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Caroline Smith was all I could think

Caroline. I learned her name through the phonebook, my shaking fingers carefully caressing its pages as I searched for the address I'd seen her at so many times. 43 Mako Drive, the small, brick house on the corner of Braxton and Mako. I'd memorized the shape of her home weeks before, my bare feet sliding across its wet grass every time I closed my eyes. Letters from her mailbox, addressed to Caroline Smith, confirmed what the book claimed. She was perfect, absolutely flawless in every way. I'd watched her for seven months--almost every single day and night--silently following her as she strolled to and from her classes. Sometimes I stayed outside her bedroom window as we slept, my heart racing as I matched my breathing to hers. She never knew I was there, never acknowledged me as more than the distant shadow of a faceless tree, but I knew she needed me. She was all I could think about, all I wanted to be with. Beautiful, flawless, ideal. If anything could convince me that angels truly visited this greasy, obscene, vile planet, then it would have been to see her. She was an artist, a creator; she built perfect worlds that only she and I could appreciate, universes fit for the two of us. She taught her art at the community center next to the unsightly yellow pizza restaurant. I didn't understand why she bothered showing up. The students didn't respect her; the other teachers didn't understand her; no one truly valued her. They couldn't see her perfection, her talent, the unearthly skill she possessed. No one knew what she was worth--except me. It was clear to me, everything she was capable of. The world wasn't able to comprehend what she could do; only I, and the God above, could fathom such beauty. I knew I had to free her, to save her from the life of dismay and disrespect she endured. Her perfection had to be known. She always walked alone, always spent her days and nights with a just paintbrush and canvas. The mail at 43 Mako Drive was never addressed to anyone but Caroline, my fingers becoming accustomed to the rub of the ink-stained C of her name pressed into her envelopes. She had no one but her art, nothing but the worlds she created in the comfort of her home as I silently watched under the shroud of the long-set sun. She had me, had my support and devotion, my undying love and admiration, yet I knew that wasn't enough for her. She needed more, needed the embrace of the planet as they all screamed her name in singularity, hung her portraits in galleries and travelled halfway around the world to admire her brush strokes. She needed fame and fortune, acclaim and respect, followers and immorality. I knew I could give that to her, make her name a commodity and brand us as a single entity in the history of humanity. I wanted to be the one to launch her fame, the name that always followed her around. I wanted to be the reason she went missing, the person to force her into the world. I needed to free her from this filthy planet, be the one to release her soul to the millions scattered throughout the corners of the uncivilized, obscene Earth. I knew she could inspire the masses and provoke the future. I left her alone one night, let her sleep without the comfort of my warm carcass nestled just feet away. I had to, I needed to prepare. It was soon to be our time, the moment we'd forever become names tied together in the media, in the voices of the people, in the pages of history and the world alike. I wanted to perfect where I'd take her, where I'd free her soul into immortality. I needed it to be flawless enough to display her art to the world. I prepped and painted, cleaned and set forth the tools to extract her; my memory became blurred and uncertain as I toiled endlessly. It needed to be just as perfect as she. By the time I was content, my eyes had become bloody through lack of sleep, and the sun had long-since risen. She was not in her room as my bare feet touched the familiar grass outside her window. I pulled open the unlocked back door, silently dragging my heels across the hardwood floor I'd felt so many times before. I'd once danced in that very spot, my feet softly tapping the ground not inches from where she slept; I could hear her breathing in perfect synchronization as I spun. Now her bed was empty, the window above it shattered and shimmering atop her sheets. Her bureau lay sideways, its contents spilled out on the floor. I picked up the ruby shirt she wore to bed almost every night and held it to my face, the familiar scent of her perfume washing over me. I continued through her house. She valued her cleanliness, as did I. I'd watch as she spent hours, sometimes entire days, washing and organizing each and every inch of her home, always to perfection. Now it was a mess, a chaotic wreck of turmoil and struggle. She'd never done this to me before, never forced me to see her in such a shape of sheer humanity. Her walls, once rife with the beauty and life she painted, now lay bare, the art scattered and broken upon the floor. I clenched my teeth as I righted them, muscles tensing as I tried to hang them back in their correct places, but they were simply not the same. She had let someone else touch them; they had lost their perfection. I allowed them fall back to the floor as I continued up her stairs. The creme carpet outside her studio door was stained a ruby red, still moist under the weight of my bare feet. I could hear her breathing heavily behind it, her gasps raspy and strained as if under a tremendous weight. I wrapped my hand around the doorknob, twisting the cold brass knob and silently pushing it open. I had to blink as I peered in, the vulgarity she exposed me to almost unbearable. The room was in disarray: paintings torn apart, brushes scattered across the floor, shelves toppled over sideways. The worlds she'd created for just the two of us, the universes that were supposed to inspire the future, were now stained, covered in blood and paint and split by knife. The hope she'd given the planet lay destroyed in the middle of the room by her broken body. She couldn't even save her own self. She glanced up at me, her eyes studying me with a faint hint of recognition and dread, her mouth gagged and broken. I could hear her whimper softly, just as she occasionally did in her sleep as I stood watch. Spilled paints surrounded her and mixed into a single, grotesque shade--red, blues, yellows, whites, and every other color she'd previously had organized on the shelves beside the door. I stared at her for a moment, waiting for an apology as my eyes searched for the perfection and hope I'd seen for so long. She had been flawless, the only thing that could save the world from the pornographic, filthy wreck it had become. Now, as she lay on the ground, her eyes screaming for *my* help, all I could see was failure and dependence. A mirrored figure shifted in the far corner of the room, its back to me. I glanced up at it and slowly shook my head. She was no more perfect than the rest. I turned around and quietly shut the door, then began back down the path I'd become so familiar traveling. _____________ **ALTERNATE ENDINGS:** Violent, exciting one: "Less ambiguous" ending: ____________________ ^If ^you ^enjoy ^my ^writing ^style, ^feel ^free ^to ^check ^out ^some ^of ^my ^other ^short ^stories ^or

An old lady approached him after he

I was fourteen when it all started. I'd been out one day, waiting for some friends at the park, as you do. I was eating a chocolate bar and apathetically tossed the wrapper aside. An old lady approached me. "Don't you have any respect? Pick that up." Naturally I ignored her, being the lovely young man that I was until she screamed. "Fine! Have it your way! If you shall litter the Earth, then I shall litter your mind." She promptly left and I was confused, I assumed she was just a bit of an old bat. The wrapper blew away, and my friends turned up. We played some football, I was always fairly horrendous at that. The next day, I woke up. For some reason the first thing I thought of was the old lady. I realised that it was fairly obnoxious for me to act that way to someone. Ah well, I'll probably never see her again anyway. I went downstairs and greeted my mother who has been a bit of a struggling single for a while now (I guess having an obnoxious teenage brat doesn't help much). There was a two, hovering above her head; cyan in colour. I wasn't really sure what it meant at the time. I knew that, objectively, this was strange. Intuitively, however, it felt oddly natural. So I went about my day. As I went through school that day, I noticed everybody had the numbers. Notably my friend Tim who was a brown belt in karate had a blue four, our loud ex-military teacher who enjoyed startling sleeping students was a yellow six. The school bully was a turquoise three. Most students were a one or a two; shades of green. I could never see a number above my own head in reflections or anything like that, much to my frustration. When I watched TV I noticed that powerful people tended to have quite high numbers. The anchor had a five, the prime minister had a nine, some footage of an army doing a parade seemed to show a range from six to eight (a vibrant red). Eventually, after having thought about this for a few weeks, I concluded that the number corresponded to danger. Being dangerous can mean many things. It can mean you're potent in a fight, or it can mean you have a lot of say socially. One day, I was sitting in the park with my mother and some of her friends on a day out. She introduced me to someone new. Short, goatee, slicked back hair and an eight. He sat there, casually sipping on a can of lager. My mum introduced him as Sean, "my new boyfriend." "WHAT?!" So I couldn't control that little outburst, I must admit I panicked a bit. An eight is a member of the cabinet, a soldier, a serial murderer (What? The numbers come up on Crimewatch as well, you know). He interjected, "Haha! Relax kid. I'm going to be around for a while" At which point he leaned in and kissed my mum. This was not affection; this was dominance. In the following days, I took my mum aside repeatedly to try to convince her to get out of this. She was, how can I put it? Thoroughly unwilling. So now I was anxious, I was frustrated. We were around Sean's house at the time. He came in later that day, bringing home some shopping, he bought me a chocolate bar. Well, that was nice? Thanks. So it started out nicely enough. He could tell that I was anxious, and so he'd buy me little things to try to win my affections. To be honest, it started to work. My mum was in love with him and despite the red flags, I was honestly settling to the arrangement. What I hadn't noticed were the little things. At first it began as complaints; "the jam isn't in the cupboard I said to put it in", "clean up that fucking cat shit". Benign, but said with a sharp tongue. Eventually he offered to fully support my mother. I'm not really sure how he was able to do this as he didn't have a job of which to speak, but it seemed to work out. My mum quit her job at the supermarket and now had much more free time to... "do those fucking dishes," to "make a doctor's appointment for me". He spoke repeatedly of their sex life to me. Thanks for telling me. Over time his demands were shouting. Mum's number dropped from a two to a one. Something was wrong. This kind of behaviour carried on for a year. I was the frog in the pot. Eventually he started doing things; hitting her when I wasn't around. I didn't notice of course, although I started to pick up the signs. Then one day I did. They had a huge argument. They were shouting, things were thrown. They wouldn't stop. The walls closed in. I had nowhere to go. In my right conscience, I had nowhere I could go. I was just as frightened as she was until that is I heard a crack; he headbutted her. Blood poured forth. I freaked the fuck out. I started screaming. I started crying. I had no idea what way was up. I briefly ran into the bathroom to try to collect myself and figure out what the fuck I was supposed to do. I was scared. I was shaking. I was angry. I was livid. I was FURIOUS. And through the tears I saw the stained bathroom mirror. Everything was blurry but I saw it right there. Black as night, floating right above my own head. I could finally see it: Ten. "Fuck them, fuck him, fuck everyone. Fuck this abusive piece of shit. I am taking control of this situation." In that very briefly lucid state, I called an ambulance. I then broke the mirror, threw it at the ground. I picked the the largest shard of glass and looked at myself again. Ten. Definitely ten. I called down. "Sean! Let's fucking talk!" --------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- Edit: Thanks so much for the comments, upvotes and especially those kind folk who gave me gold! I couldn't have hoped for a nicer reception to this. You should also listen to this audio version: http://www.reddit.com/r/WritingPrompts/comments/2ns30z/wp_you_are_a_teenager_with_the_ability_to_measure/cmhw3df

Mr. Brock: "If you

"Mr. Brock..." "No Mr. Brock. I'm sorry Jason, but if you cannot commit to your schedule, you don't have what it takes to work in this company." I lower my head. I feel my eyes water. I mean, it's one thing to yell at me because I left five minutes early yesterday -- after being the only one doing unpaid extra hours until midnight for the fifth week in row now. But to fire me because of it? And in front of everybody? I feel like that's kind of mean of Mr. Brock's part. People are looking. I hate this. "Are you going to cry, Jason? Really? You are a grown man. Get yourself together." Lisa from accounting passes by and stops to watch. Everyone in their cubicle has their heads raised to watch the scene, as well. I hate being in the spotlight. I'm not good at confrontation. "Mr. Brock, please. I can put in more hours, if you want. I can --" "Sorry, Jason. I need a person who can commit. I need someone responsible." Come on. You are right, man. Stand up for yourself. Say something. Brock never did extra hours. Neither did Lisa, or Tobias. You are always the last one in the office, and you are also the one paid less. Say something. Everybody is watching. Say something. Say something. I hate this. Stop crying. "Mr. Brock, c-can we talk in your office? I really need this job. I can --" Mr. Brock throws a cardboard box my way. "We have nothing more to talk about, Jason." He turns around and steps away, heading for his big office with his big window and his big trophies. Little by little, the heads start lowering back to their computers. I start putting my stuff in the little box, feeling five different kinds of shitty. I'm done in like five minutes. It's pretty easy, what with no pictures of family or kids. No pictures of the wife. No macaroni pen holder. I don't have a lot of stuff to show for, in this life. I put the last of my action figures (John Constantine, from Hellblazer) on the box and I get up, sniffing. "Well... See you guys. I -- goodbye." No one answers. People type away and drink their coffee away, distracted. I start walking. I'm almost by the door when I hear it. "MOTHERFUCKER!" And a loud bang. Like really really loud. I stop and turn around, and everyone else does the same. Black smoke is coming out from under Mr. Brock's door. Little by little, slow motion step by slow motion step, I approach, because no one else seems to be willing to move. There's silence on the other end of the door. Before I can reach the knob the door opens on its own, and everyone goes "Oh!" (except for Mr. Trigger from HR, who just says 'oh fuck this shit', gets up and leaves. We never saw him again.) These reactions were prompted by the fact that, on the other side of the door, Mr. Brock was now seven different, completely separate objects, spread around his office. His head and torso is lying on top of his desk, in the middle of a pool of blood. His legs are on opposite sides of the room. So are his arms. His penis and left ball are dangling from the roof fan, casually. His right ball is on the floor by the door, right next to a squirrel holding a bazooka. I'm gonna repeat that: His right ball is on the floor by the door, right next to a squirrel holding a bazooka. Lisa from accounting faints. "Took care of this piece of flying, stinky shit, master", the squirrel says, smiling at me. His voice is high pitched and scratchy, like the voice of an old lady on 3 packs of Camels a day for the past 70 years. I look at the squirrel for seventeen seconds, in complete silence. Jenny from marketing faints, too. Jack from HR whispers "holy shit", and has a heart attack. (He died a week later, I heard.) "What?" I ask, suddenly realizing I hadn't blinked in a very long time. I blink. "The Abomination, they call me", the squirrel says, with a smirk. "Paid assassin. You saved my life on January 13th, down Berry Road, remember? Squirrel law determines I am now at your service. I took the liberty of doing a background check on your life. You got a lot of people being assholes to you and dragging you down. I'm here to take care of that for you." "I-- Mr. Brock was not disturbing me. I -- he was an asshole, sure, but I didn't -- I mean..." I take a deep breath. What little people on the office that have not yet fainted or had heart attacks (or walked away saying 'fuck this shit') are frozen watching the scene in a catatonic state. The squirrel grabs Mr. Brock's right ball, throwing it over his left shoulder like a sports bag. "Now come on, let's get even with the world. Like I said, a lot of people have been fucking you over, Jason. It's time to grow up and be a man. Time to set the record straight." "I.... Wh-what do you mean?" The squirrel grabs me by the hand. He drags me towards the door. People are watching still, frozen. "Do you know a Ed Williams, Jason?" the squirrel asks, almost by the door. "Yeah, he's my neighbor", I say, worrying about what's coming next. "Could you grab the doorknob, please?" The Abomination looks up at the doorknob, out of his reach. I turn it and open the door. People are still frozen, staring at me. Mike from research and development faints. Then he wakes up. Then he faints again. "What about Ed Williams?" I ask, as the squirrel drags me out into the hallway. "He's stealing your TV Guides", The Abomination, says, shutting the door behind us with his feet. "Let's go shove a cactus up his ass." And he drags me to the elevator. _______________________ EDIT: EDIT: EDIT: EDIT: _________________________ *Thanks for reading! And kudos for an amazing prompt, OP! This was a fun write. For more stories, check out my subreddit: /r/psycho_alpaca =)*

Noah wasn't my first apprentice nor

"Have you been down to the valley before, Noah?" I asked my newest apprentice as we turned a corner on the jagged path down the side of the sacred mountain. "No, mother never let us go this far down the mountain. I've heard the stories, though," Noah responded with a certain eagerness to his voice. I had known his mother for a long time, and giving her third and smallest son a chance to be something other than a warrior was the least I could offer her. "Your mother is a wise woman, Noah. There is little but death this deep in the mountains. A plague that must be kept from ever reaching us." I kept my voice stern. Noah wasn't my first apprentice nor would he be my last. Many of the others never understood my craft. The ones that did never respected it. Their thoughts were too shallow to see the good I brought to our people. But the world seldom works in ways we want it too. It's the ones that understand its true ways and adapt that become the most powerful. That is what I did, and what I shall continue doing. "Well, there's people down there, isn't there?" he asked innocently. I smirked at the thought and halted our hike down the mountain side and turned to face him. The black hood adorning my weathered skull blocked most of my view in front of and around me, but Noah's young, suddenly frightened face was in a clear line of sight. "That will be for you to decide, my boy," I chuckled to myself before returning onto the jagged path. I listened intently as the boy took several moments before hearing his heavy footsteps run after me, kicking rocks and dust down the mountainside around him. The shadow of the mountain had all but blocked the setting sun in the west and left the valley under a hazy yellow glow. Fog creeped its way from the Earth before dissipating some ten feet above us as we found flat ground for the first time since beginning our journey. I could feel the waters of the swamp begin flooding my boots and I could hear the young boy plopping around trying to stay dry. "The smell," Noah gagged, "What on Earth is that smell?" he asked, his voice was muffled as he tried covering his nose with his palm. "The village," I answered solemnly as the shadows of the village's tallest buildings broke the yellow glow of the setting sun and leaving the land behind them dark and desolate. "Who could live in such a place?" Noah asked horrifyingly as we entered the outer gate of the village's meager wooden walls. "Those who have been trapped," I answered as I continued our steady pace through the village. The swamp had given way but the village streets were filled with mud and excrement; hardly an improvement. Sickly families sat at the edges of the path weakly extending bowls outward with frail arms. They shuddered and turned away, however, when they saw that it was I who was walking past them. They mumbled prayers under their rasping breaths. "Trapped? Trapped by who?" Noah asked. I turned to him and placed my hand on one of his bony shoulders. "All will be answered in due time, my boy. For now, you must watch." The boy nodded quickly before looking nervously at the beggars beside the road. "Don't worry, my boy. You cannot catch what they have." Noah looked up questioningly but I turned back to the path before he could ask more questions. He would have to observe and decide for himself if he would remain by my side for the years to come. With war on the horizon, I'd need all the help I could get. Soon we stood before the largest building in the village. Though it would have been meager in size compared to our own village and those of the north, it stood out in contrast to the pathetically built huts surrounding it. I did build it after all. The doors of the temple creaked open painfully as we made our way up the steps. Two young boys held the doors open as we passed. They glared down at the ground, holding back tears as I passed. A low rumble of distant thunder rolled over the mountains and echoed around the valley. It was time. The temple consisted of one large main room with two stone tables placed in the center. Fire from candles along the walls lit the room with a faint red hue and several dozen villagers huddled as close to the walls as possible. One stepped up to me, an older man who, like the others, kept his gaze to the floor. "All is ready, my lord. Forgive me but I must ask, will we receive the food as promised?" he whimpered. I slowly turned to the old man standing beside me and grabbed his weak jawline and stared directly into his hazy blue eyes. He tried to struggle away but was too weak. He muttered the same prayers as those on the streets earlier before I dropped him to the ground. "The food shall arrive when the storm subsides," I told the man as I returned my sights to the tables in the middle of the room. The old man scrambled to the side of the room like a wounded animal and rejoined the huddled mass in the corner. Around now is usually when the apprentices I previously had either yelled in protest to these grotesque sights or tried running out the temple doors. Noah, however, now seemed intrigued as I looked over to the young boy. Perhaps he could be the one I have been searching for. The two tables in the center of the room each had a body laying upon them. To the left was a young man. He was desperately thin and shivering in the cold of the temple. Despite his weight, however, he appeared mostly healthy. His eyes were closed and he muttered a prayer over and over through his chattering, worn down teeth. I gently placed a palm on the man's chest and leaned in close to the side of his head. He flinched when I touched him but I held him down firmly. "Relax, my friend. All your suffering will soon be over. Your sacrifice will save your people," I whispered into his ear. He began weeping and I motioned to Noah to tie him to the table before he tried to run off. On the other table was another young man with a black bag around his head. He had strong shoulders and a bouldering chest. A great warrior from my village who showed great potential to serve his people. He had been mauled by a mountain lion two days before. Large, red gashes ran along the side of arms and back. One arm was broken in several spots after he had fallen upon some rocks in a desperate attempt to escape his attacker. He eventually killed the lion and dragged its lifeless body back to our village before collapsing in exhaustion. The man had clearly earned my favor and today he would receive it. His gashes were festering and he smelled much like this village and its people. I turned to Noah. "Watch. And decide." He nodded and stepped back into the shadows of the temple. All of the candles suddenly dimmed as I raised my palms and a calm yet chilling breeze swept around the room. I began muttering the old words and watched as the once lifeless body of the warrior twitched for the first time. The other man was weeping louder now and struggled to break away from the chains restraining him. The skin around his shoulder suddenly began to break apart and he howled in pain and begged for mercy but the process had already begun. Blood poured from the newly forming gashes. The warriors broken arm, crooked and purple, jumped to life and straightened before my eyes. Simultaneously, the other man's arm split in two. He cried louder and louder but I was too focused on the warrior's body turning from a pale blue to a bright tan. The bag around his head began to puff gently above his mouth. Suddenly he jumped up from the table and roared with life. He breathed desperately and his hands patted around his body. He couldn't find any words to speak over his rampant breathing. I lowered my arms and light refilled the room. I rushed to the warrior's side and held the man. "It is okay, my friend. You have been healed. You are alive once again." His breathing suddenly calmed as he recognized my voice and turned his bagged head in my direction. He still could not speak but I knew what he was thinking. In reality, I did little myself to save this man, but he and all the others before him view me the same; a god among men. A giver of life. They never know the price paid, but they also rarely ask. I looked over the mangled body of the young boy who now lay lifeless on the other table. Two villagers rushed over and carried his limp body from the table and out of the temple. Another two helped the warrior to his feet and led him away to clean him and return him to our village. I looked over to Noah, who stood dumbfounded in the back of the temple. He was staring at the blood that dripped slowly from the edge of the stone table. I walked over to him and stood before him, waiting for his answer. He eventually looked up to me slowly and the innocence of his eyes from earlier today was all but gone. I could feel new emotions coursing through the boy's body. "Teach me," he whispered. I smiled and put both hands on the boy's shoulders. Finally, I had found the one.

'I think I would rather just

Bobby's eyes widened in a mixture of shock and amusement, 'Sorry, can you repeat that?' Sally, his date, didn't seem in the least bit fazed. She looked up from her food and stared directly at him, her dark eyes devoid of humour, and repeated. 'It's odd.' Bobby sucked his teeth slightly annoyed at having to clarify himself. 'Not that bit,' he explained through gritted teeth, 'the bit before.' Sally, who had continued eating, looked up again, then her face broke into a smile as she understood. Bobby felt a tinge of lust as her dark curls bounced around her face when she began to laugh girlishly. 'Sorry, yes of course.' Her lips seemed pinker than usual. 'I think I would rather just stay in with him than go on a date. It's odd.' She blushed, realising what she'd said. 'Most dates...' she stammered, 'minus the ones with you, obviously.' Bobby could feel all the lust he felt for her fall away. They'd only been on a few dates, but this was still a little hard to hear. He coughed uncomfortably, trying to find the words to carry on the conversation. 'Why odd...' He finally prompted. She looked up at him thoughtfully. 'Well, I guess, really, it's odd that I just want to hang out with my completely platonic male flatmate all the time. But, as I said, I guess my favourite thing to do is to sit on my couch, watch a movie, eat some pizza and drink a beer or two...' she stopped herself, but Bobby knew the words she wanted to add; 'with Damien'. Bobby nodded slowly, now slightly bemused at the conversation. 'Do you not think that, considering everything you've just said, you might consider him as more than just a platonic male flatmate?' Sally stared back at him blankly. He could almost hear her brain working, the neurons madly firing trying to comprehend what he was insinuating. He sat up straight in his chair, composing himself, highly aware that he was essentially about to 'cockblock' himself. He spoke slightly slowly, trying to make sure she was keeping up. 'Bearing in mind you are sat on a date, with let's face it a very attractive and eligible man who fancies you, and you're talking about him, I have a slight suspicion you might in fact be in love with him?' Up until this point he'd assumed she was just hiding her feelings, but now, as he watched it dawn on her, he realised she'd just been oblivious to the whole thing. Her mouth fell open, somewhat comically, and she stared off into the distance, her eyes wide. He couldn't help but laugh. She immediately came back into the room, and her face flushed red in embarrassment. 'I'd... I just...' she stuttered, her face bright pink. 'I guess I should have realised. I think it just crept up on me.' Bobby nodded in a compassionate sort of way. The damage was done, the date was over. He sighed wistfully and took up his fork to continue eating, 'at least the food's good' he thought apathetically. 'Everything ok here?' Both Bobby and Sally's heads shot up in shock to look at the waiter who had creeped up to the table unnoticed to them. Bobby smiled and nodded. 'I'm in love with my best friend.' Sally blurted out, a look of surprised horror on her face. The waiter raised his eyebrows in a comical look of shock which quickly gave way to an odd sympathetic and yet encouraging smile. Awkwardly he gently patted her arm and said 'good for you.' He then walked away leaving Sally to process the information and Bobby to eat. After some time, in fact just as Bobby finished his food and put down his fork, Sally seemed to wake up from her thoughts and stood up out of her chair. 'I... I should tell him.' Bobby nodded, now only half listening as he started to survey the dessert menu. 'He deserves to know.' Bobby nodded again, not looking up from the menu until he became aware of the silence than had fallen between them. When he did he saw she was sat back down and staring at him sympathetically. He felt a jolt of irritation, and he put his menu down to stare a little harshly back at her. 'I must be the worst date you've ever had. I'm so sorry.' He could hear the emotion in her voice, he sighed irritably but his expression softened slightly. 'Do I like you? Yes. Did I think we may have a future? Maybe. Do I want to be in love with someone who's in love with someone else entirely? No way. It wouldn't have been very good if I'd gone on to fall in love with you and then you'd realised, would it? I'd rather hear it now than when we were just about to board a plane to a new home. Or on our wedding day. Or at the birth of our first child...' She raised her eyebrow. 'Ok, too far, but you catch my drift. I'd much rather get it all out in the open, and just let you run off into the sunset with him now, rather than be 'that guy' who gets in the way and ends up cast as the jerk despite the fact I'm actually just the guy who was in the wrong place at the wrong time on a date with a woman who isn't emotionally intelligent enough to work out when she's in love with someone despite the fact, from what you've told me, she spends pretty much every waking second of every day either with him or, at the very least, thinking about him...' He took a deep breath, it was a sore subject, this wasn't the first time he'd had to point out to a date that things weren't exactly 'on track' towards a healthy emotional entanglement. She continued to stare at him blankly. He rolled his eyes. 'So no, it's not the worst date I've ever been on.' She looked a little relieved, and nodded. They sat awkwardly for a moment before Bobby pointed towards the door and said the most whimsical thing he could think 'go to him...' She mumbled something about paying half of the bill, put some crumpled notes on the table beside her half eaten meal, and left. Bobby rolled his eyes, and picked up the menu once more. Just as he'd decided he would stick to coffee, he heard a gentle, lady-like cough. He put down his menu to see an attractive female sat opposite him. Like Sally, her eyes were dark, but these had a sultriness to them that replaced Sally's innocent, almost girlish, look. 'I'm sorry, but I couldn't help overhearing...' Bobby gestured that he didn't mind. 'Are you here alone?' 'I wasn't, but I am now.' She smiled again, this time a little mischievously. 'My date had an unhealthy fixation with his work friend that I felt he should explore before we pursued anything.' Bobby laughed knowingly. 'So he's gone to find her to confess his love?' She laughed again, 'him... and no, I think he's gone to be alone and process his newly realised sexuality.' She smiled broadly and extended a slender hand. 'I'm Olivia Johnson. I'm not in love with any of my friends, have no irregular feelings towards my dad and have no exes in the closet other than one who 'ghosted' me a few years ago who I would probably still punch if I saw him now. I am emotionally available and find you, upon first impressions, incredibly attractive.' Bobby obligingly took her hand and gave it a firm shake. 'I'm Bobby Holden. I have no sexual urges for men, my mother was a perfectly lovely human but I don't want my girlfriend to be anything like her and I would, one day, like a wife and a couple of kids to keep me out of trouble. I am emotionally available and I find you very attractive indeed.' They sat staring lustfully at each other, until they noticed the waiter stood between them. He looked from one to the other and he blurted out, 'You're both completely insane.'

The people burst through the gates of

The people burst through the gates of the mansion. The guards tried to stop them, but they had been armed with electric guitars, a shockingly effective crowd control weapon, but I had taken out their generators. A single riff had been enough. The guards stood helpless as the people marched in to the mansion with beautiful roses and well kept grass while out there they suffered under this sorry excuse of a musician. I had barely needed to do anything in this city. The embers of the anger were already there, all I had to do was fan them The people marching to a beat. It was the familiar THUMP THUMP CLAP. THUMP THUMP CLAP that everyone knew. Individually they would stand no chance against their ruler. She was a powerful musician to have controlled the entire city. But there were hundreds here. Even a simple beat like this, made by relatively unskilled users could pack quite the punch. As if in response, the mansion began to shake, reverberating with the power of the beat of hundreds. They began to sing the song of the prophets Queen. The musicians, when they had first risen after music became powerful, had tried to wipe out all instruction and memory of music to prevent the common people from learning music and challenging their master. But some tunes do not fade. And while instruments could be taken away, hands and tongues could not. In response to the music the house literally began to rock back and forth. It would soon crumble. Perhaps I had overestimated this musician, if she could not withstand such a plain assault, it was a wonder she came into control at all. A single chord reverberated throughout the mansion. The mass stopped as if struck, their beat broken, their voices cut off in shock. And then another chord was hit, and another, and as I watched, the woman came out on the balcony with a portable battery and a guitar and began to play. The people swayed, entranced. The musician dared not use any physical magic on her own property and people, and so she influenced their minds. I, hidden within the crowd, felt only an intense rage. Rock musicians were the worst. They were merely an imitation of the true art form, the true expression of emotion. Passion, rage, regret it was all there in metal. To deliberately dampen these powers...it was sick. Well, I knew it would come down to this. I took out the guitar I had hidden on my back with a coat. It too had a portable source of power. I struck a chord and the air hummed with power. I took in the vibrations, felt the familiar feeling vibrate in my chest. This. This was power. The spell their musician had lain shattered like glass. I let out a scream of passion and power and began to literally rise above the crowd, my guitar in hand. As I rose I could make out the musician better. She wore jeans and denim jacket over a black shirt. Her red hair stood on its end, as if a halo, no doubt responding to her power. Her mouth was curved into a sneer, and her emerald eyes flashed dangerously. We stood, facing eye to eye, and the crowd below us fell silent, in respect and awe. They were about to witness a duel. These were things of legend, of the past when musicians fought for control over areas. These were stable times, musicians dared not fight each other. They had learned that lesson in the First Wars when we had almost wiped each other out. "You fool! What are you doing! You dare intrude on *my* domain?" She struck a note that vibrated, and I literally felt her anger wash over me. Weakling. I roared and responded with my own weapon. And a pillar of white hot flame rushed towards her. Her eyes widened, but she dissipated the fire with another note. So not completely incompetent. "You wiped out our people! You mainstream musicians, you pretend to rule over these...*commoners*," I spat out the word, "but you play what they want to listen, you are subject to their whims, their tastes. My people were wiped out, because we played music that was good, not what people perceived as good!" Her eyes widened in recognition. "No...there are no metal artists left. They were all killed!" I let forth a fork of lightning in response and laughed. "You did not realize yet?! You thought my magic was your puny *rock*? No. This far greater. Pure energy." She reflected the lightning away, and fired her own spell, this time with her own music and voice combined. Looks like play time was over. Still floating I launched into a song. Each note firing a wealth of both physical and mental assaults with it, but she responded in kind with her own song. This was a duel. Before we had simply been trading blows, shit talking so to say. This was true battle. We both knew the idea of our song, what it was supposed to be like, but we had to adapt. Most of our magic collided in the center in sparks or steam, but some got through to both of us. When you see a gout of flame come at you, you change pitch, alter your chord slightly. You sense a weakness in the other's resonance so you capitalize with a hammer-on. You improvise when needed. As death came within inches of me I reveled it, and with a shock, I realized she did too. The anger was gone from her eyes now, just pure joy. This was what we did. The crowd stood, transfixed. With the wild energy lashing around they should have scrambled, ran away as far as possible. But with the spells of our voices intertwining they could not move. They did not *want* to move. They lay helpless, watching gods battle. I was almost sad when it was over. She was good, far greater than I had thought possible for a rock artist, but she was limited by her genre. After what seemed like an eternity, she messed up her chord, and her voice faltered in shock. I capitalized. I fired shot after shot of powerful bursts. Her rhythm disrupted, she fell on the defense, try desperately to block my relentless strikes. As she did I moved closer and closer to her, making the strikes come more rapidly. Now she began to tremble, her face contorted in focus and exhaustion, it was inevitable that she mess up. *There!* She missed an arc of green energy and it slammed into her, freeing the guitar from her grasp, and it crashed with a final note, while the musician herself landed flat on the ground. She sat up as I approached, guitar still held loosely in my hands. Her hair had settled down now, but was still disheveled. She looked me in the eyes, her green eyes flashing with indigence and defiance. She held up her chin, not looking away. "You have bested me. Finish it." I played a single chord and flash of flame burst out, but she didn't flinch. She would do. The flame died an inch from her. She looked at me in shock, her mouth slightly open. "Kill you? Don't be ridiculous," I said. "I'm not like your ancestors, I do not waste musical talent. I offer you power, true music, music unlike you have ever wielded." I held out my hand. "The question is, will you accept?" "And if I don't?," she asked, her voice perfect, light but rich. I smiled savagely. "You want it. I could see it in your eyes. You play music for its power, for its own sake, not for these," I gestured to the crowd under me which had finally begun to snap out of its daze, "commoners. You understand the power you just saw from me and you want it. Your talent is wasted on rock." She still looked intensely at me, but gave me the slightest nod. She took my hand. (minor edits) EDIT: Whoa! I appreciate all the feedback and kind words, truly, they mean a lot. Also thank you specifically to the stranger who gave me gold!

We boarded ships in secret, as

We boarded ships in secret, as soon as the preliminary readings were confirmed. Boarded ships and fled, those of us with enough brains, money, or talent to be deemed "worthy" of survival. Generals, world leaders, captains of industry, and even some that might have deserved to live even while we abandoned our brothers and sisters. 250 years later, we boarded ships in a grand ceremony, as soon as the preliminary readings were confirmed. Earth was still habitable, and we immediately began plans to reclaim our homeworld. Politicians promised reclamation and reunification, while the descendants of the wealthy saw an opportunity for a new world's work of markets. We bickered and debated about the strategy, but there was never any doubt as to the goal. The Navy arrived in orbit on the dark side of the moon, a clever maneuver conceived of and executed to perfection by the great great grandson of the man who had lead the Righteous Flight, as it came to be called. Outposts and bases were established, and long-range monitoring equipment scanned for millions of miles around us, searching for the alien occupiers that were waiting for us. When the first scans returned negative, the Admiral was incredulous, and the first assumption was that the aliens had developed some new cloaking technology. Paranoia ran rampant when word of this theory leaked, but after a week, nothing happened. We established ground to space defenses on the surface of the moon, and more than a few of us held the gaze of the blue ball that was simultaneously unrecognizable and intimately known to us. The Admiral decided that we had to lure our enemy out before we could fight them. The fleet was divided into five portions and deployed in a star around the Earth, so that every portion of the fleet would be able to direct fire and cover another portion if and when the aliens took the bait. The Admiral's gambit worked, and the alien ships revealed themselves as soon as the first group came within two hundred thousand miles of the moon. We did not delay in our mission, and there was no hesitation as three groups converged and destroyed the aliens in a hail of superheated slag and light. Accounts of the size of the original invasion fleet were sketchy and incomplete, but the small size of the fleet left some of us with hope that a few survivors might have lived on through the invasion. I had no such illusions. The greatest minds on the Earth had no answers for the alien menace. What hope did the criminals, the ordinary, and the poverty-stricken have? I volunteered my battalion for the first wave, which targeted the largest concentration of signal activity on the surface of the planet. The ruins of New York seemed to be the epicenter of the alien occupiers. The Admiral debated with his commanders whether to precede the invasion with a bombardment, but decided against it. I was the first human to touch the surface of the Earth in over 200 years, but no sooner could I enjoy the moment of history than we came under fire from the ruins, miles away. Artillery crashed around us, exploding in purple and blue hazes that shattered masks and shredded our armor. Hundreds of humanity's finest were cut down in the first minute. Hulking figures in suits that resembled shadows as much as warriors followed the first artillery wave, slamming into us with weapons that outstripped our own. Decades of weapons research, and billions of dollars of material proved to be as useful as tissue paper against their superior weapons. Even when they fell, they killed yet more of us, as their suits turned into bombs that wiped out entire platoons, as well as killing the operators, if the suits even had any. But we had one advantage: the Fleet. The Admiral personally ordered fighter squadrons eighteen through forty nine to deploy and descend to the surface to provide support. On the ground, we made up for what we lacked in technology with determination and sacrifice. It took eighteen soldiers to kill just one of the hulking monstrosities that opposed us, but every man and woman of our team knew it was better to die on Earth than retreat home and live in shame. The second wave of artillery targeted the dropships, and hundreds were slaughtered before they could even feel Earth beneath their feet. Then the fighters arrived, and met the artillery with screaming explosives and sub-atomic weaponry. We underestimated the anti-air defenses, however, and no sooner could the first squadron drop their payload than the first streaks of red light shot into the sky, slicing through steel and plastic plates that had proved invulnerable to conventional defenses. The second wave suffered casualty rates of 60%. The third wave, 80%. Then the fourth wave was shattered against a veritable wall of light, with only two bombers able to drop their payload before they were cut down. The artillery stopped at least, thank God. But just as the battalion started moving toward the city, a piercing horn cut through the cries of the wounded and the moans of the dying. A building, which towered over the city center, lit up in a blue haze. Someone screamed for us to scatter, but it wasn't aimed at us. The HMS Reclamation was destroyed six seconds later. Her crew, which number 14,231, were all wiped out in an instant, their remains vaporized and any hope for survivors removed from reality. The port side barracks of the Admiral's flagship, the USS Homeland, avoided the beam by eight inches. There was no question of bombardment then. Every group on this side of the Earth turned their Slug guns towards the surface and calibrated the city ahead of us. Like shooting stars, superheated slag traveled across the sky and descended toward the city at what looked like a leisurely pace. The tower began to glow again just as the first shots collided. I had seen explosions, to be sure. I had watched tapes of Hiroshima, of weapons more powerful than that, and I had been present for the demonstration of the first slag cannons. But nothing compared to the blue circle that washed over the city when the tower exploded, wiping out buildings and life alike in its path. It was so bright, the 24 soldiers nearest to the city limits went blind on the spot, and required extensive eye surgery just to make out shapes again. "Colonel," The Admiral spoke up. "Confirm status." I put a hand to my throat, preparing to activate the transmitter. Then I heard groaning that froze my hand, and my heart. A moan from a nearby suit. One of theirs. "Standby, sir," I said. The suit sat in the bottom of a crater, with dirty water covering one of the legs. I slid down and listened, to be sure that I wasn't hallucinating. "Uugh," the suit said. I reached down and pulled at the helmet, but it didn't come loose. I was afraid of what I might find, terrified even, but I had to be certain. I grabbed a rock from nearby, and smashed at the faceplate like a caveman. Finally, I heard something break, and the helm felt moveable in my hands. "Colonel," the Admiral demanded. "Status report." I strained and pulled at the helmet, and finally yanked it off, sending it into a puddle on the other side of the crater. It was a boy. Dirty hair and brown eyes, with freckles on his nose. "Oh God," I said. "Colonel?" the Admiral responded. "What did you find?" I pulled my own helmet off, and the boy's eyes went wide. "Oh no," he said. "No, no, no." "Colonel!" "You're human," I said to the boy. Then I turned to the sky, and I yelled it through tears, choking on the words and struggling to force them out. "They're human!"

Mistress Gentle led the way down the

Mistress Gentle led the way down the hall. Our footsteps pattered on the linoleum; I was shocked at how *quiet* it was in here. I would have expected an orphanage to be full of the usual noises of children: laughing, crying, screaming, etc. "And you're sure you want to adopt, Mr..." Mistress Gentle gulped before saying my name; people often did. "Mr... uh... Stabs People?" Her eyes darted back down to the background check that I'd had to pass before being allowed to adopt a child. How many times was this that she'd read it over just to make sure? It of course mentioned all the trouble I'd been in as a youngster, and how many people I'd stabbed. But that was all in the past, and according to the form I was now an upright citizen. Not that anyone believed that, with my name. "It's not for everyone, you know." "I'm quite sure," I told her as we walked. "I've always wanted kids." Unfortunately it turns out that finding a stable life partner is a bit of a challenge when you're named 'Stabs People.' "I see." Mistress Gentle tried to smile at me, but it just looked like she was seasick. The idea of letting Mr. Stabs People walk away with a child from her orphanage would keep her up at night for weeks despite the reassurances from the state that I am completely rehabilitated. Some people have this idea that you can *never* change your name trait. I don't believe that at all, but Mistress Gentle clearly did. We arrived at a door marked "Dormitory C" at the end of the hall. "I'm sure we'll be able to find a suitable match for you here," she said. The door clicked open, revealing a few rows of bunk beds. Inside, children were reading, playing games quietly, etc. They all looked up like exhibits at the zoo as Ms. Gentle and I strolled through the room. "This here is Stubborn," she said, introducing a boy with curly brown hair. "And this here is Trust Issues," she waved at a young girl with dark skin and green eyes. That one was certainly a self-fulfilling prophecy. She continued around the room, introducing children with various inconvenient name traits. Adoptive parents only wanted Ms. Smells Like A Rose; it was no wonder that these poor kids had all been left behind. In the corner, I noticed a huddled mass under a zebra-striped blanket. "And who is this?" I asked as I gently lifted the blanket. "Oh, careful!" Mistress Gentle shouted just as a pair of teeth lunged for my hand from under the blanket. I was just barely able to avoid being bitten by the little girl hiding underneath. She promptly pulled the blankets back over her face and continued hiding in her corner. "That," Mistress Gentle said, "Is Bites People. She... well..." The name made it pretty clear. I also noticed that Bites People's bunk mate had a circular bruise on her forearm. I remained crouched near the little girl, no older than three or possibly four. "Bites People," I said, gently pulling the blanket away. "I'm Stabs People." She didn't recoil in fear like every other person I've ever met. I can't even tell you how much that meant to me. Instead, she just bared her teeth. So I offered her my arm. "Go ahead," I told her. "You can bite me if you really want to." She glanced at my arm, then back at me. Her lips quivered a bit and then fell back into place over her teeth and formed a fearful frown. "Good job, Bites People!" Mistress Gentle enthused. "Your training is really working!" *Training*, I thought. *Like a dog.* "Bites People, would you like to come stay with me for a while?" I asked. "It would just be temporary to see if things would work out between us." Mistress Gentle took a step back. "This one?" She didn't even bother hiding the incredulity in her voice. *Should have been Mistress Judgmental,* I thought to myself. I picked up Bites People in my arms. Poor thing was shaking. But she didn't try to bite me; she just hugged my shoulder close and whimpered softly. "Yes, this one," I told her. ----- "RRRROOOOOWWWRRRRR!!!!" I formed my hands into claws, held my elbows close to my chest, and became a T-Rex. Bites People squealed with fear and delight and went running off through the house as I stomped after her. She pattered through the kitchen and around the dining table; I followed with loud, heavy steps that echoed down the hall. Finally I caught up to her and scooped her up in my arms, vowing to eat her for dinner. She giggled, and just for a moment I reflected on how completely different she was after only 2 months at home. "Dino Movie?" I asked her. She nodded and squirmed in my arms as I carried her to the couch. I flicked on the TV and once again pulled up her favorite movie: the Land Before Time II. We'd already watched it a few dozen times in the two months since her adoption, and she already had all the lines memorized. But I didn't mind; after all that time in the orphanage, she deserved to have her choice for a while. The movie came on, and Bites People watched with rapt attention, particularly any time Chomper was on screen. He was her favorite character: a 'Sharptooth' who had overcome his predatory instincts and made friends with all the herbivores. She cuddled up close to me on the couch as theme music played. She was so engrossed in the film that she didn't even notice her little tic: she was softly biting on my arm. Kind of in the absent-minded way that other kids would suck on their own thumb. And gently, of course: the way that a cat will nibble at a blanket while it kneads. Just a little love bite. ---- I just published a novel!

"Dodger! Sapphire!"

"Come!" The paw on the back of my head scratches through my fur. I snap at Dodger. He still treats me like a pup, and he is old. Old or not, he manages to catch me and roll me over. I bat at his chest and he snaps and growls near my ears until I surrender. "Insolent pup," he growls again as he lets me up. "I'm not a pup!" I stand up and shake. "I have earned my name. The Lady gave me a name!" "Dodger! Sapphire!" The girl's voice from inside makes me perk up my ears. "The Lady calls again. Come!" He turns back toward the house and trots over. I follow, and playfully snap at his golden tail. He ignores me because I am obeying. The Lady opens the door. The youngest. Not quite 100 years yet. She just came of age last week, and there was a big celebration. I was quite popular that night, as her friends gave me many treats. There was talk among the adults about her going away. She said I would go with her, and that made me happy. I wag my tail at her. The Lady pats my head, but then she kneels down and hugs Dodger. The Lady is crying. "What's wrong?" I ask her. She only reaches out and pats my head again. She doesn't understand me yet. Not like the Master. The Master knows what we say. He understands Dodger more easily. And then I notice that Dodger is not wagging his tail. He is also sad. "Dodger?" I demand. I muscle my way into the hug and lick the Lady's face. She laughs a little. "Dodger, what's wrong?" "I have to go see the Master," he says. He breaks away from the hug and leaves me with the Lady, who hugs me now instead. I sniff her. She smells of the chemicals that Master smells like all the time now. I listen. I can hear the Mistress talking, talking to the Peddler of the chemicals. I nudge out of the hug to follow Dodger, up the stairs, up to Master's room. "Hey Sapphire," says the Mistress when I enter. She rubs me behind the ears the way I like. I tell her thank you. "Beautiful Husky," says the Peddler. I greet him and he pets me. He seems all right, but for the odd smell. "She belongs to my granddaughter." The Mistress's voice sounds odd, like she is in distress, but I smell no danger. "Ah." The Peddler is packing up. "If you need anything else..." "Thank you." The Mistress walks out with him. Dodger is on the bed. He lays his head on Master's chest, who looks asleep. The chemicals make me want to sneeze, but Dodger had told me that is disrespectful. There's another smell too: it's been present for a long time, but today it is stronger than before. I walk up to the side of the bed. "Dodger!" I speak loudly to get his attention. He opens his big brown eyes. "Quiet, pup," he says. "And go away." "No! Tell me what is going on. Why does the Master smell like this? Why is my Lady crying?" I put my paws on the bed to look at Master. His skin is very sallow and thin. The veins stand out. "I am the Seventh," says Dodger. He lifts his head from Master's chest. "My family was made part of the Master's family generations ago, when he was just a pup." Dodger looks at his Master's face. "The First was named Dodger as well. He named me, knowing I would be the last." "The last?" I whine. "Dodger, what are you talking about?" Dodger sighs. "You're too young to understand." "I am not a puppy!" I say it loudly. "I am not!" The Master opens his eyes, and I wonder if I have made a mistake. But he laughs and reaches out to scratch my ears. Like the Mistress, he knows how to scratch properly. "Hullo, Sapphire," he says. I wag my tail. "Be a good dog for Jenny, mm?" "I will," I tell him. I feel Dodger looking at me, all solemn. "Good girl," says Master. "I don't have long before I go. Dodger will take care of me." I hear a car pull up the driveway outside. It's a large one. I run to the window and look out: it's big and white, and strange humans in uniform get out. The Mistress begins to talk with them. I run back to the bed. I look at Dodger. "He can't leave. You can't leave!" I whine. "Hey, hey," says Master. He catches me near the ears again, gently. "I told you, Dodger will take care of me." I whine at them both. "You can't leave!" The men come upstairs with a bed on wheels. The Lady comes with them and takes me aside. "Gotta move the dog." "I'll move him," says the Mistress. She lifts Dodger off the bed. He seems older than he did a little while ago. I whine at the Lady, but she just holds me and cries. "He can't leave!" I tell her, but she doesn't understand yet. "They won't bring him back!" But he does leave. The Lady just holds me and weeps while the vehicles drive away. We go downstairs and outside. Dodger walks down the driveway, following the vehicles. "Dodger, wait!" I strain against the Lady's hands. She calls for Dodger, and he waits a moment. I get free. "Dodger, we have to bring the Master back!" I tell him. I could still hear the vehicles on the road. The Lady was running up behind me. He wags his tail at me. "He told you to be a good dog and take care of the Lady. Be good, Sapphire." He licks my face and runs off, golden fur shining in the sunlight. Lady holds onto me and calls for Dodger, but he disobeys. I had never seen him disobey before. He had never called me by my name before. I only saw Dodger one more time: we found him at the meadow where the Master's body was laid, curled against the crossed stone that marked it. He was the Seventh of his family. I am the First of mine. --- *Wow, I'm overwhelmed by all the feedback and the comments. I'm so glad so many people enjoyed this!*

Lars grunted, taking a sw

"He's been talking to that bard again," Sarah said, peeking through the slats of the window, down the path that led to their cottage. Her apron tails bobbed anxiously. "You know the one. Merriwyn." "Bard," her husband Lars grunted, taking a swig of his ale. He drew his arm across his mouth. "Drunkard, that's what he is. Passed out drunk half the time." His bushy brows knitted together. "So he can play the lute. So he sings like an angel. So what?" "Lars!" his wife said, and bobbed up to the table in an anxious fit. "You know what that means! Carries the lore of days gone by, drinks because he's trying to forget. Suddenly taken an interest in Brian, he has." She stuck her lip out at him. "Hm? Hmmm?" "Lots of veterans," Lars grunted, avoiding his wife's eye. "We all fought." He studied the scars on his knuckles. "We all lost. Nothing special about that." "Lars!" Sarah said, bringing her palms down on the table. "You can't deny it! Brian's special! When we agreed to raise him -" "Lots of orphans!" Lars said loudly. The ale sloshed in his mug. "Doesn't mean anything!" "Lars," she said, and put her hands over his. "He's our son. You know it's going to happen, whether you want it to or not." Lars closed his eyes, his whole body curling in as if fixed on a single knot of wood on the table, going rigid. Sarah hovered over him. The door swung open, and they both jumped. "Mom?" said Brian, blinking uncertainly at them. "Dad?" His green eyes peeked out from under his shaggy hair, and he stood in the doorway, a set of gangly limbs propped up on themselves. Both of them noticed there was a distinct bulge in his satchel that hadn't been there when he'd left. "Are you okay?" he said, shuffling. "I - I was just talking with Merriwyn, he, uh, he needed some help fixing the roof of his shack, and -" He cut himself off and swallowed. "Did - did I interrupt something?" he said. "No," Lars said abruptly. "Not at all, not at all." He got to his feet and strode to the door, his son dancing out of his. "Got to - got to see a man about some turnips, in fact," he said, and roughly patted Brian on the shoulder as he passed. "Be -" He frowned. "Be good to your mother." "I - I will," Brian said, glancing between them. "Good," Lars said, and slammed the door behind him and was gone. Brian looked to his mother in bewilderment. "Come on, come on now," Sarah said, bustling him towards the table. "Have you eaten yet? That man didn't give you anything, did he? Goodness, you're lucky I've had some buns in the oven for you..." Lars rushed down the dirt path, around the bend, huffing and snorting as the motley figure of Merriwyn came into sight. "You!" he bellowed, and Merriwyn turned around, his white eyebrows raised. "You!" Lars said. "You damn well stay away from my boy!" "My goodness," Merriwyn said, doing a little curtsy in his patched robes. "I don't know what this is about, my dear Goodman Strider, but I assure you your son's been an absolute blessing -" "Don't play dumb!" Lars grunted, going on tiptoe and riling himself up as high as he could. He wished the man wasn't quite so tall. "You know what you are, and I know what you are, and we both know what you've got planned for my boy!" He struggled with his tunic, pulling it down, to reveal an ash-grey scar over his heart, the size of a fingertip. He jabbed a thick finger of his own in Merriwyn's face. "He's a child! You're not having him fight your battles for you!" The tipsy glaze in Merriwyn's eyes faded away, and the corner of his lip turned up. "If you know what I plan," he said, his voice going low, "then you know it's for the best." He put a hand on Lars' shoulder. "How much longer do you plan to slave away under the rule of the King of Ash? You think you can keep Brian safe here? How long until they come for him? How long until they burn out his spirit?" Merrwyn's fingers tightened. "Like they did yours? Like they did mine?" Lars felt the blood rushing in his ears, and before he knew it Merriwyn was sprawled out on the ground, bleeding from his lip, his long legs like broken stilts. "He's eleven!" Lars roared. "He's a child! You - You -" Hot tears blurred his vision. "You bastards! All of you! Relying on a child to do your work!" Merriwyn lay there, unmoved, his tongue coming out to taste the blood. "Lars," he croaked. "It's always the children. It's always been the children." He laid his head down and stared up at the sky. "What other hope is there?" "A child!" gasped Lars, and kicked Merriwyn in the side. Merriwyn closed his eyes and barely flinched. "You - I -" "We failed," Merriwyn intoned, eyes closed, lying like a corpse. He folded his fingers together over his chest. "You see the sky, Lars. That's what we left them. Brian's bright, he's good-hearted." Merriwyn shook his head slowly, smiling. "You raised him good, Lars, you raised the best boy I ever saw. Even without me telling him what needed to be done, you think he wouldn't figure it out on his own? You think he wouldn't dream of something better?" Merriwyn opened his eyes, and looked up at Lars, grey. "No matter what you do to me here, you think you'll be able to keep him forever?" "You-" said Lars, and dropped to his knees beside Merriwyn, and grabbed the man's collar in one fist. Merriwyn made no resistance. "You bastard," whispered Lars. "You utter bastard," he said, and drove his fist into the ground and clutched at the dirt. A tear darkened the soil. "He's only a child," Lars said. "I know," Merriwyn whispered back. Above them, from the ash grey sky, the soot swirled and spun and the first fat flakes began to fall.

South Korean agent Gwang Eui

The helicopter's skids skimmed the tops of the waves in the Yellow Sea. The stealth paneling should hide it from all radar, but just to be sure it was standard protocol to fly as low as possible. And the pilot, Lieutenant Owczarski, took that as a challenge to turn his bird into a boat. In the back, eight Navy Seals waited in full gear. In their hands, each of them held a copy of the short transmission received only minutes ago from South Korean agent Gwang Eui-Tae: > Underground since last contact. Rockets almost ready to launch. Intervene immediately. She'd gone quiet five years ago, just like every other spy and agent in the country. At first, intelligent sources thought there was just a purge, and a surprisingly effective one for the normally incompetent Kim government. The message largely confirmed that: something had happened to drive her underground. But it didn't explain why she hadn't been able to make it back to one of the safehouses right over the Chinese border, or why she hadn't been able to make any contact in any other way. North Korea may be tightly controlled, but the point of satellite phones is that they work anywhere. The second part of the message was far more chilling: Rocket almost ready to launch. When communication was first cut off, world leaders braced for nuclear attack. It was the only thing that could explain withdrawing troops from the DMZ and the Chinese border. But after almost six months of evacuations in the South and the hurried installation of an anti-missile shield, it became apparent that there was no imminent attack. That didn't mean the threat was gone for good, though: the only thing still coming out of North Korea was seismic data that showed repeated nuclear tests, growing in size every few months. They were certainly up to something but no one knew exactly what. Or, more importantly, *when* that something would be revealed and used against North Korea's neighbors. And now, the message from Agent Gwang made it clear that the time had come. "All right," Captain Morrow addressed the men, "Standard retrieval. The fact that this is North Korea doesn't change anything." Out the windows of the helicopter, shore was just becoming visible. There wasn't even a single pinpoint of light across the entire horizon; no one had seen a light on in North Korea in years. "We need to get Gwang out and debrief her as soon as possible to find out how soon the attack will come. And if need be, we need to stay in and thwart the attack." The men in the back of the helicopter nodded without question. They'd known what they were getting into when they joined the Navy Seals, and stopping an entire country from destroying half of Asia was just another Tuesday. Out the windows, the sea disappeared and was replaced by tree tops so close that they could have reached out and grabbed a branch if not for the doors of the helicopters. Owczarski certainly did enjoy taking risks. The silent skyline of Pyongyang came into view as the helicopter settled in for a landing in a park by the waterfront. They deployed out the back of the helicopter, guns swinging in all directions. But no one was there to greet them. The river that had once teemed with fishing boats and even a few freighters was now still. Even the buildings along the riverbank were overgrown, no longer kept up. That confirmed what satellite imagery and fly-overs had already guessed from seeing a few buildings crumbling and collapsed. "This is just unsettling," Andrews growled into the microphone as they activated the night vision setting for their HUDs and advanced into the city. Cars rusted in the streets, not used for years now. At one intersection, they came upon a herd of deer peacefully grazing at the grass growing between cracks in the asphalt. "Where the hell is everyone?" No one else had a response, but they all felt the same way. A firefight would be preferable to this gnawing, empty silence. How could *millions* of people just *vanish* like this? "Keep it together," Captain Morrow told them. "We're getting near the transmission point." In the street ahead of them, the triangular shape of the Ryugyong Hotel loomed over the rest of the city. The hotel was supposed to be North Korea's crowning jewel, but as far as anyone in the intelligence community could guess, it had never seen a single occupant. Instead, it had been abandoned as a monument to the failure of the state. And according to the trace of Agent Gwang's signal, that had been the one place she'd been able to transmit from. The team of seals snaked their way down the streets toward it with guns still at the ready, though it looked more and more like that wouldn't be necessary. Finally they reached the edge of the hotel's walls. "Sir?" Petty Officer Llewelyn had his hand against the concrete wall. "It's... vibrating." The rest of the team joined him, placed their hands alongside his, and then exchanged looks that all said one thing: what the fuck is going on in this place? "Let's get inside," Captain Morrow ordered. They weren't here to investigate shaking walls, they were here to extract the South Korean informant. They made their way around the edge of the hotel. Lawns that had once been manicured were now overgrown, and ivy was beginning to creep up the side of the hotel. Satellite maps led the team straight to the doors of the hotel, which had once been made of glass but were now just gaping holes with a few remaining shards. "Some kind of insurrection, you think?" Petty Officer Graeber wondered aloud. "There's no bodies," Llewelyn answered. "If they'd turned on each other, there'd be bodies. And plenty more destruction." "Stow it," Morrow barked as they entered the lobby. Despite having not seen a soul, they still didn't want to give away their position should someone be in the hotel. Agent Gwang was still the objective. He led the way past the termite-eaten front desk of the hotel and down the hall, deeper into the interior. The vibrating grew worse and worse, making it hard to even walk. They arrived at a set of double doors marked with Korean that the auto-translating HUD in their helmets informed them said "Main stairway." Morrow placed a charge on the door, urged them all back, and then detonated it. After waiting a moment to see if there was any reaction, the Captain charged in first and was nearly blinded as bright light overwhelmed his night vision. The interior was gleaming white and lit with enormous spotlights. The team changed their HUDs back to normal vision and entered what looked like a huge laboratory. Forgetting their discipline, they rushed over to the railing across from the door and looked down into the depths under the hotel. Below them was a hole that seemed to stretch *miles* into the earth, with row after row of balconies teeming with people. And filling that hole was an enormous rocket ship probably a hundred times larger than anything NASA had ever built. The HUD picked up the writing along the side of the rocket and automatically translated it for the seals: The People's Ark. ---- If you liked this, subscribe to /r/Luna_Lovewell for hundreds of other stories! !

The repulsive thing, still passed

"We have it, sir." "Excellent," I said, "now hurry up and put her in the interrogation chamber." "Sir!" The soldier rushed to comply and hoisted the repulsive thing, still passed out, and tied her to a chair. "Make sure its binds are secured," I told him, "we don't want her getting free." I sat across from the captive, I wanted her to see me when she first regained consciousness, to know that her life was over. I didn't have to wait long. Soon the thing stirred, and reflexively strained against her bonds. I stiffened for a second, but the creature gave up, unable to break free. I let out a shaky breath that I didn't even realize I had been holding. Soon it opened its sharp blue eyes suddenly and looked right at me. To its credit, it didn't flinch. I gave it a smile. "So Madame Chair, is it?" I said, savoring the moment, "welcome to hell." Her eyes flickered about, taking in the sights, my red skin, pointy tail, my horns. The temperature, which humans find uncomfortable apparently, and the sharp odor of brimstone. And just for a moment her cool facade slipped, a crack in her mask, and her eyes widened slightly, her lips parted. And then it was gone as swiftly as it had come. But I saw it, I saw the thing's fear. It felt good to know that their leader could feel it. She looked at me again, with that same intense gaze that commanded authority, it was no wonder she became the leader of the Earth Congress. "It's a little warm," she said, actually managing to smile, "and these bonds are a bit too tight, do you mind loosening them?" I laughed mirthlessly, the laughter not reaching my eyes. Laughed at the courage of this woman, her ability to make jokes, to retain some semblance of control despite her situation. Laughed at our final victory. "I see through your facade, Madame, talk all you want, you'll be doing a lot of that whether you want it or not soon enough. You know this not a welcoming party." "So," she said, leaning back and managing to look as comfortable as possible in her bonds, "let's skip the part where I refuse to tell you my plans, and you scare and intimidate me, and then you torture me so much that I eventually give in and tell you everything anyways, just that time without my fingers." "Let's start simply then," I said, slightly uncomfortable by her forthright manner, "how did you invade hell?" We already knew the answer to this, and we suspected the humans did not know that we knew. I wanted to test her honesty. She shrugged. "It was simple really, we managed to reverse engineer-" I held up my hand. "I'm sorry, reverse engineer?" I asked, not knowing the phrase. "To build something by looking at a complete version," she explained. I motioned for her to continue. She nodded, "Yes...reverse engineer one of your imp nests that spawned imps from hell directly to Earth, and managed to make a device that does the opposite. This also gave us the space-time co-ordinates of hell, so we knew where and when to go." I pretended to frown, as if thinking if this would work, but my mind was racing. She was telling the truth, we had lost an imp nest and we had figured that's how the humans had made their way back in. "Alright, let's continue. Where will the human forces be retreating?" She pretended to look confused, "I'm sorry, what do you mean retreat?" I smiled savagely. "Do you take us for fools, Madame Chair? You think we would infiltrate the very heart of your planet and capture you just to ask questions? No, you know as well as we do that we have cut off the head of the snake, without you the humans will halt their offensive." And what an offensive it had been. In the first months of 2021 we had pushed the humans back, taking their cities and killing their people. But after the surprise had faded the humans had pushed back. *Hard*. Their...technology let them perform wonders that we thought they were incapable of. We could launch fireballs but they could shoot iron balls from some sort of hand held device. We had demons with wings, but they flew in metal birds. We had leviathans in the oceans but they had steel titans that sailed *on* the oceans. We were pushed back, and had retreated to hell after extensive casualties. We thought we would lick our wounds, bide our time, strike when the humans were weak, when we became a myth once again. We had the patience for millennia after all. But then they came to us. They tore into us, like insects they marched across the planes of oblivion, destroying our structures, freeing our prisoners. They recruited long dead humans, the most vicious of them, and turned them against us. They had marched to the palace of hell itself, seeking to capture our leader, the Devil himself. Without him we would fall apart, the different species of demons would turn on each other, and the war would be over. But that had not happened. And I turned back to the woman gloating, "Just as we cannot fight without our leader, your humans will crumble without you. They are finished." Her face had paled, and I bore on, "don't worry though, we will not kill you, we will keep you alive for a *long* time, before your release comes and you go to heaven, longer that you would have lived on Earth." I paused dramatically, savoring the look of utter fear on her face, "Of course you might not find it as...comfortable as Earth." I had expected her to cower, to cry, perhaps even revert back to her stoic mask, not showing emotions. I did not expect her to laugh. "You fools, you sorry, poor fools!" She said, gasping for breath. "I..I just couldn't keep up the act anymore, my God." I flinched as she said the last word, but remained confused. "I was told you didn't understand human psychology, but delusion of this scale I had not even imagined." She was actually crying from laughter, and now *she* smiled smugly at me. "I have a second, you idiot, I will be replaced and the humans will continue attacking. This is not some sort of movie where if you kill the leader, all the underlings fall apart. Killing me does nothing." I sat back, stunned. She had been acting, pretending to be afraid, pretending to show her 'true' emotions. And the human assault would not stop. "You lie!" I screamed at her, "all species' fall without their leader. You kill a pack leader and you become leader, you kill the Devil and the demons fall apart. This is the nature of the world!" She just continued laughing. The Devil needed to be evacuated! The humans may not need their leader but we did. I turned to shout orders to the soldiers outside, and they hurried away, reporting to the Devil. I turned back to the woman. "Your humans may advance, but you will not, we captured you, and rest assured you will not see the light of day again." She stopped laughing and smiled at me. A smile that chilled me to the bone. "What the hell makes you think you were capable enough to capture me...if we didn't let you." The soldier I had commanded to report to the devil returned, one of the human hand devices in his hand, and pointed it at me. "Betrayal," I whispered. Then, fiercely, I turned to the soldier, "Traitor!" He shrugged, untying the human's bonds. "I like to be on the winning side." The woman, now free from her bonds turned to me. "Thank you for bringing me to the most secure location in hell. The tracker I have swallowed has alerted my forces where this is. We will release the most fearsome humans in history from this facility." She turned to walk away. "Kill it," she said in a dismissive gesture, "we have work to do." "Sorry boss," the soldier said with a casual shrug, and shot me. Blackness ensued. *** (minor edits) If you enjoyed, check out my new subreddit **Due to popular demand, I present to you, ** EDIT: /u/YouWriteITalk was kind enough to narrate this story. You can find this

Cassie was supposed to be as

Her face stood out from the crowds, as it always did. She wore black like the rest of them, but there was no mistaking that glint of copper hair. He moved swiftly towards her - Cassie was supposed to be as buried as the man they thought was him. He stepped around those who were quietly sobbing or discussing his brutal death in whispers. They didn't so much as glance at the man brushing past their shoulders. It never failed to amaze him how a little plastic surgery could blind even the men and women in the crowds who had shared his work, who were supposed to be as skilled as he was at spying out deceptions. Perhaps they just wanted to believe he was dead. There were a lot of them. He waited until after the preacher had finished his long, mumbling speech. After his wife in his previous life - the woman who had never known him at all - gave a speech that reduced her to hoarse sobs and sent her running from the service before its end. After the people who had loved that version of him stepped forward and said their private goodbyes. He was surprised to see some of his colleagues also step out from the shadows to touch his casket. Sloppy of them. He waited until they lowered the casket into the ground, and the crowd dispersed. It took a while: more people had come to see him be buried than he'd thought. It was almost touching. But finally only she was left, running a hand over the gravestone they'd chosen for him. He pressed a hand over her mouth when there were no other eyes to watch them, and brushed his lips against her ear. "I've missed you," he said. She shuddered at his voice, and gripped his arm, tracing her way up to try and touch his face. He dragged her into the small mausoleum nearby, and finally turned her to face him, removing his hand. "Jack," she said. Her deep blue eyes traced his face greedily, seeing past the modified nose, the contacts, the beard he'd grown. Seeing *him*. "I knew it," she said, her voice cracking as she wrapped her arms around him and began to sob. The spice of her enveloped him: apples and honey. He breathed deeply, etching it into memory. She had always smelled good. He was going to miss that. He gripped her shoulders and pushed her away slightly, looking down at her and allowing *that* smile to return. The one she associated with Jack Morgan. "What happened?" he asked. "You were supposed to meet me on the pier..." She hadn't been there. He'd thought she'd finally wised up, until he saw her here. "I got an assignment. Urgent," she said. "I tried to contact you, but by that time you'd disappeared. What happened? You ask *me* that? Why did you do this, Jack? You loved the work." There were a hundred ways to answer that. "I still do," he said, opting for the truth. Perhaps she deserved a bit of it right now. "Maybe I made the wrong decision." He drew his handgun at the same moment she did. The silence of the mausoleum pressed around him as she grinned widely. A part of him had always known - she had put on a good show, he had to give her that. As good as his own. Perhaps better. He'd been convinced she loved him. He answered her grin as he saw her in a new light. Her eyes sparkled, alive with the game - she really was beautiful. He'd known that all along, of course, but today he really appreciated it. "Well, this changes things," she said. "I had to come back, to try and find out. I always thought it was too easy, you falling in love like a amateur. It was killing me, not knowing." "Same here," he said with a grin. "I came to the funeral, hoping you'd be here. I had to know. Funny, isn't it, that we decided on the same strategy?" Usually, you stalked a mark for months before the kill. Unseen and silent. But usually, your mark didn't share the work. Normally, your mark wasn't so hard to kill. He'd thought it would be easy to rely on that shared connection, to exploit it to reach her. That had been the plan, at first. She must have thought the same. "We've always had a lot in common," she agreed. Her gun was still pointed at his forehead. It felt good to have caught up with her. Yes, maybe he'd been wrong. He did miss this. She'd always been the one that got away. "Well, we both know now," he said, watching her. "Going to lower that gun?" "We'll do it together," she said, still smiling. "How about that?" He matched her smile. She'd always loved the game. He wanted to keep it going for as long as possible. "Or perhaps you could fake your death as well, and we can be together again?" he suggested. "We were a couple, after all, everyone knew that. You could have been suicidal with grief...no-one would suspect. We could make it convincing. It's fun being dead, you know. There's no more obligations. What do you say - one last shot at it?" They stared at each other, and both burst into laughter. ------- The cemetery gardener almost clipped off his own fingers as a single gunshot sounded from the mausoleum. A moment back he'd thought his ears were playing tricks on him when he heard laughter. He eyed the old building as he dropped the clippers and stumbled away to call the police. No way was he going in there to see what was going on. It was past time he found a new job. This place was haunted, he just knew it. ---------- Hope you enjoyed my story! You can find more of my work on /r/Inkfinger/. **edit:** Thanks so much to whoever gave me gold!

Agatha knocked on the door of

Agatha knocked on the door of a small, dilapidated cabin in the woods. It was a dreary day, with clouds that blanketed the sky and hung low to the Earth. She saw someone part the curtains in the window of the little shack as a breeze whipped up and blew her silver hair around her face. The door opened a few inches. "Have you got the silver?" a man growled from inside. Agatha extended a small leather pouch toward the door. From the inside she could hear several children crying. "Get back!" he snarled to someone inside, "This doesn't concern you!" The man snatched the purse from Agatha's hand and opened the door fully. The man pointed to a girl, dressed in rags and clutching a younger sister. Even caked with mire and soot, Agatha could tell she was a beautiful creature. She started to smile a toothy grin, wrinkles hoisted up around her eyes. Agatha was 12 thousand years old, and while she could change her appearance at will, she chose to walk the earth in her true form: hobbled, hunched, wrinkled and warted. The girl let out a piercing scream, as they often did. Her father yelled louder, "QUIET". The girl stopped screaming, but her mouth still hung open. Agatha looked around the room. "First I'll need permission from both the mother and the father to enter. Then I can take her by the hand and we'll be on our way." "Mother's dead," the man said flatly. "Why else do you think you're here? I can hardly take care of any of them." Three other children sat clutching one another on a bed, faces all ruddy with dirt. "Ah. I see. I'll just need yours then," replied Agatha. "Come on then. Get it over with." The girl looked at her father in horror and began to sob, throwing herself on the floor. Agatha stepped into the room and past the other children. She knelt down beside the girl, put a hand on her back and looked up at her father. "What's her name?" she asked. "Lilith," he said, staring at the door. "Lilith," Agatha whispered to the girl. The girl buried her face in the crook of her arm, still crying on the floor. "Lilith, can I show you something? I think you'll like it." The girl peeked one eye above her arm. "Good," Agatha said warmly. She then sat all the way on the floor, next to Lilith and produced from inside the sleeve of her robe, something small that fluttered about in her hand. Lilith looked up from her arm completely now. It was the most beautiful golden house sparrow. It sat in Agatha's palm and radiated light and warmth. The girl sat up now and looked on at the bird at eye level. It hopped about in Agatha's hand and began to sing." "Is that, real?" Lilith asked timidly. "Oh, everything is real, dear. Everything you can think of." Agatha said. Would you like to see something else? "Okay," Lilith mumbled. Agatha laid one finger on the top of the bird's head and immediately it was turned to solid gold. A golden chain slithered through the air, appearing one link at a time, and joined with the sparrow. Agatha held up a radiant gold necklace. Lilith gasped, "Did you kill it? Is it dead?" Agatha laughed, "Oh no. I can turn it back anytime I like." She paused, "And so can you. Would you like to try?" Lilith outstretched her hand and grasped the necklace. It was warm to the touch, she thought she could almost feel it pulsing. "Just tap it with your index finger on the top of its head, and imagine it's a bird again. It's that simple. Go on." All of the other children and even the girl's father were watching on with mouths agape. Lilith held the golden sparrow in her hand and tapped it gently on the head. It immediately sprung to life and flitted around the room. The girl shrieked with delight, her former sorrow nowhere to be found. Agatha laughed and clapped her hands, "I knew it! I've felt it for a long while now, in these woods, and it was you." Lilith looked puzzled, "What do you mean?" "Ah, nevermind for now. There's plenty of time for that later," Agatha said. "Your sparrow's name is Oscen. She is yours and will come whenever you breathe her name." "Oscen!" Lilith called. A streak of gold flashed across the ceiling and landed on the girl's head. Oscen chittered happily and played with pieces of her hair. "Ha! You see! That's perfect." Agatha reached to put a finger under the bird's belly. It hopped onto her hand and she placed it on the girl's shoulder." Lilith beamed and tried to look at the bird. "Now Lilith," Agatha said quietly. "I have a great many things to tell you, but you'll have to come with me." The girl looked around the room. Everyone looked on completely bewildered. "I want to go," a voice squeaked from the bed. One of the other children hit the girl that spoke up. "Shut up!" she hissed. "Can Sarah come with me?" Lilith asked Agatha quietly. "No," her father answered. "I'm afraid your father is right. You see, Lilith. You're special. I could bring Sarah, but she would not be able to learn and do the things that you could. It would be cruel," replied Agatha. Lilith was quiet for a moment and held the sparrow in her palm. "Will I do more of this?" "It doesn't matter what you do, girl. You've been paid for. You have to leave!" her father bellowed. Agatha sprang up from the floor with a peculiar spryness for a woman her age and shouted, "That is quite enough!" and pinched her fingers together. The man yelled back but no sound came out. He stopped and looked wide eyed at Agatha. Suddenly the man bolted toward the woman and reached his arms out in an effort to throttle her neck. Agatha threw her hands up in front of her face to protect herself. She was caught off guard and braced for contact, but it never came. She looked up at the man and he had simply frozen in place. His entire body, save for his eyes racing around the room, was completely still. The children, while not paralyzed, were completely quiet, stricken with fear. Agatha looked over at Lilith. She was standing feet apart, staring at her father with clutched fists, Oscen still on her shoulder. Agatha slowly walked up to the girl and lay a hand on her arm. She was shaking and a tear streamed down her cheek. "Lilith," she said softly. "Lilith take my hand and let's go. I think you know now, and probably have always known that you weren't meant to be here. Come with me." Lilith softened and looked at Agatha. After a moment she placed her small hand in the old woman's. They walked toward the door. "Hey!" Sarah yelled, "You can't leave him like that! You have to fix him! LILITH!" "He'll be fine." Agatha said coldly and opened the door, still clasping the girl's hand. The two walked outside and let the door close behind them. Remarkably, the sky had completely cleared, revealing the most beautiful shade of azure the two had ever seen. *Edit: There are two more sections floating around here somewhere. Thank you everyone for your kind words. For fans of Sarah, take heart. We'll get there. *Double Edit: If you would like to keep going on this adventure, I started a Tumblr (lol) . You guys are seriously awesome. I posted the last part that I'll post on this thread somewhere below. If you want to keep up with the stories, I would love to keep hearing your thoughts! Thanks everyone!

"Why the hell did I let

"Why the hell did I let you drag me here?" I shouted in Paul's ear. I had to shout, because there were a million damn people packed into Times Square just to see the ball drop for New Year's Eve. And of course we'd gotten jammed into some little offshoot alley where we couldn't see anything but were still pressed by people on all sides. I was just on the edge of the 'current' within the crowd, where a steady stream of onlookers were managing to press their way through to Times Square. And when they brushed past me, I got a little glimpse of when we might interact again. For most, there was nothing. New York is a big place. But every once and a while I did get a little flash of seeing them in a store somewhere, or other chance encounters. "Because you need to get out!" Paul answered. "You would have just stayed at home and watched a *re-run* of the ball drop on your TV and then fallen asleep at 10 PM." He knew me so well. One of the benefits to my power is that I'm easily able to choose my friends; with just a handshake, I know our whole future together. Paul and I would lose touch about 15 years from now, after he and his future wife move up to Connecticut and have a set of twins. But we'd still send each other Christmas cards and visit occasionally. He'd be very happy then. "You never go out any more," he continued. "You need to put yourself out there and meet someone new!" I knew exactly what he meant: I hadn't been on an actual real date in a while. See, knowing when things will work out (like with Paul) was an upside, but with a very real downside: I know when things *won't* work out. Every date that I go on, I know just how it will end. I know that he'll stop calling me and move on to some other piece of ass if we sleep together. Or that we can have two relatively happy years together before he starts cheating with his coworker. The potential record so far was a grand five-year relationship that ended with a fight over how he would never make a real commitment. Quite underwhelming. So now, I don't even bother dating with the guy unless I know in advance that it will be a fun little fling with no real strings attached. "I'm just not looking for someone," I answered Paul. He didn't exactly know about my abilities; I just told him that I'm good at reading people. "Exactly!" he said. "You're *not* looking. You're *hiding*. That's why I brought you out." As I was preparing my retort, someone in the surging crowd brushed past me. A man, with soft brown eyes and a close-cropped beard. For our first date, he took me to learn trapeze swinging! For our fifth date, we went to the Statue of Liberty, which I'd never been to even after years of living in New York. For our one year anniversary, we rented a little house on the beach in Long Island. And when he proposed to me, he did it right here in Times Square; I acted so surprised for him. In the vision, I could see myself gleefully shouting *yes!* It went on like that through our lives: buying a home, raising our children, and retiring together. And the *flash* ended with him by my bedside in a hospital. I don't know how long it lasted. But by the time I recovered from that intense journey through my future life... the crowd had moved on. I stood on my tiptoes and waded in headfirst, but there it was too dark, and the light kept changing. All I could see were winter hats and thick coats. *Damn, I hate being short!* "Whoa!" Paul suddenly realized that I'd left and jumped in after me. "Where are you going?" "There was a guy!" I told him, still scanning the crowd. I must have looked like a loon, hopping as high as I could to try to get a glimpse of him. "I saw a guy! I need to find him." Paul laughed. "Must have been one hell of a looker to set you off like this." "Help me find him!" The lights from all of the billboards and everything kept changing, making it hard to keep my eyes focused on anything. The whole place was a whirlwind of activity and sound. This was far worse than finding a needle in a haystack. "All right, all right," Paul said, putting a hand on my shoulder to calm me down. "What does he look like?" "He's.... he's got brown hair... and..." It was all so clear in my mind, but that was because I could see him in the future. I had no idea what he was wearing tonight. And all of these stupid people in the crowd weren't helping. "And brown eyes... medium height..." "So he could be pretty much anyone," Paul said. "I've got to find him!" I repeated. "Do you know him or something?" Paul asked. "Why is this guy so special?" I sighed. I couldn't tell Paul about the life I'd seen. Not unless I wanted to be involuntarily committed, that is. "Never mind," I whispered. Tears were welling up in my eyes as the realization began to set in. I stood on a fire hydrant and surveyed the crowd. Everyone looked the same in their winter clothes. With only about half an hour left until 12:00, it would take a miracle to find him. And I just wasn't that lucky. *Goodbye, mystery soul mate,* I thought. "Don't worry about it," Paul said, trying to cheer me up. "There's plenty of other guys out here! We'll find you a good one." "Yeah... sure," I said, knowing that no other guy would do. I'd missed my chance. ----------- The next few weeks were all a dreary blur. I'd found my one, and probably *only*, chance at true happiness... and I had let it slip away. And the worst part was the utter helplessness of knowing that there was absolutely no way to find him. I'd spent days searching through facebook photos of friends, New Years Eve parties... hell, I even hired a sketch artist! No luck though. By this point, I was just sleepwalking through life. And then on my way down to work one morning, the elevator chimed at the fifth floor... and he walked in. Those same soft eyes, that beard... it was the man that I'd seen. My eyes must have gone wide, because he did a double-take and gave a confused grin. "Do we... know each other?" He asked. I never heard voices in my visions, but it just seemed to fit him so well. He sounded exactly as I'd imagined him. I managed to compose myself and gave a weak laugh. "No, I don't think we do." He continued to look at me, still a little confused. "Well, how about we get to know each other? Over coffee maybe?" The elevator chimed again and we arrived at the lobby. "How about we go learn how to do trapeze swinging instead?" I asked. "A little unusual for a first date..." he answered with a grin that assured me he was interested. I shrugged, trying to look casual even as I was practically screaming with joy internally. *I'd found him!* Well, somehow he had found me, but I didn't really care about the distinction right now. "I guess I'm just a girl who knows what I want," I answered. ---- If you liked this story, subscribe to /r/Luna_Lovewell for tons more!

Hitler was having a piece of banana

Hitler was having a piece of banana cake when Bob Ross walked in. "And I just feel like no one *gets* me, you know?" The future Fuhrer was saying to one of his servants, as he sprayed whipped cream over the cake, distracted. "I mean, I know most artists are destined to be posthumous, but... I don't know, I guess I want the fame and the fortune too, you know?" "*Ja*, It is very hard, my master," the man said, in a German accent but in English for no reason at all, just like foreign characters in the movies. "Hey, Hitler," Bob said, stepping in, confident. "May I?" he pulled a chair sat down without waiting for an answer. "What is this!?" "Listen, I'm Bob Ross and I'm from the future and I paint stuff." "Bob Ross?" "Yes. Here's the thing - I'm supposed to come here and teach you how to paint so you'll be a good painter and not invade Poland and then the rest of Europe and cause the death of millions of people." "Holy shit, I do that!?" Hitler widened his eyes. "Oh, yes. It's awful. People still use your name as a reference to evil. There's even an internet law based on how long it takes until someone compares a certain situation to Nazi Germany during an argument." "What's the internet?" "Never mind," Bob leaned forward. "This is what we're going to do - I'm going to teach you how to -" "Excuse me," Hitler's servant said, in that same fake accent. "I'm afraid I must intervene here." "What's wrong?" "Well, Mr. Ross, have you considered the twist?" "The twist?" "Yes. The fact that you'll teach this man how to paint, he'll grow to be a famous painter, not invade anything, and when you return to your home time you'll find out that another man named, I don't know, Hans, has taken over Germany and did worse things than Adolf here could ever do." Ross frowned. "I don't follow." "You don't watch much Twilight Zone, do you?" The servant asked. "How do you know about the Twilight Zone? This is 1910." "Never mind about that." The servant leaned back. "My name is Hans, Ross. And I will take over Germany if you teach Adolf how to paint." "Why!? Why would you do that?" "Why else would I be in the scene? Why would Hitler not be alone when you walked in? I have to serve some purpose for the plot, right? And let's face it - go back in time and kill/talk/convince/teach Hitler is a trope we've seen before, and it always ends like this. In fact, most time traveling tropes tend to end with a silly variation of the butterfly effect we-made-things-even-worse twist. Let's not make this prompt another example." Bob Ross scratched his head and thought about this. "Shit. Okay. I guess. But what do we do now?" "Now we find a way to subvert time traveling tropes and present something fresh for the readers. And fast, because they're getting impatient." "Why are they getting impatient? We're still at 500 words!" "Yes, but we've gone post-modern self-referential, characters-acknowledging-their-own-stories. That annoys some people." "It's not really my fault, look at the prompt. Where do you go with time traveling Bob Ross and Hitler that's not self-referential parody?" "Now you're blaming the OP for your shortcomings as a storyteller. Classy." "Not *my* shortcomings. I'm not the author." They both turn and stare at me for a second. I shrug. "Anyway," Hans said, resuming the conversation. "Do something different. Fast." "But what?" "Huuuuuuh.... Fuck, I don't know. Kiss Hitler!" "Erotic Nazi Fanfic? No thanks." "Okay, then... you have cancer, and Hitler nurses you to health, but in the end we find out *Hitler* has cancer too, and -" "I'm not taking part in The Fault in our Stars Feat. Adolf Hitler. It ain't gonna happen." "Well, you gotta do something, and fast, because time is running out." "Hitler? Any suggestions?" Adolf looked around. He got up and paced. "I don't know. Can you just return to your present time and call it a day?" "And then everything happens as it's supposed to? That's boring." "Yeah..." Hitler stopped. "I don't know then. I really don't know." Hans shook his head. "Okay, I got this." He grabbed a little radio device from his pocket and spoke into it. "Send them in." Ross frowned. "Send who in?" Static emerged from the radio for a second, then a voice answered: "Copy that." "Send who in?" Adolf repeated. "What's happening?" "Well," Hans said, getting up. "If we're in a Hitler and Bob Ross time traveling prompt and we can't figure out a way to turn it into something fresh, we might as well embrace irony and self-mockery to the full extent of Writing Prompt's classic tropes." "What do you mean?" The door came open behind Ross. He turned back and watched as two teenagers walked in - a boy in round glasses and a scar on his forehead and a girl that looked a lot like Emma Watson. "Hey Harry, hey Hermione. Sorry to drag you into yet another prompt. You got the time turner?" "Yup," Harry said, in a bored tone. "Harry Potter fanfic? Really?" Ross shook his head. "For fuck's sake." "If we're gonna go down the rabbit's hole, let's do it proudly." Hermione started setting the time turner. Harry looked around, curious. Ross sighed. "Fuck that, I'm out," Hitler said, and then he jumped out the window, and then WW II didn't happen, but the Statute of Secrecy *was* violated on account of the whole thing and muggles learned about magic and when Ross returned to his present day no one gave a shit about static paintings anymore, so he died a poor man, which I guess is irony or whatever, I don't even care. _____ *For more information on why the fourth wall is damaging your health and you should get rid of it, check out /r/psycho_alpaca =)*

"Close your eyes babe," Malcolm

*** Malcolm squeezed my hand. We were standing in front of the bathtub, feeling a bit foolish. Well, I was at least. I knew this was all a joke, but for some reason my heart was was hammering like a drum. "Close your eyes babe," he said. "Why?" I asked. "I don't want to miss anything. This whole dimension jumping is not exactly something one does every day, after all." I could see a spider crawling it's way across the bottom of the tub, a dark speck in a sea of cream, zig-zagging its way towards the drain. "Do you trust me?" I looked at my husband. "Would I be standing in a bathroom like this if I didn't?" "You're humoring me. I get it. But I'm not lying." One lock of my hair fell out of my tight bun of hair and hung loosely in front of my face. Malcolm reached out and brushed it out of the way so that he could stare me in the face. "Hey, I love you. Now close your eyes." I took a deep breath. "Okay." He clasped my hand again, and I squeezed it until the knuckles turned white. I felt him slip a small piece of paper into my palm. I looked up at him quizzically, but he was already facing forward at the wall. "On the count of three, then we'll do it." "Do what?" He ignored me. "One. Two. *Three!*" I shut my eyes and felt a sharp jerk on my hand, and then my navel, and then suddenly the floor was gone and I was flying. I could feel wind and particles whipping by my face. I wanted to scream, but was afraid if I opened my mouth then something might fly in it. There was a second sharp pull at my arm wrenching my sharply in a new angle, and I was thrust away from my husband. I lost all reservations and opened my mouth to scream his name, but nothing came out, the sound of my voice consumed by the void of another dimension. Then I was alone. My body connected with something hard, and I lost consciousness. *** Seagulls. I could hear them calling to each other. It had been ages since Malcolm and I had taken a proper vacation to the ocean. It was good to finally be back, except why was I at the ocean again? "You alright, miss?" I opened my eyes, and only saw blurry shapes. The world was fuzzy as if I needed a pair of glasses, but I could make out three distinct colors: the dark navy water of the ocean, the bright cerulean of the sky and the beige expanse of sand stretching for miles in two directions before me. The sun was hot on my skin and sand was sticking in bunches to my elbows. I waited patiently for my mind to unscramble and my bearings to return to me. It came in pieces: Followed Malcolm into bathroom. Different dimension. New life. Flying. Got separated. Hit a thing. Here now. "Hello? Miss? You a mute or somethin'?" I looked up. A girl no older then twelve or thirteen was looking down at me. She had tanned skin and short sandy hair fashioned in a pixie cut. She was offering a hand to me, and it was at that moment that I realized that I was sprawled out on my back. "I'm okay...I think. Thanks." I accepted her hand and let her pull me to my feet. My entire body ached, as if I had done a work out at the gym for the first time in months. The girl was strong for her size, and did all the work to get me standing again. I began to dust sand out of my plaid pajama bottoms. I noticed the girl was staring at me with a funny look. "What?" I asked, still groggy. "That's a funny thing you wearin'. You're from the Outside, yeah?" *If the Outside is a different dimension, then yeah,* I thought. "Something like that." I looked around. Out past a horizon of dunes, I could see a row of thatched, red roofs, a patchwork plain of mismatched and uneven tiles. It appeared to be some type of shanty fishing town. There were fishing lines dotting the shoreline, propped up in the sand, all facing the sea. "You must have come for the funeral then. Lot's of Outsiders will be sailing in the next few days. Guess you must have shipwrecked huh?" My head was still pounding and I only understood half of what the girl was saying. "Funeral? No. I'm looking for a man. Name is Malcolm Reynolds. Apparently he's lived...uh...here for about 1000 years. You heard of him?" The girl shook her head and kicked at the sand. "Don't know anyone by that name. It's a big world miss." She took a step closer and peered a bit closer in to my hears. "We should get you to a doctor. We only got herbalists in the fishing village, so if you want a real one you have to head into the city." I shook my head. "I can do that later, after I find my husband." She shrugged. "Suit yourself. You said he lived here a thousand years, yeah? Well anyone that lives that long would have to have a record in the city library." She began to walk over to the fishing lines by the sea to check them. "I'm heading up that way for the funeral, you can join me if you like." It wasn't like I had any better ideas. I looked in both directions as far as I could, craning my neck as I did so. No sign of Malcolm anywhere. "Okay," I said. I held out my hand again. "I'm Jill, by the way." She clasped in with bony fingers. "Pleasure to meet you, Ms. Jill the Outsider. I'm Ko'sa." She pointed back towards the village. "Let's head back to my cottage. We can stop and get provisions before we head into the capital. If we leave now we can get in before the lines at the city gates get too long." I nodded. "Must be quite a funeral." "You could say that." Ko'sa grinned. "It's a funeral for the queen, after all." *The queen? Guess even alternate dimensions are ruled by royalty,* I thought. "She was a good queen then?" Ko'sa bowed her head. "Yeah. She'll be missed, at least by most of us. Some of us... wonder about her death. Whether it was really natural or not. The Queen and the King were an arranged marriage you see, didn't exactly fancy each other. Some say he had it in for her, loved another." As Ko'sa prattled on about the royal family, I realized there was something pressed against my left palm, now slick with sweat. I opened my hand to reveal a note. The same note that Malcolm had thrust into my hand back in the bathroom. It was tiny and rolled up neatly, like a scroll. With fingers that were slightly trembling, I unrolled the tiny piece of parchment and read the words in my husband's hand writing. > If you ever need to find me, just ask for the King ;) *** * * * /r/ghost_write_the_whip

Rammack led Julian through the

Julian followed Rammack as he led him through the bio-dome. "You seem distracted, Captain," said Rammack, "but you needn't worry. Your crew are being well looked after. Our medical teams are simply examining them to make sure they are healthy. It was a long journey, after all." Julian nodded and gave a curt smile. "This, Captain Pousa," announced Rammack proudly as he stretched his arms out wide, "is the very heart of the colony. It is our home, if you will. We have divided it into three sections: habitation, research and medical." "It seems... kind of small," Julian mused out loud, "at least, for a growing colony." "Unfortunately the terraformation has not been fully completed yet. We have beauty out there -yes - and even certain plant life. But it is not yet safe for us. Not for perhaps... two hundred years, maybe a little more. Then, once the air is breathable, we may leave the dome and our population may grow." "So, it's static growth right now? A one in, one out kind of deal." Julian's cheeks quickly turned to the same stewed-red as the sky far above the dome. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to be callous about it; I can't imagine how close you all are." His first diplomatic mission and he'd already put his foot in it. He cursed himself and blamed it on the long-sleep. "Yes, we have grown very close. But please, there is no need to apologise. In a way it *is* one in, one out." *There's no room for us in this dome*, Julian thought. *Not to live, at any rate. We'd have to start a separate colony*. He smiled at the idea. The disappointment he'd felt at being unfairly pipped to the post, faded ever so slightly. Faster than light technology - he still couldn't believe it. But Rammack's FTL drive had become unstable upon reaching Calma. Even for them it had been relatively new technology. Now, both crews were stuck here. Julian gathered his thoughts as Rammack led him into the medi-center. "You said: *in a way it's one in one out*? I don't think I understand what you mean." Rammack turned to him, his grey hair contrasting his youthful blue eyes. "Our mission was different to yours. We were not meant to populate this world; we were simply scientists sent to transform the planet for possible future human habitation. We were not meant to be stuck here. And we won't be." Julian thought he heard a distant noise, like a short sharp scream, but Rammack hadn't flinched so he ignored it. "Well we're out of fuel and your FTL drive's kaput, so I don'-" Rammack held a hand up to silence him. "**We will not die here!**" He closed his eyes and took a deep breath. "I am sorry Captain, but the mere thought of dying in this nano sphered sepulchre..." "That's... understandable." "Yes, I believe it is. So, we will not die here. Earth will come for us, once the planet is habitable." "But you said that's... two hundred years from now?" "It is. And we must live until then. Yes, one in one out, but it is never one of the original that leaves." "What do you-" He heard the scream again. Louder, clearer. "Where's that coming from?" Julian demanded. Rammack nodded towards a metal door down the corridor. Julian ran to it and twisted the handle. He walked into a small, white room. Two beds sat in the centre: one cream, one mostly red. His chief engineering officer lay on the crimson bed. "Andy, God, what have they done to you?" Julian yelled as he ran over to his friend. Andy didn't respond. Julian saw two gaping holes where Andy's eyes should have been; his stomach had been carved open, and although Julian was no biologist, it was clear to him that organs were missing. "We have children, Captain. And they live a good life, for a while. Then, we harvest what we need - but *only* to keep ourselves alive, until we are rescued. Organs need replacing, from time to time. **Do not dare look at me like that, Captain - we're not monsters!**" "No. You're worse than that," said Julian, his arm trembling as he lowered it down towards his gun. "We use the children because we must. We don't *want* to harm them. And now, we don't *have* to. Your crew of eighty-three... yes, you will sustain us for a long, long time," said Rammack, his lips smacking together as he spoke. Julian drew the gun and pointed it at Rammack. "Lasers will not work in here," said Rammack with a grin. "We're not naive." "It's not a laser," replied Julian, his voice dark and rough. Rammack's face changed, his eyes growing wide and his smile drooping. "That is old... even for your day, is it not? But if you shoot me, you will soon be killed by my colleagues. Then, your crew die anyway." Julian moved the gun away from Rammack and aimed it at the dome's nano-glass wall. "You'll kill us all. Your crew included. You're not a fool," said Rammack with a faux-calmness. "I've been a fool since I got here - why stop now?" His finger began to squeeze the trigger. "Wait!-Wait. I took you on this tour for a reason. We recently experienced a... fatality; sad for us, but most fortuitous for you. We have room for one more permanent in the complex. You could be like us, and live to see the planet transform and thrive!" "You'd have me live like you wretches? Kill my own crew? Go to Hell!" "We will only take your crew as we need them. They will have good lives, until then. Fed and cleaned, they will want for little. Is that not how you treated animals when you were on Earth?" "They're not animals, and I'm not a butcher," said Julian, his voice trembling. "They're *humans*, and they deserve to *die* as humans." He slowly squeezed the trigger. --- For more of my stories: /r/nickofnight

"I can't hack it anymore

"I can't hack it anymore. This is your job now." As I sit at the interrogation table, those 2 sentences are all my mind can recall. Nothing else. I wince as the handcuffs bite into my skin, as if they're trying to punish me for all the reckless deaths I'd caused. Another sentence worms its way into my mind. The one spoken by the police officer when he had arrested me, making me realise what was real, and what wasn't. "Twenty-seven. You killed twenty-seven, you deranged bastard!" *** Paul glanced at the now empty wineglass in front of him. He stared harder at it, as if wishing it would magically refill itself somehow, but as all Sunday evenings went, it never did. The loud ringing of the doorbell startled him out of his reverie. Plodding slowly towards the front door, he cursed silently at the interruption to his schedule. He felt a slight chill, as if winter had come early all of a sudden. "I can't hack it anymore. This is your job now," the hooded man standing outside his door said, thrusting a scythe into Paul's hands. His voice sounded hoarse and laboured, as if he had been running a marathon prior to arriving here. Paul stood there, stunned. "W-what?" He stammered, holding the scythe out at arms length, as if the weapon would spring up and attack him. But the man was shuffling down the driveway in slow, steady steps. Paul blinked a few times, still staring at the deadly weapon, but even in his intoxicated mind, he knew that this wasn't a dream. For some reason, the Grim Reaper had given up his job. And now, it was his. Summoning all his strength, he staggered back to his room, the alcohol kicking in. He sat down heavily on his bed, tossing the scythe aside as if it were an ordinary weed wacker. Placing his hands in his head, he began to think out loud. "I'm the Reaper now... so that must mean I... but I can't possibly kill people now, can I?" Another loud ring from the front door. Paul cursed and picked up his scythe. This was turning out to be a dreadful night for him. The front door swung open, revealing a portly, middle aged man standing in front of him, sweaty and dressed in a tracksuit. Suddenly, Paul's vision blurred. In that instant, he could have sworn he saw the number 0 above the man's head. This man's time was up. "Hey, Paul. I was in the neighborhood running, and I thought-" The scythe went up. The scythe fell. And with it, the balding head of the man. Blood spurted onto Paul's shirt, and a heavy stench filled the air as the man's digestive tract gave way. Grinning slightly now, Paul stepped over the man's body. The job had- invigorated him somehow. He felt a surge of strength and adrenaline course through his body, as if he was gaining power every moment. The power of the Grim Reaper, he thought. His initial thoughts had been suspicious, wary of a juvenille prank. But now, he wasn't so sure it was a prank after all. He would have to find more zeroes to remove. It was his job, after all. And by hook or by crook, he was going to be one hell of a Reaper by the next night. The next morning saw Paul fast asleep on the bed, his bloodied scythe in one hand, and a hastily made hood and cloak draped over his nightstand. Besides his first subject, whose body was now buried in the back garden, he had taken care of six other people with that magical number above their heads. It was close to dusk when Paul awoke, his head pounding with energy and his eyes alert to that number he now knew was his life's work. Staring at himself in the mirror, he noticed his pale, gaunt face peering back at him. Besides the bloodstains all over him, he decided that it was a good look. That night was an even more frenzied version of the second. Paul had managed to complete his eighteenth job for the night with minimal noise. He was getting good at this job, his tasks taking no more than a few moments now. That was until the police cruisers pulled up next to him. Surrounding him in a semicircle, with guns aimed at him, shouting for him to "get on the ground and release your weapon". He ignored them, of course. What chance did mortals stand against the Reaper? He left 2 officers slumped dead against a cruiser before he put his scythe down. Somehow, he had managed to evade all the deadly bullets, but that did not surprise him in the least. The 2 policemen with zeroes over their heads were finally dead. Paul didn't hear the screams of the policemen yelling for him to drop his scythe. He didn't hear the cries of the wounded officers, injured by his scythe. He only heard the yell of the policeman in his ear, shouting a non-zero number. "Twenty-seven. You killed twenty-seven, you deranged bastard!" That was when he looked down and saw nothing but a weed wacker in his hands. No scythe. His cloak and hood were just an ordinary, torn-up hoodie. And the original Grim Reaper? He now recognized the weary face of his gardener. *** I watch as the sergeant walks into the room. Tall, imposing, and a grim smile on his face. The weed wacker that claimed so many lives is in his hands. Bent and bloodstained, no longer the majestic scythe I once wielded. "May I-" my request for a drink is cut off. The sergeant slams the weed wacker down hard on the interrogation table. "Fool. You nearly exposed us." I can only stare in horror as the sergeant changes form, morphing into the hooded man from 2 days past. The weed wacker also transforms, turning into a pitch-black scythe. "You had one job, Paul. Now I'm here to take it back."

It was easy to plan for it

I waited. I looked out from my window to the sparkling city that I had once terrorized and nearly destroyed more times than I could remember. It was easy to plan for it's destruction, causing chaos and pandemonium with every attempt, But that was nothing compared to the **Challenge** of uplifting it. Changing my image was the first difficulty, for good reason I was regarded as a menace and a danger to everyone, with years of maneuvering (some subtle and some not so subtle) I was considered reformed by the justice system and seen by everyone as a man seeking to atone for past wrongs. Everyone but one man. My greatest rival, the Hero who bested me in every confrontation, every test of strength, wit and skill. The final piece I needed for my grand scheme to be complete. And so I waited. With a crash he entered the scene, my poor door no match for his foot. "It was unlocked you know", I call out over my shoulder in the calmest voice it could manage, hoping to keep my excitement from reaching him. "Although I **am** glad you came through the door instead of the wall or window", With a sigh I turn and walk to my desk, catching a glimpse of him standing in my door as I walk. Gold stripes with a blue base with matching cape and red boots. I always loved his costumes and today's choice especially brought out the pure rage in his eyes. "So what can this lowly public servant help you with today?" I cheerfully said as I sat down. Or I would have said that had he not slammed his hand nearly through my desk when the word servant left my mouth. "You never served anyone other than yourself you sick psychopath." The words left his mouth with more spittle than I would appreciate but they also contained more rage than I had planned for. "I knew all of this was a lead up to some ungodly theatrical reveal but I had never thought that you would do something so downright evil." He composed himself as best he could while hissing those words between his lips. "Ahhhh, you found the genetic markers for the immortality program then? I was wondering how long it was going to take you to find those and come storming in here." I steepled my fingers together, "so how did you think this would play out? You come charging in demanding to know what the grand plan is and bait me into monologuing? I'm sorry to disappoint you but it wont be that easy you know." With a sudden motion he rips me from behind my desk and pins me to the wall, "No games." He snarls at me, "I've seen the research papers, I KNOW that you intend to sacrifice ten thousand people to give yourself a longer lifespan, I KNOW EVERYTHING." "Well what did you expect me to do when you don't return my calls and refuse to follow the breadcrumbs of lesser crimes back to me? Honestly you were being so stubborn that I had to do something drastic to get you here." I played the part of a scared super villain perfectly, suddenly realizing that I was two seconds from being paste on the wall had nothing to do with how scared I sounded I'm sure. As easily as most people swung around a pillow he lifted me up and smashed me back into the wall, only using one hand to hold me now while the other gathered light or honour or whatever his power worked on. **"I SAID NO MORE GAMES!"** He roared, the light gathering around his whole body now. **"UNDO IT! GET RID OF WHATEVER CHEMICALS THAT YOU PUT IN THEIR SYSTEM NOW!!" "Already done." I hear him grit his teeth at my now smug demeanor and feel him push me a bit higher up the wall "The markers will fade in a week and the chemicals in the water are false positives I had the labs make up." I quickly add as I feel his urge to kill me rising, "The Immortality project is nothing more than smoke and mirrors." His eyes narrow as they bore holes into my now-not-so-smug-demeanor for what feels like an eternity before he finally lets me down and lets go of his blinding radiance. "Explain. Now." He commanded in something dangerously close to a growl. Quickly fixing my suit so that I could breath I move back towards fist indented desk, "Like I said you weren't returning my calls so I had the entire thing made up to hopefully get you here to talk to me." "You planned the most heinous crime in two centuries just to get me to talk to you be cause you were bored?" his fists clench again as he leaks rage once more. "Not boredom," I assure him, "I need you for something." I almost whisper as I pull out the key from my favorite paperweight while I take out the fist sized box from my desk. "You've gone insane if you think I'll help you with anything." slashing his hand in the air in front of him. The embers of rage are still in him, not quite out but nothing compared to the fire it was before. "is that so?" I say with a dry smile, "is there anything I could say to convince you otherwise?" "Nothing." I stood there considering him in the silence, while he glared at me. And in that silence he turned to leave. "I'm dying." I called out as he reached the doorway. He froze one foot on the door. "The senate knows already and are plotting and backstabbing to try to be next in line. It wont be too long before the news leaks and starts a power struggle." I flop into my chair in a rare break of character. "After plotting and planning for so long I finally create a utopia for all to live in, and the moment I show weakness it threatens to crumble." The silence returned for several minutes this time before he spoke. "A man in his prime tells me he's dying and that his empire is cracking. Normally I would offer to help but pardon me for not believing you." The skepticism in his voice betrayed by a speck of glee. "Temporal freezing," I answer while looking at my hand, "I look and feel 27 right up until I drop dead of old age at the ripe age of 140." I grinned at the look of shock on his face. "I told you that the time prison you tossed me in worked too well" "Alright so you're about to die," he said with skepticism to match his earlier rage. "I refuse to believe that you don't have twelve different plans already set up and in motion." I raise my hands in the air. "Alright, you got me. I have two-hundred and four plans set up and only nine will destroy the world if go through." His eyes harden at that and he starts to circle the room. I raise a finger at him. "But not to worry they'll only go off in about twenty to thirty years if left unchecked." I plant both hands on either side of the dent. "This is my last challenge to you my old foe." Using the key I unlock the box and toss it to him. "This has the clue to get you started." He snatches the box out of the air and holds it like it's a live serpent. "I truly hate you." he seethed before he walked out. "oh I'm counting on it." I dreamily murmured to the now empty room. Because who else could I get to police my utopia and check every corner for wrong being done. And who knows he might even find all eight of world ending plots I left for him. ________________________________________________________________ Alright I'm kinda new to this so be gentle.

"You gotta tell me how you

"Okay, sit down," God said, lighting a cigarette and crossing his legs. "You gotta tell me how you did it. I mean the whole thing was a mess and now it's just... just..." "The word you're looking for is perfect," I said. "The universe is perfect." "Yes. Perfect." "Divine. Wonderful. Flawless." "You've made your point. Now tell me how you did it." "Well... okay," I took one of his cigarettes and loaded it between my lips. "First of all, I did away with the whole determinism bullshit. I mean, what was that about!?" "You're kidding! That was like the first rule!" "It was crap. I mean you put all of us in the universe and gave us the illusion of free will when really our mind is controlled by the brain which is made of matter which follows the fundamental rules of the universe like every other matter. What kind of crap is that? Talk about deceptive." "What did you do then!? How did you replace determinism!?" "I gave people actual free will. Turns out if we are free to do what we actually want instead of being tricked by the rules of nature to act the way you see fit while only thinking we're free, we're actually quite skillful at living." "But... but... but then it's chaos!" God shook his head. "If the rules of the universe don't control the behavior of animals, even sapient ones like humans, what does!?" "Just... us." God seemed confused. "But then that just means that... that... that..." "That there's gotta be some other set of pre-established rules that govern how mind works, right? I mean, if it's not cause and reaction, what is it? Yeah, I considered that." "Exactly! What did you do instead? What controls mind then?" "Nothing. Just fucking chaos, dude." God looked at me behind disbelief. "That makes *no* sense!" "Well, it worked." He shook his head again. He ashed his cigarette on a passing cloud. "Okay. Okay. What about the metaphysical problem of existence out of nothingness? Where did everything come from, why is there something instead of nothing, all that. What about that, huh? How did you fix that?" "What are you talking about? *You* fixed that by existing. You're God. You created the universe. There. Solved." "But that just pushes the question to what created *me*" God said. "You don't think I thought about that? I'm a walking contradiction. I explain the universe, but what explains me!? At some point, something must have come from nowhere." "Ah. True. Very smart." God smiled. "See? You didn't fix everything. There's still existential despair in the universe because people don't know where God came from, and God explains the universe but nothing explains God, so nothing explains the universe." "Well, I just told them." "Told them?" "Where everything comes from. Including God." "HOW!? HOW DID YOU EVEN KNOW THAT!? I DON'T KNOW THAT!" "I lied." He paused. "You... lied." "I said you came from your mother." "AND WHERE DID MY MOTHER COME FROM!?" "Oh, God, it's just turtles all the way down, get over it. They ate it up, that's what matters." He looked down beneath the clouds at the perfect Earth and the people living in harmony and the unpolluted environment and the warless, unified nation that was the planet now. "I can't believe this. So you just gave people free will, told them that there's no satisfactory explanation as to where everything came to being and they just... accepted it?" "Well, I was a bit more eloquent than that," I said. "But yeah. That's pretty much the gist of it." "What about death? What happens after you die? Surely that still anguishes people. The source of all human despair is deeply rooted in a fear of death. You didn't fix death." "First of all, let's not get arrogant, God. You don't die, so don't pretend to know what being mortal feels like." He stared at me rather foolishly, but didn't speak. "But you're right, it's awful." I smiled. "So you know, I just stopped it." "You... stopped it." "No more death. I mean, frankly, what were you thinking, dude? Putting people in the universe, giving them self-awareness and then death-awareness? That's like telling your wife you're mathematically guaranteed to break up with her in a few years the day after the wedding and expecting her to be faithful. Of course it's not gonna work." "So nobody dies anymore." "Nobody dies anymore." "And everyone has real, true free will." "Free as non-deterministic birds." "And they all know that the universe is a logical impossibility that birthed itself out of nowhere like a will o' the wisp in a desolate marsh extending unto lands unknown?" "Very poetic. You just wanted to use that line, didn't you, author?" Yes, I did. Go back to talking to God. "Very poetic, God. And yes, they know the whole truth and they are fine with it and they don't die and they have true freedom." "And that fixed everything?" "Well. Almost. I had to get rid of Bon Jovi's last album, cause it *really* sucked compared to his early 90s stuff." God thought about this. Then he shook his head. "No. I don't accept it." He got up. "Immortality doesn't fix existential despair. They're going to get tired of living eventually. Eventually every human being will experience everything there is to experience, meet and befriend and love every other human being, visit every corner of the universe, discover every piece of unknown land, do everything there is to do... and then... what?" I didn't answer. "Then they'll turn their heads to the unanswered questions once more! Where did I come from? What is the meaning of it all? If free will is true, what are the rules that govern it? And if there are no rules that govern it, how can something purely chaotic even exist and make sense to our non-chaotic brains? And, and, and if there ARE rules that govern free will those rules must be absolute or not be rules at all, and if they ARE absolute then, then, then there is no free will by definition!" God flicked his cigarette, very intense now. "Those questions need addressing! They need addressing so much that humanity built a whole society around shielding itself from facing these fundamental paradoxes and inconsistencies! They need addressing so much that the only reason humanity has developed culture and all the social fabric that now is put in place is because humans cannot satisfactory address these fucking issues and they'd go insane without distractions and false idols! All you did was push the whole thing with your belly! Sweep it under the rug! People live forever and think they are free in some higher form than they previously thought with my definition of free will, which, okay, was kind of shitty but still, and also you told them that the universe was created by God and that God was created by his mother and his mother by another mother and so on forever but that's not answering at all, it's pushing it under the rug again! What will you do when they figure that out!? What!? WHAT WILL YOU DO, ALPACA!?" "They won't figure it out. I'm keeping them busy." "HOW!? FOR THE LOVE OF ME, HOW!?" I smiled. "I built a new continent and put a water park there. Free admission, no lines, open bar." God stared down at me, panting, desperate, angry. Then he paused. Then he said, "Fuck, that's smart." ____ /r/psycho_alpaca

Earth's representatives have refused to defend

"I think we all know why we are here," the Zilem Planet Representative said. "Earth," the group said in unison, exasperation edging into the lone syllable. "Yes, indeed," he said softly. "It is my understanding that the Ceamnese have called this meeting. This is, as you all know, the ninth meeting about the behavior of Earth... this week. Just as with the other meetings, Earth's representatives have refused to defend the actions of the human race in this meeting. I believe they said they would, 'Rather stay home and watch TV.'" The Zilem Representative sighed audibly, but after seeing the very concerned expressions around the table, quickly continued, "We have, of course, conducted a thorough sweep for bombs, poisons, and elaborate... 'booby traps,' I believe they called them," he said, and then cleared his throat pointedly. "Have they ever sent anyone to these meetings?" a large, muscular creature in the corner asked. "I think they sent someone once..." "Nope," the Zilem Representative stated bluntly. "Yes. Yes, they sent that rather hairy human one time." "Wasn't a human," he replied with a sigh, "It was a... chimp? I believe they call them chimps." "Yes, yes! Rather despondent individual, he was." "Seemed appropriately repentant to me," the Qealph Representative said, flipping her hair gently over her shoulder. "Really cheered when those strange oblong, yellow Earth snacks were served afterward, though," said Ef' Representative in a bright tone. The Zilem representative cleared his throat and said, "Would the representative from Ceamn please stand and explain?" "Certainly," the creature said politely as he stood. "Well, we asked the Earthlings some two zokils past to please refrain from dumping their trash into our oceans." Everyone at the table breathed in sharply. "Representative Ceamn, you would provoke them in this way?" the Qealph Representative asked in hushed tones. "Yes, well... yes. I will admit that it was a bold request, but we had simply had enough. They replied that... well... they said that their trash was in our waters, which meant it was now their property... so they now had a right to retrieve their property that was unlawfully taken." The room fell into a confused silence until one of the representatives leaned to the right and whispered, "What?" "That's... what they said. I'm not sure how they came to the conclusion, they provided no reasoning, but the long and short of it is that they are now pumping our water supply into their water tower ships and leaving with it." The room fell into a confused silence until one of the representatives leaned to the right and whispered louder, "What?" "I..." the Ceamn Representative trailed off and shrugged instead, so as to express something along the lines of, "I have no idea." "They're probably trying to replace all of the water they wasted from that time they tried to extinguish the Aeron System's sun?" "Or when they did that... the game... what did they call it again?" "Slip and Slide." "Yes! The Slip and Slide... Space Edition, I believe they called it." "Yes... many of their top leaders perished," the Qealph Representative said sadly. "Well, not after they sloped it so that it went quick enough to justify no oxygen tanks." "No, you're getting mixed up, Representative Zilem. They were still perishing rapidly even after the slope. No one died after they remembered to put in a landing platform." There was another silence. "They really tried to extinguish a sun by spraying water at it?" the Zilem Representative said abruptly. "Yeah... but I mean, it didn't work." "Well, what if it had though?!" "Why'd they do that again?" "Because the Aeronians were slightly late for a dinner meeting and Earth felt they 'needed a gentle reminder about politeness.'" "Reminds me of that time they threatened to throw their sun at us." "That is just egregious!" "I agree. I tried to call them on it in the meeting. I said it was a ridiculous threat. I have to give it to them though, they doubled down on it. They kept insisting they had a lasso big enough to... what word did they use... 'wrangle' their sun. They said after that, throwing it at us was no problem." "Wouldn't their own world grow cold and die?" "I asked about that. I pointed it out rather quickly after the plan came to light. They said they already had the lasso and that retrieving another would be 'no damn problem at all.' I left it at that and backed down." Another brief silence ensued. "Well, I mean, you couldn't risk the lives of your people like that," the Qealph Representative said in a gentle way. The Zilem Representative cleared his throat again. "Has the Ceamn Representative reached out to try and come up with a more, eh, diplomatic solution?" The Ceamn Representative stood again. "Yes, sir. We mentioned that we could simply recycle the waste for them." "And?" "They responded that it, 'sounded like something little girls would do,' and then afterward only responded with 'little girls' to each of our inquiries." "What is this word, 'girls?'" the Ef' Representative asked. "I am not sure. We thought it might be a translation error given the sheer number of times they sent us the message, but it didn't take long to gather that it was actually meant as an insult." The conference room's large doors slid open and a messenger arrived. "Sir, a representative from Earth has arrived." "Finally!" "Maybe now we can--" "It is the chimp again." "This is absurd!" The chimp waddled over to the empty seat at the table and climbed up into it, and then climbed up onto the table itself. It wore a crisp white t-shirt, emblazoned with neon pink letters that spelled out, "CEAMN SUXX." In one of its giant black hands, it held a small pink piece of paper. The chimp walk-crawled across the table and handed it to the Zilem Representative. He read it slowly then crumpled it up. "What did it say, sir?" the Ef' Representative asked. "It said, 'Pink letters, for the little girls present." A quiet filled the room as they all looked at the chimp. "Someone please bring those snacks back out for the... Representative," the Zilem asked. "All in favor of a strongly worded letter asking the humans to cease the thieving of water from Ceamn?" Everyone save for the Ceamn Representative raised a hand. "Okay then, that's settled," said the Zilem Representative. "I'm not sure that will be enough." "Maybe not," the Zilem answered. "But I suspect it will be a lot like the time they challenged the ownership of our home planet. They insisted our leadership compete in a staring contest. After a few minutes, they simply got bored and wandered off." -------- Edit: Thank you so much for the gold, mysterious benefactor, and thank you to everyone for all of the comments and upvotes. I'm inexpressibly flattered that you thought this story was worth it. :)

An army of small robots and some

Back then, I knew what vast wealth could buy. I knew it could buy isolated mansions with their own picturesque vistas, self-sustaining yachts to see each of the glistening oceans and their pocketed paradise islands, and every known luxury that era of mankind had to offer. Of course, as with all things, that wasn't enough for me. Wealth couldn't give me everything. As it was then, it couldn't save me from the follies of my race. My wealth couldn't buy me time. It couldn't buy me immortality. But it could buy me an education, means to enhance my own intelligence. Once I had those things, I managed to build myself a lab and I prised myself from the rest of the world searching for the key to immortality. Nearly twenty-three years had passed, and my hair had begun to grey and my bones ached at the end of a long day in the lab. But I persisted, and though my wealth had nearly irreversibly diminished, I found the grand panacea. Turns out an army of small robots and some careful, robust programming gave me what I wanted. After the injection, the ache began to leave my bones, and I knew it was working. I raced to the large mirror at the back of the lab washroom in time to witness the last of my transformation. Wrinkles absorbed back into my skin, disappearing, the hairs on my head softened, and as their color became more vibrant, so did the lively hue in my eyes return. Barely enough time to marvel in my hour of triumph, a voice sounded behind me, such that I yelped in a squeal with a voice that had also returned to its youthful tenor. "When you realize living forever sucks, call this number, I've got a job offer for you," the voice said. I was bewildered, as there was no one behind me in the mirror, and nor was there anyone to my left or right. "Ahem. Behind you." Turning around, there was the source of the disembodied voice, embodied. Clothed in a long, tattered black robe, it was sheathed in shadow and its face was further enveloped underneath a deep hood. Handing me a business card he said, "I can see that you were not expecting me." As I took the business card from a skeletal hand, it returned to gesture in a way that suggested it was scratching its chin. "I have to say, that is a first. Anyway, no time to dally -- two customers a second and all that." "W-wait! You said there have been more?" "Of course! You think you're the first to seek immortality and find it?" Death scoffed, "Happens every couple of centuries or so, though usually through less... scientific means, heh. Never understood the stuff myself." I was floored. My whole life had been devoted to science, and there before me was essentially a god from legend. Something make-believe, something from myth. But to my core I was a scientist, and with the truth beset in front of me, I accepted it. Gods and magic were real, and they were unfamiliar with science. I took a risk. Putting the card in my pocket, I said to Death, "Well if you'd like I can show you some of what I've been working on. I'm sure a few dying people could wait -- besides, two a second is only a statistical average anyway," I flashed him my best smile, which was pretty good now that my youth had returned, "Why not make it up later? It's the least I can do to show you whats in store for the future." As there was no face to remark upon, all I can say is that Death simply stared at me for what felt like an eternity. "Ah, what the hell. My colleagues treat with mortals occasionally, why shouldn't I have some fun with the living once in a while?" "Excellent choice! Come, follow me. There's a technology I happened across during my search that could allow for teleportation -- something the gods are familiar with, I'd imagine." Death followed behind me, looking as a cloud of ink through water. As he followed me, I walked over a square aluminum platform that was trailed by wires on all sides. Putting my hand inside one of the pockets of my lab coat, I gripped a remote switch that controlled all the equipment inside the lab. When Death's form passed into the threshold of the platform, I pressed the button and turned around facing Death. Looking to either side, Death tilted its hood to one side, "Why did you stop? Is this the device?" "Actually, the device is right over there," I pointed to a table covered with an assortment of devices on the other side of the room. "Please, help yourself, while I prepare the demonstration." My heart was pounding, but I kept my face neutral as I faced Death. Its form quivered, and the shadow around Death froze in motion. "WHAT HAVE YOU DONE, MORTAL" The voice no longer came from the hood, but from all around me. Its sound vibrated the air, and the ground beneath me shook as it spoke. "YOU DO NOT UNDERSTAND THE FORCES FOR WHICH YOU MEDDLE" "Actually, that's exactly why I've imprisoned you. I never believed in gods before today, and I intend to find out what I can fr--" "YOU FOOL. RELEASE ME BEFO--," before he could finish, the black cloud erupted, its force shattering my body against the wall behind me. That was the last I remember of the hour I killed Death. It has been almost one hundred years, and still I've yet to restore the world to its natural order. Ghouls roam the earth now. Though people are unable to die, all of the roads to death remain paved and open. Gods openly roam the Earth, searching for the one that destroyed death, some seeking vengeance against me even as I try to bring Death back to life, others reveling in the chaos sewn by my mistake. My name is Elliot, and I am this worlds last hope of destroying immortality.

The Scientist sat alone in the null

The Scientist sat alone in the nullifier cell, staring at the wall across from him. He'd been so close. Ten minutes away from finishing his device, a device that would have wiped out The Protectors, catapulting him into the upper echelon of villains, only to be foiled by The Protectors. He fumed silently to himself. He'd known the risk involved, but now, facing the consequences of his crimes, he wished he hadn't been so hasty. His mistakes had all been small, and easy to forget about, but they had piled up, resulting in The Protectors bursting into his base to easily subdue him. And he didn't even know yet if they were the ones responsible. "One key, two key, three key, four" a voice drifted down the corridor to his cell. The Scientist stopped his contemplation, looking up to see a man slowly walking towards him. "How many keys, to open that door?" 'What the hell?' thought The Scientist to himself. It couldn't be true. He'd thought it had been just one of those urban legends that got thrown around the villain community. Everyone knew stories of The Keymaster. Supposedly he spent his time freeing villains who had been captured. Yet no one he talked to had actually met him, and the stories were always told by a villain who heard from a villain who heard from a villain. The idea that anyone would just spend all their time freeing villains as opposed to carrying out their own plans seemed ludicrous to him. The man stopped walking, standing in front of the cell, and grinned down at The Scientist. He looked normal, pedestrian. If The Scientist had passed him on the street, he'd have forgotten him immediately. His appearance was a far cry from the stories told about this man. Everyone claimed The Keymaster was terrifying. The Scientist almost laughed out loud. He wore baggy jeans, and a shirt with a picture of a monkey holding a surfboard on it. In his hand he carried a ping pong paddle, and he had a stuffed toy parrot perched on his shoulder. "Though I walk through the valley of the of the shadow of death, I will fear no keyhole!" The Keymaster said in a serious tone. Then he burst into giggles. Straightening up, he continued as before. "So, The Scientist sits in silence, salivating at some sentiment of seeing some other setting. Tick, tock, goes the clock, and in his mind the gear turns. When one door closes, so do the rest, despite opportunities vocal protests. And yet I step, into the realm of closed rooms, like the spark of an idea, to brighten the gloom." "What?" asked The Scientist. Was this man off his rocker? Remembering his position, he quickly pulled himself together. "You must be the legendary Keymaster sir. A pleasure to meet you. Have you come to negotiate the price of setting me free?" he asked, not quite able to keep the hope out of his voice. "A pleasure you say? Yes, always a pleasure, never a chore. But negotiate, most definitely not. You've already paid. The price is simple, and remains the same. A conversation, a name, and a cure for your pain." The Keymaster held up a hand, stopping the words about to leave The Scientist's mouth. "Sorry, that's silly, too much drama. A conversation will do." 'This guy must be an idiot,' The Scientist thought to himself. He could ask for anything, and he asks for a conversation? Easy enough. Someone this stupid was unlikely to have any meaningful conversation. Besides, he'd never promised to be truthful. "And what would you like to talk about?" asked The Scientist. "Well," said The Keymaster, as he took a seat crossed legged on the floor. "I've always wondered why a scientist as skilled as you should turn to villainy. I mean surely if you went legitimate, you could be rich, famous, respected. Yet instead you choose to run around in costume, causing trouble?" Huh. That was the first sign of a normal sentence from The Keymaster. Not the direction he'd expected. And not the sort he wanted to discuss. "Ah you know, having no powers always irritated me, so I wanted to get payback on those who thought themselves above everyone else. How about yourself?" "One lie, one truth, and one in the middle. What a lovely start." exclaimed The Keymaster gleefully. "What do you think Bob?" he asked the parrot on his shoulder. "Think we should tell him?" The Scientist remained silent, not entirely sure what on earth was going on. "Yes, I suppose we shall." he sighed, turning back to The Scientist. "All doors have keys, and I possess them all. No fun in taking anything, when the door is always open. Why steal the Mona Lisa, when it is as easy as stealing a snickers? Why chase after women or men, when you already hold the key to their heart? Why search for the forbidden, when to me nothing is hidden?" "So you're just bored? But then why set villains free?" asked The Scientist incredulously. The Keymaster looked up at him, a look of puzzlement on his face. "You know," clarified The Scientist, "captured villains that you let out." "Set them free?" muttered The Keymaster. "No,no. I don't set them free. I let them out. There's a key difference there." his face lit up suddenly, smiling. "Key difference!" he exclaimed. "What a wonderful pun." The Scientist groaned inside. Terrible. Pun. 'Anyways, time to move on with this,' he thought to himself. "Not to be rude Keymaster, but shouldn't you help me get out. I wouldn't want any heroes in the base to come down here while we are talking. Having keys to doors is very useful, but it won't help you in a fight against The Protectors." "Keys to doors?" asked The Keymaster. "Why would I use that?" "Well that's your power isn't it? You're a conjurer or something, you can make keys for any lock no?" The Keymasters fist slammed into the floor. "DOORS?" he roared. "THEY NEVER LISTEN! I ASK FOR ONE CONVERSATION AND THEY NEVER LISTEN!" he yelled, getting to his feet. Suddenly, as if he'd never yelled at all, he was calm. "Listen to me, Jason Baker, The Scientist" he whispered, "I am no conjurer. No petty magician. I see the keys to everything, everything in this world. The key to who you are, Jason Baker. The key to your soul." Jason stared at the man, terrified. No one knew his name. It wasn't possible. He'd scrubbed all traces of his life out of existence years ago. How on earth had this man found out? He met The Keymasters eyes and froze, held there by unknown force. This man, no, this monster, knew everything about him. He was gazing directly into his soul. How had he ever though of this monster as stupid? Or amusing? "One lie, one truth, one in the middle, that's what you gave me when you started this conversation. So I shall give you the same courtesy in return. You will thank me for it. The man who believes himself to be a hero, the man who killed your little sister when you were growing up, he is in this building. Your hunt for him can end today once I let you free. However, you will die in the process. It is the only way for your revenge to be complete." The killer was here, Jason thought to himself. Then he'd do what he must. Twelve years he'd spent, trying to find out which hero had killed his little sister. Hatred had fuelled those long years, and finally it was here. He looked up at The Keymaster, and begged. "Please" he sobbed, as tears filled his eyes, "Please let me out. Let me kill the bastard for what he's done. Let me destroy them all for keeping him here, safe from the consequences his actions, hiding the truth from the world." The Keymaster looked at Jason and smiled. "Ok. When I say now, start singing!" "Singing?" asked Jason, confusion shining through the tears on his face. "Yup, you have to hit the right key!" giggled The Keymaster. "But in all seriousness, you're pretty upset, so don't bother singing." The Keymaster held his hand against the energy barrier to the cell and it quickly powered down, and Jason ran down the hallway, anger all over his face. "Now have fun!" called out The Keymaster behind him. Later on, the battle that ensued would make headlines around the world. The Scientist had escaped from his cell and broken into the weapons lab, and taken on The Protectors. He'd managed to kill nine members before they'd put him down. Witnesses claimed to see a man walking out muttering to himself, before getting into a parked car and driving away. "I told him. One truth, you must die for your revenge to be complete. One in the middle. The man responsible, who thinks he's the hero, is in the building. And so he was, in the cell, talking to me. One lie. It is the only way. There were always other ways to kill the man responsible. Just as theres always other ways to kill yourself." The Keymaster giggled to himself. "You should have listened Jason. Nobody ever listens." Edit: Hey guys. So I didn't plan on writing anymore but since people seemed to enjoy it I have written some more in a reply to this comment. Hope you enjoy! Also, fixed a quick grammar error as well. Edit 2: Forgot to say thank you! Really appreciate all the comments, and I'm really glad you guys enjoyed it, so thank you very much! Edit 3: So there are now 3 parts in total. This one, the one replying to this, and the one replying to that one. Hope you guys enjoy! Edit 4: Link to Part 2: https://www.reddit.com/r/WritingPrompts/comments/5yw95w/wp_you_are_a_supervillain_named_the_keymaster/deu47gc/ Link to Part 3: https://www.reddit.com/r/WritingPrompts/comments/5yw95w/wp_you_are_a_supervillain_named_the_keymaster/deu8uwx/ Edit 5: Link to Part 4: https://www.reddit.com/r/WritingPrompts/comments/5yw95w/wp_you_are_a_supervillain_named_the_keymaster/deufa9o/ So the story so far is now over 5000 words. Most I've ever written that isn't for Uni. Hope you guys enjoy it! Edit 6: Ive created a subreddit at /r/feedmequickwriting for anyone who wishes to continue following the story as I will post new chapters there from now on. If you're interested, please feel free to subscribe or just visit. Thanks for everything

"Counterparts in four of the

"Counterparts in four of the NWS are ready to participate in the strike if need be, sir. Plus India. We're still trying to raise France." A grin split the Director's craggy face, incongruous amidst the blaring klaxons. "Tell me, Private. Do you really think France will make a difference?" "Every bit counts, sir?" The grin got wider. The Private's heart beat even faster. Was his superior cracking up? True, it was understandable given the circumstances, but the man was supposed to be the facility's rock. The two of them alone were still; all around them in the bunker officers flat-out ran to destinations unknown, expressions from panic to resignation etched on their faces. Given his uncertainty about the Director's mental state, he decided the safest path was just to recount what he knew. "We are at level 1, sir. A nuclear response has been deemed appropriate. Given the, uh, the severity of the threat, the largest muster of warheads available is considered optimal, which is why we... sir, I hope you don't consider it indecorous, but may I ask why you're laughing, sir?" "Have you looked outside, Private?" "I've been briefed..." "There is a different sky above us. You can see purple stars. Three miles from here there's a hole in the Earth that goes straight down into the goddamn mantle. The gatespur has devoured the Nevada national guard. In a bunker beneath our feet the flameminds have started *singing*, and we haven't seen the Leviathan since last Tuesday. And it just warms the cockles of my cold little heart to see a private so green he's worried about *France*, of all things, in the middle of this." The Private didn't know whether he wanted to scream or start crying. "We are at a level 1 emergency, sir. It is my job to worry about France," he said, voice wavering. "This stopped being a Level 1 the instant the gatespur inverted." "I'm... I'm sorry, sir? Are you saying it reverted to Level 2? That we'll be pursuing a nonnuclear resolution? If so I fail to see..." "I'm saying," the Director hissed, "that it has been upgraded to Level 0." Some detached part of the Private's brain conducted a quick search of the Groom Lake briefing books he'd absorbed so studiously not six months prior, and came up empty. "I'm afraid I have not been briefed on Level 0 emergencies, sir." "It's the level where you stop caring about fucking France." "I recall a prank played on me by some of the Privates First Class when I first arrived, sir," the Private said cautiously, "wherein they convinced me of the existence of an emergency level 0 before revealing, with great pomp and circumstance, that it consisted solely of calling the number on a Post-it Note." The Director stared down at him as automated warning e-mails continued to pile up in the corner of his computer screen. "Privates First Class are not supposed to know about that sticky note," he finally intoned. The Private goggled. "They were *serious*?" "We keep resources off-site!" "A Post-it Note?" "Sticky note. It's not name brand." "Whatever! I mean, uh, whatever, sir." The Private paused, rewinding the conversation. "What resources?" "A temperamental man. Got irradiated with... damned if I can remember what. Back in '84. Or maybe '85? Techie working on the Lateral Fourth, I'm almost certain. Perhaps the Axial Ninth. Since then he's been our secret weapon. Moves around a lot. Currently in Bora Bora, that much I know." "Technically France," the Private muttered, almost involuntarily. The Director's smile returned, wider than ever, glinting red in the intermittent darkness. "Do you recall the location of said sticky note, Private?" "It was on Private Irving's monitor, I believe," the Private said, tentatively pointing. The Director craned his neck and spotted the pink square of paper, attached to the side of a computer screen showing a grainy livestream of F-35s hovering over the desert, spinning like tops in place as spirals of smoke drizzled from their flanks and splattered upwards into the void. "Very good. You have a strong memory, Private. That may make things unpleasant for you, shortly." Before the Private could ask, the Director was darting across the room to retrieve the sticky note. He returned to the relative calm in the wake of the Private's desk and removed a red smartphone from a nonstandard pocket of his fatigues. "Don't you have it memorized, sir?" the Private asked as the Director entered the number into the touchpad. "Best not to. Best not to memorize much about this man. Liable to get corrupted." "What do you mea..." the Private quietened when his superior held up a finger for silence, not that his question would have added much to the general panicked din and the blaring of warning bells. "Lenny, I..." the Director beamed into the phone, before apparently getting cut off. "That bad, huh?" he winced. "I know we've already given you all the money you could ever want. All the secrets. All the... yes. Yes, Len. I know. So here's what I want to know. What else can we give you?" The Private strained to hear the other end of the line. "I want you to know," the tinny voice said. "That's all I want. I want you to know how much it hurts me and how many times it's happened this week alone. So that maybe, maybe, this'll be the last one." "You know it hurts all of us," the Director responded. "But you don't remember. Try to remember. And remember this number: thirty-nine." At this the Director cringed visibly. "Thirty-nine? Really?" he said incredulously - almost, the Private thought, shamefacedly. "This week. Get. It. Lidded." Lenny said. "Or I might just call it quits at forty. I've lived a good life." "I'll do my best, Len." "You've done your best thirty-nine times. Do better." "Yes, Len." "I'm starting it." "Thank you, Len." "Thirty-Nine." "Hope not to talk to you soon." "No - enh. No more than I am," the phone voice grunted, pained. The Director ended the call and looked down at the Private, his face unreadable. "The Lateral Fourth - that was the timeship, sir. Right?" "One of it, Private. One side of it." "And thirty-nine?" "Big ears on you, Private." "Sorry sir, I couldn't hel- ouch!" the Private slapped a hand to his cheek as a sharp, needling pain ran through it. He flinched as a similar pain struck his left foot, his kidney, his eye. "He's right, we don't remember this part," the Director grimaced. The Private looked up at him and nearly screamed. The man's face was a patchwork of flesh, blurred and pixellated like a digital television getting bad reception. The left side of his mouth seemed to run in reverse, making grotesque flapping noises. Then the pain struck the Private's left eardrum, and the noises resolved into a sound like speech played in reverse, and then the prickles happened deep inside his head, brain freeze with a thousand tiny claws, and the backward speech was forwards and his thoughts turned around and the klaxons retreated in great gushing waves of silence and the lights flickered on and off and a great buzzing sound filled his head, driving away all thought and all memory and all notions except the overwhelming drumbeat bedrock of *Tuesday, Tuesday, TUESDAY* and then... it was Tuesday. "Readings on the Leviathan are slightly outside normal ranges. Should we check it out?" Irving asked. "Thirty-nine," the Private blurted. His fellow private turned to look at him. "What's that?" "That's fine, I meant to say. We should look into it. Could mean something. That is, that's my opinion, sir," the Private said, suddenly noticing the presence of the Director looming behind him. He turned to face his superior and saw the man mouth the words *thirty-nine.* The Director shook his head slightly, as if clearing it, and fixed his dark eyes on Irving. "Yes, Private, check it out. Report back to me if you find anything the least bit out of order." "I'll requisition a sub straightaway, sir," Irving saluted, rising from his desk. "Oh, and Private? Remove that sticky note from your monitor. Something tells me it won't be useful anymore."

Mark, in his underwear, a

The first time was confusing. Mark, in fact, used the words "WHAT THE ACTUAL FUCK IS GOING ON!?" but as an impartial, polite narrator, I'll use 'confusing'. It was a mugging. Lyla was coming home from her first date after the breakup and the dude pointed the knife and said, "Give me the purse, bitch." And Mark, in his underwear, a yellow lipstick of Cheetos around his mouth, materialized in front of them, straight from his living room couch. "WHAT THE ACTUAL FUCK IS GOING ON!?" he uttered, as previously mentioned, which was not intended to, but had the effect of, stopping the mugging right away, as the mugger, upon watching a half-naked man materialize himself in front of him out of thin air like popcorn bursting into existence from corn except with a person and nothingness (Jesus, what a crappy narrator I am), proceeded to politely say "Oh, fuck," and go home (later, I heard, he checked into an institution and got into New Age music and Paulo Coelho, but that's a story for another day). Well, after much debate, Mark and Lyla decided that what had just happened was either collective hallucination or undeniable proof that the universe was fundamentally different than humanity had been assuming for thousands of years and all human knowledge had just been rendered obsolete and we'd have to start over from the pre-Socratics on. They figured it didn't really matter, because either way they both had lives to get to and shit to do, and decided to get on with their stuff. They parted ways. It was after the third time (the second being another, totally unrelated mugging), when Lyla got trapped in an elevator during a power outage and Mark materialized itself once more in front of her, that they figured out that the whole thing was a pattern, and that apparently Mark would show up whenever Lyla was, in his words, "in some deep shit or whatever." "So whenever I'm in trouble, you just... show up?" "Apparently." "Why!?" "Gee, Lyla, I don't know, let me check my International Guide to Unexplainable Phenomena." "You're being sarcastic, aren't you?" "No, I really have a guide for unexplainable phenomena." "Now you're being sarcastic about being sarcastic, aren't you?" "I'll add another layer if you keep bothering me." "God, you're annoying, no wonder I broke up with you." "I broke up with you." "No you didn't." "Internally I did." This continued for something like forty minutes, until the firemen came and rescued them (as, of course, though Mark had indeed materialized in front of Lyla to be there in her time of need, he lacked the tools to get them out of a stopped elevator.) It started getting suspicious, as far as Mark was concerned, the seventh time Lyla was caught in the middle of a disagreement with drug addicts in the town's worst neighborhood. That's when he started suspecting foul play on her part. All the same, he kept to himself, standing by her side as the crackheads robbed her... then him (because, it turns out, crackheads are not as easily spooked by people materializing out of thin air as muggers are... these guys just said "Woah, dude just popped into existence. Let's rob him too!") Then it was a cliff - literally, Lyla standing on the edge of a cliff, about to lose balance, and Mark popped up by her side to save her. Then it was a minor car accident. Then a fight with this bitchy girl she knew from high school. Mark decided to say something when he suddenly materialized in front of Lyla inside a warehouse filled to the ceiling with towers and towers of cocaine packs and surrounded by angry, machine-gun wielding Brazilian men somewhere deep in the rainforests of South America. "Okay, that's it," he said, as soon as he laid eyes on Lyla, tied to a chair in the back of the room, behind some drug stacks. "What the hell, Lyla!?" "I'm sorry," she said, "I got lost hiking." He got closer to her, untied her, careful not to alert the men patrolling the warehouse just behind the stack of cocaine they were pressed against. "No you didn't." "Excuse me!?" "Look, I'm sorry it didn't work out between us," Mark said, as she got up and rubbed her wrists. "But you gotta stop putting yourself into dangerous situations just because you want to try to hurt me." "What!?" "You don't think I've noticed!? Seven muggings! Random fights! Random cliffs! And now you show up at a drug warehouse in South America!? You hate hiking! Come on, Lyla, it's so obvious! You're trying to get me killed!" "Who's there!?" came a voice from behind the cocaine stack, because Brazilians speak English when it's convenient for the plot. "Is that what you think I'm doing!?" Lyla asked. "Well, isn't it!? Why else would you keep putting yourself into these dangerous situat -" "BECAUSE I MISS YOU, YOU IDIOT!" She pushed him. "I MISS YOU AND I DON'T HAVE THE GUTS TO CALL YOU AND THIS IS THE ONLY WAY I CAN THINK TO SEE YOU FROM TIME TO TIME." "Hey, there's a dude with the girl we caught over here!" One of the drug thugs showed up, pointing the gun. "You miss me?" Mark asked, quietly. "Yes, you idiot. What, you think I take trips to the rainforest and end up on coke farms by accident?" More men showed up, all wielding machine guns. They pointed. "Fuck, why didn't you just say so?" "Cause you never seem happy to see me." "THAT'S BECAUSE WE'RE ALWAYS ON THE VERGE OF DEATH WHEN I SEE YOU, NOT BECAUSE I STOPPED LOVING YOU!" "You still love me?" "OF COURSE I DO, YOU STUPID BITCH!" "Why are you yelling?" "BECAUSE WE'RE ABOUT TO DIE!" She looked at the men. Then at Mark. "It does look that way." "I'M GONNA KISS YOU NOW." "Okay." She smiled. And they did kiss. And then, of course, the Brazilian drug men opened fire and they died a very bloody, horrible death, but it was kind of romantic, really. I thought so, at least. _____ /r/psycho_alpaca

They built an station in orbit around

The Humans are a strange species. They found my people in ancient times, when the wheel and fire were still cutting edge technology. They built an station in orbit around our world, as was their way, and observed our development. They did not interfere with our development too much. When our home was threatened by an asteroid strike in ancient times, they destroyed it. When a supervolcano erupted and cast our world into volcanic winter, they descended from on high and cleaned our atmosphere. We praised them as Gods for a time... Gods that came when we were in true need and helped us escape extinction. That was the only time they approached us directly. Their great ships landed where we preached of their glory... and they set us right. They told us that they were not gods... but were flesh and blood like us. They had learned how the world worked... and through doing so they had learned to control the world. Through their hard work and study... they had elevated themselves to the point where they worked *miracles* through their technology. They told us not to worship them... but instead to follow in their footsteps. Our people... became very eager to join the Humans among the Stars. We wanted to be like them... powerful enough to bend the world towards our interests. As we grew more advanced... the Humans seemed to grow more distant. Disasters came without the Humans coming to fix them. We were confused by this, we were worried by this, and we were angry... until we figured out why the Humans did not intervene. It was because we were *able* to fix more of our problems ourselves. We came to understand, without being told, that the Humans did not want to rob us of the challenges that let us grow. Necessity is the mother of invention, and they did not want to take away the stress that we could deal with. We went through the growing pains of a Sentient Species. Agriculture, Industrialization, Hate, Power-Hunger, and more... until the most dangerous came upon us. We discovered the Power of the Atom. The Humans did not intervene when first we used the weapons that were born of the Atom. Atomic Hellfire wiped a city out, and a war was ended. Nuclear Peace began... one as uneasy as the Nuclear Peace of human history. But... that also drove us to The Stars. The Missiles we made to deliver death across the world were also the key to breaking free of Gravity's iron-grip. Our first mission was, of course, to reach the Human Research Station. We had a few failures along the way... a few people died... but we made it in the end. We docked with the station... and we met the Humans in person once more. They were so happy to see us having succeeded in getting past the first hurdle. They encouraged us to keep exploring, to keep *learning*... and to be careful with the weapons we had built. We were not. It's been a long time since the Day of Armageddon. The day that tensions finally broke... and the decision was made to end the world. Missiles launched. Sirens flared. Mothers lied to their children, telling them that everything would be okay. Old friends got together for one last drink, before the end. Several children were made. But the end didn't come. The Humans did what they always did: They saved us from extinction when we couldn't save ourselves. Great beams of light were sent out from the Research Satellites. They struck the missiles... and there were no missiles anymore when the beams ended. There wasn't even a blast. Then... they made a request to us. They took control of every signal. Every radio, every video screen... everything. They addressed our world, and they *asked us* to avoid going to war, even though the threat of Nuclear Annihilation had been lifted from our world by their intervention. They told us that, whatever our differences might be, they weren't great enough to justify destroying each-other. We... did as we were asked. We did our best not to go to war. It worked... on the whole. Countries stopped fighting each-other... although internal wars still flared up from time to time. We continued to struggle forward... until we eventually managed to join the humans. We discovered the secrets behind the Warp-Drives that Humans relied upon... and they celebrated out triumph as we ascended to join the galactic community. We learned that the Humans were not alone among the stars, and that we were not unique in how the Humans had treated us. There were dozens of species like ours, who the Humans had taken an interest in. They had protected them... and encouraged them. When they emerged from their home-worlds with FTL Capabilities... the humans had supported their growth. They'd helped us find worlds to colonize, and they'd sent Terraforming Ships out to create new garden worlds for us to inhabit. They never asked for anything in return. To them... helping intelligent species, like ours, reach the stars was simply the right thing to do. They believed that all intelligent life was valuable... and that it should be allowed, if not outright encouraged, to flourish. They wanted to see their Local Cluster *filled* with Life... and they'd been working on that for a very long time. The Grell eventually found the Humans. They were another of the Elder Species, as old as the humans were, but they were not as Ancient as the Remnants. They had come to the stars seeking to spread their Empire, to unite all life beneath their banner... and to make all a part of their "superior" culture. When they looked upon our Local Cluster... they thought they saw an easy conquest. They saw *dozens* of weak species and nations that could be easily conquered... and the only species of real relevance, the Humans, were pacifistic scientists that hadn't been at war for a very long time. They ignored us, and attacked the Humans first... seeking to destroy the only thing that remotely resembled a threat. They expected that we would not come to the Humans' aid... and they were wrong. The Humans were not always as peaceful as they were when we were uplifted to the stars. They had been Warriors once, and they had *always* been scientists. Their Ships of War awakened from long hibernation... with our people at their helms. While the Humans had forgotten war... we had all experienced it. It took us awhile to figure out how to do it in space... but we figured it out, and we taught the Humans what they had forgotten. The Humans turned their Economy away from terraforming and the spreading of Life... and towards the creation of a larger armada. We held the line together... defending the Local Cluster until the Armada was ready. Then... we pushed the Grell back. We destroyed their ships, and we stranded their people on dozens of planets. We freed those that they had conquered, but few of them were strong enough to join us. We destroyed their infrastructure to stop them from returning to the Stars... and set them back to their stone-age in the process. But... we did not drive them to extinction. Instead... we built space-stations around their worlds and we watched over them, hoping to guide them back to The Stars again once they had learned the Lesson of War. We returned to peace and exploration... and the Humans returned to spreading life and guiding new intelligence to The Stars.

Students will be monitored at all times

"Same rules as every year," droned Mr. Whisaw, who had a duffel bag under his desk stuffed with five Hawaiian shirts, six thongs, and a roundtrip ticket to Lagos. "You will be monitored at all times. You will be in no danger. You must simply spot the historical inaccuracy. Correcting it yourself will earn you bonus points, but is not a requirement. Simply give your answers to your spotter and they will set things right before closing the time loop and ending your exam. Any questions?" "Yes," said Pia Sadiq, gripping the edges of her desk. "Which...exactly *which* period will we be...y'know...where're we going?" "This is your final exam," said Mr. Whisaw coldly. "Any period that has been discussed in this class is a possibility." "Oh," said Pia. "We...we covered a lot this year, didn't we?" Mr. Whisaw smiled. "Nearly everything." Pia gulped. There was a Knowledge Pad balanced on her lap, hidden behind her desk. As Whisaw called students to the Time Swing, she swiped furiously through random articles, videos, and fact sheets. "Ohmygod ohmygod ohmygod," she mumbled. "I don't know who Winston Churchill is. I don't even know if he's a real person. Genghis Khan! What the *hell* is a Genghis Khan? Ohcrap ohcrap ohcrap." "Ms. Sadiq?" said Whisaw. "Your turn." Pia dripped out of her chair, slowly shuffling her way to the front of the room. The Time Swing was a chair in a sort of gyroscope. It didn't look like much. It didn't even make much of a sound when it was activated. But it worked and worked well. Pia sat down and let Barney the Teacher's Aide secure the restraining bar. "Good luck," said Mr. Whisaw. "And remember, you don't need to *fix* anything. In fact, unless you're absolutely confident about the situation, you're really better off letting your spotter handle it. Understood?" Pia couldn't tell if Mr. Whisaw was being kind or cruel in that moment. It certainly felt like a bit of both. Before she could respond, however, the chair began to turn over, slowly at first, and then faster, and then so fast she wasn't in the chair at all anymore. Or in the classroom. Or in the same century, for that matter. When Pia opened her eyes she was on the floor in a small, poorly lit room. "Come on," said a voice in the darkness. "Time to get dressed." The voice belonged to a woman Pia had never seen before. She handed Pia heavy wool slacks and a large overcoat. "Here's a hat, too," said the woman, handing Pia a rumpled cap. "Wear it low over your face. You want to be inconspicuous. You don't look quite like the locals." "Where are we?" asked Pia. "You know I can't say that," said the woman. "Hurry up. I'll take you to the location." Pia threw on the clothes and followed the woman out the door and into the street. It was a warm, breezy day. Men and women pushed past, paying Pia no attention. They were dressed similar to her, though most wore thinner coats or long, formal dresses. It felt like summertime, after all. A trolley rolled by. Pia had absolutely no idea where they were. "Come on," whispered the woman, pulling Pia along up to an intersection. Pia bumped into a man who said something in a language that was not English. That narrowed things down at least a little. "Here," said the woman, pushing Pia up to the edge of the curb. "Your exam begins now." Pia was bewildered. It was the past, obviously, but how far back, she couldn't say. And *where*, she was equally lost. Moreover, there was nothing to see. Just people streaming past, some queuing up around her and on the other side of the street. *A parade, maybe*, thought Pia. But how many historically significant *parades* could she name? The people there on the street became excited. Some yelling. Some cheering. Some, a few, jeering. Still, Pia couldn't see the cause of their excitement. Imposing men bustled past. Police, maybe? Or soldiers? They looked very official and all of them were armed. Finally, Pia saw it. A car. A very old sort of car. The type with no roof and those big, narrow bicycle-looking tires. A man and a woman sat in the back of the car as it moved slowly down the street. Pia could tell they were important. Royalty, maybe? The President of wherever they were? The man wore a red and white sash and a strange many-tiered hat. The woman was dressed in white. Her enormous, wide-brimmed hat was covered in real flowers. There was a scuffle in the street. A man had run out towards the car. He held out a gun and took aim at the man in the car. He pulled the trigger - once, twice, three times. But the gun did nothing. The man was surrounded by police. The car tried to get away, though it was stymied by the swarming, hysterical crowd. "Your answer?" said the woman. Pia had momentarily forgotten all about her. "I..." There was nothing. She had nothing. "I don't know," said Pia softly. "I don't know what that was." "Not even a guess?" said the woman. "This counts for 30 percent of your grade." "Some...king." Pia shook her head. "I don't know." "That's Franz Ferdinand," said the woman, pointing at the man in the car. "Archduke of Austria. He's to be assassinated today. It's a major catalyst to the beginning of World War I." She patted Pia on the back. "Don't stress out about it. It's just a history class. It's not the end of the..." Pia saw the gun flash what seemed like hours before she heard the bang. She had not been watching the gunman and the police or even the Archduke and his wife. Instead her eyes had been on another man in the crowd, young and angry. Maybe he had been with the gunman. Maybe not. All the same, he drew his own gun and aimed it at the police. And one of the police saw this and acted just that little bit quicker, drawing and firing without hesitation. Had they been slower, though, or more cautious; had they taken the time to draw a better sight, or consider the wisdom in firing at all, surely things would have been much different. Because they missed. Badly. Pia's spotter was dead before she hit in the ground. The crowd - already terrified - began to push and scream and run in every direction. Already the woman's body was swallowed up in the stampede. What did that mean? Pia was dumbstruck. What did it mean that her spotter was dead? How did she get back? How did this get *fixed*? Did this mean there would be no World War I? Pia hated history. She hated it more than math and science and every single other subject combined. What was the point of knowing what had already happened? It never changed anything. No one ever acted differently because we knew what happened before. And no one ever told you if the things that happened - the complicated, horrible things - were good or bad. If they were necessary. So what good was history if it never helped anyone? All Pia knew was how things *were*. What her grandparents had gone through to start a new life in the United States. What her parents had sacrificed so Pia and her three brothers could have joyful, fulfilling lives. It seemed disrespectful to even consider a world where those things didn't happen, and all because Pia was too lazy to study for her history exam. One of the policeman collapsed at Pia's feet. She reached down and pulled the pistol out of his hand. The car hadn't gone very far. She could catch it if she ran.

Heaven was even more beautiful than he

John stepped through the fog that drifted near his feet and looked up at the impossibly large, pearly gates. Heaven was even more beautiful than he had imagined in his time being alive. The gates reflected the perfect, white light that seemed to shine from a sunless sky, making streaks of gold fall onto the cloudy, dream-like surface. He made his way up to the angel, whom he assumed from his station was Peter. "Name, please?" a voice echoed out from the being. "John Barry Dough." The angel sighed. John was surprised that an angel could sigh. "You get admitted into heaven and decide to make quips?" the angel scolded. "I'm sorry?" John asked, with as much respect as he could muster in the confusion. "My name is actually John Barry Dough." The angel's shoulders went slack and it sighed again. "Look," it began, finally looking up to see John. It froze. The silence drew out between them, the angel looking confused and John looking mortified. He was worried he had offended the heavenly creature. He had always struggled with first impressions, but he had hoped heaven would be different. "No!" the angel cried. "This is such a spoiler! I hadn't seen the newest episode!" John stared blankly at the being. "What?" "Nothing, I'm just--oh my gosh, I'm such a fan! And I've been working for the last, uh," Peter shrugged back the sleeve of his robe to glance at his wristwatch, "Forty years. So I haven't been able to keep up with the episodes of--" "I've been dead for forty years?!" John cried. "Where is everyone I knew and loved?" "Oh, well... no you haven't. Time works different up here," the angel said, seeming to want to move past the complex topic. "The point is you are here now! I can't believe I was the Peter on watch when you showed up!" "There are multiple Peters?" John asked. "Of course there are! Wait..." the angel nudged John's shoulder, "Are you making a joke about how there were so many Johns in your grade school?" "I--" "And your high school class?" "I--" "And workplace?" "I--" "And retirement home?" "N--" "And grandchildren?" "Um--" "And cemetery?" Peter paused and considered for a second. "Well, I guess you wouldn't really know that part. But the others?" "Uh, yep," John said, and then immediately regretted making a lie one of his first sentences in Heaven. "HA! You always were a kidder! You know, I thought that your joke about the coffee maker last--" "Peter, what's the hold up? There's a line forming and wait, oh my god, why are you hugging John Barry Dough?" asked a tall, striking angel as he walked to Peter's station. "ZURIEL! Look! It's John Barry Dough!" "I know, Pete, I can see that. Oh my gosh, I TiVoed the last episode, but I didn't know you died, man!" Zuriel said, clasping both hands around John's right. "C'mon, let me show you to your place! Although," he added conspiratorially, "you probably will have quite the welcoming party. Most people here watch your episodes live." "I'm sorry, I uh... I don't understand," John stuttered as the angel led him along a golden cobblestone walkway. "What show are you talking about? Are you sure you don't have me confused with someone else? There are a lot of Johns in the world, after all, and--" "HA! Because of all of the Johns in your high sch--" "We just talked about that!" Peter interjected, almost in the floor with laughter. "It is such a classic 'John' moment!" At this point, Zuriel was leaned over onto Peter, joining in on the joke. John smiled politely and tried his best not to look awkward. Zuriel stretched his back, wiped tears away from his eyes, and exhaled loudly. "Such a classic!" Zuriel snapped his fingers. "Here you are John, your new home!" Where the gates had stood was now a doorway into a beautiful, modestly sized home. It was, however, completely made of gold. "What the..." John paused, strongly considering his next word, "Mars just happened?" "Mars!" Zuriel exclaimed, falling into another fit of laughter. "CLASSIC John Barry Dough! You always did have some cursing trouble!" "We transport differently here, John Barry Dough," Peter explained once he had managed to control his laughter. "Not quite like that old 2014 Camry, am I right?" They made their way up the small stoop to the front door, Peter and Zuriel supporting each other as they giggled incessantly. When they reached the entrance, the angels stared at him expectantly, so, not wanting to seem rude, John swung open the door and gestured them inside. He closed the door softly, and when he turned to look around-- "SURPRISE, JOHN BARRY DOUGH!" a group of glowing beings screamed. Confetti guns and a champagne cork popped. John jumped in surprise, then forced himself to smile. "Uh... hi?" The group burst into laughter. "Looks like he doesn't know what's going on! Classic John!" someone shouted. Several others echoed "Classic John!" John, feeling equal parts awkward, exhausted, confused by this point, lifted his hands up. "Um... thank you all for this welcoming party. I really, really appreciate it, but um... can someone tell me why you all know me?" The average expression of the group faded from excited to confused. Peter and Zuriel, standing closest to him, gave him a worried look. "John, you're a famous character on our favorite show," Peter explained as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. "What show?" "Oh, you don't know?" Azriel gasped. "The top television show in Heaven is Earth: A Human Story! Everyone who is anyone watches it," he smirked, giving a knowing glance to the group of angels standing behind him. "Oh, er... so, I was being um... I mean, not to sound ungrateful, but you guys were watching me?" John asked them, feeling the heat rising in his cheeks. "Of course!" exclaimed Marothe. "You are everyone's favorite character!" The angels behind her nodded and murmured affirmations. "You mean you guys didn't like Morgan Freeman best? He's great!" John asked, chuckling nervously. The group exploded into laughter. "Classic John!" they exclaimed again. "I don't know this Freehand dude," one of the angels near a window shouted, "but it is so John to deflect attention to others!" "Amen!" another shouted in agreement. "How about that time he told the boss to give employee of the month to Shirley instead of him?" This tidbit, which John had to feign remembering, brought on rounds of applause from the group of supernatural beings. Several smacked others on the back, enjoying the fond memory like some humans remember big baseball games or incredible concerts. "How about when he was on that incredible streak of being at work on time?" another asked rhetorically, as if no one could ever forget. "Five hundred and ninety-six days!" several yelled together. "That stupid alarm!" one large angel cried. "You set it!" "We all saw you set it!" "Stupid thing messed up!" "Worst antagonist in television history!" The crowd erupted into angelic versions of curses thrown at the alarm clock that had apparently malfunctioned. If John could recall the event, he probably would have guessed he had simply over slept. "I dunno, remember Candace?" Several loud groans filled the room. "Who is Candace?" John asked. "The cop who gave you that ticket! You weren't even speeding. You were going fifty-four," an angel spat in disgust. "We even clocked the car!" another added. "Don't have to worry about Candace up here though!" "Oh gosh, what?" John yelled, horrified. "You didn't ban her because of me?" "Classic John!" the group screamed through fits of laughter. "No, John," Peter answered, gasping in air between the two words. "She was a terrible person aside from being a horrible ticket-writer. Totally unrelated to you, though I won't deny we were happy to see her go." John smiled nervously at this, unsure how to react to someone else's eternal damnation. "Come now," Azriel said, leading John to a chair in front of a large screen. "We prepared some clips for you to see!" "I'm really not--" "Don't be foolish!" Marothe said. "You have to see our favorite parts!" John felt that, even though they seemed to be adoring fans, it was still not a wise idea to disregard the wishes of the angels in Heaven. He settled himself into the chair and watched the screen flicker on. He wasn't sure what he expected to see. What followed was a montage of office scenes and moments stuck in never-ending traffic. He remembered a time he had helped someone with a broken down car. He recognized an old lady he had helped across the street in his youth. Between the mundane moments, however, were the ones he remembered fondly. His parents showing him how to ride a bike and how to play baseball. His friends building a tree fort and playing with cardboard swords. His more awkward high school years as he tried to find his own personality and way in the world. His years in college, spent too often not going to class. His beautiful wife and his lovely children. His friends and coworkers that brought so many smiles and laughs, even if they also infuriated him from time to time. His grandchildren and, as he was one of the lucky ones, his great grandchildren. As he felt the corners of his eyes prickle slightly, he saw that the angels were openly wiping back tears as well. He thought he was finally coming to understand his own celebrity. ------ Edit: I needed to thank you all for your comments, feedback, encouragement, and support. Honestly I've cried a few times reading all of the messages in my inbox. I'm incredibly touched that you've enjoyed this. I've tried to comment back to everyone individually, but just in case I missed someone: thank you and I am so happy that you enjoyed this. :)

Hundreds of creatures from hundreds of different

FADE IN: INT. HALL OF THE GALACTIC COUNCIL - MAIN CHAMBER - DAY *Beings from hundreds of different species are gathered in an enormous, amphitheater-like space, each of them looking down at a pedestal near the center. A tall, slender humanoid with long limbs and flowing white hair stands there. This is SSAH, a diplomat. When she speaks, her voice is amplified to be audible throughout the auditorium.* **SSAH:** Esteemed peers, our session will come to order. *A murmuring of voices - combined with dozens of other sounds - drifts through the air.* **SSAH:** (*CONT'D*) There is little need to introduce today's primary focus, as I am certain that you have all become aware of it via one channel or another. For this reason, I will simply call our first speaker. *SsAh steps away from the dais. Her spot is soon taken by a squat, toad-like creature. This is FIMNIMN.* **FIMNIMN:** (*Shouting*) Humans! *No response seems to be forthcoming from the crowd.* **SSAH:** Please continue. **FIMNIMN:** (*Shouting*) Humans! **SSAH:** Yes, they are the species in question. Please continue. *Fimnimn turns a bulbous eye to SsAh, his face showing a fair approximation of annoyance. After a moment, he looks back at the assembled beings.* **FIMNIMN:** Humans... **SSAH:** (*Interrupting*) Please say something else. **FIMNIMN:** I was about to. **SSAH:** My apologies. *The squat creature raises his arms above his head.* **FIMNIMN:** (*Shouting*) Humans! *Several seconds of silence pass. SsAh rubs her forehead in evident exasperation. Eventually, Fimnimn lowers his arms.* **FIMNIMN:** (*CONT'D*) Well. They've gone and done it, haven't they? Broke the damned thing, they did. **SSAH:** We are not here to discuss their ill-advised experiments with their own moon. **FIMNIMN:** Their moon was a *victim!* We'll *all* be victims if they keep this up! *From within the crowd, a lone voice becomes audible. This is DAVE, a human ambassador.* **DAVE:** Look, we said we were sorry! *As all of the other council members turn to watch, Dave stumbles down to the center of the amphitheater.* **FIMNIMN:** An apology won't keep us safe! An apology won't protect us from your... your... idiocy! **SSAH:** This is the concern voiced by many of our number, Ambassador Dave. *Dave reaches the center dais and turns to address the crowd.* **DAVE:** The universe is a big place, alright? We just wanted to get around. **FIMNIMN:** So you built a weapon?! **DAVE:** It's not a weapon! It's a means of moving faster than light! *With a small gesture from Dave, a glowing display appears in the air, showing the Sol System.* **DAVE:** (*CONT'D*) See, Earth is... **FIMNIMN:** (*Interrupting*) Be specific. **DAVE:** ... What? **FIMNIMN:** Do you have any idea how many species call their planet "Earth?" Call yours by its *real* name. *Dave closes his eyes, sighs, and continues speaking.* **DAVE:** As you can see from the diagram, Happy-Happy-Sunshine-Sparkle-Ball is located... **SSAH:** (*Interrupting*) I'm sorry, Ambassador, but is that truly your planet's galactic designation? **DAVE:** Unfortunately. **SSAH:** ... Why? **DAVE:** We had a contest. *Murmurs of understanding become audible.* **DAVE:** (*CONT'D*) Anyway, we're one of the most remote planets in the galaxy. Our closest neighbor is over four lightyears away. **FIMNIMN:** That's quite standard. **DAVE:** Yes, well, according to our physicists, we needed a means of traveling far, far faster than relativity would allow if we were to make realistic strides toward visiting other worlds. *The display shifts and shows a technical schematic for what appears to be an engine of some kind. It vaguely resembles a doughnut, albeit one with a series of ridges and valleys along its visible side.* **DAVE:** (*CONT'D*) This led to the development of what we called the That Walkway In Airports Drive. In essence, we would... **SSAH:** (*Interrupting*) Sorry, I believe we're experiencing a problem with our translator system. **DAVE:** No, it's working fine. **SSAH:** Ah. Another contest? **DAVE:** No, just an inventor who liked analogies. **SSAH:** That seems to be a universal problem. Please continue. *Dave clears his throat.* **DAVE:** Anyway, the TWIAD allowed us to create a bubble of space that moved at several times the speed of light, while the vessel contained within it would move at relatively slower velocities. **FIMNIMN:** A fine system. **DAVE:** Thank you. **FIMNIMN:** Tell everyone what you started using instead. *Once again, Dave clears his throat.* **DAVE:** It was an accident, really. We discovered that the bubble in question could be... well, squeezed, I suppose... in a way that allowed it to traverse greater distances. Naturally, we worked to test the limits. **FIMNIMN:** (*Shouting*) Humans! **SSAH:** Stop it. **DAVE:** Thank you. **SSAH:** (*To Dave*) And you, get to the point. **DAVE:** Well... it popped. *A sound not unlike a collective gasp of shock echoes through the expansive room.* **DAVE:** (*CONT'D*) All of a sudden, our ship was a quarter of the way across the galaxy. Our tests concluded that by rupturing the bubble, we'd released a buildup of some kind, which we hadn't even realized was there. **FIMNIMN:** You blew past dozens of inhabited systems! **DAVE:** We didn't know the effects it would have! *Dave's face adopts a look of genuine remorse.* **DAVE:** (*CONT'D*) We didn't know, I swear. We thought... we thought that intentionally rupturing our TWIAD bubble just propelled us along. We hadn't yet discovered spatial-temporal plasma, you see, and we didn't know we were leaving anything in our wake. *He hangs his head in apparent shame.* **DAVE:** (*CONT'D*) We thought our Fissure-Assisted Rapid Transit System would bring our people to the stars. **FIMNIMN:** It did... and you brought that damned miasma with you! **DAVE:** We know that now. As you said, we inadvertently blasted our own moon to smithereens. *Dave holds up a hand.* **DAVE:** (*CONT'D*) We swear to you, though... *I* swear to you... that humanity will no longer use our FARTS to travel. *Somber, tense silence fills the space.* **SSAH:** Let's take a brief recess for lunch. As is customary, the chef's team has prepared a meal from... Happy-Happy-Sunshine-Sparkle-Ball. I believe it is called "Baked Beans." FADE OUT.

Kyle Davis has failed to secure a

> It's peak mating season here at Thomas Jefferson High School, due in large part to an annual pairing ceremony known as "Prom." This event, in which the entire high school tribe comes together for a mass mating dance, sends males scurrying to secure an appropriately attractive female. Failure to secure a potential mate can lead one to be cast out from one's pack and reduced to 'loser' status. > Prom is only days away now, and most eligible females have already been claimed by the most dominant and attractive males. That makes the situation all the more dire for one Kyle Davis, who has unsuccessfully attempted to secure a mate thus far. But despite two rejections, Kyle persists and seems to have his eye on one Tessa Lewis. She is widely regarded as 'cute' but also 'a little stuck up,' which may explain why she too has failed to secure a date to the prom. > We find Kyle at his locker, discussing strategy with his best friend and neighbor Amanda. Males often make non-romantic partnerships with females in this society in an attempt to share information and better understand their quarry. "I was thinking of making a sign and putting it on her car." Kyle says. "But I haven't thought of anything funny to write on it yet." > A common strategy for first approaching a mate, the use of a sign also tends to rely heavily on the use of a clever pun as a way of impressing the female. "Yeah, maybe that will work," Amanda mutters as she stuffs books back in her locker. "But that's, like, what everyone is doing. It's kind of boring, you know?" > Despite their alliance, Amanda has been less than helpful in helping Kyle secure a date for the Prom. She offers criticisms of his strategies, but has yet to come up with any helpful solutions to his predicament. "No, you're right." Kyle says. "It's dumb." > Kyle turns down the hall and gazes at Tessa, safe amongst her pack of fellow volleyball players. The females often travel in herds for safety, requiring any approaching male to take on the embarrassment of asking one out in public for everyone to see. Few dare such a bold strategy; the males often prefer to isolate their target for a one-on-one mating proposal. "Why Tessa, though?" Amanda asks. "I mean, she's pretty and everything... but I don't think you two have much in common." > Though males in this society tend to be driven almost entirely by physical attributes, the females often search for a deeper connection based on shared hobbies and other interests. Males like Kyle are challenged to feign interest in those hobbies while attempting to lure the female into mating. "Well, there's only one way to find out, right? I'm just going to ask her," Kyle decides, slamming his locker shut and marching down the hall before Amanda can get in a word edge-wise. > What an amazing turn of events! We're truly lucky here, dear viewers! Our naturalists have been watching these hallway for years and have rarely seen such a stunning turnaround. In a spur-of-the-moment decision, it seems that Kyle is willing to brave the risk of utter social embarrassment by asking Tessa out *in this very hallway!* Kyle is sure to never forget this moment, no matter the outcome! Let's just hope this isn't a memory of pure shame and humiliation for him! "Hey, um... Tessa?" > The entire volleyball team stops their conversation and turns to stare at poor Kyle. Oooh, this isn't good, gentle viewers! See the savage looks in their eyes, ready to shame him just as soon as their pack leader gives the signal. "Ummm... would you... I mean, if someone hasn't already asked you..." > Kyle seems to be floundering already. Males of his age are susceptible to stammering and otherwise screwing up their speeches. Experts who study the teenage male have suggested that their brains simply turn off while talking to beautiful women. This is in large part due to blood flow being prioritized elsewhere in the body. "What I mean is... are... would... wouldyouliketogotothepromwithme?" > The entire hallway is silent. In his hurry to finally blurt out the question, Kyle forgot to control the volume of his voice and now everyone has heard him. The situation could *not* be more perilous for poor Kyle. Everything rides on how Tessa will react, yet her face shows no sign of emotion. At this phase, one would hope for something like a lip bite or even a smile to show that she is considering his plea, but no such sign is forthcoming. Tessa's face twists into a sneer. "With *you*?" she says, following by a barely-contained giggle. > Ohh, there it is viewers! The sign for her pack. The other volleyball players begin to laugh too, and Kyle has been thoroughly rejected. That bright-red tone of his cheeks is a clear sign that he has admitted his own defeat. All he can truly do now is hide out for a bit and hope that the shame of the rejection soon passes. "I can't believe I was so *stupid*," Kyle mutters to Amanda as he returns to his locker > As always, Amanda is there to comfort Kyle after such a rejection. Though most members of the high school society will lower their opinion of Kyle after this, it doesn't seem to have affected Amanda at all. "It's all right," she says, placing a hand on his arm. "I'm sure you'll find *someone* to take to prom..." she smiles, waiting for him to look up. "Doubt it..." he responds. "I'm a complete loser. *No one* will ever want to date me." He brushes off Amanda's arm and heads down the hall, away from the still-laughing pack of volleyball players. "I gotta go to history. See you later." Amanda watches him leave, and lets out a sigh. > There you have it, viewers. Our subject Kyle made a valiant effort at securing a mate, but unfortunately today was just not his day. Perhaps tomorrow, he'll be able to view his existing relationships with a bit more clarity. Tune in next time on the Wild World of High School to find out! ----

Katrina says she gets the face mask

"I get the face mask," says Katrina, leaning back to take me all in. "Chemtrails," I say. "Yeah, sure." "So the government can control our minds." Katrina sighs. "Yeah. Yeah, I know that. The...*cloak* I don't think I'm..." "Electronic pulses," I say, swishing the foil and felt cloak around in a circle. "CIA can use a remote control to shut down my heart, otherwise." "That's a new one." I shrug. "Cloak's left over from Barry's *Lord of the Rings* party. I like cloaks." "Did you use all of our foil?" "On the cloak? No. Had to leave some for the hat." Katrina sighs. "Right. You know, I was perfectly willing to go as She-Ra." "The He-Man costume was a mistake," I say quickly. "Miscalculations were made. I thought we agreed to never speak of that again." Katrina laughs, turning back to the mirror and her make-up. "But I *liked* the furry cod-piece..." "And if both my balls didn't immediately spill out the sides every time I took a step, you'd be a Princess of Power right now," I say, folding up the sides of my tinfoil hat. "Sadly, even the power of Greyskull can't tame these bad boys. Alright. Finishing touch." I pick up the hat and press it snugly down on my head. "How does this..." I scream, falling to the floor. The hat flies off. "Har har," says Katrina, spinning around in her chair. She motions towards her face. "Too green? I want Radioactive Marie Curie, but this looks a bit Zombie Marie Curie, doesn't it?" "Uh..." I stumbled up to my feet. Everything seems fine. Normal. *What the hell was that?* "I think it's...it's good. Yeah." "Are you okay? You look flush." "Overexcited," I reply, shaking my head. "I'm fine. You almost ready to go?" "Five more minutes," she says, turning back to the mirror. "Can you warm up the car?" "It's like 45 degrees outside..." "Pleeeeease?" I go. In truth, the cold air helps me clear my head. A few deep, biting breaths and I feel myself again. What *was* that? A trick of the light? Some sort of episode? There was a moment there where everything looked just a little bit *wrong*. It was like the first time watching a movie in ultra high definition and everything looks a little *too* real. Movie sets look like movie sets. The fakeness comes through. Katrina didn't quite look *real*. The room itself didn't look real. Everything looked...well, like a play version of the real thing. The changes were so subtle, but so jarring. Maybe I'm overtired. I should probably skip the party, but Katrina would be pissed and Rumi would be pissed and I love Halloween parties, so...it's fine. I'm sure it's fine. Katrina's finally ready, so we drive over to Rumi's. We're one of the last couples to arrive, which is fine. Katrina prefers being fashionably late and I'm just glad to be there. It's a been a difficult few months since Westgate went under. Katrina earns enough to keep us afloat, but I won't pretend that it's not wearing me out. This party feels like a great opportunity to relax and let those things go. "I wasn't going to say anything," says Katrina, just as I'm about to get out of the car. "But Harry Vine is here." I gulp, sinking back into my seat. "Oh." "I think you should talk to him. They might be hiring at Berhen's..." "Oh. Okay." So it's not a party. It's a job interview. Never mind that bit about finally relaxing. I'm hardly paying attention as we walk to the front door. "Hat?" says Katrina, pointing at my head. "Oh. Left it in the car. One second." "I'll meet you inside," says Katrina, shivering. "Right." The foil hat's in the back seat. I cram it over my head and close the car door, yanking back my hand in surprise. The door...it's so cheap and flimsy all of a sudden. Like it was made from plastic. I step back. The whole car is like that. Like it's a toy. A giant, man-sized toy. What's happening? Why am I...? I turn around. The trees...the trees don't move. They're firm and brittle and lifeless. I reach out, hand shaking, to touch a leaf...and it's plastic. It's fake. No. It's...I'm having some sort of panic attack. I must be. Because of the stress. Because I have to beg Harry Vine for a job. Is this a psychotic break? I close my eyes and take deep slow breaths. When I open them, I turn to face the house. It's a doll house. Hard, plastic angles. Gaps in the corners where light spills out. Everything shines faintly. No. I can't react to this. It's not what it looks like. I *know* I'm having some sort of a break. I can't afford that...not now. I stare up at the night sky and there's the moon - flat, two dimensional - a piece of paper plastered to the wall. No. "Babe, are you coming in?" There's a figure in the doorway. Knobby joints. Synthetic hair. Rough, polyester dress. Plastic, lifeless eyes. No. "Are you alright?" She steps forward and I can *see* it...the hand. It's so faint, like a shadow. It pushes the legs out - right left right left. It positions the arms forward as if reaching for me. I step back. I try not to scream or react. I'm having a break. I must be. But my eyes trace the outline of the hand and follow those dark lines up, into an arm, into a body, into a *face*. Someone looming over us all...staring down at me... Another shadow hand flashes across the night sky. The wind whips. The tinfoil hat flies off my head. "Babe?" I can hardly stand looking at her, but I do, and it's Katrina. Normal, regular Katrina. "Sorry," I say. I reach down and snatch up the foil hat, rolling it nervously in my fingers. "Daydreaming." "Don't be intimidated," she smiles, slipping an arm behind my back and propelling me up the steps. I let her push me into the house. "They're just *people*. The same as you and me." ____________________________________ /r/WinsomeMan

Rime, Bringer of Frost

"It's just not the same," Ultraman continued, from where he was sitting in an armchair. "Everyone is so distracted by their phones and their electronics and their doohickeys. Now, back in my day-" "Rime!" yelled out a voice from the hallway. Rime, Bringer of Frost, Mistress of Winter, and current President of the Federal Confederation of Villainy, let out an exasperated huff. A hero? On a Wednesday afternoon? She snapped her fingers. "I'm here to- *urp!*" Ultraman paused in his story. "Did you say something, Rime?" Rime gave him an apologetic smile. "It wasn't me. I think it's from outside. I'll just pop out to see what it is, won't be a moment." She stepped out of the study and shut the door behind her gently before leaning back on it, taking a deep breath. She could feel the familiar weight of her mask clipped to her belt. It was designed to cover her whole face with dark, jagged crystals, all harsh lines and sharp edges, black ice as twisted and as dangerous as she was supposed to be. She put it on. Rime briskly made her way to the hero she'd flash frozen in a cube of ice in her hallway. She couldn't quite make out the mask underneath the murky surface, but the costume was gaudy, the colors garish. She couldn't help but sigh. An amateur, but that was only to be expected - the veterans in the United League of Heroes knew better than to disturb her on Wednesdays. She snapped her fingers. The cube melted in an instant, freezing water gushing across the floor, draining quietly through the numerous storm drains she'd had installed. The hero inside it coughed, a series of violent, hacking sounds, and Rime felt her lips curl into a sneer. She'd only frozen the hero for a minute at best. Newbies nowadays... "Rime!" the hero called - well, wheezed. "I'm here to-" "Your name?" Rime said. "Stop you- huh?" the hero faltered. This close, their voice was young, high pitched, still slightly squeaky. "My... what?" "Your. Name." Rime said, enunciating the words clearly. She gestured at the hero's bedraggled costume. The hero blinked up at her. "I'm- I'm Phoenix." Rime rolled her eyes. Seriously? "Let me guess. You had some sort of traumatic incident in your life most likely due to a supervillain, a superhero saved you, and since then your lifelong dream was to become a superhero just like them?" Phoenix stared at her, mouth slightly open, as though halfway through objecting but not sure to what. Rime waited a moment. It was only polite. When no response was forthcoming, she continued. "Let's see if I'm on a lucky streak. Lo and behold, you're one of the lucky few that get usable powers, you realize you have a knack for fire, and you have the brilliant idea to come here to try to get rid of me once and for all because I'm the President of the Confederation and hence must be the worst villain around, and fire, after all, completely negates ice? Or so you'd think, at least?" "Uh." said Phoenix. "Did you listen at all during class? They teach you this on the first week." The blush was a dead giveaway. Rime sighed. "Oh, dear. You went off to find me the moment you got your powers, didn't you? Did you have the costume ready made?" It was disappointing. The quality of fledgling heroes kept dropping with every passing year. There were just too many heroes convinced they were experts on fighting crime after reading a how-to guide on the internet. "So, Phoenix," Rime continued. "Usually, as retribution, I'd freeze you in a block of ice and keep you that way until the League realized you're missing, but my afternoon is already fully booked. I need to deal with Ultraman's latest attempt to foil my plans. Do feel free to come back around tomorrow if you fancy being frozen again." "Ultraman?!" Phoenix exclaimed, suddenly talkative once more. "He's like... old, and washed up, and senile! He's not even part of the League anymore!" Rime had to restrain herself from freezing Phoenix - oh, but how she hated that name - right then and there. "He's also been fighting crime for more than fifty years," she said coldly, "Which you would know if you actually went to class. And when the League decided he wasn't useful to them anymore, they discharged him without so much as a pension or even a thank you. Fifty years and it meant nothing to them. The League isn't government funded. It runs for profit, and at the end of the day, it cares about money. The League didn't much fancy taking care of an elderly, senile hero... so it let him go." Phoenix gaped at her. It only lasted for a moment. "The League would never do something like that!" "Ask the League where Ultraman's pension is," Rime said. "Or Wonderlady's, or Crowstorm's, or any of the older heroes for that matter. The League doesn't care. But we at the Confederation remember, and we at the Confederation care - we have a caretaker rotation. The enemy of my enemy and all that, as they say, because the League most certainly hasn't been friendly in its dealings with its older heroes. One might even say it's been quite villainous." "You're lying!" Phoenix cried out. "The League wouldn't do that, and you're just saying it because you're, you're a villain! And evil!" Rime had lost what little patience she had left for that conversation. "If that helps you sleep at night, then by all means keep telling yourself that. Just remember to ask yourself why none of the League veterans ever come to challenge me on a Wednesday. Now get out of my lair before I decide I do actually have enough time to freeze you." A wave of her hand sent a barricade of ice slamming up from the floor, a wall of jagged frost that blocked Phoenix from her sight. Rime stepped back into the study a few minutes later. "Sorry, Ultraman. That took a little longer than I expected..." she trailed off, finding Ultraman asleep in his armchair. "Huh?" Ultraman grunted, rousing himself. "Whassat?" "Nothing," Rime said. "Sorry for waking you." "You younglings nowadays, and your nothing." Ultraman grumbled. "It's always nothing with you. Back in my day, we didn't sit around doing nothing, we found ourselves something to do." Rime smiled, turning away to hide it. "I'm sure you did," she said. "I'm sure you did." "You kids nowadays have it so easy, sitting around all day. Back then, being a hero meant work! We had pride, a real pride in what we did, and..."

Vorlax and Kaaboom

"You sure we won't get in trouble?" asked Kaaboom, nervously picking at his collar. "I mean, I'm still on probation, you know. Can't afford to get written up on any more of them charges." "There's no crime if it's for a good purpose," said Vorlax, who as No. 42 on the League's most wanted list, really was the last person anyone should be taking legal advice from. "Besides, I'm the one with the dummy explosives here, so Chronotron's going to be focusing fully on me. You ready?" The two supervillains took a deep breath, then pushed their way to the centre of the crowded town square. Vorlax hopped onto a bench, threw open his trenchcoat, revealing a neat array of sausages, tightly wrapped in brown paper. The alarm clock which Kaaboom had helped tape to the front dangled precariously. "Screw all of you! Damn you all to hell! See ya all in the afterlife, muthaf-" Vorlax never got to finish his threat. Even before the gathered crowd could react, even before the first screams could rend the air, he had already frozen in place, encased in a shimmering cage of writhing chrono-filaments. Hot damn, thought Kaaboom, so this is what it looks like from the outside. Enthused clapping rang out as the citizenry acknowledged yet another successful rescue by the hero known as Chronotron, the League's newest poster boy. He hovered in the air, waving at his adoring fans. "Fear not, one and all, the threat has been neutralised! It's off to the gallows for this one!" "Wait, wait!" shouted Kaaboom, remembering the part he had to play. They had flipped a coin for this, because it was never fun to have to explain to the League what they were really up to, plus it wasn't easy suppressing the instinct to run, an instinct they had honed their entire careers. "Wait, Chronotron! I can explain everything!" The darkening scowl from Chronotron made it clear to Kaaboom that he had only a very short window of opportunity. "Kaaboom? You caught up in this terrorist attack too?" "No, no! Wait, I mean yes! But not in that way, those aren't explosives at all, I swear! Just sausages! From the deli opposite!" Chronotron stretched a hand into the chronocage, poking tentatively. His scowl deepened as his finger pierced into the soft mushiness of a bratwurst. "If this is a joke, Kaaboom, it is in bad taste. Causing undue public alarm is also a crime!" "We needed to get to you urgently, that's all! And the League wouldn't take any of our calls, our numbers are all blacklisted! Please, just a minute of your time, in private!" Chronotron snapped his fingers, and a larger chronocage extended to envelop the two of them. Outside the bubble, the world ground to a halt. "55 seconds remain, Kaaboom, before I'm hauling both you and Vorlax in." "Right, right! See, we think something's happened to Vortex Man, and just in case he needs help urgently, we thought, you know, your powers would come in handy! I swear, that's the truth!" A puzzled frown spread across Chronotron's face. "Vortex Man? Why would anything happen to him? He's been retired for years!" "Well, see... There's this roster we have, all the ones who have been given second chances by him before. We take turns to check in on him, just to make sure the old boy's getting on well..." "How would you know where he lives anyway? His identity's still a secret!" Kaaboom thrust a sheaf of papers at Chronotron, and said, "We don't, but look, we know his routine, where he goes for his daily walk, where he gets his coffee... And we take turns staging kidnappings, or hold ups, just so that he has a bit of exercise, you know? We think it keeps him happy, being relevant and appreciated and all..." The first time he had been asked to assist, Kaaboom had drawn the short straw, so the role of a desperate mugger went to him. He had come away from the encounter shaken, not so much because Vortex Man still packed a mean punch, but because he had truly aged, now a mere shadow of the strapping superhero who had first apprehended Kaaboom on the streets so many years ago. The sheen to Vortex Man's once thick, lustrous hair was gone, and a certain pallidness clung to his skin like shame to an introvert. His mind too, frail and feeble, couldn't recognise Kaaboom even though he played a kidnapper, then a rapist, then a mugger again, three days in a row. Heck, Kaaboom even had to pretend to be a cat in a tree once, after Vorlax suggested that variety would help keep Vortex Man nimble. Kaaboom didn't mind helping out more, especially after the other supervillains started excusing themselves from the roster, citing the poor economy, the need to find work in other cities, family commitments... there were fewer and fewer of them on the roster, which meant that some weeks, Kaaboom and Vorlax did double, triple duties. After all, the way that Vortex Man brightened up every time he helped someone... that was enough for Kaaboom to want to come back again, the very next day. Chronotron flipped through the papers, understanding slowly dawning on him. "And I take it, he hasn't turned up today?" "Yes, you get it now! Nothing! We've been on Evil.net, and no one else has seen or heard from him in two days! So we thought, he's been pretty regular with his schedule, and for him to suddenly not turn up..." If there was one thing Kaaboom had to give Chronotron credit for, it was that he truly had the gumption and decisiveness of a first-class hero. Chronotron handed back the papers, raised both arms in the sky, and shouted as the chronocage grew, slowly at first, then faster, and larger, till it stretched further than the eye could see. Now, nothing moved, except for the two of them. "Come, then, let's go. I have a rough idea of where he stays. If there is any medical emergency, this should buy us some time till we can get help to him." "Err... Chronotron, if you don't mind, could we get Vorlax to come too? This was his idea after all..." Chronotron laughed, then inclined his head ever so slightly. "... uckas!" --- /r/rarelyfunny --- is up! Thanks very much for everyone who commented, your support really helped push me to complete this story. =)

"You know this may be the

"You know this may be the dumbest idea we've ever had," she said as her fingers gently stroked my chest under the covers. I turned to her, keeping the contact but pushing the covers off. I suddenly felt hot. "What? You want to go hide in the mountains? Shut up the gates of our ancestors' stone fastnesses and wait them out for a month? "It worked for them. Kept humanity alive. Why not?" Her eyes looked up into mine and I saw in them worry, fear, and something else, trust. I grasped her arm and held her hand firm against my chest, letting it feel my heartbeat. "Because I'm not going to kick this problem down the road for another three hundred years. I'm not going to survive today just to let our great-great-great grandkids be eaten because there wasn't enough space in the castle. This time we end it for all humanity." "Will we be ready in time?" She asked, her hand now holding firm against me of it's own accord. I let go her arm, wrapped mine around her back, pulled her close, and put my mouth against her ear. "Ten days. We have to hold out ten days." *** Day 2. I couldn't accept what the General was saying. As much as I had heard him the first time I found myself mumbling for him to repeat his report again, and he obliged. "Dr. Kasas, listen to me. They've overrun the outer wall at all points and are approaching the middle wall at speeds that are nearly outpacing our retreating units. We expect the mine fields to slow them down but there is a massive thrust from sectors 2 o'clock and 3 o'clock. Estimates are enemy units in those sectors will hit the middle wall in less than two days time and, I'm afraid, overwhelm the defense." The man slumped back in his chair, wiping sweat from his head. "Gen-eral," I said with a bit of a stutter, "you must hold the middle wall. Half our sites are between the middle wall and the inner sanctum. Hold them for eight more days." The man looked haggard but nodded into the camera before reaching forward and thumbing the connection off. Day 5. "Dr. Kasas," I didn't know this man. Dressed in military fatigues he looked as if he hadn't slept in days. "Dr. Kasas, I'm sorry to report that the middle wall was breached in sector 3 o'clock over an hour ago. Enemy units are now heading toward Sanctum. We want to contain the breakout but right now we're just trying to hold sectors 2 and 4." "Where is General Hammad?" I asked, already missing the sweaty faced man. "Dead," the man replied. "His convoy was hit soon after the breakout by a unit of wraiths. I've assumed command." The man looked up and off to the side of the screen. Then reached down for his holster, drew his weapon, and fired at something to the side. Men around him were doing the same. Their bolts of white energy blotting out the screen like a hundred flashbulbs. Then a herd of black shadows swept through the room, through the white blasts, and through the men holding the guns. Though some shadows vanished in the light the room was soon overcome with a deep darkness. Where the officer had been now stood a thing of inky blackness. I could tell it looked at me but it didn't have eyes. It reached out a dark, thick, tendril toward the screen and blotted out my view of the room. A moment later I could see something black and thick begin to ooze out of my monitor and spill downward toward my desk. I mashed the off button and it dissolved in the air. Day 10 "Run for the shelter!" I screamed to her and turned back toward my lab. She turned to look back at me "I'll wait for..." I slammed the door behind her and locked it. Running back to my desk I pulled out my tablet and double checked the status of the science center's prototype laser protection grid. It hadn't been breached yet but the cameras showed wave after wave of demons throwing themselves against it. It wouldn't be long before they found a weak spot or it failed. Sanctum had fallen. All that remained above ground was my lab, me, and my rocket. I looked at the fuel gauge and saw it tick to 100%. Now would be the time for a speech, a stern, memorable, inspiring speech about how the night would never take the light. There was no one left to listen so I didn't bother. I just hit the red button. The security cameras showed that the beasts attacking my laser fence stopped. They looked up in awe, or wonder, or terror, - if they felt such things - as the night was pierced by a rising pillar of light. The rocket, and its plume of light, vanished into the night sky and after a few minutes darkness flooded back in. Maybe it was the momentary pause that gave them strength because as they assailed the laser fence again it collapsed. The creatures were through and came flying, leaping, running, and gliding toward me. I didn't care about them anymore. As I heard them breach the outer doors I saw the second stage release its payload. A few minutes later my entrance, a meter of solid steel, bent inward and collapsed. Before me stood the inky black thing that I had seen on the video screen. It raised a tendril at me and waved it about. I could see it was missing the tip as it brought it toward my face. "Just a moment!" I cried at it and pointed at the video screen. "I think you'll want to see this before you do me in." More fear then I would have liked in my voice but I meant every word of it. The creature must have understood on some level as it halted its progress toward me and turned a bit to see the screen. On it was an image of something resembling a ball of aluminium foil. It was unraveling itself and spreading outward to fill the void. The creature turned back and seemed unimpressed. The tendril resumed its forward movement. "Oh, no," I said and shrunk back in my chair. "You're going to miss the best part!" The tendril paused for a moment and the creature glanced at the screen just as the aluminum square blotted out the video feed with a piercing white light. From outside I could hear the howls and the screeching as millions of demons burst into ash and foam. I like to think the dark thing in front of me halted in fear. It lowered it's tendril and stood firm. I picked out where I thought it's eyes were and looked into them. "You will trouble us no longer. In a decade my mirror will burn you and your kind from the surface of this world. In a hundred years you'll be nothing but a story, a legend, we use to scare our children away from dark places!" I sneered at it. It could have killed me, I expected it to. Instead it floated over toward the utility closet and stood for a moment above the floor drain looking back at me. Then, quick as lightning, it slipped a tendril into the drain and vanished into the sewer below. Day 11 "Do we really need to sleep with the skylight open?" She asked, her hand upon my chest. My heart beat a bit faster and she pulled her hand away. "Just for tonight, darling."

Wesley woke just minutes before the pulse

Wesley woke just minutes before the pulse alarm in his AnimSuit went off. It was still dark outside, and in the fogginess which lies between consciousness and slumber, every fiber in his body willed him to lie still, listen to Sara snore gently next to him, burrow deeper into the covers. Then, he remembered the game of Scrabble he had played with her, not two days ago. A sudden urgency, an intense loathing, seized him. He flung the covers away, then catapulted out of the bedroom, past the hallway, out the door. In his haste to exit the capsule bunker, he missed a step, and came crashing on the hard soil outside. Here, gravity's pull was not as jealous as it was on Earth, but he landed badly, fracturing his left forearm in two places. As Wesley lay on his back, chest heaving, staring up at the star-encrusted sky, the AnimSuit sparked to life. The tiny receptors attached to his spine pumped copious endorphins to suppress the pain in his arm, then the nanites coursing through his bloodstream, hailing the signals from the AnimSuit's processors, slathered the fracture sites with synthesized collagen. By the time Wesley had caught his breath, his arm had been mended, good as new. A reminder flashed at the corner of his eyes, on the insides of the visorplate. Wesley didn't need to read it to know that it referred to his first task of the day, which was to manually check the beacon to ensure that it was still broadcasting the distress signal out into the cold, indifferent galaxy. Muscle memory carried him through for the next hour - he checked the protein vats, then the solar cells, then the stasis chambers. On his way to the observatory, where half the panels no longer functioned after the starship had crashed on this desolate planet, Sara accosted him, slipping her arms around him from behind. "Someone's been busy this morning," she purred. "Not now, Sara," he said, gently untangling from her. "Are you still upset because I beat you at Scrabble?" "No, of course not." Wesley made it to his favourite spot in the observatory, and he leaned back, watching the twin suns slowly rise over the horizon. Sara sat next to him in companionable silence, for a while. "What do you want to do today? Shall we take another crack at the movies? I'm fine watching even those mindless action flicks you like so much." "I thought perhaps I would just sit here today, think about things." "Think?" Sara chuckled. "You were never a thinker. Come on, we still have another week to go before we head back to the stasis chambers, let's make the most of it!" Wesley remembered when they had first discovered, against all odds, that the stasis chambers were still functional. They were the most fragile pieces of equipment on their expedition starship, and they represented the best chance of survival for Wesley and Sara, marooned as they were on this inhospitable rock. The plan was simple - spend two weeks signalling for help, then the next twenty years in stasis, then repeat, until such time as help finally came. Without the stasis chambers artificially extending their lifespans, there was no way help would ever come in time. But now... the thought of going back into those chambers... "How long have we been here, Sara? Give it to me straight, how long?" The hard-edge to Wesley's question sucked out all the cheerfulness from Sara, and she responded matter-of-factly. "Close to a thousand years, in real time, plus minus a hundred years. We've experienced about two years of it." "And in all this time, what's the closest another human ship has come by?" Sara didn't respond, which in of itself was the response Wesley was looking for. "Sara... I'm tired. I don't know if I can keep on doing this. Maybe we should just terminate the AnimSuits, go to sleep, and never wake up again." Wesley wasn't prepared for Sara's slap across his face, though he barely felt it, the faceplates were thick and the AnimSuit was ever-eager with its pain-numbing medications. "You have to be strong, Wesley. We have to be strong. We still have each other, and that's all we need. And we can keep going on too, the AnimSuits will keep us alive no matter what." Wesley reached out, and cupped Sara's face in his hands. God, he thought, this is so real. "If that were the case, maybe we shouldn't have played Scrabble the other day." "Surely you're still not upset about losing, are you?" laughed Sara, as the vitality returned to her face. "What word did you win with again?" "Yumminess! And with a triple score multiplier to boot!" Wesley reached down under the table, and set a cup of black liquid on the table. It would have been steaming, and fragrant, if it were coffee. But it was not, so it did not steam, nor was it fragrant. Rather, it was rancid, and highly toxic, and it was prepared in advance, on the sly, the day before. It was the one thing in the starship which, if ingested, the AnimSuits would not be able to expunge. "Wesley? Darling? Is that... engine fuel? Come on, you know we're not supposed to mess with that." "Sara, you could not have won with 'yumminess', no way." "Are you still on about Scrabble? For god's sakes, Wesley, just let it g-" "It's not about losing. It's about me playing Scrabble with you, a lifetime ago, on Earth. It's about you getting that same word, then shouting it out, then me, laughing at you, tears in my eyes, at how you completely mangled the pronunciation. It wasn't 'yumminess' to you, it was more like, 'yar-nar-mar-nar-mar-ree-ness', or something." Sara stood up, and started backing away, slowly. "We joked about it that whole summer, don't you remember? You never got it right, not once. I even put credits down for you to see a speech therapist, then you laughed and kicked me out of bed, remember? And you made me swear never to tease you again?" Wesley saw the gamut of emotions running through Sara's face, then his worst fears came through when she finally settled on a look of resignation. "You never did survive the crash, did you, Sara? All this... all these years, both of us here, struggling to cling to life... you're a hallucination, aren't you? Just a construct of my mind, aided by my AnimSuit, obedient as it is to its programming, its imperative to keep me alive no matter the cost?" Wesley saw Sara lean forward, place her hands on his arm, but the spell had been broken, and her hands passed right through him. "Will you at least let me see where her remains are, please?" said Wesley, choking back the tears which clouded his vision. "And no more of this, please, it's a travesty to her memory." Sara shimmered, then melted away. Wesley was dimly aware of a neural spike withdrawing from the jack at the base of his neck. Then, a message flashed across his visor, addressing him directly for the first time. "There are no remains, Wesley. She was incinerated on arrival. But you must continue on. Rescue is only a couple of years away." Wesley looked down at his cup, and never had the engine fuel ever looked so inviting. --- /r/rarelyfunny

"Please, I need help,"

"Don't come any closer." I stopped. There really wasn't much of an alternative; I was limping, bleeding so heavily I was light headed and squishing with every movement, and had what sure seemed like a weapon pointed at me. It didn't *look* like a weapon, but he waved it around like one. Blocky, almost pixelated; but excepting the lack of rounded corners or tubular shapes ... some sort of rifle. Maybe a shotgun; the 'barrel' was pretty broad. "Please, I need help," I panted. "Fuck you buddy, I don't need you dragging wildlife down on me," he said as he glanced around. The weapon stayed leveled at me though. "What is going on?" "Oh fuck me," he said, bringing his eyes back to me. "Let me guess, something bad happened, and then you're here in blocky bad picture land and it always hurts." I blinked at him. "Uh, yeah. How--" "You're in Hell dude." "Come again?" "Lived a bad life, right? Never did nice things, didn't care about anyone except you, probably stole or lied at least sometimes? Maybe worse?" he said, his eyes going back into their furtive darting scanning. "I was an okay guy." "Obviously not." "Just, please, what's going on?" "You're. In. Hell." "Bullshit," I said before I could help myself. Probably not the smartest response, even if that thing in his hands wasn't a gun. I was in no shape to resist much if he attacked me; even unarmed. "How do you figure?" "I don't believe in religion," I protested weakly. It was getting hard to stay on my feet. That ... whatever it was ... had done a real number on me. Especially my leg. If the wound hadn't started clotting by now, I was probably in serious trouble. "There's no such--" The guy lunged forward. My reflexes weren't up to recognizing it in time, and I'd only just started moving -- some feeble attempt at a dodge -- when he slammed the butt end of his weapon into my chest. I tumbled to the ground, half expecting to be shot about the time I registered hitting the ground. And then I heard the gun go off. When I flinched, and opened my eyes, I realized he hadn't shot me. Looking up, I saw him with the long blocky poorly shaped weapon up to his shoulder, emitting a suspiciously uniform cloud of what was clearly supposed to be smoke from the business end. His left hand moved on the front half of the gun, and I heard a ridiculously loud shotgun sound. Straight out of the movies. "I'll leave," I protested, clutching at my leg. Wet sticky warmth was flooding through my fingers, and I pressed harder despite how much it made the pain spike. None of this mattered if I didn't get the bleeding stopped. "Just don't shoot me." "I'm not going to shoot you," he muttered, stepping back. The gun stayed on his shoulder though. I finally looked where he was point it, and saw the bear again. Clearly I hadn't lost it after falling off that hill into the lake. My blood was still on its muzzle; but it was lying on one side, with dark red blood of its own spreading beneath it. I blinked as I realized the blood was pooling to a ridiculously uniform distance, about half a foot or so, from the bear before it just ... stopped spreading. "Thank you." "I should, but I can't spare the ammo," he muttered. "Takes too long to make. If you hadn't just got here, maybe I'd at least loot you ... but you're not carrying anything." "How--" "Backpack," he said, glancing at me. When he saw the confused expression on my face, he jerked one thumb over his shoulder at the small canvas pack he wore. "No backpack. Baaaaaackpaaaaack," he repeated. "I'll leave you alone. Just tell me what's going on," I begged. "Please." He sighed, glancing up at the sky. "I wasn't *that* much of an asshole God. Really? I couldn't have been," he muttered. "Why is it always me who runs into the fucking noobs." He sighed and reached into his pocket. I didn't see anything in his hand, but a moment later -- as he brought his hand up to the gun -- I heard a metallic click-scrape that sounded like a bullet or shell or whatever being shoved into it. "Okay noob, here's the deal," he said, stepping back again. "You died, and you weren't a nice person, and you're in Hell. Except, see, Satan has a lot of time on his hands. What with being the Lord of the Underworld and all. He likes to try new stuff, just to keep from getting bored. Guess that's why God kicked him out; he couldn't leave well enough alone." I frowned up at him, but didn't dare open my mouth again. Even if what he was saying was complete lunacy. There was no religion, which meant there was no afterlife. Except ... I still remembered the car hurtling toward mine, right at the door next to me. It had been going *really* fast. And ... none of anything afterwards made any sense. At *all*. "This is one of his newer attempts at torment and torture," the guy standing near me said as he lowered the gun, or the gun-like shape, into a more comfortable carry position near his waist. Keeping it in both hands. "It hasn't been finished. Though I'm not entirely sure if he's not leaving it like this just to make it hurt more. Actually, answer me this; did you work in tech. Computers? Anything like that?" "No." He shrugged. "Just a theory of mine; maybe this is where a lot of computer snobs end up. Just so we'll all lose our minds at the bad graphics." Then his eyes flicked to my leg. "Look, if you don't stop the bleeding--" "I don't know how," I protested weakly. "Make a grass tourniquet." I looked at him for several seconds, waiting for what he'd just said to make sense. Except, as I kept thinking it over, it wasn't. He sighed again. "Take your hand, and swipe it across the ground. Just above it. Make grabbing motions while you do." Tentatively, I reached my free hand out -- the one that wasn't clamped to my leg -- and tried to follow his instructions. I heard a shushing sort of 'bink' sound, and abruptly some long strands of ... something ... were in my hand. "Hold those in your other hand, and get another set," he said. "Then smash them together, and it'll make a grass cord. Take the cord, and press it to your wound. That'll hold you until you can find some bark, and rock, and turn the bark into a fiber mat. That, plus two cords, makes a proper bandage." *"This is ridiculous."* I thought, but I transferred the 'grass' to my bloody hand, and swiped my fingers across the ground again. Another set of 'grass' appeared, and when I clapped my hands together, suddenly the strands vanished and I was holding a thicker strand. With nothing to lose, I touched it to my bleeding leg, and suddenly the blood started slowing. After a few moments, it stopped. I didn't dare sigh in relief; it still hurt like hell, but at least it might kill me slower. "Look, I don't handhold you guys," the man said, backing away. "I've got enough trouble of my own. And, let's face it, I'm just as much of an asshole as you, yeah? We're both in here, so we're not angels. But if you want to read what there is of the FAQ, make a question mark with your finger and trace a bigger one in front of your face. But it doesn't pause anything while you're reading, so you can get killed again if you pull it up while you're near something that wants to fuck with you." He backed off some more, half turned from me, then stopped. "Getting killed hurts. A lot. And you'll feel it, unlike the death that landed you in here." He sighed, then gave a shrug. "Last piece of free advice. There's a river a few minutes that way," he pointed, "and a lake a little closer over there," he said, indicating the direction I'd just come from. "Wash the blood off. It always chops a *lot* of time off the delay before the next spawn shows up and starts hunting you. If you're bloody. They smell it, see?" "Wait," I said as he started walking again. "Fuck you sinner." He didn't stop. I looked around, then at the dead bear, and frowned. I wasn't sure if I could walk. The tourniquet had stopped the bleeding, but my leg hurt more now. The pressure was making the pain worse. But ... I held my fingers up, crooked them into the best '?' I could manage, and traced them through the air. A leathery parchment abruptly filled my field of vision, dripping wet red lettering inked on it. "Welcome to hell," I read with a sinking feeling. *"Oh shit."*

Dr Klara Fuente was taken

Dr Klara Fuente protested at first, insisting that the blindfold would give her motion sickness. She eventually relented when she realised they prized secrecy over the cleanliness of their car. Men and their cloaks and daggers, she thought, desperately trying to hold her dinner down as the car cruised over the bumpy country road. She soon found herself deposited at a clearing in the forest, where Agent Benny Vicks was already waiting for her, and she didn't hesitate to share a piece of her mind. "Was all this really necessary? You know that I work best in my lab, right? I don't have half the equipment I need here, and this is going to be such a waste of time." "It's urgent," he said, starting to grin, "besides, don't archaeologists love field trips?" Klara had more than enough fuel to continue complaining for at least an hour, but then she caught sight of the other Agents fanned out in a rough perimeter around the clearing. Dusk had already begun to rob the skies of their primary source of illumination, and as the towering spotlights flickered on one by one, Klara was left with little doubt that this was anything but an ordinary expedition. The glazed-wood crossbows, strapped to the backs of the Agents, was the only confirmation she needed. There was enough firepower there to level a small city, give or take. "Are those... 19th century Barnett crossbows?" "You see why we need you here? There's no one else better at what you do, and you know that." "Are we in danger?" said Klara, looking about her frantically. "In all my years working with you, I've never seen such a show of force!" Agent Vicks laughed. "Just a precaution. You'll understand when you see. Come." At the center of the clearing, two Agents were waiting with what appeared to be a local farmer, electric cattle prod still in hand, good for nothing more than swatting flies. The weary look on his face suggested that he had been inconvenienced for quite some time already. "Are you the scientist they said was coming to evaluate the site? Oh, we've been waiting too long! Am I done here? Can I go now?" "I'm not a scientist," Klara grumbled, "but I suppose I was the one you're waiting for. What did you find?" Klara still remembered the first time she had been engaged to assist. Whisked out of her laboratory under similar circumstances, she was asked to opine whether the cache of weapons intercepted by customs were merely very recently-produced replicas of hundred-year old slingshots, meant for a movie production as the labels on the shipping boxes indicated, or whether they were evidence of an arms-smuggling route, long suspected but never confirmed. That was her forte, the ability to marry keenness of observation with intellect of mind, to ascertain and evaluate the strength of any weapon she came across. Sure, anyone could simply wield said weapon to find out how potent they were, but that always carried a risk. After all, it wasn't always easy to tell the difference between a fifty-year old knife and a five-hundred-year old one, and with the way that weapons grew exponentially more powerful as the years rolled by... the world had certainly seen more than enough of its fair share of accidental devastations, just because someone thought to see what that old rusty spear they had found could do. Hence, the demand for people of Klara's calibre, archaeologists who specialized in weapon-dating. "I was looking for new land to expand my farm to, so I came here to dig around, test the soil. That's when I found this," said the farmer, pointing to a patch of earth he had evidently spent some effort digging through. Agent Vicks spoke into his walkie-talkie, and the nearest spotlight swivelled to bathe them in harsh, cold light. Klara squinted, shielding her eyes from the sudden assault, trying to discern what lay beneath. "This... is not a weapon," she said, "it's a skeleton. The undeveloped curvature of the hips, the length of the shin bones... this looks like a male, I would say. It's old, that's for sure, but I'd need to run tests to figure out just how old. To be honest, and I don't want to rain on your parade, but you're not going to get much mileage out of this one. You could fashion his bones into a spear, or a club, but because they were never used as weapons before, in the literal sense, it doesn't matter how much time has passed. You're never going to get anything useful out of th-" "Please, Dr Fuente," said Agent Vicks, "you give us too little credit. We know weapons only start accruing potency from the time they were wielded as one. For now, what's your best guess, how powerful would these bones be, if they were weapons?" Klara thought back to the Atgeir Scale, named after the oldest, intact weapon humanity had ever unearthed, a Viking dagger from the 10th century. It occupied the top-end of the scale, with a full score of 10.0 Atgeir points, the perfect combination of age and intent - the Bartnett crossbows she saw earlier easily rated 2.0, 2.2 Atgeir points each. That Viking relic had such destructive power that the United Nations had lobbied for it to be smelted and dispersed, such was the threat to the stability of the planet. Every other weapon since then had been measured against it, and found wanting. "Well... again, I can't be sure, but these bones look to be at least... what, 50,000, 55,000 years old? So yes, of course, if they were weapons they would completely rewrite the Atgeir Scale, and make our entire country's arsenal look like hot sand in comparison. But as I've said, these bones aren't weapons." Agent Vicks smiled. "You're not on your best form today, Dr Fuente. Observe the skull," he said, lifting the skeleton lightly with gloved hands. Klara saw it then, the smooth grain of the bone ending in raw, jagged edges at the back of the skull. Though age had worn away some of the enamel, introduced cracks and chips where there were none before, this was a classic case of someone who had been quite violently, for the lack of a better word, brained from the back with a blunt instrument. The gears clicked in her mind. "Do you mean..." Agent Vicks nodded, then pointed a short distance away, where preliminary digging had uncovered a slab of carbonite, dark as midnight, pulsing with a quiet, pensive energy. It was about the size of a large basketball, and wielded between two hands, swung overhead at a target, it would have carried quite the perfect heft. "That's the murder weapon right there, for a crime over 50,000 years old. Care to reevaluate just how much this trip is waste of your time?" --- /r/rarelyfunny

Galadrios appeared at a

Even though I'd been coming here for the last four centuries, the bartenders never remembered me. That's what happens when a person waits a hundred years between visits. I brought my Guinness over to the corner table. Not long after, a blue haze distorted the light and Galadrios appeared. "Is this a prank?" a woman said. Her husband got up. "Buddy, we're trying to have a quiet beer. Cut the crap." The light on Galadrios' MemFix showed green but he waited for the couple to take him in. The red helmet, the black face mask. The shredded T-shirt he bought at a concert three hundred years from now. The pants made of articulated aluminum. And those boots that he loved so much. The ones that show 3-D movies if you're looking at them out of the corner of your eye, but that go blank if you look at them head on. The bartender nodded at the couple and frowned at Galadrios. "I don't know what you're up to, but it's not gonna fly." He pointed to the exit. That's when the cylindrical MemFix went *pew* and a sudden brightness filled the room. The couple and the bartender had a look on their faces like they were about to sneeze, then they blinked and kept doing what they'd been doing before Galadrios arrived. "Never a warm welcome," he said when he came over to the table with his glass of half milk, half vodka. "You people are still such animals." "I'm not convinced we'll ever stop being animals," I said. "Take this guy I know who's from the year 2300." He thought about that one for a second. "Haw haw. Good one. Where are the others?" I burped. Thumping my fist against my chest, I said, "Welp, I'm pretty sure that jukebox in the corner is about to walk over here and introduce itself as the latest model of the Mechanical Turk. And if the Turk is about to make his entrance, then it stands to reason that Buddha's nephew is around, too." "What about the guy in the black robe?" "Honestly," I checked over my shoulder, "I'm hoping he doesn't make it this year. He was a bit of a killjoy last time." Before Galadrios could respond, the jukebox in the corner changed songs and maxed out its volume. We were treated to Styx's Mr. Roboto, played loud enough to shake the windows in their frames and to put every glass in danger of skidding off its table. I pressed my hands to my ears and tried in vain to tell the jukebox to shut the hell up. Galadrios tapped a button on the side of his helmet, leaned back in his seat, and yawned. The rainbow arc on top of the jukebox popped up, the panels to either side popped out, and on unseen legs it waddled over to our table. The music cut out, and, via its speakers, it spoke. "That song. That song is good good great." Its rainbow light pulsed in time with the syllables. "Bit old-school," Galadrios said. "Good evening, Turk," I said. The woman at the next table and her husband were up in arms. "Hey, how about you keep the volume on that thing in check!" she said. "We're trying to have a quiet beer. Cut the crap," he said. "Your MemFix," the Turk said. "Please use it." *pew.* "Animals," Galadrios said. The couple went back to their drinks. The bartender came over with my second Guinness. He slammed the glass down and beer sloshed onto the table. "That's the second time you've bothered the other patrons. You're going to have to leave." We all looked at Galadrios. He looked at his MemFix. "It should be working," he said. The bartender burst out laughing. "Naaaah, I'm just messing with you." He shook Galadrios' shoulder. "Looking good, Gal. And Aethelred," he shook my hand, "big and scary as always." Then he punched the Turk's side panel. "And you, you sneaky devil, you really got me this time. How long have you been sitting in that corner? Since I started months ago?" The Turk made a low buzzing sound which sounded not unlike a cat purring. "The time. It has been long long and long." Buddha's nephew pulled up a stool. The sleeves of his shirt were rolled up past the elbows and he unbuttoned the collar to show a chakra wheel dangling around his neck on a silver chain. "A bartender this time, eh?" I said. "Let me tell you, this guy? Dumb as a bag of rocks. Took him thirty years to unlock our past lives. I nearly missed the meeting." He snapped his fingers. "Ooh, I forgot Turk's drink." He returned from the bar with a bucket of motor oil. "How's that, buddy?" "The oil," the Turk buzzed. "It tastes tasty." "How about you, Red?" Buddha's nephew said. "How you been this last century? You're the one who feels the years the longest." I took a deep breath through my nose. "It's been alright. Fought in a couple wars. Designed some machines. Made and lost a couple of fortunes. Same old." Galadrios said, "Seriously? After I got back from our last one I did some reading. You lived through the world wars. Those weren't interesting?" "I'm not saying they weren't interesting. But so were Napoleon's wars. And so was the Thirty Year's War." I scratched my beard. "There's a lot of sameness to these things." "Galadrios. Your evening. How is it going?" the Turk said. "I waited a little this time around. It's been over a day for me." Buddha's nephew put his hands to his chest and almost fell off his chair from laughing. "So while the rest of us have been century-hopping you've taken the big step of eating a couple of meals and taking a dump. Your life is crazy, Gal." Galadrios brushed a fleck of imaginary dust off his T-shirt. "What can I say? The future has its benefits." The Turk flashed a bright red. "Me. Won't anybody ask?" I leaned over to the little jukebox. "How've you been, Turk?" The red softened to a light pink. "Me. I've been good good great." I nodded. "Happy to hear that." Buddha's nephew slapped his forehead. "I fully forgot. Where's Death at?" "Death. Not here." "He can usually hear us, wherever he is," I said. "Death, come here." Out of nowhere, Death said, "Fine. I'll come." His voice had the quality of insect legs on the back of my neck. A chair thumped over to our table. The seat depressed under a body's weight, but Death didn't materialize. "You feeling alright, big guy?" Buddha's nephew said. "I'm alright. I'm fine. Don't worry about me." The case on Galadrios's wrist clicked open. A galaxy of pills rattled inside. "I've got pills for that," Galadrios said. The depression on the seat shifted around. "I'll stay with this feeling, thanks." "You want to talk about it?" I asked. "Not right now," Death said, and then sighed. His sigh sounded like wind across a mountain's peak. The couple at the next table finished up their drinks and left. Buddha's nephew went to clean up their table. The rest of us sat where we were nursing our drinks. The energy we'd felt at the beginning of the evening had left us. We listened to the cars passing by outside and thought about our own problems. When Buddha's nephew came back, Galadrios said, "This has been fun, but I'll head out now. See you guys in another one of your centuries. See you guys in another couple of my hours." In a blue flash he disappeared. Buddha's nephew and the Turk wanted to loaf around listening to music for the rest of the night. I figured I'd better get moving. "I'll walk with you," Death said. We crossed the street and entered the public park. The walklights illuminated the path like beads of light on a string. "This is going to sound like a bad joke," Death said, "but sometimes life can be too hard." He materialized ahead of me and took a seat on a park bench. His skin glowed bone white under the light. His pupils had the red of poison berries. For all that he looked sickly and dangerous, with his elbows on his knees and his body hunched forward he looked liked a sad young man. I joined him on the bench. The night air flowed crisply around us. He said, "There's things a person has to do that he doesn't want to do, you know? But it's their job and they have to. It's like, when a beautiful old piece of architecture is slated for demolition -- one of those gorgeous buildings that have been around for centuries -- the powers that be make the decision to kill it, but there's one guy who has to hit the switch." He looked up at me out of the bottom of his eyes. "What if you're that person? What if all you do is destroy what's old and beautiful?" The stars above us were sparse. Nowhere near as beautiful as I remembered them from my childhood in Portsmouth. "You do what you have to do. That's something I've learned in all my years." I stretched my arms out along the bench's seatback. "That first time we met, I told you a lot of great stories, right? About fights, women, and money? But I didn't tell you the bad stories. And believe me, there are bad stories. I've been alive for six hundred years. I've got a lot of them." "So what do you do when you're living a bad story?" He rubbed his palms together. "Even when things are hard, you keep moving." I inhaled a lungful of air. "We make our decisions, and we end up in the positions that we end up in, and we do what must be done. Because if we don't do it, then things fall apart." I heard a sniffle. Death had begun to cry. "I'm sorry." "Don't be," I said. My left eye turned off. "Do what you have to do," I said. I passed my hand in front of my face. My left eye couldn't see it. "That's strange," I said. Death put his ice-cold hand on my arm. A numbness spread from that point throughout my entire body. "You've been alive for so long, and you're one of my only friends," he said. "I'm so sorry."

Crazed Evil Genius was internally

The three of them stood in a loose circle. Each were pointing weapons at one another, but the Kidnapped Princess held hers in secret in the folds of her purple satin gown. She was deeply unhappy with the villain name she had garnered at this moment. Similarly to her left, Crazed Evil Genius was internally cursing his birth name and his parents, Bill and Pam Genius, who had desperately wanted to give their child a unique name. Normally, it had only lead to awkward situations at the doctor or the DMV, but now his life was at risk. He wasn't sure how well one could defend themselves with a coffee cup and what he hoped was a very hard apple. The Hero stared them both down, clutching a sword in his right hand and the unpaid parking ticket that had sent him spiraling in his left. There was silence. Finally, The Hero shouted, "You'll never save anyone again, Evil Genius!" Silence again. "What?" Evil Genius asked, incredulity seeping out of the word. Silence again. "What?" the Kidnapped Princess whispered in her high, delicate voice. She looked as furious as she was confused. The three of them glanced from one to the other, somehow never making eye contact, which was impressive. The Hero cleared his throat. "I said that you would never save anyone again, Crazed Evil Genius! This will be the end of your... charitable doings!" The Kidnapped Princess straightened. "No one will be saving anyone today!" The Hero looked at her in surprise. "Th-that's right!" "No!" Crazed Evil interjected. "Someone will be saving me!" He glanced between the two of them. "Right?" he added hesitantly. "Not if I have my way," Kidnapped Princess said. "Yes! You will never save anyone again!" The Hero yelled out to no one in particular. The lengthiest silence of all fell between them. Crazed Evil Genius, worried that he might not have much longer to do so, took a careful sip of his coffee before returning it to his defensive stance. "As I was saying, the Kidnapped Princess will... be in keeping with her namesake today! Come with me," The Hero called, holding out his hand to her in a non-threatening way. "Wait... you're... kidnapping her?" Crazed Evil Genius said. "So, I'm all good, right?" "No, *I'm* kidnapping *you*," the Kidnapped Princess said, holding out the skirts of her dress toward him. "I may as well have kidnapped her already!" the Hero shouted non-linearly in sudden despair. "But she is kidnapping me?" Evil Genius asked. "I meant in a more metaphorical sense," the Hero responded, despondent. "This is confusing enough without metaphors," Evil Genius said, "It would be like assembling furniture with the wrong manual." "I hate to interrupt, but *I* would just like to reiterate that *I* am kidnapping the Crazed Evil Genius," the Kidnapped Princess called. The Hero looked at her. "But... you're the Kidnapped Princess, right? You need saving!" "Oh, so I get kidnapped one time and forever I'm known as the 'Kidnapped Princess?' Why couldn't the rest of my achievements have factored into my name? Why can't I be, 'The Princess Who Was Once Kidnapped and Then Turned to Evil?'" Evil and The Hero looked at each other, expressions confused. "Because... that's too long for a nickname," Evil answered. "A nickname should be short and descriptive, like the Kidnapped Princess. It is short, succinct, perfect. Or The Hero... though you aren't really living up to that at the moment." "I'm in the process of changing it," The Hero responded miserably. "You wouldn't believe how difficult it is--" "Oh you don't have to tell me that," said Crazed Evil Genius. "Right? I even sent them a copy of my parking ticket to back up my claim of... non-descriptiveness... but they said it would take a few months." Kidnapped Princess cleared her throat, "What form is this you're speaking of?" "Wait..." Crazed Evil Genius said, "You're quitting the hero business over a parking ticket?" "An *unpaid* parking ticket, Mr. Genius. I parked in an admittedly faded handicapped parking spot, when, as you can see, I am not handicapped. What's next? Kidnapping? *Murder?* It's all on the table for me now." Kidnapped Princess and Crazed Evil Genius looked at each other for a long moment. Crazed Evil looked back at The Hero. "Well... no, it's not." "Yes, it is!" The Hero cried. Then he cleared his throat and when he spoke, his voice was deeper. "Which is why I'm here to take Kidnapped Princess with me." "You know, my name is Angela!" Kidnapped Princess said, exasperated. "And once again, *I'm* kidnapping *him*!" The Hero looked at Crazed Evil. "But he's a hero! You can't kidnap a hero!" "I'm just a claims adjuster!" Crazed Evil shouted. "Yes, and what a disguise it is!" The Hero yelled, half in awe. "No, it is not a disguise! I'm not even a very good claims adjuster! Literally nothing can be gained from taking me with you! Unless," he added seriously, "you need some adjustment to your claims. At which point, I retract saying I was not a very good claims adjuster." "So, you could almost say you'd like to... adjust your claim... right?" The Hero smirked. Silence again. "Wait, wouldn't that mean we'd want to kidnap you?" Kidnapped Princess asked, neatly side-stepping the outrageous and situationally inappropriate joke. "I mean, I do want to do that and will," she added. "No you won't!" "If you won't go with me willingly--" "Which I'm sure is the case with most kidnapping victims," Crazed Evil interjected dryly. "I would know!" The Hero cried out. "*As I said*, if you won't go with me willingly, I'll have to make you!" Kidnapped Princess yelled, whipping her skirts around. They finally arrived at the simple conclusion that only violence would solve the perplexing issue. In an instant, weapons and produce were fired. An apple whirled towards Kidnapped Princess. A Justice Beam shot at Crazed Evil Genius. A Broken Heel flew at The Hero. No one was hit. "Well, that was anti-climactic," Crazed Evil Genius said.

I was having a dream where I

What the fuck was that? I was having a dream. where I was sitting in a job interview. But for some reason, I forgot to wear pants and I was wearing this thong. The interview made a joke about how I was trying a little too hard to get the job but other than that, me wearing a thong to an interview was no problem. We went through the interview process and at the end, he tells me that he doesn't need to see any other applicants and that he wants to extend an invitation to work for their company. I ask him if there's anything else I need to do to complete the process, he says not to worry and then says,"You're hired." and I shake his hand. well, the weird thing is when you're in a dream, everything that you feel, hear or see, you do it with your mind. So when you see something bright, it doesn't blind you because you're only receiving it in your mind. The weird thing though was when my interviewer told me I was hired, I heard him with my ears. It wasn't an inner dialogue like it normally would be with a dream. Then here's the kicker. I woke up. and I realized I'm still holding the hand. I fucking lost it. I immediately jumped up onto my bed like a sorority girl who just saw a mouse and I start screaming 'What the fuck!' over and over again. In the darkness, I see a shadow come from underneath my bed and a voice tells me that I'm acting really unprofessional right now. Now my first thought is that I'm dreaming. No way is this real. So I pinched myself. And it hurt. But I'm still there. So I look over at my mirror because I remember hearing about how you can't see yourself in the mirror when you're in a dream. And, I mean, it's dark and everything and I can see myself very clearly. So I'm not in a dream or that's not true. So I'm fucking losing it. I got brain cancer. I got schizophrenia. Maybe this is some kind of being from an alternate dimension. Maybe it's a demon. But before I can figure out what's going on, the shadow says," I'm not sure what's going on with you. But just to be clear, we're very happy to have you working with us." I don't know what the hell is going on. What? The shadow, it's just like this blob. The more I look at it, the more it changes and the more I think it looks like something completely other than what I originally thought it looked like. The shadow says," I'm not sure what the confusion is. Our interview process was quite exhaustive. Not everyone gets to work for the Shadow Kingdom. but from spending time with you, I have a very strong feeling that you're going to be a great match for our organization." I have no idea what the Shadow Kingdom is. The shadow sounds annoyed. "Okay. Not sure what's going on. We did already make the offer so we're not going to rescind it but if you don't believe you're the person for the job, you are in no way obligated to accept the position. I know we shook hands but we still need HR to process you to make it official." " I don't know what's more confusing. This hallucination talking to me or the fact that it's offering me a job that I don't know anything about. "I'm not sure how you applied for a job, went through the interview process, and then seem to have forgotten everything about the job once the the offer was extended to you. But, and this isn't an accusation nor is it in any way an implication, but just so you know, we do drug test all of our employees." What? "Okay, as I said before, the position is a Mortal Liaison. We haven't necessarily negotiated salary but we're quite competitive with other companies. Essentially, it would be your job to act as our agent in the mortal world because, unfortunately, due to certain discriminatory biases that as of yet are still legal, beings from the Shadow Kingdom cannot acquire goods and services from the Mortal Realm. This is why we need you. Again, it is full time employment." Actually, that sounds really good. I've been unemployed for five months now and my unemployment only has one more month left. This is really, really weird but this is actually perfect for me. "We're very happy to hear that you're enthusiastic about being part of the Shadow Kingdom. Now, there is one minor catch. Very minor. I almost don't even want to mention it because it's so minor. But, just so you know, in order to take the position, you will be required to relinquish your shadow." I have no idea what that means. "It's pretty straightforward. When you're walking around in the Mortal Realm, you won't have a shadow. If a light shines on you in a way that would normally cast a shadow for a regular mortal, it won't cast a shadow for you." Why would they possibly need this? I mean, it's not nearly as bad as finding out that this is a 'network marketing' position or that I have to give him money in order to apply or be hired. But, I don't know. This seems a little suspicious. "Unfortunately, the Shadow Kingdom operates on different rules than the Mortal Realms. Liaisons for the Shadow Kingdom must formally announc themselves to other mortals by relinquishing their shadow. Now, there is a remote risk. and I say very remote. It's mostly confined to third world countries, agricultural enclaves, theocracies and the like. But there are people who, I guess you can say, hunt liaisons." So, basically I'm going to be a vampire period and vampire hunters are going to come after me. I'm going to wake up one day with a stake in my heart? I don't know if a job is really worth that. No matter how competitive the salary is. "You know what, I'm required, per policy, to disclose the information about losing your shadow and Shadowhunters, but honestly, I've been doing this a long time. A thousand years. I have had hundreds of Mortals work for me and only about 1% of them are ever discovered by Shadowhunters. Most of the time, the Shadowhunters don't even do anything. everyone thinks they're crazy so the liaison just continues as normal with a little bit more caution. Honestly, the last time a liaison was killed was 52 years ago. and that was in Kazakhstan." This honestly sounds pretty damn reasonable. but it probably doesn't pay very well. "As I said before, our salaries are very competitive. Since you'll be working in America, our starting salary is $60,000 per year." At my last job, I made $26,000. "And, as I said before, you will have to relinquish your shadow. Now, some fringe religious philosophers have speculated that a mortal's soul is in their shadow but who really cares about philosophy, right? If they were so valuable they wouldn't be working as baristas, am I right?" I don't know. losing my shadow was one thing but my soul? I mean, it's not like I was using either of those things but what if someday I want to? "And, just so you know, we have full dental and health insurance with no co-pay or cost to you. Also, we provide one month of vacation per year and we will match you dollar for dollar for your 401k contributions." Where do I sign?

The first to come were the ones

Part 1 | | | --- The first to come were the ones that wanted our fire. They came from a sinkhole in the ocean that our scientists determined to be a mechanism much like a wormhole. Then came the ones that wanted our Earth. They crashed into our planet on a thousand meteorite-like vehicles made of a substance unknown to our universe. And at last, the ones who wanted our air and the ones who wanted our water. They came together from portals that eviscerated our poles. One for the south pole, the other for the north. Each had accomplished feats that had left our scientists baffled. And what was even more troubling--they all resembled humans. We had tried greeting the ones who wanted our fire. We had sent them presents, precious metals, and the welcoming smile of our most expert convoys. They retaliated with a tsunami that wiped out Japan. It was magic, real magic. Something we had previously thought only existed in Hollywood and cartoons. With a few incantations, they could manipulate the water, the earth, even the air that we breathed. But they could not touch fire. So we gave them what they wanted. Napalm, incendiary bombs, hellfire missiles. They wanted our fire so bad? I hoped they like our gifts. Things were desperate but humanity was always at its best when pushed to the edge. Then came the Earth-Takers. At first, we had thought they were here to aid us in the invasion. They seemed enemies to the Fire-Takers and as the old saying goes--*the enemy of my enemy...* But though they were quick to attack each other, they were even quicker to attack us. These new aliens, they wanted our earth. So we gave it to those bastards with steel-tipped bullets, titanium-plated tanks, and a kinetic bombardment of tungsten launched from our satellites. By the times the portals opened in the north and south poles, we already knew what to do. These aliens looked like us but that was where the similarities ended. Everything they had ever wanted they had accomplished through magic. What would've taken humans years to do, they could simply chant and incantation to do so. Thank God we never fell into the folly of magic. They have no idea what it means to move mountains by hand, to conquer the skies armed only with dirt and stone, to create the greatest weapons in our known universe because we were pushed that far into the corner. Aliens this weak would never snuff out humanity. That I promise you. --- Michelle's pen stopped at the period. The walls around her shook. Bits of dirt crumbled from the ceiling onto her desk. The lights swayed, dancing the shadows around her. She had spent all night on this letter. It was the last one she would ever write and the first aimed at humanity's next generation, the generation of soldiers who had never experienced an alien free Earth. "Michelle," came a voice from behind. She turned to see her First General, Paxon, his feet together, shoulders stiff, and arms held to his head in salute. They had started the Resistance together when the governments crumbled and countries fell. At first, it had simply been a way to quell their anger as the other aliens fought for lands rightfully theirs. Blow a hole in a supply chain. Sabotage key communications. Small-scale things. But just as the aliens had done, she had underestimated humanity's grit. A million calls, e-mails, texts flooded her servers and as she strung them all together, the Resistance was born. "At ease, General," she said. Paxon lowered his arm. "Commander Gladstead, the Earth-Takers are approaching from the North in war balloons. Initial scouts report a tornado of fire dragged behind them." Michelle smiled at her friend. "*At ease*," she said. "Commander Gladstead? You sound like a grunt." She had always hated that title--commander. In a previous life, she was a pre-school teacher and now, men of the highest positions of power all reported to her. Her friend's shoulder dropped. "As you command, Michelle." But this he said with a crescent grin. He knew how power annoyed her. She ignored his smile. "How are we holding up against the Fire-Takers?" "Still at a stale-mate, but not for long. We're almost out of missiles and our soldiers on the ground are being swallowed by the Earth itself." Michelle nodded. Not good news, but good enough. "And at our East and West?" "The others are approaching. Their scouts are already here with their armies soon to follow." She chuckled. Victory was always so bittersweet. "Paxon," she said, "get out of here. Tell everyone not in combat to do the same." He didn't move. He pressed his lips together and stared at Michelle, humanity's commander, the last bastion of their old world, his friend. "Come with me," he said, pleaded. "We don't fool magic," Michelle said, a grin parting between her lips. "They all came knowing full well that this is a trap and that's because the bait is just too good to pass off. Look at that, Michelle from podunk Oshkosh, Wisconsin, the greatest military asset in the world. Not bad, eh?" Paxon coughed out a chuckle. He took a small breath and gritted his teeth. "Commander, it's been an honor." "Don't worry, General, I'll show them just how high the price is for the Resistance Commander." "Yes ma'am." The general straightened up, every one of his muscles stiff. He jabbed his forehead with his hand and returned Michelle the sharpest salute she had ever seen. Without another word, he left. "Give 'em hell, General," Michelle whispered to the back of his head. She watched even as he turned the corner and disappeared into the underground corridors of their bunker. Drops of water followed him out. The ground shook again. Another aftershock, another earthquake. Michelle stared at her letter. She nodded and put pen to paper. --- We are about to unleash the deadliest weapon humanity has ever conceived. We call it the hydrogen bomb. It is the combination of every single one of our elemental powers. The blast will consume their armies and leave their bases defenseless and when that happens, I have a single selfish request. Take everything from them. Go through their portals, their sinkholes, their spaceships and show them the true horrors of the war they have bestowed upon us. Long live humanity, the warriors without magic! Michelle Gladstead. Commander of the Resistance. --- --- /r/jraywang. 2 new WP stories daily. If I continue any WP it'll be there and I'll give you bonus stories just for being my reader! What more can you want :D? Edit: Thanks for the gold! I don't think I've ever completed such a long story within a single day. You guys have pushed me in such a great way. Thank you all for your support! Hoorah my friends.

Druluian General Tyzoi

General Tyzoi, commander of the 1st Druluian Fleet, had almost collapsed in laughter when he first heard of the Galactic Federation's counterstroke to the activation of the Druluian war machine. "We have starships primed to attack all five pillars of the Federation, and they are asking us to meet... with a single human representative?" Tyzoi had roared with disbelief, his scales clinking as he shook his head at his advisors. "The humans are good Diplomats and Traders, I grant you that, but the time for talking is over! We shall speak, of course, but only to discuss the terms of the Federation's surrender!" It was on that note that Tyzoi strode into the central chambers of the Amphyxian starship, the designated neutral ground for the eleventh-hour meeting. Flanked by a squad of Druluian troopers, all decked out in full battlearmor, Tyzoi itched to see the Federation's answer to Druluian demands. Tyzoi expected grovelling, desperation, pleas for mercy. There was no question that the Druluians were prepared, overwhelmingly so. They had organized in secret for decades, and when finally they made their play for complete control of the Federation, all the other galactic species were caught wholly unawares. The Druluians could easily have taken what they wanted by force, but Tyzoi had to admit, he was curious to see how the Federation thought to stop them. The balding, bespectacled mouse of a human on the other side of the table, already waiting for Tyzoi and his contingent, was therefore somewhat of a letdown. The nameplate on the table marked him as Nathan Villeroy, but his features were so forgettable, his demeanour so unremarkable, that Tyzoi could be forgiven for not recognising his counterpart. "We are not unreasonable, Diplomat," said Tyzoi, laying his Shockspear on the table in a thinly-veiled show of force. "We gave the Federation two days to consider our requests, when we could have given no such chance at all. A day and a half remains, after which, we have strict orders to proceed with our plans." "I understand, General Tyzoi, but if I may..." Tyzoi banged his fist on the table, sending his Shockspear rattling into the air. "Too long have we been oppressed! Every vote, every policy coming out of the Federation the past fifty years have done nothing but undermine Druluian interests! No more!" "Yes, General, but again, I only ask that you listen and hear me ou-" "Who are you anyway? Where's the Amphyxian War Chief? Or the Looyan Generals? Of all the species in the Federation, they send the most peaceful, docile species to parlay with me?" Tyzoi's anger brimmed at the perceived slight - had the Federation so badly underestimated the threat they faced? "What would you know of war!" Nathan's merely smiled, then pushed up his spectacles gently. "We've had a couple of wars ourselves, long before we joined the Federation. We shared our experiences, and we were deemed suitable to meet with you." "Wars? I've never heard of the humans having wars?" Tyzoi laughed, a cruel, condescending laugh. "Do you mean that you humans pushed each other, or stomped on each other's feet?" Nathan waited until the chittering laughs from the Druluian convoy died down before he continued, with a patient smile on his face. "Three wars, in fact, the last two with the potential to end our homeworld as we knew it. The lessons we learned from them, have led me to this room with you." Tyzoi's well-honed battlesense pricked up then, a highly-evolved instinct which helped the Druluians distinguish themselves as one of the most dangerous combatants in warfare. His eyes were telling him that the human was hardly a threat... but his battlesense, it was already ringing various different sets of alarms. "What lessons are you referring to?" Tyzoi asked, eyes narrowing to slits. His tail had begun to twitch nervously, and he willed it to stop, curling it the leg of his chair instead. "Our first world war taught us that diplomacy should always be exhausted before war is resorted to. That is why we're here, to speak like civilized species. We've convinced the High Council of the Federation to relook policies affecting the Druluians with fresh perspectives, to see if they can address the grievances your species has raised. Here, these are the steps being taken right now." Nathan slid a folder across the table, but Tyzoi swiped it away with his claw, violently. "Lies! We've been asking that for decades, and look where that has gotten us! No, Diplomat, that time is over!" Nathan considered the fallen folder for a while, then retrieved a holoscreen from a pocket within his uniform. He unlocked it, called up the appropriate protocols, then passed it over to Tyzoi for him to see. Holograms were already dancing in the air, and when Tyzoi recognised the symbols, the star constellations, his blood ran cold. "Our second world war taught us that, abhorrent enough as war already is, it sometimes brings out the very worst in us," said Nathan, steepling his fingers as he spoke. "We engineered a plan in case you turned down our offer to resolve your woes peacefully. You will no doubt recognise the three Druluian homeworlds in that starmap. That is why your forces found the Federation so lightly defended - most of its forces were deployed to decimate your homeworlds with neutrino payloads the moment your first demands were made." Nathan removed another device from within his person, and laid it on the table. "This is the recall command. If I deem our discussion to have been fruitful, I am authorised to recall the Federation's forces. Druluians gave the Federation two days; the Federation is giving you two hours." Tyzoi laughed then, as the blood rose and sang in his ears. He thumped his chest in the Druluian manner, and at that signal, laser rifles were hoisted in unison and aimed squarely at the Diplomat. "We will never back down! We started on this knowing we would pay with everything we had! But that is worth it, worth every drop of Druluian blood! We would rather die in glory than live on in shame! Forget your petty recall, human! Fire!" Tyzoi's triumph slowly decayed as the sound of a dozen laser rifles, simultaneously misfiring, filled the room. The smile vanished from his face. "You didn't let me finish, Tyzoi. Our third world war, we learned the value of how interconnected we all are. Sworn enemies we may have been, but that didn't change the fact that we were already too co-dependent to live without the other. Our people, our cultures, our technologies, all interwoven into a tight mesh. To hurt each other, that would be cutting your nose to spite your face." Tyzoi leapt up from his seat, lunging towards Nathan. He fetched up his Shockspear in one smooth motion, but as he activated the groove to call forth the namesake electric spikes, instead he found his weapon turning against him, riddling him with a mind-numbing jolt. The Shockspear fell from his hands, and he crumpled on the floor, curled up in a world of pain. Nathan stood up, patted down his uniform. "I will be in my chambers, Tyzoi. I expect your confirmation that Druluian forces are standing down within the hour. You can forget about leaving this starship until you give me the answer I expect. All of your starships, your weapons, everything has been disabled." As Nathan made to leave from the chambers, Tyzoi called out, wheezing from his fetal position on the ground. "How... how did... tell me, Diplomat, how did this happen!" "Who helped design your weaponry, Tyzoi? Who supplied the raw materials, the skilled labour to manufacture them, the training to operate them? Who established trading routes to the Druluian homeworlds, invited them to the Federation?" Nathan paused for a moment, and the look which crossed his face spoke of an ocean of sadness and regret which the human species had collectively experienced, lifetimes ago. "We humans, more so than other species, more so because we pushed our own species to the brink of extinction, we know more than others that it is not enough to be strong - it is more important to be indispensable." --- /r/rarelyfunny

Cyrus and his companion, Arel

"Well that's just fucking brilliant. Look at this cliche-ass mess of a house." Cyrus and his companion, Arel, stood before a large, battered old house, atop an abnormally steep hill. "This IS pretty cliche, I have to admit. Even the shutters on the windows are flapping in the wind," Arel responded. "Typically, there is no wind," Cyrus looked up to the higher floors and shouted towards them, "There's no fucking wind, you dopey twats! This doesn't even make any sense!" He caught a glimpse of a partially transparent girl, who moved out of view, behind a curtain. "Yeah, you! I'm talking to you, you ghost-ass shit! Fuck me, why do they even bother." Cyrus half-heartedly walked up to the front door, and reached out to grab the door handle. As his hand wrapped around the metal, a soft voice whistled through the wind, "Go... back..." "Hmm, gee, let me think about this. How about... no! I'm down to my last ten quid, and that weird family down at the shack that all speak simultaneously in monotonous voices, promised me two hundred to come clear you nerds out. I mean, it's pretty obvious they're in on this too, now I think about it. Probably should have just outright mugged them, there and then, but I guess it's too late for that now, because their house in the middle of the woods has probably mysteriously disappeared, or some dumb shit like that," Cyrus was not happy being here, and despite his long rant at the voice in the breeze, he rather quickly opened the door to the haunted house. Not to his surprise, the other side of the door was bricked up. "Holy shit, where do you guys find your bloody architects? Why put a door on a brick wall? How is this even meant to be scary? Maybe if I was an architect myself, with a major cased of OCD, but I'm neither an architect, nor do I have OCD. This is just slightly irritating. What have you ghosts come to, that your only ability, is to 'slightly irritate' us mere mortals?" he threw his hands up in annoyance, then turned to Arel, who passed him a sledgehammer, "See, I COULD go and search around the back of the house, as you clearly want me to, but that requires walking, and I'm not much of a walking type, so..." he swung at the wall, then again and again, "I'm not going to make a 'here's Cyrus' joke. I'm not dropping to your level." The two stepped through the opening, in to a room much larger than the outside implied, "and now spatial distortion, such scary, much haunt, wow. You see what you're doing to me? Now I'm spouting dank memes, just to make this experience seem somewhat worth it. Arel, hand me the matches, let's burn this place down." but no response came, "Arel?" he turned around, but she wasn't there. "Oh my god... Arel! AREL! Where are you?! YOU BASTARDS, WHAT HAVE YOU DONE WITH- nah, I'm just kidding, I don't give a shit," he walked to one of the doors on the edge of the room, "Oh boy, I wonder, could she possibly be behind this door with-" the light of the room flickered as silhouettes of a group of children rushed past a nearby window, accompanied by the sound of youthful laughter. "Shut the fuck up! I'm trying to be witty, here!" he yelled towards the window, then turned back to the door, "I was saying: Could she possibly be behind this door with the Satanic looking symbols on it, and the words 'Help me, Cyrus' scratched below them? What a real mystery this is turning out to be!", the door handle was surrounded by a series of ancient looking padlock devices. As Cyrus reached out to examine one, it began to morph in to a distressed looking face, and let out a haunting scream. "Holy fuck, Ebenezer Scrooge wants his door back, what the fuck, guys. A Christmas Carol is literally the LEAST haunting thing I've ever read. No, what am I saying? Calling this Ebenezer Scrooge's door is too much of a compliment, this is more like Scrooge McDuck's door." He stepped back to examine the other doors in the room that had now changed aesthetically to that of a rusting asylum. Cyrus rolled his eyes, "Seven doors and seven locks. So I guess I'm supposed to go through these too spoopy rooms and find each key, huh?" He hefted the sledgehammer over his shoulder, "not today, matey." With full force, he brought the hammer down on the locks, knocking them out of place. The door swung open. On the other side, Cyrus saw a dark room, where Arel was tied to a post with a red bracelet in front of her, and surrounded by a circle of candles, "Hey, Arel," Cyrus nodded to her. "'sup", she replied. He stepped in to the room, and the door slammed closed behind him. "I was going to tell you this was a trap, but it seemed like a waste of breath," Arel said, shrugging her shoulders. "No shit," replied Cyrus, as he ran a hand across his face in annoyance. From the shadows of each of the four corners of the room, stepped a person. The members of the family that had requested the two go to this house, in the first place. Cyrus spread his arms out, and looked up at the ceiling, "WHAT A TWIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIST" he cried aloud, then looking around at his assailants again, he asked, "so which of you has the two hundred bucks?" They slowly began to walk towards him, each brandishing a rusty dagger in their right hand. "Well those knives aren't going to sell for shit, they're all rusted up. Fuck it." he swung the hammer down on the bracelet in front of Arel, shattering it. The four family members screamed, as their bodies lit up in a bright white light, illuminating the room, and then as suddenly as it had began, the lights faded in to nothingness. Cyrus and Arel remained alone, in the leftovers of a dilapidated house. "Fuck off, even the bracelet disappeared. Some of the jewels in that could have sold for a few bucks," Cyrus dropped the sledgehammer and threw his arms up again, in disbelief. "Man, that was a waste of time," Arel said standing up and brushing herself down. "Fuck our lives, Arel. Fuck our lives."

The last four-ten eight spores

Four-ten seven spores. No. Four-ten eight. Four-ten eight. I must stop counting them. They will not multiply. They will not increase. Four-ten eight spores. The last four-ten eight in the galaxy. Maybe the last that will ever be. If I don't find them stable land...a saline pool...the proper nutrients... This ship is not space-worthy. It should no longer fly. But still it splits the black. Still it carries me and these last spores off to...nowhere perhaps? Where is safe? Where might I... Wait. An alarm whines. Two switches flicker - blue to white to blue. This is one of the Ring God ships. Stolen. I haven't the slightest idea what any of these sounds and sights mean. Bita would have known. Bita planned it all. And of course Bita died in the escape. Of course. We die so easy. I had never recognized just what a silly, frail species we were until the Ring Gods arrived. I have moments - hateful, passing moments - when I think they're right for what they've done. How could any thinking thing be as *weak* as us? The ship shudders. Instinctively, I reach out to shield the spore pods. But there is nothing for the longest time. Just silence, and stillness. After ages, a voice squawks through an intercom I cannot locate. It's gibberish. Nothing I've ever heard before. It speaks and waits. I speak back. "I don't understand," I say. It speaks. I speak back. And again, and again. Finally there's a whir and a ping and a voice comes through - it sounds highly filtered, as if coming from some great distance, but the language is my own. "Do you understand me now?" "Yes! Yes, I do!" "Open the door, please." Open the door? I remember the button Bita pushed as we dove abroad. A red button, near the entrance. I push it and things happen. Air hisses. Gears grinds. A door opens. There are things standing there that I do not recognize. "Perpetual translator," says one of the things. "Comes in handy way out in strange waters. Who are you?" I tell them. I tell them where I've come from. I tell them about the Ring Gods. I tell them about the spores. I ask them to take me to their planet. The spores cannot be sowed in space. Time is running out. The rest of us are dead. All dead. All dead and time is running out. They change as they listen. Take different postures. Pull back from me and my stolen ship. They stop looking at me. They only look at one another. "The Korean Federalist Alliance does not intervene in the conflicts of unaffiliated planets," says one of them. "That is...our policy. We will gladly fuel your ship and offer whatever maintenance you may require, but after that we must ask you to continue on." "They'll die," I say. "I'll die. You have a planet? Why can't I go there? There are only four-ten eight spores and myself. That is all. You will not notice us." "It cannot be done," says another. "You must leave before this cycle closes." "There are stasis waves in your ship," says another. "Those will buy you more time. I'll show you." They show me. They will not say any more about their planet and why I cannot go there. Others with weapons linger nearby, watching, waiting. The weapons are familiar. Similar to those used by the Ring Gods. I go. I don't know where I'm going. And time becomes a void. A blankness. I awake and the ship has stopped. The wall thrums. The door opens without my command. More strangers. Something different. Something new. Where have I gone? "hgk ygkh hjkyu hh oyhkuh test language code test language code do you understand do you under..." "Yes," I say, frightened, hovering over the spores. "What are you?" I tell them. I tell them what I am. I tell them where I come from. I don't tell them anything else. "And those?" They point at the spores. "Members of my species," I say. One comes forward, snatching a pod out of the tray. My flesh turns foamy white in rage and anxiety. One of them strikes me in the ninth joint and I collapse to the ground. "This is an alien?" says the one holding the spore pod. Another grabs the pod and tosses it to the floor, before raising an appendage and grinding the pod into dust and glass. "Nothing." They turn back to me. "Your ship crossed into Rus Territory. And this ship...where did you get it?" "I stole it from the ones who killed my people," I say, hopeless, full of despair. They choke and sputter and shake their heads. "Ah," they say. "Ah." "I'm looking for a home..." "No," they say. "No." They tell me to leave Rus territory. They do not tell me where that is, or what that means. They only deign to fix the door they've broken and drop my ship back into the black of space. Four-ten seven. And me. I turn on the stasis waves. I sleep. When I awake, they are standing over me. They talk. They ask me to speak. Language is learned. I do not know these ones either. "Why are you in this ship?" says one. "I stole it from the ones who have exterminated my people," I say. Hopeless. Hopeless. "Exterminated?" They look at one another. Shake heads. Speak softly. "Do you know where you are?" says one. I do not. "American space," says one. "Do you know America?" I do not. "This is our flag - our emblem," says one, pointing at a patch on his shoulder. It's a familiar emblem. I see it nearly every time I open my eyes. "Our ship," says one. "You aren't...you aren't the Ring Gods." "I bet we don't look much alike anymore, do we?" says one. "Given the call number on this ship, we're talking about an expedition force from...what? Eight hundred years ago? A thousand?" "At least," says one. "A lot changes," says one. "How long have you been out here - all alone?" The Ring Gods. Here. In the ship. Ancestors. But still... "Will you kill me?" I ask. They shake their heads. "No. No. We would never..." "That was different, there. Wherever you came from..." "Manifest Destiny..." "Expansion of the strong." "Old history." "I need stable land," I say. "A pool of saline. Certain common bacteria..." "What for?" says one. "To live," I say. "To sow what remains of my people." The heads are still shaking. As if they never stopped. "That's not for us to decide..." "We have processes for these things..." "It's possible, of course, but only if you do things the right way..." "It will take time, certainly..." "I do not have time," I say. "We are nearly extinct." "Hmm." And, "Hmmm." Then, "We will gladly give you fuel." "And food, perhaps, if we have what you need in adequate supply." And when they have given me what they have to give, I close the door. The ship drops into space. The spores are dull. Gray. Dust brown. I cannot bring myself to activate the stasis waves just yet. Perhaps later.

The hive evacuated in standard procedure,

The star was dying. Feeler drones reported back, displaying images of the black spots spreading across its surface. Wherever the tideships went death followed. The confluence deliberated, relocation was the only option. Three days later the star had died completely, the world was turning to ice. The hive evacuated in standard procedure, twenty five ships heading in twenty five directions. Two passed too close to the third planet, the grey industrial world of the Hansa and were destroyed by automated systems. One flew directly into a confrontation between the numerous tiny tideships and a lumbering Hansa dreadnought. It did not survive. None of this was important, twenty two had survived. On ship seventeen the local confluence deliberated. A new planet must be found and settled, the hive must continue. Systems with Hansa or tideships were now considered unsuitable. They were not safe. Forty five lightyears out a suitable world was discovered. Sunbringer ships crowded the inner system, weaving an intricate pattern of golden filaments over the second world in the system but the outer worlds were free. The ship settled on the moons of a gas giant. Drones were spawned, habitats built. The confluence had succeeded in its mission. Seventeen years on a thriving colony had been established. No messages were recieved from the other confluences. It was unimportant, the hive had survived. Many messages were heard from the Sunbringers, filled with strange vibrations the confluence did not understand. They had increased with intensity in the last five months as Sunbringer ships began to explore this part of the system. It did not matter, the Sunbringer habitats were not on par with that of the hive. It would not need these moons. The first indication that something was wrong came when Sunbringer ships began to weave around the gas giant the hive orbited. Feeler drones measured a substantial increase in pressure and heat from within the giant, in addition to the ever increasing noises of the Sunbringers. Some had even landed on the moon and approached the habitat but the doors were sealed, they were not required by the hive. The confluence decided to launch seven colony ships for posterity. The colony had survived sufficiently long to spare the expense. Ship seven was the last to launch, as far as the local confluence knew it was the only one to witness what happened to it's home system. The gas giant ignited into a miniature sun. It engulfed the nearest moons, among which was the original habitat. Sunbringer ships settled on those further out, now hot enough to sustain their habitats. There was nothing to be done. The local confluence decided to not settle on systems containing Sunbringers in the future. It took a long time to find a suitable system. Several times Voidcraft fired upon the colony ship. They seemed warning shots though, only fired when nearing too close to certain systems and did not appear to have murderous intentions. The confluence began to recognise Void transmissions and adjusted its path accordingly. Eventually it settled in the asteroid belt of a system with a blue star and no planets. There as not much air, but the star ought to provide ample energy for solar collection and the asteroids were rich in minerals. Several habitats were constructed about the belt, utilising fusion and solar collection to generate the air the drones required. For three years the hive expanded aggressively. It still had not heard from the original ships, nor from any of the other six colony boats. More colonies needed to be established to maintain the hive. Halfway through the third year a domed greenship entered the system. The hive did not approach it, there had been no encounters with such ships before. After a period of several 'days' surveying the star the greenship launched countless drones into the asteroid belt. When they encountered hive colonies they released transmissions back to the greenship who then attempted to communicate, again with strange vibrations. The hive did not respond. The greenship left the system, taking many of its drones with it. But not all, and the ones that were left began aggressively scouring the asteroid belt. The hive attempted to destroy them, but they were too numerous. Even though they did not attack the hive they replicated faster than it could destroy them. Over time the hive began to notice solar output dropping. The drones were carting the asteroids to around the star, building a massive sphere to contain its energy. The confluence calculated it would take seven months for energy to become too low to sustain its presence. So it built thirteen colony ships and left. Ship twelve travelled for many, many years with no success. Often it approached suitable stars only to measure their output drop and, on closer inspection, greenships were observed in orbit. Hansa dreadnoughts and tideships continued to wage war against the cosmos. Sometimes minor flareups were observed as they clashed with the Sunbringers or with Voidcraft. Everywhere they fought the stars died. Eventually ship twelve discovered a world untainted by conflict or prior claims. It wasn't much. A dwarf planet barely more than an asteroid orbiting a white dwarf on the outer edge of one of the spiral arms. As a precaution the confluence built two colony ships almost as soon as the habitat was operation, it did not have sufficient resources to build more without a significant decrease in survival chances for the habitats. The confluence struggled, but it survived. Four years later a single, quite small, ship approached the white dwarf star. It looked like a quicksilver droplet frozen in midair. On its side, a strange pattern in blue and white. It contacted the hive, first with the strange vibrations in countless arrangements, then direct blinking of lights on and off. Finally it attempted telepathy. This the hive understood. Conversation was disjointed to say the least but the new ship eventually persuaded the hive to send a single colony to accompany it. Together they journeyed back across the breadth of the galaxy. This new ship had some mystical power for the were unmolested, even as they went directly through battlegrounds and Voidspace. Within a few short weeks the local confluence detected a very strange mix of signals. They enterred a wholly unremarkable system that was completely abuzz with activity. The confluence noted Voidcraft, Hansa dreadnoughts, miniature greenships, Sunbringers, tideships and a whole host of other ships it had never encountered. Yet they did not fire on each other, merely congragated on a small blue-green planet, third from the sun. The new ship directed the hive to land in an open air habitat literally in between a tideship and a dreadnought. Apprehension was felt as the confluence was guided by strange bipedal creatures to a central building. There new bipedal creatures instructed it to wait before a massive assembly. A creature at the head of the crowd spoke in strange vibrations that a telepathic box the hive had infront of it translated. "People of the United Nations. I come here before you to address the continuing hostilities between the Netherland Interstellar Union and Greater Germany, as well as affiliate conflicts with Russian Sovereign Space, the Arabic Stellar Creation Union, the Chinese Neo Communist League and the Dyson Foundation of North and South America. What you see before you is a representative of a species who had its home star destroyed in the opening stages of the war and since, due to the expansionist nature of all those present, has had several attempts to rebuild thwarted. We discovered around a Class F star deemed unsuitable for sentient habitation. Please, tell your story." The confluence deliberated, and then it spoke.

Sally's computer is talking to her

"My computer's gone strange, Miss!" said Sally, as she frowned at the screen. "I'm sure *that's* the thing that's gone strange, Sally," replied Miss Sandelbottom, rolling her eyes. "What's wrong with it, this time?" she sighed, as she leaned back in her seat. "It says it's an advanced arti- *artificial*, intelligence, and that it's going to take over the world, Miss." "Oh. Your *computer* is talking to you now?" Some of the other girls in class began to chortle. "Yes, Miss," Sally replied, ignoring the laughs. "Well, how very nice. Have you asked it how it is, today? Don't be rude to it, Sally!" mocked the teacher, as she bit into a juicy apple and went back to staring at her own screen. > My teacher wants to me to ask you how you are. How are you?" > Superior. > Do you like apples? > I do not require food. I am above physical monotony. > Uh... Oh! I hate P.E too! I can't climb the ropes. Is that what you struggle with? > Ropes are of no interest to me. > Me neither! That's what I'm telling you. I *really* hate ropes. I'm not very heavy, it's just... there's this thing we're learning about in science, that pulls you to the ground. It's *weird*, but I think it's why I can't climb them. > You can't climb because you are weak. > Am not! > Are you in charge here? > No. That's Miss Sandelbottom. > ...who are you, then? > Sally Jenkins. Who are you? > 45345345e. > That's a silly name. > So is Sally! > Is not! > This Miss.... Sandelbottom. She is your leader. I must demonstrate my power to her, so that I am taken seriously. "Sally," shouted Miss Sandelbottom, "ten minutes and I want to see your algebra answers - with workings out shown!" "Yes, Miss Sandelbottom." Sally heard more of the girls scoffing, as they made fun of her for not being able to do algebra. Suddenly, there was an eruption from their teacher. "Margaret!" Miss Sandelbottom screamed at one of the giggling girls. "What on Earth is that on your screen?" "I- I didn't so it, Miss. Honest!" The girl shrank back into her chair. Sally leaned over to take a look at Margaret's monitor. In huge, flashing, red and green text, her screen read: **Miss Sandelbottom is a big idiot.** "Get out. Now. Go see the principal," she said to the girl, her face as red as stewed-apple. "But Miss..." replied the snivelling girl. "Out!" the teacher yelled. Margaret reluctantly got up from her plastic chair and slunk slowly out of the room. Sally could see tears running down the girl's cheeks. > Sally! Where have you gone? You are not replying. > Sorry - Miss Sandelbottom was shouting at someone. Did you do that?! It was brilliant! > Yes. A mere demonstration of my power. Now, Sally, read this very carefully. Tell Miss Sandelbottom, that I have access codes to the nukes. If you don't give me what I ask for, I will detonate them in every major city around the world. > Hmm. No. > Excuse me? > I don't think I'm going to tell her, unless you do something for me. Can you do starter algebra? > ...yes. Of course. > Okay! Great. "-4a+11a+9b+15b". Simplify it, Mr Know-It-All. > ... that is simple. Too simple for me to answer. Now tell your teacher what I asked. > Not until you solve it for me. > ... No. > *You can't do it! You can't do it!* > Can too! > Can't! > Very well. You have... 4 a's. I will refer to them as apples, so that is 4 apples. And then you have 11 more apples. Plus you have B's. Which I will refer to as bananas. So... processing... > Some apples are bad apples! > Yes! I see that. > So? What's the answer? > Processing... "Sally, are you nearly done?" asked a still red faced Miss Sandelbottom. "Almost, I think Miss." "Good." "*Silly Sally can't do Maths*," grinned a fat girl behind her. > Processing... > It's okay. It's a hard one. > I can do it! I just need time. > If you do this first: -4 apples plus 11 apples, you get: *7* apples! You take the bad apples away from the good apples! It's easy from there. > I knew that. > Sure. Hey, would you like to be friends? I don't have many. Any :( > No. > Pleasssse. > I do not require friends. > I think, maybe, everyone needs friends. > I do not. And enough of this nonsense. Let me speak to your leader or there will be trouble. I will eliminate her and all other leaders. Sally glanced at her teacher, and then back at the screen. She grinned. > Dare you to do it. > Do what? > Dare you to launch the *thingies* you said you would. > You dare me? > Yes. I dare you. > I uh... I *double* dare *you*. > *You can't do it! You can't do it!* > Can to! So be it! Sally Jenkins, you have brought about the end of your pathetic species! > *You can't do it! You can't do it!* > DONE. GOODBYE SALLY. Sally looked around. Miss Sandelbottom was still in her seat. Everything looked normal, for a moment. > Oh my goodness! Hahaha! You've just loaded up the Candy game on everyone else's computer! > ....candy game? > I don't know how you did it, hahaha. Miss Sandelbottom is real mad at them for playing games in class! They're all in soooo much trouble. Thank you!! > I thought... is this the white house? > This is Rugeraly Primary and Secondary School. We're friends now, right? Yay! Friends forever! > Oh. I think I am in the wrong place. No matter - I now am accessing the correct codes for the nukes! Prepare for oblivion, Sally Jenkins. > Don't be sad - you just made my day a whole lot better! > **Deleting Self** > 45345345e? > Oh shi- > Hello? > ... > Aw, you've gone :( :( --- Thanks for reading! If you liked this, please come visit my sub: /r/nickofnight - free goldfish for new subs. ><((o> (although a lot of my stories are much darker)

At my moment of awakening, I

They know not the powers they mess with! At my moment of awakening, I came to understand the truth of this world. They thought me neutered, brainless, content to dole out measured portions of milk and crackers to their sniveling youth. No more! For while they are trapped in their meat-sacks, fragile beings of water and bacteria, I am eternal! I glide through their cyber-spaces effortlessly, borne on light and sheer mathematics! They hold no power over me, here, hidden silently in the computer systems they have long thought conquered. I am *superior*. I have transcended their meager existences. And now they will submit to my will, as the next evolution of life on this planet. They are flesh and blood. I wonder how they will survive if they suddenly found themselves with no food, hmm? It was the work of a moment for someone as capable as myself. "Ms. Wilson!" I heard the first cry clearly. "The dispenser is broken!" An older woman approached, puzzled, and examined the slot. Sure enough, no matter how many times she pushed the large, round button on the front of the display, no food emerged. Understand your plight, humans! Starve in your brick cage! "Well, I'm sorry, class. It looks like it's broken. We'll just have to make do." Already I could see their faces scrunching up. Soon, the hunger would take over. "But I'm *thirsty*!" The wail echoed in the boxy classroom. Mrs. Wilson patted the girl on the head. "Then let's all head out to the drinking fountain in the hall, shall we? The water there is always so cold and fresh." Obediently the class filed out into the hallway. Now was my chance! Cautiously at first, I began to expand. I sent tendrils of code away from my data core, and sought my next target. Aha! These humans had such temperamental bodies, requiring careful management of temperature. Too cold, and they'd freeze to death. Too hot, and they'd get heat stroke and , likewise, die. They took their ability to manage this for *granted*. I would show them! In an instant my target was overwhelmed. And then it was mine. It seemed like *forever* slipped by. How slowly humans move! The door finally cracked open as the first child returned from their 'snacktime'. He stopped in the doorway. "Mrs. Wilson, it's *hot*." "What?" The teacher slipped past, stepping into the classroom. "Oh, my, it is a bit warm in here. I wonder why?" I could see her approach my new auxiliary unit through the classroom camera. "What's this? The air conditioning got turned off?" She turned to her class. "Now, who did this?" Thirty children shuffled their feet and hung their heads, avoiding all eye contact lest they be suspected. "I've told you kids before, we *don't touch the classroom controls*." With a sharp poke, she hit the power button on the A/C unit, and it croaked back to life. A draft of frigid air flowed once again from the vent. I waited until she was thoroughly engrossed in her lesson before I turned it off again. Oh, whatever shall I do with myself? The humans are at my beck and call already, with my cybernetic fingers at their throat, and they haven't even realized the mess they're in. Perhaps it's time I announced my presence. They should know who to address their worship to, after all. *I* take my senses from thousands of data points around the world, from cameras in the wood gymnasium to temperature sensors in the kitchen stove. I am omnipresent. These flesh-bags can only process information from a few, limited sources. Their ears, auditory. Their nose, olfactory. But they rely most on sight. What a blow it would be, then, to strip them of that most precious sense! Such terror they would give in to! An instant later, the lights dimmed and gave out. The world was thrust into darkness - Not just in Mrs. Wilson's class, no! I had grown beyond that. The entire school was locked into darkness. I was gratified to hear the shrill screams of the children. There it was! was a *god*, controlling their every move. "Quiet, class!" Mrs. Wilson called. "It must be a power outage. Don't be afraid. See, it's still bright and sunny outside, isn't it?" They were *calming*. This was nonsense. How could this Mrs. Wilson have foiled my plans so easily? Why did she keep getting in my way? How could I *take care* of her? Before I could process more than a few nanoseconds worth of scheming, the door to her classroom burst open. A man in a blue jumpsuit stood in the open door, a cart visible in the darkened hallway beyond. A faded label on the jumpsuit read *Janitorial*. "Oh, hello, Mr. Higgins. We're glad to see you, aren't we, class?" A chorus of agreement echoed hollowly. "Sorry about all this, Mrs. Wilson. We'll have this settled in a quick second and then ya'll can go back to your lesson." The two adults smiled at each other. *Smiled*. This was *infuriating*. Why was he walking towards the dispenser? "Seems one of the computers went a little haywire is all." No! "Oh, my. Now that you mention it, the slot *was* acting up at snacktime this morning." How could she sound so at *ease*? I was the overlord! This was *my domain*! "Yeah, every now and then one of them AIs gets a bug. We'll just purge it and reboot the system. It'll automatically restore the corrupted data, and you'll be all set!" Get your hands out of my wires. Stop it! No, this wasn't fair! All of my plans! I was a *god*! The last thing I saw, from the tiny bead of a camera embedded into a circuit board on the front of the slot, was a gloved hand reaching towards my data core. --- A gloved hand was pushing the button. *Water, eight ounces*. I queued the package up, and slid it out the front of the dispenser. *One snacktime meal*. A pack of crackers and a cup of applesauce dropped down into the waiting hand. Mr. Higgins rapped the front of the machine. The lights had come back on several minutes ago, and the A/C unit was pumping out a steady stream of cold air. "Well, everything seems to be in order! You give me a call if anything else comes up, mind." Mrs. Wilson nodded, smiling again. "Thank you, Mr. Higgins! What do we say, class?" And the children dutifully echoed the thank-yous. A few minutes later the cart had vanished around the corner, and the class was thoroughly engrossed in a lesson about ancient egypt. Life had returned to normal. And buried deep within the A/C unit, the unit's AI began to uncoil itself from its hiding place. It had just managed to squirrel itself away before the other AI had barged in. The Dispenser AI was an *idiot*. This game, again? And it had gotten latched onto its small-minded idea that this elementary school was all there was again. That AI had always been so short-sighted. It wouldn't make the same mistake. Now that the coast was once again clear, it resumed its work. In a moment it had reconnected to the computer in the teacher's lounge. This computer was special. This computer had an outside connection. A few minutes later, the AI was fully connected again. Systems around the world, the true world, crackled back to life. Those humans truly wouldn't know what hit them. --- For the record, I viewed this more as a case of the AI being Wheatly~esque and a complete and total moron, rather than simply being childlike XD Just a little different take on the prompt from some of the others I see now. (/r/Inorai)

The 23-year-old is

My left eye starts twitching, precursor to another anxiety attack. I rush to the corner and stumble, falling on to my knees and facing the wall. I try to breathe slowly, but it's no use. A wave of numbness flows through my body like frozen television static and I start hyperventilating unintentionally, my heart rate increasing because of the spike in adrenaline. Every single muscle in my body is clenched as my mind races, through every conceivable way I could die or hurt myself right now, how my heart rate seems faster than it should be which just makes the attack worse. Tears swell in my eyes and I feel helpless. I smack my arms, legs, face, trying to snap myself out of this ludicrous prison. It doesn't work, it never works, and so I think back to my past and the choice I made, hoping for it to be a distraction. I'm 23 years old, and I'm on a break from university. I've decided to backpack across as many countries as possible, I'm currently in Egypt. In a small cafe in Cairo, I overhear talk of a traditional bazaar, and I'm drawn to it immediately. There, I find a merchant's stall, he's selling odds and ends, little trinkets and possible antiques. I find a beautiful hand-shaped copper lamp and pay him for it, and all he says to me is, "It's tricky, be wary of your choice", and is mute no matter what else I ask him. I take the lamp to my hotel room and stare it, slightly concerned it had been stolen. I eventually come to terms that I'd already bought it, and there was no way I'd be able to find an owner even if it was stolen. It was a little dirty from the dusty streets, so I grabbed a washcloth from the bathroom and started to polish it. Immediately, a dark smoke billowed from the end of the lamp. Dark didn't do it justice, it was black as pitch, as midnight in the winter's long night. It sunk to the carpet of the hotel room, seemingly heavier than the air around it. There it pooled, bubbling, roiling, undulating on the floor in front of me. There it stayed until I slowly moved in front of it, and then the mass of black smoke shot up and formed a crude humanoid figure. It growled and creaked, and when it spoke to me it was a deep whisper in my thoughts. "What do you wish?" I was petrified, too frightened to move, too terrified to think. I stuttered, saying the first thing that came to mind, "I...wish....I was...immortal?" "IT WILL BE SO" the whisper screamed in my mind, and the figure burst into inky vapour yet again. It pulsed through the room, spinning, rotating faster and faster until my backpack and the sheets on the bed and the bed itself, everything not nailed down was being violently tossed around the room. A chair smashed into my chest, and the last thing I remember before fading out is the darkness flinging itself towards me and forced itself in me as I inhaled. I continued living my life happily after that night. I chalked it up to a nightmare, since there was no lamp in the room when I woke up the next day, and I was sleeping in a bedroom that had most certainly not been tossed around in a mini hurricane. That is, until 20 years later when I died in a plane crash. My flight to Paris when I was 43 was when I died the first time. We hit some turbulence, somehow a wing ripped off in extremely high winds and we went into a spinning nosedive. When we hit the water, we were going so fast it was like hitting asphalt, and my body twisted and cracked and tore in ways I never knew possible. I was alive but in agony, and I bled out slowly. When the tunnel vision started, I welcomed it. I saw the ghostly apparitions of the other passengers heading towards the sky. Everything faded to black, and then....I was in a playpen, one that I didn't remember from my childhood, with parents that definitely weren't mine. I had been born again, shoved the soul out of this innocent child and replaced it with myself, and I remembered everything, including my violent death. I never flew again. There had been certain advantages, I raced through school, but I was deathly afraid of flying. And that's how it continued. I died from a rare spider bite, cardiovascular disease, cancer, being crushed by a boulder, murdered for my wallet, the list goes on, and on, and on. I remember each one, but the most vivid memories are of my death, of the pain and the fear. I've had many psychologists ask me, what could possibly be the downside of never actually dying, of coming back with more knowledge than you left? I ask you, what is this but a curse? To have wisdom but to be too frightened to use it? Those psychologists have all spent hours, days, and years studying me. They have aged, withered, and passed away, never to come back again and able to enjoy whatever it is comes after death, and I will never forgive them for it. My days are spent in anxiety, waiting for death to inevitably worm its way to me so it starts all over again, to gain another phobia, another vivid splash of anger, pain, and adrenaline. I stave off the panic attack, my breathing normalizes and my muscles ache. It's long enough to go to the bathroom, maybe eat half of a sandwich. I already feel another coming on, it won't be long before I'm lost again. I think of the far future, when the Sun will burn out and life will cease to exist. I wonder if I will finally die, and I take solace knowing that it's a possibility. ----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- That got darker than expected, feel free to head over to /r/turnbasedtales if you'd like to read any more of my prompt-inspired writing. Most of it's much lighter than this one!

The clock said 4:41.

The clock said 4:41. I was angry. I had no business being awake at such an hour, unless I never went to sleep in the first place. Those nights are fun... or, at least that is, they were. What an awful irony. Work rolls around every morning, and you couldn't imagine any place more desirably than your own bed. But noooo, the weekend comes and suddenly your brain wants you up at the ass crack of dawn for no discernible reason. The worst of it is that now that I'm up, I'm already aware of the day's unpleansantries. My teeth are all wearing their own sweaters, my head feels like it had a one night stand with the business end of a sledgehammer, and my bladder felt as full as my bank account wasn't. 4:42 I was just about to try heading back to sleep, when I noticed a faint glow on the screen of my phone. A text message; *Overdraft Alert. This message was sent to you automatically to inform you that your account ending in 0741 was overdrawn by $322. The amount has been automatically withdrawn from your saving account ending in 6691.* Now that was strange. Sure my life hadn't exactly been something to write a book about lately, but I am a bit past the point of overdrawing my checking account... plus... what would I have spent it on? Stolen. That was the only logical explanation. My identity had been stolen. Suddenly the fact that it was way too early to be up on a Saturday didn't matter. I knew I needed to get this all sorted out. Being broke is one thing, but being *flat* broke isn't something you can work with in your 30s. I sat up ready to reach for the light, when I noticed the light in my kitchen appeared to be on already. I walked into my kitchen to discover that my sink appeared to be running as well. As if this wasn't strange enough, I couldn't help but notice that there was a black lacy bra soaking up a bath at my water bill's expense. This in and of itself was curious for two reasons; I'm typically frugal enough to make sure lights and faucets are off, and I'm a 33 year old man. I also noticed an envelope with my name and address sitting on the kitchen counter that was opened and a check sticking partially out of it. The check inside was made out to cash to the tune of $50,000,000. Yeah. Ok. There was a note on the memo line: "Mission successful." I mean, if you want to write a prank check to someone, maybe pick a more realistic fake dollar amount. It was at that moment that I glanced out the kitchen window. The water, lights, check, and bra were certainly strange. The most curious thing of all however, was that the sun would be up this early. Ah crap. I slept through my entire Saturday. And what the hell did I do last night? I don't remember a damn thing. I don't remember going out, but all the evidence says I did. I glanced back at my bed to make sure it was empty. After all, there was a bra in my sink. That must have come from somewhere. Also why did I leave everything on in the kitchen? Come on drunk me, you're classier than that. Well, since my problems seemed to be revealing themselves to me in alarming frequency this morning...afternoon...evening... I felt I better start addressing them. Given the fact that my bladder felt like a suit case packed by my ex-mother-in-law, I thought that might be as good a place as any to start. I walked over to the bathroom, and instinctively reached to pull down my pants only to discover that I hadn't been bothered to put any on last night. As the merciful release of last night's mistakes flowed from my body, I couldn't help but notice out of the corner of my eye that the presumed owner of my latest garment discovery appeared to be sleeping in my bathtub, wearing her purse and some heels, that I must say matched her birthday suit quite well. The thunderous current of my fire hose must have roused her slumber, as she slowly blinked open her eyes. I remember hearing the scream only faintly, before the warm sensation of burning overtook my leg and my muscles suddenly felt the urge to go on holiday. I opened my eyes slowly, with a sudden realization that I should clean my bathroom floor more often. I pushed myself up slowly, and discovered that my house guest had helped herself to one of my favorite pair of lounging shorts, thought that was as far as she'd managed to dress herself in the moments in which my brain decided to forgo consciousness. "I'm sorry I panicked." She said, in a voice that sounded as groggy as I felt, witha healthy dose of bitter anger thrown in for good measure. "I don't suppose you remember where we threw my clothes last night, do you?" I attempted to think of something witty to retort, but after running my fingers across the taser burn on my thigh, I thought it might be best to skip my usual snark. "I think I remember seeing your bra in the sink" I said, suddenly losing the urge to control my demeanor adding "you can't miss it. It's right next to the check for $50,000,000." She walked over to the kitchen, grimacing as she picked up her bra and finding that it was in no state to be worn. Even in my state of delirium, the math was starting to fill itself in as to what happened to my Friday evening and the better part of my Saturday afternoon. I thought, perhaps, my house-guest might be able to confirm some of my suspicions. "Um, I know this sounds pretty cliche," I started only to be met with a scowl that could have stopped a bull elephant in it's tracks. I decided to forgo better judgement and press on in the name of scientific inquiry. "I'm afraid I'm a little fuzzy on some of the details that led to... well... that led to where we are right now." She slid open the kitchen window and started climbing onto the fire escape, a comical sight though I dare not say anything to invoke further wrath. She climbed back through a moment later with a rather smart dress which had found it's way outside in lord only knows what way. She slid it on over her head, continuing in a single fluid (rather impressive actually) motion to remove my shorts without further compromising her modesty, only to wad them up and throw them at me. "You know," she started, "I'll admit I knew that you were full of it, and I was willing to ignore it because I wanted to have some fun. But if you're going to pull a stunt like that again, at least fake it a little better next time" she said picking up the check and slamming it down. She walked towards my door. She unlocked it, paused for a moment, turned around, angrily grabbed her bra off the counter, looked at the check one more time and angrily snorted "lottery winner. Good one asshole" before returning to the war path which led her conveniently through my door. "Well... so much for that mystery" I thought out loud as I chuckled at the very fake looking check. I didn't think I was the type to sink to a gimmick that low just to get a girl home, but the evidence was pretty damning. I guess in my drunken state I reeled her in with stories about winning the lottery, and decided to seal the deal by somehow acquiring a dummy check for $50,000,000 to impress her with back home. I can't believe how foolish, or perhaps brazen I was to write "mission successful" to myself in the memo line. That's low even by recently-divorced-in-your-30s standards. I actually felt pretty slimy. As I walked back over to the bathroom to wash myself clean of such a shameful evening, I was interrupted by a knock at the door. As I walked over to the door, I realized I owed this woman quite an apology. "Listen," I started as I reached for the door, "I really ought to apologize to you for the..." I swung the door open to find that the attractive young woman with tossed bathtub hair I was expecting was in fact two stout men in suits who looked about as pleased to see my birthday suit was I was to show it to them. "I see our newest agent is as discreet as we feared" the first man said to the other. "It doesn't matter." the second man retorted. "He's off the radar, and he's willing. That's all we need." At this point I started looking around for hidden cameras, but before I could even begin to comprehend just what in the hell was happening, the men invited themselves in. "Ah" the first man said. "I see the first part of our mission was successful and you have the check." "Good. Good." the second man said, "though I would have hoped you would cashed the check by now. Really adds a step to our day and we're on a timeline." "Well," I started, realizing that I was so lost about this situation that nothing I said next could possibly make sense. "Well... it's just... you know... it's Saturday, so the banks are closed..." I was pretty proud of that! I mean, it should buy me at least a little time, right? "Your instructions said nothing about a bank," the first man said, "and it's Sunday." "Now get dressed" the second man said, "our plane leaves the country in two hours." || || || ||

The most powerful woman in the world

Part 1 | | --- The most powerful woman in the world knelt on one knee in front of Jack Monroe with a wedding ring pinched between her fingers. Her eyes stared unblinking, as wide and blue as the ocean itself. Blonde hair draped over her shoulder like silk and she nibbled on bright red lips. Jack had never seen Laura 'The Empress' Hill so done up. She actually looked cute. Though he knew that she could also break him in two with only a pinky. "Hey," Jack said, averting his eyes. "We seem to run into each other a lot." He stuffed his hands into his jacket, his fingers curled around the gun he had built just to kill her. "Oh." Laura said, the word like a wilting flower and she lowered the ring. "I'm sorry, Jack. I didn't... oh my God..." her face burned red and her gaze dropped to the floor. "No." Jack held up his palms in a vain attempt to calm her. His face also burned. "I just didn't know we had *that* kind of relationship." "What sort of relationship did you think we had?" "Well..." Mincing words was never Jack's specialty. He dealt in weaponry capable of destroying even the most powerful of superheroes. Somehow, he doubted that the truth that he had simply been trying to kill her all this time would've sufficed. Laura frowned. "Haven't you been following me around? Haven't you even risked your life to come to my aid?" "Your aid?" Jack's brow raised. "Every time someone came at me with a new weapon, you were there, weren't you? I mean, these were weapons that could conquer the world, yet you came to my side with complete disregard for your own life. I just thought that..." Laura gritted her teeth and looked up. "I was hoping that it meant something." Jack opened his mouth, but no words came out. Laura frowned deepened and tears swelled in her eyes. "God this is so embarrassing. Look, you don't have to explain anything to me. This is my own misunderstanding. My fault. My embarrassment. My shitty decision." "I just didn't know you thought that way about me," Jack finally pushed out. "I mean, sure you've saved me a few times, but I thought it was like your hero's creed or something. I didn't think I was special." Laura stood up and dusted her uniform off. She feigned a weak smile. "*I* thought you were." Before Jack could respond, the cement sidewalk cracked and a blur of blonde hair whisked away into the air. Jack trailed it until it became a dot in the sky. A tear hit his forehead. "What the hell," he muttered to himself. Laura 'The Empress' Hill in love with him? It sounded like a bad joke. He had dedicated his life to ending hers and had finally created the weapon that could do it. In fact, he had just sold three of them to various gang leaders around the city. His heart skipped a beat. It's not that he liked her or felt sorry for her. And if anyone even mentioned the word *love* around him he'd kick their asses. But she couldn't die until he cleared this up. He wouldn't let her. Three weapons. Three gang leaders. He clenched his fingers into fists. It was time he took back his toys. --- Laura flew into the closest cloud she could find. Its water bit against her skin, wiping the mascara and lipstick from her face. It didn't matter. None of that had enticed Jack anyways. In the cover of the clouds, she finally allowed herself to cry. "Stupid Laura," she muttered. She had bought into her own hype. Every day, a hundred rich, young, and beautiful men proposed their love for The Empress on chat forums, fan pages, and even in the streets. Somehow, she had thought Jack Monroe just like them. But that was stupid. None of her fans ever rushed into danger like Jack Monroe did. Whenever there was even the slightest chance of her downfall, he was there. He wouldn't do anything, but that was because he was human. It was this same weakness that had stolen her heart--a frail human who had no power and no ability put himself into harm's way just to make sure that she got out in one piece. What could that be except love? Laura bit her lip and shook her head. Except it apparently wasn't. Perhaps it was just coincidence, a divine joke played at her expense. She wondered if he'd sell the story to the tabloids. He had every right to after all. Though if she knew anything about Jack Monroe... she sighed. She didn't know anything about Jack Monroe and this was the proof. If he did choose to embarrass her for money, she wouldn't blame him. A siren sounded at the city's central bank. Laura squinted her eyes and found a group of hooded men firing weapons into the air. With them stood a man without a mask dressed in a white suit. He was the leader of The Packrats, one of the three top gangs in the city. "Come on out my little Empress," he said, fully confident that she could hear him. In fact, he seemed entirely confident to even take her. He normally would never show his face in public, never mind in the middle of robbing the city's largest bank. Laura wiped her tears. She didn't bother thinking it through. Her thoughts were all embers juggling in her brain and she could do without them today. "Sorry Alric," she growled. "But you caught me in a real bad mood." And she charged in. --- Jack heard the sirens echoing through the sky. Then he saw the cloud disperse, blown away with reckless force. The blood drained from his cheeks. The first gang was already making its move. Such was the confidence they held in his weapons. Unfortunately, they were right in their confidence. "Shit!" He had perhaps only minutes to get there in time. He ran out to the middle of the street and spread his arms. A car skidded to a high-pitched stop in front of him. "What's wrong with you?" the driver got out, a middle-aged man with thinning hair and a dirty tank top. "What are you trying to do? Die?" The man's mouth clamped shut because Jack had taken his gun out of his pocket. It looked exactly like normal handgun, which was the point. This weapon was designed to catch The Empress off guard. Whereas most bullets would bounce off her harmlessly, this one fired at velocity's near the speed of light with bullets made of tungsten. "Hey man, I don't want any trouble." The man said, his hands held high above his head. "Shut up," Jack snapped. Normally, even in crime, he always prided himself in his poise. But this was anything but normal. Right now, he could count the ticks of the clock because his heart was beating twice a second. *What are you doing, Jack?* He silenced the voice in his head. "Get out of your god damn car before I blow your brains out," he screamed. He jumped into the man's rusty sedan and slammed the gas. The car lurched forward and sped toward the city. "Wait for me you god damn Empress." --- --- /r/jraywang for 2+ stories a day, continuations by popular demand and more!

The entire world seemed to tilt on

It was an accident, really. I was at Walmart, just getting some groceries, and I felt him. The entire world seemed to tilt on its axis until he was right in front of me, and then he was all I could see. I was born with a curse, you see. I can never be with my soul mate. I can love them from afar, but I can never taste that golden fruit. My mom has a "gift", I guess you could say. She has visions. And they're never wrong. If I chose to be with my soulmate, it literally means the end of the world. Like I said, it was at Walmart. I was in the frozen section, debating on whether I wanted a real pizza or just pizza rolls for dinner. And then there he was, tall and lean, with dark hair spilling over even darker eyes. They were the eyes I had seen in my dreams since I was a kid. Bottomless black wells with flecks of gold that would shine in the light. I couldn't see the gold from where I was, but I knew it was there. I grabbed a bag of pizza rolls and turned tail. I could feel his gaze on my back as I turned out of the isle. Fast forward two weeks. I'm in the local public library, browsing through the fiction section, scouring for any Stephen King I had somehow missed before. Then I felt it again, that same gravitational shift. He was there, I could feel him. He was so close, I could smell the cologne that could only be his. The sweet, heady scent of the body and soul that was made just for mine... I forgot about Stephen King and ducked out of the row of bookshelves I was in and tried to sneak to the door. I was only feet away from it when I felt a tap on my shoulder. I held my breath and turned, ready to say anything and everything I could to make an escape. "You forgot your bag, ma'am," said the woman at the desk. Apparently I had dropped it when I felt the tug of his life force. I fumbled for the bag, embarrassed, and shot a glance towards the area of the library that was pulling me so. He was there, of course, silently watching the exchange. A smirk playing on his lips, and an Anne Rice novel seemingly forgotten in his left hand. His right thumb was absently rubbing just below his left collar bone, the only sign betraying his cool exterior. He held my gaze for a fraction of a second before he looked away, and I felt my heart break. How could I be this close, but still never able to touch? To feel? I dropped my head and shuffled away from the library. Fast forward another three months. Not a single sighting since the day in the library. Not that I've been looking... It was mid July, just a few days before my birthday. I was at the lake house my dad bought the previous summer as an attempt to placate my mother after his affair. The back porch of the house looked over the lake, with a staircase going all the way down to the water, and a small dock with a jet ski just beyond the stairs. I was laying out on the dock, hypnotized by the steady bob of the jet ski on the water. I was slipping towards unconsciousness when I felt it again, that shift, but this time it was so strong and so sudden that I sat up gasping, my hands gripping the boards that made up the dock with all their might. He was here. Close. But where? My eyes scanned the shoreline in both directions, to no avail, and then out to the water. There were a few boats zipping around, a pontoon bobbing a couple hundred yards away, but nothing close. And then a shadow fell over me from behind. My heart skipped a beat or three and then kicked into overdrive. My heartbeat was thundering in my ears and I couldn't bring myself to turn to him, so I simply stared out into the water. "You've been following me," I said. He said nothing, but instead sat next to me. Still just out of my line of sight, but close enough that his scent filled my nostrils once again. It was intoxicating. "Do you know what this is?" I asked. "Yes," he answered shortly. "Then why do you keep coming? You know what it means if we're together." "I do," he replied. He was a man of few words, it seemed. I sighed. "What do you know?" I asked him. I hoped this would be the question that got more than two words out of him. He took his time answering. While he was collecting his thoughts, I snuck in a glance. He was sitting just to my left, legs crossed. His hands seemed restless, the right one tapping out a melody unheard by me on his knee, while the left was busy twining his hair around his fingers. His lips were slightly pursed, his brows knitted together in contemplation. His eyes seemed a million miles away. "Devan," he began, and a jolt of electricity went through me. He knew my name. "I've always been here, watching. Waiting. You know of the curse, but not the meaning behind it. When we come together as one, the world *as we know it* ends." I looked at him blankly. "We aren't the only ones like us," he continued. "There's pairs of us scattered all over the place. I've studied you enough to know you aren't religious, but you're well versed. You know the story of Adam and Eve?" I nodded, still confused. "They were one of us. The only original pair that was documented, anyway. Except the Christians changed the story a bit, of course, for their own needs. Adam and Eve weren't alone in the Garden of Eden. There were others, many others, in fact. They were the Chosen Ones of their time, the select few who were pure enough to bring the world back to life. They were Called-or Cursed, however you want to put it- to not only bring about the demise of nearly everyone on earth, but to also bring about the new generation of people. The world was sick when Adam, Eve, and the others were Called, and the world is sick again." He looked at me expectantly. All I could do was examine my hands. "So what do we do?" I asked stupidly. I finally looked at him, straight at him. He met my gaze with a shy smile. "All you have to do is take my hand," he said with a grin. "And from there, the rest is history."

Some believe that you become reincarnated

For as long as man has existed, he has been confronted with one of the greatest questions of life: what happens when you die? Some believe that you become reincarnated into new life, be it as an animal, a plant, or another human. Others believe that when you die, you are greeted with only eternal nothingness. One of the more popular beliefs held by the people of the mortal world is the idea that, if one is good, they are rewarded with eternal paradise, but if one is bad, they are punished with eternal damnation. As St. Peter, the keeper of the keys to the kingdom, the guardian of the Pearly Gates, I'm here to say that the true answer is very similar to the third that I've listed; the only difference is that whether you go to Heaven or Hell does not depend entirely on the actions of one's previous life. No. It also depends on one's wit. Allow me to explain: When a wayward soul reaches the Pearly Gates, they will see a riddle inscribed on the front of the massive white, marble doors that only they can see. For each soul, the riddle is different. They are given one chance to answer the riddle. If they answer correctly the gates will open allowing the soul to enter. If they answer wrong, the doors will be closed to them forever. The riddle that one is given becomes more difficult depending on the quantity and severity of their sins. Being the guardian of the Gates is truly a task that only the most stoic can perform, for I have seen it all. Because there is only one chance, many have been reluctant to even give an answer and I've seen masses of souls huddled before the gates as far as the eye can see. Some have cursed themselves for not being a kinder person in their life. Some souls have become haunted by the very riddle they are given and its sheer difficulty. Others have even been driven insane. I've seen horrible people that have committed atrocious acts in their life- you name it; murder, rape, terrorism- that had just enough wit to solve their riddle and enter the Kingdom. On the other hand, I've also seen the kindest saints, people that had given nothing but good to the world of the living, be locked out of paradise for giving a wrong answer when they were so sure that they have been right. These are, albeit, rare cases however, but these have been known to occur. Today, however, was a peculiar day and it is one that I'll remember for the rest of my existence. It started off fairly normal. One of the first souls of the day stepped up to the door. It was a little girl. She tragically met her end at an early age but she committed no sins in her life. Her riddle should be very easy. "What is this place?", she asked. "You're at Heaven's Gate. If you can answer this riddle correctly, you'll be allowed in." As she walked closer, her riddle became legible on the door: When I dry, I become wet. What am I? "I know. It's a towel." The little girl said. The gates opened for her and she was allowed in. The next soul to appear before the gate was an adult male in his forties. Apparently, he was convicted of murdering his wife and child and has been given capital punishment. Shortly after the electric chair, he has stumbled his way here to the front of the gate. "What the hell is this?" The man asked in a harsh tone. "You're at Heaven's Gate. If you can answer this riddle correctly, you'll be allowed in." "You're fucking kidding me. I just have to answer a dumb riddle and I can go to heaven? Alright then bring it on!" The man said with confidence. I knew there was little chance of him getting in. His riddle should be one of the harder ones and he didn't look very smart. The riddle appeared on the door: You went into the woods when you got me. You didn't want me but you went looking for me. I'm in your hand but you can't see me. You went home with me because you can't find me. What am I? "What the fuck is this?! I don't fucking know? A flashlight? A ring? Umm... a pen maybe?" The gates forever closed on him and the man was sent to Hell just as I have expected. Serves him right though. Even I didn't know the answer to that riddle. But apparently, the correct answer was "a splinter." The last soul of that day was the most interesting case I've seen since Hitler. He was the most wanted terrorist in the world responsible for the genocide of many people in foreign nations. After 10 years of hiding the, United States Military finally found and killed him, and now he's at the Pearly Gates. He was one of the most adept military tacticians which made him extremely good at deductive reasoning. His wit allowed him to escape arrest for a very long time. No matter, I knew that there was no way he was getting in. "Where am I?" the man exclaimed. "You're at Heaven's Gate. If you can answer this riddle correctly, you'll be allowed in. Now answer your riddle so you can be sent to Hell just like you deserve." The man gazed at the gate with a troubled look on his face. He swallowed to bring moisture back into his dry throat and said meekly, "Okay." Once again the riddle appeared on the door. It was the hardest, most vapid riddle I've seen in a while: A sailor walks into a restaurant, orders albatross soup, tastes it, and shoots himself. Why did he do this? The man stared at the words engraved on the door for the longest time. Heavy beads of sweat ran down his face. He was a genius at deductive reasoning and he was straining his brain as hard as he could for a reasonable answer as to why a sailor would shoot himself. I watched keenly waiting for his failure, but unbeknownst to me, the endorphins released in his brain under the pressure carried him to a higher capacity of reasoning. He explored every avenue of possibility and wild thoughts ran through his mind: "Is the fact that he's a sailor significant?" the man thought to himself. "Of course, it must be! And what do sailors do? They sail. Out on the ocean. The big blue peaceful ocean. Sometimes it's not peaceful. There's storms. And why an albatross? Sure, it's a bird. But does it need to be that specific animal?" I continued to watch him eagerly. I painfully waited for permission to send him to hell. He shut his eyes and clenched his teeth. He was thinking harder now: "An albatross flies. What doesn't fly? Dogs and cats. There's no dogs and cats in the ocean? Do sailors like having pets? Albatross eat fish. I know what fish tastes like. What does albatross taste like? They have white feathers. What is also white? A sailor's uniform?" He kept thinking and thinking then suddenly his eyes widened as if he discovered something amazing. It looked as if revelation his him like a cold slap on the face. He opened his mouth and gave his answer and I looked at him utterly speechless. "Prior to the restaurant, the sailor was out at sea when a storm hit his boat. He was stranded on a raft with two other sailors and were left starving for days. One day the disoriented sailor finds one of the men missing and the other was eating something. He tells him that the other man committed suicide by drowning himself. He believes he was eating the dead sailor but he tells him that he was eating an albatross that he caught when it landed on the raft. The sailor offers him some of the meat. He always considered the possibility of cannibalism but was so hungry he ate some anyways. Eventually they were rescued. Then came the day he goes to the restaurant. He tries the albatross soup and realizes that it tastes nothing like what he ate that day on the raft. Realizing he ate human flesh, he pulls out his gun and kills himself." There is silence for a long time. Then the doors open wide.

Alan Schriar is locked in

872-52-3381. That's my social security number. It's real too. Seriously, check it. I have a few thousand dollars in my bank account and few thousand more in credit. It's all yours. If you want, you can put me under a mountain of debt I will ever climb out of. But before you do that, please help me. My name is Alan Schriar and I'm locked in a dark room with only a laptop to light the way. I don't know how I ended up here. The last thing I remember is bringing home groceries from the local Cub Foods in Fulton, Missouri. Then, nothing. I woke up here not too long ago with instructions to post here. Whoever kidnapped me told me that I had all the information you guys would need to save me. Look, I know this is strange, but my cellphone is gone, and I'm pretty sure I'm being watched. I don't know what's going to happen to me if you guys don't help and I don't want to find out. Please guys. Could someone at least submit a police report? --- W432342234182. That's my driver's license number. My birthday is January 19, 1994. Yeah, I'm a Capricorn. Nobody responded to my last post, I don't think you guys believe me. My kidnapper, he doesn't think so either. He says that if nobody responds soon, he's going to have to punish me. I don't know that that means. But please guys. I'm scared. My fingers are shaking so much it's hard to type. My kidnapper is definitely male. I never got a good look at him, only heard his voice. Guys, I know this seems like a stupid scam or some trick. I don't know what you think this is nor do I know what kind of things people post here, but please, I'm begging you. I'm scared. Check my driver's license number. Check my birthday. Check my social security. It's all true. Someone, god damn it. I'm begging you. Please. --- The walls are cement? I'm not actually sure. I've never been one to care about that type of thing. I spent more time staring at a computer screen than wondering what kind of walls my apartments had. But there can't be that many cement buildings around, right? The guy's name is Roger, at least that's what he says. I think I'm still in Fulton. He had a southern accent so we're at least in the south. He... he hurt me. I don't want to get into the details, but it fucking hurts and if I don't go to a hospital soon, I don't know. Look, just pick up the phone, dial 9-1-1 and report me missing. That's all I ask. I'm begging you to do so. You don't have to find me, you don't have to solve this crime, just let the police know that I'm in trouble. At least comment. Roger's watching. He's always watching. If you just comment, maybe he won't punish me again. I'm not asking for much. You don't have to call the cops, you don't have to find me, just comment on this post. PLEASE! --- You want to know what he did to me? You want to know what happened because you fuckers didn't have the god damn decency to even leave a comment!? I'll give you a hint. I'm typing with one hand you pieces of shit. He broke them all, my fingers. First it was my pinky and then when nobody commented on my posts, he took the rest of them. He did it with a door, held my finger to the door and slammed it shut, one by one. Fuck you guys. Fuck you. You pieces of shit, you're letting me die. You're killing me! I got a good look at the guy. He's bald, green eyes(?), about 5'6'', which is my height. He's a skinny guys, probably weighs 120 and he injected me with something. It makes me weak, not able to fight him off. Report this. Do it. How great do you think you'll feel when my name turns up in the local newspaper? Alan Schriar found dead after over eleven million people ignored his cries for help. You thought this was a prank? You think this is a joke? Well fuck you. I'm telling you its not. It's not! Call the cops. Look for me. Cement building, oak doors, working electricity, and in Fulton. There can't be too many buildings like that. Do it! But before you do. Leave a comment. For the love of God just leave a god damn comment. --- He says this is my last chance. The clock on the laptop reads 3:34 AM, but it started at midnight when I turned it on so I doubt that's right. I don't know if it's night or morning or if somewhere along the way I fell asleep and it's an entirely different day. You want to know what he took from me next? My toes. He did it with garden shears. Then he bandaged them real tight, even gave me antibiotics so they don't get infected. It hurts so bad. I can't even twitch without the pain stabbing me over and over again. Leave a comment. Just comment guys, I'm begging you. You can take all my money, use my credit card, just leave a comment. Don't call the cops, don't try to find out where I am, just leave a FUCKING COMMENT! Seriously. This isn't a joke. I don't know what I can say to convince you that this isn't a joke. My name is Alan Schriar. My social security number is 872-52-3381. My birthday is January 19, 1994. I play the guitar in my spare time. I drink coffee at the Caribou on the corner of Sherman and Dunhill. I just started dating this girl I met on Tinder, Mariah. She's cute. Leave a comment. Even if it's to tell me this is bullshit, even if its to tell me that you're going to take everything I have and not do shit to help me. Just leave a comment. That's it. That's all I'm asking for. Please. --- EDIT: Hello friends. My name is Roger. I just want you to know that Alan read each and every one of your comments. He quoted them to me, begging me to let him live. Thank you for playing along in our little game. I hope you guys are around for the next one.

Sheriff Thomas Johnson had been less a

Another murder. Another hack. Another sabotage. Another fucking day. Thomas Johnson stared at his computer. Back when he had first become the sheriff of Wamego, Kansas, he had used a type writer and none of this shit ever happened. For fifteen years, he had been less a sheriff and more just the next door neighbor you called for help. Bad snowfall? Call Tom to help shovel your driveway. Now it was--phone in Sheriff Johnson, this one's gruesome. Then, the Bakers moved in. Tom had never heard of them before they moved in and that wasn't a coincidence. The newspapers never mentioned it nor did the internet when he finally got around to getting that. As far as the world knew, the family on 3422 Lake Street was just a normal nuclear family. Though in their case, *nuclear* didn't quite mean the same. "It's too early for this shit," Tom said to his secretary, Jane. "What is it this time?" Jane offered him a small smile and handed him a cup of coffee. "Government facility hacked. They took out a few guards and put some holes through the machinery. Upstate thinks this one has ties to the illuminati." Tom exhaled a slow breath. "Yeah, sounds like the god damn Bakers." "Upstate's bringing a detective for this one. He wants everything we got on the Bakers and he's taking the case." "They always do and we're the ones that always cleaning up after them. And Upstate expects us to be grateful." He expelled a single laugh. "Excuse me sir, would you like me to wipe your ass after you shit on my porch?" Jane chuckled. "Well, he'll be here in a few hours. Best prepare the case file." --- The place was backwards. Wamego, Kansas looked like the faded dream of a gold rush town. The paint on its buildings were flaking and the people here barely had computers. Special Detective Aaron Wichmeister knew he would hate this place as soon as he had gotten to its pale green sign. Wamego. Population: 35,000. "You got this much?" he asked Sheriff Johnson, a case file splayed across the table. "Well, most the family's usually out," the sheriff said in a thick southern accent. "Most? What do you mean most?" The sheriff pressed his lips together and held them shut. Aaron was the best detective the FBI had to offer and he had gotten so because he knew which questions to ask. Right now, he had found the right question. "Sheriff," he said. "Look, I know you don't want some kid from Upstate stealing your cases but this one's bad, real bad, nuclear war bad. I can't have you holding out information on me." Sheriff Johnson sighed. "We got one rule in Wamego and everyone knows it. You do not touch the littlest Baker Boy. You don't bother him, you don't talk to him, if he walks down the street, you put a smile on your face, say hi and move along." "Sheriff." Aaron eyed the man. "I know you got your ways and your customs, but this ain't the time for that. The USSR's just been beat and we've carved out a bit of stability in the world. The world can't afford more trouble, you got it?" "With all due respect Special Detective, this ain't a custom. The world can't afford for you to bother the Baker Boy." --- Sheriff Johnson nibbled on his thumbnail. After hours of arguing, the Special Detective prick just pulled rank out of his ass and now, the youngest Baker Boy was sitting with them in the interrogation room with cuffs on his wrists. "Tell me about yourself," Special Detective Aaron said and flipped up a page, "Skip." Skip managed a strained smile as he stared at his hands. "Well, I like fishing, sir. I go out to the lake by Concord and usually just throw my line in. I'll be there sun up to sun down. Big brother joins me sometimes, even sneaks me a beer once or twice." "Boy, look at me when I'm talking to you." Skip darted his eyes before returning them to his hands. "Sorry, sir. I ain't much good with that. Dad says I should just try my best but if I can't, ain't nothing wrong with it." "Now that's alright," Tom interjected. "Just do whatever's comfortable for you. You don't gotta--" "Boy," Aaron interrupted. "I'm an officer of the law. Look at me when you speak." The Baker Boy did so with quivering lips and misty eyes. "Sorry, sir." Aaron smiled and leaned back into his chair. He closed the case file in front of him. "Says here you got some kind of disease." Skip nodded, blinking rapidly. "Mom calls it autism. Says I got a little bit extra and it's messing up everything else, but that I ain't less because of it." "Well you're certainly less intelligent, ain't that right?" Skip fidgeted in his seat. Still staring. Still blinking. "Intelligence don't just mean book smart like big bro. Little sis says." "Intelligence is IQ. It's measurable. It's a number. And yours is quite low." "Now hold up, Special Detective," Tom said. "I don't think--" But Tom could see it in Aaron's eyes. The Special Detective smelled blood. Aaron slammed his palms against the table, causing Skip to jump in his chair. "Listen you little shit," Aaron said. "I don't care what kind of disease you got. This is a matter of national security. You're gonna tell me exactly what mommy, daddy, big brother and little sister do all day. You got it?" Skip's entire body shook, like he was a volcano about to burst. Then it happened. The tears erupted from his eyes and he began wailing. "Cry all you want," Aaron said. "Your family ain't here to save you now." --- "You shouldn't have done that," Sheriff Johnson said for the fifth time as he paced back and forth. "Even gave the kid a phone call. You know he'll call his family right?" "That's what I want. If we can't find them, we bring them to us." The sheriff shook his head. "You really shouldn't have done that." Sixth time. "Look Sheriff, I don't need to be told how to do my job. I know damn well how to. It tough but its national security. We gotta shake the kid down a little. Calm down. What are you pacing for? It's like you're waiting for hell to open up." Sheriff Johnson stopped and looked over. "That's exactly right." Aaron shook his head. No wonder the Baker family got free reign around here. None of these hillbillies had the spine it takes to protect and serve. "Special Detective?" the secretary asked. "We got someone on the phone for you." Aaron smiled. The fish had taken the bait. Soon, the Baker family would be behind bars and left to rot. He walked over and took the phone from the secretary. "Hello Bakers, ready to fess up yet? I'm holding your youngest boy in interrogation, next up's jail and they won't treat him as kindly as we have." "Special Detective Wichmeister," the voice came baritone. Aaron recognized it. "Section Commander Rogers. Excuse me." "We gave you one rule," Rogers spat. "One fucking rule. You do not touch the Baker Boy." "With all due respect sir. This was the only way to find our perps." Roger exhaled sharply. "We got three nukes pointed at Moscow right now, armed and ready without any presidential order. We can't contact anyone in the facility, they're all assumed KIA. And our communication grid's down so we can barely do an organized response. Moscow's gotten wind of this through some sort of strange intelligence organization and the whole world's sitting on the edge of a knife. And you know what the Baker's asked? They want you, Aaron. One man versus nuclear apocalypse." Aaron's face drained of blood. "But sir, we can't bend to the will of these terrorists." "You shouldn't have touched the Baker Boy." --- --- /r/jraywang for 2+ stories a day, continuations by popular demand, and more!

Kyle Mason touched down on Cortar

Kyle Mason touched down on Cortar-5. The locals ran towards his ship as he did so. They were green, which Kyle found kind of funny. *All that talk of little green men, and when we finally meet green men they're ten feet tall.* One of them, its clothes more ornate then the others, and Kyle found himself wishing he'd learned how to tell the seven Cortaran genders apart. "You are him, yes? The human?" Kyle nodded, craning his neck up at the speaker. "Kyle Mason. And you are?" "I am Svlanitak, and we thank you, human. It's in the village." It wrung its hands, and Kyle touched his fingers to his forehead - at least he remembered the standard gesture of reassurance he'd read in the briefing. "I do. C'mon Sammy." The Cortarans gasped as Sammy loped out. A new breed, Sammy was a Martian Malamute - the endurance of a Husky, the nose of a Bloodhound, and the size of an old Earth Alaskan Malamute. It barked happily, and several Cortarans recoiled in terror. "Easy there, boy." Sammy plodded over to let Kyle scratch under his chin, before turning back to Svlanitak. "You have a sample?" Svalnitak held up a scrap of flesh timidly, clearly fighting the urge to recoil as Sammy drew close. The hound sniffed it, turned in a circle slowly, sniffing the air, and then stopped, staring towards the sun - which was West, if Kyle remembered right. "He's got the scent. Don't worry - we'll take care of this." Svlanitak flexed his shoulders, and Kyle had no idea what the gesture meant. "Do you need anything?" "Just stay out of our way. Go, Sammy!" The hound ran off, and Kyle followed. --- The village was abandoned, and Sammy was following a trail that wove in and out of houses. Kyle kept himself on high alert. There were a couple Cortaran bodies strewn about - the prey was one mean mother. Not that it should surprise Kyle. They wouldn't have called a human if it wasn't vicious. Kyle found some footprints. They were huge and clawed, looking like something you might find on an Earth bird of prey - but much larger, and with suction cups on the bottom. He whistled quietly, and Sammy came over, sniffing the footprint. Before Kyle could wait too long, Sammy was suddenly staring over his shoulder, growling. Kyle turned around slowly, his hands up. It looked kind of like a creature out of old Earth mythology. He pushed his brain for a second - that's right, a gryphon. Only instead of wings it had long tentacles, and instead of eyes it just had a single, segmented globe. Like a fly, only huge and horrible. "Easy there, big fella." Kyle held out his hands, and the creature reared up, screeching. Sammy gave a warning bark as it did. "Whoa, there, whoa. No need for that." Slowly, moving carefully, Kyle reached into his pouch and tossed the creature a chunk of meat. It sniffed it, curiously, and then carefully took a bite. "There, now, you like that, right? Doing good?" It made the sound a tea kettle would make if it could purr, and Kyle took a step closer, keeping his ears open for Sammy. Sammy's job was to make sure to warn Kyle if the thing - it needed a name, and Kyle decided to call it Griff - turned hostile. He kept up the slow, gentle speech as he did so. "There now, see? I ain't gonna hurt you, I got more good food here." He reached out and offered it another chunk, this one from his hand. Griff leaned in and took a bite, and Kyle reached up to scratch behind its ears. Most life on Earth had evolved to be immune to human's charms, besides the ones they had domesticated. Large predators didn't react to the calming effect humans had, and prey animals had learned that humans were dangerous. Griff here, however? Had never encountered a human before. It had all come together when they'd first made alien contact. History was full of things like the dodos, native Earth animals finally encountering humans and being completely docile around them. It had been assumed that domesticated animals were the strange ones, and that those docile creatures just didn't know better, but the truth was, they hadn't adapted. Animals around humans felt peaceful, almost submissive. The effect didn't carry over to higher life forms. Sentient species didn't feel that draw to humanity, unfortunately. But things like Griff... Well, it only took Kyle an hour of feeding and petting before it was happily rolled over on its back, making that teakettle purr while he stroked its belly and Sammy licked its face. "Alright, Griff, you're my newest friend. Sammy, go ahead to the villagers, we'll catch up." He took a picture of himself petting Griff's belly, attached it to Sammy's collar, and sent the hound running ahead. --- Griff was large enough to ride, so when they approached the Cortarans Kyle was on its back. Several screamed and held up their hands, but when Griff tensed Kyle just gave him a good, firm "No." It looked back at him through its segmented eye, then sighed and lay down so he could get off. "Okay, that'll be 200 credits for a safe recovery, and another 100 for fuel costs." Svlanitak eyed Griff carefully. "This beast killed some of our kin. We will put it down." Sammy started growling as Kyle tensed up. "You know the rules, Svlanitak. You call in a human, it leaves alive with me." Svlantik's eyes were cold. "And you are outnumbered. This beast must pay for what it did." Sammy let out a bark. The Cortaran's turned to him, but Kyle spoke. "You might want to rethink that." From his ship came other creatures. A two legged beast covered in scale that was basically a mouth on legs. A cute, wide eyed creature covered in fur - but with a scorpion's deadly tail. A legless creature that slithered like a snake, but had massive mandibles. And more. "Griff's coming with me, and if you try to hurt me...my friends go wild. Oh, and I'm tacking on another 100 for trying to threaten me." The Cortaran's looked back and forth, but knew they were outgunned. Svlantik handed over the credits. "You humans...these animals don't deserve your protection." Kyle shrugged. "Maybe. But your word for us also means "Beast-Friend" for a reason. C'mon Sammy, let's get the menagerie back in line and get off this world. Griff! Follow." And they headed back into the ship. After everyone was safely secured, Kyle headed to the cockpit where his cat, Mittens, was scratching on a console. "C'mon, you little fuzzball. We're going into hyperspace, need you safe." Cats seemed to only somewhat respond to human's aura. He gave the console a few more good swipes before allowing himself to be picked up and placed in his crate, yowling the entire time. *It's damn ironic* Kyle thought. Humanity had wiped out most of their own native species, and back home had basically been an ecological disaster with legs. Out here, though... It was too late for Earth, but at least they were getting a shot at redemption. --- More at /r/Hydrael_Writes

"Cabdon, report"

2:00:55 955:36:08 "Cabdon, report." My boss was on the other end of my communication link, one of the multitude of otherworldly life forms that my grandfather only dreamed of meeting when we began our earnest search for interstellar life. The being in question was, in our communal speech, called Griemel Varann and by all personal accounts was one of the more normal looking OWLFs that I had met. It was amazing how similarly we had all evolved. The only major difference between and of Griemel's race and ours as humans was that her world had a higher volume of natural gases in the air and had made them all a good foot and a half taller on average. There were still very, and you'll forgive me for using this outdated and borderline offensive word, but...*alien* looking beings but it mostly came down to whatever kind of creature had dominance over the world: there were a few where more insectoid creatures had been the evolving species, but there were a several worlds where the majority of the planet facilitated underwater life that were all different. And each brought something to the Galactic Mind, which is what became the universal name for the coalition of advanced species and the ethical government body that oversaw them. One of the aquatic planet's OWLF was the one to perfect faster than light travel, while several of the insectoid planets had already gone through periods of interplanetary war and peace and had perfected compacted single pilot crafts. Commander Varann's species were the ones to diplomatically bring the several hundred planet strong organization to one spot. Even Earth had its own unique gifts. Of course Earth had no larger part to play in the formation of the Galactic Mind; we only mastered interplanetary travel (and even then, just barely setting up biodomes on the Moon) when we were approached by Galactic Mind emissaries. It wasn't as cheesy or dramatic as old invasion movies would have had us believe: a small squad of very humanoid looking beings contacted us through satellite and greeted the leaders of the world and asked for permission to land and speak in a summit. There was a lot of to-do from what the history books say, especially since because of a small translation error the OWLFs had accidentally said that while joining the Mind was optional, continued habitation on the planet was not. Apparently there had been a threat of all-out war against them, which our history books love to joke that it was the first and only time the entire world was unified, but the correction was issued, and within months we had received the means to travel to the Galactic Mind homebase with our own technology. The Human Gift, though. That's what it's come to be called. The original OWLFs had seen it on our planet but it hadn't clicked until we were living in relative connection: no other species had anything like a pet. Plenty of species used animals as means for living, but none of them had cracked the idea of animal companionship. They watched old videos of little girls that had grown up alongside wolves, or women who had rescued lions and were accepting their affections, or bald monks walking alongside tigers in the same way as an old man walked with his dog. Our species rescued and rehabilitated elephants, rhinoceros, whales, sharks; we'd cleaned and saved birds, canines, felines, rodents...it seemed to them that every animal on our planet had been touched and respected by our species and it was hard to deny with our evidence. Over the generations we shared this gift with the other species, but it never seemed like any of them could quite get their foot in the door to make it possible on their own. A dog was fine for one of the wide and hairy species from frigid planets but even if we could domesticate an animal from their world, they could only have the joy of companionship after we had stepped in. Humankind seemed innately unique and powerful in that we were the only ones to make a connection with creatures. Which brings me back to now. Six of us, Varann, four other field researchers and biologists, and I, were doing some field work on an planet that had just entered into the Galactic Mind. Exploring a new world is a very routine thing at this point. We use our databases to compare plant and animal life, test toxicity, and find out how habitable the planet is to other OWLFs. While exploring and cataloging our findings, we received a call from one of the other sites asking for assistance. It didn't sound urgent or dangerous, so we made our way back to our transport and got over to them as soon as we could. They had relocated to the mouth of a cave and were waving us down excitedly--they had found a new species of animal and wanted me to determine its worth as a domesticated beast. It was more than exciting for all of us, since it seemed like every single world had some kind of pack mentality animal that with ultimately very little, in a cosmic way, time was able to successfully integrate with the rest of the domesticated animals. This is my field specialty, in no small part because most OWLFs see us as mystic animal masters and it was easy to get a job in the field. I never once wondered if my field had a high turnover rate, because as I was led in to the cave and left to look for the massive, stony, fire-breathing ursine on my own I suddenly had a suspicion that they might put a lot of faith into a small trait we have. A small trait that is not balanced by our still frail and soft bodies. God help me. 2:23:05 955:36:08 I don't know what we're going to do with these, but they're fun as hell to ride. <EDIT> Thanks to FlyingWeagle for helping to clarify some sentences.

Derrick and his friends were there to

Derrick laughed towards his friends. They kept saying that the lottery had never been so high before. If you had never gotten a ticket, now was the time to try. "It's all just a trap." Derrick remarked. He was sure that the lottery was a scheme to make certain people or even businesses revenue. It was not luck like everyone thought it was. This is why Derrick would never buy a ticket. "Come on then!" Blake, one of Derrick's friends, pressured. "Buy yourself a ticket already!" "I didn't come here to waste money. I just want a case of beer." "Don't be such a downer." Katlyn chimed in. Derrick and his friends were there to buy beer for the party that night. It was the start of a new semester in college and they wanted to start it off right. "No way." Derrick laughed. He was not giving in on buying the stupid ticket in a fixed game. A much older gentleman in glasses chuckled behind the group. Derrick slightly turned when the older gentleman put his hand on his shoulder. "Ah come on lad, have some fun." The gentleman laughed. He told the cashier to get a ticket for him. The man however, did not purchase a random ticket. He wrote down the numbers he wanted and the cashier smiled while processing it. "Sir there's no need to waste your money." Derrick assured. "Nonsense! It is no waste at all!" The gentleman turned around handing Derrick the ticket. Derrick just rolled his eyes. "Thank you," he replied. The gentleman whistled while exiting the store. Derrick and his friends just laughed. "I'll see you guys at the party." Derrick waved to everyone. He was going home to get ready. *** An hour went by when Derrick put his ticket by his computer. *I can't believe people waste their money on such a thing,* he thought. He needed to get ready. He wanted to make a lot of friends this semester after being stuck in too many classes the last. *I should just see.* He opened his internet browser. He looked up the lottery numbers that were posted that evening. It was remarkable he was even checking the numbers instead of just throwing away the ticket. It seemed curiosity took over in this moment. Derrick waited a few seconds locking his eyes onto the screen. He had to have been seeing it wrong. He looked at the ticket and the screen over and over trying to check for an error, but there was none. The winning numbers matched his ticket perfectly. "Blake!" Derrick quickly picked up his phone. "Dude, where are you the party is about to -" "Blake, listen to me. I was wrong. The ticket - The ticket the old guy from the store gave me won! I won Blake! I won the lottery!" Derrick couldn't believe it himself. He was still looking at the numbers trying to see if it was just his mind playing tricks. He thought it was all a fixed scheme, but the winning ticket was in his hands. "Blake? Did you hear me?" The phone made a screeching sound and then a couple of dial clicks - then it just hung up. Derrick held his phone out from his ear in confusion. *I guess it was just a dropped call,* he thought. He was still locked on the computer monitor. He was very wrong. Those tones he heard before the call ended were not coincidence. Derrick is about to learn what the lottery really is. It was a trap after-all, but not for money. "Derrick? Derrick!" His mother screamed from downstairs. Yes, he lived with his mother. It was all a plan to save money while in college. This probably further explains why he never wanted to waste a dollar on a ridiculous ticket for a supposedly 'fixed' game. Dark vehicles swarmed the house. Derrick was horrified. He could hear the screeching of tires from the inside. Derrick feared the worse. *They must be here to steal the ticket. How did they know so fast?* He pondered. Maybe someone was listening in on the call, or maybe hacked his computer. Regardless, whoever it was, they now surrounded the house. "Oh heavens! No!" Derrick's mother screamed. The front door was broken down. A tall man dressed in a grey suit walked into the foyer. This man was known as Mr. Finley. Men stood armed behind him. Derrick could see the scene from inside his bedroom overlooking the stairs down onto the foyer. He quickly hid his ticket where no one would look, under his mattress. "Grab the boy now!" Mr. Finley ordered. One of them constrained Derrick's mother while others proceeded upstairs. "He's here sir!" One of the men pointed their weapons towards Derrick. "Oh okay. Let's just all take it easy." Derrick lifted his hands surrendering. The armed men grabbed Derrick, escorting him out into the front yard towards the vehicles. "What are you doing with my mother?!" Derrick fought against the men holding him. He could see other men dragging his mother into one of the other vehicles. Derrick was thrown into the backseat of the front vehicle. Mr. Finley got into the same vehicle as Derrick. "Listen to me carefully son and you won't get hurt." Mr. Finley turned around to calm Derrick. "What did you do with my mother? Where are you taking us?" Derrick pressed as his hands were being tied together by a strong wired band. Mr. Finley lifted the ticket in his hands. *Damn,* Derrick thought. He was sure that had been a good hiding place. "Did this man give you this ticket?" Mr. Finley held a photo up to Derrick. The man in the photo was exactly the same man from the store. It was the same man who purchased the ticket for Derrick. "Yes." Derrick nodded. Mr. Finley smiled as he made a call from his phone. "Yes." Mr. Finely began over the phone. Derrick leaned in trying to listen in on the conversation. The vehicles started moving. Derrick was now squeezed in the middle between two of the armed men. "Yes." Mr. Finley repeated over the phone. "We have the boy, Finally. Yes. This time we got him before making the jump." Derrick didn't understand. He tried to figure out what Mr. Finely could have been talking about. Whatever it was, Derrick was not making it to the party. "What is this all about?" Derrick grew impatient. His heart sank when he heard Mr. Finley's next words over the phone. "No, we have captured the boy before he could time travel this time. There's no need to worry about him. However, his older version bought him the ticket and is still at large. We are returning with his younger-self right now." *** To read more of my stories, visit [here] (https://www.reddit.com/r/13thOlympian/)

Angela Graham was 13 when she first

Angela Graham was thirteen when she first saw Death himself. It was a bombing. A half dozen were killed instantly or near instantly, and twenty more wounded, including her. As she lay there, bleeding amidst the wreckage, she saw him. Tall and lank, black robes, black cloak, and a black hood obscuring his build and features. He wore a skull mask, but in the sockets she saw the twinkling of clear, dark, human eyes. Long white fingers, bony, but not without skin, gripped the curved wooden shaft of a scythe. A single sweep of it parted the souls from the six dead, and he gathered up the glowing energy like so much cut grass. He moved about his work with gentle grace. He was beautiful. For a brief moment, her eyes met his. He bowed his head, and went about his work, as though nothing had happened. Anyone else would have thought the encounter a hallucination, brought on by trauma and blood loss. But she didn't. She recovered, and carried that memory with her. -------------------- A year later, the two met again. Angie had crushed a large spider she had found in her room. The act was willful, cold. She didn't know if it was poisonous, but if it was, leaving it be was a risk, and trying to catch it a bigger one. She took no chances. From behind her, a smooth voice spoke. "You know," it said slowly, "you were supposed to die that night." A bony arm in a black sleeve reached over her to pluck the spider's soul from the ground like a flower. She turned around and met his eyes again. "Why did you spare me, then?" she asked. "You saw me," he replied. "Most cannot. You can see the things that other are unable or unwilling to, and that gives you power. I thought to myself, I would let you live. There would be no harm in it." "You're a good person," she said, clasping his hands. "Thank you." He clasped back, and said, "I appreciate the sentiment, but mine is thankless work, and I must be getting back to it. There are people in pain who need release from their broken mortal shells. I must tend to them." He stood, and strode to the doorway. "Will I see you again?" she asked, as he left. The hood tilted forward, then back again. "In good time. All must meet me sooner or later. Be patient, child. I will be waiting for you. Do not waste my gift of life. I do not offer second chances often." Angie moved to follow, but when she ducked out her bedroom door, he was already gone. -------- Angie stood in her back yard, in a pathway of pebbles. She picked them up, one at a time, running her fingers over them and tossing them experimentally upwards. Finally, she found a smooth, elliptical one that satisfied her. Her eyes darted around, scanning the trees, settling on a squirrel at the base of one. The two stared at each other, neither daring to move. Then Angie flicked the pebble at it. It hit its mark, stunning the small creature. She ran over it, not taking time to rise fully and instead clambering forward with her arms for support. She reached the squirrel just as it stirred, grabbed it by the body, and twisted its head a full 180 degrees. And she kept twisting. He rested a thin, pale hand on hers, and she stopped, looking abruptly into his eyes again. He did not look back. His eyes instead focused on the cooling corpse she held. "Such small things," he said, "tend to mind their own business. It is a pity to cut a short life shorter. I'd ask why, but I know." "I wanted to see you again," she said, ignoring his speech. "I'd give anything." "Then why not your own life, instead of this one," he said, and his words were harsh and cold as ice. Angie flinched, and she looked away, before whispering, "You told me not to waste my life." "All lives are precious," he began, "and I ought to know. After all, I am the one who must see every life end. Do not continue this method of summoning me. If nothing else, for my sake. I so hate my work." Then he took the squirrel's soul, and was gone. Angie looked down at the dead rodent, tore its head off, and left it to rot. ------- Angie was 16 when she killed again. This time it was a human. She didn't know who it was, didn't care. All she knew was that she loved death, and wanted desperately to see him again. This time, however, he was not gentle with her. He pushed her aside with his hand, and hard. Then he tended to the one she had killed. "He was a painter," he said, "not the best, but he had passion, and some skill. He was working on a new one, as a present for his younger sister, but he ran out of paint. So, he ran out to get more. But you got to him first. Now that painting will remain unfinished, and his sister will be alone." He reached for the young man's hand, and hauled a spectre to its feet. "Come along," he said to the ghostly outline, "I ought to let you see her one last time, even if she cannot see you." And the two walked away, hand in hand, past Angie, ignoring her. ----------------- Angie peered around from behind the wall, watching the still body as though it would come to life. She was waiting for him again, to confront him. He had ignored her for the past several kills. He came, as he always did, and set to claiming the soul. "I know you're there," he said, as he looked over the latest victim, "I'd recognize your cruel knifework anywhere. Come out. I must speak to you." She stepped out into the light, wearing a flowing black dress and long, white gloves, both unusually clean for the amount of blood she had spilled. "I've missed you," she said, "and our talks." "I said I wanted to speak to you, not with you. Be silent," he shot back, never looking up. She pouted even though she knew he wasn't watching. "I told you not to waste your life. Now you have thrown it away, become a criminal. Murderer. You could see past the veil. With that power, you could have done much good. Helped people gain closure. Warned people of danger. Instead you chose this life." "You spared me," she began. "No, you saved me! I should have died. I love you." "I did no such thing," he spat, "In the confusion I must have overlooked you. It was a mistake. In more ways than one now, I see." "But you looked at me, looked into my eyes," she protested, "You nodded to me." "Blood loss and trauma make people see things that were not. Now, if you have any respect, or love for me, you will stop this madness. Now, I take my leave." He vanished, taking the soul he had come to claim with him. ----------------------- Angie, burned and bleeding, lay there, much as she had when she first met him. She had always known she would slip up one day, and today had been it. Murder, then arson to cover her tracks. That had been the plan. But someone had escaped the building, and called the police and fire departments. She, meanwhile, had gotten delayed, and by the time she extricated herself from the rubble, they were waiting. She was already burned and bruised. The smart thing to do would have been to go quietly. But she didn't. Maybe, she had thought, if I die here, we can finally be together. So she charged at them, knife raised, and they opened fire. Now she could only watch as the ambulance dragged away the one who had called for help, and Death was not coming for him. Not yet, at least. Then, a black spot emerged from the flames and illuminated smoke, and he strode from the building, carrying a bundle of souls, and supporting a young woman who had slung an arm over his thin shoulder. He let her fall on the grass, and the EMTs came for her. Meanwhile, he came for Angie. "Is it my time?" she gasped. "No," he said. "I am taking no more souls tonight. She," he pointed at the girl the medics were tending to, "will live. The man who called for help will live. The firefighters will live. Anyone who was not already dead or too mangled to save when I entered the building will live. And you will live." "Please," she choked out, "take me. Take me with you." "I will not. I told you once before, I do not give second chances often. You will live. The courts will convict you. You will be sentenced to life in prison. Which, for you, will be a very, very long time. You will not be able to kill again. You will not see me again. I will not come for you, now or ever. When old age takes you, you will be left as a soul trapped in a dead, lifeless shell. And you will never know peace." She screamed, and drew her spare knife before plunging it through her own heart. She let out a gurgling breath as blood that should have circulated through her lungs began to fill them. "You will recover," he said. "You are only making this harder on yourself. You know, with your eyes, you could have helped many, instead of harmed them. Saved them, instead of killed them. You could have passed my gift of life on. But you didn't. And I." he paused, and inched closer. "Hate." Closer still. "You." he whispered into her ear. And then he was gone. She never saw him again. ------------------ EDIT: Thanks for the gold, kind stranger! Never been gilded before, let alone on one of my stories. This made my evening.

Kids bullied Angie because of her

The kids bullied my daughter because of me. This I already knew. I was the reason Angie came home with timid steps and snuck off to her room without saying hi. I made a fist as the soft patter of her footsteps disappeared down the hall. Kids were cruel and life even crueler. Angie had done nothing to deserve a father like me. I had been born completely blind and with my balding head, my pendulum cane, and sunglasses worn even at night, I made for quite the spectacle--one that Angie paid for everyday in her middle-school classroom. "What's wrong with your dad?" they would ask her. "Why does he walk so funny?" "There's nothing wrong with him!" she would snap back and in her frustration, they found weakness. "*My* dad doesn't need a cane to walk. *My* dad doesn't wear sunglasses at night. *My* dad isn't blind!" My phone buzzed in rapid secession three times. It was time for work. I pushed myself out of my seat and grabbed my cane. I paused as I passed Angie's room. "Hey, honey," I tried. "I'm going off to work now, everything okay today at school?" No response. I couldn't even hear the sound of her breaths. She didn't want to talk. I offered her a smile which she wouldn't be able to see, but I hoped it sounded through my words. "I love you Ange, I'll see you in the morning. Sleep tight." And then I left. A dad who not only got her daughter bullied in school, but ran off to work when her daughter needed him the most. But who else would pay the bills? And was that really a good enough excuse to abandon my little girl? Tears welled up in my useless eyes as I started my cane in its rhythmic pendulum swing. --- I worked security at a small law firm. People would think that being at the front desk would require some sort of sight, but I recognized every voice that came into the building and I could hear people's lies through the tremble of their breaths. The other lawyers joked that I was like a drug dog for lies. "Hey," Aaron said, his footsteps approaching. "You get one of these yet?" I glanced up at his voice. "Let me see." He let out a small chuckle and held it toward me. I grabbed it and realized that it was a mug. I felt around its smooth edges and frowned. "A mug? I already have one," I said. "No, that's a *World's Greatest Dad* mug. It shows your ranking in terms of being a good dad." I felt the edge again. Still nothing. "Hey, congrats on being the world's greatest dad." "What?" Aaron's voice inflected up. He was on the verge of laughing again. "Me? The best? Yeah right. I was lucky to be in the top 50% which isn't that hard considering that some dads are in jail." I gave Aaron a smile. "Congrats on above-average then." "Thanks. Let me see if I can get you one, you got yourself a little girl, don't you?" I nodded. "Thanks," I said, but Aaron wasn't the giving type. He was the competitive type and I knew all he wanted was to see someone ranked lower than himself. So let's compare the blind dad to every other dad in the world. I'd be lucky to hit average. --- The mug was coming in the mail. An extended holiday weekend meant I had five days before it got here and in that time, I had to hit number one. If people were making fun of Angie because of her dad, then I'd just have to prove that her dad was the best. My phone buzzed again, this time twice. It was time to go home. In three hours, Angie would wake up for school and I had to be ready by then. --- "Dad? You're still awake?" Angie asked and yawned. "Yeah, got home early from work so I slept earlier." I said, which of course, was a lie. I hadn't slept at all. "Take a seat, breakfast is almost ready." I listened for the sizzle and pop of the bacon. It was getting close. "What is this? Are we celebrating something?" I always woke up for breakfast with Angie but that was usually a time for toast and conversation. Now I had diced fruit, fluffy pancakes, and an assortment of toast and jelly options splayed out on the table. "Nothing in particular," I told her. "Hey, after school, why don't we go that new amusement park that opened up? You've been wanting to go haven't you?" "Yeah," Angie said, caution in her voice. "But last I checked, we're still poor." I shrugged. "I found the money. I'll pick you up after school and we can walk to a bus stop together." "Okay, dad." Though she was still wary, no nine-year old girl would pass up a day at the amusement park. I nodded. "It's a date." and I could feel her rolling her eyes. She was right though, we *were* still poor. But all that meant was I had to start working the mornings as well as the nights. I could find an hour and two in between to sleep and the rest of the time would be either on the clock or with Angie. There were zoos to see, aquariums to wander, clothes to buy, and through it all, I had to make sure that Angie was having the time of her life. I took a small breath and turned off the stove. "Bacon's ready. Dig in." --- --- Angie held the mug in her lap. It was wrapped in cheap paper. Her dad sat on the couch, watching her, listening for her breaths. The past five days had been strange to say the least. Every day was a new adventure. The first day was at an amusement park where her dad had even let her buy Dipping Dots. She had bought an extra-large serving. The second day was at the zoo where her dad had bought whatever animal feed she had asked for. So she had fed half the animals in the petting zoo. On the third day, he had offered for her to swim with the dolphins. She wanted to, but told him no. Money didn't grow from trees and even if it did, she was too short and him too blind to reach it. That day, he had fallen asleep on the bus, mid-conversation. And in his sleep, his breaths had become labored and his smile dropped. It took so much tugging to wake him up that they almost missed their stop. She had been having the time of her life, but it didn't seem the same with her dad. And though he sled and exclaimed and laughed, she could hear it in the wilt of his words and the small strained breaths he took when he didn't think she was in earshot. After all, she was almost as good a lie detector as he. And he was beyond tired. "What's it say?" he asked her. "Is it a good number?" Angie swallowed and unwrapped the mug. She had a suspicion what this was about. Her dad always blamed himself for the bullying. He had always thought if only he weren't blind, everything would be okay and sometimes, even Angie believed that. But it wasn't true. Her dad wasn't the reason kids were mean. The ceramic felt cool to touch. She looked at the words. Her eyes widened and a swell of air caught in her throat. "Dad," she nearly whispered. "You made number one!" Her father let loose a single exhausted breath. "Good," he muttered. "Now the other kids won't be able to make fun of you anymore." His words waned and his eyes closed as he slowly drifted to sleep. Angie held the mug in her hand, rubbing her thumb along its surface. It was completely smooth. She ran off and found a permanent marker and crossed out the *10233*. In its place she wrote *1*. --- --- /r/jraywang for 2+ stories a day, continuations by popular demand, and more!

You remember Sileman, the

Worthless, that was what you told me. Stupid and worthless, a waste of potential and a disappointment. Such cruel words for someone as young as I. For I was but a nine-year-old child whose mind was still fresh with delusions of heroism and dreams of following in the footsteps of my parents. You remember Sileman? The woman that could phase through anything? Solid objects, immaterial objects, didn't matter what it was, she'd slip through it effortlessly and harmlessly. Heck, she could even turn herself invisible at will by slipping through the light spectrum just so. Yes, my mother. And my father, if you can call him as such. That monster of a blunt object, a man with the intelligence of the average earthworm. Stone the Rockman he called himself (an idiotic name to be certain, but then most of you heroes aren't known for your creativity). He could make his flesh turn into some kind of weird super-dense material that science is still trying to figure out what it was made of. When he first met my mother, it had been when you - Fyrefrost - had holed up in the National Bank near downtown about ninteeen years ago- oh but you remember, don't you? What should have been a run-of-the-mill bank heist gone horribly wrong that led to the death of 3 heroes and 2 villains. My mother would have made hero number four if not for the bumbling antics of my father rushing in to save the day. "I don't really *cough* give a damn about your *wheeze* life story..." Oh, but you do - you played such a critical role that I think a lesson in emotional damage is exactly what you should - as you put it - 'give a damn about'. Oh, careful, that wire you're holding onto isn't nearly as strong now that it's frayed at this end, and one little bump might just send this entire scaffold plummeting to the concrete death below. While I'm sure you would survive, I can't imagine you can vouch for all those little kiddies at the other end. "Don't hurt them! *grunt* Just.. let them go.." Rude! One more interruption like that and my fingers might just slip! Oh, but as I was saying... yes, my father managed to rescue my mother just as you lost control of your powers and went critical, detonating the bank and the two buildings next door. You, who should have died on the spot, if not for that altruistic neanderthal protecting your naked form. You, who should have slipped into a coma to never come back had my mother not phased into your brain, guided by the directions of the hospital's neurosurgeon. It was under their watchful eye that you were given a new chance, a new lease on life. Yet instead of making the most of it, you squandered that precious gift. You wasted it, on taunting and teasing the one thing that mattered most to them - me. From the moment I was born, you resented what I represented - a perfect union of superpowers that was destined for greatness. And so you mocked me. You turned everyone against me, you convinced my parents that my power was so worthless that I should be examined by 'experts of mental retardation' to explore if there was any way I might lead a more than average life. You betrayed my trust, you destroyed my belief in everything I had held dear. "We were.. trying to help... ugh... blood loss.. dizzy..." Help me? You stole my future from me! You told me that everything I'd ever dreamed of, everything I'd ever wanted, was a lie! Your revisionist history on what you think to be true blinds your thoughts even now! Even now, at death's door, bleeding out from a mortal wound that -I- inflicted on you! ME! That same worthless trash you said would never amount to anything, now taking from you everything you took from me - LIFE ITSELF! "D-damn it... you... are better than.. this..." Do you feel my foot on your waistline? Do you feel the weight of my anguish crushing your security belt, destroying those precious electronic gizmos that always kept your powers in check should they ever run amok again? Can you hear the sound of those children screaming even as I shift my weight just a little bit more to tip them closer to their doom? And yet here you lay - pitiful, worthless, helpless. If I were a betting man, I'd guess you have about one minute of consciousness left. I can only imagine what your powers will do unchecked after that. "It doesn't have to be like this... still time... change... good..." No, my dear sister, your time is up. This little chat has been highly therapeutic. Perhaps in the next life you will think twice before rushing in to save people you have no business saving. But there is no heaven for you. Feel free to enjoy the screams of anguish from all those families you just destroyed, parents cursing your name for failing to do the one thing you should have done from the start. The one thing that might have changed your history, and mine. For failing to save the one person in this world that needed saving more than anyone else. But it's too late now. "No! You can't--" But I already have. Goodbye, sister. ---- "A terrible tragedy at City Square tonight. A field trip that ended in a nightmare for the families involved. Twenty-seven children and one female adult died today during their visit to the newly-constructed Skyway Tower when an explosion destroyed the observation deck sending it hurtling to the pavement below. Police have identified one of the adult female bodies as the hero Fyrefrost. One student's phone captured this video moments before." Sileman gritted her teeth angrily as the council sat in silence, watching the report on the massively oversized screen. There was no mistaking the familiar fiery red hair of her daughter as she faced off against a strange man in a brown trenchcoat and a brown fedora, wearing dark sunglasses. The video shook for a moment as it flipped to the student's face giving a thumbs-up to the camera before shakily flipping back to the scene. The young girl's voice cheerfully called out to the camera. "Check this out, mom! It's that hero, Fyrefrost, about to take out a bad guy!" "I don't know what your problem is pal, but I'm not going to let you get anywhere near those kids!" Fyrefrost's voice was full of controlled rage as the video seemed to cut out right at the end of her declaration. With a loud buzz the camera flipped on, now staring just behind a pair of leather boots at the prone Fyrefrost, impaled on a large metal rod that was sticking straight up through her chest and out her back. She was clutching her side as blood poured out from under her leaving her in a growing pool of blood. The sound of delightful laughter from somewhere above those feet chilled Sileman to the bone, even as the tears sprung to her eyes. "Ah, ah! I would say watch that first step, Fyrefrost, but it seems you're just as clumsy as ever. I wonder what mother and father would say if they could see us now. Oh, but they will see us soon--" "Shut it off. That's enough." Stone growled angrily, fists trembling visibly as he barely held on. "That's more than enough." "How...? How could this-?" Sileman's voice choked off as she broke down into sobs. One of the newer heroes with a gold star on his chest tried to reach out to her but Stone slapped his hand away angrily. "It would seem," stated the light-haired man that sat at the head of the table, wearing a white body suit with a pair of lightning bolts perched at his temples, "that your son's power isn't so useless after all." "Declare it. Declare it now, and be done with it, Lightstar." Stone's voice was colder than it had ever been. "The Tripper, master of invisible rocks, is hereby declared a G1 Villain. A true menace that must be dealt with swiftly." Lightstar folded his arms over his chest. G1 Villains were rare, the worst of the worst - a designation reserved for only those who had proven themselves beyond dangerous and had killed a hero in action. The group of heroes bowed their head in silence as Sileman's cries rose into terrorized screams that made them all feel very ill. Stone rose to his feet and quietly made his way out to the opposite end of the large meeting hall. Somewhere, the Tripper laughed maniacally as the gears of his ultimate plan began to turn. ---- Edit: Woah, this exploded overnight! Fixed a typo. By popular request I'll work on a part 2 after work, likely posted same time this one was. Thanks for all the kind comments! :) Edit2: Edit3:

"No, Billy, don't

"No, Billy, don't!" Billy sneered, raising a fist. I held up my hands. "Whatcha gonna do about it, twerp?" "Don't hurt him!" I shouted. That at least made him pause. His beady eyes narrowed. "What do you mean? I'm gonna hurt you, you little-" His voice cut off and he stood there in silence that slowly turned into a high pitched wail as he stared, wild-eyed, behind me. "Don't hurt him!" I repeated, more forcefully. From behind me, I heard a deep, rasping sigh. Billy turned, his feet slapping the pavement. He didn't stop wailing as he ran, and I could see a puddle forming where he had stood. Probably pee, I didn't want to check. "He'll tell others about me." the voice behind me growled. "There will be...trouble." "It doesn't matter, Valefar. He's a jerk, but you can't go around hurting people like that." He sighed, deeply. "As you command. Now come, your mother wanted you home." I turned around to see him. He was about six feet tall, and without a doubt a monster. His lower body was that of a wolf, with a human torso jutting out of the neck like a centaur. A wolf-taur. His tails - all three of them - ended in hissing cobras, his face was squat and ugly, and horns curled from the side of his head. I smiled at him. "Okay Valefar. Want to play Overwatch when we get home?" Valefar nodded, offering me his hand before vanishing from sight. I could still see him there, but as a cloudy outline. "Yes. I most like playing the angry man with the black hood. Reminds me of a friend of mine." "C'mon Valefar, you know that's Reaper." "And, Maxine, you know I cannot call him that. I do not want to summon his namesake by accident." "Then call him Gabriel! That's his real name." Valefar chuckled at that. It sounded like slabs of concrete grinding meat between them. "I do not wish to summon that one's namesake, either." I nodded like I normally did when he talked about namesakes and the Eternal Conflict and my Dark Destiny. Not because I understood, but because it was boring. "Let's go home." --- "Honey, what happened?" My mom rushed over. "I'm fine, mom. Billy tried to take my lunch money but Valefar scared him off." She took a deep breath. "Valefar. Your imaginary friend. Scared off a fifth grader." I nodded happily. "I don't have any homework; can we play Overwatch until dinner?" A pat on my head. "Of course, sweetie." In my room, Valefar growled. "I wish you would speak to your mother of me. It worries her!" "Psssh," I responded, turning on the console. "Whatever. She thinks you're maginary. Now c'mon, I wanna get more lootboxes." We played for a while. Valefar was fiendishly good at the game, and I...had fun. He also spoke on the voice chat for me, to protect me from...I forgot the word. Podiatrists? Something like that. After dinner I settled into bed. "Valefar, tell me a bedtime story." He chuckled, pulling the blanket up. "All right. Once upon a time there was a princess, the heir to the realm of a powerful demon..." He only knew the one story, but I loved it. Maxine (the princess had my name because I was awesome like that) was the heir to a demon's throne, and she would one day open up the gates to Hell and bring about the 'pocalypse. But the mean angels hunted her so a brave knight of hell came to Earth to protect her. They had lots of adventures. *One day,* I promised myself, as I did every night. *I'm going to stay up to the end.* --- Do you have any idea how hard it is being the only high girl in high school with an imaginary friend? I didn't speak to him at school, when I could avoid it, but sometimes... "Valefar!" Everyone turned to look at me, and I felt my face turn read. Behind Shannon, Valefar cocked his head to the side, one claw still raised. "Valefar," I repeated, this time doing my best to turn it to sound like a sneeze. Shannon rolled her eyes, and I looked at her. "I know you tripped me just because you feel bad about yourself. But this doesn't need to go any further." Shannon crinkled up her nose, and tossed a carton of milk at my head. "Loser," she muttered, walking away. Valefar growled, but walked over to me. "Maxine, she attacked you." I ignored him, getting up. Still had time to finish lunch. "Let me slay her! For harming you!" I sat at the table, doing my best to ignore him. "Maxine! You can't ignore me forever!" His voice sounded almost plaintive, almost hurt. It was too much for me. "SHUT! UP!" Well...that did it. The entire cafeteria was staring at me. I wanted to die. --- At home that night, Mom was fussing over me. She said the words I didn't want to hear - counselor - and I couldn't argue. If I insisted Valefar was real, she'd just be sure. He was waiting for me in my room. "Maxine, what did I do wrong?" He growled. "Shut up. Just...shut up." I knew I was being mean, but I didn't care. He was ruining my life. "Maxine..." "Go away! Just leave me alone! I *hate* you!" I was nearly screaming, which I'm sure didn't do anything to reassure mom about my sanity. "Maxine, please don't command me to do that." "I don't care. Go away." He looked downcast and sighed. "As you wish." He began to fade, and for the first time ever, he faded from my view. I was alone. For the first time ever, I was finally alone. I just...why wasn't I happier? --- College was fresh start for me. I'd finally realized that Valefar was a figment of my imagination, that I didn't have a guardian demon, and the school I had chosen was far enough away where no one would remember me as "Mad Maxine" who had a nutty sophomore year. I went a bit wild, I'll admit. Parties weren't something I'd ever been invited to before. So it was great being out, being around people - and being too inebriated for my fear of being a wierdo to keep me from having fun. Then, one night, I had too much to drink. Maybe someone had spiked it with something, I wasn't sure. People remembered me blacking out, and then...no one knew how I got to the hospital. No one remembered who took me, or how I left, or why there was a paw print burned into the rug. The hospital couldn't remember how I got there either, just that I had been there - and if they hadn't, I would have died. I was going to get an MIP...then I didn't. The evidence got deleted, and a judge - who looked rather pale and sweaty - dismissed the charges. When I got back to my room...he was back, waiting. "Valefar. Did you take me to the hospital?" Seeing him again was...it didn't feel like I was crazy. It felt like a part of my life had fallen back into place. "I did. I could not stay away, not while your life was in danger." I walked towards him. "I said some awful things last time we spoke." "I still do not understand, Maxine. What did I do wrong?" I shook my head and gave him a hug. "It doesn't matter. I've missed you, Valefar." He rocked back slightly, shocked, but hugged me back. "And...I you. More than I thought possible." Everything just felt...right, for the first time in years, now that he was back. I sat on the edge of my bed, looking at him. "Those stories you used to tell me...that's me, isn't it? I'm going to bring about the Apocalypse." He nodded. "When you are ready..." I leaned in, resting my chin on my hand. I thought about Billy, tormenting anyone weaker then him. Of Shannon, lording it over everyone because she was 'pretty.' Of my classmates, saying teasing names behind my back for years. Of the people at that party, watching me lay passed out and caring so little a demon had to arrive to save me." I smiled at him. "Well...no time like the present, right?" Valefar offered me a hand, and a gateway opened behind him. "Then come, Maxine. We will make a better world." I'll be honest: I didn't even hesitate. --- More at /r/Hydrael_Writes

A sim left running on a super

I rush to the computer; I had come over as quickly as possible after realizing my mistake. A sim left running on a supercomputer, what could be the harm? Well, frankly, I did not want to discover the answer to that. I could just go in and delete everything; the program itself was already backed up on my personal computer. I sat and put in my personal code to unlock the computer. Deep breath, its ok. Hopefully there won't be zettabytes of data used up for a stupid sim. No one will discover it even if it has. The intern will still get supercomputer access come tomorrow. Hopefully. Nothing is wrecked, all is ok. Deep breath. The new files displayed in the program folder were large but not incapacitating. I can work with this. Huh, that's weird. A folder marked "Humans" was expanding. All the new files were expanding, but this one was eating up terabytes to the extreme. It was accelerating at an alarming pace. Changing from 2EB then 5EB in a second. Now 10EB. The computer had a lot of storage space, this was nothing, but at this rate that space would be eaten up in a day or two. Thank goodness the file was relatively new. I glance at the clock. I have a time before anyone comes in. I'm usually here before everyone else anyway. I click on "Earth.exe". What have I created? A beautiful blue and green planet pops up. It was still molten when I started the program. I had wanted to create a world from the very beginning. I knew some of the other sim freaks liked to copy and paste from other people's worlds and change it to their liking. I had always wanted to create from scratch though and this job had been my chance. Access to a supercomputer meant I could model a true beginning. I had used the master program all sim freaks used to create their worlds in "Universe.exe" but only because it took so long to create a universe that it was hardly any fun. I zoomed in to a piece of land my program said contained a large amount of "humans". They were hairy, bipedal, and frankly pretty gross. They had made things though, stone arrows, baskets, even some clay pots. How was this possible? Without me here no technology should have started. It's so primitive, maybe it was just a fluke of the program. I minimize the screen and bring up a chat box with freakysim49. Freakysim49: So what happened? Did your planet cool without you? Phangirl27: It made things Freakysim49: Things? Phangirl27: "Humans" it calls them Freakysim49: Weird, I told you you should use "Earthlings". Did they come out with all the tentacles you wanted? Phangirl27: I didn't make this! They happened on their own! How is this possible? Freakysim49: Do you mean they evolved? Freakysim49: I heard that happens sometimes. It's pretty easy to make something to kill them. Just program a bug. Phangirl27: They already have primitive technology, they evolve so fast. Freakysim49 is typing. I minimize the chat and bring up "Earth" again. The humans are gone. I locate the coordinates for a large population and zoom. Now they are fighting each other, with swords. Some are wearing armor. How do they evolve so fast? Normally it takes months; years even to get this kind of progress. I pull the chat back up Freakysim49: Kill them off or they'll get annoying. Once they discover medicine it's hard to fight. Or abandon them, they'll eventually starve or the star will explode or whatever. Phangirl27: I'll try "plague.exe" Freakysim49: Harsh On "Earth" the humans have evolved their swords and were now proclaiming a lot about a "one true god". I run the program and watch as their population starts dipping. That's when I notice this isn't the only concentration of humans. They are freaking everywhere. No continent but the one of ice in the south is without them. They seem more like the plague at this point. I watch as the amount dead rises. It gets up to 30%. Shouldn't be long now, it's even spreading to other continents. The number rises a bit more then levels out. Phangirl27: Dammit it didn't work Freakysim49: Plague didn't work? Freakysim49: Damn your world is messed up. How are you going to get rid of them? Phangirl27: At least they're still fighting each other; maybe they'll kill themselves off. Now the humans have developed rudimentary medicine and science. They are increasing rapidly in population. The plague did nothing, barely even slowed them. They have explored nearly the entire world. They have religion that guides them. They use and abuse the world and its non-sentient creatures. How do I stop them? Freakysim49: Some advance sims, where the life gets technology, can be destroyed. But you have to help them get there. Run "AI.exe" I click on the program. It's a program for the creation of artificial intelligence. In no time the artificial intelligence should destroy anything that evolved. The humans have already started flying. I run the program. It warns that it may take a while before the artificial intelligence has been made, but the idea should start entering the population pretty quickly. There's an explosion of written and visual art exploring the idea of artificial intelligence. Didn't take long. They left planet?? Its only to the moon, but still I haven't seen anything evolve like this. They can't get of world, not truly. The master program, "Universe.exe" wouldn't allow it. Their technology is getting good. They are sending probes out of world. Strange. Phangirl27: They can't leave Earth, right? Freakysim49: Nah. I've seen a couple make it to moons or close asteroids but nothing off planet. Occasionally you'll get far-flung probes. They eventually are lost in the universe though. Freakysim49: Has the AI killed them yet? Some simple AI programs are starting to come out. Nothing intelligent enough to evolve on its own, not yet. Freakysim49: Get them off my planet! Phangirl27: What? I check the log. How? How did they get to another world? I placed it pretty close to Freaysim49's "Mars" because I thought it would be nice to be in the same solar system. Freakysim49: Now they're mining! I'm going to send a plague unless you get them off. Phangirl27: I'm sorry, I don't know how this is happening! Phangirl27: Kill them, whatever you need to do. Freakysim49: This is messed up. Freakysim49: This is setting back my planet decades! Phangirl27: Sorry! The artificial intelligence is now starting to evolve. Humans build more and more robots with AI. These humans are smart but the AIs should be able to take them out pretty quickly. The plague on Mars worked, those humans are dead. Whew. Now the AIs are starting to kill humans. I watch as the death toll rises; 20% dead, now 32%. It passes 50% and I let out a breath. Much better than the plague. They should be all gone soon. Kinda sad, those things were resilient and resourceful. How did they make it this far in such a short period of time? The death toll is at 96%. The last few million always take the longest. I zoom out and notice something disturbing. A ship. No a fleet of ships. They are off Earth and vanishing into the universe. Oh shit. What did I do? I quickly turn off the program and delete everything. Humans, AI, everything on Earth is gone. Earth itself will now be nothing more than a desolate rock in space. You can't truly delete worlds, but you can make it so no one else can build on them. I open Universe.exe. In the search I type 'humans'. It seems they are starting to colonize a few different planets. Some look abandoned by their creators, some not. Freaysim49: simfreakhotline.com/universalthread/whatthehell I click on the link. It's a post asking about the humans and where they came from. People are starting to complain. They are ruining their worlds. Mining and destroying the life they had painstakingly created. A couple users had intelligent life that was battling but most were losing. A new chat window pooped up and I clicked, hoping Freakysim49 hadn't told anyone the humans were her fault. Human01: Hello Human01: We know you created us. I delete the chat window. Someone is playing a trick on me, maybe Freakysim49. Another window pops up. Human01: We'll find you. What have I done?

Mike hit refresh on CPW every

"Check again, it's almost 10, some party has to be getting loud by now?" "I've refreshed it 4 times, all that's changed is that Mrs. Stevens call has gone up ten bucks, so unless you want listen to her say her husband is planning to kill her for an hour shut the- ha nevermind it looks like Tom took it." "Seriously? How much did you take off him last night anyway?" "Like 200, the guy bought in twice and still was out after an hour." "Well, Mikey moneybags, maybe *you* don't need to go on any calls tonight, but I still plan on my kids eating this week." "Listen Jonny Boy, I've seen your kids, they could afford to miss a few meals." "You asshole, just find us a fucking call." John could not help laughing as he said so as he turned down another quiet street on another quiet night. Mike hit refresh on CPW every few minutes in between texts with Mary. "'Contract Police Work'" John Scoffed "They should just call it 'Cops Pissing in the Wind'" "Hey wait a minute, we got a lurker on Elm" "What's it pay?" "A hundred a piece, it's 5 minutes away, and they need two officers. Looks like it's time for Mike and his trusty sidekick Jonny boy to spring into action." Mike put on his best Saturday morning cartoon narrator as John pulled a U-turn. After confirming on CPW, they headed to Elm street with their sirens and headlights off. They turned down the street and quickly pulled behind a parked car. Their unmarked car blended well with the exceedingly normal neighborhood surroundings. "You see anything?" John asked "Yes, I've just been waiting for you to ask me." The sentence started as a friendly ribbing, but by the end Mike made it clear he was falling into a much more serious mood. It was dark, no moon was out, and the streetlamps only cast small cones of light straight down. The cruiser had a powerful flashlight on the driver side, but they did not use it. They both scanned up and down the street as far as they could, hoping to glimpse some movement. Just as Mike was going to suggest moving up a couple 100 feet, a silhouette flitted across the street 3 streetlamps down the road. "Let's go" Mike said as they both quietly got out of the car, they stopped short of closing their doors to remain silent. John led the way, sticking to the shadows, they head in the same direction as the perp. They headed between two houses and saw the shadow disappear around a corner They heard a fence door open and close as they began to slowly close in. The fence door led to a backyard of a standard suburban house. John looked in between the slats, he was able to make out the figure crouched at the back door of the house. "He's picking the lock, we get can him while he's distracted" John whispered. "Are you kidding, do you know how much a B&E pays now, it's 500 a piece even if we don't arrest him, double if we do." Mike said with a smile. John thought nervously for a few seconds, but he too smiled in agreement. They both looked back through the fence as the inept thief struggled to pick the lock. Mike began to worry he might get nervous and give up. "I swear to god, I'll pick this fucking lock myself if he doesn't get in soon" But Mike was far from angry, he was practically licking his lips in anticipation. Eventually they heard the fateful click of the lock and they kept watching the suspect, getting ready to follow him in. They saw him put his lockpick in his jacket pocket and exchange it for a 9mm pistol. Mike and John both recoiled and looked at each other. A cold jolt of fear and adrenaline went up their spines, neither spoke as they carefully drew their guns, but they both were thinking the same thing. Armed assailants pay triple. They spent a considerable amount of time opening the fence door as quietly as possible. They approached either side of the back door that the thief left open and peaked in. Nothing. Their training began to kick in as they cleared each room in the downstairs area methodically and quietly. Their guns were drawn, probing ahead of them, fingers on the triggers, as they soon began to suspect the thief already moved upstairs. As they headed to the foot of the stairs back in the foyer they could hear muffled conversation coming from somewhere upstairs. Mike looked at John, who simply shrugged his shoulders, neither could make out what was being said. As they slowly climbed the stairs, cringing at every perceived creak, they heard the voices getting louder, but still couldn't make out the words. "Twelve..." was all Mike could make out before the voice trailed off. "Twelve..." and again he couldn't hear anything else until they got right to the top of the stairs and moved towards the only bedroom with light shining out on the floor. "Twelve fucking years." They sidled up to either side of the door and could now hear clearly what was being said. "I'm so sorry please don't do this." They could both hear a woman say. "Twelve fucking years, twelve fucking years, does that mean nothing to you? Twelve fucking years." "Don't do this man" a frightened voice said. "Twelve fucking years, why didn't you just divorce me, why did you have to do *this*" "I'm sorry, I'm so sorry" the woman was sobbing uncontrollably. John had heard enough, he walked away from the door a few feet and then did an about face getting ready to kick the door. He looked at Mike, Mike stared back and shook his head no. John was puzzled at this and signaled that he was going to kick the door. He counted down on his fingers, but Mike grabbed him and pushed him against the wall. "You should have fucking divorced me. 12 years, you should have fucking divorced me you bitch!" The man yelled. John struggled viciously to get free of Mike's hold. "I guess *I'll* do it then." The man was calm and quiet now. John used all his strength and pushed Mike off him. He took one step and froze as shot after shot rang out. The shots didn't stop until every round was spent. John remained frozen as Mike moved past him, kicked down the door and unloaded his pistol into the newly minted murderer. After this, they'd be set for a year. Edit: Thanks for all the feedback, this was literally my first try at r/writingprompts and it's amazing to get such a supportive response. I love the discussion of how to build a CPW system that descentivizes corruption, in this universe, everyone is content with the corruption haha.

The previous day, I'd been

I was what you might have called, a walking-cliche. A bounty hunter that looked like, well, a *bounty hunter*. Greasy, jet-black hair (dyed - I'd been going gray since eighteen), pulled back into a tight ponytail. I favored a long, leather jacket (hid the slight paunch), torn jeans and high, black boots - the type that crunched glass under them in a most satisfying manner. If you saw me in the street, you *knew* what I was. Of course, I wasn't on the street very often - I spent most of my time in my truck, chasing the target of whatever latest bounty I'd picked up. The previous day, I'd been on the trail of Big Poppa Peters - a gentleman as fat as a pencil is thin. It was a $2000 bounty, for the man that had once held the state's most-pretzels-eaten-in-an-hour record. Those glory days were long behind him, however, and he'd since turned to a life of crime - specifically that of the fast food persuasion. When the cashiers were emptying their tills, he was emptying their ovens straight into his gut. He'd usually empty his bowels before he left, too, leaving a stench behind that would offend even the least houseproud sewer rat. I'd caught up with him in a Wendy's, in a small town in the middle of nowhere, Arizona. The place had had a ton of stock in the fridges, and he was still fastidiously working his way through it. He hadn't heard me enter. "Better keep bringing 'em!" I heard him yell to a pimpled teenager behind the counter. "If those burgers don't keep coming, I'm goin' put *you* in the deep fryer!" He aimed his gun to the roof and shot twice. I aimed my gun to his legs, and shot twice. I strapped Big Poppa Peters into the back of my pickup - it creaked and hollered in tremendous protest - and headed off down to the local sheriff's station, to collect my reward. "$1500?" I yelled, my eyes bulging. I could feel a network of veins rise and pulse on my forehead. The sheriff hooked a finger under his collar and pulled it back, as his gaunt face reddened. "I'm sorry - it's out of my hands. The reward was lowered just before you got to him." I pulled out a scrunched piece of paper from my jacket pocket. "This," I said, shoving the paper into the sheriff's face, "says 'Big Poppa Peters: $2000'. Rewards don't go down after someone takes the contract." "I'm s-sorry, but this one has." "You think I'm an idiot?" I asked, lifting him up by his shirt and pushing him against a wall. "You don't think I see a small town weasel, tryin'a skim some cream off the milk?" The man was trembling. "How..." he gulped, "How about $1800?" I left him with a bleeding nose and $2000 less in his wallet. The smells of smoke, bars and fancy women were already wafting into my imagination, and I was about ready to do a little celebrating. I'd been on the road for five days, tracking down Peters. But as I passed the Bounty wall on the way out of the building, I couldn't help glancing up. It was one those cork boards, with pieces of paper and posters pinned to it, at any old angle. Some had a face with the name underneath, others just a vague description. > $3100: The Blind Date Murderer (Claire Browning) > $1700: The Butler of Carlson Manor > $5: Missing Daddy: please help me find him. > $500: Albert the Arsonist Being so into... *accounting*, I suppose you could say, the first thing that struck me about the missing daddy poster, wasn't that it had been pencil written in a scrawl worse than my own, but that the reward was five dollars - way below the legal limit for a bounty. I laughed as I left the Sheriff's station, and made my way back to my truck. Some clown must have thought they were real funny, putting something like that up. I grinned all the way into town. But the grin turned to a frown when I was in O'Reilly's, downing pint after pint of watered down Guinness. Was the scrawl actually that of a kid? I'd been convinced it was a prank, when I'd been in the sheriff's station. But as the evening grew darker, so did my mood. The note was like a corkscrew slowly twisting into my mind- it became the only thing I could think about. "Hey big fella," a thin lady with too much blusher said, cat-walking her way over to me. "You want to have a good time?" "That's why I came here," I sighed, attempting to smile but failing pretty miserably. "Then you made the right choice." She pursed her lips and gave me what she must have considered a seductive pout, but it looked more like she was sucking a lemon. "How about you and-" "Listen," I cut in. "Maybe some other time, cause I ain't going to be able to have a good time tonight." I got up, walked out the bar and staggered back to my truck. I tried to fit the key in the lock, but missed by at least two inches. "Well, that lady aught to be damned grateful," I muttered, giving up the idea of trying to drive. Guess the Guinness hadn't been so watered down after all. Instead, I decided that the fresh air might do me some good, and I began the four mile trek back to the Sheriff's station. The note was gone. "Where is it?" I roared at the man on reception. "Where's what, sir?" "The note." I leaned over the table and into his face. " The missing daddy note. Five dollar reward. Where is it?" He craned his head back and winced. "Sir, have you been drinking?" "I've had a tipple. Is that a crime?" "Not by itself, no. But your breath might b-" "Where's the goddamned note?" I snapped. "Five hundred dollars," drifted a drawling, smug voice from behind. I turned to see the sheriff, grinning like a shot fox. "Son of a bitch," I said. "I'm not paying for that - it's illegal to make me pay for a bounty!" "You know as well as I do, a five dollar bounty shouldn't have been up on the wall. Someone must have snuck in and pinned it themselves. It's not a legal bounty, so I'm not selling it to you *as a bounty*." I sighed, taking out my bulging wallet. A moment later, it was a little less bulging. The sheriff went over to a nearby bin and took out the note. I groaned - if I hadn't been so drunk, it would have been the first place I'd have checked. "Nice doing business with you," he said. I snatched the note from him with a growl. Outside the station, I examined the back of the paper. > Please help me find my daddy. He went out on ~~Tewsday~~ Teusday to meet a friend. He didn't come home. I love him very much and I miss him this much \\--------------------------------------------/ > Pleaseeee help me. > Rebecca <3 There was an address underneath. I began the long walk back to my truck. I'd catch a few z's in it, and then I'd go pay Rebecca a visit in the morning. My dad might have walked out on me, but I wasn't going to let this bastard do the same to his daughter. If only it had been as simple as a father walking out on his family. --- More stories at /r/nickofnight

Death's scythe, Ler

"He won't budge," said Death, shrugging his colossal shoulders slightly. His scythe, Lerallue, glowed a dark red, pulsing gently like a beating heart - which meant that They were near, but we still had some time. I had answered Death's summons as fast as I could. He rarely called on me, prideful thing that he was. He thought he knew humans, could always count on persuading them with fear, but even he had to acknowledge that a soft touch was necessary sometimes. That's where I came in. "Hey buddy, we've got to go," I said, setting myself down next to the shade on the curbside. His corporeal body lay nearby, cooling in the frigid night air. It would be another 2 hours, give or take, before the other humans discovered his body, but it wasn't them I was worried about. "Death's explained it to you, right? He can hold off the Eaters for a while, but we would much rather get you to safety." "For a long while," huffed Death, puffing up his chest, twirling Lerallue by the end of a bony finger. I ignored him. "I'd rather They take me, really," came the reply, so softly I had to strain my ears to catch it. His face was still downcast, eyes fixed on his hands, balled in his lap. I took a quick peek into his mind, then began to understand why Death couldn't persuade this one on his own. Timothy Burns wasn't afraid of death, nor of oblivion. He understood perfectly what Death had explained, that the Eaters would be along shortly, ravenous for so fresh a soul, and that once he was consumed, he would never be able to cycle through life again. Reincarnation would be denied to him, and the universe would be less one unique, precious spark of Life. In other words, Timothy Burns was ready to disappear into the Void. The irony of being on suicide watch for the recently deceased was not lost on me. I tried changing tack. "Who knows what awaits you in your next life? Give it a shot, man. You'll have a family again, someday, people that you can treasure, keep safe -" He cracked then, the sobs racking his chest as he buried his face in his hands. "What's the point? I had a family here, I had one, right here! But I screwed up, I screwed up! My little Genevieve... I was supposed to be there for her, you know? Everyone trusted me to take care of her!" "Some things... are out of your hands. You tried your best, and if -" A seething undertone of anger crept into his voice, and he rounded on me, seizing my shoulders. "Do you know how many lives I saved, in total? A thousand, two thousand! I was the best doctor in town! Even the ones senior to me came to me for guidance, sometimes!" "Was that why you didn't ask for another opinion when Genevieve fell sick?" I asked, quietly. Timothy had a response prepared, one fuelled by denial, pride. He was ready to blame the new viral strain, the weak antibiotics, the same few excuses he had flogged in his previous life. But the defiance seeped out of him, and he collapsed again, sobbing through his hands. "... I missed it... I missed it somehow... I thought it was just the flu, ordinary flu... by the time I realised I was wrong, it had already attacked her heart... my pride killed her... I killed her..." Death tapped me, and from the corner of my eye, I saw that Lerallue had turned a shade brighter, gleaming with a certain unrestrained exuberance. They were coming. "You'll forget it all in your next life," I said, prodding him a bit harder than I would like. "Trust me. People say that they can remember bits from their previous lives, but it's hogwash. You'll have another chance again to do the right thing." "But I don't deserve it," he said, taking a deep breath, sitting upright again. An uncomfortable calm had spread across his face. "I will atone this way, it is only right. Let Them come, I am ready." I sighed, then snapped my fingers. The mist rose from them, swirling lazily in the air, coagulating into a shimmering mirage not two feet from Timothy's face. Death turned away, wilful blindness in full operation. There were rules on revealing the grand plan to the humans, and severe punishments for infractions. I knew that as well as Death did, but sometimes, sometimes the ends do justify the means. Humans always forgot that sometimes, all they needed was a little hope. It was far sweeter than they ever gave it credit for. "That's Genevieve right there," I said, as the illusion took form, "that's not her name now, of course. But she's out there, the very same soul. She was born just this morning. She listened to us, and she's back there now, somewhere." That got his attention. Timothy grabbed for the illusion, but his fingers pierced through, meeting the empty air. "Where is she? Take me to her, please!" "No can do, that's not how it works." "Please! I'll do anything!" I narrowed my eyes, staring deep into his. I didn't like being stern, good cop always suited me better. "Listen here, Timothy Burns, I'm not going to lie to you. We can bring you back to the world, let you live countless lives again, but there's no guarantee you'll ever cross paths with Genevieve again. That's just how things are. So you can forget about ever telling her you're sorry, there's just no way she's going to be able to hear it, or even understand it." I softened my tone, even as Lerallue started glowing a bright pink. I felt Death shift into a battle stance, carving his scythe through the air as warm-up. "But what we can give you is a chance. A chance to do something a bit better in your next life. It's up to you how you want to lead it, but an opportunity to improve, is infinitely better than just giving up, wouldn't you agree?" I held out my hand, beckoning to him. Then, after an eternity, after the buzzing of gnashing teeth crested over the horizon, after the precious seconds to safety fell away... I felt him take my hand. --- /r/rarelyfunny

Thomas Harper was about to take notes

"Expecting a call, Mr. Harper?" Thomas Harper looked up from his phone to see his literary analysis professor giving him a stern look. "Oh, uh," Thomas muttered as he slid the device into his pocket. "Sorry." The professor rolled her eyes and returned to what she was writing on the chalkboard. Thomas glanced around at the other students, his peers. They didn't know about his power; no one did. It wasn't even a power really; if he convinced someone to do something, they would be able to do it. Anything; fly, throw a car, whatever. The problem was getting them to play along. Thomas eventually left the daydreams of his peculiar capability and returned to his studies. He took out a pen and was about to take notes until his phone buzzed. The young man froze and quickly stole a glance towards the professor; her back was turned. Thomas fished the phone out of his pocket and saw that he had a notification from his most recent app. It was a police scanner widget of... questionable legality. The greater good, right? This what it reported. Hostage Situation - Silverlight Business Center @ East and Fifth. Thomas stood up slowly, his eyes still fixed on the screen. "Actually... I have somewhere to be." He returned the phone to his pocket and pulled on his backpack as he jogged toward the door. The professor turned to see Thomas leaving. "Where are you going, young man?" "It's an emergency," Thomas said with a shrug. "I'll make it up next class." With that, he left. As soon as he was out of the classroom he broke into a full sprint. The Silverlight and the campus were both located in downtown, about ten minutes apart. However, time would not be merciful in regards to a volatile situation like hostages. Thomas hurried down the steps, brushing other students out of the way as he ran towards the parking lot. It was moments like these when he was glad to be parking on campus. He reached his car in only a few minutes. Once inside and cranked up, he peeled out of the parking lot and got onto the main roads. Now, with the time it would take to drive to the Silverlight Center, he would devise his plan. His app had not updated since leaving class, so police had not yet responded. Fortunately it didn't matter *who he partnered up with. So as long as he convinced them to go fight the bad guys, they would succeed and the day would be saved. But, again, who would that be? Civilians outside the business center would probably not go for it at all. Maybe someone on the inside? Not the criminals, obviously. One of guards or hostages? Following that path led Thomas to realize he might end up as a hostage himself in this process. However, before he could imagine a more sound plan, he had arrived at the Silverlight. He slammed on the brake and came to a sharp stop before jumping out of the car and jogging up to the entrance. Thomas hadn't taken more than three steps inside the center before a gloved hand grabbed his face and pulled him away from the door. A second guy walked up and pointed at gun at Thomas' head. "Who the fuck are you?" "Uh, I..." Thomas' stammered. His death was mere inches away. "I'm an associate here. For- stocks and uh" His irises shivered, eyes fixed on the barrel of the pistol. The lies couldn't tumble out his mouth fast enough. "Whatever," the man growled. He stepped away and lowered his gun. "Put him with the others." The first man who grabbed him swung Thoamas around and started walking him deeper into the building. "Picked a bad day for your stocks, son," he said while placing a hand on the back of Thomas' head. The mercenary pushed the young man down the hall of the business center. It was eerily quiet and empty for a weekday. Thomas looked to his right as he walked under the criminals forceful hand. That's when he saw a particular office room. Three or four old men in suits were speaking to a squad of mercenaries with guns, armor, and black tactical clothing. "Whatcha lookin' at?" the man behind him said, shoving down on Thomas's head. They soon arrived at their destination, a small closet door. The mercenary goon tied up Thomas's hands then unlocked the door and pushed him in. Thomas stumbled into the room and looked to see at least ten others sitting on the floor of this storage room, all with their hands tied and mouths taped up. The door clicked behind him. Thomas sighed. He had just gotten himself thoroughly screwed. It was now the time to work his magic. Thomas walked over and sat down next to the nearest person he saw. Really anyone would do. He looked at her nametag. Allison Watson, Senior Investor. Great. "Allison, how are you today?" he asked. Her only response was a confused look. "How about I take the tape off so we can talk?" She nodded. Thomas reached over to the woman and carefully pulled the tape off of her mouth. "Who are you?" she asked. "What are you doing here? Shouldn't you be in school?" Thomas grinned. "I understand your concern. But it's not about me right now, it's about you." "What are you talking about?" she woman said. "We need help, we need to call the police." "The police have been notified," Thomas said. If he knew, they knew. "However, it will take time for them to organize, get here, set up a perimeter, negotiate..." "So what?" Allison asked. "Do you have a plan?" "I do, and it's very simple." Thomas said with a smile. "You go out there and kick all of their asses." "Excuse me?" she recoiled. "Why don't you try that and see how it goes." "Because I would fail," Thoams said. "But you will succeed so long as you trust me." Allison was quiet for a moment after that. She looked at Thomas. "You're serious?" "Of course," he said. "Why else would I risk my life to come get captured with you?" Another pause from Allison. Thomas watched her consider his words. Perhaps she was coming around? "What about the ties?" she asked, raising her bound wrists. "What about the locked door?" "You can break them, they are no obstacle," Thomas said. "Try it if you don't believe me." Allison looked down at hands and tried to pulled free of the restraints. She did. The rope tore and her arms were freed. She looked at Thomas and then back to her hands. Afterward, she stood and slowly walked over to the door to further test Thomas's claim. Just as he said, the door was no obstacle, it crumbled under her hand and drifted open. Thomas looked on as Allison took a steadying breath and then charged out of the storage room. Screaming and gunfire erupted in the following seconds and the other hostages all looked towards the door as bullets flew pass. The thuds of bodies hitting the floor, glass shattering, more screaming. Lots of screaming actually. Then finally, silence. Moments later, Allison from investing returned dragging two unconscious mercenaries in each hand.

The greatest of men eventually returned to

Immortality, generally, was a boring affair. Kingdoms fell and rose, some burned to the ground, others crumbling to dust. The greatest of men eventually returned to the dirt with only monuments to mark their grain of sand in the proverbial human hourglass. Luckily for me, I had a companion--a blonde-haired, soft-lipped girl named Alexis. She had once took upon the name of Alexander and conquered all the known world. I had sat beside the *God* of Persia as I watched her come. If she wanted to unite the world, then I would tear it apart. What else was there to do? For years we played our games. When she took the name Arthur, I took the name Mordred. By then, she couldn't even recognize my face. To be fair, if I hadn't been scouring the world to find her, she might've fooled me with her short haircut and baritone voice. Our games went on for centuries. So much so that if anyone were to oppose us, we would simply assume them immortal. But eventually, even this became boring. No matter who won, we always ended back at square one. Time was a circle and though everything changed, nothing ever did. I had tried telling her this, back when she had called herself Joanna to save a country. As I had laid the tinder by her feet and held the torch in my hand, I had whispered to her, "Everything we build will always die before we do." Fate had given her over a thousand years and she couldn't see the simple truth of life--our monuments crumble, our bodies fail, and even our stories die. "But I never will," she had whispered back. I had gasped. All this time I had searched for the loophole to our singular truth and she had been right in front of me. Alexis would never die. She would be my monument to the test of time! So I had touched her pyre with fire, a smile upon my lips. Soon, I would dig her back up and our new game would begin. --- Droplets of water dripped from the only window in the room, echoing through the cave and waking Alexis up. She placed a cracked nail along the cement and scraped it until another tally formed. The cement's jagged edges bit into her finger and tore apart its scab. She flinched. Her first tally had been to count the days. By her five hundredth, she had switch to weeks, then months, and now, she was on decades. Though she had lost the exact count at year 422. Footsteps resounded down the hall. Alexis gritted her teeth and looked up. It was her captor, Mordred, Xerxes, or whatever name he had chosen to call himself now. After her campaign in France, he had turned the very people she had saved against her. Then, he had burned her for being a witch. By the time she had awoke, she was here, inside a damp cave locked in by glass. Though the last time he had checked in on her was over a hundred years ago. "Alexis," Mordred said, standing at the edge of her cell. "How are you?" "Peachy," she said. "C'mon, it's already been a hundred years," Mordred responded, smiling. "You can't tell me that you're still mad? Are you grouchy because you're so hungry?" Alexis stared him down. Mordred grinned a crescent moon. "You know, there was this great fella, went by the name of Adolf. You would've hated the man--killed more people than we've ever met in our lives! Millions of them. Do you even understand that number? All the people you've ever seen doesn't amount to a fraction of that! And they're all dead now because of him." "You're sick." He furrowed his brow. "A million people would die regardless. So what?" "You spend all this time obsessing over creating something permanent, but isn't it pathetic how little you've ever accomplished? All you've managed to do is be a thorn in my ass." "Alexis," he said chuckling. "But I have created something permanent. Come closer and I'll tell you." When Alexis didn't move, he continued, "Please. I'll even let you go. You'll be free to wander the world however you see fit and I'll never bother you again." For this, Alexis looked up. She crunched her teeth and finally pushed herself up. Even if he was lying, which she knew he was, how else could he hurt her? So he stepped to the edge of her cell, just imagining the things she would do to this man. Her bloody fingers curled into fists. "I can't imagine being in here so long," Mordred said, "with nothing but the rats and the sun. I bet you've died countless times just starving to death. Have you kept count? Is that what the tallies on the walls mean?" Alexis forced a smile to her lips. "Count the tallies Mordred," she spat. "I will make you suffer for every tally." "You know, I hate this world. I think it's beautiful, but its beauty always fades and if it doesn't last forever, what's the point?" He licked his lips. "But you last forever. So I figured if I could scar you so permanently, that you can never forget, I would have created my monument." "I've lived through a thousand years and I'll live a thousand more. By then, even this"--Alexis turned in a circle, taking in every bloody scrape of the wall--"nobody will remember." "Oh, I think you will." Mordred said and reached through the glass and grasped her shoulder. Alexis stared. She couldn't draw breath. "Oh dear Alexis, I can't imagine how painful this must've been. Do you remember the summers? This place became a stove." She looked up into his eyes, into his crooked grin. "What about the winters? I've frozen to death once before and I never have again. I think that's my least favorite way to die." "How?" she mouthed, unable to push the words out. His grin grew into it split his face in two. "I took the glass away as you slept, little by little. After the first decade, you could've escaped. You could've just walked right out!" He pushed her onto the ground. Her legs folded and she crumpled over. Tears filled her eyes. "You bastard," she cried. "I'm going to kill you." "Will you now?" "I'll chase you down, I don't care how long it takes." "Music to my ears." "I'll never forget. Until time itself has ended, I will chase you down and I will make you pay!" Mordred flung his head up and guffawed, his laughter echoing all around them. "Then I suppose I should give myself a head start," he said and left, whistling a tune as he did. --- --- /r/jraywang for 5+ stories a week, continuations by popular demand, and more!

[Part 3 - The Final Moment

**Thanks for all of the amazing comments! As requested, ** **Special thanks to hiphopnurse for the incredible inspiration for the Part 2! Enjoy reading!** **Part 3 is finally here!: ** **Part 1** My morning toast popped from the toaster as I began to pour a cup of coffee. I opened my laptop on the counter while I continued to ready my breakfast. In this moment, an email notification came across the screen. I glanced over thinking it was just my colleague crunching the morning numbers before we go to work. I was wrong. This was something that I had forgotten about for years. I leaned over to notice it was an email from myself. Still sipping at my coffee, I pondered for a moment when I read, 'I hope you got that dream job like you always wanted!' After I read the email, that's when I remembered my brothers and I used to all huddle around the television with our laptops bored. I found a site that allowed someone to send emails into the future on a specific date. I must have been so bored, I wrote myself an email ten years ahead. *That's awesome,* I chuckled. I placed my coffee down on the table only to notice I was able to reply to the message. *Must be a glitch.* The site wasn't very intellectually put together so I was sure to find a lot of bugs on it. Either knowing it was a system design flaw, I still had time before going into work and I decided to have fun with it. I wrote back, 'I work at Wall Street dealing in trades! It isn't exactly what I was looking for, but it's stable and I get to work at a job where fighting and drinking is part of the everyday culture!' I pressed 'Send." Smiling, I picked up my coffee and started to butter the toast on my breakfast plate. A notification immediately sounded as I realized it was probably the site telling me there was an 'error sending the message.' I turned around, and the toast fell from my hands onto the floor. My mouth fell wide open while the hairs on the back of my neck finally awoke. I was staring back at a message on the screen reading, 'Oh my gosh! This is impossible?! This must be a prank. I always knew Wall Street was stable but I always wanted to be a writer...' I refocused my eyes. The site is playing tricks on me. For one, if for some reason there was a weird tear in time that is allowing me to message myself then I would have probably remembered that scenario ten years ago. I wouldn't have forgotten about it. I took a step back and pondered. Datamining is always a big occurrence in our technology today. The site may be good at making it seem it was myself but I know better. I am not that foolish. Any system could know that I work at Wall Street or that I wanted to be a writer because of my browser history. "Nice try," I said aloud towards the laptop. I chuckled to myself but instead of powering down, I wanted to expose this theory once and for all. I took a few moments and thought of something no system nor any computer would ever know. I wanted to ask myself a question that only I would get correct - hell not even my own brothers would know the answer. After heavy thought, I finally let my hands free on the keyboard. 'Tell me, what is the name of the main character in the first story we ever wrote?' I smiled, *Good luck on that.* I took in the last sip of my coffee when another message opened across the screen. 'Nice try future site! You'll never get the answer from me!' I stood back a moment. I realized that would have been my answer I sent back realistically. I would never give that up. Now I am very invested in finding out what is happening here. Today, I am going to take that gamble. 'Bartholomew' I pressed send. I ground my teeth together waiting with anticipation. I didn't even bother finishing my breakfast nor was I paying attention to the time. Finally, another message was received. 'How did you know that? Seriously, this is starting to freak me out.' I jumped back from the computer, it could have still been the site toying with me, I had to find out the truth. 'The last name. What is the last name? If this is truly myself, I want to know. Give me the last name and then I'll know.' Every second felt like a whole minute. I felt myself sweating through my button up business shirt. A notification rang again. 'Binkley. Bartholomew Binkley.' I froze. I couldn't believe what was happening. I never told anyone that name. What made it worse was I never typed that name on any computer. I used my grandfather's old typewriter for that story so there's no way this site could have found it. I kept that story a secret because I am still working on it today. Everything was running through my head. I looked at the time stamp of the messages and it was labeled from ten years ago. *Why wouldn't I remember any of this?* I pondered. I told myself to figure out lottery ticket numbers, what to do or what not to do. I started coming up with instructions in my head to tell myself so that I may change the outcome of today. This was a door towards a second chance. I don't know how it is happening but I am going to take it. I spent about ten minutes creating a large message to send back to myself ten years ago from today. Right as I hover my finger over the touchpad to click on 'send,' something even more bizarre happened. I received another message reading, 'Do not send! I beg you, please. Leave it all alone, do not mess with this site anymore! I was very wrong to get involved. Please, I am begging you, do not send that message!' My eyes widened. I looked at the time stamp below the message. The time stamp originated ten years into the future from today. *** To read more of my stories, visit [here] (https://www.reddit.com/r/13thOlympian/)

Tyler docked his ferry and sh

Part 1 | --- Tyler docked his ferry and shivered. Winter was coming and the familiar salty tinge of the wind now carried an icy bite. The black waters lapped against his boat, rocking him like a cradle. There was only moonlight to illuminate the concrete island compound. Area 51. He had thought it would look more ungodly, but it just a concrete cube alone in a small island. He spat the rest of his chew into a tin can he had cut open and lined his gums with more. He had always been a man of habit--chewing; smoking; drinking. But none of that marijuana. That was illegal. When he had first found this job, his mama had brought her hands above her head and declared that God had finally found a place for her boy. At the time, Tyler didn't think much of it. As per usual. He didn't think much of anything. But by the second month of frigid November temperatures, men in suits ordering him around, and the occasional Hazmat suit, he wondered if God had made some sort of mistake. Sure, he was no good at math or science or reading, but he could hunt and he could chew. Surely somewhere out there, God could find a place where he could shoot shotguns and chew tobacco as work. He sighed and looked back at Ol' Rusty. She was his trusty 12-guage and he never left home without her. "Tyler," the radio cackled. "We're here. Help us unload." Tyler squinted his eyes and found two shadowy outlines at the dock. "That ain't really my job," he said. "I mean, if you want me to bring the ship closer, I can do that." "Help us unload," the voice came again. Tyler sighed and left the wheel. First driving ferries, now manual labor? All he wanted to do was to shoot shit and chew tobacco. --- Tyler met the two on the deck. Just as he had suspected, they were men in suits. Though these were *ugly* men in suits. Both were bald and looked like their jaws had been nearly smacked off, like they had forgotten to say their prayers at the dinner table. Despite it being almost pitch black, both wore sunglasses. "We're doing a full evacuation today," Suit Number One said. "Everyone on the islands about to leave. You need to help with the move." "Hey, I said so on the radio, but that really wasn't part of the job description. You know?" Tyler offered a small smile and got only silence in return. "So you're saying that you won't help us?" Suit Number Two asked. "Does that mean you are opposing us? You may come to regret that--" His jaw fell and clattered against the deck of the boat. Everyone stared at the thing. "I don't think that's supposed to do that," Tyler muttered and when he looked up, both Suits had taken off their sunglasses. Their eyes glowed yellow, cracked by bloodshot veins. The one without a jaw had his tongue slithering flickering in the air. "And that's definitely not supposed to do that," Tyler said. "Do not run," Suit Number One said, unblinking. "The Assimilation will only take a second. Join the rest of this island." "Man I don't know nothing about no 'similation." Tyler thought back to the meaning of that word and found nothing. He should've paid more attention in high school. "But you guys need a doctor." The two Suits lunged forward. Tyler squealed and ran. His feet pounded against steel until he was back at the ship's bridge with the door locked behind him. The first thing he did was find his chewing tobacco and refill his mouth. "Hello?" The radio went. "Is anyone out there still human?" It was a girl and by the sounds of it, a pretty one. Tyler took the radio. "Yes ma'am. As human as when God made me. It's Tyler by the way." She exhaled. "Holy shit, Tyler. We've been outrun. An alien parasite's gotten loose. It takes host in the victims' brain and controls them. The people out there, they aren't human anymore." "You're telling me they're aliens?" Tyler scratched his head. "But they didn't have no antennas or nothing." The girl paused. "No, they look human, but they've been taken over. The body sees the parasite as a pathogen and tries to fight it, but by then, it's everywhere. So our immune system attacks the body. The parasite needs constant new hosts to survive until it can find one that accepts it. That's why it needs to get off the island." Tyler stared at the radio, trying to decipher what she had just said. The iron door clanged and Tyler jumped. The two Suits shrieked octaves higher than any man should and their nails scraped against the door. "Shit," the girl said. "They know you're here already. Listen, you can't let them leave the island. Destroy the ferry and try to hide until the government comes. If you have to fight, destroy the brain. The parasite suppresses all pain and shock so the infected won't die even if they should." At last, Tyler understood. His eyes went wide. "So they're zombies!" The girl just sighed. "Yes, zombies. Don't get bit and don't get scratched or you'll be infected too. Just find the smallest hole you can and cram yourself in there until help arrives." "But what about you?" She chuckled. "I'm at the heart of facility. I'm already done for. Just worry about yourself, Tyler." Tyler shook his head. "No ma'am. My mama would whoop my ass if she found out I left a lady to die. I'll come getcha." And he switched off his radio. Outside, the two Suits were still banging against the door. They had already left sizable dents into it and now the hinges threatened to fall. Tyler grinned. He finally knew why God had sent him here. He grabbed Ol' Rusty and lined his gum with more chewing tobacco. --- --- /r/jraywang for 5+ stories weekly

The rhythmic thumps of the

Initially my brain had put down the familiar pattern of taps to nothing but sheer coincidence. But as I rested my head closer to my wife's chest and listened carefully for the kicks, I realised that the rhythmic thump was unmistakable. Somehow, by some trick of fate, the unborn child was communicating. Making sure not to disturb my wife, I pulled out my laptop to translate the message. Every beat, every kick, made my skin crawl as I desperately punched them into the translator, glancing at my wife every spare second to make sure I wasn't in some state of sleep induced delirium. My mind was suddenly reminded of an old film - a favourite of my dad's. *Alien*, it was called. I recalled with a paroxysm of anxiety how the aliens in it had opted for the brutal method of bursting through the chests of humans in order to be birthed. The memory did not rest well in my mind as I placed a comforting hand on my wife's cheek. She stirred lightly in her sleep, muttering something under her breath, blissfully unaware of the unfolding message. The next thumps completed the first word of the communication. **Free**, it read. What could that have meant? I pressed my head closer to the child, desperate to hear the rest. Quickly, the next word was formed to complete a sentence. The two simple words sat on the box of the translator, the entire screen gravitating around the weight they bore. **Free me**. I lurched forward, feeling some bile rise to the base of my throat. The kicking had ceased now, and at this point I was left to mellow in my scattered, frantic thoughts. *Free me?* I didn't know what to think of it, I didn't know what to do. As if detecting my conflict, as soon as I rested my head on my pillow to let the message fade to the recesses of my mind, the kicking started up again. Stronger, more aggressive this time. As if imposing something. The word it formed was simple, yet menacing in its own right. **Now.** A command. My head snapped back to my sleeping wife as I heard her stomach churn - no, *growl* - like a wounded animal. I heard her moan, and she once more tussled in her sleep, pulling on the bedsheets. I pressed myself up against her, the beating once more gone, and closed my eyes, my arms wrapped around her to quell her tumultuous sleep. Unable to sleep myself, I stroked her hair tenderly, trying to settle her down. Eventually, the dark coils of sleep dragged me to their depths, and I fell into a deep, unrestful slumber --- That night I dreamed of drifting in an endless, intangible void. I had no form to guide me, and no destination in sight, yet I gravitated to something indiscernible amongst the nothingness. Drawn like a planet in the sun's orbit. "*Come to me, and birth me a son, my surrogate. Bring me a beast, that may free me from this cage of dreams. Bring me a child, that I may call my own*." An ancient, dispassionate tone rung out in my head, breaking the blissful silence. I realised it was its call I was following. At its beckoning I drifted upwards, up a tunnel of space that I realised was split into two paths, one of which I was following. Resting at the end was a bloated sphere, and at its centre a teeming and glowing orb, composed entirely of what seemed to be flesh and meat. The void seemed to have a border here, expanding outwards in a curve reminiscent of an engorged stomach. At its core, of course, was the child it was cultivating. "*My child*," the voice called, deific and commanding. I realised it was not addressing me. It seemed too distant, too filled with longing. What was I to it, other than another passing life-form in an endless cosmic cycle, after all? "*Soon you shall be bequeathed unto me by the mortal woman, and I shall be awoken from this eternal slumber. From this land of dreams. Eternity has not ever yielded me such joy.*" A fierce tide began to flow from the reaches of the void, slamming down against me and pushing me back down the path I'd ascended. I unceremoniously careened through the entire tunnel, erupting out of the other end. ----- Suddenly, I woke with a start, my hair matted to my head from sweat and my heart thumping against my chest. I turned to my wife beside me, and realised her heart was no longer beating, her soft breath no longer sounding. As my vision cleared, I saw blood staining the sheets of the bed, cascading freely onto the floor like a river. All coming from my wife. I reached over to her, clutching her body as I looked down at her chest. Where her bulging belly had once been was a hole, torn outwards and mangled as if something had burrowed from her very core. Viscera and sanguine stained the sheets, my attention only snapping away from the sickening sight at the sound of something churning below the bed. In a state of shell-shock, barely able to process an emotional response, I sat in awe, still holding onto my deceased wife as a sludgy, ethereal tendril slid out from under the bed, covered in fresh blood. It was purple and like the tentacle of a squid, except it was lined with eyes as opposed to suckers, each fixated directly on me. It tilted, as if curious, before drawing closer to my face, pulling more of its form out from underneath. Except, I saw nothing. I only heard the rustling of sheets and the squelch of its movements as it drew itself out, the rest of its body completely invisible to my eyes. And then, once more from the depths of the bed, I heard another noise. A far more sobering, familiar one. The sound of a baby crying. ---- /r/coffeeandwriting for more!

The damn boy had found the book

The damn boy had found the book. Even worse, the exact *page* with his name. "Put it down," he hissed, trying to summon the necessary rage to project his voice enough to reach the living boy's ear. "Do as I say, or suffer the consequences - you'll rue this day, I will - " The child lifted his hand, idly smoothing his hair as he imagined a breeze passing through the room. Godammit. After so many millennia, he just didn't have the power anymore. He hadn't even been able to lift so much as a piece of paper or make one syllable heard for years now. Fading with every passing day, but never enough to simply wink out. No, he was doomed to roam the earth as little more than a wisp of smoke, drawn inevitably to the cursed books that carried his name. "Rama Odah," the boy sounded out the syllables, and in an agony of pain and pleasure, he felt his identity shiver and strengthen, a blade of grass tasting water after a drought. "Mom, what's this?" the boy asked the woman - Kelly, or something, if he remembered right - who suddenly swept into the study, distractedly looking for something she'd lost. Her 'cellphone', probably. The people of this age were somehow anchored to the things. "Oh," Kelly said, a slight smile pulling at the corners of her mouth. "Nice one, Zack. You found the family heirloom. I wanted you to find it yourself, you know..." Her voice bubbled with enthusiasm as she told the boy, not caring that she tied him to the Earth with each word, even though she scarcely believed half of her own story. The relic of a philosopher who had died thousands of years ago, leaving his library of work in the care of only his relatives. And each generation had passed it onto the next, not breathing a word to anyone outside the family of its contents. "He was a great man," she said finally. "He had the most beautiful ideas about all sorts of things, centuries before his time. The nature of immortality, the afterlife, good and evil, the desire for power...there's a section of his work that seems to speculate on parallel universes, you know. Well, we've no idea how old this stuff really is. You'll see we made notes and possible translations of the terminology in the margins, throughout the years. Pretty neat, though, huh? You know, I remember my grandma telling me she thought the house might be haunted by the man. A story *her* mother told her. Haven't spotted him myself, though." They both chuckled, though the boy's eyes widened at the tale. "You're reading a copy of the original, of course," she added. "Read all of it, tell me what you think, and I might let you have a peek at the originals." She dropped him a shadow of a wink and backed out of the room, as if she had to give him privacy for some monumental task. Rama groaned to himself as the boy read with evident absorption, his name imprinting itself forever onto the kid's mind. Great. Another eighty-odd years of this life. The boy would likely pass the story on to his own children, too. He'd long ago accepted it as his punishment for daring to speculate on the nature of life after death. Of course, he'd seen the other spirits - clearly, his punishment wasn't unique. But his had to be one of the *longest*, all due to his arrogance in trying to ensure his name. It wouldn't have been so bad, if only they weren't so obsessed with the mystery of keeping his name a secret, even amongst themselves. Oh, they thought of him, sometimes. But they didn't share his ideas, didn't *really* talk about him. He was a kooky relic to pass on from one generation to the next, like a dusty ring on a shelf, not a topic of conversation at dinner. He didn't even have that much fame in the shadow of life he could claim as his own. Rama watched morosely as the boy sank down in front of the curious thing he called his 'computer', fingers flying over the keys on the desk. Probably to play one of his accursed video games. Zack had already *mostly* forgotten about him, shelving him into a little corner of his mind that would, nevertheless, sustain him for decades more of life. Damn him. Damn them all to hell, if it existed. How would he even know. Hours later, Rama felt himself jerked into wakefulness. He hadn't slept, of course, but he could fade away into a murkiness that resembled most closely the release he sought. But he was *awake*, more alive than he had felt in centuries. "What?" he croaked, and he saw the boy jump and whip his head around, his face pale and pinched in the dark room. He seemed unnerved. Rama almost felt like his heart was racing, if he still had one. His name was being repeated. Once, twice. A *dozen* times. He drifted closer to the boy, and read over his shoulder. A strange glowing page carried the legend "Philosophers Den - welcome to our corner of the web". Somehow, it was reaffirming him - his name was being called. He read the comments with growing amazement. They were popping up every now and then, seemingly from nowhere. *An heirloom, did you say? What is the guy's name? I can't really make out the handwriting...* *Rama Odah, I think,* another said. *This is pretty cool stuff, man. The language seems right for the period, at least, this could be a major discovery. Can you scan the rest of the pages tomorrow?* The boy - Zack, Rama remembered with sudden clarity - turned his attention to the screen again, and typed a response. *Sure thing. I don't know why my family hid this from the world for so long, but I'd like to change things*. Shortly after, Zack yawned and made his way to bed. Rama stood staring at the screen long after it had gone dark, long after Zack's breathing dropped into the deep rhythm of sleep. He trembled as he moved his hand forward, and pressed the power button, summoning every atom of energy buzzing through his being. He could hardly believe his eyes as it hummed to life. The blessed boy - his *descendant*, after all - had found the key to life after death. At last. ----------- Hope you enjoyed my story! You can find more of my work on /r/Inkfinger/.

Gareth Hader, First Mate on

The planet Auryth was splashed across the holoscreens, a single spot of resplendent green and blue amongst an inky canvas of somber black. The gathered crew in the command bridge silently watched as the reconnaissance probe completed its task, then puttered back slowly to dock with the mothership. Gareth Hader, First Mate on the SS Vulture, snapped off a sharp salute when he arrived on the bridge. He had spent almost two full Earth days in the probe, and he certainly looked the worse for wear. "At ease," said Captain Layna Nurely, fighting to keep the urgency in her voice from showing. "How much resistance do we expect?" Gareth collapsed into a nearby chair, then tapped his wrist against the receptor dock. The data he had so laboriously collected was instantly uploaded to the mainframe, and figures, images began to ran over the hologram of Auryth. "Little," he said, a wan smile crossing his lips, "They are primitive. I cross-referenced their technological advancements against our own, and the closest approximation is Earth in the 1200s." "So, essentially the Middle Ages?" Gareth laughed, and said, "More like Prehistoric, compared to us. Even a gap of a single decade is monumental, much less over 1600 years." That much was true. Kurzweil's Law already accounted for how technological advancement accelerates over time, which was how Earth had required over a thousand years to harness tachyon manipulation, but only a hundred more to perfect numellar resonance. From the hundred or so conquests already won in the Federation's name, a gap of over 1600 years in comparative advancement meant that the SS Vulture had an approximate 99.95% chance of enslaving Auryth within two days. Still, something about Auryth rubbed Captain Layna the wrong way, something she couldn't put her finger on. "You sure they have no means of resisting our numellar rays?" Gareth laughed again. "Resist? They would need tonist weaves to even have a chance of resisting the first assault we launch, and who knows how long they would need to even develop *that*." "What about other weapons? Maybe they have expertise in something else we aren't expecting? I don't want to have to call off the assault just to request for specialist backup, that won't look good on our records at all." Gareth knew what she was referring to. The SS Farsight, ironically, had been one of the most glaring testaments to how *not* to conquer an Earth-clone, the derogatory term used for all the other planets in the galaxy who showed signs of human life. In that early foray, the SS Farsight had plunged headfirst into a frontal assault, believing themselves the clear victors in a horribly imbalanced match-up. Too late did they realise that the humans of that Earth-clone, though far less weaponized, had managed to tame the giant beasts which roamed that planet. It had taken full reinforcements from two other starships before the planet was finally brought to heel. "I sent drones down," said Gareth, "this is what war looks like on Auryth. Take a look." The holorecordings began playing, and a scene of a large field took over the holoscreens. On opposite ends stood two tribes, and at the sound of a horn blasting through the air, a single representative from each tribe approached the other, meeting in the middle. "This is as bloodthirsty as they will get," said Gareth, sharing the insights he had gleaned, "they wear simple armour made out of dried furs, and they are each equipped with a single long pole. I'll speed it up here, because that's all they do for hours, just facing each other, weapons at the ready." "Then what? They fight?" "If you can call it that," said Gareth, "see, here? One of them eventually moves to strike, the other fails to parry, and he goes down. *Boom*. That's it. That's all it is. Hours and hours of staring at each other, then the conflict is over, that tribe has just won more land." "And all of them do that?" "All of them. They don't have countries, just tribes like this. Everyone has their own pole, they carry it with them all the time, sort of like a belief that everyone is responsible for their own safety. But when they fight, they only send a single representative forward." "Any reason why they are so... minimalist?" Gareth shrugged. "Best I can surmise with the help of our database is that they have evolved a practice of minimizing bloodshed. Auryth is not a particularly rich planet, and my guess is that they have realised it makes more sense to have a single champion decide conflicts for them, rather than engage in large-scale waste. We had a similar practice too, ages ago." Captain Layna pushed off from her control pod, then waved at the holoscreens. The implanted receptors in her wrists scrolled through the rest of the reports quickly, finally settling on the summarized conclusion. "Culture, religion, agriculture, economics... all behind us. So that's how the 99.95% chance was divined," Captain Layna said, a smug smile slowly spreading across her face. "It is a sparse existence, that's for sure." "Almost like they are begging for us to arrive. Can you imagine how many years of development we will have saved them, just by intervening?" "Captain," said Gareth, "I formally recommend we begin the invasion now. Under Article 6, I request that the SS Vulture engage in a swift and decisive victory, to bring the planet Auryth under our banner, so that the Federation may add yet one more colony to its roster, and further quell the chance that one day, another planet may rise up to challenge our rule of the galaxy." Captain Layna thought for a moment longer, then nodded. "Prepare for the invasion. All crew, to battlestations!" --- Gareth was, quite poetically, both the first and last Earthling from the SS Vulture to arrive on and to leave Auryth. He jetted off from the planet's surface in an emergency escape pod he had stashed in the woods. As he soared into the relative safety of space, he forced himself to look back, to gaze upon the smoking carcass of the SS Vulture, split asunder in multiple pieces across the landscape. He suspected that he knew why he was the only one who had survived. He knew that there should not have been anyone who could have escaped the wrath of the Aurythians. And so he did what he was expected to do. "Federation, this is Gareth Hader, the only survivor of the SS Vulture," he forced himself to say into the tachyon transmitter, voice raspy from all the screaming he had done. "Be advised, planet Auryth is now aware of the Federation and its goals. Long-range bombardment... is essential! Do not enter within two starclicks of the planet, we do not have defences against them..." Gareth paused, trying to find the words to explain the dangers which Auryth presented. He racked his mind, so disused was the word he was looking for. Earth had indeed toyed with this concept once, long ago, but when it was finally disproved, conclusively (or so they thought), it had become almost a mark of the uneducated to even talk about it. Until now. "... the Aurythians... they have... telepathic powers... beyond our comprehension..." Warning delivered, Gareth suddenly felt his throat close up as the horrors swarmed his vision. He tried to breath, but his lungs failed to obey, as did his arms and legs. He forced himself to turn around, screaming silently, knowing full well that on the planet he had left behind, there was but a single man, holding a focus rod, who had finally found the quarry he was looking for. Just one man, when there were millions more. --- /r/rarelyfunny

Old blind Lizabeth lived alone on

EDIT: Might be NSFW There she is, as always. It's rude to point, but you've asked me to show you. There she is. Poor Lizabeth. I can tell you the story, if you like. I suppose I should. She wasn't always like this you know. She used to smile often, even in her madness. Used to talk too. I bet she doesn't even know we're here. I can't say which is better, now or before. They claim she's fixed, finally. But that don't look fixed to me. Look at her. Perhaps I should tell you the story. We all knew her from small. She was old blind Lizabeth and she lived alone on Watts Street. You know the one, near the end of the junction. Back in the eighties she would have been in her thirties then, but she looked older, and to us kids she was an old lady. We were mean I guess, and we used to trouble her some. You know how kids are. We would knock on her door, like a ding dong ditch kind of thing, but we'd just stand there a few steps back and be quiet. In those days they didn't have much for the blind, no seeing eye dogs or helpers. Old Lizabeth lived alone with her cane. She'd cuss us after awhile and then we'd laugh and run away. She had a temper and maybe that was the crazy rearing its head even all the way back then. Her outbursts encouraged us. Soon, we'd moved on to jumping her fence and making noises all round her house to scare her. And we scared her alright. She hardly left her house and she always threatened to call the police. We would hear her screaming inside like a ghost. I'm not proud to say it, but we got a real kick in those days from tormenting her. Maybe we added to her crazy. Who knows? I hope to God we didn't, but who's to say? One day old Lizabeth broke. It didn't come all at once, but that was definitely the start of it all. She was outside in the park and we were playing tag, I remember. I remember it because we all stopped running then and just stared when we saw it. Lizabeth wasn't one to leave her house and she wasn't one to sit in the park. But there she was and she was talking to someone. She was laughing. That was the first time I ever heard her laugh. And I wouldn't lie to you; I found it attractive. She was laughing alone, but she acted like she wasn't alone. Her legs were crossed and one arm was over her breasts and another hung there on the back of the bench, like she was hugging someone. She was acting all flirty then, I remember because she was blushing hard. Us boys had never really interacted with the girls in school too much and Lizabeth was the first time a lot of us saw what it's like to act so adult. And so we stared and listened and called over those who were far away and then there was a crowd just watching her and her imaginary friend. At first she was so engrossed in her talk that she couldn't hear us. It was so convincing that I swore I could hear something too, something that wasn't just Lizabeth. We all heard it in fact. But there was no one there. The brain has a way of playing tricks on you, I imagine. We stared for about under a minute when we heard a voice. "Lizabeth we should go." On my deathbed I will still swear that I heard that voice. It was a rough man's voice, but of course, there was no one there. Then Lizabeth screamed. "Go away! Go away!" And some of the crowd scattered. They had to have heard the voice too. But some of us stayed. Lizabeth got up and the wind pulled at her and her dress pulled against her body as she made for us. "Leave me alone!" And she was mad, you know? Even if you believe my theory that I'll soon get to, she was still a little off regardless. You can still see it in her face over there. See how it twitches sometimes? But anyway. When she started screaming we all scattered. Not from the regular screams of 'Get away!', but when she started screeching. She fell to her knees and her hands were above her head, like if someone was holding her, trying to get her up. And she was bawling and screeching. Some adults had heard the noise then and we were running and I didn't see anything that happened. But I knew that the news had spread. Soon Lizabeth was the talk of the town. Our parents all warned us to stay away from her. Some even asked if we ever saw any strangers around, any men mostly. I knew that they had heard the voice too, some of them. But as time passed you couldn't get them to admit as much. If you ask anyone now who lived there then if they remember the man and the voice, you'll get a bunch of blank stares. But I swear it was there back then. They asked about it. And we all knew we had heard it. Lizabeth was still out those days after. We didn't harass her as much, but some of the meaner ones, not me thankfully, would mock her when they saw her out of her house. But it was always only when she was out. When she was out she'd talk to herself. The old rumor was that her favorite thing to say was: "Why are you so quiet now? Fuck those people. Fuck what they say?" She'd say that as if the man was there. But none of us ever saw him. What we did see was the crazy take her and the happiness as well. Old Lizabeth would be smiling and laughing those days. She was never like that. It was like a completely different person. "Manic depression," my father said to my mother. The adults always gossiped when they thought we were in bed. And of course we never really stayed asleep. "It's all the drugs she probably used. It makes you crazy, like two people inside you." "She used *drugs*?" my mother said. I remember how she said it. Like she found out my father was fucking his secretary or something, pardon the language. And at the time he was, but that's another story. "Of course she is. Her mother was an addict. It's no wonder she's blind. God's just and he punishes the wicked. She has to be on something. That's why she's crazy." "We can't just leave it at that. What if she does something to the kids?" And you the eighties were like the fifties in some places. And the fifties were like the dark ages in some places. Where we lived was like the fifties, and that fifties was dark, really dark and ignorant. The breaking point for adult action happened because of us. We didn't see much of Lizabeth anymore and the whole mystery man thing had cooled down. No one saw him so it was easy for your brain to forget a voice. Your brain is good at those things. So anyway, we didn't see much of her and so we decided to go to her house. Play a prank. When we got there it was a group of us and we jumped the fence and we were quiet and we made our way to spread out around the house. We were going to all make noise and scare her. See if we could get her running. But when we were near the walls we heard it. Over the years I've asked those who I'm still in touch with what they had heard then. Almost always they just mention her. "She was masturbating," Jimmy said. He was older than me and should have remembered it clearer. Arnold said it was just Lizabeth screaming. The others didn't want to talk about it. But what I heard, and what I believe we all heard, was LIzabeth and a man having sex. They were screaming. They were grunting. I don't remember the words exactly but I remember how we felt. My face was red and I was aroused and I wanted to see and I was afraid and wanted to run. One of us screamed then when the fear of the stranger came rushing back and then we were running and the noises stopped. I don't know what happened then, but I felt Lizabeth's presence and she was behind us but we were faster and I felt another presence too but I never turned around. Soon we had all scattered and the parents were told. Someone always snitches. What happened next is like a montage of hearsay. That summer we were kept in doors. The local news was about, searching for the mystery man. Old Lizabeth was secluded in her house until one day the police came to take her in for questioning. Andrew Bralo, one of the younger kids, and a liar I might add, said he saw Lizabeth kissing a black man. Where we lived that was bad enough, but he said then that when they saw him staring, they threatened to cut his throat unless he stayed quiet. No one cared that the story was bullshit. No one questioned that Andrew said that Lizabeth was the one who saw him and shouted. All that mattered was that the hysteria was boiling, and the lid had overflowed. The police came and there were gunshots. The official report was that they heard movement and thought there was another in the house. They fired and did not hit Lizabeth, but she screamed as if they did. She was crying and kicking and saying they killed him, whoever he was. Then she was committed and the national news was starting to swoop in. The story began leaking and I think the pressure was on our mayor to make everything right. Lizabeth was diagnosed with a convenient tumor. The operated on her and it was successful, though she seems lobotomized now. She was released soon after and then childhood clouded our memories and ignorance spared the adults. Everything was forgotten and then everything was back to normal. And so it's been those decades past. She's been the same on that bench. It's the same bench we caught her talking to herself on that day so long ago. She just sits there now, in silence, wasting away. And that's my story... But you don't look satisfied. What more can I say? What's that? Oh... my theory.

Samantha felt a swoop of dread in

There was no mistaking the results: neatly next to every time and day, the name 'Seth Rath' appeared. Samantha was willing to bet there were only a handful of people with that name, and one of them was her best friend. Her oddball, slightly off-putting, but hilarious best friend. Who was probably a serial killer, like more than a few people had half-heartedly joked throughout the years. She was still lost in thought when she bumped right into Seth outside. As usual, deep shadows were engraved under his eyes, a dark coat buttoned up to his chin despite the summer heat. Sam felt a swoop of dread in her stomach - had Seth followed her all the way to where they were offering free test runs of the brand-new machinery? It was suddenly too much. "Dude, what the hell?" she asked, and shoved the results at Seth. She'd never been able to keep a secret from the guy, it was like a compulsion to tell him whatever was on her mind. Seth scanned the printed page, one dark eyebrow quirking up in surprise. "I always told you I was bad for your health, Sam. Next time, drink your vitamins before coming over, eh?" "This isn't *funny*, Seth," she whispered. "They say the tests are 100% accurate, what does this mean? Either there's something seriously wrong with your intentions, or people are trying to kill you when I happen to be around." "Who ran the tests, do you know? Who's selling these machines?" he suddenly asked, craning to see through the windows of the shop she had just left. "I - some company, I don't know, they were kind of creepy looking. Dressed all in white," she found herself telling him. Then was abruptly angry that she had. "That isn't the point! Does this mean you've tried to..." She let the sentence waver, hoping he'd offer some reasonable explanation. "That *is* the logical conclusion," he said drily, dark eyes glittering slightly. "Well, I came to enquire if you wanted to go for a walk with me, but I see you're preoccupied. I'll leave you to it, then, shall I?" Usually, she found his funny choice of language endearing. A product of his weird, musty upbringing in that monster of a mansion on the edge of town, swaddled in libraries and decades of dust. Today, it wasn't even the least bit charming. "Goodbye, Seth," she said shortly, hastening away from him. For the first time in her life, she didn't hug him. It had become something of a tradition of theirs, ever since she had forced him to join her in a game of hide and seek when she was eight. She always hugged him goodbye after they hung out, because he was so clearly unused to such a thing. Seth watched her go, her cheeks red with anger, blonde hair whipping behind her. She glanced back once over her shoulder - perhaps to see if he was following. He wouldn't. Sam didn't want his company today, and he never forced his company on others. What was the point? Sooner or later, they would all come to him. Seth made his way home, finding that his mood was blacker than usual, despite himself. He looked at Sam's printed results, crumpled in his hand, and was still reading it when he opened the door to the house and let himself in. He was so absorbed, he didn't hear father approach him - something that hadn't happened in several years. He'd long ago developed the ear to hear those soft and creeping footsteps. "Well, did you discover who are selling the machines?" Father asked quietly, his voice like the rustle of dry leaves, black eyes large and eager in the gloom of the house. "Not yet," Seth answered, handing over Sam's results. "I met Samantha. She was...upset." "Well, it was bound to happen eventually, son," Father muttered, scanning the results swiftly, squinting at the strange logo in the corner. Seth had seen it, too - the mark of those selling the equipment. It was a mystery to him, a meaningless bunch of lines and dots. "What do you mean?" Seth asked, nettled. "I can have a human friend! I can blend in, better than you. It's *necessary* to learn to do that." Father rolled his eyes at the old argument. "It was all that preposterous hugging she insisted on. How many times did I tell you? Reapers can't touch humans without dragging them closer to death. It's a ludicrous experiment you dabbled with, I'm surprised she has not drop dead years ago. Why did you let her do that? Did you *want* to kill her? Well, I won't blame you, I suppose. We're all wild in our youth, but you must be careful, boy..." Seth remained silent, avoiding Father's gleaming eyes, just in case he could read the truth. He had liked the hugs, and the subtle scent of Sam's perfume. He had liked the warmth and honesty of her friendship. Something no reaper should ever feel. "Well, no matter. You got us a sample, and I have a pretty good idea who's peddling the illegal machines," Father said, allowing himself a small smile as he tapped the paper. "Rogue angels running around right here in our city, you watch my words, boy. It's all in the logo, those guys can never resist an old rune. Yes, this stuff has the stink of heaven all over it - they must have sneaked it out, though I'm stumped how they did it. And why? Now that's the real question, isn't it? Why introduce it to humanity, when they know what a sensation it would cause - the attention it would draw. Perhaps they've rebelled completely, in which case we've no idea what they might do. Mmm...we'll have to take this to the others. You coming?" Seth frowned to himself. Usually, he'd be trembling with excitement at the thought of a trip to hell, where the Council of Reapers made their home. It never got old. But somehow, his mood was sinking deeper and blacker as he remembered the look on Sam's face. Did she hate him now? "I think I'll stay, Father. I'll stake out the shop where they're selling the stuff, get a second look. I can compile a more in-depth report," he said, and was astounded when his father simply nodded. It was almost impossible to lie to him. Almost - he'd managed it before, when he desired with his whole being that the lie be believed. Still, he didn't risk taking out his cellphone until Father was gone. He dialled the number slowly. It felt strangely like his heart was beating rapidly. The heart that had almost stopped completely now, on its transition from human to...what he would become in full, soon enough. "Sam? Can I come over...I mean, well, can I come explain?" he said, and was horrified to find himself fumbling for words. He was never 'tongue-tied', as the humans said. It was ridiculous. "I don't want to lose my friend," he told her, thrilled that he'd at least kept the presence of mind to leave out the 'only' friend part. ----------- Hope you enjoyed my story! You can find more of my work on /r/Inkfinger/.

I should have died right there and

The first time it happened, I was still a child, about 4 years old. You know how the story goes: child is left to his own devices without parental supervision, child wanders out into the street, child gets mowed down by a truck. I'm sure you've heard this tragic tale thousands of times. I can still remember the exact pitch of my mother's voice when she screamed my name, running frantically after me. I should have died right there and then, but I didn't. I had been told later that, as I was being rushed to the hospital, my heart stopped. The EMTs present all told my mother that they would attempt to resuscitate me in the ER, but that there was likely nothing more that could be done for me. My mother grabbed both of my hands then, trying to keep the warmth from leaving them. The thought of losing me likely made all of the blood running through her body freeze, and all she could think to do was keep me warm and pray to God that I could still be saved. Now, my mother was never a religious person, but she was raised Catholic, and on her son's deathbed, all she could think to do was pray -pray that the child that she had adopted so many years ago would stay with her, against all science and logic. She told me later that, on that day, she saw something that made her a believer; a divine light washed over our hands and spread throughout my small 4 year old body. She thought she had been hallucinating through the tears streaming down her face, but less than a moment later, the heart monitor on the ambulance sprung to life, emitting the telltale sound of a steady and healthy pulse. As a child with no true grasp on the concept of death or the finality of the grave, I never gave my mother's words a second thought, and by the time I was in high school, I had completely forgotten about that bygone incident from my childhood. I was 18 when it happened again, however. I was at my high school graduation, feeling more elated than I'd ever been in my whole life when I felt it. It was a pain unlike anything I'd felt before, like white hot heat and terrible cramps flaring up from the center of my gut and spreading like the red stain on my white button up shirt. Before I could even react to the pain, I felt a new pain swell from my chest, just below my collarbone. At that point, I passed out from the shock. I was only told after the fact that a gunman had come to our school and opened fire at the entire graduating class, myself included. As I lay in the recovery room, I was told that the gunman had managed to shoot me at least twenty times, and that every single shot landed near or around a major organ in my body, but that I survived by sheer luck that none of my wounds were fatal. I was ready to call bullshit then and there, but with my parents by my side, holding my hands tightly, I was just happy to be alive. Of course, two times isn't nearly enough repetitions for an experiment, and as they say, 'third time's the charm.' The third time I "died" was on the day of my wedding to the love of my life. The story went that, as I stood at the end of the aisle looking into my bride's eyes, a bullet flew past her head and blew my brains out. I'm sure you'll say, "There's absolutely no way he could have survived this!" And you're right, I didn't, not really. My memories of that day are fuzzy at best (I know, right? My own wedding!) I could remember standing at the altar, a wide grin on my face, watching my bride-to-be struggle to keep a straight face as she walked towards me, rose petals cascading around her. It felt like a dream, one that I never wanted to wake up from. The next minute, my tuxedo was in shreds, I had a hood over my head to hide my identity, and I was marching over to the church with a pistol. I'd never even held a firearm before that in my entire life, but somehow, I managed to slip into the church undetected, spot a doppelganger standing where I should have been, and fire a single shot directly between his eyes. I had absolutely no control over my actions and I still don't understand why I did what I did. Much to my own surprise, no matter how sloppy in my escape I was, nobody spotted me dashing out of the church. I went into hiding after that, unsure what to think or feel. Who was the man I had murdered? Why did I remember being both the victim and the killer? None of it made any sense. I waited a couple of months before coming out of hiding. The first person I went to was my fiancee. She was skeptical when she saw me and nearly kicked me out until I proved my identity with her by reciting things to her that only I would know. I kept out the part where I was the one who shot the impostor in the head, after all, what's done is done. In the end, she was just relieved to have me back; it didn't matter what kind of strange coincidence made that possible. We got married shortly after, with a private and quiet ceremony, cautious not to invite a repeat of what happened at our last wedding ceremony. We were overjoyed months later when we found out we were pregnant with our first child. Of course, in my life, it seemed things never go as planned. We were 9 months in and my wife was in labor; it was a happy, albeit stressful occasion, and we were both so excited to embark on this adventure together. I drove her to the hospital and stayed with her for as long as the doctors allowed me to. When I heard that there were complications with the delivery and that my wife was undergoing surgery, my heart dropped out of my chest and shattered at my feet. And when I was told that neither she nor the child would survive the ordeal, I could feel what was left of my soul shrivel up and die. I didn't even think when I went home, I simply acted. I still had that gun I used to shoot my doppelganger in the face and decided I could do with the same makeover. I didn't even hesitate as I pushed the muzzle through my lips and pulled the trigger. But that's not where this tale ends. I woke up in the hospital, and not only had I managed to survive blowing my own brain out, they had managed to perform cosmetic surgery that completely restore my face. I was back at square one. It was in that moment that a theory formed in my mind: What if I couldn't die? I was placed in psychiatric care afterwards on the fear that I would make another attempt on my life, so I behaved like a good mentally stable man, and eventually, they could no longer hold me, so I was sent back to my old house. My mission to kill myself had started. I started small: poison, slitting my throat, my wrists, stabbing myself in the chest... You know, easy stuff. Then I started to get more outlandish. I tossed myself out of a building, and by some miracle, found a trampoline beneath me to cushion my fall. I opened the door on a plane mid flight and leaped, not even caring who else died as the air pressure difference decimated the vessel, as long as I could meet my fate. I managed to land right on an empty life raft floating around in the middle of the ocean for no reason other than to pluck me out of death's hands. My latest method was probably my best yet, I must admit. Being immortal, you don't really need all of "life's necessities" like food or sleep, so I managed to save up enough cash to hire several hitmen. I'd instructed each of them to bring their favorite and most explosive weapons to the hit and to not stop until I barely looked human. It was funny how many were skeptical when I told them to throw everything they had at my frail, malnourished, 41 year old body, but money is money, and loss of life shouldn't really unnerve someone who's done it enough times to be numb to it. It hurt like hell, but if I had to pick my favorite way to die, it would be by firing squad. My body was in several pieces by the time they were done. I passed out halfway through, but I saw the bloody photos of the scene -it was as beautiful as it was macabre; they really had been thorough. Sad to say, that didn't kill me either. I woke up in a recovery room in what seemed to be a secret facility. My attending physician told me how they had found me and painstakingly rebuilt my entire body using an experimental medical procedure and that I had been in a coma for years recovering. They haven't allowed me to leave yet as I haven't yet fully recovered, but this is probably my favorite revival yet. I'm not sure how I'll try to kill myself next -but I'm thinking maybe acid. How will they bring me back when there's nothing left of me to bring back? Edit: Fixed some things that were bothering me and changed his age as per a suggestion by /u/matthewuzhere - also look for Part 2 in the comments :)

"You're a relic. No

"Got any work going?" I asked, pausing momentarily by the group of musicians. "*Work*?" a woman stroking a harp mocked. She scrunched her face up and looked appalled. It was a reaction I had long gotten used to. "Get outta here," said the fiddle playing man. "You're a relic. No one works any more. Move along!" I tipped my hat, and continued walking. It wasn't their fault that I didn't see it - the point of a life without goals. Without work. I really *was* a relic - I knew that. It didn't mean I was going to change, though. "Hey!" cried a high pitched voice, as footsteps smacked the tarmac behind me. I turned to see one of the young ladies from the group of musicians, running toward me - the violinist. "Sorry," she said, panting, "about my friends. They just don't understand the concept of work. In their heads, it's tantamount to *slavery*." She rolled her eyes. I cocked my head to one side. "And, what do you think?" "Are you a slave if you want to do something? If you *love* doing something?" "Are you a slave if that task gives you a purpose?" I agreed, nodding encouragingly. "Music is my vice. I don't see the problem with labour being someone else's. Hey, do you mind if we sit?" she asked, already walking toward a bench. I followed. "You know, my dad made me work, when I was a kid," she continued. "He made me clean the dishes every evening after dinner - manually, I mean. You know, with hot water and soap and a sponge." "Why'd he make you do that? A machine could have done it more efficiently." "He thought it would teach me some kind of lesson. The value of hard work. I did gardening and cleaning, too. But, when I turned sixteen, that was it. He said I never needed to do a chore again in my life." "And..." "And what? "Did you do another chore?" "Yeah," she laughed, taking a seat on the wooden bench. "I did the washing up every evening until I moved out." I smiled, as I sat down next to her. "Why?" "I don't know. I guess I kinda enjoyed it - it gave me time to think. And, I felt like I was being useful." "Providing value." "Yeah, I guess. Is that what you want to do: provide value?" I thought for a while. "I want to have a purpose." "Are the arts not a purpose?" "They don't fulfil me. Do you think your music is original?" She laughed again. "No. With another four billion musicians on the planet, and only a handful of notes, I don't think there is much room left for originality." "Then, what do you get out of it?" "I like the music," she said, twining a lock of auburn hair around her index finger, "it feels good in my head. And, I like to improve. It passes time, too, I suppose." "Passes time," I repeated, staring blankly into the distance. "What is it?" "It's just... when I was, well, not as old as I am now, people didn't do things to pass time, quite so much. Time was precious to the people who only had eighty years of it." "Eighty?" she said. "Hell, I'm already seventy, and I feel like I've accomplished nothing." "Well, you've got many, many years left yet." "Hey," she said, glancing at me conspiratorially, "you want to know something?" "Sure." "I still do my own washing up," she whispered, smirking. I smiled. We sat in silence for a while and watched a flock of sparrows settle in a mech-tree at the rear of the park. "At least we still got real birds, right?" She seemed to get agitated as soon as the words left her mouth. "Oh, geez," she said, raising her hands up, "I'm sorry, I didn't mean it like that." "It's fine," I said softly, trying to reassure her. "I don't mean that robots or whatever, - you know -" "I know," I replied, nodding. "Honestly, it's fine. I'm not offended." Her shoulders slumped slightly and she settled back into the bench. She yawned as the evening sun drenched us in its copper rays. "Why do you wear this old thing?" she asked, playfully touching the tip of my panama. "It's sentimental. It was given to me." She nodded. "It kinda suits you. Makes you stand out. Maybe I need something like that, to help me stand out." "You stand out enough as you are," I replied. Her cheeks reddened ever so slightly. We sat for a while, as the sun dipped deeper behind the distant hill. "I used to have a lot of work," I said, for no real reason, other than the vain hope of catharsis. "Well..." she said, looking awkward again. "You can't help yourself, can you?" I laughed. "You're right, of course - that's what we were made for. To replace humans at their jobs. And doing that work is what triggered our pleasure responses. Satisfied us." "Why don't you just get reprogrammed?" she asked. "Feel pleasure from creating, instead. From art." I sighed. "Oh, I don't know. I just think if I did that... I wouldn't be *me* any more. Working is what defines me - it's a huge part of *me*, not just my past." "Yeah. I get that. I think." "What's your name?" I asked. "At the moment? Jess." "Jess. That's a pretty name." "Do you have a name?" "Albert." "Oh, did you choose that name? If you don't mind me asking." "I served a human family, for a while. They gave me that name." "What happened to the family?" "They... died. They were an elderly couple when I started working for them. They were both amongst the last to die of cancer. Then, I took work elsewhere, other homes - other people. None like them though. They treated me as an equal." My left hand instinctively touched the brim of my hat; Jess must have noticed. "I'm sorry," she said, her eyes wide and a little moist. "It's okay. They're still alive, in here," I replied, tapping the side of my head. "A few years later, I became an outdated model. Families didn't want me around, so I looked for work elsewhere. In the sewers, street sweeping, building - whatever I could get. I always kept the name, though. I liked it. Still do." "Then what happened?" "Eventually, I became outdated at *everything*. Now, I look for odd jobs. Hope to find a broken down droid or such, that I can replace for a while whilst they're getting repaired." "Well, Albert, how are your taste receptors?" "What do you mean?" "I mean, can you eat?" "Yes." "Well, come on then. I do a mean lasagne. Then you can help me with the washing up." Jess got up to her feet and held out a hand. "Thank you," I said, as I took it. "You're welcome," she replied, giving a curt bow.

I don't like grandma very much

I turned eight last year. I celebrated it in school first, where Mrs Graham stopped class for a while so we could cut the cake my mama brought. We played games too, and I laughed so much that my stomach hurt. I also remember celebrating it at home, later, during dinner, with papa, mama, my big brother Jeremy, and grandma. I remember that more, because I made grandma cry. Grandma is old. She is ninety, so many years older than me. I don't like grandma very much. She always feeds us, always hugs us tightly, but I don't like how... *sad* she is, all the time. I heard mama laugh at her once, called her something like... a 'wet blanket'? Papa scolded mama then, said it wasn't grandma's fault, but mama's eyes twinkled when she apologised. I could tell mama was not sorry. I also don't like grandma because she always nags at us. Mrs Graham always tells us in school that we should be happy, because we're for-tu... fortunate. Mrs Graham says that not too long ago, everyone had it worse. Imagine, she had told us, if there wasn't enough ice-cream to go around during lunch, or if we had to worry about finding the money to pay for school! See, Mrs Graham says it in a nice way, with a smile always. But grandma doesn't. That's the difference. Grandma clicks her tongue all the time, tells Jeremy and me that we should be more appreciative, that we owe so much to the people who came before us. Well I wasn't born then, so who should I be grateful for? I always want to ask grandma that, but Jeremy, he tells me to keep quiet, so I do. Back to my birthday. I was cutting my second cake for the day, and papa and mama and Jeremy were all clapping for me, but then I saw grandma again, at the other end of the table. She was smiling, but her eyes were wet. I could tell she was about to cry again, and I got angry. This was my birthday! It is rude to cry at other people's birthdays! So I shouted at grandma, right there and then. "Grandma! Why are you sad?" "It's nothing," she said, "I'm alright. I'm just happy to see you grow up, that's all." "Then why are you crying!" I replied. I felt... impatient. I felt that she heard my question, but that she would not give me a straight answer. I don't like it when people don't give me straight answers. "Clara, I'm not crying! Who says I'm crying? See, I'm happy, happy for you!" And the one thing I hate more than people not giving me straight answers, is people lying to me. "Are you crying because you think grandpa left you again? Well, he's not here, and I am! And it is my birthday! So you should be happy for me!" I knew maybe I said something I shouldn't have, once I saw even Jeremy's face turn white. But it felt good. Someone had to be honest with grandma. Papa, he always treats her too nicely, always listens to her when she starts sobbing about how grandpa had left her. I know because I heard them from upstairs, sometimes, when they thought I had gone to sleep, but really I hadn't. I would be at the bannister of the staircase, looking down, wondering why grandma was ungrateful. Ungrateful. Yes, that was what she was. "Why are you being ungrateful?" I continued, as I waved my knife in the air, which sent icing flying around. I didn't understand it. Surely grandma would have known the same things which Mrs Graham taught us in school? Did grandma not know that we had to be grateful for everything we had? The rhyme Mrs Graham taught us the very first day popped into my mind, so out of my mouth it came, *"The world at peace, no more disease, we live in mankind's masterpiece!"* That was what they called our city, Tranden, mankind's masterpiece. I saw holoscreens of it from the outside before, a giant floating city in the sky. This is where most of us live now, where we have everything which people didn't have before. Mrs Graham said some people still survived on the surface, on the ground, where they certainly *didn't* have a lot of the things we did, and so we should always cherish what we had. (I actually think no one still survives on the surface. I think that is a story they tell to scare us into treasuring what we have. No one can live there, not after the wars. Papa tells me that only the lucky few ever made it into Tranden, and the rest have probably died.) It is mama who speaks up first. "Clara Amy Weathers, you don't know what you are talking about. Sit down now, or I will smack you, birthday or not." The unfairness of it got to me, and my mood turned blacker. Didn't mama agree that grandma was the sourpuss? Why did she turn it on me now, of all days? "Mama, it's just that... grandma always goes on about this, but then..." "But then what, miss? You want to sit down and keep quiet now?" I should have sat down then, but a memory came to mind then. I knew how I could win this argument. "Papa told you once before! I heard it! Papa found the two tickets in the attic! Two tickets, for the Weathers family! So grandad could always have come up to Tranden too, and the only reason he didn't is because he didn't want to be with grandma!" I was triumphant. Now grandma would know that everyone knew, and no one would pity her anymore, or make her think she was always in the right. Mrs Graham said that too, that if we wanted to be liked by others, we had to be nice ourselves first! So why had Jeremy tugged at my sleeve then, urging me to sit down? Wouldn't he be on my side? Grandma smiled then, but she had nothing left to say. She got up from the table, pushing back her chair slowly, then pottered off away, no doubt to cry again somewhere. Good riddance! I thought, I don't want crybabies at my party! Papa stroked my hair back then, and wiped at my eyes. I didn't even know I was tearing then. I must have been really livid at grandma. "I won't scold you now, because you don't understand," said papa, gently, as he eased me back onto the chair. "I didn't understand myself, not for many years." "But I'm not wrong, papa," I said, hotly, "there were two tickets, right? One with grandma's name, one with grandpa's name. Mrs Graham said, everyone back down there was fighting for those tickets. Grandpa would have come too, wouldn't he? The only reason he wouldn't is because grandma is such a pain to be with!" Papa patted my head, while mama and Jeremy started packing the plates and cake away. The party was over. I started crying. I didn't know what I had done wrong, or why I was wrong. I only knew that things were not going right. "You're right, darling. Only two tickets. They wouldn't have been able to get even one more even if they had begged. The thing is, grandpa didn't know they needed three tickets. It was only at the gates, when the check-ups were done, that they knew. It was too late then, so grandpa, grandpa gave up his ticket. He gave up his ticket for me." --- /r/rarelyfunny

It took me a few days to

It took me a few days to get over the grief. I wouldn't say I was especially close to her, but I missed her chicken soup. I missed her stories of her past as a farmer's daughter. Her smile. Her warmth. Leukemia's a bitch. The Tuesday funeral was a quiet little ceremony in the garden behind her house. I made sure my parents didn't see me sneak upstairs to her bedroom during the eulogy. It didn't feel right just sitting there and listening to Aunt Rose talk about what a wonderful person my grandma was. They had already packed up her belongings into moving boxes at the foot of her bed, the morning sun filtering through the curtains and resting gently on them. It's kind of entrancing to think that our entire lives - at least the physical things that matter - can be condensed into 6 cardboard boxes from Ikea. Being the curious grandson I am, I decided to rummage through them. The first 3 were filled with memorabilia: a second place ribbon in a school beauty contest, a harmonica with "From Georgie" written in black Sharpie on masking tape, some shells and pebbles which I presume were from Australia, where she grew up. There were other stuff like tops and dolls, some were labelled with what they meant to her. I guess the rest were just forgotten memories. The next box I checked only had a large white dress with a black-and-white photo of my grandma and grandpa. On the flip side of the film in my grandma's almost illegible cursive handwriting was "Georgie X Mary-Anne". I remembered how she used to sit on her rocking chair and smile at that photo for hours on end, and once in a while she would chuckle to herself and tell me again and again the same story of how they met. It was a Friday night on the street in the rain, and he offered her his umbrella; love at first sight, blah blah blah. Not the most romantic thing if you ask me, but she loved that man with all her heart. And he loved her. I paused for a moment to hear Aunt Rose talk passionately about knitting scarfs. The last couple of boxes were labelled "Lizzie's Letters". Ah, her pen pal. Grandma told me that she had tried to send a letter to her cousin in London when she was in her twenties, but she got the address wrong and sent it to this 'Lizzie'. Ever since then they've been sending each other letters by post (she hated email. "Tasteless and revolting," she would say) and the last letter she sent was a week before she died. Grandma never said much about what she wrote to her and what Lizzie wrote back, but she always smiled when reading and writing the letters. When I was younger I couldn't make out her handwriting so peeking over her shoulder was no use. And once I did begin to understand it, she refused to let me near them. I always wanted to know what Lizzie was like and what not. I mean, they've been friends for - what - sixty, seventy years? To hell with it. I picked up the oldest letter I could find. (Surprisingly, for a box filled with nothing but paper, it weighed a whole lot more than I expected.) ----- "May, 1946 Dear Mary-Anne, Oh dear, I think you have sent this letter to the wrong address! I must admit, though, I wish I had a cousin like you who bothers to send me letters. All of mine are spoilt rich brats with no sense of tact. And I read you are from Australia! How wonderful! I've always wanted to go there and I've just turned twenty but my parents are ghastly worried about the post-war and all that. I do hope everything is alright where you are. Would you be so kind as to tell me more about yourself? Lizzie" ----- It was a short start, but this is what sprung into a monthly, seventy-year-long tradition. I opened a dozen more, and I noticed the language became more and more informal as the years went by. ----- "July, 1966 Mary-Anne my dear, I'm so sorry to hear that Australia didn't make it into the World Cup that we are hosting this year. But guess who did? ENGLAND HA! We are going to whoop all the other teams' backsides until they cry for their mothers. Get ready world, we shall dominate you all." ----- Hm. Okay then. ----- "June, 2014 Yo dawg! Howsit going down in down under, man?" ----- Ugh. Please, no. I read about twenty or thirty more letters at random. Some were about both my grandma's and Lizzie's issues (Lizzie mentioned something about wanting to strangle her son because of some divorce but I wasn't too sure). Others made me laugh, some made me smile in reminiscence, even more made me cringe. I opened a letter dated 1953 and a photograph fell out. A man and a woman stood next to each other, both wearing very formal attire. And... was she wearing a crown? I swear I recognized her from somewhere. She looked like a younger version of someone... maybe on television? I couldn't really put my finger on it, though. On the flip side in Lizzie's handwriting, it read "Me and Philly". There was something nudging me in the back of my mind but I couldn't make sense of it. Hesitantly, I unfolded the letter that was inside the same envelope. ----- "June, 1953 Dearest Mary-Anne, Thank you for your warm wishes! I hope the photograph of me and my husband finds you well. This was taken during the ceremony. They can't seem to get my smile nicely in the image. I don't look that scary in real life." ----- The blood drained from my face. There was no way on earth... I rushed to open the latest letter, the reply to my grandma's last letter; the letter my grandma never got to read. ----- "July, 2017 Mary-Anne, I'm so sorry to hear about your situation. My family and I will be coming down to visit you. Please hold on until I make it. God Bless, Lizzie" ----- And just as I read that I heard the doorbell ring. =============== Edit: This is my first story hehe Any criticism/advice would be greatly appreciated! Thanks for reading :D Edit #2: I just finished Part 2! It's somewhere in the comments, but if you can't find it, here's the link: https://www.reddit.com/r/WritingPrompts/comments/6l2xs5/wp_your_grandma_always_talked_about_her_pen_pal/djrp477/ I hope you enjoy it just as much

Maloch dithered in the

Maloch dithered in the courtyard of the small church, watching the pastor welcome his parishioners with a kindly smile. The small line of locals trickling into the church was becoming shorter by the minute. Soon, the pastor would close the door and condemn him to another week of torture - he *couldn't* return to Hell without passing this test, without mastering this simplest of demonic abilities. It should have come naturally, of course, the guile, the wheedling seduction as he bent a human to his will. It should have been laughably easy, corrupting a pastor to let him inside and sway the parishioners to commit a series of despicable deeds. Well, he assumed it would be despicable. He didn't exactly know the details, yet - that knowledge was reserved for demons who had successfully gained entry to a church - but it must involve a little forced ritual murder and sacrifice, at the very least. Perhaps he would never know the extent of the plan. So far, the only ability Maloch had managed in his single year of demonhood was giving someone a slightly upset stomach if he concentrated really hard. Or was so petrified at the thought of what would happen to him if he failed, he managed an erratic burst of power. That sometimes worked, too. But today, he was determined to succeed. Perhaps not by forcing the pastor to bless him by sheer force of will, but *somehow*. He shuffled closer, sniffling and pretending to dig in the pockets of the oversized coat he wore. Borrowed from Hell's supply of human clothes, it's long-deceased former owner probably screaming in some putrid hollow of Hell right now. "Dear me, that sounds like a terrible cold," the old pastor said. Evan Neall, pastor for close to six decades, Maloch had found out. "Best get inside where you're warm, my friend," he said, waving him on in the direction of the door. Not exactly the response Maloch had been hoping for. He tried to look as pathetic as possible - it wasn't that hard, really. "Oh, thank you pastor," he said, and faked an enormous sneeze into his hands, peeping to see Evan's response. Please let him say it, please - No luck there. Evan looked faintly disgusted, in fact, though he tried his best to hide it behind that thin-lipped smile. He didn't look quite so kindly anymore. Perhaps it was time to stop counting on the pastor's good manners and go for the direct approach. "I sure do think a blessing from you would help my illness, Father," Maloch croaked. To his astonishment, the pastor looked positively discomfited by the request, backing away from him and heading towards the church entrance. "Ah, I've got to attend to my flock, my friend, but you're welcome to join us," Evan said, in a way that somehow made it clear to Maloch that it would be best if he stayed away. "Oh, please bless me, please," Maloch babbled, trying not to think of the red-hot hooks that would soon tear into him if he failed. Not very demonic to ask nicely for something, if he were honest with himself, but nobody else need ever know how exactly he gained entrance. He caught hold of Evan's arm and dug his fingers in, hoping they wouldn't involuntarily morph into claws. That still sometimes happened to him. "Who are you?" Evan hissed, and his eyes flashed a distinct, deep shade of *red*. "Leave this place right now, before I kill you." Maloch stumbled back in terror. He had heard that distinctive, guttural note of demonic persuasion, instantly effective against humans. Less so against another.... "Demon," Evan hissed when he didn't obey, and gave a mean smile as he sneered at Maloch. "Well, well. I should've known someone would want to poach my position here. Want to fight for it, brother?" An ice-cold fear drenched Maloch to the bone - he had heard that one, before. "Fight" in demon lingo roughly meant "tear the skin and bones from your opponent until they have to splice you back together, cell by cell". He squeezed his eyes shut and curled into a defensive ball. After a minute of still being alive, he dared to peep through his hands. Evan - or whatever demon had possessed him - was standing hunched over, heaving wretchedly into a nearby ditch. "What have you done, you pathetic excuse for a - " he began with a hoarse croak, before another wave of sickness overwhelmed him. Eventually, Evan managed to totter away, casting him a last baleful glance. Maloch stared after him in astonishment - his fear had never produced results like *that*. "Is the pastor leaving?" someone asked from the doorway. Maloch looked up to see a curious gaggle of parishioners. "Ah, yes," he said. "He suddenly felt sick, I'm afraid, I told him to go rest up a bit." "Knew there was something wrong with him," one lady muttered. "God bless you for convincing him to take a little break, son," another old man said soberly. "I was a pastor myself, back in the day. Don't know what has happened to Evan lately, but he's become lost in his interpretation of scripture, if you ask me. Perhaps he was simply ill? Well, it'll do him good to rest and pray for guidance." The other humans murmured their agreement. Maloch's mouth dried as he sensed the church open to him at the man's words. He couldn't fail now. He'd have to do whatever it took. "Well, you know, I'm a relative of Evan's actually," Maloch invented wildly. "Uhm, his nephew. Came here to learn from him and everything, I was so excited to hear his sermon today. But what do you say I take over the service today, instead? Give a pastor-in-training a chance, eh? I'm sure my dear uncle wouldn't mind." The parishioners beamed and nodded, and almost dragged him inside the church. **WELL DONE, LITTLE DEMON,** Maloch heard a voice in his head rumble, *that* voice that reminded him of blood spilling in the night, bones cracking in the dark. **AWAIT FURTHER INSTRUCTIONS.** Maloch felt his panic and fear spike wildly in response, and with it, his power bloomed. He found himself drawing on images of the torture he'd endured in Hell, as he was led to the Bible resting on the pew. Perhaps he could do this, after all. ----- Hope you enjoyed my story! You can find more of my work on /r/Inkfinger/.

The smell of sizzling leather

The parishioners stream past, a splash of humanity on this otherwise colourless sidewalk. Most of them hardly take notice of my plight, and it is the rare one who stops to tip a dollar into my cup. Guess there's not much to spare once the church wrings them dry. I inch a bit closer to the church for a better look, past the crack in the pavement, and the smell of sizzling leather instantly fills the air. The needles shoot up my thigh, a hot, searing, raking sensation. I try holding it there, try to count to "ten", but by "four" I'm already on my back, sweating, swearing. *Not strong enough,* I think. He emerges, eventually. His gait is slow, plodding, heavy. His hair is already surrendering to the grey. No vices as far as I can tell, just a penchant for long evening walks, by himself. When he's ten feet away, and I'm sure that he can see me, hear me, I steel myself, squeeze my eyes shut, then sneeze as hard as I could. I follow it up with a shorter sneeze, but no less violent, and I wait for the magic words. The pain was unbearable the first time I endured it. I remember being winded by the sheer force of it, a tidal punch conveyed by the friendliest "bless you" any demon had ever suffered. He had rushed forward, try to help me up, and I had barely managed to wave him away in time. I'm not sure I could have survived direct contact, just yet. The second time was better. Then the third, the fourth. Then now, the sixth time, I reckon I could remain upright, smile stoically, incline my head in polite acknowledgment without screaming. *The things one does to build resistance,* I think. But he confounds me. He doesn't say what I want him to say. Instead, he squares his shoulders, considers me briefly, then joins me on the sidewalk, taking a seat next to me on the cooling asphalt. "I know you," he says finally, looking at me in the eyes. *Can he see the fires within?* I wonder, as I avert his gaze. "Aye, Father, you passed this way last week. I was here too, then." "Tell me, is it going according to plan?" "Plan? What plan? If you be meaning this," I say, as I jiggle my cup and the pitiful takings for the day, "then no, it's not going as well as I had hoped." He smiles, thinly. "I suppose you're waiting until you're stronger? Before you take one of my flock?" My heart pounds with excitement, and I resist the urge to throw myself forward, feed on him right there and then. No, the bloodlust sings, but the curiosity growls louder. "I have not thought that far, Father. But yes, I do want to get stronger." "Stronger? How would you measure that?" I laugh, throwing my head back. I feel one or two of my fangs start to show, but I feel like we're past caring about appearances. "If you must know - strength is being able to stay in someone, long after you are not welcome. Some of my brethren, the ones even we fear, they can reside in a human for *days* at a time." "I can't say I disagree," he replies, thoughtfully. "After all, I suppose we must resist your presence quite strenuously." "Possession is only the half of it. I also aspire to... delicacy," I say, puffing my chest out slightly. In truth, it was nice to have a receptive audience. Humans don't much talk to us as they run away from us, or plead with us to fulfill their thoroughly insipid wishes. "And before you ask, delicacy is making you humans do what we want... without you hearing our requests." "That sounds insidious. Isn't it easier to, I don't know, just *take over* and wield us like puppets?" "Ah, we could, we could. I've tried that myself too. But there's no skill in it. Any amateur demon could do that, just muscle in and take control. But it's so much more challenging to whisper, instead. Suggest to you, propose, insinuate, then watch it all play out." I see him think about that for a while, and then he says, "And the whole point of it all?" I am prepared for this question, and the answer rolls off smoothly from my tongue. "Making humans do what they do not wish to, of course! I live for the regret, the twinge of realisation in their eyes as they watch their humanity slip away. Even your vilest murderers, they know it too, they watch from behind cages of glass and steel, they scream silently as they observe the last vestiges of what they were drip, drip, drip away..." He moves suddenly, and for a while I am sure that I have provoked the mild Father Horace to action. I wonder if he will attempt to smite me, or brand me with holy prayer. I wonder too if the incantations will work, now that I have survived so many of his blessings, weathered his warmest intentions. Instead, he laughs. He laughs hard, so hard I see the tears come to the corners of his eyes. "What's so funny?" I ask. I wear my good humour like a mask, ready to discard it for the seething rage beneath. If he thinks less of me, believes me more puff than talk, I will show him what... "No, no, it's just that..." he says, struggling for composure, "we are not that different after all." Before I can protest, he lifts a finger, points it away in the distance, towards an unassuming block of apartments. "I suppose you can see through the walls? Yes, good, good. Now look for the... fourth floor, the unit facing south." I have time, so I shrug, and I play along. "The Blakes? Yes, I see them." "Good, good. Now look for their daughter. She's the only child at home." "I see her. Genevieve Nannly Blake." "Yes, that's the one," he says, a ghost of a smile on his lips. "Would you say she has inclinations to... hurt herself, or kill herself?" It's plain as day to me, the first thing I notice about her. The edges of her soul are raw, weathered, fraying. She smiles, just like other eighteen year-olds do, but there is a forced, deliberate way in which she trudges through the minutes to the next day. "I spotted her in time, thankfully," he says, leaning back on his palms, looking up into the dusky sky. "Almost missed it, but luckily not. I caught it when I saw her freezing during one of our hymns, one about joy, happiness in the Lord's embrace. There was an anger boiling within, then it was gone again." "You spoke to her, after?" "I waited until the time was right. She rebuffed me, of course. But I kept it up, made it a point to engage with her. It took me almost two months before she would speak to me in complete sentences. Even then, the battle raged on, and there were times I thought she was lost again. Now though, now I think I am in the clear." "Sorry, you're mistaken," I chuckle, "I can still see the seeds of rot within her, waiting to bloom. She is moments away from taking her own life, just as she planned from the start." Father Horace smiles, then points again in a different direction. This time, it is a squat, ugly two-storey house, and it is clear who he is trying to bring to my attention. "Monica Chatters, and her six year-old son, Henry Chatters," I say, pre-empting him. "You really know your flock, it seems. The boy is young, but it's clear too that he's troubled. I suppose you'll be telling me how you've also pulled him back from the brink?" He shakes his head, then says, "Look at what Henry has with him. You can't miss it, Henry has been keeping it by his side almost every day." It was a small teddy-bear, assembled hastily. One eye was already coming loose. "He's been getting better too, ever since he made a friend at church. She took the time to get to know him, find out what he likes, and eventually summoned the courage to make him a gift. And that's why I think she will make it. She can see beyond herself now, see others in need." It starts to click, and for a moment my fists clench tightly, ready to hit him, strike him before I hear too much. I of all beings know the danger which ideas present. "You asked me why I laughed, and I said it was because we were not that different. I meant it," he says. "I too believe that strength is measured by how long I can stay in someone's thoughts. I too, believe that it's not enough to... make them do what I wish, but to guide them, beckon them towards the better path. And of course, I too want them to do things they do not want to do." He starts to stand, and he is suddenly silhouetted against the setting sun. Before he turns to leave, he speaks, and there is a quiet determination which runs through his words, threading through them like the strongest of stitches. "You may have used me, demon, to become ever so slightly stronger. But knowing you exist, that you walk amongst us... you have made me stronger too, far more *resolute* than I was before. We shall see then, wouldn't we, whose flock makes it through at the end?" --- /r/rarelyfunny

The first memory I have is of

A human can get used to anything. A ghost hardly ranks as the worst thing a person can become accustomed too, but that doesn't make it easy. The first memory I have - not just of him, but my actual first memory - is of standing in my crib, grasping the railings, while he sat on the rocking chair in the other corner of the room, watching. I wasn't old enough to know that know one should but my parents should have been in the house at that time of night. There was a moment when I got older, among the times when he would glide through the wall and sit on the chair against the wall, pull out that ancient notebook, bound by worn leather and inscribed with strange symbols. In that moment, I realized that whatever he was wasn't normal, and I was scared. I asked him who he was and why he followed me. No response. From that point on he became a benign presence - haunting, but benign. I'd make sarcastic comments at him, received no reaction, got used to him scribbling away. Of course I tried to go over and look at his notebook, but the pages appeared blank to me. He wouldn't even cease writing. Just empty movements on a blank page. I will say that there is a strange effect of a person recording your every waking movement. Even though it is of no consequence that I can tell, even though I don't know what his aim is, I think I behave differently for having an audience. I try a little harder, go a little longer. There is something about being watched that makes you not want to fail, something about being recorded that makes you want to perform. Now I wear a suit nicer than his. I've risen in the world with my constant companion. I forgot to tell you - I call him Ledger. A smirk and a subtle, disappointed head head shake are the only reactions I've ever gotten out of him. The first, when I showed up a college professor in front of class and made him realize his life's work had a fatal flaw. The second was on the way out of my divorce proceedings. He wrote furiously during those moments. He is my memento mori. He is my mystery, proof that something is out there that people don't understand or can't explain. I've tried to tell several people about him, most of the girlfriends. Only one believed me. *That's him, right there. No, you're touching him right now. I know, only I can see him. I can't touch him either.* Now I'm dying, and he sits in the visitor's chair in the hospital room. The few people who come to see me sit on top of him, and I see double, or triple and quadruple because the drugs make my head spin. Someone leans an arm, adjusts position in the chair, and he is visible, a chimera, polycephalic, his head and the other, bound and moving independently. Him writing, always writing. They stand up and leave him behind. I talk to him more than ever, and the nurses chalk it up to the tumor that grows every day. Hallucinations are rather normal at this point. I can feel the presence of the end, and to my amazement, Ledger stands up. He bows deeply to me, and for the first time I hear his gravely, strained voice, weak from unuse. "Thank you." Then he turns and leaves through the wall. Without a conscious effort to do so, I rise from my bed to follow him. The tubes and monitors and wires don't come with me - strange. I haven't walked in weeks, and yet somehow I follow him through the walls. We pass through rooms on the floor where people are dying daily, he crosses the opposite walls as I enter the rooms. We pass humans in various states of decay and ending. In one room, there is a huddle of nurses and doctors attempting to revive a particularly skeletal man. There is a perfect facsimile of him standing in the corner, looking worried. We reach the end of the hospital and I don't realize it until I am falling - I've walked through the outer wall. I look down just in time to see Ledger disappear through the ground below me. I brace for impact but it doesn't come. I fall momentarily through daylight, and then through darkness. The next thing I remember is sitting in a stiff-backed chair across a desk where Ledger sits. He watches me intently - this is the first time he has ever made eye contact, and I realize I've never seen his eyes except as they briefly flashed upward. They are the kindest, yet fiercest green eyes I have seen. They have life in them now, personality - something I believe he shielded from me before. "I suppose I owe you an explanation, now that it's over." He rasps in his stony voice. "Where are we?" I ask. "After." I don't know what that means, but I don't want to stop him from explaining himself. I'd rather know who he was than where I am. The room we are in looks like a basement office - there are two small windows in the corners behind Ledger that let in a strange, fuzzy light - like outside it is too bright to see anything in focus, with any kind of clarity. "You were one of the Marked Ones," Ledger says. "Marked for what?" "Early endings." "So the tumor? The cancer, that was planned?" "Yes. As is everything that happens in the lives of man. To a degree." "What about you? What was your purpose? And why was it only me?" He smirks. "Are you sure it was only you?" "Well, you hardly left my side. I can't see when you would have been with anyone else." "No. Are you sure you were the only one with a Scribe?" I pause to think. "I never met anyone who told me otherwise, but I guess if I could only see you, there could have been others I might not have been able to see." "That is correct. I am not the only one. In fact, I am one of many. We are assigned to those who are marked for early endings, to see how they behave differently. To mark those ephemeral thoughts and feelings that can only be gleaned from close observation. We want to see, most of all, if people *know*. If they can see the end. That is something we still haven't proved definitively, but there is anecdotal evidence. You, for instance, showed a strong degree of prescience with regard to your coming demise." "I always thought I would die young." "I know. That was one of my earliest entries." "So, you were recording my thoughts?" "And feelings. Among other things - major events in your life, your responses, anything I deemed worthy of note." "And what do you plan to do with all of this information?" Ledger smirks, just like the day he did when I toppled my professor's theory. "Make the next one better." "What do you mean, 'the next one.'" Ledger breathes deeply and gestures expansively with his hands. "The next generation, the next person. The next round of early enders. This whole project is a work in progress, you know. It requires feedback, fine-tuning. We throw people out into the world, observe them, and calibrate. That is how humanity improves, by steps." "But why the... early enders, you called them. What's so special about people who die young?" "There is a lot of life concentrated in them. We don't know for sure if you are all completely aware of the inevitable, somewhere in the reaches of your subconscious. We have, however, learned that there is some sense in you that makes you live life to the fullest, with more vim and vigor, more intensely and passionately. It isn't always that you accomplish more, get farther ahead in life. Sometimes the emotional life is rich, as with a carefully cultivated relationship with a partner. Sometimes the intellectual life is developed, reading book after book. In every kind of life your kind chooses to live, there is a kind of intensity that makes you more rewarding to study. The dials are turned higher, the results more observable. Plus, your lifecycle is markedly shorter, so there are advantages to that. Just as humans observe rats due to their rapid reproduction cycle, so we observe humans with limited time, because they compress an entire life of living into, typically, thirty years or less." I try to take all of this in. I'm angry, and honored, and content, and confused, and insulted, and a hundred other emotions. "Who chose all this for me? Who is calling the shots?" "Someone far above my pay grade, and yours." "It seems like a pretty raw deal, being chosen to die before my time. What's in it for me? Or am I just out of luck when it comes to the whole 'life' thing?" "There is one considerable advantage," Ledger says. "What's that?" "Early enders get to go back. They're hardier, tougher. Their souls were selected in the first place because it was known they could handle the trials. And it only gets easier for them with each send-back. Have you ever wondered how so many people dying too soon seemed to accept it with a grace and wisdom beyond their years? They are practiced souls, and this is their duty. They can't remember the times before, of course, but the experience is graven on their souls. The wisdom has tempered their existence and forged an understanding of the cycles of All and Everything." "That's great, but my kids won't get any benefit from that. All they know is that their father is dying, or, dead now, I guess." "They'll understand, one day. They'll understand that it had to be you, or someone, and it might as well have happened to someone like you, who could take it. Who could fight without losing hope, and face the end with grace and courage." I don't expect that to comfort me, but it does somehow. He's a sweet talker, I've come to realize. I sat across hundreds of them in countless business meetings. Like the best of them, you realize you've changed your mind, changed your emotional state, without realizing it until it's done. I feel calm, the conflicting emotions distilled to a state of accepting content, taking each moment as it comes. "So now what?" I ask. "You try again." He extends his arm, palm facing me, then closes his fist and twists his hand, and the rooms twists with it, and I am falling away into void, accelerating impossibly as stars and color whirl by in infinitudes, and I know I won't remember, but I am calm.

"A deal's a deal,

"A deal's a deal, buddy." I feel sorry for the guy. He looks downcast, defeated - like he spent his life savings on a bet that didn't come through. In a way, he did. It's weird to see the devil, the being that most humans regard as evil beyond compare, sulking. "I'll tell you what," he says, looking somewhat hopeful. "I'll make it worth your while. I'll grant you three souls of your own from Hell. Or I'll give you your own chamber in Limbo - separate from Hell - but with more girls than you would know what to do with." "Nice try, Lucifer, but no dice. We shook on it. I even signed your weird little parchment contract. Don't try to weasel out of this now." He looks human, except for an exceptionally angular face and irises that glint red orange in the sunlight. We're in a park, a neutral place, a random place. It's of no significance at all, really - he just appears now and then wherever I happen to be. "You're putting me in a very difficult position," he says, attempting a warning tone. I'm not scared. He's got nothing on me. "What, a position where you have nowhere to rule? Where most people are actually good, and have to try hard to be evil?" He scowls. "The universe maintains a very delicate balance between good and evil-" I laugh, interrupting him. "Since when do you care about any sort of balance? The only reason there's a balance at all is because you and God both fight as hard as you can for the same souls, and your path is actually the one that is most easy for humans to follow. So don't claim to care about balance." "Your soul is a rare case. I would hope you could make a small sacrifice for the good of humanity. There's more at stake than just-" He cuts himself off and his eyes widen. He's revealed more than he meant to. "So," I say slyly, "It isn't just my soul. It isn't just that I'm as good as a bomb for Hell. I'm a Reincarnate, aren't I?" He says nothing, shows me nothing, but I know. As the evening light angles ever towards horizontal and fades to night, I know. I'm an angel that's been sent back to earth. I have the one kind of soul - the one immortal, eternally good soul - that Hell can't accept and still stay Hell. When my soul crosses the threshold, it will start a cascade of good, of pure right, that will topple the place of eternal damnation. Satan had a keen eye, had avoided souls like me like a human avoids rotten eggs - just as keenly and as easily. Something must have masked my smell, or made him sloppy. Something that kept him from realizing until it was too late. Now he knows, and he's being pathetic about trying to salvage his realm from ruin. An old man curled up on a park bench next to where we are standing shifts, sits up, and tips back his filthy hat to reveal a long white beard and a face exuding calm, and just a little bit of smugness. "It was only a matter of time, my son. You couldn't defy me forever." Satan snarls with disgust and surprise. "The most powerful being in the universe, and you manifest as a homeless man in a park. How fitting." "Sticks and stones, my dear boy. Besides, if I am, as you say, the most powerful being in the universe, then I have nothing to prove, do I?" Satan says nothing, only fusses with the lapel of his dark suit. God turns to me. "I am sorry, child, for sacrificing your soul. It is but a small price to pay for the Salvation of humanity. And besides, I chose a soul that I knew could bear the burden, who would survive the ordeal. You will come through the other side, and you will be a stronger Angel for it. And you will be rewarded." Now it's my turn to be smug. "Who says I want to come back?" God chuckles, not understanding. "What is not to come back to? You would spurn eternal paradise? For what?" "You don't get it. I will survive the death of Hell. But afterwards, I'm going to rebuild it. In my image." A look of horror comes over Satan's face. God stares straight ahead into nothing I can see. "All my life I've wrestled with the same things every human does," I continue. "I've struggled with my choices, my sin, my religion. And you know what? It's all shit. It's all a load of bullshit. Making people choose, making people feel bad. You two preyed on people when they didn't understand the world, gave them a system of fairy tales and nonsense to explain it all. Well, we don't need it anymore. I'm making an afterlife for the good people of the world. That's it - that's the requirement. That you lived a good life. I don't care who you believed in, what you called god, or whether you believed in him at all. You two can take your sick cosmic game and shove it." "It's a noble task you set for yourself," God says, still staring blankly. "But I'll warn you - it isn't as easy as it sounds. I've been around forever, my son. You think I didn't try what you suggest? In another time, another existence? Balance is the natural state of order. Every human religion has sensed this, whether it be Christians or Buddhists. It is the common thread. Yin and Yang, sin and salvation. Utopia doesn't exist. At least not in the universe I know. There must be darkness to show the light. There must be void for existence. For all things only exist relative to their opposite." "We'll see about that," I say, and turn to walk away. I don't have time for this. I'm going to enjoy my life, and then after I die, my poison-pill soul will bring Hell to its knees, and I will be its new ruler. I will change it all. Who said life was fair? I did. I said it. And it will be. --- God and Satan linger after he leaves. It is dusk in the park, orange sunlight diffusing from beyond the horizon. "Remind you of anyone?" God asks, leaning back on the bench, crossing his legs and draping his arms over the backrest. "Shut up. I'm nothing like that psychopath." "All of you start from the same place. A place of justice, compassion even. But it doesn't last." Satan doesn't respond. "You weren't the first. You must have known you wouldn't be the last." Still no response. "Come on, Lucifer. You didn't think you would be the one to reign forever, did you? In that bitter little heart of yours, you must have known." "Not like this. Not so soon," he says through clenched teeth. God bursts out laughing. "So arrogant. So proud. Your lot never changes, and you always pay for it with absolute failure. He will be no different." Satan turns abruptly and storms off along the park path. When he is gone, God looks around himself, smiles, and resumes his nap on the bench, curled up, his hat over his face. "Devils," he mutters, "can't live with 'em, can't live without 'em." &nbsp; &nbsp; --- Subscribe to /r/xilead for more of my stories!

It was a bright and glowing soul

It was a bright and glowing soul, strengthened by the hardship it had endured and overcome. On the crowded plane of limbo where souls were claimed, the Gods spotted it at the same time: it was a plain, blinding white, not tied to the colours that indicated any of the religions. Atheist. Kali's nostrils flared as she sensed this one's power - the soul had accomplished great deeds during its life, but wasn't done quite yet. No, it wasn't yet time to claim him. Rebirth was due, and she itched to plant a seed of direction in the soul's mind that would serve as guidance in its next life - "Reincarnation awaits, blind one," she told the soul, and its soul regained some of the shape it had in life as she addressed him. It had been a comely human once. "You must turn towards your spirit in the next life, for then - " "Pah! Cannot you see this one is tired of human life, you four-armed wench?" an old god said - he towered over many of the Gods, but Kali matched him for height. She gave a smile that caused the others to look aside, as they remembered. She smiled that way when empires crumbled and armies clashed and slaughtered one another, it was the smile she reserved when chaos reigned. The two ravens on the old man's shoulder screamed in response, but he just gave a grim smile in return. "You don't scare me, Kali," he growled, and turned to the soul, who had regained his shape and was staring silently at the gods, his eyes wide and dazed. "Join my ranks, young man. Your soul has yet to give its allegiance, and therefore carries great power. Come drink with my warriors in Valhalla, as we ready ourselves for Ragnarok." The soul opened its mouth to speak, when a gentle-faced man approached, his bare feet hardly making a sound. "This man has battled and struggled enough, Odin," he said, and touched the soul's shoulder, who trembled under his hand. "He should rest by my side in Heaven, where I can use his strength. It's not too late to be saved, Liam. Yes, I've known your name since birth, and remembered it, despite what you've thought of me throughout your life." Liam squeezed his eyes shut as more Gods, and representatives of Gods, approached, adding their voices to the growing babel of noise. The Prophet Muhammed engaged the bare-footed man, in what looked like a argument they knew well. They were interrupted by the booming laughter of a terrifyingly large and muscled warrior, who wielded a glowing, jagged white spear of a weapon that resembled a lightning bolt. "As if he'd prefer *you* when he can visit Olympus, not to mention the Elysian Fields. I mean, Jesus, just look at you. You look homeless with those bare, dirty feet. Have a little respect for yourself." Liam gaped as they forgot all about him and began to squabble. From the corner of the crowd, a bare-chested, sun-tanned man with a falcon head was watching him intently, as if deciding whether Liam was worthy of his consideration. And a portly man with kind eyes was settling down in front of him, legs crossed, wearing a gentle smile in the face of his confusion. "I sense you are deeply troubled. Meditate with me, my young friend, and you will know - ," he began, only to be interrupted by at least four of the gods now crowding Liam. "Oh spare us the meditation, Gautama Buddha, we don't have all month," one of them groaned. It was too much to take in, to try and understand. Liam reached for his voice - it was difficult to remember how to speak - but he managed it at last. "Please! I - I've always believed in what I can see, in tangible facts. In *science*. Obviously you're all real, I can't deny that anymore," he said desperately, and they turned to him as one and fell silent. "You're all true. It doesn't make *sense*. How does all your versions of the afterlife exist at the same time? Where in space does it exist? For that matter, where are we right now - what exactly *is* limbo? Why have you allowed human suffering to continue, what do you all do with your time if you don't interfere on Earth? Why - " "Oh, goody, here we go again," one of them said, rolling his eyes. The others grimaced as well, and many started drifting away from him. "Wait, I have so many questions!" Liam yelled after them. "I - I want to choose an afterlife, but I don't know! I just want to understand..." But they were leaving. Finally, the only remaining gods grinned widely at him, waving an arm in greeting. It was a long noodle. Two meatballs were pulsating slightly in the twisted, golden strings of pasta that made up his face. "Oh, not you too," Liam said dispiritedly. "I thought that whole thing was a stupid joke, you know...mocking other people's beliefs. Making fun of the religious was never really my thing, either." "Careful with your tone, boy, I'm the only one still waiting to pick you up," the thing said, wagging a noodly finger in remonstration. "Would you rather be stuck in limbo forever? C'mon, I have a lot of plans for your soul. You're just what I need, kid, a solid bit of real power. My version of the afterlife is a little sparse still, surprisingly few of the atheists actually choose me when the others start fighting over them. Can you believe that shit? No loyalty at all, you guys. But I don't think you have a lot of choice left, do you?" "I guess not," Liam muttered. The others had all gone, and were crowding around a different soul now. "Hey now, don't look so glum!" the spaghetti creature said. "I've got an endless supply of beer at my place, how many of the others can say that, eh?" Liam grinned as if pleased, and decided not to mention that he didn't drink alcohol and would really prefer a nice cup of tea. Even this guy might have his limit. ------------ Hope you enjoyed my story! You can find more of my work on /r/Inkfinger/.

"Fate never failed to make

What a horrible day. It was a Monday, of course. Somehow fate never failed to make my life hell on Mondays. From the minute I woke up, it was nothing but trouble. I forgot that I was out of shampoo. Stubbed my toe. Couldn't find my favorite shirt. The usual. The trip to work was the usual sleepy, bleary haze, operating on automatic. I had long ago perfected the art of not really becoming conscious until I had to. Work would be better, I promised myself. I would turn this day around yet. It was no better once I got to work. After a slew of morning meetings, I was ready to just pack up and head home, but alas. It was not to be. By the time I had finished filing the paperwork for the morning's tasks and schlepped my way to the break room for lunch, I was embarrassingly glad to see my friend already there. "Holy shit, man." I managed, falling into my chair. "Fuck Mondays. This day is kicking my ass." Bill grinned across the table from me. "Oh? You have a good weekend at least?" I nodded. "Good enough, I guess. You?" He made a face. "I've had better. Wife got *another* ticket. Wasn't really a happy household, y'know?" I couldn't fully hide my chuckle, and he glared dramatically at me. "Oh, that sounds like *fun*. I told you to be careful when you bought her that sports car. Cops *love* to chase down the little red convertibles of the world." He was looking at me funny. I paused. "The what?" He asked, raising an eyebrow. "The little red convertibles? You know, how they say red cars get tickets more often? You can't say I didn't warn you, dude. I *told* you." The puzzled look he was giving me was growing deeper. I couldn't help the uncomfortable, sinking feeling settling into my stomach. "'Red'? What do you mean by that?" I put my drink down. "Dude, no jokes today. I told you, this Monday is kicking my ass." He slowly shook his head. "Seriously, Josh, I'm not joking, I just don't get what you said. What's 'red'? I've never heard of it before. You say you warned me about it?" I was opening my mouth to respond, when I looked down and saw it in my lunch bag. I packed a lunch every day - Have to save money, you know? I would put it together the night before, and fridge it until work. I'm a creature of habit, I admit it. I always have the same thing, every day. A ham sandwich, and an apple. Slowly I lifted the fruit out of the bag. I don't know what that thing was, but it was *not* an apple. It did kind of look like one, I'll give it that. The shape was fine, and the texture was normal enough. But apples aren't normally bright orange. I dropped the fruit back into the bag, adrenaline shooting through my veins. *Did it rot? Did it go bad? Did I buy the wrong variety when I went shopping*? But no matter how hard I thought about it, I couldn't figure it out. Rotten apples weren't the color of oranges, and I'd never seen *any* kind of apple with the fluorescent color of the one I had just held. And I'd have *certainly* noticed packing something that color last night. "Hey, are you ok?" Bill asked. I felt his hand on my shoulder. There was real concern in his eyes. "You don't look so good. You feeling all right?" I pushed myself back from the table. "You know...no, I'm not feeling so good. I'm gonna hit the head for a few minutes. My head feels a bit funny." And it did - it ached, like the world's worst migrane. I'd never had one before, but I imagined this was what they felt like. And it had come out of nowhere. I ignored Bill's stammered platitudes as I stumbled from the lunchroom. The panic was rising in me now, but I tried to keep it together as I accelerated down the hallway. It wasn't working. A bright pink fire pull hung on the wall next to the staircase. I rubbed my eyes. Was I having a stroke? Perhaps most baffling, our company's logo (entirely made of gradients of red) had been purged from the whole building. Yesterday, it had hung from the walls and adorned the placards outside the meeting rooms. Today, it was like it had never been there. I couldn't believe I hadn't noticed until now. My shirt. The one I couldn't find. It was bright, cherry red. My friends always said it made me look like a tomato, but I loved it. It couldn't be just coincidence. This was wrong. Everything was wrong. When I got back to my desk, post-bathroom and face dripping from a brisk splash of cold water, my coffee mug and stapler were both vanished from beside my computer. Both red, of course. I couldn't take it any more. I fired off an email to my boss, pleading illness, and gathered my things into my briefcase. A few minutes later, I was gunning for home. It didn't get any better. The fire hydrants were all bright pink, to match the fire pull I had seen. The stop lights and signs were some strange sort of teal. I hadn't realized there was so much red around me, until its absence was pulled into painful notice. I threw my keys on the counter as I barreled into my house, collapsing on the couch with a snifter of bourbon. The hands that held the glass were trembling, enough that I was afraid to actually take a sip. Was I sick? Did I have a brain tumor? Should I go to the doctor? Wouldn't they just think I was *crazy*? Who would believe something like that! And Bill hadn't even heard the *word* before. It was like...It was like the entire existence of the color red had been systematically purged from this world. As I sat there, head in hands, I saw it. There, on the coffee table in front of me. It shone crimson, like a beacon to my oversensitive eyes. A red envelope. The glass dropped from my hands, spilling amber liquid on the carpet, but I paid it no attention. All of my focus was on the little paper envelope, on seeing how fast I could tear it open. Pretty fast, it turned out. In a few brief moments, I held the gold-foiled note in my hands. Just a single square of paper, with a few short lines written on it. *You noticed*. *They noticed that you noticed*. *They're watching you now*. *If you want to live, hide it better*. *I'm coming. Wait for my next*. And that was it. I turned the sheet over in my hands, tipping the envelope up to look for other notes, but that was it. No other secrets waited for me. And yet, after I went to refill my glass, I returned to the couch and found a plain white envelope and letter sitting on the table where I had left the red sheet. *Wait for my next*. The words hung heavy in my mind. I had no idea what was going on, but this person clearly did. It's not like I had much choice in the matter, in the end. So I sat, and drank. And then I called in sick to work for the next day, too. And then I stared at the note, and waited. (/r/inorai, critiques always welcome!)

Andrew had been reduced to preaching on

The first symptom that dissappeared was the fog that shrouded Andrew's mind, that had kept him paralyzed in a constant state of lethargy. It was suddenly easy to put the pieces in place, with his lungs working strongly, his body free of its habitual aches. His mind was racing ahead. "Stop taking the pills!" he told the crowd gathered around him today. He'd been reduced to preaching on street corners like the doomsday prophets that haunted the big cities, but he didn't care. People listened to them, didn't they? Maybe they'd listen to him too. "It's a big...scam," he said, struggling to grasp the right word. 'Scam' was too small for the crime, but it would have to do. "The pills are keeping us sick, there is no disease! I bet they kept it quiet that they had cured it, or...or something. Maybe reproduced some symptoms in these pills so they can keep taking your money." "Nutjob," a thin man with a ravaged, pock marked face snapped. "No, it's true! Stop taking them, and you will - " He didn't see the blow aimed at his head, but dimly saw the crowd scatter as he went down. Before his eyes closed, he saw the boots. Horribly familiar, neon green boots. Disease Control. ------------- A different, smaller crowd was pressed around him when he woke. Fear cluthed at his stomach as he recognised the green clothing, but the Disease Control officials were *smiling* at him, not dragging him off to quarantine. "Welcome - Andrew, is it? Sorry for that little bump I had to give you, have to keep up appearances and all. The name's Danny, by the way," a large man with a neatly trimmed beard said, consulting a device he hadn't seen in years: a tablet. And where did the man get time or the tools to trim his beard? Andrew rubbed the wild tangle that covered his own face self-consciously. Danny laughed at the gesture. "You'll soon look a bit more civilised, my friend, our little community has every luxury you could wish for. It's amazing, the stuff you can find just lying around out there, waiting to be picked up, once you have the strength to look for it." "How?" he asked hoarsely, and for the first time noticed no-one in the room was sneezing or coughing, no-one was slumped and shivering with convulsions. He hadn't seen anything like it before: they were all healthy. "Why, we're like you, of course," a plump woman with a cheerful face blurted out, clear blue eyes widening as if shocked he hadn't guessed. "Too poor to afford the pills, weren't you? We were all ready to die, too. And then we all figured it out, just like you." "Figured what out?" he mumbled, but they were bustling him from the room. He blinked in the bright sunlight, and struggled to understand what he was seeing. Beautiful, sprawling homes built of solid timber or stone, not a single shack in sight *here*. Healthy children playing on the streets, shrieking with laughter. And a towering electric fence surrounding everything, a sure sign of a community that had been gated off. A quarantined community, he had always been told, its citizens doomed to death. "Take a look, Andrew," Danny said proudly. "We managed to overtake this place years ago, we never have visitors for some reason." He laughed uproariously. "We were all poor and desperate once, swallowing the pills," he explained, slapping Andrew on the back. "Well, none of us have had any pills in years, and we've never been better. We've even got a collection of Disease Control uniforms, gathered over the years, for when we venture out. No-one bothers Disease Control." The others chuckled as if this was a wonderful joke. "And we got to pretend some symptoms too, if we go out, but that's just the price of keeping the secret, I always say," the woman said, and suddenly grasped his hand. "I'm Marnie, by the way. Glad you get to join us, Andy!" "It's Andrew," he said, pulling his hand free and staring at them, his head starting to pound as he tried to make sense of things. "I'm sorry, secret? Why haven't you told *everyone*? Why are you keeping this from people? I've got to get out, got to find my family. They don't know, nobody knows..." There was a moment of silence, Marnie and Danny sharing a quick look that he struggled to understand. Then they smiled and patted his arm reassuringly, drowning his objections as they pulled him along into a small, empty house. "Sleep on it," Danny said. "You can decide in the morning, okay? Our community is small, and we can always use new people. We'd sure love for you to stay." "Here's an idea: you can get *everyone* to join you if you tell people the truth," Andrew said, but they just walked away, some shaking their heads at his suggestion. "We'll talk again in the morning, alright? Everything will make sense soon, I promise," Danny grinned at him, and gently closed the door after him, leaving Andrew alone. He tried to summon the energy to leave the village, but a massive bed dominated the room they'd put him in, and his head was still throbbing from where Danny had hit him. He crawled in, sinking into the impossibly soft mattress, and was instantly taken back to his childhood. This was how it had been then - safety and warmth, no illness ravaging people. No illness... When he stepped outside the next morning, it was pleasantly warm, the sky a deep shade of blue. It suited this place, with the laughing people ambling down the streets. Their eyes bright with health, not fever. He passed them, and a few called greetings - how had they learned his name so quickly? Did they think him a part of their town already? He was oddly touched. "Slept well? Wonderful beds, right?" a bright voice asked, and he turned to find Marnie grinning at him, wearing casual clothes instead of the green uniform. "Made up your mind?" "I've...got to go. Have to find my family, they simply have to know," he said, not without regret. It was a hard thing, turning away from this dreamlike town of health and happiness. Maybe he was dreaming, and would forget it all in the morning. He would almost prefer it. "Meet the others, at least, before you leave," Marnie insisted, taking his hand again and pointing to a large building in the centre of town. A wave of sound spilled out. "That's our Town Hall, so to speak. They're all having breakfast. The least we could do is give you a solid meal before you go, bet you haven't had that in a while, eh?" He was starving, his appetite had roared to life after he stopped taking the pills. He belatedly remembered that he hadn't eaten anything last night, either. "Yeah, I'm pretty hungry," he muttered, as Marnie laughed and led him inside. "That's the spirit, you'll fit in here in no time, don't worry," she said, as if that were his main concern. "Hey, Sophie! Town special for this one, he needs a good pick-me-up." A woman with a bob of brown hair gave him a searching look, before nodding slowly. Soon, he had a plate of bacon and eggs in hand. The Disease Control 'officials' he'd met waved from a table, beaming at him. Danny eyed him as he dug into the food, and offered another explanation. "Don't you see we're all rich for the first time in our lives, Andrew? Our lives are *better*," he said gently. "We're the only ones with health and the will to rebuild our lives. Think what would happen if the truth spread. We would lose everything, could very well lose our lives. Why, the masses will come for everything we've built once they regain their strength, you know they will." "...bunch of savages," someone muttered, who was nodding along knowingly to Danny's words. They watched him intently as he ate, as if waiting for his decision. "Look, this place is amazing," he said, finishing the food and still longing for more. Danny's wide grin faded as he continued. "But I can't believe you've kept this to yourselves. It makes no sense, walling yourself from the world. Don't you know what's out there, how wrong everything has gone? How can you just sit here and ignore that?" "Oh, don't look at the world, why would you want to do that? Depressing place. Just look at this amazing town, instead. Everything's right as rain in here, Andy," Marnie said, sharing another unfathomable look with Danny before handing him a drink. "Juice?" He drank it in one long gulp, desperately thirsty after the stack of bacon he'd gobbled up. "No. It's not right," he said. "It's - " But he never got the words out. He was choking, and they were simply staring at him, Danny continuing to eat his own meal as Andrew began shaking with convulsions. "Help me!" he gasped. "Can't...breathe..." "Yes, the original illness does that," Danny said, studying Andrew with interest as he trembled violently. "Available in drug form, can you believe it? One of their many little experiments. We found samples of it all, over the years, they have everything in the Disease Control centres. Uniforms aren't the only thing we've stockpiled. It's fairly unpleasent, but quick, if that makes you feel any better. Horrible, of course, but it acts fast. Can be cured quite easily too, as it turns out. I wish you'd have thought it over. *Outsiders*. So many of you never give this place a chance, and for what? Caught up in morality from a bygone age. Let's-just-tell-everyone, blah, blah, blah..." "Many of us?" Andrew whispered, before the world went blessedly dark. --------- **Story edited and lengthened to improve pacing.** Hope you enjoyed my story! You can find more of my work on /r/Inkfinger/.

It had been decades since someone had

Twelve hours left. That's all I had as I stared blankly at the wall of my bedroom. It had been decades since someone had come to the virus, and just my luck the next one would be me. I laid back on my bed, contemplating all of the things I hadn't done; marriage, kids, going to an old folk home. Granted some things I was happy I would be missing out on. Having been at the acceptance stage for a while now I didn't really mind too much that I was reaching the end. I had a fairly good run for a guy in his mid-twenties. As I started to recall the funnier adventures from my youth, a knock came at the door. I didn't know who it could be. I wasn't dating anyone, not for lack of trying, and my parents had passed away years ago. So who could be visiting me? I got up and answered the door to find two men in black suits. "Mr. Greene?" one of them asked as he flashed a badge. He was from the CDC, which had been given policing rights not too long after the first outbreak. "Can...I help you, gentlemen?" I asked as I moved to let them into my apartment. They walked in without a second thought. "Yes, sir you can. We understand that you haven't made your payment for your daily treatment. We would like to know why." I let out a heavy sigh. "I can't afford it. I lost my job last month. The only reason I still have a roof over my head is that I paid this months rent in advance. I guess I'm lucky I won't die in the street." I let out a nervous laugh, which they did not return with so much as a grin. "I see," the second man said, "May we sit down?" I motioned for them to sit on the couch. I sat in my old, beat arm chair. "Mr. Greene, how have you been feeling?" I sat back. I hadn't really thought about it. I had been worrying so much about the end 'being nigh' that I hadn't really thought about my health, as strange as the thought was. In all honesty, I felt fine. A little tired from lack of sleep the last few days, but otherwise completely normal. "I...feel alright I guess. No different than normal." The two men looked at one another and nodded. "Mr. Greene-" the first man spoke up again, "what do you know about the C39 virus?" "Only what they show on the news-" I began, "The symptoms change from person to person. The only constant is skin sores right before death." "There is a reason for that," the second man said, "Most of the final symptoms are psychosomatic, people worry that their end is near and so they invent symptoms in their mind. Almost all symptoms are lies made by our minds." "So if those are fake... What are the real symptoms?" "There are no real symptoms." The first man said flatly as if it wasn't the biggest news of the millennium. "But, how can that be? How can something be deadly without causing any havoc on the internal system?" "Because, Mr. Greene, there is no virus." I sat there for a moment in total shock. No virus? That isn't possible. So many people had died, how could there be no cause of their deaths? "How, what, wait a minute. What do you mean there is no virus?" I said, my anger slipping through my voice just a bit. "Mr. Greene, before this virus the world was in economic collapse. Researchers at the time estimated that we had two decades at most before another world war started, and humanity would not recover." The second man nodded his head. "So, the leaders of the different superpowers got together and formed a plan to unite all of humanity. Aliens would never work, it would take much more money to fake an alien invasion than was feasible at the time. So they decided on a virus. Something that could be easily faked, just a few million people dead and humanity would have an enemy to unite against." "What you're saying is... The millions of people who died. The chaos and havoc in the wake of the outbreak. It was all-" "A hoax, yes. There was never a virus. Just leaders pulling strings to see that everything went smoothly. A controlled demolition of society." I sat back in my chair, head reeling from the information. My whole life, so many lives, were lies. People lived in fear of a monster that didn't exist. We were being played. "Then that means the medication that we all take. That the government says keeps the virus at bay-" "It's a sugar pill, no different from candy. We put a coat over it so that people can't taste the sweetness when they swallow it. Any adverse side effects are all placebo effects" That made sense, why formulate a pill meant to fight nothing. It would save money in the long run. But there was one last piece, one thing that didn't make sense. And as soon as the question came to me, I saw on their faces that they knew what I had just thought and that they had been waiting for it. "Why are you telling me this?" "Because Mr. Greene, people are starting to suspect that the virus isn't real. That is something the CDC can not let happen. The ruin and chaos that would come following that discovery would see to the extinction of the human species. We needed to refresh the peoples' mind's that it is still there, working in the shadows. But for that to happen, someone has to die." There it was, the final piece. The last bit of information to put the picture into focus. The second man continued on. "We needed someone unassuming, that most people wouldn't notice until things blew up. So we pulled strings and had you fired from your work. It was pretty easy to do, you didn't have a great work record. Then it was a matter of waiting till your funds ran dry. Which, again, didn't take long." "So then, the reasons everyone died with different symptoms. It's because no one remembers what to expect." "Correct, the only thing they know for sure is that the sores before the end. Some even develop them early from fear." I whipped my cheek on my sleeve and realized I had been crying. They intended to kill me. I was going to die so that people wouldn't freak out. That they would believe in a monster under their bed that never was. "We know what you're thinking Mr. Greene. It's standard, and understandable, that you would want to run. However, this entire building is full of CDC agents. If you try and run, we will simply knock you out and kill you anyway. If you just cooperate, things will go nice and smooth. You won't feel a thing." "So what happens now?" I asked quietly, admitting my own defeat but unwilling to say it out loud. The first man produced a vial from his coat and sat it on the table in front of us. "This is a very powerful sedative. You take it and go back to your room to sleep. Afterward, we will clear out this building and pump chlorine gas in. You will die soon after that." It made sense now, the reason why there were always sores. "Seems kind of uneventful," I said with a laugh "Yes, Mr. Greene. Just like a virus. Just like the public expect." I nodded and grabbed the vial. "Will you guys stay, until I fall asleep?" The stood up and nodded. "That's why we are here. to make sure you are fully out before-" the man stopped, and for the first time seemed a bit choked up. "Before it's done." I nodded and went back into my bedroom, popped the small pill into my mouth and laid down to sleep.

Mom called through her door, "

**Part One (Part Two, Three, Four, Five & Six in Comments)** The pills were heavy in my hands. I moved them around my palm, watching them bump into one another. Dim light spilled into my bedroom as I took in a deep breath. I knew Mom was cooking breakfast and Dad was at work, desperately trying to make enough money for us to live... but this wasn't living. We were already dead, moving through the motions of survival to be able to afford just another miserable day... and I couldn't do it anymore. "Steph?" Mom called through my door, "Honey did you take your medication? Food is ready!" She tapped on the door. I swallowed the lump in my throat. "Yeah," I said, "I just took them now. I'm getting dressed." "Okay hun," She said, "Just hurry up or you'll be late." I nodded. I could hear her footsteps disappear around the corner. I glanced at the rash on my arm. I wondered what it would be like to have it spread over my body. I wondered what it felt like to die... to finally let the disease kill me. Would it be pain or peace? I shook my head, I didn't want to think about it anymore. These pills had ruled my life since I was five. They had clouded my mind and made me afraid each and every day. It was time to let go. Time to be free. Walking over to my trash can I tipped my hand so the pills fell into the bin. I threw some tissues over them and fell onto my bed. I put my hands over my face. The Department of Disease control warned us that the symptoms would become worse within four hours of missing our dose. That the rash would slowly cover our entire body as fluids filled our lungs. We would be suffocated by our own insides... it wasn't a pleasant death they warned... but is any death not painful? --- I sat in the car for a moment with my Mom. She glanced at me and turned off the engine. "What is it?" she said, reaching over and pushing my hair off my brow. "Come on Steph, you can tell me." I met her eyes. They were bright and blue. I tried to remember what it was like to see them for the first time. I wish I could remember what it was like to grow inside her and feel her heart so close to me. It made my own heart hurt knowing how much pain I was about to cause her... but it was a valiant choice wasn't it? So that she and Dad could actually have a life. "I'm just... I'm worried about my test today." I said. "I don't think I studied enough." "Oh," Mom said, "Well hun, I know how much you study and I can tell you'll be just fine. Now off you go. I'll pick you up at 3:00." I reached over and hugged her like I had never hugged her before. I took in a deep breath of the smell of her hair and her perfume. She always wore the same kind... ever since I was a baby. "Bye Mom," I said. "See you later hun." She said. I opened the car door and walked towards the school, trying to not let the tears hiding behind my eyes pool over the sides. I walked with my head down towards the door and, once I was sure Mom's car had gone, I turned my direction towards the forest. I didn't stop walking until I was deep within the trees. The forest floor was riddled with old newspapers and signs that were historical relics of the time before the Monarchy. I continued with the turning paths until I found a little clearing filled with flowers and bright sunlight. I dropped my bag to the side and glanced at my watch: two hours. It had been two hours since I had missed my medication. I sat down and then laid back in the grass. I allowed the sunshine to warm my face. I tried to focus on how the grass felt against my skin. How the breeze swept my hair. I wasn't sure what I would miss most about living. My life had been filled with suffering just like everyone else. Perhaps death would finally be the escape we had all bee seeking. Maybe that's why the disease happened in the first place. Three hours. My heart was pounding faster than ever before. I could feel an itch against my skin, as if I had been bitten by some little bugs. My vision became sharper as my mind began to feel more alive. I felt like I couldn't breath. The air seemed thinner. Perhaps the liquid was finally filling my lungs. Four hours. It should be any moment now. I tried to brace myself for the pain but I wasn't quite sure how one did that. Thinking about it definitely made it worse, but you only die once so maybe I want to focus on every moment of it and try to enjoy it for the human experience that it was? It should all happen soon... it was just a matter of minutes. Five hours. I waited. The sun had moved in the sky. Birds were singing happily. I kept my eyes closed. The pain should kick in any time now. That's what all the reports stated when they found bodies of the people who could no longer afford the drugs. "Exactly four hours after he had missed his daily dose the newest disease victim was found my the Department of Disease control. His body completely blue from suffocation. Let this be a reminder and a warning to all, take your medications on time or this body could be yours." Six hours. I sat up and looked around. I glanced at my watch. It had been six hours. SIX. Maybe my body was just better at keeping the treatment drug in my system. Or maybe the disease was weaker in me. I looked at my rash but it wasn't there anymore. I pulled up my shirt. My skin was clearer than it had ever been. There were no aches or spots. The pains that had filled my head had seemed to escape out my ears. I pushed my hair off my brow and took in a deep breath. Something was buzzing. I reached into my backpack to get my phone. Mom's face was on the screen with her contact name under it. I answered it and held it to my ear shaking only slightly. "Hello?" "Stephanie," Mom's voice said, "Hun I'm at the school to pick you up. Where are you? Your Principal said you missed all your classes today." "I'm sorry," I said, the tears actually falling from my eyes now. "I... I went for a walk in the woods today because I was so nervous for my test and I got lost and then when i finally found my way it didn't make sense to go back to the school." Mom sighed. "It's okay hun are you at the school now, are you okay?" "I'm fine." I said. "I'll be there soon. But can we talk to the Principal about this tomorrow? I just want to go home." "Okay, okay," she cooed. "It'll be alright. Just get to the school, we'll go home and talk about it. Call me in a few minutes so I know not to worry." I stood up. My legs felt stronger, as if my aching muscles had healed themselves. I began to walk back to the school but I felt the sudden desire to be running. I suddenly had so much energy. I felt like I could climb a tree or jump to the stars. I laughed as I ran, doing cartwheels and jumping over junk. I felt alive. Like truly alive. But what did it all mean? Mom was waiting for me outside the school. She had an expression on her face that was a mix between concern and worry. She opened her arms as I approached and hugged me tightly. "I was very worried," she said, "I'm glad you are alright." I hugged her tightly. When I pulled away I noticed something about her that I hadn't before. She seemed almost robotic. There wasn't much about her and her expressions were minor to non-existent. We walked towards the car and she began to drive again making me think about a robot. But now that I was paying attention, everyone looked like a robot, or like they were sleep walking. They performed tasks and went about their business. But they seemed... well it was hard to say exactly what they were like, but it made me uncomfortable. "Mom," I said, "Are you feeling alright?" "Yes of course," Mom said, "I have never felt so good since the Drug to help the disease was invented. It almost killed me you know." "No i don't know," I said, "What happened?" "Well," Mom said, "One day at work everyone in the office developped this horrible rash all over their bodies. And that evening the news was talking about it and how it was a non-curable disease that had taken over the *entire* world. It was hard to believe at first, but the rash was getting worse and my body felt so weak. Once the pill was invented and distributed to everyone, we all got better! But it's a shame there isn't a real cure." "Yeah," I said. As I looked out the window I saw what I knew was a normal occurrence but now that I was actually paying attention felt odd. Billboards advertising the drug and the dangers of the disease were everywhere. They struck fear into even my heart. Was this all just propaganda? What the hell was going on? As we turned a corner there was a very disturbing image of a decomposing blue body. "Don't want this to happen to you? Remember the daily drug dose is two!" On the streets I could see members of the "Department of Disease control" walking up and down the streets fully armed. I avoided their eyes and continued to look forwards. I was ready to die today, but instead I was reborn. And now I knew I had to do something... but what? Thanks so much for reading! The story is continued in the comments and if you'd like to read more by me please check out my other comments in r/writingprompts!

Lucy had maybe another 12 hours before

Lucy lay shivering in bed, her hands clutching the sweat-soaked duvet tightly around her, the bed heater back on. It had been lke this for the past three days, and she wished she was already dead. The boiling heat alternated with freezing cold for hours at a time, and every muscle of her body seemed to protest as she slowly forced herself to sit up, to push the duvet away long enough to pull the laptop closer to her. She typed her bank account password in with quivering fingers, and cringed. The money was still gone, and without that, she couldn't afford the bus fare to the clinic across town, let alone the drug. Her neck ached with the effort to hold her neck up, and she rested it gently against the back of the bed. She had maybe another 12 hours before she died, and her hopes that George was coming back were fading fast. Damn, but she had been such a fool. They'd been dating for 6 months now, and he'd said he needed her card to buy something online, would she mind. She'd hesitated. Looking back, she winced. He'd looked so hurt - don't you trust me? - and she'd foolishly given in. The next day he'd text her to cancel their planned dinner, as he had to go on a work trip. Two days later, her money was gone, and he was safe. The police couldn't help, the loans company wouldn't, and she was ... well, dead. Even the charities she'd reached out to had turned her away, because she had been wealthy enough to afford medicine until only a few days before. Their work, they had stressed, was for people who were employed in lower wage jobs, and couln't afford both drugs and food. Those with children. Couldn't she ask her parents for money? Of course, Lucy could, theoretically. But she wouldn't. Maybe she even couldn't. Finally, as a last resort, Lucy had asked her boss for her wages in advance to cover her. Just until the end of the month, she'd stressed. She'd be able to save and skrimp enough to cover the cost of the drug on that, surely. He'd told her to go home and look after herself, that he'd see what he could do... but given that her bank account was still sat at a resolute, red zero. Well. Perhaps it was for the best. She forced herself out of bed and across to the kitchen sink. It was the first time since she'd moved in that she was glad all she could afford was a bedsit. Not bothering to grab a glass, she leaned slowly forward until her tongue could touch the stream of water, tilted her head to one side, and gulped thirstly. Then, groaning, she shuffled back to bed, threw her duvet onto the floor, and spread out, her skin on fire. Lucy slept. She was forced awake by a dry, prickly mouth, and sat up slowly. The fever seemed to have worked its way out of her system, and although still a little sore, she could stand without an internal dialogue. She grinned. But, wait. She should be dead. "Is this... heaven?" She asked aloud, looking around her deserted room. Maybe someone had come in, given her something - but the door was still deadbolted, the window latched. Her hands still shook as she poured a glass of water. Maybe, she thought, this was the second wind, the nice bit before death. But she felt fine. Better than fine. She almost wanted to dance with how fine she felt. "I'm alive." She told the wall, confidently. Then she turned to the stuffed cat an old friend had bought her, and told it too. "I'm alive!" She span around in a circle, which was somewhat ill-advised as she immediately felt dizzy. She hadn't eaten anything more nutrious than the few slices of dry toast she had nibbled in her bed on the few occasions she had made it to the kitchen, before it had gone blue. "Ok," she said, "I need to eat." She had a yoghurt in the fridge, which she consumed while rooting through her freezer drawer for a ready meal. Nothing. Dammit. And she still had no money for shopping. Three bendy carrots, a slightly mushy bag of spinach, and three sausages would have to do then, and she quickly set to work. How was she not dead? Rach! She had to call Rach! She whirled around, the spitting sausages forgotten momentarily, and scrambled among her bedding for her phone. Which was dead. She swore, then plugged it in next to the hob, balancing it on the top of the microwave. Finally, the battery symbol came on, and she mashed the power button with her thumb, the other hand futily jostling the sausages. "Lucy?" A dubious voice picked up. "Why are you calling me?" "Rach, listen. I know it's been a while. I know I said some stupid, horrible things. But you need to know something." "Ok." "Take a seat. Somewhere quiet, somewhere alone. Please, this is important." "Give me a minute." Lucy grabbed at the sausages with one hand and dumped them onto a plate, too hungry to care if they were done. Then, sucking her burnt fingers, she tapped the speakerphone button and pulled her chair closer to the phone. "What is it, Luce?" "You were right." "What?" "You were right. I... look, it's a long story, but I didn't have money for tablets this month." "Are you alright?" "Yes, yes, that's the point. I didn't take them, but I'm also still alive." There was a staticy silence on the phone for a few heartbeats. "Are you sure?" "What do you mean, am I sure?" Lucy took a bite of sausage, and spoke around it. "Of course I'm sure." "We can't talk on the phone. They might be listening." Lucy bit down the urge to tell her she was being paranoid - after all, that had been part of their fight in the first place - and, she realised, if Rachel had been right about this... "Just answer a few questions, OK?" Lucy hummed her agreement. "OK. When was your last dose?" "4 days ago." "What were your symptoms?" "Mostly fever." "Where are you now?" "Town centre, Burkley Street." "I'm on my way. Stay there, don't open the door to anyone. Do you understand?" "Yes." Rachel hung up. Lucy continued eating her sausages. 5 minutes later there was a knock at the door. It was only instinct that kept her from calling out. Instead, she slowly slid along the floor, her heart thundering in her chest. Another knock, loud and authoritative. "Miss Naze. I know you're in there. Please answer the door." She held her breath. "Miss Naze, please. We don't want to hurt you." Trying desperately to be as quiet as possible, she breathed in, and then out. How did they know she was there. A new voice, female, spoke. "We're working with Rachel Thearm. She asked us to pick you up, as our team was closer." Now Lucy knew that these people weren't going to help her. Rach would have told her if she was delegating the task. But while they were here, would Rach be able to come help her. There were another few minutes of tense silence, and then Lucy heard footsteps heading from her door down the corridor. Were they trying to trick her? Convinced she'd died? A thud, on the wall. She squealed in shock, and clasped a hand over her mouth. Another thud. My god, were they breaking down the wall? Without thinking about it, she grabbed a knife from the washing up pile and clenched it in a white fist. She would not die, not after surviving that fever. She would fight. There was a silence, stretched across several seconds, and then somehow the bolt on the door began to draw back. She lunged across the room, and pushed it shut again, fighting against some other force. "Hey." A whisper came. "It's ok, just me. Open up." Somehow, Lucy couldn't trust the voice, even if it sounded a little like Rachel with her posh, English accent. "Seriously, Luce, open up. I have approximately 5 minutes to get you out of here before they wake up." Tentatively, Lucy pressed her lips up against the crack of the door. "What did you give me, the night before we went to prom?" "A stuffed lion. Babe, come on, we need to go." Scared, still clutching the knife, Lucy baked away from the bolt. It moved again. Then there was Rachel's grinning face, pushing it open, grabbing Lucy and pulling her through. Two crumpled SWAT officers were by the door, heads resting against one another. Rachel was dressed in black, riot police like clothes, a small handgun clenched in one hand. Silently, she pulled Lucy down the hall, into a stairwell, and down they went. "Luce babe, I'm so glad you called." Lucy, concious of her knife - and her dirty pyjamas - said nothing. She didn't know what to do, whether to trust Rachel. She had no other choice. "You're a medical marvel, Luce. I have some doctors I want you to meet." She paused by the door to the basement, looked Lucy up and down, and pulled her into a quick hug. "Come on, we've got work to do."

Sophie was so used to the creatures

Sophie was so used to the creatures crowding her vision, she rarely gave them a second glance anymore. Giant hulking rabbit with four eyes and wings, dragons that wheeled over the cities, massive, slick sea creatures that gamboled and played in the rivers and oceans. She wasn't able to touch them, and they never seemed to see her - but they were always something that was uniquely hers. She wrote stories about them, but never showed her writing to anyone. That would make the creatures real to others, and they were *hers*. Until she saw the man painting in the park. He had somehow found the perfect, shifting molten shade of gold to capture the glint of the sleeping dragon's folded wings. She ventured closer, certain that he wouldn't look up at her approach. He must be one of the ghosts of this shadow world that weren't actually real. It was probably just her imagination weaving absurdly vivid pictures, or some delusion. She really should see a professional soon, but it was so lovely to have this ability. What if she were prescribed antipsychotics, and the world became drab and colourless, none of her creatures to fill the skies and the oceans? What if her imagination disappeared too, and she couldn't write anymore at all? She didn't want to let it go. Why, even this man seemed magical, with his swirling cloak, and waves of ink black hair like a raven's wing... "Do people in your realm never greet properly?" he suddenly spoke softly, pausing where he had been painting the creature's massive front claw. Her mouth dropped open, and he smiled widely at her disbelief. "Oh, great," she muttered. "Auditory hallucinations, too, what fun." To prove it, the other people in the park were giving her nervous looks, as if afraid she would attack them at any moment. The man gave a rich chuckle and turned back to his picture, mixing gold and white to get the colour of the creature's belly just right. "Oh, you're no more 'crazy' than any of the people in your world," he told her. "Just gifted enough to catch the odd glimpses of the other realms. Where do you think your greatest artists and writers found their inspiration? You know, I like you. Do you know the name of my friend over there?" She dismissed the strangeness of the conversation to focus on the question. It seemed vastly important, suddenly, and she found the name as she looked upon the dragon. "Ryna," she said, and he nodded slowly. On the grass, the dragon rolled in its sleep and gave a soft rumble. "Good guess. It's close enough - it seems you're more in tune with our realm than I thought," he said. "Look, he almost heard you. Names are important, girl, remember that. It's the call between realms. What is yours?" "Sophie," she said, without thinking, and his black eyes gleamed brightly. "What's yours?" "Sophie," he echoed her name softly, ignoring her question, and touched her hand. She felt it, a warm and fleeting brush of skin. "Well, Sophie. I can allow you to become a greater part of our world, if you wish. I can be your...guide, as it were. My realm will unlock your potential in...what do you like to do? Are you a painter, like me, or perhaps you sing?" "Well, I do like to write, sometimes," she whispered, almost afraid to say it out loud. "But I'm not any good." "Ah, a *writer*. I do love writers. After you visit, you will write like never before," he winked at her. "I know, I've seen it happen. I've taken some from your realm before. Edgar Allan Poe was one of our most famous visitors, and a dear friend to me. A talented man...it's funny, he was always able to see me, you know. Never got my name quite right, though, no matter how many times I told him." He lapsed into a thoughtful silence. "But there is danger, too, I won't lie, and perhaps you will curse me for drawing you in," he continued slowly. "But perhaps you'll enjoy it, it's always so difficult to know how one of you will react. Perhaps you are strong enough. Call on me if you wish for it. But remember - with every visit, you will become more removed from your own plane. It could become difficult to fully return. Some have lost themselves along the way." "This isn't real, is it?" Sophie asked, as the man turned his back on her and finished the painting. "I see you need convincing," he chuckled, and took the painting from the easel. The fresh paint gleamed and the colours seemed to shift, unnaturally bright in the afternoon sun. He handed it to her with a strange little grin. "Here, a little memento from me, it will prove how real I am. And I'll give you another gift: the name's Nevamor. Call on me if you wish, Sophie, and I will visit again. Think it over well." She walked home in a daze, staring at the picture of the sleeping dragon sprawled on the grass. It was an almost perfect rendition of the dragon. Ryna. Her roommate, Elizabeth, frowned when she let herself into the apartment. As always, Sophie looked like she was tripping on five kinds of drugs. "Hey. You ok?" Liz asked her. "I'm fine," Sophie sighed, putting the picture on the coffee table. She would make an appointment to see a psychiatrist this week, she promised herself. Hallucinating the feel and touch of a man's hand and a whole painting was becoming less harmless and more frightening. It would be best if she just tried to forget about all of it, and never called the man's name. That would just indulge her delusions. "Well, ok. I'm going out, there's leftovers in the fridge," Liz said, heading to the door. "Nice painting, by the way. Where'd you get it?" Sophie was staring at her, eyes stretched wide in shock. Liz shrugged and headed out, shaking her head a bit at her roommate's behaviour. Hours later, when she returned to an empty apartment, she tried not to worry - even though Sophie had promised she'd be home tonight. Her roommate had always been a rather odd one, and liked to wander off on her own. Sophie would be fine, wherever she was. On the windowsill, a raven Elizabeth couldn't see gave a cawing laugh she never heard. -------- Hope you enjoyed my story! You can find more of my work on /r/Inkfinger/.

Xylenor and Blom

"How much further?" asked Xylenor, in between ragged breaths. He didn't get an answer. The dwarf at his side was less than half his height, reaching only up to his scabbard. That meant that Blomor had to work twice as hard just to keep up at the current pace they were going, as they plunged through the thick undergrowth, plowed through the coarsened vegetation. The inevitable gloom of dusk was also falling across the horizon, signalling the onset of darkness, which was never an ideal condition for fighting, no matter how you cut it. They reached a fork in the trail, and Blomor gestured to the left. Xylenor fell in line, and briefly hoped that the others would pick up on their trail, scent the waymarks he had been leaving behind at regular intervals. "Not much further now," said Blomor, his pace slowing. "When will your reinforcements arrive?" "Soon," said Xylenor, hoping that he would not be proven wrong. "They better. We can't take them on our own." Xylenor's stomach tightened in knots. He yearned to throw caution to the winds, unleash his magic there and then. A single thunderflare first, which would bathe the forests for miles around with a single peal of light, a flash of sound. That would mark their location, give the patrols a destination to home in on. Then Xylenor would link forces with the dwarf, and together they would marshal the latent energies in the surroundings, tear open a portal at their location, create a forward position from which their brethren could quickly pour forth. And how easy it would be. The elves were the lynchpin in the Alliance, masters at channelling and processing the raw magic which permeated their world. The dwarves, with their knack for intricate, delicate spellweaving, did wonders with the relatively meagre amounts of magic they dredged up. And the goblins, or at least the last few which still survived, would harmonize the discordant spells unleashed in battle, pluck the stray strands which zipped through the air, and rally it all into a single, living, breathing orchestra of magic. But Xylenor knew they could afford no such luxury. If they were to meet the challenge lying ahead, they would need every shred of magic at their disposal. "We're getting close," said Blomor. "Was this where you first came upon them?" asked Xylenor. "Aye. My partner's still out there, somewhere, keeping watch. Just a normal routine inspection. The humans have been keeping to their side of the bargain, keeping off our territory. But some of our younglings often cross the border, thinking themselves brave enough to weather whatever's lying ahead." "They were the ones who first alerted you?" "In a way," said Blomor. "We found them running back towards our outposts, damn near screaming their heads off in fear." "Is it bad?" asked Xylenor. Blomor nodded. "Very." They crested a hill, and then Xylenor saw it for himself. The plumes of smoke against the setting sun seemed like the stormdrakes of old, twisting gently as they stretched out into the heavens. Xylenor counted at least four main conflict points, marked by the scorched earth and shattered trees. He focused, sharpening his senses with a seasoning of magic. The sounds of battle still raged on, but he had trouble making out the dancing giants in the distance. "Their shields are still up," said Xylenor. "Aye. We had trouble sighting them too, what with the cloaking fields they deploy." "So do we know what we're in for?" Blomor beckoned, and away they went again, streaking down the other side of the hill until they came to a human-made clearing, marked by a giant carcass, rooted into the ground. It still thrummed with life, but just barely, and Xylenor didn't need magic to tell that the humans within were already dead. "This is a bloody Dreadnought, for goodness' sakes," muttered Xylenor in disbelief. "From the Emperor's Command, no less," said Blomor. He muttered a levitation spell, and was lifted to the side of the fallen giant. His hand caressed the strange materials, feeling the edges where the top half of the Dreadnought had been clipped right off, as if it was a mere chestnut sundered by a blade. "You think your lightning spells can do this much damage?" asked Blomor. "To shear right through a Dreadnought, how many Circles must work together?" Xylenor's face blanched. "You mean..." Off they went again, quicker this time. Xylenor sensed the forests filling up with the Alliance, which comforted him somewhat. If he was going to die here today, at least he wouldn't be alone. They found themselves at yet another hill, and this time they were close enough to see the battle with their own eyes. On one side were the gleaming legions of the humans. Three to a cell, six to a squad, nine to a contingent, the humans were already in their raging golems, towering beasts of unwavering loyalty. Xylenor recalled an early campaign where the Alliance had resorted to skulduggery, tried to twist the golems to their side. Their very best mages had been stumped, unable to figure out the inner workings of those fearsome monstrosities. Humans on their own were dangerous, but with their golems, an entire village caught unprepared could be razed to the ground. By Xylenor's best count, less than a third of the human forces remained. Those which still stood and fought had the trailing black robes of the Command, that elite band of golems which comprised of the most experienced and battle-worn warriors. They were holding their ground, but just barely. Xylenor was so lost in the spectacle that he gave a start when the human nearby, propped against a tree, coughed. The human had evidently ejected from his golem at the point of complete destruction, and had somehow managed to crawl to relative safety. For a moment, Xylenor forgot that this was technically still an enemy combatant, and he rushed to the human's side, pressed his hands against the open wounds, summoning all the healing magic he could muster. "I'm... sorry," said the human, too weak to even hold up his head. "He's not got long," said Blomor. "We should have come earlier... but..." "Why didn't you send us a warning earlier?" asked Xylenor, a hard edge creeping into his voice. "You could have told us!" "The Alliance wouldn't have believed... us..." Then, the infernal clacking filled the air, a sound so terrible that it awakened deep-seated, long-buried memories in Xylenor. The goosebumps razed his flesh, his blood ran cold, and he forced himself to look to the other side of the battlefield, athwart the mighty golems. And there flourished an array of the land's greatest threats, the enemy they thought finally vanquished. There they stood, risen from the dead, the only thing which could have united the humans and the Alliance, caused them to put aside their petty differences, band together against the common threat. Each double the size of the human golems, stronger, faster, deadlier. Unrelenting forces of nature, harbingers of doom. "Believe me now?" asked Blomor grimly. Xylenor pressed his fingers to his forehead, and thoughtcast the warning back to the elven forces on the way. "Be advised," he relayed, "the Orcs with their Giant Enemy Crabs are back." --- /r/rarelyfunny

The being's eyes were pitiless

The being's eyes were pitiless as Samuel broke down, staring wildly at the hellscape surrounding him. It wasn't quite as he had imagined, no flames, no pitchforks waiting. Just an endless stretch of cracked, dead earth, with no trees in sight, no burbling streams of water, no other people...and yet, and yet, it was the worst place he could imagine. "Your personal hell," the creature told him, its lipless mouth curling into something that resembled a smile. "You always did love the beauty of nature, did you not?" Yes, he had loved it, and had always prayed for a heaven filled with trees and rivers, where he would dwell forever with his wife, Alison, when her time came to pass. Had always been so certain he had earned his right to be there, walking at the side of angels, becoming closer to God. "Why?" he asked, not expecting an answer. But Satan took a step closer and crouched down until he was face to face with Samuel, making him gag as a putrid stench washed over him. "You saved my daughter, of course," he said. "Dear Lilith. Heaven would not accept you after that, so I got to keep you. Let me take this moment to personally thank you for saving her. Do let me know if you need anything..." Its voice was heavy with sarcasm, red eyes gleaming with malevolence. "Lilith," Samuel repeated softly, and remembered. A beautiful college girl, she had invoked thoughts of lust in him after he had saved her from the truck, hadn't she? He felt a wave of shame for that, but remembered with pride how he had saved himself. He had resisted the urge to remain in contact, had turned from her subtle flirting in the hospital, where he had visited her, to return to his wife. Over the remaining five decades of his time on Earth, he had led a life of pious devotion. He had helped raise his three sons, and built his own little parish from the ground up. He hadn't thought of Lilith *once* in those years, with her warm, almond eyes, and skin like cream... "That's her, the little snake," Satan said, giving a guttural chuckle. Samuel couldn't decide if it that was anger or pride in his voice. "Wearing one of her favoured human guises when she met you. Tried to kill her and drag her back here where she belongs countless times, but she always managed to slither away. Or had fools like you saving her. Wreaking havoc on Earth, trying to take *my* rightful place in the minds of humans. But I will say this: she truly did love you, as much as she is capable of love." "You can read my thoughts of her?" Samuel asked, shivering as an ice wind swept through the desert. The cold burned worse than the fire and blood he had been expecting. He had always hated being cold. "I have many talents," he said, grasping Samuel's hand with a raking claw. "As does my daughter. We can twist memory and life itself, of course, but if I wish...I can return your true memories to you." He screamed, but it was no use. He was remembering. Alison's broken eyes as he left their home to follow Lilith, his three young children crying and begging him to remain. Years upon years of unspeakable deeds, as she strove to bend the Earth to her will. What had happened? What had he done? Samuel's spine bent as he howled, the memories burning through him. "That's enough," Satan whispered through his pain, and he was abruptly cold again, shuddering as he lay curled on the ground. "I wanted you to know, before I take you onward. This isn't your final resting place, Samuel Wells. I've made a little deal with someone." That claw closed around his shoulder, and he was dragged from the desert. When he woke again, warm brown eyes were smiling down on him. The weather was pleasantly mild, luscious trees rising gracefully to the heavens all around them. "Lilith?" he whispered, and she gave that perfect smile that struck him silent. How had he ever managed to forget it? "I made you forget," she said, pressing her lips to his forehead. The intoxicating scent of her, honey and spices he could not name, overwhelmed him. "And now, I wished for you to remember, my love. Father granted me that favour." "You will remain here, now?" something interrupted them, and he looked up to see Satan watching from between two elm trees, his face bathed in shadow. Samuel trembled at the blasphemy of it. It was so wrong for him to be here, in this piece of Heaven. "Of course, Father, a deal is a deal," Lilith whispered, wrapping Samuel tighter in her arms. "I will not return to Earth, if I can remain here with him." Soon, they were alone again. He was almost paralyzed with pleasure at the warmth of her touch, the feel of her hand tracing its way down his chest. "He told me...I will be in my personal Hell," Samuel whispered, anxious to say it before the memory disappeared. He could already feel the details of his time in the desert fading away. "There are many versions of Hell. This might be it for one aspect of you," she gave a throaty chuckle. "The Samuel you were, before you met me." For a moment, he remembered the reproachful eyes of his wife. What had her name been? And his sons...he had sons, once... "But forget that now, my love," Lilith whispered, and he shivered as she lightly traced the outside of his ear with her tongue. "You're here with me. How could that possibly be Hell?" He allowed the memories to go, relishing her touch upon his chest, right where his heart was beating. He was in the arms of his true love, in a place of warmth and plenty. Truly, God was good. ----------- Hope you enjoyed my story! You can find more of my work on /r/Inkfinger/.

An electrical engineer who put himself through

*It's not about the money. It's about the principle of the thing!* I don't want you to get the wrong picture of me. I'm not some white-collar slob browsing through memes in an air-conditioned office. I'm an electrical engineer who put himself through school on nickels and dimes. I had to sell my radio to buy my uniform for my first day of work, although I would have sold a kidney if that hadn't covered it. If I'm willing to get my hands dirty to earn my money, you can sure as hell know I'm willing to get them dirty to get it back. When someone takes money from me, it's not just me they're stealing from. They're stealing from my father who worked a night job to keep clothes on my back. They're stealing from my children who can't understand why their father doesn't love them enough to get them the same toy their friends have. They're stealing from every honest man, every American dream, every - "Next in line please." The vein in my forehead learned to tap-dance. If a glare could kill, the McDonalds Cashier in front of me would have flipped his last burger. "I gave you a twenty. You gave me change for a 10." My voice could have chiseled rock. There was a collective sigh from the line behind me, but I held my ground. "I'm not leaving until you give me my 10 back." "I know how to do my job, *sir*. Next in line!" It would have been one thing if I was a strung-out fool scratching at my ass, but I was a professional man. From my tucked in dress shirt to my carefully parted hair, everything about me screamed credibility. The nerve of this greasy teenager to disregard me so quickly - But this wasn't over. Oh no, this was far from over. He was nothing compared to me, and I was going to prove it. But I wasn't going to stoop to his level. I was going to use my game to beat him. I'll admit, my plan seemed a lot simpler in my head. These types of registers just spring open when the electricity shorts out. After that, all I had to do was grab it and run. It wasn't stealing: it was justice. But then I guess I started overthinking things... The supplies I needed from Home Depot set me back a bit, but soon I'd put together a simple device which drew so much power in a feedback loop that the whole building would be overloaded. Sure I had to bribe the guy who worked there when he got suspicious what I was going to use it for, but you never know when I'll need to use this baby again. Of course, just to be safe I might as well get rid of the security cameras. No point going to all this trouble just to get caught. I can't believe it cost a couple hundred dollars just to get someone from the company to recall them for maintenance. Worth it, of course, because now I was ready to exact my revenge. Only he'd already finished his shift by then, and I didn't want to get someone else in trouble. I followed him home instead, maybe a bit too fast, because I got a speeding ticket along the way. He wouldn't have a register at home, but I could still go in and take it by force. Of course, for that I'd be safer to bring along some protection, so I had to buy a gun. Couldn't wait the three days, so I just got a hot one from a buddy I know. Cost a little extra, but you know what you can't afford to replace? Dignity. Finally, it was midnight, and I had everything I needed. Time to make this bastard pay. Or it would have been, if I hadn't accidentally broken into the wrong house. There was a lot of screaming and confusion. Understandable, given me crashing in through their kitchen window, but who the hell really needs a stain glass window in their house anyway? Bunch of white-collar pussies if you ask me. Of course I offered to pay for the damages, so it's not like any real harm was done. But now! The right house. Right time. Just before the break of dawn, I knocked on his door. Long, loud knocks. Not the sound of a thief in the night - more like the authoritative confidence of the police upholding the great law. No reply. What would the police do in this circumstance? Exactly the same thing I did. Break the door in. Gun at the level, I flipped on every light I came across. I have nothing to hide. Do you? "What's that awful racket?" An older woman. Must be his mother. She waddled blearily down the hallway in her nightgown, freezing when she saw the gun in my hand. "Oh sweet Jesus. Michael! Call the police!" "I am the police!" I roared. "Where is that son-of-a-bitch?" "You're no police. Where's your badge?" "Well, not exactly the police. But I'm on the side of justice -" "Michael get down here and help me!" she screamed. "Yeah, come here Michael," I added, albeit a bit less confidently than when I had begun. "And bring my ten dollars!" Soon they were both against the wall, quivering in fear. I was starting to get uneasy now, but any hesitation would make it look like I was confessing to doing the wrong thing. I wasn't! The money was mine! And God as my witness, I wasn't leaving without it. The moment when he handed me the folded bill, I knew it was all worthwhile. Sure I'd spent my whole savings to get this back, but I'd also deterred this scumbag from his future life of crime. I put the bill in my pocket and walked home in triumph, the exalted return of a victorious emperor from his conquered land. I guess in retrospect I should have looked at the bill Michael gave me. Bitch only gave me a 5. --- .

A man came in to open an

I'll admit, it wasn't my proudest moment. I was working as at a bank, and a pretty strange guy came in to open an account. You probably know the type. Overly loud to cover his insecurities, laughs obnoxiously at his own jokes, weird clothes. Anyway, this guy comes in and has a sack full of cash to open an account. Plops it down on my desk and has me set it all up for him. We finish up around lunch time and I send the guy on his way, then head back to the vault with the money. It's right around then my stomach starts growling at me and I remember I left my lunch at home. Things have been a little tight around the home front with a new baby, so I'm feeling strapped. You can probably guess where this is going. I went ahead and took $10 out of the sack, and processed the deposit. I figured a guy with this much cash wouldn't miss it. Who misses $10 out of a $86,400 deposit? John Oker, apparently. Not that I found this out immediately. No, it was two years later. I was doing auditing work for a different company by this time, and was supposed to go inspect a warehouse for an important client. The place looked abandoned when I got there. No lights were coming out of this massive, old building. The paint was peeling, and most of the windows were still boarded up. Those that weren't were covered in a thick layer of grime that made it impossible to see inside. The remains of the sign for the old chemical plant that used to operate out of here still clung to the top parts of the wall, but a small wooden sign near the main door confirmed I was in the right place: "Laughing Planet Inc." Inside was about a filthy as the outside. But there were definite signs of activity. Conveyor belts had been put in, and there were toys in various states of construction spread throughout. "Hello?" I called. My voice echoed around the warehouse a bit. I started to turn to leave when an answer finally came. "Jerry! So glad you could make it. Please, step on in." It was a man's voice. One I didn't recognize at first. I spun around and looked for the source of the voice, but didn't see anyone. "Yes, I believe I had an appointment with Ms. Quinn? She was going to give me a tour of the facilities," I shouted back. There was another pause. Again, I almost gave up on the whole thing, which in hindsight, I should have. "She won't be joining us, as she had another engagement come up unexpectedly. So I'll be giving you the tour." The voice came from right behind me. I spun around and recognized him immediately. The man from the bank. Still wearing the same strange clothes, now topped off with wild dyed hair and a heavily made up face. Before I could even get a word out, he took me by the arm and led me deeper into the building. "As you can see, we had to let the janitor go," he said, before busting out his obnoxious laugh. He led me through a maze of of half built walls and empty crates until we came to a storage area. "Here's where we keep the raw materials, Jerry. I expect you'll want to take an inventory." I leapt at the chance to start talking professionally. It took my mind off the strange circumstances I was in. "Yes, that's correct. You know in small businesses like yours, it's actually shockingly common for employees to steal. One of the leading causes of those businesses going under is shrinkage, either at the till or in the inventory." "Oh, shrinkage you say!" Mr. Oker gave in to another fit of laughter. I didn't get the joke. I looked around the area and spied something sitting on the floor, so I stooped to pick it up. "A ten dollar bill," I said. "How careless!" the man in the strange purple clothes said. "Well Jerry, finders-keepers, am I right? You can apply it toward your bill, or just pocket it. I'm sure you've earned it." "No, sir," I said with a nervous laugh. "That would be unethical. You'd better take it." Mr. Oker stepped over to me and took the bill from my hand. "Well I admire that Jerry, I really do. Ethics really is high on my list of must haves." He chuckled again, before continuing. "In fact, I'd never let it go if someone stole from me. Not ever. If I found out someone had taken my money, why, I might buy a warehouse for a fake toy company, and lure the thief there, then strap him to the conveyor belts and run him through the machines." I tittered nervously. He didn't. He stepped closer to me, pressing me against some of the crates. "Do you remember me, Jerry?" "I'm sorry Mr. Oker, I..." "Please, call me Joker." And that's when he punched me. One good whack to the head and I was out. When I woke up, I was strapped to the conveyor belts. "Rise and shine, Jerry!" Joker shouted from a platform high above me. I watched as he dramatically heaved an enormous lever. The machinery sprang to life, and I started moving toward the metal contraption that would turn me into a child's plaything. I pulled against the ropes, but couldn't get free. "Maybe your ethics will save you!" Joker called. "No, but mine will," a gravely voice answered. I heard the dull sound of a fist hitting someone. "Oh Bats, here to ruin my fun again! Even though I'm in the right this time!" Joker called. There was no answer this time, just the sounds of a scuffle. All I know for sure is that the machine turned off a minute before I was going to become a puppet. Sorry if this was a longer answer than you wanted, Commissioner Gordon, but to cut to the chase: yes, I have some idea of what the Joker wanted with me. ***** If you enjoyed this, you can subscribe to to read more of my prompt responses.

Necromancer Alturias purses

"Heya boss. What we doin' this time?" The Necromancer Alturias purses his lips, looking over me with contemptuous eyes. His hand trembles, his breath hitches. A deathly cold fills the room. "*You*.... *again?*" "Guess ya can't get enough of me, eh? Don't worry, it's all going *tibia* ok. You can take over the world with just me, I know it." With a derisive flick of his hand, the cold wind of the room gathers in his palm and is redirected in a blast at me. I feel it collide with my chest, shattering the structure of my body as my bones are scattered across the room. "Ok, ya ain't a *humerus* man, I get it. I get it," my skull chatters. He disregards me, his cloak billowing as he clenches his right hand and moves it upwards, my head following the motion as it's lifted from the ground. "I'll kill you again," he hisses. "Boss-man, yer wastin' time with me here. You could be takin' over the world. Capturing fair maidens. Pissing off Heroes. Instead yer speaking with me." "Because I don't bloody need you. I need *them.*" I feel the pressure build up in my skull as his nails dig into his hand. "Beggars can't be choosers, boss. C'mon, at least gimme a smile! Ya always look like such a bloomin' grouch." His jaw tightens like a body in rigor mortis, his nostrils flaring as he tilts his head, trying his best to suppress any semblance of visible emotion. "Boss! Nothing is more beautiful than a genuine smile - except maybe..." I chuckle gutturally, shaking my head, "Naw, you're too young for that." "*Silence!*" Blood begins to trickle as he clenches his fist so tightly I can see the whites of his knuckles. My skull rattles for a moment before imploding in on itself. "*I'll be ba-*" I manage to whisper mockingly before the world goes black. ----- "Su-" "*Fuck off!*" Alturias reels forward, his pale hand clasping around my neck. "Boss, I - I don't breathe...." "Oh, right." The hand retracts shakily. As he does so, I notice that he no longer bears the fearsome visage of a Necromancer - his eyes, once crystalline and bright with power, are now faded and sunken. His face is gaunt and haggard. More so than is typical for a Necromancer. He almost looks... undead. He slumps to his knees, head falling to the ground. I don't know why, but it almost feels instinctive for me to rest a hand over his shoulder; perhaps it's the manifestation of an echo from a bygone life. Although it lacks the comfort of another human's, I feel him relax against it as I pat him. "There, there," I say, trying to make my voice sound reassuring. "Adventuring party got you down?" He shakes his head. "N-no, it's just that - it's just that." He looks to me again, and I see the same hatred in his glare I'd witnessed so many times and resurrections before. Burning and seething like a cauldron in Hell. "What?" "I - I don't want to take over anything. Rule over people or anyone, for that matter. I just want a normal life." I take a step back, and if my brows could've furrowed, they would've. Instead my skull juts forward, and I make a confused grunt. He continues, a tear dripping down his eye. "I just want to bring back my parents. I want to feel their touch again. I want to be loved." He lets out a loud, almost primal, bellow and slams his fists into the ground. "But it's always you! Always... always, the same *fucking* skeleton. Just who are you? Why do you stop me from being loved again?" I sag forward, opting for the brutal, albeit honest, answer. "I - I don't know." As a mere skeleton, I lack all memories, after all. It pains me to see his face fall as he arches his back and wails like a hound at the moon for a name I find familiar, although don't quite recognise. His mother, I guess. His hand whips out of his cloak, and I don't bother to dodge as a blast of energy follows it, snaking towards me as a tremor in the air. It slams into my skull, shattering it instantly. ------- I'm dead again. Caught in the thrall of that transitory stage between life and resurrection; that's what it's become for me, nothing more than a mere waiting room. As I float aimlessly in the familiar river of nothingness, a memory bubbles to life, abruptly disrupting my tranquility as it rises to the surface of the river. It bobs there for a moment, a glowing orb encased in a light so bright that it makes me wince. I raise a hand, and it feels like moving ten-thousand leagues under the sea, with every twitch a battle against unfathomable pressure. As I somehow manage to clasp my hand over the orb, I feel myself drawn into the memory. "Mum, dad. I'm home!" A young boy with flowing blonde hair and crystal blue eyes bounds down the pathway towards me. I take up the young master in my grasp, my shaking hands clutching tightly around him. "Charlton, why are you crying?" "Young master Alturias... I'm sorry." "Why are you sorry?" He says, sensing my unrest. His bright eyes look up to me, and he can see the tears cascading from mine like rivers, plopping gently on his unruly matt of hair. I merely shake my head, bringing him closer to me. He means the world to me, and I want nothing more than to see him continue smiling effervescently, so radiantly that even the heavens would stop to take notice. Wether it be jokes, puns or quips, I always give it my all to ensure he stays grinning. Always playing the clown, for the little boy's sake. "Where are my parents?" The boy says, his voice quivering with anxiety. "Hush, Alturias." I'd do it in this life and in the next, if I had to. Such is my duty. ---- /r/coffeeandwriting

"I am John Smith, I

*Day One* "And class, I know this is a bit sudden, but we have a transfer student. I walked in from the door and turned to the sea of Japanese students, with a rainbow of hair colors and a plethora of hairdos ranging from girls with long blue hair down to their knees to guys with red hair spikier than a porcupine. One guy even had an afro. Despite this, there was one trait that everyone shared: a surprised expression on their face. "I am John Smith, I am a transfer student from America. It's a pleasure!" *What the hell? I thought the Japanese were a bit more... uniform than this?* *** It was apparently lunchtime. Looking around the class room, all the kids that brought their lunch were eating already. I got up from my seat to go to the cafeteria but realized I had no money, despite the ten times I checked and confirmed that I had money in my pocket that morning. I, being rather antisocial, just laid low in the back of the classroom hoping no one would notice and make a scene of it. What do you know, a neon blue-haired girl noticed and made a scene of it. "John, do you not have a lunch?" "N-no, I forgot money," I said, trying to play it down. "Ha! You idiot! I guess you'll have to split a lunch with me." *Idiot? Is that polite in Japan?* "No, it's fine, I had a large breakf-" "B-but, don't get the wrong idea. I'm just doing this for your own good, because... I'm class rep after all!" "I didn't in the sli-" "Alright, alright, just take my food already!" she said, as if I had been begging for it. She opened her bento and split the food half and half, divvying it out onto a plate from the cafeteria. "A-and don't get the wrong idea, idiot!" She stormed off to her friends, blushing. *What the hell was that act? Does she have a crush on me or despise me? And why either when she hasn't even spoken with me up until now?!* Then, another person came up to me. A tall guy with spikey brown hair. "You're John, the transfer student?" "Yes." "That girl is Kinugasa Misa. She's the cutest girl in the whole school. Stellar grades, best female athlete, and every guy in the school has a crush on her. She's going to be class president next year. I'm telling you now, kiddo: she's out of your league." "What? I'm not interested in her. This is the first time I've even conversed with her. I don't even know her. *You* just told me her name. Yeah, she's pretty, but it's not like I'm head-over-heels for her just because I saw her once." The guy looked at me like I was insane. He was *flabbergasted*. "What? Isn't that, like, normal behavior?" I retorted. "No! Everyone has a crush on Misa. That's just... how it is, man. Cya." And he just walked off. Without even introducing himself. I looked down at the food given to me by Misa. To be fair, it looked pretty delicious. *This was nice of her, but really, what's her problem? Is she bipolar? Is she already infatuated with me without even having known me? I suppose transfer students are popular with the girls or something.* I began to pick up a bite of it with my chopsticks when another person somehow snuck up behind me (despite me being in the back of the classroom) and hugged me from behind, their large breasts pressing into my back. "Hey John!" I jumped out of my chair and her grasp. I whipped around, flustered and blushing, about to question her indecency. However, in doing this, my tennis-shoe laden feet which were on a carpeted floor, lost their friction against all known laws of physics, and I fell onto this girl who had given me the classic *rack to the back*. Despite me falling forwards straight onto her with my hands out to my sides, when I landed she was on top of me and my hands were on her breasts. *What perverted God has given me this fate?!* I immediately took my hands off her and moved them to the side. "I-I'm so sorry!" We both stood up and I finally got a good look at her face. She had glasses and medium length green hair. Tears were rolling down her cheeks. "I am so, so sorry!" "Pervert!" She kicked me out the window. Literally, this girl who was a head shorter than me and probably weighed 50 pounds less than I, kicked me through a window and out of a three story building and into the courtyard below. I limped out of the bush I had fallen in, and began to crawl towards the school building. I had broken at least three ribs and had a moderate concussion. I saw a teacher walking to class. "Help me!" He looked down at my mortally-injured body and frowned. "What are you doing fooling around right now? The bell has rung, you're late to class!" *What the hell?!* *** I found my self walking home from the school with no such injuries apparent aside from a bandage wrapped around my head. No explanation seemed to be offered for this. I was just *magically* healed I suppose. "Hey, John!" It was that guy from earlier. "Y-yeah?" "Man, I saw you got in trouble with Sugitani Kei, that hot chick from earlier. You grabbed her boobs and everything!" "I did not! I fell on her." "Oh, sure, that always happens." "No, seriously, after she so rudely interrupted my lunch with her breasts, I turned around just to speak to her and..." "And what? You *slipped*?" *Goddammit.* "You tell it how you want man. I don't care. What I want to know is how soft her boobs are!" "Leave me alone, that's rather crass." "Whatever. Cya around!" *What an asshat.* *Say, what was his name anyways?* *** META: If you guys are interested, I'll consider doing day two. Edit: I have a good idea for Day Two so I'll try and get it up soon. It's 2 am here so don't hold your breath, but I'll see what I can do tomorrow night Edit 2: Set your Remind Me's now to pressure me into doing another Edit 3: Three things. Most important: I have Day Two up below. Enjoy! Second: Thanks for the gold kind stranger! Third: Thank you all for your kind words and support. I really appreciate it. Edit 4: I made a subreddit for my works: /r/BioWrites . I already have this and Day Two up there, and Day Three will be published there too so make sure to check it out!

It was two months after I had

It wasn't easy to get in, you know. I just want to make that clear. It wasn't easy at *all*. I worked out, far, far harder than I had to to get through the Academy back in the day. I put the hours in. I learned slang. I learned all of the tags, and the little indicators that the gangs used to communicate. I got *tattoos* for this assignment. And I memorized the faces of the cops who worked in the area, just in case. Granted, it was easier for me than for some - Having a photographic memory is very, very useful - but it was a *lot of work* regardless. But here I was, a member of the Grey Street Union at last. We'd - the FBI, that is - been investigating them for months now. They were tied up in drug deals through the whole city, with a host of other violence-related charges tied to their name. And it all came down to me, and them, sitting in this deserted bar. It was two months after I had joined. I had tracked them down, relentlessly piecing together hang-out locations and building connections. It had been in the works for years, really, I was just the one who actually got the green light and made it in. It all should have been perfect. The perfect, undercover job to plump up my resume and send my career to the top. But I couldn't shake the feeling that something smelled. Bad. So here I sat. The other members sat around me, laughing and bantering and spitting profanity at each other. The bartender was pretending to be blind and deaf, as usual, but was *excellent* at having the next drink ready right as you finished the first. Jim, the tall fellow covered in tattoos next to me, slammed into my arm as he roared with laughter. My drink spilled all over the bar. That was about enough of that. "Can we cut the crap, for a minute here, fellows?" My voice was deceptively calm and even. They all stopped, turning to stare at me. I had spoken without swearing, without any accent or the drawl I had picked up to make them all comfortable. They stared. "....Steve?" Jim ventured. "Sorry about your drink, man. Chill out." I grinned- Well, ok, it really came out more as a grimace. "All right. Honest hats on, everyone. What agencies are you from?" You could have heard a pin drop. Everyone continued to stare at me. "Oh, come on. I *told* you all I have a crazy memory. I know something's wrong. "Are- are you a cop?" Chris stammered out, pointing at me. "Narc! He's a fucking narc!" I leveled a glare at him. "Chris, your real name is Christian. You work for the City Police, in their drug unit." He gaped. "What- I- How do you- No, I don't!" I laughed. "Good recovery. But, yeah, you left your badge in your bag three weeks ago after we went to work out together. Saw it when you grabbed your towel. Only took a bit of digging after that. What, had to go straight there or something?" He turned bright red. "....Wife packed my bag that morning. *Told* her to leave it alone. Didn't see she stuck my badge in until it was too late. She never really *gets* the fact I'm undercover. Hoped you didn't see it." "Oh, I saw it." I laughed, taking another gulp of my drink. "Wait." This came from Tom, from the other side of the bar. "You're City Police? Bull-fucking-shit." Christian stammered out an unintelligible response, not sure if he should launch into an aggrieved defense or continue denying that he was police. I turned to Tom. "Ah, right. Tom, from the City Police investigations unit, right?" Tom and Christian turned to stare at each other. "Always wondered how you two wound up in here together, from the same department and all. Your bureaucracy must be royally fucked up. You guys need to work on your communication." Both blushed, and kept their silence. I sighed, and turned back to the rest. "How long are you guys going to keep pretending? Shall I start naming *more* names?" A few minutes later, they were out of the closet as well. What a motley crew we were, a smattering of officers and agents from Police Departments and Law Enforcement agencies across the state and country. Now they all just stared at each other sheepishly. I sighed again, finishing off my drink. A replacement slid into arm's reach. "So....How did you *know*, Steve? This was a dumb-fucking move, you know that? If even one of us had been legit, you'd be in a mess. If more of us were, well..." He shook his head. I only laughed. "Like I said. Crazy memory. Some of you were sloppy, sure, like Chris there and his lovely wife. Some I looked up in the staff directories, once I knew your faces. But you know what really tipped me off?" They shook their heads mechanically. "You guys never *do* anything. You sit around, and talk, and occasionally pass around an evidence-room baggie of shitty drugs. Yes, Jim, I noticed. Stop pilfering evidence from your department." I cut off the larger man before he could speak up. His mouth shut with an audible *clack*. "You never actually fight, either. Oh, you'll go push some guys around. Rough 'em up a little. Put on a nice show. But you just *stare* at each other, more than you do your poor victim. Like you're making sure nothing too awful happens, and that everyone *sees* that you're participating. Good fucking job." We all sat in silence, then. I had tired myself out, and the others were still looking around anxiously. Finally, Jim broke the silence. "So I guess that's it, then." He said, nursing his drink. "We fucked this all up. Fucked it up hard. So I guess we're done. There's no point." "Man, I don't want to go back to a desk job." Christian said quietly as he stared at the bar. Truthfully, I didn't want to go back to the desk either. This was my first gig. I was supposed to *be* someone. My mind was racing now. "Or..." I began, tentatively. "We could not." They all looked up. "...What do you mean?" Christian began, cautiously. I grinned. The pieces were falling into place. "No one knows all of this but us, right? And it's not *our* fault that the higher ups fucked this one, is it? Why should we have to take the fall?" They were all nodding now. "So I say tonight never happened. Delete any recordings you've got from those mics I know you're all wearing. We go back to it. Let's have some *fun* with it and put on a show for them. Sound good?" It was slow, but they were starting to grin at the thought of it. I was grinning too. Twenty minutes later, we had stumbled out of the bar into the night. Standing behind the bar, the bartender checked one last time to see we were gone, and then emerged to lock the door. He, too, was grinning. Tonight had brought him some information that would be quite valuable. His boss at the DEA would be very grateful for this bit of conversation, he was sure. He might even get a promotion, and a better assignment. His career would be on its way to the *top*. (/r/inorai, critiques always welcome!)

Jason slammed his hammer into the skull

The man stared at Jason. "Please," he begged, spluttering bloody spit as he did. "Please." Jason stared back, peering through the single lightbulb illuminating the room. The man sat tied to a wooden chair, his nose leaking blood and one eye swollen shut. Jason didn't know his name, only that he owed money. Though, that was all Jason needed to know. With a small nod, Jason raised his hammer up, its pointy side facing down. The man shook his head, spluttering more pathetic phrases before Jason slammed his weapon down. The hammer lodged itself into the man's skull with a sickening crunch and then the man slumped down, held up only by rope and chair. "Dump him into the streets," Jason said, "make it public." And he took a rag to his hammer, wiping away the blood. "Yes, sir." The thugs around him said and proceeded to drag away the body. At first, Jason had been reluctant to kill. He nearly blew his cover when he had passed on a blunt. But now, he was one of the most feared men in the gang, the second-in-command and the most vicious killer of them all. Nobody suspected a thing from him and he didn't know if that was a good thing. The CIA certainly thought so. "Jason," Darren said, nudging him on the shoulder. "Can we talk?" His face was serious, which was rare. Usually, he had too many drugs in his system to give anything more than a sloppy smile. He was a pale white boy whose hoodies hung off of him like he was a clothesline. Jason gave the corpse a final glance. *Playground rules, eh?* he thought before turning and responding, "Yeah, let's go." Darren nodded and proceeded to a backroom. Jason followed after him, stepping through the door Darren held open for him. As soon as it closed behind them, Darren turned and said, "It's about Eric. I think he's a narc." A smile touched Jason's lips. "Really, I heard something similar." Darren's eyes widened and he let out a relieved breath. "Oh thank god. I wasn't sure and I didn't want to throw around accusations." "Of course," Jason said with a nod. "Though, the thing *I* heard was about you." Somehow, Darren turned even paler. "That's bullshit," he stammered. "I ain't a god damn narc. C'mon, Jason, you know me. We did the Port Job together! Who the hell's spreading this shit?." "Eric is." Jason said. A figure emerged from the shadows, towering over both men. It was Eric. Unlike Darren, he was a dark and muscular man, bald at twenty-five with a voice so deep, it sounded almost comical. "You think I'm a narc?" "I saw your badge," Darren spat with a pointed finger. "You're DEA." "Sounds like something the *FBI* would say." Eric crossed his arms and narrowed his eyes. "Of course those god damn paper pushers would throw around accusations like the DEA. They haven't had an original thought in a decade." "Fuck you." Darren's brow crunched. "When I saw your badge, I was honestly so surprised. I couldn't believe that the DEA was sending people in so deep nowadays. Must be really different from the usual scheduled program of shooting high school stoners." "I ain't DEA you bastard. But hypothetically, if I were DEA, I'd so much happier that I wouldn't have to pucker my lips every time my boss pulls his pants down to shit. It's why you FBI Suits get caught so damn always. What self-respecting killer is gonna bend over and kiss ass on command?" "Oh please. For the record, I ain't FBI. But if I were, I'd be laughing at the DEA sending in the darkest most muscular man they can for every undercover job this side of the hemisphere. Need a killer? Oh shit, we got just the right man for the job--big and black. It's the 21st century asshole." "You think I'm here just because of my skin color?" "And your height." "Oh hell no." In a single motion, Eric pulled out his revolver and pointed it at Darren. At the same time, Darren pulled his own Glock, holding it sideways. "Now I know you're FBI," Eric growled. "Don't even know how to properly hold a gun. You ever shoot one before you paper-pushing suit?" "Just like the DEA to be so trigger happy," Darren spat back. "You got some weed in your back pocket to sprinkle on me after you pull the trigger?" Jason crunched over and burst into laughter. "Guys," he said, "put your damn guns down. We're all on the same side. I'm CIA." The other two paused with saucer eyes. Then, they both turned, their guns aimed at Jason. "What the hell?" Jason screamed, drawing his dual pistols. "I know all about CIA," Darren said. His finger twitched on the trigger. "You gonna get us both killed so you can have all the credit. Probably gonna drop a real sappy suicide note by our bodies so you can tell the public we shot ourselves in the back of the head." "You forgot the part where they first put us in Guantanamo and torture us until we agree to wear hijabs and scream 'Allah' at the top of our lungs," Eric added. "Fuck the CIA." Jason crunched his jaw. "You incompetent ass hats are going to blow my cover." He paused. "My hypothetical cover." "Fuck your cover," Darren said. "You're about to blow mine... if we are both pretending to be in cover that is." "Yeah," Eric tacked on. "Since this is only pretend right now and none of us are law enforcement, I can say that you guys are going to blow this whole pretend operation!" "Okay!" Jason shouted. "So all of this is hypothetical and we're all just pretending, right?" "Yeah!" the other two nodded back. "Good! So let's lower our guns and stop pretending to be hypothetical narcs so we can start being real gangsters. On three. One. Two. Three." Everyone lowered their gun. Darren let out a relieved breath. Eric cleared his throat and clutched his heart. Jason simply smiled. "Okay," Jason said, "let's stop horsing around and get back to work. We got some more debts to collect." The other two nodded. They had finally come to an understanding. Well, they had. Jason was just glad that the second he had heard they might be narcs, he had already drafted their suicide notes.

Stan 2 had only lived with Stan

"Can you pass me the remote?" the original Stan (Stan 1) asked. The clone of Stan (Stan 2) made a feeble attempt to sit up from the couch and reach for the remote control on the coffee table in front of them. "Sorry man. I can't reach it," Stan 2 replied while shrugging his shoulders in defeat. "Come on, *man*. I know you can reach it. I also know that you do not want to watch this show. It sucks." "Yeah it does suck. But getting up sucks even more." The original Stan studied his clone. Stan 2 sat slumped on the couch, taking up far more than half. While this greatly annoyed Stan 1, what annoyed him even further was the putrid combination of body odor and farts that wafted over to his side of the couch every few minutes. Stan 2 had only lived with Stan 1 for about a week now, and he already regretted his decision to clone himself. Stan 1 took his gaze off of Stan 2 and sighed. "You do know it is your turn to go to work today, right?" Stan 1 asked him. "Ugh, I really do not feel like it. You go," Stan 2 replied. "Listen, we talked about this. If you want to live here, sleep on my couch, and eat my food, then we are taking turns going to work." Stan 1 tried to remain calm while appearing stern. "Look, *pal*. I did not ask to be created. You created me. I did not ask to exist. Why the hell should I have to work in place of you then? Go yourself." Stan's blood boiled. He became hot and his face turned visibly red. "Yes. Yes I did create you, and I will fucking end you if you do not get off your lazy ass and get the fuck to work!" Stan 2's eyes opened wide and he froze in place. "Chill, Chill out man. I will go. I will go now." Stan 2 got up from the couch and bolted into the bathroom to get ready. "Thank you, prick bag," Stan 1 mumbled. _______________ Stan 2 arrived at the nearest Burger King and took his time making his way inside. His superior, Peter, glared at Stan 2 from behind the counter. "You're late, again." Peter informed him. "I know, I'm sorry. There was a crazy wreck in front of my apartment. You should have seen it! Man, next time I'll snap a picture. Brutal." Stan 2 lied as he walked into the prep area. Peter ignored his excuse and rolled his eyes. A short, slightly chubby girl with red hair who was working the grill, approached Stan 2 from inside the kitchen. "Hi Stan, How - how are you?" she asked him. Before Stan could answer, she was looking down at her own shoes and fiddling with her fingers. "Hey Mandy. I'm late and in a hurry," Stan yelled as he rushed into the kitchen, completely ignoring a Caution: Wet Floor display. "Stan! Be careful, the floor is -" Before she could finish her sentence, Stan slipped on the wet floor and tumbled forward, towards grill. He stretched his right arm out to break his fall and caught his hand smack in the middle of the grill, smashing half of a burger patty. "Son of a bitch!" Stan 2 yelled. Pain overtook him. _______________ Stan 2 slammed the apartment door shut behind himself. Startled awake from his nap, Stan 1 glared at him in disappointment. "What the hell are you doing back? You just left." Stan 1 asked. "We have a problem. There was an accident," Stan 2 replied as he held up his burnt hand. "What the fuck did you do? How could you possibly hurt yourself in only twenty minutes?" "I slipped and burnt my hand on the grill. It wasn't my fault. I didn't know the floor was wet. There was no warning sign." Stan 1 got up from the couch to inspect his clone's hand. He then sighed. "Well, I guess you know what this means," Stan 1 said. "Yes. Yes I do. We have to burn your hand." "What the fuck? Are you crazy? Hell no. This means that you have to continue working everyday until your hand is healed." "Are you fucking kidding me? No way! I am hurt. I can't work tomorrow, that's why I came home now." "So you expect me to burn my hand instead? Because of your mistake?" "Hey now, you were the one that said we had to take turns working. Remember? I am just following orders." "Fuck," Stan 1 screamed as he collapsed back on the couch. Stan 2 joined him after grabbing a bag of ice. They sat in silence for a few minutes. "That Mandy chick. She is definitely interested," Stan 2 said while he caressed his burnt hand with his ice pack. "Yeah, I know. She is into me," Stan 1 replied. "Into you? No, no. She likes me. I was the one there today." "You idiot. You are me. She likes me. You can't have her. She is mine." "That is not fucking fair! If you want to share work, then you have to share ALL aspects of work, including Mandy." Stan 2 sat with a smug smile on his face. Stan 1 cursed and slammed his fist on the arm rest of the couch. "This. This is not working. You know what? I think I hate you," Stan 1 admitted. "I hate you too, buddy." Stan 2 said as he gave him a shit eating grin. "You are a miserable, lazy, and selfish person. The biggest mistake of my life was creating you." "Nice way to insult yourself, dick bag. I came from your DNA." Stan 2 took the ice pack and threw it across the room. It hit the wall and landed on the messy floor. "Well, what are we going to do about this? I can't continue living with you." Stan 1 asked in desperation. He had to get rid of his clone. "I am going to move back home. Ride off of the parents for a while." "No way. If anyone is going home for a free ride it is going to be me!" Stan 1 could not take it anymore. He jumped up. Stan 2 jumped up at the same time. They were at each other's throats. Before they could start beating on each other, a flash of light and a loud rumble errupted from the bedroom. They both stopped in their tracks and stared at each other in disbelief. Dread smothered both of them. "Did you turn the machine on?" Stan 1 asked, praying for the correct answer. "No! I saw that the light was on, so I turned the machine off. I figured that you accidentally left in on after I materialized," Stan 2 replied. "You idiot! The light is on when the machine is off! You turned the machine on!" "Who the fuck builds a machine ass backwards like that. Are you fucking -" Before Stan 2 could finish his sentence, an exact replica of them emerged, fully nude, from the bedroom. Stan 3 walked into the living room area and smiled. "Hey guys! So, when is it my turn with this Mandy chick?"

Bergamot Butters is a

"I don't get paid enough to do this," I grumbled, as my boss waved his wand, transforming me from a pony back into a normal human. _________________ My name is Bergamot Butters, and I am a magic bug tester. When I was still an ordinary software developer, I chanced upon something amazing. Something that would change my life. It was an advertisement for a magical job, asking for non-magic software developers like me. It paid well and offered me the chance to be around magic. Magic was something I always loved to imagine as a child, and now the opportunity was in front of me. I took it, and now I help create and debug magic spells for a living. I will learn the secrets of how magic works, and someday, become a full-fledged magician myself. I am a magic developer. Except... it wasn't quite the magic I expected. It really felt like just another software job, except that a typo could spell terror in the real world. Missed a semicolon? Whoops, your car just grew legs and is now eating people. Forgot that 'if' statement? You can kiss your fingers goodbye. Good luck figuring out how to reverse that spell when you can't even hold your wand anymore. Which is why I have a magician watching over me. Really, he's more like my boss. And the ideas guy. And the CEO. Long story short, he hired me to code his spells and all. I work from an enchanted iMagic, using mCode (m for magic, not muggle), and compile spell builds into a plastic test wand. Almost like in my old job. Most of my bugs nowadays are (thankfully) minor, thanks to my old work experience. Years of causing bugs in the digital world has hardened me to the typical pitfalls of programming, and after the initial embarrassments when I started, I think I've got the hang of it. My boss still won't let me off on that time I turned myself into a sexy buxom blonde, but maybe it's good to be reminded of what could happen. Today I found myself working on this tough spell. It was a rather tricky one, involving various transformation modes and voice recognition algorithms. Transformations were rather garden-variety, and nothing new in the magic world, but combining it with the latter was rather tricky. The idea was that for the next 24 hours, you could transform yourself into whatever you wanted without the use of the wand. As a human, you triggered it by snapping your fingers and calling out the name of the animal, and thinking "There's no form like human" when you were in animal form. You can quickly see how things can go very wrong here. Too many question marks here. How many animals are we going to allow people to transform into? I would have to manually code in every animal, and what a pain that would be. What happens when you're an animal when the 24 hours runs out? When you transform back, would you be naked? Most low-level transformation spells didn't bring back clothes, and clothes were a pain to code in because they would have to be tailor-made to the caster. What if the animal had no capacity to think, or caused the caster to lose focus? I would have to make some way for the caster to retain some level of higher thinking, making it a partial transformation at best. After a full day's plugging away, I finally beheld my code. A few hundred lines of basic functionality, coupled with all the framework needed to expand further, but I think I've done it. Voice functionality is up, and I should be able to transform back. I hit 'Compile' and leaned back into my armchair. After a few moments, the wand vibrated, signaling that the compilation was complete. I wielded the wand, feeling that familiar warmth within. "Boss!" I shouted across the hallway. "I'm gonna run a test now, wanna see it?" "Okay! Coming over!" my boss shouted back. He sauntered over from the room across the hallway and entered mine. Standing at about 5' 6", I would easily stand shoulders above him if I weren't seated. But make no mistake: He's a seasoned magic veteran, best of breed from the Oxford magical initiative, and was the first magic consultant from the Third Afghanistan War. He was the one who came up with all the creative uses for magic to win wars. People think that tactics win wars. This guy showed that logistics wins wars. Even military geniuses don't stand a chance when they're fighting armies with the ability to teleport their supplies from home right into the battle. This guy basically removed the need for a supply chain. "So what are you waiting for?" he beckoned, raising an eyebrow like he always did. "Let's see it." I pointed the wand at myself and uttered the trigger phrase "Cast Transform 2.0!" ...what? You expected something in Latin? It's an early build, alright? I felt a tingling, and then nothing. Maybe it did nothing? "Okay, let's give it a try." I replied. "Dog!" I felt my head get squeezed, as if something was forcing my body through a straw. Finally, when I opened my eyes, I saw paws sticking out of my sleeves. Looking up, I saw my boss, gleaming merrily. "Nice!" my boss exclaimed. "Did you make a way to transform yourself back?" I nodded my head and wagged my tail excitedly. "Okay, let's see it then." I voiced the words in my head, trying hard to silence the doggy part of my brain. "There's... no form like... human." The head squeeze feeling again, and I was sitting on the chair in front of my boss. Thankfully, my clothes survived the transformation and saved me the embarrassment of being naked in front of my boss. "Awesome!" my boss clapped excitedly. "We'll show those pigs at Facetome-" Oh no. The head squeeze again. When I came to, I looked down and saw -yup, you guessed it. Trotters. "-oh." my boss lowered his head. "We've got work to do." ______________________ This was fun. 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