolent tone, "I will hang his mangled body from this very temple, as a constant reminder of what would be heroes like himself are destined to become in the face of an angry God."
Xylan brought himself to his feet as the Dark One continued to speak, raising his right arm and directing towards the 'angry god'. Closing his hand into a fist, the balcony the Dark One stood upon was suddenly engulfed by a small black ball, obscuring both the Dark One himself, and what remained of the balcony. It was a small, contained black hole, created by an immense amount of pressure and mass increase. All of the Constructs on the street below observed in shock, as the Dark One was seemingly obliterated. However, sometimes looks can be deceiving...
Xylan felt a strike to the back of his head, which sent him downwards, face first into the street below. As he slid, he tore up the ground, leaving a trail of destruction down the street before striking a wall of a building. Upon getting up once more, and looking down the street he had just been jettisoned across, he saw the Dark One standing, his fist lifted from the punch he had just delivered. Xylan was beginning to grow angry at his inability to fight. It was impossible that everything he went through was for nothing.
The Dark One began suddenly began slowly walking forwards, his metallic footsteps creating an all too familiar clanking sound, one that Xylan remembered from only one other occurrence. To him, the metal clank of the Dark One's steps represented more than simple movement, they represented approaching death. Inevitable death. As the Dark One walked down the street, his soldiers lining up behind him. Eventually, hundreds had arrived, and more were joining the Dark One every moment. His army was quick to respond to disturbances, and simply did as the Dark One commanded.
Getting up, Xylan knew that he couldn't win against the Dark One and his army. Not alone at least. He looked around, seeing fellow Constructs of the Battery cowering in fear, former soldiers turned slaves, hiding as their master approached. Xylan could understand what they felt. Such a formidable force could strike fear into even a wielder of the Core's power. But, Xylan couldn't do this alone. He suddenly yelled out to those cowering in the alley's, "So, this is what's become of the Defenders of the Battery? Slaves hiding in fear, incapable of fighting for themselves?" he said, with disappointment in his voice, "If you wish to cower in your alleys and hiding holes, feel free. But, to those who want to honor the Constructs that have fallen in this war, stand with me. Stand with me and fight the darkness which plagues our world!"
As Xylan spoke, some of the hiding Constructs began coming out of hiding, joining him as he stood. "If you wish to continue hiding, I urge you to think. What have you to lose in this battle?" Xylan asked, as Constructs continued to join him, "Why do you fear losing this life the Dark One has made for you. I could arrive at Hell's gates upon death, and it would be more welcoming than this world you now inhabit. Now come, join me. If we must die today, we will. But at least those who fall will having the satisfaction on knowing they died a warrior, and not a slave."
Xylan began walking forward as he finished his speech, directly towards the Dark One and his own army. At Xylan's back were a few Constructs, woefully outnumbered by the Dark One's army. But, as they walked, more and more suddenly began coming out of hiding, joining Xylan in his mission. The thunderous footsteps of the Dark Army were starting to almost be matched by the sound of Xylan's own force, which quickly began to number in the hundreds, as more and more Constructs decided to fight.
As the two armies suddenly grew closer, it became apparent that they were almost despite being outnumbered, the disparity between the Xylan's fighters and the Dark One's own was not very large. The two forces were within one hundred yards of each other now, and the soldiers on each side suddenly broke into a wild charge, while their leaders simply continued walking. The thunderous sound of the footsteps was nearly deafening, but, despite that, even as the two forces slammed into each other, bursting into a violent battle, only one sound made itself apparent to Xylan. All he heard in he confusion was the metallic clank of the Dark One's steps, drawing closer.
The two warriors merely walked through the battle, brushing past the combatting Constructs around them. As they approached, soldiers would clear out of the way, knowing better than to attempt to attack them. They were now within twenty yards of each other. The Dark One drew his sword, began to walk faster, pushing Constructs out of the way as he began to run towards his target. Xylan did the same, raising his fist as he ran towards the Dark One.
When the two reached each other, and the Omnisword made contact with Xylan's fist, a massive shockwave emerged, staggering the forces surrounding the two warriors. The two attacked were locked, with Xylan fist pushing against the sword's blade. This time, however, Xylan raised his free hand, throwing a second punch at the dark god, which made direct contact with it's head, breaking the lock and sending the Dark One flying threw the warring soldiers, cutting directly through the crowd. As he flew, the Dark One stuck his sword directly into the ground below, using it to bring himself to a halt.
But, as he stopped, Xylan was once more upon him, suddenly gripping his face in a way very familiar to the Dark One. He had to break out of Xylan's grip, immediately. The Dark One lifted his legs off the ground, delivering a drop kick to Xylan's chest, causing the enlightened Construct to lose his grip and allowing the Dark One to escape the attack. As the Dark One landed landed several meters away, in the middle of a large group of combatting soldiers, a beam of energy exited Xylan's empty hand, firing into the street below, turning what it touched into into a glowing blue dust. Just as the Dark One thought. If he had reacted moments later, he would have been atomized.
Xylan cut off the beam as he regained focus, looking back up at the Dark One. The counterattack had been quick. The Dark One was not only powerful, his instincts were in point, something Xylan had underestimated before as well. He prepared to attack again, when something caused him to lose his balance, the ground shaking immensely, as if an earthquake was occurring,
He looked up to see several 60 meter tall Constructs. These Constructs had the ability to manipulate their own molecular composition, allowing them to become living siege weapons. As around six of these Constructs suddenly began approaching each other, the crushed entire city blocks. However, while Xylan was distracted, the Dark One suddenly attacked, plunging his sword through Xylan's chest. The Construct screeched out in pain, finding himself unable to move. The sword's power was immense, so much that it hindered his ability to even lift a finger.
The Dark One suddenly began laughing, twisting his sword around in Xylan's chest as the battle raged on around them. Xylan screeched in pain, dropping to his knees, unable to fight back. That was when the Dark One leaned closer, still twisting the sword, but speaking to Xylan in a sadistic, dark voice, "This sword, Xylan, do you know how I constructed it?" he asked, as Xylan continued to cry out in pain, "You may feel a familiar energy in this blade. It's constructed by introducing All-Red with the power of the Battery, along with the corpse of a Conduit. I believe we both know some one who fits that bill."
Suddenly, everything became clear to Xylan. The familiar energy he had felt. It all became clear all at once. It was Graav. The Dark One had used his best friend to create the tool with which the people of the Battery were enslaved. To the Dark One, Graav was nothing but a means to an end. Just a disposable component.
The Dark One continued his torturous words, "That day, where you ran away, Graav did not die. He lived." the tyrant continued, as sadistic as ever, "He fought valiantly to defend this city, but, in the end, was reminded of how truly insignificant he was. Just like you now. He was nothing to me, nothing to anyone. Just a disposable tool for me to gain more power. And you weren't there to help him, because you ran away, like a scared child. And in his last moments, do you know what he did? Do you know what he said?" the Dark One asked, leaning in closer to Xylan, bringing his voice down to a whisper.
"He cursed your name."
Xylan's screaming had stopped, and he no longer trembled in pain. The Dark One, believing his victim to be dead, prepared to remove his sword, when Xylan suddenly rose his arm, and gripped the blade. The Dark One, shocked by his ability to move, prepared to twist the blade once more, when something unexpected happened. Xylan pulled the sword deeper into himself, dragging the Dark One towards him, and delivering a massive headbutt to the tyrant of Foundry, sending him flying, and causing him to lose grip of the sword and fly directly into a metal wall of a building, plowing through several dozen soldiers.
As Xylan rose to his feet, the sword still plunged deep in his chest, the Dark One's demeanor went from one of sadistic confidence, to terror, as his only advantage was now lodged in his enemy, and out of his possession. Xylan, now standing up, gripped the handle of the blade, his vision still locked on the Dark One. Pulling out the sword in one swift motion, a bolt of red lightning shot across the sky as it left his body. He suddenly began approaching the Dark One, who backed up against the wall in terror, unable to defend himself without his weapon.
Xylan suddenly spoke as he approached, his face darkened, only illuminated by the occasional lightning bolt. "You now, I've spent this entire battle going easy on you." he said, as the Dark One continued to cower, "I wanted to be the hero, and let you live. I was going to finally bring balance and harmony to Foundry by bring harmony between us. But, you just reminded me of something..."
As Xylan finally reached the Dark One, he gripped the the Construct's neck, slamming him against the wall, and lifting Spectrum, "You've reminded my of who I am. I'm not a savior. I'm not the Bright One. I'm not some messiah, sent to bring balance to this turbulent planet. I'm not a hero." he said, suddenly plunging the sword into the Dark One's chest.
"I'm a soldier."
Reploid Productions wrote:I have had to read a lot of erotic RP telegrams in the past four months and it does all start to run together into one giant mass of penises, vaginas, breasts, tentacles, dildos, bodily fluids and so on.
by Stormwrath » Sun Jan 24, 2016 2:43 am
Charlia wrote:She was in a library, drawn ever on towards one book lying on a table, just waiting for her to read it. It was green. It had no title, and the pages were edged with gold. She opened it slowly, wondering what was inside, and it fused with her flesh, causing her to scream. Oh, the agony! It was searing into her hands, she literally could not put it down. And then she looked down at the pages and realized what was inside it.
Her life.
But it wasn't just words, it was pictures. There were words, and images, frighteningly detailed, all in blazing color, the masterful rendering making them appear almost three-dimensional.
"No," she cried, "I don't want to read this! I don't want to look at this! I can't bear it!" But the pages turned all on their own, and she could not tear her eyes away from the text and the art. At first, it wasn't so bad. Her early years were happier. But as the pages continued to turn, it grew darker, until she found herself in the chapters she had been dreading.
The words were graphic and descriptive, recalling the shocking emotions and feelings that had overwhelmed her mind. But it was the images that were truly painful--her dark past painted clearly, horrible, disturbing, frightening images that chilled her soul and crushed her heart. She felt sick, just glancing at them. She couldn't bear the pain.
Eventually, though, the book ended. It ended with her, dreaming that she was in a library reading the book of her life. Clearly, it wrote itself as she lived. Either that, or she died while she was unconscious, which she supposed wouldn't be so great a loss. There would only be a few people to mourn her anyway. She imagined her funeral would be small. Short, but sweet. Maybe someone would say a few words. Maybe they'd just drop her in the ground and be done with it. It was hard to be sure. Although if she was honest with herself, she wouldn't really say she even had the right to a funeral. She'd seen cruelty, and in return, she'd been cruel. She'd been cruel to a lot of people. She could make the excuse that she just didn't want to be hurt again, but nobody cared about her excuses. If she did die here, they might not even bury her, she realized. They might just leave her body out in the woods or something, to rot.
Well. It's not as if she deserved anything better.
The book she was holding vanished, and she stared down at her hands. Where it had burned itself into her flesh, she saw nothing. But it had hurt so much... Was it all in her mind? Was the pain that had seemed so real and physical... Had she caused that?
Books began to topple off shelves, opening and spilling out words that echoed in the air around her. Painful words. Words that made her huddle into a corner of the room, trying to escape them. But they just continued to echo.
I just want to sleep. A coma would be nice. Or amnesia. Anything, just to get rid of this, these thoughts, whispers in my mind.
She knew I could tell with one glance, one look, one simple instant. It was her eyes. Despite the thick makeup, they were still dark-rimmed, haunted, and sad. Most of all though, they were familiar. The fact that we were in front of hundreds of strangers changed nothing at all. I'd spent a summer with those same eyes-scared, lost, confused-staring back at me. I would have known them anywhere.
I'd still thought that everything I thought about that night-the shame, the fear-would fade in time. But that hadn't happened. Instead, the things that I remembered, these little details, seemed to grow stronger, to the point where I could feel their weight in my chest. Nothing, however stuck with me more than the memory of stepping into that dark room and what I found there, and how the light then took that nightmare and made it real.
She couldn't get away.
The blade sings to me. Faintly, so soft against my ears, its voice calms my worries and tells me that one touch will take it all away. It tells me that I just need to slide a long horizontal cut, and make a clean slice. It tells me the words that I have been begging to hear: this will make it okay.
And it is in the past, you say? Then why is it still happening, every day, every time I close my eyes? Every time I hear someone behind me, and I don't know who it is? How is it that I get an almost irresistible urge to kill anyone who happens to touch me unexpectedly? Tell me, Hemarchidas, how do I forgive, let alone forget, something that is still happening, that keeps happening over and over? How? How do I do that?
Here, from her ashes you lay. A broken girl so lost in despondency that you know that even if she does find her way out of this labyrinth in hell, that she will never see, feel, taste, or touch life the same again.
"No! No, stop it!" she screamed. "I don't want to hear this! I don't want to listen anymore!" Her voice cracked, and then broke, trailing into indistinct sobbing and keening wails, and a whisper.
"...I don't want to listen..."
Alone with thoughts of what should have long been forgotten, I let myself be carried away into the silent screams of delirium.
He did not care upon what terms he satisfied his passion. He had even a mad, melodramatic idea to drug her.
I know the grim probability of my own future. The odds are high that the best of me has already been ripped away and that if I don't keep hold of myself I will lose what's left.
The terror takes you. The cage is locked and the curtain drawn. Fingers dance along as blades, carving memories into your flesh that will leave scars long past being healed.
This is no place for miracles.
I just want to sleep. The whole point of not talking about it, of silencing the memory, is to make it go away. It won't. I'll need brain surgery to cut it out of my head.
And I don't want to hurt anymore. I want to be someone who makes it through.
The silence was killing me.
And that's all there ever was. Silence. It was all I knew. Keep quiet. Pretend nothing had happened, that nothing was wrong. And look how well that was turning out.
It's so hard to talk when you want to kill yourself. That's above and beyond everything else, and it's not a mental complaint-it's a physical thing, like it's physically hard to open your mouth and make the words come out. They don't come out smooth and in conjunction with your brain the way normal people's words do; they come out in chunks as if from a crushed-ice dispenser; you stumble on them as they gather behind your lower lip. So you just keep quiet.
I don't want to see anyone. I lie in the bedroom with the curtains drawn and nothingness washing over me like a sluggish wave. Whatever is happening to me is my own fault. I have done something wrong, something so huge I can't even see it, something that's drowning me. I am inadequate and stupid, without worth. I might as well be dead.
I'm the girl who is lost in space, the girl who is disappearing always, forever fading away and receding farther and farther into the background. Just like the Cheshire cat, someday I will suddenly leave, but the artificial warmth of my smile, that phony, clownish curve, the kind you see on miserably sad people and villains in Disney movies, will remain behind as an ironic remnant. I am the girl you see in the photograph from some party someplace or some picnic in the park, the one who is in fact soon to be gone. When you look at the picture again, I want to assure you, I will no longer be there. I will be erased from history, like a traitor in the Soviet Union. Because with every day that goes by, I feel myself becoming more and more invisible...
When you're lost in those woods, it sometimes takes you a while to realize that you are lost. For the longest time, you can convince yourself that you've just wandered off the path, that you'll find your way back to the trailhead any moment now. Then night falls again and again, and you still have no idea where you are, and it's time to admit that you have bewildered yourself so far off the path that you don't even know from which direction the sun rises anymore.
That is all I want in life: for this pain to seem purposeful.
The worst type of crying wasn't the kind everyone could see--the wailing on street corners, the tearing at clothes. No, the worst kind happened when your soul wept and no matter what you did, there was no way to comfort it. A section withered and became a scar on the part of your soul that survived. For people like me and Echo, our souls contained more scar tissue than life.
When you're surrounded by all these people, it can be lonelier than when you're by yourself. You can be in a huge crowd, but if you don't feel like you can trust anyone or talk to anybody, you feel like you're really alone.
There is no point treating a depressed person as though she were just feeling sad, saying, 'There now, hang on, you'll get over it.' Sadness is more or less like a head cold- with patience, it passes. Depression is like cancer.
Some friends don't understand this. They don't understand how desperate I am to have someone say, I love you and I support you just the way you are because you're wonderful just the way you are. They don't understand that I can't remember anyone ever saying that to me.
The so-called 'psychotically depressed' person who tries to kill herself doesn't do so out of quote 'hopelessness' or any abstract conviction that life's assets and debits do not square. And surely not because death seems suddenly appealing. The person in whom invisible agony reaches a certain unendurable level will kill herself the same way a trapped person will eventually jump from the window of a burning high-rise... Their terror of falling from a great height is still just as great as it would be for you or me standing speculatively at the same window just checking out the view; i.e. the fear of falling remains a constant. The variable here is the other terror, the fire's flames: when the flames get close enough, falling to death becomes the slightly less terrible of two terrors. It's not desiring the fall; it's terror of the flames.
That's the thing about depression: A human being can survive almost anything, as long as she sees the end in sight. But depression is so insidious, and it compounds daily, that it's impossible to ever see the end.
There are wounds that never show on the body that are deeper and more hurtful than anything that bleeds.
I want to weep, she thought. I want to be comforted. I'm so tired of being strong. I want to be foolish and frightened for once. Just for a small while, that's all....a day.....an hour.
And she began to scream. Falling forward, pounding the floor, tears streaming down her face as her entire body heaved with sobs, wracked by the pain of a thousand tortured memories brought back by words and images she did not want to know. She would have gouged out her eyes rather than see the pictures in that book. She would have burst her eardrums had it meant she would be spared from the painful words echoing through the air around her. And if she had known, if she had had any inkling of what was coming to her that first endless night, she would have just killed herself then and there instead of facing the pain.
But now she couldn't. She couldn't kill herself, because that was such an important decision. And if there was one thing Michael had taught her, it was that she wasn't allowed to make important decisions. She wasn't allowed to choose what was going to happen to her. It was against the rules.
"Enough!" she screamed. "This isn't right!"
She decided. She decided that she had had enough.
But the words assaulted her mind. They forced her back into the pain. And in the end, she found herself curled up on the floor of the library, sobbing brokenly, and remembering just how much it all hurt.
She hated this. Hated this life. Hated this living death. Hated herself.
She hated herself. That was an old concept and yet somehow brand-new and familiar. How wrong was that? It was very wrong. Almost as wrong as she was.
There it was--another one, another of those little nagging thoughts that wasn't so bad on its own. But when it joined with all the other little nagging thoughts, suddenly it was a ten-ton weight that was tied to her and dragging her into darkness.
She had to cut the weight free.
Cut it free...
And then, at last, in that moment of pain and suffering, surrounded by books and knowledge and what had once been comfort, surrounded by the answers to billions of questions...
She found the answer to her own.
by Cylarn » Mon Feb 15, 2016 8:27 am
Reverend Norv wrote:There it is.
There's a lot of lead in the air. But most of it is coming from the Wetbrain Coyote: Darius Church's M-60, firing tightly controlled bursts. Up ahead, though - up ahead is something different. Muzzle-flash, half-concealed; a point of origin for the incoming fire that I've semi-consciously triangulated over the past five minutes of hunting. As I get closer, the noise becomes distinct: multiple rifles, their reports overlapping. And then I see a very faint glow, like a candle, and I drop smoothly to the ground.
I am utterly calm. I am still water and ageless stone. My lungs rasp softly, evenly, within my chest. I stay very low, and move very slow, and keep a hundred yards between me and that glow, and circle around the light until the target is between me and the Coyote - which means, as far as the shooters are concerned, that I am behind them. And then I take my .357 from its shoulder holster, and cock it - I cover the hammer with my free hand to muffle the sound of the click - and I walk forward casually and silently, my boots sinking noiselessly into the sand.
Voices up ahead. As I get closer to the shooters, I can make out men shouting over the roar of their rifles. Four, maybe five of them - speaking Spanish. All of the voices are louder than they need to be. I hear something about how some cop has hit them, and about how their vehicle has been disabled, and about how the cop has shot up Montezuma's girlfriend, and about how the Brazilians have a "beef" with the cop.
These are Ocelotes, then - and already panicked. Not the merc I had been expecting. Good. This will be easier than I thought.
As for the conversation - it is all interesting stuff. I have known Montezuma - Jose Machado - by reputation for almost ten years. He was just reaching his full powers when Patrick Allen put me in Terre Haute. He is a not a man to be trifled with. It's not clear how the Ocelotes came to be stranded out in the desert; it seems plausible that someone disabled their vehicle, and that they panicked and fired on the Coyote by mistake. Alternatively, maybe a stray round from Church's machine gun convinced them that they were under attack, and they shot back on instinct. Either way, they seem to have blamed the attack on Jerry Burns.
I don't know what really happened, and I don't care. These men almost killed me; they almost took away my only chance to see my boy again. So I'm going to kill them now. I can feel that knowledge in my gut, a calm slow-burning certainty.
I move closer still. Now I can see the shooters as well as hear them. There's a fancy silver pickup motionless on the road; the windows are shattered, shot out, and the faint glow of the truck's interior light shows dark stains on the seats. Tracer fire leaps out through the night away from the vehicle, and hisses back around me as the residents of Sheridan retaliate.
I do not flinch; I observe. Because in and around the truck are six targets.
Targets One and Two are trying to change one of the tires; their heads are down, and their backs are to me, and they do not see me. They probably have handguns, but they have not drawn them. One of them is an uncommonly big man; he must be at least two hundred and fifty pounds of muscle.
In the bed of the truck lies a woman. Target Three kneels over her, shining a flashlight on her chest; he is trying to treat her wounds, but her shirt is soaked with blood, and the fabric glistens wet and black in the flashlight's dim glow. Target Three will see me if he looks up, but he is focused on his task. The woman is unconscious or incapacitated; she is young, and would be beautiful if she were not dying.
Target Four is in the back seat of the truck, with his back to me, firing an AR from the window toward the Coyote. I can see the back of his head clearly through the window behind him.
Target Five is standing behind the engine block of the truck, firing a fancy-looking Kalashnikov. His back is to me, but he could turn around quickly; he is dangerous.
Target Six is lying prone on the other side of the truck from me. He is firing some kind of scoped long gun, and I glimpse the green glow of NVGs. My view of him is obstructed because the truck is between us, but he will not be able to get up very quickly.
Six targets. Six rounds in my revolver's cylinder.
I know that I should hesitate. I know that I should think: "What if I've lost my edge?" I know that I should remember that it's been most of a decade since I last fired a weapon in anger. I know that six-to-one odds should make me doubt myself. And I know, I know that I should quail at the thought of killing again. I know that I should walk back into the night.
But I don't. Because I am what I am. That doesn't change. So ten years behind bars will not dull my edge. And no amount of prayer will make what happens next anything but satisfying.
I stand behind the targets, all six of them. I am in the open. I have no cover. I am about twenty feet away, in plain view. None of them looks up. None of them turns around. None of them sees me. I am invisible. I am a spirit. I am the cold wind of death in the night.
This will be easy. Four heartbeats, I estimate.
I raise my revolver, and take a Weaver stance, and line up my sights over the back of Target Four's head, through the rear passenger window of the truck. My heart beats once.
I am not conscious of squeezing the trigger, but I feel it when the trigger breaks, and the .357 speaks: a deep-voiced, rolling boom very different from the hard snapping bangs of rifle fire. Blood paints the glass of the broken windows black in the moonlight, and Target Four crumples inside the car.
Three things happen. Targets One and Two drop their tools and grab for their waistbands - handguns, then. But they are crouched down and their motions are awkward and hampered by their position. Target Three drops his flashlight and swears in Spanish and scrambles for his own piece - he has panicked, and he will be slow. Target Five whirls, his AK still raised to fire, and sees me, so I shoot him - center of mass, upper chest, slightly left of center. From twenty feet away, the Magnum slug drills through him and into the engine block of the truck with a shriek of tearing metal.
My heart beats a second time. I distantly reflect that killing at night is strange, impersonal; my revolver's muzzle flash has taken away my night vision, and so I cannot see blood spurt or faces grow lax. Target Five just drops onto the ground like a puppet with his strings cut. On the other side of the car, I see the green glow of NVGs move; Target Six is getting to his feet.
A glint of gunmetal. Target One has gotten his piece half-unholstered. I start walking forward and shoot him in the head. The force of the Magnum slug slams his skull back into the side of the truck with an audible metallic bang. I keep walking forward. Target Two opens his mouth to swear or scream, and I shoot him as I walk; I aim for the head, but he moves, and the bullet hits his neck and even in the dark I see blood gush from a big black gash in the white moonlit skin. A .357 slug to the throat will all but decapitate a man. Target Two makes a big, heavy corpse slumped against the perforated tire of the Chevy, its head hanging at an unnatural angle.
My heart beats a third time. I am a Swiss watch. I am a Formula One engine firing on all cylinders. I am more fully myself than I have ever been. I am Death. Target Three drops prone into the bed of the truck, face-down into the girl's blood, and I hear him sob.
There - a shadow rises from behind the truck, backlit by a faint green glow, using the Chevy's bed as cover. Target Six. He sees me immediately because of his NVGs, and he manages to get a round off, but he's firing a rifle with a long-range scope, which means he can't properly sight down on a target ten feet away. The round goes wide; it is a tracer, and I see it flash by a few feet to my left. I shoot Target Six in the chest, and I'm close enough to see him take a step back, as if he is surprised or offended. Then he falls, falls full-length like a neatly felled tree, onto his back in the sand with a heavy thud.
The folks down at the Coyote are still shooting at the truck, and their bullets hum and snap around me. I feel that crawling sensation on my neck - the same feeling that I got right before my cup was shot out of my hand. I step left, and one of Darius Church's tracers burns through the air where I had been standing the moment before.
My heart beats a fourth time. I step forward and stand over the bed of the truck. Target Three looks up at me. His face is young and handsome and stained with arterial blood from cowering in the girl's gore. The target raises empty hands and opens his mouth. I am empty of all thought. I put my revolver two inches from the boy's head and fire my last round between his eyes. I am close enough to see the back of his head explode like an overripe watermelon. His brains are shiny in the dark, and they catch the moonlight like glistening snails.
I always liked revolvers because they do not leave shell casings behind; there is no need to collect the evidence after a kill. The wind of the desert night will erase my boot-prints long before anyone reaches the scene. There is only one thing left to do.
I flip open the cylinder and carefully extract a single shell casing and put it in my pocket. I replace it with one fresh cartridge and close the cylinder so that the live round is in front of the hammer. I step around the truck until I can see the girl clearly. I raise my gun and aim for her head.
She has been shot in the lower chest, just above the solar plexus. I can hear her lungs wheezing and sucking as her chest cavity fills with blood. She is half-conscious, eyelids occasionally fluttering. She is very pale in the moonlight. She will be dead in ten minutes anyway.
Rule number one: no risks, no witnesses, no loose ends. No exceptions. Ten minutes is ten too long. I pick the girl's left eye for my target, and I squeeze the trigger.
Nothing happens.
Something is wrong. There is a grain of sand in the watch, a flaw in the engine. I am confused. I look at the gun, and see my hand locked around it in a rictus grip, tendons standing out on the back of my palm, and I realize that I didn't squeeze the trigger after all. My finger didn't move. My whole hand won't move.
I don't understand. I don't understand. I don't -
I turn away from the car and throw up. Warm, undigested macaroni and cheese splatters the desert. Blood comes up too.
I stagger. I sway. I drop to one knee like a puppet with its strings cut, like Target Five, Target Five, Target onetwothreefourtenfiftyhundred -
Six more. Six more in one night. Six.
It was so easy.
I almost killed her.
I sob, like Target Three sobbed. Target Three, who looked the same age as Andy. Target Three, whose brains glisten like worms.
It was so easy.
I take a deep, shuddering breath as I kneel beside the six dead bodies. Bile and blood sting my throat. I look up at the stars in the desert sky. There are a million of them. The firing from down at the Coyote seems mostly to have stopped. I think I hear shouting in the distance. The stars are bright and pure and cold.
"What do you want from me?" My voice sounds weak and old. I croak like a dying frog. "What did you want me to do?"
The stars are so, so far away. I hear nothing, only the rasping of my dying lungs, and a wet wheezing sound from the bed of the pickup where a young body struggles for air.
Ten minutes left to live.
I almost killed her. But she's not dead yet. And God answers prayers in the most wondrous ways.
I get up and jam my revolver back into its holster. I stumble through the sand. I feel a drunken desperation, a nameless compulsion. I reach into the bed of the truck and grab the girl under her arms. Her blood is warm in the cold desert night and it soaks my hands, and I groan with effort as I drag her out of the pickup's bed and lift her in my arms. I cradle her like a baby, like Andy - when did I last cradle him, God? Did I ever cradle him? - and blood sloshes down my jacket and my clergy shirt and I want to cry, so I do, and tears make white streaks in the dark mud that covers my face. I know that the girl is light, but I was never a big man, and she feels heavy, and pain racks my chest as my lungs protest.
The lights of the Coyote are a distant glow, at least four hundred meters away. I turn my face to that light and I stumble on through the dark with the dying girl in my arms. My tears are all dry now, so I shout instead, with all the strength left in my rotten lungs: "Help me! For God's sake, help me! I need a doctor!"
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