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	[WP] Time travel exists, and a new form of capital punishment is introduced: Transporting the convict back to the worst, practically unsurvivable, places in human history to find yourself in. You are such a convict, and just got sent back. You will do anything to try and survive.	Eleven years alone in a room will do things to a person that little else will. From time to time, I heard the men in the other cells talking to themselves, to imaginary companions, proclaiming their innocence to anyone who would listen, and attempting to cheat the executioner of his task and failing. That was the one rule-- you did not get to take yourself out of the game. They did it, and they did it when they were ready. I assumed legal arguments, bureaucracy and the like were at work in some way, but it could just as easily be an engineered part of the experience. That was the worst part- not the imprisonment, not the death, the worst thing was our force-fed ignorance. Maybe that was just me. You know what eleven years alone in a room will do to a person? It kills everything good in them, and leaves nothing but what they are at their core. Time erodes you and leaves your psychological frame bare to the elements. You loved music, your children, or your farm? Not anymore. What is love or kindness in the face of isolation and death? A memory, not a reality. If you want to know what makes a person tick, lock them up for a decade and they'll gladly enlighten you. For the guy next door, that meant accessing romance novels on his Book and masturbating furiously at every opportunity. He was fond of informing the neighborhood of the details. The guy above me tried to steal an election from the folks who had rightfully purchased it. He talked a lot about justice, right and wrong that first year. By the second year, all he wanted was some goddamn nachos. Every minute of every day, it was nachos, right up till the moment they sent him. Some grim moment in history was graced by a once-idealistic middle aged man, who doubtlessly shrieked for nachos and then died without a shred of dignity. Proof the system works. What remained in my case was the animal desire to live. I had that. I also had my Book. The Books were censored heavily. Nothing current, nothing relevant, and no way to communicate with the outside world. But survival did not require communication. It required only a plan. So I planned. History books were plentiful, and I read them all. I read the balanced ones, the political diatribes, even the historical fictions. I read about the Dark Ages, the Crusades, all the wars, and the Final Fall. I made notes in my head, reviewed them, and recited whole chapters from memory. If I had the time and inclination, I could transcribe here the entirety of four books about the effects of the Black Plague on southwestern London. More importantly, I could describe ways of fabricating antibiotics and find a way to Poland without a map from anywhere in Europe. You didn't know the Plague spared Poland almost entirely? I knew. I picked up a bit of conversational Polish, just in case. That would have been an easy one. I'd always assumed they'd let us know what was happening. Maybe we'd get last rites or a pat on the back, who knew what I was expecting. What actually happened was that one evening (or day, the lights were never off), I fell asleep on my bedroll, and awoke to an air raid siren blowing an "all clear" signal. I was laying on a hospital bed, with a confused doctor standing over me. His clipboard bore Japanese characters. Knowing I'd have trouble passing as a Japanese man, I stood, shook the doctor's hand, and said "Danke". I'd have questioned him further, but my location was pretty obvious. If you wanted to kill a person, there are few better places and times to leave them than 7:09 AM, August 6, 1945 in the Shima Surgical clinic in Hiroshima, Japan. The place was humble and not terribly memorable, which is probably why it came to be known to history as Ground Zero. The doctor had questions, but the "all clear" siren meant I had 66 minutes to locate a church in a land that did not trust foreigners. Hiroshima did not look like a city at war. It was pleasant, the sort of place I might have lingered in if not for the impending destruction and the inherent distrust of tall white gentlemen. I noticed that I had period clothes, and wondered if it was a time travel thing, or an attempt to give me a fair shot. I suspected the former, because I think they might have given me a watch otherwise. A woman stared at me as I stormed out of the clinic, clutching her daughter close. I must have looked deranged, and my question could not have helped much. "Where is the German church?" I asked, using the entirety of my Japanese vocabulary. She only stared, so I picked a direction and ran. A moment later, I put the same question to a shopkeeper. This one, though frightened, managed to point in the direction from which I had come. I turned and ran again, hoping my urgency wouldn't worry him enough to summon the police. Not long after I saw it, a humble Jesuit mission church attached to a private home. If the accounts I'd read were correct, the church would be destroyed, but some unknowable combination of factors would spare the house, and all inside it from both the blast and the subsequent fallout. The house was the only island in what would shortly become a sea of death. Knowing my fate would involve death at some particularly unpleasant point in history, I had learned to speak German as well as a person who had never heard a word of it could. I entered the church, and explained to the man there that a bombing was incoming, and that I knew because I was an American soldier who had knowledge of it. He smiled, nodded, and asked me to leave. 25 precious minutes later, I'd succeeded in frightening him enough to get him into the residence, where a small group of Jesuit missionaries gathered around a table and stared at me. One of them offered me tea. The wall clock said we had less than two minutes left when I heard the singing. The song was cheerful, and horrifying at the same time. Through the window, I saw a group of twenty or thirty children, led by a young woman, on their way to school, or some kind of outing. Two minutes meant no negotiating. I grabbed a knife from the Jesuit's counter and dashed outside with it. The last child in the group was a girl. her hair was an absolute mess but she smelled like mint. I remember that. Mint. I lifted her carefully, and placed the knife at her throat. I expected pandemonium, but nobody panicked. They stared at me, helpless. Someone shouted and ran for help. The young woman who was guiding the children gaped in horror as I indicated she should lead the children into the house, where the shocked Jesuits waited. She did this, but once inside, the missionaries mounted a counter-attack, and tried to escape. I held them off, and kept them inside the building. A hoe stood in the garden along the side of the house, and placed through the handle of the door, I was able to brace it against the building so it could not be opened. It was about then that I heard the plane overhead, and remembered my situation. It's funny how you forget everything sometimes. The last thing I thought was that maybe you can't kill everything good inside a person, after all.	The thing about Robert McKay was he was a tough son of a bitch. He survived three tours with the 33rd fusiliers, he watched New York burn from the air, and he had survived prison; being handy with a blade helped. “Prisoner 5-6-5-9-1,” A voice called out his name, he was a number, a meat suit. “Report for summary execution.” He chuckled at that, where else was he gonna go? Not alive out of this place that's for sure. He was marched down a narrow cobalt blue corridor and he was smiling like the happiest man on earth. He dwarfed the two screws that were walking him down to the Egg, Standing at a natural six foot six and weighing a heavily muscular seventeen stone he was a brick shit house and hell on wheels when he wanted to be. “So, Tommy, am I gonna get to choose?” Robert rasped, his rough northern accent creating a low rumble in the hallway. Tommy O'Malley was one of the few decent screws in the place. “Don't know mate,” Tommy said while looking up at Robert, “Depends on the judge, if you get a younger one they might send you somewhere useful, but if you get Stonemill, you're fucked.” Robert growled at the name. James Stonemill was not a man to be trifled with, and Robert had killed his son on the outside, work for an ex-soldier these days were scarce. “Well Tommy it was nice knowing you, either way.” Robert said stoically. They kept on for another ten minutes or so until they came to a sealed bulkhead that lead to the Egg. Biggest god damn door Robert had ever seen, some three feet thick and locked by way of hydraulics. For the first time in a long time, Robert let fear creep up his spine making him shiver, he hadn't felt that since the battle of New Orleans. “Well Robert, you're on your own here on out, good luck to you and godspeed.” Tommy said as he stuck his hand out. Robert shook it as best as he could with his hands shackled. The bulkhead hissed open and two white robbed executioners ushered him into the big circular room on the other side. He looked up at the judges bench, and sure as he was a walking corpse the judge was Stonemill. The two white robed men stood him in the centre of the room and stripped him down to the skin, they then took his shackles off, the Egg couldn't send anything dead back, so no weapons to give a con a fighting chance. “Mister McKay, I've been waiting for sometime now..” Stonemill started before Robert stopped him. “Shut the fuck up and get it over with you cunt. You're son was a cunt and paedophile and he deserved the bullet I fed him.” That shut Stonemill up right fast. That was why his fiend of a son was killed, he had raped a gangsters thirteen year old daughter, the gangster just happened to be Roberts former employer, he gave Robert the contract and Robert had turned down the big payday. He had been present for the birth of that girl, he had been her driver and body guard for thirteen years. He tracked and killed that fucking scumbag and his protection detail; twelve dead. A life sentence for each corpse and the death penalty. “I hereby order your immediate execution.” Stonemill said and flipped the switch. Robert woke up in a forest. His everything hurt, part of the process as he understood it required him to be nearly seared to medium rare and then he lands back in whatever period of history he got stuck with. He looked around to get his senses under control, he was shocked to see a dead deer some six feet away. Poor beasts head had come off, it was sitting inside the small charred circle of grass with an extremely surprised look on its face. “Well, at least I won't go hungry.” He said as he bent to find some stone he could gut the beast with when a large man with a crossbow stepped out from behind a tree. Robert stopped mid stoop and was dumbstruck. The fucker was wearing chain mail, and carrying a brutal looking axe and a heavy long knife. And then he opened his mouth and started spouting off in frog. “Fuck me, the cock sent me back to medieval frog land.” Robert said without thinking, which caused the frog to stomp towards him waving his cross bow. Which in the brief moment of hindsight he had, it was probably the worst decision he ever made. Fast as a snake Robert was on him and had the man's knife out of its sheathe and buried to the hilt in his skull. “You and the deer mate, shittiest luck in the history of shit luck.” Robert made quick work of stripping the frog of his clothes, a little tight across the shoulders but he could suffer through that and the leather pants were too short, ending at his calf but he found that the boots the man was wearing came up to his knee, and thankfully were his size. He gutted the deer and cut out some decent pieces of meat leaving the rest for whatever scavengers populated the forests of France and headed west, he figured he'd hit a road sooner or later. Luckily for Robert he was right he came within spitting distance of a road and found it swarming with marching men, who seemed to be in a hurry. But he heard them speaking English so that was a start he melted out of the trees and startled some archers by the look of them. “Who goes there!?” called a big burly bastard that had yard long arrow pointed at Roberts chest. “I go by the name of Robert McKay, I'm from York.” The bows went down and the burly bastard walked over. “And what in the name of the virgins cunt are you doing in the woods?” he barked, “I was hunting, got attacked by a couple of frogs doing the same, lost my bow in the fight.” Robert said, thinking fast on his feet and was dismayed when the archers roared with laughter at him. Wiping tears from his eyes the burly archer clapped a hand on Roberts shoulder. “Well you're a right silly cunt, losing your weapon because of some frogs. Me name is Bennett.” Turning to a young boy, he couldn't have been more than ten he said. “Jack run to Earl William, tell him I found a stray, he lost his bow to some frogs and is need of a replacement.” Jack bolted off down to the front of the column. “Fall in behind us and you'll get refitted, we need every damn stray we find where we're going.” “Wheres that?” Robert asked “Some fuckin hill called Crecy.” Bennett said over his shoulder. Robert remembered that name from history class when he was a lad. “Fuck me.” he said quietly as he was handed a sheaf of arrows and a bow taller than he was.
	[WP] Time travel exists, and a new form of capital punishment is introduced: Transporting the convict back to the worst, practically unsurvivable, places in human history to find yourself in. You are such a convict, and just got sent back. You will do anything to try and survive.	I could still the Judge's gavel banging and the words "Put to Death" in my ears as they strapped me down. I was lucky, they said, that I would have a chance to live, if I wanted it bad enough. What the fuck did that mean? I was the worst serial killer in history and they were giving me a chance to kill again? I didn't get a chance to ask the executioner what he meant before the threw the switch. The lights dimmed and the chair started to groan under my convulsions, and I blacked out. I thought I was dead and this was the afterlife, packed with sinners so tight I could barely move. When the light appeared in the wall I figured it was time to talk to the Big Guy. After I was pulled out and my eyes adjusted to the glare I saw what Hell was. It is nothing more than cattle cars, a long line of sad faced souls, demons in black screaming horrible things in some monsterous language, and smokestacks on the horizon vomiting noxious onxy plumes towards Heaven. edit: formatting and letters	I suppose I deserved it really, but why give me the choice? How could anyone make that kind of choice? Gallipoli or the Somme. Two of the worst battles in history. Bloodbaths of the highest degree. "WELP, if I'm gonna choose, I'll take Gallipoli, at least it will be sunny." I said to the executor, and he turned to punch it into the machine. The standard "any last requests or word to say" have long since gone, that bastard Washington cheated and became famous! He ruined everything for people like me... As the machine buzzed and whirred to life, I sat inside and remained calm. Nothing much to do about it but wait and receive punishment. A flash of light; a searing heat, then the roar of war erupts around me. I open my eyes, and begin to smile.
	[WP] Time travel exists, and a new form of capital punishment is introduced: Transporting the convict back to the worst, practically unsurvivable, places in human history to find yourself in. You are such a convict, and just got sent back. You will do anything to try and survive.	All my life I've been fond of cats. Small cats, big cats, their beauty always made me forgive their egoism, lazyness, and cruelty. I wish they were lazy this time. They probably haven't eaten for days, and the screaming of tens of thousands of people in the stands probably also won't inspire them to take a nap. Why didn't I pay more attention when Gladiator was on the 2D classic channel the other week? I don't think it had a humans for catlunch-segment however. Let's try to think clearly, I probably have about fifteen seconds for that. Maybe even longer, cats take their time when they feel they are in charge. I have to be calm and assertive. No wait, that's for dogs. What's the opposite of assertive? Crap, why is that huge Bengal tiger looking at me all crazy-eyed? The people around me seem to be panicking a lot more than I am. Should I try to cooperate or try to get them chewed to bits first? Or both? I need to win the emperor for me! And the crowds! Why don't I do what I do best? Where on earth are the Zig Pods? Oh crap, this is the 2nd century. Is my Wonker Gear still working though? One way to find out. Why are the other cat snacks looking at me all weird? As if they've ever seen anyone activate their Wonker Gear without taking off their clothes and standing on their head. "WONK 1! WONK 2! HOWDY DO!". And while I regret my own lack of foresight to pick a less silly non-changeable activation line, I shoot up 15 feet in the air. Here kitty kitty! How high do these majestic creatures even jump? "WONK FORWARD!". "WONK 13 DEGREES!". "Hello sir emperor boss, it's a bit of a long story, so it would help if you spoke English? Let me guess, no? Do I make you laugh? What are you saying? Wonk? Yes! Wonk! Wonk!" "WONK! WONK! WONK! WONK! WONK!" It's amazing how much noise fifty thousand men can make. I guess this is how it sounded when the Chuckster first used his gear when he scored all those touchdowns in Superbowl MMMXII. It's hard to not complain about the prohibition after such a natural high. Mental note: don't go broke within a year by spending all my Buckwinks on Geewabs. Wait a minute, these people don't have those yet. Hmmm, I think this might turn out to be not such a bad trip after all. "WONK 100 DEGREES!".	I suppose I deserved it really, but why give me the choice? How could anyone make that kind of choice? Gallipoli or the Somme. Two of the worst battles in history. Bloodbaths of the highest degree. "WELP, if I'm gonna choose, I'll take Gallipoli, at least it will be sunny." I said to the executor, and he turned to punch it into the machine. The standard "any last requests or word to say" have long since gone, that bastard Washington cheated and became famous! He ruined everything for people like me... As the machine buzzed and whirred to life, I sat inside and remained calm. Nothing much to do about it but wait and receive punishment. A flash of light; a searing heat, then the roar of war erupts around me. I open my eyes, and begin to smile.
	[WP] Time travel exists, and a new form of capital punishment is introduced: Transporting the convict back to the worst, practically unsurvivable, places in human history to find yourself in. You are such a convict, and just got sent back. You will do anything to try and survive.	I opened my eyes and found myself looking at the sky. I had heard Time Travel was painful but nothing was ever said about landing on a rock. I sat up, judging by my clothes and the small village near by I gathered I had been sent back sometime between 1600 and 1700. "Well then..." I said out loud. This was a place I could presumably...live in. I rubbed my head, it was throbbing. I was trying to think on what the pioneer equivalent to an ice pack would be when I heard the screaming. I stood up and looked towards the sounds, and saw flames erupting from a house hold I could barely see. I ran uphill hoping to find a cliff from where I could see what was happening. It was illegal to send someone to any time of real consequence; so whatever was happening couldn't be that bad. I found a cliff and almost screamed myself. Dozens of longboats unloading onto shore, Vikings. Of course. I was screwed. I could see white men and natives taking up arms, grabbing pistols and bows and whatever weaponry they had available. But I shook my head, I had never heard about a Viking attack in the US history books. That meant that survivors were going to be few and probably put into slavery. "Well shit." I said again out loud, to no one in particular. I had two options. Run into the forest and hope they don't go too far in mainland. Maybe I could find a nice tribe to settle with. Or two, go down there and meet my maker. I sighed watching the warriors start their raid of the small town. Giant looking men and women swinging their axes and huge swords. I crossed my arms, "I deserves this.", and went down to the village. I came down behind a large viking male attempting to break down what I assumed was the blacksmith's door. It was just a guess given that it was one of the better put together houses. I snuck up behind him and grasped the sword he had struck into the ground, I pulled with all my strength and ran the viking through as hard as I could. I had no idea if this blacksmith would be historically important, but I knew I just slew a viking, I almost took pride in that. I turned to face a woman, she wasn't wearing a helmet but she was clad in armor. Her blue eyes shined through the black line she had painted across her face. She spoke, "oda goocheck smewupption." I was no linguist by any sort of the definition but I assumed that was some form of ancient Norse. "I do not speak your language." I said with as much confident I could muster. I was a pretty tall guy, but not much with muscle. She on the other hand, was just about six feet and appeared to have never skipped a day at the gym. She was wielding an ax, and I must have been wielding a bullseye because she hurled that ax right at my chest. it struck hard right where she wanted it, sending me flying back a number of feet. The wind had been knocked out of me, I was swore, i could barely move...but I wasn't bleeding. I heard the viking woman approach and it sounded like she was laughing, but she stopped when she saw I wasn't dead. It took ALL of my strength to remove the ax from my chest. The tear in my shirt revealed the ax had stopped when it a piece of grey clothing someone had put on me. I tapped my finger on it, it felt like solid steel. But then how could I not feel it's weight? The viking woman lunged at me, picking me up by the collar of my shirt, but I was barely aware of that. Someone had put that... ax proof shirt on me, but why? And then it hit me: Someone wanted me to survive this!	I suppose I deserved it really, but why give me the choice? How could anyone make that kind of choice? Gallipoli or the Somme. Two of the worst battles in history. Bloodbaths of the highest degree. "WELP, if I'm gonna choose, I'll take Gallipoli, at least it will be sunny." I said to the executor, and he turned to punch it into the machine. The standard "any last requests or word to say" have long since gone, that bastard Washington cheated and became famous! He ruined everything for people like me... As the machine buzzed and whirred to life, I sat inside and remained calm. Nothing much to do about it but wait and receive punishment. A flash of light; a searing heat, then the roar of war erupts around me. I open my eyes, and begin to smile.
	[WP] Time travel exists, and a new form of capital punishment is introduced: Transporting the convict back to the worst, practically unsurvivable, places in human history to find yourself in. You are such a convict, and just got sent back. You will do anything to try and survive.	The light was blinding, a flash of brilliance compared to the dingy room I lay in moments ago. A flashing pain struck through my body. A mass gathered in my skull. Expanding, Growing. I can't take the pressure. I can't take the pressure anymore. My head. My head. Its going to... I'm going to... The pain is gone. Replaced with a foggy mask of land, growing clearer, closer by the second. Muffled cries and.... gunshots... sounds not heard in ages, melaneia. Everything was done before it started now. In the time I came from. Warheads wiping out lands to radioactive dust, obliterating everything. The land came up to meet me. I crumpled to the ground with a cry. The shock of what just happened reached me. Nothing would move. Nothing did move. A pure blackness surrounded my eyes, as I faded into nothingness. I moved from blackness to blackness, opening my eyes to a starless night. The sounds around still carried true. I sat up and looked around. A trench. A maze of trenches, laid out from end to end, navigating the warfront. A sprawl of men laid before me, puss oozing from every crevice of their rotting bodies. A cesspool. A bloodbath. I pulled one from the ground, looking less rotten then the rest, and stripped off green grey uniform. I tossed the body next to the rest of them, covering one with another. The smell of the fermenting flesh was overbearing. Gas. They were using gas. I had to get out. I had to get away quickly. I had to get away before I was afflicted... Hours. Hours. Hours. Hours. Hours. A light of day. My legs felt weak. They fell out from under me. The darkness consumed me again. The sun's heat blazed against me. I woke up. Mid day. The trenches still spanned from infinity to infinity. I walked on till I could no longer. I lay against the wall and accepted it. A graveyard of soldiers. Passing slowly. Closer and closer. I stood up, wavering. Body a barren wasteland. They spotted me and ran over, arms ready to strike at any false move. "Namen und Dienstgrad!" I stood, dazed, questioning. "Namen und Dienstgrad! Wer sind Sie!". Louder this time. More distain. More hate. More fear. My hands fell from my pockets, and raised to the sky. A clink, as something metalic fell out from where my hand just lay. A dogtag. A name sat within my pocket. An identity. A new being. An idea. Something clicked in my mind. I spoke. "Gefreiter, sechzehnten Regiment , Hitler, Adolf, Herr".	I suppose I deserved it really, but why give me the choice? How could anyone make that kind of choice? Gallipoli or the Somme. Two of the worst battles in history. Bloodbaths of the highest degree. "WELP, if I'm gonna choose, I'll take Gallipoli, at least it will be sunny." I said to the executor, and he turned to punch it into the machine. The standard "any last requests or word to say" have long since gone, that bastard Washington cheated and became famous! He ruined everything for people like me... As the machine buzzed and whirred to life, I sat inside and remained calm. Nothing much to do about it but wait and receive punishment. A flash of light; a searing heat, then the roar of war erupts around me. I open my eyes, and begin to smile.
	[WP] Time travel exists, and a new form of capital punishment is introduced: Transporting the convict back to the worst, practically unsurvivable, places in human history to find yourself in. You are such a convict, and just got sent back. You will do anything to try and survive.	After being a lurker for so long, this is my first response on /r/writingprompts. Be gentle and hope you like it. _________ They call it capital punishment, and I never really knew why. I mean, in the past they used guillotines, ropes, electric chairs and lethal injections. But this was totally different. Someone could argue those alternatives were more humane. At least as humane as sentencing another human being to death can be. This was not any of those. It was basically being sent into a gladiators' arena without an audience watching. Well, I should watch what I say, in case they really do send me back to a coliseum. As they strapped me in, it really dawned on me how unfair the whole thing was. I was walking down the street and just happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time. I know that's what most criminals say, but you can judge for yourself. It was a Sunday morning when I saw the little girl walking home along the park across the street. Cute little backpack humming some kind of 'pop' music. I had no clue what was 'in' or not since I didn't bother with that stuff. As she was walking around the corner of the block , I caught sight of a dog who was acting strangely and limping. In what was essentially a blink of an eye, the dog started attacking the little girl. Of course I couldn't just stand around and do nothing. I rushed as my tired legs could carry me and grabbed the largest rock I could find at the park. On my first swing, it hit the dog in the head and some red was showing, but I'm sure it just angered as it tore more violently at the little girl. By this point I was panicked, and so I quickly took a second swing. Unfortunately it hit the little girl in the leg and there was the sound of a small "crack". For whatever reason, the sound scared the dog and it ran off. Then I noticed the screaming and crying of the little girl. Torn little dress and the contents of her backpack spilt all over the sidewalk. It was probably the adrenaline but I didn't hear her until now. Before I knew it, two officers arrived and arrested me for sexually assaulting the little girl. I tried to explain, but like most people, ignored me. I guess I too would ignore me if I was in their shoes. I haven't showered in months and probably smelled real bad. Unshaven, with raggedy clothes I found at the dumpster behind those big box thrift stores. Why was the punishment so severe you may ask? I was being made the example of the new "Protect The Children" campaign the mayor was using to secure votes in the upcoming election. Poor girl, she was so traumatized and I heard she hasn't been able to talk to anybody since. I really hope she gets better. She deserves a good life. And so, it brings me to now. As the technician does the final checks, she drops an envelope in my lap and I feel a giant jolt through my body. I guess it was more similar to the electric chair than I thought. After I get a little more oriented, I decide to open the envelope. Inside I find a note and as I unravel it, a fountain pen drops out. The note read: Hi, You don't know who I am, but I am the mother of the little girl you saved. She wasn't able to talk to anyone for the first week, but later on, she was able to tell me the events of what happened. You sir, are truly a hero and I am infinitely thankful. You may wonder why I have said nothing if I knew the truth. And to be honest I really did consider doing that. But I really did want to thank you, and so I've included my great grandfather's fountain pen. He got this from someone he too saved when he was young. My grandfather told me that if my great grandfather or anyone he gave the pen were to return the pen to the owner, he would give him half his estate as his thanks. My great grandfather was said to not seek any compensation since it was his duty as a fellow human being. So I have sent you back in time 160 years to claim this gift. I hope this gives you a new start in life as you have given my daughter. Much love and forever grateful, The technician	I suppose I deserved it really, but why give me the choice? How could anyone make that kind of choice? Gallipoli or the Somme. Two of the worst battles in history. Bloodbaths of the highest degree. "WELP, if I'm gonna choose, I'll take Gallipoli, at least it will be sunny." I said to the executor, and he turned to punch it into the machine. The standard "any last requests or word to say" have long since gone, that bastard Washington cheated and became famous! He ruined everything for people like me... As the machine buzzed and whirred to life, I sat inside and remained calm. Nothing much to do about it but wait and receive punishment. A flash of light; a searing heat, then the roar of war erupts around me. I open my eyes, and begin to smile.
	[WP] Time travel exists, and a new form of capital punishment is introduced: Transporting the convict back to the worst, practically unsurvivable, places in human history to find yourself in. You are such a convict, and just got sent back. You will do anything to try and survive.	"Do you have any last words?" asked my executioner. I couldn't see his face: the machine was callibrated to transport as little matter as possible, and I was restrained by iron bands to keep me within the boundaries of the time machine. "Yeah - don't I get a say in where you're sending me?" "We do that for lesser offenders, on occasion. But that privilege does not apply to you. Nor will you know where you will be sent," he added. "No fewer than three centuries in the past, that much you no doubt know. But where we will send you is irrelevant. The ghettos of Warsaw, the caldera of Mount St. Helens, the siege of London, the Oubliette of Manhatten... it is of no matter." "Not particularly fair, trying to get around the moratorium on executions by using time travel." "Oh?" said the voice, growing harsh. "Neither was the murder of Mercedes LaFontaine. She was the greatest—" "Whatever," I said over him. "Just get it over with." There was a flash of light, and --- then I was in a... department store? It had been years since they even existed; the last time I'd been in one was when my mother sent me and my father down to buy a new fridge. I was surrounded by sofas and large red signs with blocky script. Japanese hiragana, maybe. I went for the door. If I remembered correctly, most governments sent their prisoners on death row back around twenty minutes before their death was assured. No guarantee that the government that had arrested me would do that, or even a guarantee that I'd been arrested by a government at all, but I'd work with the assumption that I had twenty minutes to live. There was only one cashiere, an elderly Japanese woman reading a stack of papers printed in black and white. She folded one of the pages over, and I caught a glimpse of the picture on the front: a mushroom cloud. Shit. I still had my implants from before the assassination: a neural modification allowing hibernation for a set period of time, with no particular requirement for food or oxygen (perfect for masquerading as a mannequin in an antique suit of armour until the date you know that a certain woman will be giving a speech to a large crowd around two feet in front of you, with a positronic disruptor stuffed on one of the gauntlets). That wouldn't do me much good if my atoms were torn apart by nuclear fury, but it was a start. I ran back into the store, searching for the right department. Outside, an alarm went off, and the sound of it chilled my bones. I didn't recognize the precise sound, but the meaning of the insistent wail was hard to miss: I was running out of time. At last, my whole body shaking from adrealine, I found it: a full-size refrigerator, freezer located on the top. With some effort, I hauled it off the shelf and dropped it to the floor, door facing up. The resonating boom was barely audible over the sound of pandemonium outside. There was no time to check if it was lined with lead or another heavy metal, no time to pad myself with styrofoam, no time to prepare at all. But if I was lucky, and survived the blast, then I was safe. I set the time of my hibernation to a week, and shut myself in. Maybe, with a little luck, I would survive long enough to return to my own time, and finish the job I started.	I suppose I deserved it really, but why give me the choice? How could anyone make that kind of choice? Gallipoli or the Somme. Two of the worst battles in history. Bloodbaths of the highest degree. "WELP, if I'm gonna choose, I'll take Gallipoli, at least it will be sunny." I said to the executor, and he turned to punch it into the machine. The standard "any last requests or word to say" have long since gone, that bastard Washington cheated and became famous! He ruined everything for people like me... As the machine buzzed and whirred to life, I sat inside and remained calm. Nothing much to do about it but wait and receive punishment. A flash of light; a searing heat, then the roar of war erupts around me. I open my eyes, and begin to smile.
	[WP] Time travel exists, and a new form of capital punishment is introduced: Transporting the convict back to the worst, practically unsurvivable, places in human history to find yourself in. You are such a convict, and just got sent back. You will do anything to try and survive.	I landed in a quaint town, next to a smoky mountain. Of course, there was no point running. I had watched documentaries on this procedure on the Aliens Channel, and they always picked times with fast travel and events with a large span of effect or controlled by a homicidal maniac who is guaranteed to murder you. I looked around. There were a couple of people dressed in a prisoner's garb similar to mine looking around quizzically. Hm. This was probably a popular destination for capital punishment. I saw a street sign, it looked like Latin. I had begun to get an idea of where I was..... Then another sign; from the picture it seemed like a warning about the smoky mountain. And on the top, it said something about "Omnes Cives Pompeii". Oh. I was sure of it now. This Roman town was the doomed Pompeii, and that mountain, Vesuvius. But wait. Where were all the people? The shops were all closed. The streets had empty carriages on them. It looks like the people of the city just ... left. Perhaps the tragedy had already happened? No, I was certain this town was buried with its inhabitants in it. This was strange; I could distinctly recall disturbing images of the ash remains of people cringing from Vesuvius' regurgitations. More prisoners popped up around me. The horrifying truth struck me. No _Roman_ was killed at Pompeii.	I suppose I deserved it really, but why give me the choice? How could anyone make that kind of choice? Gallipoli or the Somme. Two of the worst battles in history. Bloodbaths of the highest degree. "WELP, if I'm gonna choose, I'll take Gallipoli, at least it will be sunny." I said to the executor, and he turned to punch it into the machine. The standard "any last requests or word to say" have long since gone, that bastard Washington cheated and became famous! He ruined everything for people like me... As the machine buzzed and whirred to life, I sat inside and remained calm. Nothing much to do about it but wait and receive punishment. A flash of light; a searing heat, then the roar of war erupts around me. I open my eyes, and begin to smile.
	[WP] Time travel exists, and a new form of capital punishment is introduced: Transporting the convict back to the worst, practically unsurvivable, places in human history to find yourself in. You are such a convict, and just got sent back. You will do anything to try and survive.	As a historian and a literature buff, I could appreciate the irony of being one of the few people able to both describe a dystopian future (a concept much ignored by modern "teaching") and to pinpoint the moment in which society took a turn down that forbidden valley. Time travel had been a boon to society at first. It would take a scientist to explain why paradoxes are an impossibility, but needless to say all sorts of new technologies and trade opportunities propped up almost overnight. Were you suffering from an incurable illness? Pop into 100 000 AD and check if it had been cured (it had. All diseases were by 40 000 AD). Did you want to try original Roman cuisine? If you played your cards right, you might even dine with Caesar himself! There were limitations, of course. Paradoxes couldn't be created, which meant that any actions that would create one just... didn't happen. One of the first government-sanctioned time travel missions was, as one would expect, a commando team sent to kill Hitler. They spared no expense, weapon, item or trinket and yet they failed every time. Twenty-two doves flew right across the path of twenty-two sniper bullets at the worst possible time. Two bombs blew up minutes after the Fuhrer had vacated the premises. Poisoned darts failed to inject their venom and even poetic justice-inspired toxic gases were diffused by unfortunate winds. Despite the limitations, it was as close to Utopia as mankind had ever been. Trans-temporal scientific collaboration increased our research output to dizzying levels. True communism sprang out all over the world, as limited resources were a thing of the past. The only limit to our power was our personal ambition. This is why I had always been seen as a bit of an oddity. In a world of genetically enhanced super-athletes, models and geniuses, I was merely a historian and a book lover. Certainly, I had an optic nerve implant that allowed me to read at previously inhuman speeds, a language converter and a dexterity modification that allowed me to write as fast as I could formulate the thoughts themselves. But I had passed on some of the more popular muscle growers or the ever-enjoyable orgasmic trigger. Mine is a hedonistic society, and so unpleasant tasks are relegated to machines. Policing had become one of such robotic fields. When the "Future Transgressions" law had been enacted, no one batted an eyelash. After all, if one could prevent law violations before they happened (and given that, if preventable, it meant that the resulting actions were non-paradoxical), why not save every victim their pain? It was rather disconcerting then, when a police officer let himself into my apartment and woke me from sleep. "I am sorry Sir, but you will have to come with me. You have been convicted of future attempts to destabilize society and create mayhem. I must warn you I am trans-temporally linked to myself in the future, any attempts at escaping will be foiled" Of course, I still tried. I failed. It turned out that my Treatise on Dystopia, a scholarly work that went mostly unnoticed by my peers, was at the core of a future revolution. I would, allegedly, become a martyr of the cause and the government could not let me become one. So I was to be removed. Robots were, of course, created with certain hard-coded laws they must respect. They cannot willingly harm a human being, unless actively protecting the well-being of another human. This meant they could neither execute me nor lock me up forever (which their silicon brains had long since established was a form of torture). What we should have expected was that they would find a way around their limitations. Time travel. That was the answer to all of our modern concerns. I was to be sent back to a barely historical time, in the middle of a mostly deserted land. I would be sent to die, but the machines would not be pulling the proverbial trigger. Somehow this got around their coded limitations. What bullshit. -------------------------------------------------------------------- I woke up on the ground, to the sound of hooves and laughter. A small group of men, no more than ten of them, approached me. They had all the swagger of successful athletes, but carried contraptions that resembled the drawings of bows and arrows I had seen in one of my textbooks. How primitive. My language chip kicked into action and translated their words into clear, modern English. "Who goes there, dressed as a Chin whore?" asked the biggest of them. I couldn't answer, the whole situation rendered me speechless "Have you got no tongue? Perhaps that is to pleasure your fellow men better!" quipped the man, much to the amusement of his group. His face reminded me of someone I had read about. With little to lose, I decided to name drop. "I am here to see Genghis Khan. It is crucial that I talk to him" My lips moved in unusual ways, even if the voice I heard spoke in plain English "Great Khan? Am I not great enough for you? There is no greater Khan than I, you fool!" I had miscalculated, it was earlier than I thought, but my knowledge of the time was limited at best. The man nodded to one of his lackeys, who raised his bow. With a flourish, he nocked a bow and fired it at my chest. My dexterous fingers were able to grab the shaft from mid-air, but I was no hyper-enhanced athlete. If three of them shot at once, I would've been in dire straits to grab the third arrow. It was just a matter of time. Much to my surprise, the whole party dismounted. They looked at me with expressions I could not decipher. It wasn't until the tall man bowed that I understood their intentions. After all, they had never seen an enhanced human, even one as pathetically enhanced as myself. They named me "The Great One", or Genghis in their tongue. Given our first meeting, I think it was a joke by Subutai, but the others took it seriously. My accuracy with the bow, an unexpected side-effect, was worshipped by these war-like men. I climbed their societal rungs quickly, and truly became their greatest Khan. It was my turn to rule, and I was ready to shake-up the world and mold it to my semblance. I would leave a mark that even the Police of my time would find hard to ignore.	I suppose I deserved it really, but why give me the choice? How could anyone make that kind of choice? Gallipoli or the Somme. Two of the worst battles in history. Bloodbaths of the highest degree. "WELP, if I'm gonna choose, I'll take Gallipoli, at least it will be sunny." I said to the executor, and he turned to punch it into the machine. The standard "any last requests or word to say" have long since gone, that bastard Washington cheated and became famous! He ruined everything for people like me... As the machine buzzed and whirred to life, I sat inside and remained calm. Nothing much to do about it but wait and receive punishment. A flash of light; a searing heat, then the roar of war erupts around me. I open my eyes, and begin to smile.
	[WP] Time travel exists, and a new form of capital punishment is introduced: Transporting the convict back to the worst, practically unsurvivable, places in human history to find yourself in. You are such a convict, and just got sent back. You will do anything to try and survive.	All my life I've been fond of cats. Small cats, big cats, their beauty always made me forgive their egoism, lazyness, and cruelty. I wish they were lazy this time. They probably haven't eaten for days, and the screaming of tens of thousands of people in the stands probably also won't inspire them to take a nap. Why didn't I pay more attention when Gladiator was on the 2D classic channel the other week? I don't think it had a humans for catlunch-segment however. Let's try to think clearly, I probably have about fifteen seconds for that. Maybe even longer, cats take their time when they feel they are in charge. I have to be calm and assertive. No wait, that's for dogs. What's the opposite of assertive? Crap, why is that huge Bengal tiger looking at me all crazy-eyed? The people around me seem to be panicking a lot more than I am. Should I try to cooperate or try to get them chewed to bits first? Or both? I need to win the emperor for me! And the crowds! Why don't I do what I do best? Where on earth are the Zig Pods? Oh crap, this is the 2nd century. Is my Wonker Gear still working though? One way to find out. Why are the other cat snacks looking at me all weird? As if they've ever seen anyone activate their Wonker Gear without taking off their clothes and standing on their head. "WONK 1! WONK 2! HOWDY DO!". And while I regret my own lack of foresight to pick a less silly non-changeable activation line, I shoot up 15 feet in the air. Here kitty kitty! How high do these majestic creatures even jump? "WONK FORWARD!". "WONK 13 DEGREES!". "Hello sir emperor boss, it's a bit of a long story, so it would help if you spoke English? Let me guess, no? Do I make you laugh? What are you saying? Wonk? Yes! Wonk! Wonk!" "WONK! WONK! WONK! WONK! WONK!" It's amazing how much noise fifty thousand men can make. I guess this is how it sounded when the Chuckster first used his gear when he scored all those touchdowns in Superbowl MMMXII. It's hard to not complain about the prohibition after such a natural high. Mental note: don't go broke within a year by spending all my Buckwinks on Geewabs. Wait a minute, these people don't have those yet. Hmmm, I think this might turn out to be not such a bad trip after all. "WONK 100 DEGREES!".	I could still the Judge's gavel banging and the words "Put to Death" in my ears as they strapped me down. I was lucky, they said, that I would have a chance to live, if I wanted it bad enough. What the fuck did that mean? I was the worst serial killer in history and they were giving me a chance to kill again? I didn't get a chance to ask the executioner what he meant before the threw the switch. The lights dimmed and the chair started to groan under my convulsions, and I blacked out. I thought I was dead and this was the afterlife, packed with sinners so tight I could barely move. When the light appeared in the wall I figured it was time to talk to the Big Guy. After I was pulled out and my eyes adjusted to the glare I saw what Hell was. It is nothing more than cattle cars, a long line of sad faced souls, demons in black screaming horrible things in some monsterous language, and smokestacks on the horizon vomiting noxious onxy plumes towards Heaven. edit: formatting and letters
	[WP] Time travel exists, and a new form of capital punishment is introduced: Transporting the convict back to the worst, practically unsurvivable, places in human history to find yourself in. You are such a convict, and just got sent back. You will do anything to try and survive.	I opened my eyes and found myself looking at the sky. I had heard Time Travel was painful but nothing was ever said about landing on a rock. I sat up, judging by my clothes and the small village near by I gathered I had been sent back sometime between 1600 and 1700. "Well then..." I said out loud. This was a place I could presumably...live in. I rubbed my head, it was throbbing. I was trying to think on what the pioneer equivalent to an ice pack would be when I heard the screaming. I stood up and looked towards the sounds, and saw flames erupting from a house hold I could barely see. I ran uphill hoping to find a cliff from where I could see what was happening. It was illegal to send someone to any time of real consequence; so whatever was happening couldn't be that bad. I found a cliff and almost screamed myself. Dozens of longboats unloading onto shore, Vikings. Of course. I was screwed. I could see white men and natives taking up arms, grabbing pistols and bows and whatever weaponry they had available. But I shook my head, I had never heard about a Viking attack in the US history books. That meant that survivors were going to be few and probably put into slavery. "Well shit." I said again out loud, to no one in particular. I had two options. Run into the forest and hope they don't go too far in mainland. Maybe I could find a nice tribe to settle with. Or two, go down there and meet my maker. I sighed watching the warriors start their raid of the small town. Giant looking men and women swinging their axes and huge swords. I crossed my arms, "I deserves this.", and went down to the village. I came down behind a large viking male attempting to break down what I assumed was the blacksmith's door. It was just a guess given that it was one of the better put together houses. I snuck up behind him and grasped the sword he had struck into the ground, I pulled with all my strength and ran the viking through as hard as I could. I had no idea if this blacksmith would be historically important, but I knew I just slew a viking, I almost took pride in that. I turned to face a woman, she wasn't wearing a helmet but she was clad in armor. Her blue eyes shined through the black line she had painted across her face. She spoke, "oda goocheck smewupption." I was no linguist by any sort of the definition but I assumed that was some form of ancient Norse. "I do not speak your language." I said with as much confident I could muster. I was a pretty tall guy, but not much with muscle. She on the other hand, was just about six feet and appeared to have never skipped a day at the gym. She was wielding an ax, and I must have been wielding a bullseye because she hurled that ax right at my chest. it struck hard right where she wanted it, sending me flying back a number of feet. The wind had been knocked out of me, I was swore, i could barely move...but I wasn't bleeding. I heard the viking woman approach and it sounded like she was laughing, but she stopped when she saw I wasn't dead. It took ALL of my strength to remove the ax from my chest. The tear in my shirt revealed the ax had stopped when it a piece of grey clothing someone had put on me. I tapped my finger on it, it felt like solid steel. But then how could I not feel it's weight? The viking woman lunged at me, picking me up by the collar of my shirt, but I was barely aware of that. Someone had put that... ax proof shirt on me, but why? And then it hit me: Someone wanted me to survive this!	I could still the Judge's gavel banging and the words "Put to Death" in my ears as they strapped me down. I was lucky, they said, that I would have a chance to live, if I wanted it bad enough. What the fuck did that mean? I was the worst serial killer in history and they were giving me a chance to kill again? I didn't get a chance to ask the executioner what he meant before the threw the switch. The lights dimmed and the chair started to groan under my convulsions, and I blacked out. I thought I was dead and this was the afterlife, packed with sinners so tight I could barely move. When the light appeared in the wall I figured it was time to talk to the Big Guy. After I was pulled out and my eyes adjusted to the glare I saw what Hell was. It is nothing more than cattle cars, a long line of sad faced souls, demons in black screaming horrible things in some monsterous language, and smokestacks on the horizon vomiting noxious onxy plumes towards Heaven. edit: formatting and letters
	[WP] Time travel exists, and a new form of capital punishment is introduced: Transporting the convict back to the worst, practically unsurvivable, places in human history to find yourself in. You are such a convict, and just got sent back. You will do anything to try and survive.	The light was blinding, a flash of brilliance compared to the dingy room I lay in moments ago. A flashing pain struck through my body. A mass gathered in my skull. Expanding, Growing. I can't take the pressure. I can't take the pressure anymore. My head. My head. Its going to... I'm going to... The pain is gone. Replaced with a foggy mask of land, growing clearer, closer by the second. Muffled cries and.... gunshots... sounds not heard in ages, melaneia. Everything was done before it started now. In the time I came from. Warheads wiping out lands to radioactive dust, obliterating everything. The land came up to meet me. I crumpled to the ground with a cry. The shock of what just happened reached me. Nothing would move. Nothing did move. A pure blackness surrounded my eyes, as I faded into nothingness. I moved from blackness to blackness, opening my eyes to a starless night. The sounds around still carried true. I sat up and looked around. A trench. A maze of trenches, laid out from end to end, navigating the warfront. A sprawl of men laid before me, puss oozing from every crevice of their rotting bodies. A cesspool. A bloodbath. I pulled one from the ground, looking less rotten then the rest, and stripped off green grey uniform. I tossed the body next to the rest of them, covering one with another. The smell of the fermenting flesh was overbearing. Gas. They were using gas. I had to get out. I had to get away quickly. I had to get away before I was afflicted... Hours. Hours. Hours. Hours. Hours. A light of day. My legs felt weak. They fell out from under me. The darkness consumed me again. The sun's heat blazed against me. I woke up. Mid day. The trenches still spanned from infinity to infinity. I walked on till I could no longer. I lay against the wall and accepted it. A graveyard of soldiers. Passing slowly. Closer and closer. I stood up, wavering. Body a barren wasteland. They spotted me and ran over, arms ready to strike at any false move. "Namen und Dienstgrad!" I stood, dazed, questioning. "Namen und Dienstgrad! Wer sind Sie!". Louder this time. More distain. More hate. More fear. My hands fell from my pockets, and raised to the sky. A clink, as something metalic fell out from where my hand just lay. A dogtag. A name sat within my pocket. An identity. A new being. An idea. Something clicked in my mind. I spoke. "Gefreiter, sechzehnten Regiment , Hitler, Adolf, Herr".	I could still the Judge's gavel banging and the words "Put to Death" in my ears as they strapped me down. I was lucky, they said, that I would have a chance to live, if I wanted it bad enough. What the fuck did that mean? I was the worst serial killer in history and they were giving me a chance to kill again? I didn't get a chance to ask the executioner what he meant before the threw the switch. The lights dimmed and the chair started to groan under my convulsions, and I blacked out. I thought I was dead and this was the afterlife, packed with sinners so tight I could barely move. When the light appeared in the wall I figured it was time to talk to the Big Guy. After I was pulled out and my eyes adjusted to the glare I saw what Hell was. It is nothing more than cattle cars, a long line of sad faced souls, demons in black screaming horrible things in some monsterous language, and smokestacks on the horizon vomiting noxious onxy plumes towards Heaven. edit: formatting and letters
	[WP] Time travel exists, and a new form of capital punishment is introduced: Transporting the convict back to the worst, practically unsurvivable, places in human history to find yourself in. You are such a convict, and just got sent back. You will do anything to try and survive.	After being a lurker for so long, this is my first response on /r/writingprompts. Be gentle and hope you like it. _________ They call it capital punishment, and I never really knew why. I mean, in the past they used guillotines, ropes, electric chairs and lethal injections. But this was totally different. Someone could argue those alternatives were more humane. At least as humane as sentencing another human being to death can be. This was not any of those. It was basically being sent into a gladiators' arena without an audience watching. Well, I should watch what I say, in case they really do send me back to a coliseum. As they strapped me in, it really dawned on me how unfair the whole thing was. I was walking down the street and just happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time. I know that's what most criminals say, but you can judge for yourself. It was a Sunday morning when I saw the little girl walking home along the park across the street. Cute little backpack humming some kind of 'pop' music. I had no clue what was 'in' or not since I didn't bother with that stuff. As she was walking around the corner of the block , I caught sight of a dog who was acting strangely and limping. In what was essentially a blink of an eye, the dog started attacking the little girl. Of course I couldn't just stand around and do nothing. I rushed as my tired legs could carry me and grabbed the largest rock I could find at the park. On my first swing, it hit the dog in the head and some red was showing, but I'm sure it just angered as it tore more violently at the little girl. By this point I was panicked, and so I quickly took a second swing. Unfortunately it hit the little girl in the leg and there was the sound of a small "crack". For whatever reason, the sound scared the dog and it ran off. Then I noticed the screaming and crying of the little girl. Torn little dress and the contents of her backpack spilt all over the sidewalk. It was probably the adrenaline but I didn't hear her until now. Before I knew it, two officers arrived and arrested me for sexually assaulting the little girl. I tried to explain, but like most people, ignored me. I guess I too would ignore me if I was in their shoes. I haven't showered in months and probably smelled real bad. Unshaven, with raggedy clothes I found at the dumpster behind those big box thrift stores. Why was the punishment so severe you may ask? I was being made the example of the new "Protect The Children" campaign the mayor was using to secure votes in the upcoming election. Poor girl, she was so traumatized and I heard she hasn't been able to talk to anybody since. I really hope she gets better. She deserves a good life. And so, it brings me to now. As the technician does the final checks, she drops an envelope in my lap and I feel a giant jolt through my body. I guess it was more similar to the electric chair than I thought. After I get a little more oriented, I decide to open the envelope. Inside I find a note and as I unravel it, a fountain pen drops out. The note read: Hi, You don't know who I am, but I am the mother of the little girl you saved. She wasn't able to talk to anyone for the first week, but later on, she was able to tell me the events of what happened. You sir, are truly a hero and I am infinitely thankful. You may wonder why I have said nothing if I knew the truth. And to be honest I really did consider doing that. But I really did want to thank you, and so I've included my great grandfather's fountain pen. He got this from someone he too saved when he was young. My grandfather told me that if my great grandfather or anyone he gave the pen were to return the pen to the owner, he would give him half his estate as his thanks. My great grandfather was said to not seek any compensation since it was his duty as a fellow human being. So I have sent you back in time 160 years to claim this gift. I hope this gives you a new start in life as you have given my daughter. Much love and forever grateful, The technician	I could still the Judge's gavel banging and the words "Put to Death" in my ears as they strapped me down. I was lucky, they said, that I would have a chance to live, if I wanted it bad enough. What the fuck did that mean? I was the worst serial killer in history and they were giving me a chance to kill again? I didn't get a chance to ask the executioner what he meant before the threw the switch. The lights dimmed and the chair started to groan under my convulsions, and I blacked out. I thought I was dead and this was the afterlife, packed with sinners so tight I could barely move. When the light appeared in the wall I figured it was time to talk to the Big Guy. After I was pulled out and my eyes adjusted to the glare I saw what Hell was. It is nothing more than cattle cars, a long line of sad faced souls, demons in black screaming horrible things in some monsterous language, and smokestacks on the horizon vomiting noxious onxy plumes towards Heaven. edit: formatting and letters
	[WP] Time travel exists, and a new form of capital punishment is introduced: Transporting the convict back to the worst, practically unsurvivable, places in human history to find yourself in. You are such a convict, and just got sent back. You will do anything to try and survive.	I landed in a quaint town, next to a smoky mountain. Of course, there was no point running. I had watched documentaries on this procedure on the Aliens Channel, and they always picked times with fast travel and events with a large span of effect or controlled by a homicidal maniac who is guaranteed to murder you. I looked around. There were a couple of people dressed in a prisoner's garb similar to mine looking around quizzically. Hm. This was probably a popular destination for capital punishment. I saw a street sign, it looked like Latin. I had begun to get an idea of where I was..... Then another sign; from the picture it seemed like a warning about the smoky mountain. And on the top, it said something about "Omnes Cives Pompeii". Oh. I was sure of it now. This Roman town was the doomed Pompeii, and that mountain, Vesuvius. But wait. Where were all the people? The shops were all closed. The streets had empty carriages on them. It looks like the people of the city just ... left. Perhaps the tragedy had already happened? No, I was certain this town was buried with its inhabitants in it. This was strange; I could distinctly recall disturbing images of the ash remains of people cringing from Vesuvius' regurgitations. More prisoners popped up around me. The horrifying truth struck me. No _Roman_ was killed at Pompeii.	I could still the Judge's gavel banging and the words "Put to Death" in my ears as they strapped me down. I was lucky, they said, that I would have a chance to live, if I wanted it bad enough. What the fuck did that mean? I was the worst serial killer in history and they were giving me a chance to kill again? I didn't get a chance to ask the executioner what he meant before the threw the switch. The lights dimmed and the chair started to groan under my convulsions, and I blacked out. I thought I was dead and this was the afterlife, packed with sinners so tight I could barely move. When the light appeared in the wall I figured it was time to talk to the Big Guy. After I was pulled out and my eyes adjusted to the glare I saw what Hell was. It is nothing more than cattle cars, a long line of sad faced souls, demons in black screaming horrible things in some monsterous language, and smokestacks on the horizon vomiting noxious onxy plumes towards Heaven. edit: formatting and letters
	[WP] Time travel exists, and a new form of capital punishment is introduced: Transporting the convict back to the worst, practically unsurvivable, places in human history to find yourself in. You are such a convict, and just got sent back. You will do anything to try and survive.	As a historian and a literature buff, I could appreciate the irony of being one of the few people able to both describe a dystopian future (a concept much ignored by modern "teaching") and to pinpoint the moment in which society took a turn down that forbidden valley. Time travel had been a boon to society at first. It would take a scientist to explain why paradoxes are an impossibility, but needless to say all sorts of new technologies and trade opportunities propped up almost overnight. Were you suffering from an incurable illness? Pop into 100 000 AD and check if it had been cured (it had. All diseases were by 40 000 AD). Did you want to try original Roman cuisine? If you played your cards right, you might even dine with Caesar himself! There were limitations, of course. Paradoxes couldn't be created, which meant that any actions that would create one just... didn't happen. One of the first government-sanctioned time travel missions was, as one would expect, a commando team sent to kill Hitler. They spared no expense, weapon, item or trinket and yet they failed every time. Twenty-two doves flew right across the path of twenty-two sniper bullets at the worst possible time. Two bombs blew up minutes after the Fuhrer had vacated the premises. Poisoned darts failed to inject their venom and even poetic justice-inspired toxic gases were diffused by unfortunate winds. Despite the limitations, it was as close to Utopia as mankind had ever been. Trans-temporal scientific collaboration increased our research output to dizzying levels. True communism sprang out all over the world, as limited resources were a thing of the past. The only limit to our power was our personal ambition. This is why I had always been seen as a bit of an oddity. In a world of genetically enhanced super-athletes, models and geniuses, I was merely a historian and a book lover. Certainly, I had an optic nerve implant that allowed me to read at previously inhuman speeds, a language converter and a dexterity modification that allowed me to write as fast as I could formulate the thoughts themselves. But I had passed on some of the more popular muscle growers or the ever-enjoyable orgasmic trigger. Mine is a hedonistic society, and so unpleasant tasks are relegated to machines. Policing had become one of such robotic fields. When the "Future Transgressions" law had been enacted, no one batted an eyelash. After all, if one could prevent law violations before they happened (and given that, if preventable, it meant that the resulting actions were non-paradoxical), why not save every victim their pain? It was rather disconcerting then, when a police officer let himself into my apartment and woke me from sleep. "I am sorry Sir, but you will have to come with me. You have been convicted of future attempts to destabilize society and create mayhem. I must warn you I am trans-temporally linked to myself in the future, any attempts at escaping will be foiled" Of course, I still tried. I failed. It turned out that my Treatise on Dystopia, a scholarly work that went mostly unnoticed by my peers, was at the core of a future revolution. I would, allegedly, become a martyr of the cause and the government could not let me become one. So I was to be removed. Robots were, of course, created with certain hard-coded laws they must respect. They cannot willingly harm a human being, unless actively protecting the well-being of another human. This meant they could neither execute me nor lock me up forever (which their silicon brains had long since established was a form of torture). What we should have expected was that they would find a way around their limitations. Time travel. That was the answer to all of our modern concerns. I was to be sent back to a barely historical time, in the middle of a mostly deserted land. I would be sent to die, but the machines would not be pulling the proverbial trigger. Somehow this got around their coded limitations. What bullshit. -------------------------------------------------------------------- I woke up on the ground, to the sound of hooves and laughter. A small group of men, no more than ten of them, approached me. They had all the swagger of successful athletes, but carried contraptions that resembled the drawings of bows and arrows I had seen in one of my textbooks. How primitive. My language chip kicked into action and translated their words into clear, modern English. "Who goes there, dressed as a Chin whore?" asked the biggest of them. I couldn't answer, the whole situation rendered me speechless "Have you got no tongue? Perhaps that is to pleasure your fellow men better!" quipped the man, much to the amusement of his group. His face reminded me of someone I had read about. With little to lose, I decided to name drop. "I am here to see Genghis Khan. It is crucial that I talk to him" My lips moved in unusual ways, even if the voice I heard spoke in plain English "Great Khan? Am I not great enough for you? There is no greater Khan than I, you fool!" I had miscalculated, it was earlier than I thought, but my knowledge of the time was limited at best. The man nodded to one of his lackeys, who raised his bow. With a flourish, he nocked a bow and fired it at my chest. My dexterous fingers were able to grab the shaft from mid-air, but I was no hyper-enhanced athlete. If three of them shot at once, I would've been in dire straits to grab the third arrow. It was just a matter of time. Much to my surprise, the whole party dismounted. They looked at me with expressions I could not decipher. It wasn't until the tall man bowed that I understood their intentions. After all, they had never seen an enhanced human, even one as pathetically enhanced as myself. They named me "The Great One", or Genghis in their tongue. Given our first meeting, I think it was a joke by Subutai, but the others took it seriously. My accuracy with the bow, an unexpected side-effect, was worshipped by these war-like men. I climbed their societal rungs quickly, and truly became their greatest Khan. It was my turn to rule, and I was ready to shake-up the world and mold it to my semblance. I would leave a mark that even the Police of my time would find hard to ignore.	I could still the Judge's gavel banging and the words "Put to Death" in my ears as they strapped me down. I was lucky, they said, that I would have a chance to live, if I wanted it bad enough. What the fuck did that mean? I was the worst serial killer in history and they were giving me a chance to kill again? I didn't get a chance to ask the executioner what he meant before the threw the switch. The lights dimmed and the chair started to groan under my convulsions, and I blacked out. I thought I was dead and this was the afterlife, packed with sinners so tight I could barely move. When the light appeared in the wall I figured it was time to talk to the Big Guy. After I was pulled out and my eyes adjusted to the glare I saw what Hell was. It is nothing more than cattle cars, a long line of sad faced souls, demons in black screaming horrible things in some monsterous language, and smokestacks on the horizon vomiting noxious onxy plumes towards Heaven. edit: formatting and letters
	[WP] Time travel exists, and a new form of capital punishment is introduced: Transporting the convict back to the worst, practically unsurvivable, places in human history to find yourself in. You are such a convict, and just got sent back. You will do anything to try and survive.	The light was blinding, a flash of brilliance compared to the dingy room I lay in moments ago. A flashing pain struck through my body. A mass gathered in my skull. Expanding, Growing. I can't take the pressure. I can't take the pressure anymore. My head. My head. Its going to... I'm going to... The pain is gone. Replaced with a foggy mask of land, growing clearer, closer by the second. Muffled cries and.... gunshots... sounds not heard in ages, melaneia. Everything was done before it started now. In the time I came from. Warheads wiping out lands to radioactive dust, obliterating everything. The land came up to meet me. I crumpled to the ground with a cry. The shock of what just happened reached me. Nothing would move. Nothing did move. A pure blackness surrounded my eyes, as I faded into nothingness. I moved from blackness to blackness, opening my eyes to a starless night. The sounds around still carried true. I sat up and looked around. A trench. A maze of trenches, laid out from end to end, navigating the warfront. A sprawl of men laid before me, puss oozing from every crevice of their rotting bodies. A cesspool. A bloodbath. I pulled one from the ground, looking less rotten then the rest, and stripped off green grey uniform. I tossed the body next to the rest of them, covering one with another. The smell of the fermenting flesh was overbearing. Gas. They were using gas. I had to get out. I had to get away quickly. I had to get away before I was afflicted... Hours. Hours. Hours. Hours. Hours. A light of day. My legs felt weak. They fell out from under me. The darkness consumed me again. The sun's heat blazed against me. I woke up. Mid day. The trenches still spanned from infinity to infinity. I walked on till I could no longer. I lay against the wall and accepted it. A graveyard of soldiers. Passing slowly. Closer and closer. I stood up, wavering. Body a barren wasteland. They spotted me and ran over, arms ready to strike at any false move. "Namen und Dienstgrad!" I stood, dazed, questioning. "Namen und Dienstgrad! Wer sind Sie!". Louder this time. More distain. More hate. More fear. My hands fell from my pockets, and raised to the sky. A clink, as something metalic fell out from where my hand just lay. A dogtag. A name sat within my pocket. An identity. A new being. An idea. Something clicked in my mind. I spoke. "Gefreiter, sechzehnten Regiment , Hitler, Adolf, Herr".	I opened my eyes and found myself looking at the sky. I had heard Time Travel was painful but nothing was ever said about landing on a rock. I sat up, judging by my clothes and the small village near by I gathered I had been sent back sometime between 1600 and 1700. "Well then..." I said out loud. This was a place I could presumably...live in. I rubbed my head, it was throbbing. I was trying to think on what the pioneer equivalent to an ice pack would be when I heard the screaming. I stood up and looked towards the sounds, and saw flames erupting from a house hold I could barely see. I ran uphill hoping to find a cliff from where I could see what was happening. It was illegal to send someone to any time of real consequence; so whatever was happening couldn't be that bad. I found a cliff and almost screamed myself. Dozens of longboats unloading onto shore, Vikings. Of course. I was screwed. I could see white men and natives taking up arms, grabbing pistols and bows and whatever weaponry they had available. But I shook my head, I had never heard about a Viking attack in the US history books. That meant that survivors were going to be few and probably put into slavery. "Well shit." I said again out loud, to no one in particular. I had two options. Run into the forest and hope they don't go too far in mainland. Maybe I could find a nice tribe to settle with. Or two, go down there and meet my maker. I sighed watching the warriors start their raid of the small town. Giant looking men and women swinging their axes and huge swords. I crossed my arms, "I deserves this.", and went down to the village. I came down behind a large viking male attempting to break down what I assumed was the blacksmith's door. It was just a guess given that it was one of the better put together houses. I snuck up behind him and grasped the sword he had struck into the ground, I pulled with all my strength and ran the viking through as hard as I could. I had no idea if this blacksmith would be historically important, but I knew I just slew a viking, I almost took pride in that. I turned to face a woman, she wasn't wearing a helmet but she was clad in armor. Her blue eyes shined through the black line she had painted across her face. She spoke, "oda goocheck smewupption." I was no linguist by any sort of the definition but I assumed that was some form of ancient Norse. "I do not speak your language." I said with as much confident I could muster. I was a pretty tall guy, but not much with muscle. She on the other hand, was just about six feet and appeared to have never skipped a day at the gym. She was wielding an ax, and I must have been wielding a bullseye because she hurled that ax right at my chest. it struck hard right where she wanted it, sending me flying back a number of feet. The wind had been knocked out of me, I was swore, i could barely move...but I wasn't bleeding. I heard the viking woman approach and it sounded like she was laughing, but she stopped when she saw I wasn't dead. It took ALL of my strength to remove the ax from my chest. The tear in my shirt revealed the ax had stopped when it a piece of grey clothing someone had put on me. I tapped my finger on it, it felt like solid steel. But then how could I not feel it's weight? The viking woman lunged at me, picking me up by the collar of my shirt, but I was barely aware of that. Someone had put that... ax proof shirt on me, but why? And then it hit me: Someone wanted me to survive this!
	[WP] Time travel exists, and a new form of capital punishment is introduced: Transporting the convict back to the worst, practically unsurvivable, places in human history to find yourself in. You are such a convict, and just got sent back. You will do anything to try and survive.	As a historian and a literature buff, I could appreciate the irony of being one of the few people able to both describe a dystopian future (a concept much ignored by modern "teaching") and to pinpoint the moment in which society took a turn down that forbidden valley. Time travel had been a boon to society at first. It would take a scientist to explain why paradoxes are an impossibility, but needless to say all sorts of new technologies and trade opportunities propped up almost overnight. Were you suffering from an incurable illness? Pop into 100 000 AD and check if it had been cured (it had. All diseases were by 40 000 AD). Did you want to try original Roman cuisine? If you played your cards right, you might even dine with Caesar himself! There were limitations, of course. Paradoxes couldn't be created, which meant that any actions that would create one just... didn't happen. One of the first government-sanctioned time travel missions was, as one would expect, a commando team sent to kill Hitler. They spared no expense, weapon, item or trinket and yet they failed every time. Twenty-two doves flew right across the path of twenty-two sniper bullets at the worst possible time. Two bombs blew up minutes after the Fuhrer had vacated the premises. Poisoned darts failed to inject their venom and even poetic justice-inspired toxic gases were diffused by unfortunate winds. Despite the limitations, it was as close to Utopia as mankind had ever been. Trans-temporal scientific collaboration increased our research output to dizzying levels. True communism sprang out all over the world, as limited resources were a thing of the past. The only limit to our power was our personal ambition. This is why I had always been seen as a bit of an oddity. In a world of genetically enhanced super-athletes, models and geniuses, I was merely a historian and a book lover. Certainly, I had an optic nerve implant that allowed me to read at previously inhuman speeds, a language converter and a dexterity modification that allowed me to write as fast as I could formulate the thoughts themselves. But I had passed on some of the more popular muscle growers or the ever-enjoyable orgasmic trigger. Mine is a hedonistic society, and so unpleasant tasks are relegated to machines. Policing had become one of such robotic fields. When the "Future Transgressions" law had been enacted, no one batted an eyelash. After all, if one could prevent law violations before they happened (and given that, if preventable, it meant that the resulting actions were non-paradoxical), why not save every victim their pain? It was rather disconcerting then, when a police officer let himself into my apartment and woke me from sleep. "I am sorry Sir, but you will have to come with me. You have been convicted of future attempts to destabilize society and create mayhem. I must warn you I am trans-temporally linked to myself in the future, any attempts at escaping will be foiled" Of course, I still tried. I failed. It turned out that my Treatise on Dystopia, a scholarly work that went mostly unnoticed by my peers, was at the core of a future revolution. I would, allegedly, become a martyr of the cause and the government could not let me become one. So I was to be removed. Robots were, of course, created with certain hard-coded laws they must respect. They cannot willingly harm a human being, unless actively protecting the well-being of another human. This meant they could neither execute me nor lock me up forever (which their silicon brains had long since established was a form of torture). What we should have expected was that they would find a way around their limitations. Time travel. That was the answer to all of our modern concerns. I was to be sent back to a barely historical time, in the middle of a mostly deserted land. I would be sent to die, but the machines would not be pulling the proverbial trigger. Somehow this got around their coded limitations. What bullshit. -------------------------------------------------------------------- I woke up on the ground, to the sound of hooves and laughter. A small group of men, no more than ten of them, approached me. They had all the swagger of successful athletes, but carried contraptions that resembled the drawings of bows and arrows I had seen in one of my textbooks. How primitive. My language chip kicked into action and translated their words into clear, modern English. "Who goes there, dressed as a Chin whore?" asked the biggest of them. I couldn't answer, the whole situation rendered me speechless "Have you got no tongue? Perhaps that is to pleasure your fellow men better!" quipped the man, much to the amusement of his group. His face reminded me of someone I had read about. With little to lose, I decided to name drop. "I am here to see Genghis Khan. It is crucial that I talk to him" My lips moved in unusual ways, even if the voice I heard spoke in plain English "Great Khan? Am I not great enough for you? There is no greater Khan than I, you fool!" I had miscalculated, it was earlier than I thought, but my knowledge of the time was limited at best. The man nodded to one of his lackeys, who raised his bow. With a flourish, he nocked a bow and fired it at my chest. My dexterous fingers were able to grab the shaft from mid-air, but I was no hyper-enhanced athlete. If three of them shot at once, I would've been in dire straits to grab the third arrow. It was just a matter of time. Much to my surprise, the whole party dismounted. They looked at me with expressions I could not decipher. It wasn't until the tall man bowed that I understood their intentions. After all, they had never seen an enhanced human, even one as pathetically enhanced as myself. They named me "The Great One", or Genghis in their tongue. Given our first meeting, I think it was a joke by Subutai, but the others took it seriously. My accuracy with the bow, an unexpected side-effect, was worshipped by these war-like men. I climbed their societal rungs quickly, and truly became their greatest Khan. It was my turn to rule, and I was ready to shake-up the world and mold it to my semblance. I would leave a mark that even the Police of my time would find hard to ignore.	I opened my eyes and found myself looking at the sky. I had heard Time Travel was painful but nothing was ever said about landing on a rock. I sat up, judging by my clothes and the small village near by I gathered I had been sent back sometime between 1600 and 1700. "Well then..." I said out loud. This was a place I could presumably...live in. I rubbed my head, it was throbbing. I was trying to think on what the pioneer equivalent to an ice pack would be when I heard the screaming. I stood up and looked towards the sounds, and saw flames erupting from a house hold I could barely see. I ran uphill hoping to find a cliff from where I could see what was happening. It was illegal to send someone to any time of real consequence; so whatever was happening couldn't be that bad. I found a cliff and almost screamed myself. Dozens of longboats unloading onto shore, Vikings. Of course. I was screwed. I could see white men and natives taking up arms, grabbing pistols and bows and whatever weaponry they had available. But I shook my head, I had never heard about a Viking attack in the US history books. That meant that survivors were going to be few and probably put into slavery. "Well shit." I said again out loud, to no one in particular. I had two options. Run into the forest and hope they don't go too far in mainland. Maybe I could find a nice tribe to settle with. Or two, go down there and meet my maker. I sighed watching the warriors start their raid of the small town. Giant looking men and women swinging their axes and huge swords. I crossed my arms, "I deserves this.", and went down to the village. I came down behind a large viking male attempting to break down what I assumed was the blacksmith's door. It was just a guess given that it was one of the better put together houses. I snuck up behind him and grasped the sword he had struck into the ground, I pulled with all my strength and ran the viking through as hard as I could. I had no idea if this blacksmith would be historically important, but I knew I just slew a viking, I almost took pride in that. I turned to face a woman, she wasn't wearing a helmet but she was clad in armor. Her blue eyes shined through the black line she had painted across her face. She spoke, "oda goocheck smewupption." I was no linguist by any sort of the definition but I assumed that was some form of ancient Norse. "I do not speak your language." I said with as much confident I could muster. I was a pretty tall guy, but not much with muscle. She on the other hand, was just about six feet and appeared to have never skipped a day at the gym. She was wielding an ax, and I must have been wielding a bullseye because she hurled that ax right at my chest. it struck hard right where she wanted it, sending me flying back a number of feet. The wind had been knocked out of me, I was swore, i could barely move...but I wasn't bleeding. I heard the viking woman approach and it sounded like she was laughing, but she stopped when she saw I wasn't dead. It took ALL of my strength to remove the ax from my chest. The tear in my shirt revealed the ax had stopped when it a piece of grey clothing someone had put on me. I tapped my finger on it, it felt like solid steel. But then how could I not feel it's weight? The viking woman lunged at me, picking me up by the collar of my shirt, but I was barely aware of that. Someone had put that... ax proof shirt on me, but why? And then it hit me: Someone wanted me to survive this!
	[WP] Time travel exists, and a new form of capital punishment is introduced: Transporting the convict back to the worst, practically unsurvivable, places in human history to find yourself in. You are such a convict, and just got sent back. You will do anything to try and survive.	I landed in a quaint town, next to a smoky mountain. Of course, there was no point running. I had watched documentaries on this procedure on the Aliens Channel, and they always picked times with fast travel and events with a large span of effect or controlled by a homicidal maniac who is guaranteed to murder you. I looked around. There were a couple of people dressed in a prisoner's garb similar to mine looking around quizzically. Hm. This was probably a popular destination for capital punishment. I saw a street sign, it looked like Latin. I had begun to get an idea of where I was..... Then another sign; from the picture it seemed like a warning about the smoky mountain. And on the top, it said something about "Omnes Cives Pompeii". Oh. I was sure of it now. This Roman town was the doomed Pompeii, and that mountain, Vesuvius. But wait. Where were all the people? The shops were all closed. The streets had empty carriages on them. It looks like the people of the city just ... left. Perhaps the tragedy had already happened? No, I was certain this town was buried with its inhabitants in it. This was strange; I could distinctly recall disturbing images of the ash remains of people cringing from Vesuvius' regurgitations. More prisoners popped up around me. The horrifying truth struck me. No _Roman_ was killed at Pompeii.	After being a lurker for so long, this is my first response on /r/writingprompts. Be gentle and hope you like it. _________ They call it capital punishment, and I never really knew why. I mean, in the past they used guillotines, ropes, electric chairs and lethal injections. But this was totally different. Someone could argue those alternatives were more humane. At least as humane as sentencing another human being to death can be. This was not any of those. It was basically being sent into a gladiators' arena without an audience watching. Well, I should watch what I say, in case they really do send me back to a coliseum. As they strapped me in, it really dawned on me how unfair the whole thing was. I was walking down the street and just happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time. I know that's what most criminals say, but you can judge for yourself. It was a Sunday morning when I saw the little girl walking home along the park across the street. Cute little backpack humming some kind of 'pop' music. I had no clue what was 'in' or not since I didn't bother with that stuff. As she was walking around the corner of the block , I caught sight of a dog who was acting strangely and limping. In what was essentially a blink of an eye, the dog started attacking the little girl. Of course I couldn't just stand around and do nothing. I rushed as my tired legs could carry me and grabbed the largest rock I could find at the park. On my first swing, it hit the dog in the head and some red was showing, but I'm sure it just angered as it tore more violently at the little girl. By this point I was panicked, and so I quickly took a second swing. Unfortunately it hit the little girl in the leg and there was the sound of a small "crack". For whatever reason, the sound scared the dog and it ran off. Then I noticed the screaming and crying of the little girl. Torn little dress and the contents of her backpack spilt all over the sidewalk. It was probably the adrenaline but I didn't hear her until now. Before I knew it, two officers arrived and arrested me for sexually assaulting the little girl. I tried to explain, but like most people, ignored me. I guess I too would ignore me if I was in their shoes. I haven't showered in months and probably smelled real bad. Unshaven, with raggedy clothes I found at the dumpster behind those big box thrift stores. Why was the punishment so severe you may ask? I was being made the example of the new "Protect The Children" campaign the mayor was using to secure votes in the upcoming election. Poor girl, she was so traumatized and I heard she hasn't been able to talk to anybody since. I really hope she gets better. She deserves a good life. And so, it brings me to now. As the technician does the final checks, she drops an envelope in my lap and I feel a giant jolt through my body. I guess it was more similar to the electric chair than I thought. After I get a little more oriented, I decide to open the envelope. Inside I find a note and as I unravel it, a fountain pen drops out. The note read: Hi, You don't know who I am, but I am the mother of the little girl you saved. She wasn't able to talk to anyone for the first week, but later on, she was able to tell me the events of what happened. You sir, are truly a hero and I am infinitely thankful. You may wonder why I have said nothing if I knew the truth. And to be honest I really did consider doing that. But I really did want to thank you, and so I've included my great grandfather's fountain pen. He got this from someone he too saved when he was young. My grandfather told me that if my great grandfather or anyone he gave the pen were to return the pen to the owner, he would give him half his estate as his thanks. My great grandfather was said to not seek any compensation since it was his duty as a fellow human being. So I have sent you back in time 160 years to claim this gift. I hope this gives you a new start in life as you have given my daughter. Much love and forever grateful, The technician
	[WP] Time travel exists, and a new form of capital punishment is introduced: Transporting the convict back to the worst, practically unsurvivable, places in human history to find yourself in. You are such a convict, and just got sent back. You will do anything to try and survive.	As a historian and a literature buff, I could appreciate the irony of being one of the few people able to both describe a dystopian future (a concept much ignored by modern "teaching") and to pinpoint the moment in which society took a turn down that forbidden valley. Time travel had been a boon to society at first. It would take a scientist to explain why paradoxes are an impossibility, but needless to say all sorts of new technologies and trade opportunities propped up almost overnight. Were you suffering from an incurable illness? Pop into 100 000 AD and check if it had been cured (it had. All diseases were by 40 000 AD). Did you want to try original Roman cuisine? If you played your cards right, you might even dine with Caesar himself! There were limitations, of course. Paradoxes couldn't be created, which meant that any actions that would create one just... didn't happen. One of the first government-sanctioned time travel missions was, as one would expect, a commando team sent to kill Hitler. They spared no expense, weapon, item or trinket and yet they failed every time. Twenty-two doves flew right across the path of twenty-two sniper bullets at the worst possible time. Two bombs blew up minutes after the Fuhrer had vacated the premises. Poisoned darts failed to inject their venom and even poetic justice-inspired toxic gases were diffused by unfortunate winds. Despite the limitations, it was as close to Utopia as mankind had ever been. Trans-temporal scientific collaboration increased our research output to dizzying levels. True communism sprang out all over the world, as limited resources were a thing of the past. The only limit to our power was our personal ambition. This is why I had always been seen as a bit of an oddity. In a world of genetically enhanced super-athletes, models and geniuses, I was merely a historian and a book lover. Certainly, I had an optic nerve implant that allowed me to read at previously inhuman speeds, a language converter and a dexterity modification that allowed me to write as fast as I could formulate the thoughts themselves. But I had passed on some of the more popular muscle growers or the ever-enjoyable orgasmic trigger. Mine is a hedonistic society, and so unpleasant tasks are relegated to machines. Policing had become one of such robotic fields. When the "Future Transgressions" law had been enacted, no one batted an eyelash. After all, if one could prevent law violations before they happened (and given that, if preventable, it meant that the resulting actions were non-paradoxical), why not save every victim their pain? It was rather disconcerting then, when a police officer let himself into my apartment and woke me from sleep. "I am sorry Sir, but you will have to come with me. You have been convicted of future attempts to destabilize society and create mayhem. I must warn you I am trans-temporally linked to myself in the future, any attempts at escaping will be foiled" Of course, I still tried. I failed. It turned out that my Treatise on Dystopia, a scholarly work that went mostly unnoticed by my peers, was at the core of a future revolution. I would, allegedly, become a martyr of the cause and the government could not let me become one. So I was to be removed. Robots were, of course, created with certain hard-coded laws they must respect. They cannot willingly harm a human being, unless actively protecting the well-being of another human. This meant they could neither execute me nor lock me up forever (which their silicon brains had long since established was a form of torture). What we should have expected was that they would find a way around their limitations. Time travel. That was the answer to all of our modern concerns. I was to be sent back to a barely historical time, in the middle of a mostly deserted land. I would be sent to die, but the machines would not be pulling the proverbial trigger. Somehow this got around their coded limitations. What bullshit. -------------------------------------------------------------------- I woke up on the ground, to the sound of hooves and laughter. A small group of men, no more than ten of them, approached me. They had all the swagger of successful athletes, but carried contraptions that resembled the drawings of bows and arrows I had seen in one of my textbooks. How primitive. My language chip kicked into action and translated their words into clear, modern English. "Who goes there, dressed as a Chin whore?" asked the biggest of them. I couldn't answer, the whole situation rendered me speechless "Have you got no tongue? Perhaps that is to pleasure your fellow men better!" quipped the man, much to the amusement of his group. His face reminded me of someone I had read about. With little to lose, I decided to name drop. "I am here to see Genghis Khan. It is crucial that I talk to him" My lips moved in unusual ways, even if the voice I heard spoke in plain English "Great Khan? Am I not great enough for you? There is no greater Khan than I, you fool!" I had miscalculated, it was earlier than I thought, but my knowledge of the time was limited at best. The man nodded to one of his lackeys, who raised his bow. With a flourish, he nocked a bow and fired it at my chest. My dexterous fingers were able to grab the shaft from mid-air, but I was no hyper-enhanced athlete. If three of them shot at once, I would've been in dire straits to grab the third arrow. It was just a matter of time. Much to my surprise, the whole party dismounted. They looked at me with expressions I could not decipher. It wasn't until the tall man bowed that I understood their intentions. After all, they had never seen an enhanced human, even one as pathetically enhanced as myself. They named me "The Great One", or Genghis in their tongue. Given our first meeting, I think it was a joke by Subutai, but the others took it seriously. My accuracy with the bow, an unexpected side-effect, was worshipped by these war-like men. I climbed their societal rungs quickly, and truly became their greatest Khan. It was my turn to rule, and I was ready to shake-up the world and mold it to my semblance. I would leave a mark that even the Police of my time would find hard to ignore.	After being a lurker for so long, this is my first response on /r/writingprompts. Be gentle and hope you like it. _________ They call it capital punishment, and I never really knew why. I mean, in the past they used guillotines, ropes, electric chairs and lethal injections. But this was totally different. Someone could argue those alternatives were more humane. At least as humane as sentencing another human being to death can be. This was not any of those. It was basically being sent into a gladiators' arena without an audience watching. Well, I should watch what I say, in case they really do send me back to a coliseum. As they strapped me in, it really dawned on me how unfair the whole thing was. I was walking down the street and just happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time. I know that's what most criminals say, but you can judge for yourself. It was a Sunday morning when I saw the little girl walking home along the park across the street. Cute little backpack humming some kind of 'pop' music. I had no clue what was 'in' or not since I didn't bother with that stuff. As she was walking around the corner of the block , I caught sight of a dog who was acting strangely and limping. In what was essentially a blink of an eye, the dog started attacking the little girl. Of course I couldn't just stand around and do nothing. I rushed as my tired legs could carry me and grabbed the largest rock I could find at the park. On my first swing, it hit the dog in the head and some red was showing, but I'm sure it just angered as it tore more violently at the little girl. By this point I was panicked, and so I quickly took a second swing. Unfortunately it hit the little girl in the leg and there was the sound of a small "crack". For whatever reason, the sound scared the dog and it ran off. Then I noticed the screaming and crying of the little girl. Torn little dress and the contents of her backpack spilt all over the sidewalk. It was probably the adrenaline but I didn't hear her until now. Before I knew it, two officers arrived and arrested me for sexually assaulting the little girl. I tried to explain, but like most people, ignored me. I guess I too would ignore me if I was in their shoes. I haven't showered in months and probably smelled real bad. Unshaven, with raggedy clothes I found at the dumpster behind those big box thrift stores. Why was the punishment so severe you may ask? I was being made the example of the new "Protect The Children" campaign the mayor was using to secure votes in the upcoming election. Poor girl, she was so traumatized and I heard she hasn't been able to talk to anybody since. I really hope she gets better. She deserves a good life. And so, it brings me to now. As the technician does the final checks, she drops an envelope in my lap and I feel a giant jolt through my body. I guess it was more similar to the electric chair than I thought. After I get a little more oriented, I decide to open the envelope. Inside I find a note and as I unravel it, a fountain pen drops out. The note read: Hi, You don't know who I am, but I am the mother of the little girl you saved. She wasn't able to talk to anyone for the first week, but later on, she was able to tell me the events of what happened. You sir, are truly a hero and I am infinitely thankful. You may wonder why I have said nothing if I knew the truth. And to be honest I really did consider doing that. But I really did want to thank you, and so I've included my great grandfather's fountain pen. He got this from someone he too saved when he was young. My grandfather told me that if my great grandfather or anyone he gave the pen were to return the pen to the owner, he would give him half his estate as his thanks. My great grandfather was said to not seek any compensation since it was his duty as a fellow human being. So I have sent you back in time 160 years to claim this gift. I hope this gives you a new start in life as you have given my daughter. Much love and forever grateful, The technician
	[WP] Time travel exists, and a new form of capital punishment is introduced: Transporting the convict back to the worst, practically unsurvivable, places in human history to find yourself in. You are such a convict, and just got sent back. You will do anything to try and survive.	I landed in a quaint town, next to a smoky mountain. Of course, there was no point running. I had watched documentaries on this procedure on the Aliens Channel, and they always picked times with fast travel and events with a large span of effect or controlled by a homicidal maniac who is guaranteed to murder you. I looked around. There were a couple of people dressed in a prisoner's garb similar to mine looking around quizzically. Hm. This was probably a popular destination for capital punishment. I saw a street sign, it looked like Latin. I had begun to get an idea of where I was..... Then another sign; from the picture it seemed like a warning about the smoky mountain. And on the top, it said something about "Omnes Cives Pompeii". Oh. I was sure of it now. This Roman town was the doomed Pompeii, and that mountain, Vesuvius. But wait. Where were all the people? The shops were all closed. The streets had empty carriages on them. It looks like the people of the city just ... left. Perhaps the tragedy had already happened? No, I was certain this town was buried with its inhabitants in it. This was strange; I could distinctly recall disturbing images of the ash remains of people cringing from Vesuvius' regurgitations. More prisoners popped up around me. The horrifying truth struck me. No _Roman_ was killed at Pompeii.	"Do you have any last words?" asked my executioner. I couldn't see his face: the machine was callibrated to transport as little matter as possible, and I was restrained by iron bands to keep me within the boundaries of the time machine. "Yeah - don't I get a say in where you're sending me?" "We do that for lesser offenders, on occasion. But that privilege does not apply to you. Nor will you know where you will be sent," he added. "No fewer than three centuries in the past, that much you no doubt know. But where we will send you is irrelevant. The ghettos of Warsaw, the caldera of Mount St. Helens, the siege of London, the Oubliette of Manhatten... it is of no matter." "Not particularly fair, trying to get around the moratorium on executions by using time travel." "Oh?" said the voice, growing harsh. "Neither was the murder of Mercedes LaFontaine. She was the greatest—" "Whatever," I said over him. "Just get it over with." There was a flash of light, and --- then I was in a... department store? It had been years since they even existed; the last time I'd been in one was when my mother sent me and my father down to buy a new fridge. I was surrounded by sofas and large red signs with blocky script. Japanese hiragana, maybe. I went for the door. If I remembered correctly, most governments sent their prisoners on death row back around twenty minutes before their death was assured. No guarantee that the government that had arrested me would do that, or even a guarantee that I'd been arrested by a government at all, but I'd work with the assumption that I had twenty minutes to live. There was only one cashiere, an elderly Japanese woman reading a stack of papers printed in black and white. She folded one of the pages over, and I caught a glimpse of the picture on the front: a mushroom cloud. Shit. I still had my implants from before the assassination: a neural modification allowing hibernation for a set period of time, with no particular requirement for food or oxygen (perfect for masquerading as a mannequin in an antique suit of armour until the date you know that a certain woman will be giving a speech to a large crowd around two feet in front of you, with a positronic disruptor stuffed on one of the gauntlets). That wouldn't do me much good if my atoms were torn apart by nuclear fury, but it was a start. I ran back into the store, searching for the right department. Outside, an alarm went off, and the sound of it chilled my bones. I didn't recognize the precise sound, but the meaning of the insistent wail was hard to miss: I was running out of time. At last, my whole body shaking from adrealine, I found it: a full-size refrigerator, freezer located on the top. With some effort, I hauled it off the shelf and dropped it to the floor, door facing up. The resonating boom was barely audible over the sound of pandemonium outside. There was no time to check if it was lined with lead or another heavy metal, no time to pad myself with styrofoam, no time to prepare at all. But if I was lucky, and survived the blast, then I was safe. I set the time of my hibernation to a week, and shut myself in. Maybe, with a little luck, I would survive long enough to return to my own time, and finish the job I started.
	[WP] Time travel exists, and a new form of capital punishment is introduced: Transporting the convict back to the worst, practically unsurvivable, places in human history to find yourself in. You are such a convict, and just got sent back. You will do anything to try and survive.	As a historian and a literature buff, I could appreciate the irony of being one of the few people able to both describe a dystopian future (a concept much ignored by modern "teaching") and to pinpoint the moment in which society took a turn down that forbidden valley. Time travel had been a boon to society at first. It would take a scientist to explain why paradoxes are an impossibility, but needless to say all sorts of new technologies and trade opportunities propped up almost overnight. Were you suffering from an incurable illness? Pop into 100 000 AD and check if it had been cured (it had. All diseases were by 40 000 AD). Did you want to try original Roman cuisine? If you played your cards right, you might even dine with Caesar himself! There were limitations, of course. Paradoxes couldn't be created, which meant that any actions that would create one just... didn't happen. One of the first government-sanctioned time travel missions was, as one would expect, a commando team sent to kill Hitler. They spared no expense, weapon, item or trinket and yet they failed every time. Twenty-two doves flew right across the path of twenty-two sniper bullets at the worst possible time. Two bombs blew up minutes after the Fuhrer had vacated the premises. Poisoned darts failed to inject their venom and even poetic justice-inspired toxic gases were diffused by unfortunate winds. Despite the limitations, it was as close to Utopia as mankind had ever been. Trans-temporal scientific collaboration increased our research output to dizzying levels. True communism sprang out all over the world, as limited resources were a thing of the past. The only limit to our power was our personal ambition. This is why I had always been seen as a bit of an oddity. In a world of genetically enhanced super-athletes, models and geniuses, I was merely a historian and a book lover. Certainly, I had an optic nerve implant that allowed me to read at previously inhuman speeds, a language converter and a dexterity modification that allowed me to write as fast as I could formulate the thoughts themselves. But I had passed on some of the more popular muscle growers or the ever-enjoyable orgasmic trigger. Mine is a hedonistic society, and so unpleasant tasks are relegated to machines. Policing had become one of such robotic fields. When the "Future Transgressions" law had been enacted, no one batted an eyelash. After all, if one could prevent law violations before they happened (and given that, if preventable, it meant that the resulting actions were non-paradoxical), why not save every victim their pain? It was rather disconcerting then, when a police officer let himself into my apartment and woke me from sleep. "I am sorry Sir, but you will have to come with me. You have been convicted of future attempts to destabilize society and create mayhem. I must warn you I am trans-temporally linked to myself in the future, any attempts at escaping will be foiled" Of course, I still tried. I failed. It turned out that my Treatise on Dystopia, a scholarly work that went mostly unnoticed by my peers, was at the core of a future revolution. I would, allegedly, become a martyr of the cause and the government could not let me become one. So I was to be removed. Robots were, of course, created with certain hard-coded laws they must respect. They cannot willingly harm a human being, unless actively protecting the well-being of another human. This meant they could neither execute me nor lock me up forever (which their silicon brains had long since established was a form of torture). What we should have expected was that they would find a way around their limitations. Time travel. That was the answer to all of our modern concerns. I was to be sent back to a barely historical time, in the middle of a mostly deserted land. I would be sent to die, but the machines would not be pulling the proverbial trigger. Somehow this got around their coded limitations. What bullshit. -------------------------------------------------------------------- I woke up on the ground, to the sound of hooves and laughter. A small group of men, no more than ten of them, approached me. They had all the swagger of successful athletes, but carried contraptions that resembled the drawings of bows and arrows I had seen in one of my textbooks. How primitive. My language chip kicked into action and translated their words into clear, modern English. "Who goes there, dressed as a Chin whore?" asked the biggest of them. I couldn't answer, the whole situation rendered me speechless "Have you got no tongue? Perhaps that is to pleasure your fellow men better!" quipped the man, much to the amusement of his group. His face reminded me of someone I had read about. With little to lose, I decided to name drop. "I am here to see Genghis Khan. It is crucial that I talk to him" My lips moved in unusual ways, even if the voice I heard spoke in plain English "Great Khan? Am I not great enough for you? There is no greater Khan than I, you fool!" I had miscalculated, it was earlier than I thought, but my knowledge of the time was limited at best. The man nodded to one of his lackeys, who raised his bow. With a flourish, he nocked a bow and fired it at my chest. My dexterous fingers were able to grab the shaft from mid-air, but I was no hyper-enhanced athlete. If three of them shot at once, I would've been in dire straits to grab the third arrow. It was just a matter of time. Much to my surprise, the whole party dismounted. They looked at me with expressions I could not decipher. It wasn't until the tall man bowed that I understood their intentions. After all, they had never seen an enhanced human, even one as pathetically enhanced as myself. They named me "The Great One", or Genghis in their tongue. Given our first meeting, I think it was a joke by Subutai, but the others took it seriously. My accuracy with the bow, an unexpected side-effect, was worshipped by these war-like men. I climbed their societal rungs quickly, and truly became their greatest Khan. It was my turn to rule, and I was ready to shake-up the world and mold it to my semblance. I would leave a mark that even the Police of my time would find hard to ignore.	"Do you have any last words?" asked my executioner. I couldn't see his face: the machine was callibrated to transport as little matter as possible, and I was restrained by iron bands to keep me within the boundaries of the time machine. "Yeah - don't I get a say in where you're sending me?" "We do that for lesser offenders, on occasion. But that privilege does not apply to you. Nor will you know where you will be sent," he added. "No fewer than three centuries in the past, that much you no doubt know. But where we will send you is irrelevant. The ghettos of Warsaw, the caldera of Mount St. Helens, the siege of London, the Oubliette of Manhatten... it is of no matter." "Not particularly fair, trying to get around the moratorium on executions by using time travel." "Oh?" said the voice, growing harsh. "Neither was the murder of Mercedes LaFontaine. She was the greatest—" "Whatever," I said over him. "Just get it over with." There was a flash of light, and --- then I was in a... department store? It had been years since they even existed; the last time I'd been in one was when my mother sent me and my father down to buy a new fridge. I was surrounded by sofas and large red signs with blocky script. Japanese hiragana, maybe. I went for the door. If I remembered correctly, most governments sent their prisoners on death row back around twenty minutes before their death was assured. No guarantee that the government that had arrested me would do that, or even a guarantee that I'd been arrested by a government at all, but I'd work with the assumption that I had twenty minutes to live. There was only one cashiere, an elderly Japanese woman reading a stack of papers printed in black and white. She folded one of the pages over, and I caught a glimpse of the picture on the front: a mushroom cloud. Shit. I still had my implants from before the assassination: a neural modification allowing hibernation for a set period of time, with no particular requirement for food or oxygen (perfect for masquerading as a mannequin in an antique suit of armour until the date you know that a certain woman will be giving a speech to a large crowd around two feet in front of you, with a positronic disruptor stuffed on one of the gauntlets). That wouldn't do me much good if my atoms were torn apart by nuclear fury, but it was a start. I ran back into the store, searching for the right department. Outside, an alarm went off, and the sound of it chilled my bones. I didn't recognize the precise sound, but the meaning of the insistent wail was hard to miss: I was running out of time. At last, my whole body shaking from adrealine, I found it: a full-size refrigerator, freezer located on the top. With some effort, I hauled it off the shelf and dropped it to the floor, door facing up. The resonating boom was barely audible over the sound of pandemonium outside. There was no time to check if it was lined with lead or another heavy metal, no time to pad myself with styrofoam, no time to prepare at all. But if I was lucky, and survived the blast, then I was safe. I set the time of my hibernation to a week, and shut myself in. Maybe, with a little luck, I would survive long enough to return to my own time, and finish the job I started.
	[WP] Time travel exists, and a new form of capital punishment is introduced: Transporting the convict back to the worst, practically unsurvivable, places in human history to find yourself in. You are such a convict, and just got sent back. You will do anything to try and survive.	As a historian and a literature buff, I could appreciate the irony of being one of the few people able to both describe a dystopian future (a concept much ignored by modern "teaching") and to pinpoint the moment in which society took a turn down that forbidden valley. Time travel had been a boon to society at first. It would take a scientist to explain why paradoxes are an impossibility, but needless to say all sorts of new technologies and trade opportunities propped up almost overnight. Were you suffering from an incurable illness? Pop into 100 000 AD and check if it had been cured (it had. All diseases were by 40 000 AD). Did you want to try original Roman cuisine? If you played your cards right, you might even dine with Caesar himself! There were limitations, of course. Paradoxes couldn't be created, which meant that any actions that would create one just... didn't happen. One of the first government-sanctioned time travel missions was, as one would expect, a commando team sent to kill Hitler. They spared no expense, weapon, item or trinket and yet they failed every time. Twenty-two doves flew right across the path of twenty-two sniper bullets at the worst possible time. Two bombs blew up minutes after the Fuhrer had vacated the premises. Poisoned darts failed to inject their venom and even poetic justice-inspired toxic gases were diffused by unfortunate winds. Despite the limitations, it was as close to Utopia as mankind had ever been. Trans-temporal scientific collaboration increased our research output to dizzying levels. True communism sprang out all over the world, as limited resources were a thing of the past. The only limit to our power was our personal ambition. This is why I had always been seen as a bit of an oddity. In a world of genetically enhanced super-athletes, models and geniuses, I was merely a historian and a book lover. Certainly, I had an optic nerve implant that allowed me to read at previously inhuman speeds, a language converter and a dexterity modification that allowed me to write as fast as I could formulate the thoughts themselves. But I had passed on some of the more popular muscle growers or the ever-enjoyable orgasmic trigger. Mine is a hedonistic society, and so unpleasant tasks are relegated to machines. Policing had become one of such robotic fields. When the "Future Transgressions" law had been enacted, no one batted an eyelash. After all, if one could prevent law violations before they happened (and given that, if preventable, it meant that the resulting actions were non-paradoxical), why not save every victim their pain? It was rather disconcerting then, when a police officer let himself into my apartment and woke me from sleep. "I am sorry Sir, but you will have to come with me. You have been convicted of future attempts to destabilize society and create mayhem. I must warn you I am trans-temporally linked to myself in the future, any attempts at escaping will be foiled" Of course, I still tried. I failed. It turned out that my Treatise on Dystopia, a scholarly work that went mostly unnoticed by my peers, was at the core of a future revolution. I would, allegedly, become a martyr of the cause and the government could not let me become one. So I was to be removed. Robots were, of course, created with certain hard-coded laws they must respect. They cannot willingly harm a human being, unless actively protecting the well-being of another human. This meant they could neither execute me nor lock me up forever (which their silicon brains had long since established was a form of torture). What we should have expected was that they would find a way around their limitations. Time travel. That was the answer to all of our modern concerns. I was to be sent back to a barely historical time, in the middle of a mostly deserted land. I would be sent to die, but the machines would not be pulling the proverbial trigger. Somehow this got around their coded limitations. What bullshit. -------------------------------------------------------------------- I woke up on the ground, to the sound of hooves and laughter. A small group of men, no more than ten of them, approached me. They had all the swagger of successful athletes, but carried contraptions that resembled the drawings of bows and arrows I had seen in one of my textbooks. How primitive. My language chip kicked into action and translated their words into clear, modern English. "Who goes there, dressed as a Chin whore?" asked the biggest of them. I couldn't answer, the whole situation rendered me speechless "Have you got no tongue? Perhaps that is to pleasure your fellow men better!" quipped the man, much to the amusement of his group. His face reminded me of someone I had read about. With little to lose, I decided to name drop. "I am here to see Genghis Khan. It is crucial that I talk to him" My lips moved in unusual ways, even if the voice I heard spoke in plain English "Great Khan? Am I not great enough for you? There is no greater Khan than I, you fool!" I had miscalculated, it was earlier than I thought, but my knowledge of the time was limited at best. The man nodded to one of his lackeys, who raised his bow. With a flourish, he nocked a bow and fired it at my chest. My dexterous fingers were able to grab the shaft from mid-air, but I was no hyper-enhanced athlete. If three of them shot at once, I would've been in dire straits to grab the third arrow. It was just a matter of time. Much to my surprise, the whole party dismounted. They looked at me with expressions I could not decipher. It wasn't until the tall man bowed that I understood their intentions. After all, they had never seen an enhanced human, even one as pathetically enhanced as myself. They named me "The Great One", or Genghis in their tongue. Given our first meeting, I think it was a joke by Subutai, but the others took it seriously. My accuracy with the bow, an unexpected side-effect, was worshipped by these war-like men. I climbed their societal rungs quickly, and truly became their greatest Khan. It was my turn to rule, and I was ready to shake-up the world and mold it to my semblance. I would leave a mark that even the Police of my time would find hard to ignore.	I landed in a quaint town, next to a smoky mountain. Of course, there was no point running. I had watched documentaries on this procedure on the Aliens Channel, and they always picked times with fast travel and events with a large span of effect or controlled by a homicidal maniac who is guaranteed to murder you. I looked around. There were a couple of people dressed in a prisoner's garb similar to mine looking around quizzically. Hm. This was probably a popular destination for capital punishment. I saw a street sign, it looked like Latin. I had begun to get an idea of where I was..... Then another sign; from the picture it seemed like a warning about the smoky mountain. And on the top, it said something about "Omnes Cives Pompeii". Oh. I was sure of it now. This Roman town was the doomed Pompeii, and that mountain, Vesuvius. But wait. Where were all the people? The shops were all closed. The streets had empty carriages on them. It looks like the people of the city just ... left. Perhaps the tragedy had already happened? No, I was certain this town was buried with its inhabitants in it. This was strange; I could distinctly recall disturbing images of the ash remains of people cringing from Vesuvius' regurgitations. More prisoners popped up around me. The horrifying truth struck me. No _Roman_ was killed at Pompeii.
	[WP] Write a story in which a normally benevolent mythical creature is a scary monster. Or a normally aggressive mythical creature is shy and submissive.	When your parents moved in they were happy. I was used to young couples, but you were my first baby. They brought you in and slid you down in your crib at first. So delicately as if a feather had fallen from Heaven. I watched you as you gurgled and giggled and they loved and laughed. They were so gentle and you were so fragile, I felt from the shadows. Months passed and they grew distant from you. During the day they no longer played with you. Instead they idled you in front of electric windows. At night they no longer sang to you. Instead they bought you a music box. They chose sleep over you, I noted from the shadows. You cried often. This is something I found to be true of humans at night. Just as your mother cried in her bed, you did too. They did not come to your cries sometimes and so gently I would tuck you in and play with your dolls until you drifted off, I comforted from the shadows. You grew older and soon were afraid of me. You would ask your father to come seek me. He would tell you to be silent, that you were imagining me, that you were just a child, that I was nothing, and I glared from the shadows. The night your father lost his job, of which the only thing I had come to trust in him, I was there too. This house was too much for them. You were too much for them. Their screams that night rattled the windows and your bones as you hid in your room. You cried and I sang to you, but you did not hear me from the shadows. When your father was no longer himself, he came to you and hurt you. Later you crawled against me in your bedroom corner. You cried out curses against him, and though you did not feel me, I embraced you from the shadows. The next day your father was missing. You did not cry, and I smiled from the shadows. --- Been a while since I wrote anything. Wasn't exactly to prompt nor was it nearly as good as it was in my head, but this is what my fingers typed.	Being a hunter isn't what most people make it out to be. The hunter I am hunts for monsters, beasts, man eaters. The king had sent me on an expedition weeks ago after a werewolf someone saw on the edge of the woods, a werewolf is a hefty pay day though dangerous, so why not accept. My month had been one full of following dead end tracks to nesting areas for the beast. I stumbled upon another set and began to do my work. These tracks were a deal fresher than the others. I readied my crossbow, inserted the silver tipped bolt and trudged on. The tracks took many twists and turns, it even appeared that the mongrel was leaping at a point. The trail went on for another half a mile until I heard a massive noise. Leap...Thud...rummage...yipping? I crept low to the ground and went on. The animal was in a clearing all by himself, with the exception of a single butterfly floating above him. The werewolf appeared to be playing with the butterfly, like a pup chasing a leaf. A 50 stone puppy chasing a leaf. Of course I couldn't kill it, not yet. The report said the creature was only in the edge of the forest, just lurking around. I followed at a far. About a mile of following I snapped a twig. The beast reeled around and saw me, I raised my cross bow. The beast began barking playfully and pouncing in a circle. I lowered the bow and took a careful step forward, the animal became elated and its tail wagged furiously. It seemed as though it wanted company instead of blood. I raised my fingers to my mouth and gave a whistle. The werewolf trotted towards me on all fours. Six foot of canine against six foot of man, and it was begging for ear scratches, which I couldn't NOT give it. The beast wasn't a man killer, it was just a big mutt, an enormous puppy. I admit I kinda liked it a little, it was cute. I ended up adopting it and began to trek back to show it wasn't a bad omen or a slaughterer. Halfway back to the citadel, another two weeks journey the most intense battle in my life occurred. Fenrir and I set a camp in the woods of Gæporath. It was especially dark in these woods, many an evil creature is said to make homage to these trees. Fenrir lay his head across my lap and I looked up through a patch in the leaves. A rustle stirred me and Fenrir. When we looked up many glittering eyes lay beyond the campfire. One edges its way into the light. It was a rabbit. The rabbit lurched at us, Fenrir swiped it into a tree killing it. I scrambled for my crossbow when a rabbit leaped at my throat, I caught it and bent its back across my thigh. Fenrir was being swarmed by a slew of the furry liars, Fenrir could hold his own. I took aim Into the crowd and fired a bolt eviscerating one of the rodents. I drew my knife and intercepted a hair ball. After a few bloody seconds, the rabbits fled. Fenrir was covered in an array of minuscule scratches and I was down two bolts. Fenrir whimpered himself to sleep, I was astonished still at what the rabbits had done. When the king saw me strolling into the castle with an overwhelmed monster, he deemed me a master hunter and knighted me. Fenrir became the first battle hound. We continued to roam the wilds exterminating rabbits, squirrels, nymphs, and other such deceptive creatures. We befriended and recruited Draugs, vampires, banshees, wights, wraiths, and even a leviathan who protected the Kings Navy
	[WP] Write a story in which a normally benevolent mythical creature is a scary monster. Or a normally aggressive mythical creature is shy and submissive.	The maiden stumbled, falling hard to the frost-packed ground, shards of ice slicing into her palms and knees, the stinging pain nothing more than an afterthought, paling in comparison to the thundering of her heart and the burning of her lungs as she gasped for breath in the frigid air. A snort from behind urged her back to her feet, heedless of her wounds as the scent of her fear spiked high and hot in the desolate ice-covered forest. Her feet cut and bled, leaving pink smudges in her wake as she ran, clawing branches grasping at her gown as she surged forward through the trees. For some reason, she still clung to the golden bridle they'd given her when her father's soldiers had dropped her at the edge of the woods. "This will allow you to tame the beast, and your purity will draw it near," they'd said. She couldn't have known that she was merely a sacrifice to the vicious unicorn. She couldn't have known that the bridle would signify her as prey to the terrifying beast. It was supposed to be easy; Charm the beast and bring it back to purify the waters and return spring to the frost-stricken lands. But instead she'd found a monster. Oh truly, it was beautiful, and for an instant she was entranced, but all that disappeared with the equine beast bared sharp teeth, and it was then that she noticed the human and animal bones around its lair. So she'd run, and kept running, hoping to meet the edge of the woods, hoping to escape to some peasant's hut, but there were just trees and more trees, and the endless sounds of hooves pounding over the forest floor, ever at her heels. Glancing over her shoulder, she could see the beast tailing her, its breaths clouding and steam rising from its body. It should have caught up to her? Was it just toying with her? Was it-?! "Urk..." Sharp pain lanced through her chest, her gaze turning downward in shock and disbelief. A spiral horn was buried deep in her chest, blood seeping out and running down the grooves in a distractingly pretty fashion. Of course, she should have realized there was more than one. The bridle fell from nerveless fingertips and the beast tilted its head down, letting her body slide off its horn and thump to the ground. She thrashed weakly, blood pooling beneath her, trying to speak as air escaped her pierced lung. The second unicorn caught up to her, and she could only shut her eyes and scream as they began eating her alive.	I have been hiding - about an hour and a half - since I ran from it, staring me down with those cold, empty eyes. As my chest pumped to near bursting, I barely registered the sight of the beast lowering its head to rip flesh from the freshly deceased body of my last remaining companion. I know that it let me escape; it seemed to want to play with me before cutting me down. I may only have a few minutes left, because it's not the only one stalking around these trees. Since the first encounter last night, six of my best friends have fallen, one after the other. In between the killings, we ran and ran and tried to hide, took shifts for sleep. We shared our disbelief at discovering their existence, and the unexpected nature that they possessed. Though we never saw more than one, we heard others in the woods around us, in the distance. There was a coldness in its stare that could not be easily forgotten. The stories you've been told of such creatures are probably the same as the ones I heard when I was growing up. Their beauty was said to be unmatched, rarer than the most precious gem. People still use their name every day - all the while not knowing the accursed nature of the word they throw around like a toy. In light of what I've learned over the past fourteen hours, I wish that rarity - that synonymy with the impossible - were the truth. The truth is far more gruesome. They are real. They breathe and they grunt, their bodies brutally athletic. There are not many, from what I can tell, and thankfully they don't appear to live close by to us almost anywhere in the world. But they are here in this place, and it is here, by fate, that my friends and I encountered them. I may not have long left to shudder at the memory of that thundering sound, that came up through the ground to our ears before the first of us was struck and bled, caught in surprise at what we saw. I can hear the sound of hooves in the distance. My desire to live on has trembled in the face of impossible odds. I will not survive this - there are too many of them, though I imagine only one would suffice. And yet as I sit under the crook of these roots, honing our camping machete as quietly as I can with the stone in my day-pack, I have one last bastion of resolve: if I am to die, then I will endeavour this cold morning to cut off the horn of a Unicorn.
	[WP] Write a story in which a normally benevolent mythical creature is a scary monster. Or a normally aggressive mythical creature is shy and submissive.	When your parents moved in they were happy. I was used to young couples, but you were my first baby. They brought you in and slid you down in your crib at first. So delicately as if a feather had fallen from Heaven. I watched you as you gurgled and giggled and they loved and laughed. They were so gentle and you were so fragile, I felt from the shadows. Months passed and they grew distant from you. During the day they no longer played with you. Instead they idled you in front of electric windows. At night they no longer sang to you. Instead they bought you a music box. They chose sleep over you, I noted from the shadows. You cried often. This is something I found to be true of humans at night. Just as your mother cried in her bed, you did too. They did not come to your cries sometimes and so gently I would tuck you in and play with your dolls until you drifted off, I comforted from the shadows. You grew older and soon were afraid of me. You would ask your father to come seek me. He would tell you to be silent, that you were imagining me, that you were just a child, that I was nothing, and I glared from the shadows. The night your father lost his job, of which the only thing I had come to trust in him, I was there too. This house was too much for them. You were too much for them. Their screams that night rattled the windows and your bones as you hid in your room. You cried and I sang to you, but you did not hear me from the shadows. When your father was no longer himself, he came to you and hurt you. Later you crawled against me in your bedroom corner. You cried out curses against him, and though you did not feel me, I embraced you from the shadows. The next day your father was missing. You did not cry, and I smiled from the shadows. --- Been a while since I wrote anything. Wasn't exactly to prompt nor was it nearly as good as it was in my head, but this is what my fingers typed.	I have been hiding - about an hour and a half - since I ran from it, staring me down with those cold, empty eyes. As my chest pumped to near bursting, I barely registered the sight of the beast lowering its head to rip flesh from the freshly deceased body of my last remaining companion. I know that it let me escape; it seemed to want to play with me before cutting me down. I may only have a few minutes left, because it's not the only one stalking around these trees. Since the first encounter last night, six of my best friends have fallen, one after the other. In between the killings, we ran and ran and tried to hide, took shifts for sleep. We shared our disbelief at discovering their existence, and the unexpected nature that they possessed. Though we never saw more than one, we heard others in the woods around us, in the distance. There was a coldness in its stare that could not be easily forgotten. The stories you've been told of such creatures are probably the same as the ones I heard when I was growing up. Their beauty was said to be unmatched, rarer than the most precious gem. People still use their name every day - all the while not knowing the accursed nature of the word they throw around like a toy. In light of what I've learned over the past fourteen hours, I wish that rarity - that synonymy with the impossible - were the truth. The truth is far more gruesome. They are real. They breathe and they grunt, their bodies brutally athletic. There are not many, from what I can tell, and thankfully they don't appear to live close by to us almost anywhere in the world. But they are here in this place, and it is here, by fate, that my friends and I encountered them. I may not have long left to shudder at the memory of that thundering sound, that came up through the ground to our ears before the first of us was struck and bled, caught in surprise at what we saw. I can hear the sound of hooves in the distance. My desire to live on has trembled in the face of impossible odds. I will not survive this - there are too many of them, though I imagine only one would suffice. And yet as I sit under the crook of these roots, honing our camping machete as quietly as I can with the stone in my day-pack, I have one last bastion of resolve: if I am to die, then I will endeavour this cold morning to cut off the horn of a Unicorn.
	[WP] Write a story in which a normally benevolent mythical creature is a scary monster. Or a normally aggressive mythical creature is shy and submissive.	I stared cautiously at the monster, trying to stifle my fear. “…Please don’t kill me,” I croaked. It stared calmly back, then glanced at the ground. hearing just as surprised as I was, it spoke. “You can talk?” Had it understood me? I slowly approached it. “…Yeah. Please don’t hurt me.” “…I won’t.” It took a seat on a nearby boulder - even sitting, it towered over me. It’s eyes continued to follow me - I found it unsettling. “Or my children, or my family, or my friends?” “Look, I’m-I’m not making any promises to one of you,” it muttered, although it didn’t seem convinced. ”Why not? I’m not asking much - we’ve never hurt you.” I blinked. “Y-You just ambush and eat us at random, and stalk us through forests.” "I have to eat.” “Ever tried being a vegetarian?” “…You mean eat plants?” “Yeah. You won’t be hurting anyone.” “There aren’t enough bushes or plants to feed me.” A slow grin spread over my face, and I motioned for the beast to follow. “Let me show you a little something called agriculture.” Baring his teeth in an imitation of my grin, the Human followed. --- Questions? Criticisms? Want to see more? Check out more of my stuff at /r/Draxagon	I have been hiding - about an hour and a half - since I ran from it, staring me down with those cold, empty eyes. As my chest pumped to near bursting, I barely registered the sight of the beast lowering its head to rip flesh from the freshly deceased body of my last remaining companion. I know that it let me escape; it seemed to want to play with me before cutting me down. I may only have a few minutes left, because it's not the only one stalking around these trees. Since the first encounter last night, six of my best friends have fallen, one after the other. In between the killings, we ran and ran and tried to hide, took shifts for sleep. We shared our disbelief at discovering their existence, and the unexpected nature that they possessed. Though we never saw more than one, we heard others in the woods around us, in the distance. There was a coldness in its stare that could not be easily forgotten. The stories you've been told of such creatures are probably the same as the ones I heard when I was growing up. Their beauty was said to be unmatched, rarer than the most precious gem. People still use their name every day - all the while not knowing the accursed nature of the word they throw around like a toy. In light of what I've learned over the past fourteen hours, I wish that rarity - that synonymy with the impossible - were the truth. The truth is far more gruesome. They are real. They breathe and they grunt, their bodies brutally athletic. There are not many, from what I can tell, and thankfully they don't appear to live close by to us almost anywhere in the world. But they are here in this place, and it is here, by fate, that my friends and I encountered them. I may not have long left to shudder at the memory of that thundering sound, that came up through the ground to our ears before the first of us was struck and bled, caught in surprise at what we saw. I can hear the sound of hooves in the distance. My desire to live on has trembled in the face of impossible odds. I will not survive this - there are too many of them, though I imagine only one would suffice. And yet as I sit under the crook of these roots, honing our camping machete as quietly as I can with the stone in my day-pack, I have one last bastion of resolve: if I am to die, then I will endeavour this cold morning to cut off the horn of a Unicorn.
	[WP] Write a story in which a normally benevolent mythical creature is a scary monster. Or a normally aggressive mythical creature is shy and submissive.	When your parents moved in they were happy. I was used to young couples, but you were my first baby. They brought you in and slid you down in your crib at first. So delicately as if a feather had fallen from Heaven. I watched you as you gurgled and giggled and they loved and laughed. They were so gentle and you were so fragile, I felt from the shadows. Months passed and they grew distant from you. During the day they no longer played with you. Instead they idled you in front of electric windows. At night they no longer sang to you. Instead they bought you a music box. They chose sleep over you, I noted from the shadows. You cried often. This is something I found to be true of humans at night. Just as your mother cried in her bed, you did too. They did not come to your cries sometimes and so gently I would tuck you in and play with your dolls until you drifted off, I comforted from the shadows. You grew older and soon were afraid of me. You would ask your father to come seek me. He would tell you to be silent, that you were imagining me, that you were just a child, that I was nothing, and I glared from the shadows. The night your father lost his job, of which the only thing I had come to trust in him, I was there too. This house was too much for them. You were too much for them. Their screams that night rattled the windows and your bones as you hid in your room. You cried and I sang to you, but you did not hear me from the shadows. When your father was no longer himself, he came to you and hurt you. Later you crawled against me in your bedroom corner. You cried out curses against him, and though you did not feel me, I embraced you from the shadows. The next day your father was missing. You did not cry, and I smiled from the shadows. --- Been a while since I wrote anything. Wasn't exactly to prompt nor was it nearly as good as it was in my head, but this is what my fingers typed.	The maiden stumbled, falling hard to the frost-packed ground, shards of ice slicing into her palms and knees, the stinging pain nothing more than an afterthought, paling in comparison to the thundering of her heart and the burning of her lungs as she gasped for breath in the frigid air. A snort from behind urged her back to her feet, heedless of her wounds as the scent of her fear spiked high and hot in the desolate ice-covered forest. Her feet cut and bled, leaving pink smudges in her wake as she ran, clawing branches grasping at her gown as she surged forward through the trees. For some reason, she still clung to the golden bridle they'd given her when her father's soldiers had dropped her at the edge of the woods. "This will allow you to tame the beast, and your purity will draw it near," they'd said. She couldn't have known that she was merely a sacrifice to the vicious unicorn. She couldn't have known that the bridle would signify her as prey to the terrifying beast. It was supposed to be easy; Charm the beast and bring it back to purify the waters and return spring to the frost-stricken lands. But instead she'd found a monster. Oh truly, it was beautiful, and for an instant she was entranced, but all that disappeared with the equine beast bared sharp teeth, and it was then that she noticed the human and animal bones around its lair. So she'd run, and kept running, hoping to meet the edge of the woods, hoping to escape to some peasant's hut, but there were just trees and more trees, and the endless sounds of hooves pounding over the forest floor, ever at her heels. Glancing over her shoulder, she could see the beast tailing her, its breaths clouding and steam rising from its body. It should have caught up to her? Was it just toying with her? Was it-?! "Urk..." Sharp pain lanced through her chest, her gaze turning downward in shock and disbelief. A spiral horn was buried deep in her chest, blood seeping out and running down the grooves in a distractingly pretty fashion. Of course, she should have realized there was more than one. The bridle fell from nerveless fingertips and the beast tilted its head down, letting her body slide off its horn and thump to the ground. She thrashed weakly, blood pooling beneath her, trying to speak as air escaped her pierced lung. The second unicorn caught up to her, and she could only shut her eyes and scream as they began eating her alive.
not my idea, was originally posted by "butkaf" in /r/psychonaut	[WP] (xpost /r/psychonaut) "Upon dying you wake up with a bong in your hand, surrounded by aliens asking if it worked."	Oh man... Oh what... What the hell. I feel good, but so drained. My vision is blurry, but crystallizing before my eyes. Shapes are becoming defined objects. faces. who's, thats right, I remember these faces. I know them. They all look funny to me, slightly off. They look like aliens. but... I recognize them, they are all familiar to me. What am I holding... oh thats what a bong is... my launch pad. everything is glittering, but with each second it fades. I feel as If I had been gone for years... "How long was I out?" I direct the question to RJubr. "Long?" he looks confused. "He's still thinking in linear time guys, he's been traveling in another world." someone else chimed in. "Oh, not long, we have been here waiting. where did you go?" RJubr asked. I thought about that, but realizing all of what I had just seen and experienced had drifted to but a shadowed memory of existence, I felt tears well up in my eyes. I had seen so much, done so much, simple language could never express it. I didn't know what to say. "Home," I said, looking up into the large dark orbs composing all of the eyes of all of my friends. they all quietly looked back at me, well aware of the power of my trip. "I bet he went to Earth, luck bastard always blasts straight to Earth."	It faded like a bad taste or a dream. That's all it was after all. A free fall through a subconscious thought to be long gone. "Paper," I said. "Start writing." They clambered, gathered the materials and wrote as I spoke. "I was young and then I was old. There was some sex, somewhere in the middle. I remember...a lot of water and a star. It was dying. It was called...what was it called? Damn..." I looked at the bong in my hand, clenched it tight, dropped it on the halcyon floor and watched it bounce. "What else?" There were a few of them, all standing close, shoulder to shoulder in their tiny loft. I don't know why I listened to them. It felt like everything was emptying out of me, like water from a balloon. It wasn't worth it. "Uh, there was, like, all this stuff. Like our phones and stuff and computers and everyone was like addicted to it kind of like this stuff and drugs and stuff. There was a lot of drugs and a lot of stuff and everyone was dying, just like the Sun. Oh, yeah. It was called the Sun. The star. There was only one instead of three." "So it worked?" They had stopped writing. "You dreamed?" "I think so." I said, rubbing my head. "But I barely remember."
	[WP] People do not die until they have fulfilled their purpose in life.	"And turn the volume down!!" shouted Jeff Hanson. He slammed the door to the basement, which was also the door to the "apartment" of his 37 year old son. As the sound of digitized gunfire and energetic music vibrated through the floorboards, Jeff realized his son would live forever.	It’s dark. Cold. There’s nothing. They say everyone has a purpose, a meaning. That no one may pass onto the next world until they’ve fulfilled their role in this one. Now only I live. In the before times, where there was light, people, music, I was just another face. My friends and I’d go out to bars, and you know, all the normal things that normal people do. But I’m not normal. I couldn’t find my reason. Slowly I watched everyone I know find their meaning, then pass. My friend Kurt died in his late 20s, after his band took off. My mom died in her 80s, after watching her great-grand kids graduate. The tears stopped after the first century. After a while my new friends started to replace the old ones to the point where I didn’t even notice anymore. “FINALLY” I thought, I found my meaning, to befriend all and keep the stories of their youth alive. But I was wrong. Now only I live. It’s funny, people spent so much time imagining the end, we never stopped to think “What if we survive?” Humanity flourished, we carried on. We reached the stars. We preserved our presence. The big freeze, they called it, the absolute last major event in history. It turns out no matter how advanced we became, we never could outrun death. Super computers were built, with the sole task of trying to reverse entropy, trying to undo the expansion of life. The overambitious universe. Now only I live, tending to the computers. My role wasn’t to keep the story of mankind alive, It was to watch the universe die.
	[WP] The year is 2290. To test the existence of a soul once and for all, scientists place the still living brain of a long dead man inside of the body of a person who is brain dead. What happens when s/he wakes up?	Dark. Cold. I remember a car. Behind the wheel. Lights moving fast, faster than they should. Crash. Metal hitting metal. Glass shattering. Bright. White. Warm. I know everything, understand everything. I remember from days past to far in the future. All is seen, and all is calm. These are not my own memories. I do not remember these things. Not any more. My body feels different, smaller somehow. Like a home after being away for a number of years. Familiar, yet distant. I'm lying on a table. Surgery? Perhaps. Devices beep in the background, mumured voices fill the periphery. My knowledge is fading. I am becoming human again. My eyes, this body's eyes open as I look at the doctor. The man who stole me from heaven. I stare into his eyes, see no malice. Only curiosity, and a pain of past loss. He is only searching for answers. I see his wife, her lying on the pavement. The pain as he learns to live without her. A name. Helen. It would've been their 23 anniversary yesterday. She told me that, I recall. Kept track of the days somehow. Helped her to cope, I guess. I look into his eyes as he draws closer. "I'm sorry about Helen. You two made a beautiful couple. She always kept track of the days." Tears fall on this body's face as the doctor remembers. Just like that the moment is gone. The light fades. The dream ends. Now I am human again. Confused. Alone. "Why did you bring me back?"	Dark. Dark? A glow. The experience worked, it seems. I can smell the shapes of a body next to me. "Doctor Sahti?" A comforting orange answer, okay, thats him. How do I feel in there? There? Right, her body... My body now. It feels a bit panicked by my intrusion, but curious. "I N D I G O B.L.U.E." I answer, i'm fine. I guess. Sahti's voice turns green, anxious. Of course i'll be okay. Just need time to adjust. Dark green now. Not the problem? He talk about.. what? A loop? I don't get it. Dark. Dark?
	[WP] The year is 2290. To test the existence of a soul once and for all, scientists place the still living brain of a long dead man inside of the body of a person who is brain dead. What happens when s/he wakes up?	I sit straight up gasping for air. The world around me is pristine white and medical. The men all around in lab coats are taking notes and speaking a type of German I haven't heard before. Damn Nazi scientists must be doing some kind of experiment on me. I will finish my mission! I throw my hand out to grab a projectile from the table next to me, but my hand slaps the glass of water to the floor. Why is my arm so long? It's so dainty? This can't be real! They turned me into a dame! All my training is out the window if I can't even guage how long my limbs are, I have to fall back on instinct. The war criminals all around me are working up into a frenzy, calling out for backup is my guess. Good. Their panic is what I need. Shakily I roll out of the bed they have me on, grabbing a vase of flowers as I go. I chuck it at the nearest one catching him in the side of the head. He drops. I suppose even as a dame I am still the best at killing Germans. The rest of the scientists are running out the door and I should probably follow. I was so close last time. I am going to have to hurry if I am going to get that close to the Fuhrer again. I can hear security outside, this is my chance. I burst through the door only to feel, for the second time, a knife plunging into my chest.	"AHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!" Dropping his clipboard, the new intern rushed over to the operating theatre. Today was that day. Through the glass, a contorted body continued to writhe on the table. Movement of the arms and legs were punctuated by sudden gasps, which quickly reduced to feeble sobbing as the body clutched its head. The overseeing surgeon shook his head. "I should've known. The muscles are atrophied, the brain needs to adapt to external stimuli. Sedate him." The intern could only look on as the theatre lights were dimmed and the now resting body was rolled out.
First post	[WP] Write an uplifting story in under 8 setences	I didn't want to die; no one ever does, not really. They'll never know how much I gave up for them, simply because they held a space near and dear to my heart. They'll replace me soon enough, I'm not naive, I know how it works, but, for a few years, I was their protector, their guardian, their friend. It was the dead of night when he broke in, so trigger happy and ready to ruin my family's lives for his own foolish, personal high, that he didn't see me until I growled a warning; I'd hoped he'd see me and turn and run, but whatever he was on made him feel invincible. And so he'd raised the gun he held tightly in his shaking hand and fired. I was struck, shocked at first, but my adrenaline kicked in, and I ignored the pain, lunging towards him and tearing his throat out, feeling his life, as well as my own, fade away, and hearing feet coming down the stairs. My Masters leapt into action; the Man checked to make sure the intruder wasn't a danger, and the Woman cradled my head in her lap, weeping quiet tears of gratitude, stroking my fur, and praying to God to watch over me; their Guardian Angel. I died today, gladly protecting the ones I called family. (First time writing from a prompt. Coulda been better but, isn't that what the prompts are for? Lol.)	When she was five years old, my daughter asked what my favorite thing about her mother was. For a long while, all I could answer with was a blank stare into her so oppositely vibrant, familiar cornflower eyes--and for years after, I still didn't have a complete answer. When she was ten, she didn't understand why she was bullied at school. When I sat her down and told her that the world didn't understand all of the people in it, she couldn't see why not. When it finally came to her high school graduation, a dozen years and a hundred misunderstandings after that first question, I took her hands in mine. I told her that the reason she was who she was, was because of everything her mother was to me--as a lifelong friend, who helped me through our seemingly divergent paths, and as a donor of what would turn out to be everything she had. When she was bullied, when she chose to see through the bleakness of the world she lived in, when she took cap-and-gown photos with both of her fathers--I knew my favorite thing about her mother endured in herself, and that getting to see that every day was even better.
First post	[WP] Write an uplifting story in under 8 setences	There were stars and we shaped glass And the stars were drawn much closer There were germs and we shaped glass And their world was at our doorstep There was plague and we shaped glass Crafted cures to best our curses Still there are Death, Want, and War And heaps of glass left unexploited	When she was five years old, my daughter asked what my favorite thing about her mother was. For a long while, all I could answer with was a blank stare into her so oppositely vibrant, familiar cornflower eyes--and for years after, I still didn't have a complete answer. When she was ten, she didn't understand why she was bullied at school. When I sat her down and told her that the world didn't understand all of the people in it, she couldn't see why not. When it finally came to her high school graduation, a dozen years and a hundred misunderstandings after that first question, I took her hands in mine. I told her that the reason she was who she was, was because of everything her mother was to me--as a lifelong friend, who helped me through our seemingly divergent paths, and as a donor of what would turn out to be everything she had. When she was bullied, when she chose to see through the bleakness of the world she lived in, when she took cap-and-gown photos with both of her fathers--I knew my favorite thing about her mother endured in herself, and that getting to see that every day was even better.
First post	[WP] Write an uplifting story in under 8 setences	When I was a small child, no older than 7 or 8, I had an imaginary friend. Everyone has to grow up at some point though so when I moved house I decided to stop imagining him for good. I'm now an adult and living on my own in a small apartment in the middle of nowhere. I don't know a single person here who is my age and the only call I have received from my family came yesterday evening. They told me that mom died. Naturally, I travelled home in time to get to the funeral. At the funeral, there was an empty chair next to me with a note on it; seemed like someone decided my mother's funeral was not worth their time. I bent down to pick up the note curious, it read: "Never stop imagining, Mom x".	When she was five years old, my daughter asked what my favorite thing about her mother was. For a long while, all I could answer with was a blank stare into her so oppositely vibrant, familiar cornflower eyes--and for years after, I still didn't have a complete answer. When she was ten, she didn't understand why she was bullied at school. When I sat her down and told her that the world didn't understand all of the people in it, she couldn't see why not. When it finally came to her high school graduation, a dozen years and a hundred misunderstandings after that first question, I took her hands in mine. I told her that the reason she was who she was, was because of everything her mother was to me--as a lifelong friend, who helped me through our seemingly divergent paths, and as a donor of what would turn out to be everything she had. When she was bullied, when she chose to see through the bleakness of the world she lived in, when she took cap-and-gown photos with both of her fathers--I knew my favorite thing about her mother endured in herself, and that getting to see that every day was even better.
First post	[WP] Write an uplifting story in under 8 setences	the tortoise returns safely home. joe nods slowly and smiles. darkness is shooed away. the girl kisses the boy in the basement of the party. the 17 year old decides to cut off ties with his dealer. dad grows a beard. yoghurt half price.	I watched this happen from across the street. A rich wealthy man was speed walking down the sidewalk, probably has an important meeting, until a homeless woman asked for change. Even though change must mean nothing to this man, I didn't expect him to give any. Instead, he said something - I'm too far to hear - and the woman stood up and followed the man with an odd look. I wonder what he said. A few months later I was back in the area; the woman wasn't there anymore. Again, I saw the man walking but there was a change.. he seemed happier; then the same woman emerged from behind him and gave him a surprise hug-tackle. I guess we're not so bad after all.
First post	[WP] Write an uplifting story in under 8 setences	I knew the answer. I'd known it all along, so why did it just now feel like I had eaten my heart? She looked me in the eyes. Hers rimmed with tears. Oh god, answer the question! "I do."	I watched this happen from across the street. A rich wealthy man was speed walking down the sidewalk, probably has an important meeting, until a homeless woman asked for change. Even though change must mean nothing to this man, I didn't expect him to give any. Instead, he said something - I'm too far to hear - and the woman stood up and followed the man with an odd look. I wonder what he said. A few months later I was back in the area; the woman wasn't there anymore. Again, I saw the man walking but there was a change.. he seemed happier; then the same woman emerged from behind him and gave him a surprise hug-tackle. I guess we're not so bad after all.
First post	[WP] Write an uplifting story in under 8 setences	There were stars and we shaped glass And the stars were drawn much closer There were germs and we shaped glass And their world was at our doorstep There was plague and we shaped glass Crafted cures to best our curses Still there are Death, Want, and War And heaps of glass left unexploited	I watched this happen from across the street. A rich wealthy man was speed walking down the sidewalk, probably has an important meeting, until a homeless woman asked for change. Even though change must mean nothing to this man, I didn't expect him to give any. Instead, he said something - I'm too far to hear - and the woman stood up and followed the man with an odd look. I wonder what he said. A few months later I was back in the area; the woman wasn't there anymore. Again, I saw the man walking but there was a change.. he seemed happier; then the same woman emerged from behind him and gave him a surprise hug-tackle. I guess we're not so bad after all.
First post	[WP] Write an uplifting story in under 8 setences	When I was a small child, no older than 7 or 8, I had an imaginary friend. Everyone has to grow up at some point though so when I moved house I decided to stop imagining him for good. I'm now an adult and living on my own in a small apartment in the middle of nowhere. I don't know a single person here who is my age and the only call I have received from my family came yesterday evening. They told me that mom died. Naturally, I travelled home in time to get to the funeral. At the funeral, there was an empty chair next to me with a note on it; seemed like someone decided my mother's funeral was not worth their time. I bent down to pick up the note curious, it read: "Never stop imagining, Mom x".	I watched this happen from across the street. A rich wealthy man was speed walking down the sidewalk, probably has an important meeting, until a homeless woman asked for change. Even though change must mean nothing to this man, I didn't expect him to give any. Instead, he said something - I'm too far to hear - and the woman stood up and followed the man with an odd look. I wonder what he said. A few months later I was back in the area; the woman wasn't there anymore. Again, I saw the man walking but there was a change.. he seemed happier; then the same woman emerged from behind him and gave him a surprise hug-tackle. I guess we're not so bad after all.
First post	[WP] Write an uplifting story in under 8 setences	I knew the answer. I'd known it all along, so why did it just now feel like I had eaten my heart? She looked me in the eyes. Hers rimmed with tears. Oh god, answer the question! "I do."	the tortoise returns safely home. joe nods slowly and smiles. darkness is shooed away. the girl kisses the boy in the basement of the party. the 17 year old decides to cut off ties with his dealer. dad grows a beard. yoghurt half price.
First post	[WP] Write an uplifting story in under 8 setences	There were stars and we shaped glass And the stars were drawn much closer There were germs and we shaped glass And their world was at our doorstep There was plague and we shaped glass Crafted cures to best our curses Still there are Death, Want, and War And heaps of glass left unexploited	the tortoise returns safely home. joe nods slowly and smiles. darkness is shooed away. the girl kisses the boy in the basement of the party. the 17 year old decides to cut off ties with his dealer. dad grows a beard. yoghurt half price.
First post	[WP] Write an uplifting story in under 8 setences	When I was a small child, no older than 7 or 8, I had an imaginary friend. Everyone has to grow up at some point though so when I moved house I decided to stop imagining him for good. I'm now an adult and living on my own in a small apartment in the middle of nowhere. I don't know a single person here who is my age and the only call I have received from my family came yesterday evening. They told me that mom died. Naturally, I travelled home in time to get to the funeral. At the funeral, there was an empty chair next to me with a note on it; seemed like someone decided my mother's funeral was not worth their time. I bent down to pick up the note curious, it read: "Never stop imagining, Mom x".	the tortoise returns safely home. joe nods slowly and smiles. darkness is shooed away. the girl kisses the boy in the basement of the party. the 17 year old decides to cut off ties with his dealer. dad grows a beard. yoghurt half price.
First post	[WP] Write an uplifting story in under 8 setences	There were stars and we shaped glass And the stars were drawn much closer There were germs and we shaped glass And their world was at our doorstep There was plague and we shaped glass Crafted cures to best our curses Still there are Death, Want, and War And heaps of glass left unexploited	I knew the answer. I'd known it all along, so why did it just now feel like I had eaten my heart? She looked me in the eyes. Hers rimmed with tears. Oh god, answer the question! "I do."
First post	[WP] Write an uplifting story in under 8 setences	When I was a small child, no older than 7 or 8, I had an imaginary friend. Everyone has to grow up at some point though so when I moved house I decided to stop imagining him for good. I'm now an adult and living on my own in a small apartment in the middle of nowhere. I don't know a single person here who is my age and the only call I have received from my family came yesterday evening. They told me that mom died. Naturally, I travelled home in time to get to the funeral. At the funeral, there was an empty chair next to me with a note on it; seemed like someone decided my mother's funeral was not worth their time. I bent down to pick up the note curious, it read: "Never stop imagining, Mom x".	I knew the answer. I'd known it all along, so why did it just now feel like I had eaten my heart? She looked me in the eyes. Hers rimmed with tears. Oh god, answer the question! "I do."
	[WP] This is the story of how I got shot...	"Jesus H Christ Private Snuffy, WATCH were you point your WEAPON" The FNG that SGT Rock had just yelled at is going kill somebody if he doesn't get a friggin GRIP. Our squad had been inserted into MogaBlessYou and was in the process of heading to objective Alpha. We had been marching through the jungle for hours and the only thing we had seen were hordes of mosquitoes and the surrounding jungle. "Private SNUFFY" the Sergeant yelled "WHY THE HELL is your weapon not on SAFE? WHY is there a ROUND in your chamber?" "Oh hell" I think to myself. If any of you don't know, some Freaking New Guys just have to be Rambo. A round has to be in the chamber, the weapon cannot be on safe, and his finger simply MUST be on the trigger. Private Joe Snuffy was just such a Rambo. An hour later, we reached the edge of the tree line where an old dirt road cut through the jungle. The point raised a clenched fist as a signal to halt in place and I raised mine to pass it back. I looked back to ensure Snuffy had seen my signal and passed it back. He did. I dropped to my belly and crawled to the edge of the forest and looked across and down both directions of the road. It was clear. I slapped Booger, the point man, on the back to signal that I was ready to cross as he needed to cover me. I looked back and waved to Snuffy to come forward. I rolled to Booger's right and was on my feet in seconds, shooting across the road like I had been fired from a gun. I got about halfway across the road when I heard Snuffy trip behind me. I heard the the sound of rifle fire and suddenly my ass felt like it had caught fire and was burning. That dumb son of a bitch had tripped, fallen, and when he had hit the ground, he squeezed the trigger and shot me in my ass. They had to medevac me out.	Owen di la Martyn winced as the jailer opened the door to his cell, the beam of light spilling out on the floor and opposite wall directly into his flint grey eyes. The Ryn was filthy, his shoulder length blond hair tangled and unruly. His clothes were stained with with sweat and dirt and blood, his shoes falling apart at the seams of the battered leather soles. "Come, it is time." The man said with his Khadoran accent thick as borscht. Owen didn't argue. He was too tired to. The Llaelese man tried to remember how long it'd been since they caught him in a ambush. Weeks? Months? He couldn't tell, not when imprisoned in a windowless room and subjected to various tortures when they removed him from the cell. Owen himself was surprised at the seemingly infinite uses cold and ice possessed to torment someone. Being soaked to the bone in freezing water till hypothermia set in he'd expected, but he didn't expect to have to endure needle size icicles being thrust under his fingernails. The worst part was the medicos' skill at healing the damage done on his body. Frostbite was no stranger to them, and they were skilled enough to invoke prayers to heal his wounds. Blackened digits and broken bones could be healed with ease, just in time for the next day's session of questioning. At least this time he wouldn't be put back into the cell. Four guards were waiting for him to exit the cell, and they quickly and efficiently cuffed his hands to his ankles, leading him down the dimly lit hallway in a overbearing air. There were no other prisoners on this level, only numerous checkpoints and gates. Guttural Khadoran accompanied the exchanges of questions and answers, the guardsmen double checking each part of the process. Owen di la Martyn allowed a slight annoyed expression to cross his face. "Come on." He muttered in his native Llaelese. "I haven't got all day..." The various jailers glanced at their charge before smiling grimly amongst themselves. "Protocol you see." A sergeant said before ushering them onward. "I hope your stay with us was a pleasant one. Please recommend us to your family and business partners." Martyn smiled humoressly. "Aha, ahaha, go fuck yourself." The escort continued on until they climbed a series of steps, taking the beaten stone stairs carefully before coming to open air. Martyn gasped as the clean warm air hit his lungs for the first time in months. The sun was terribly bright, springtime it was he thought. Waiting for him were many people dressed in somber colors or else the red and yellow of Khador. A dozen or so were upper Khadoran civilians in charge of the occupation, paper pushers and other functionaries. Two soldiers in Man O' War armor stood to either side of the only other entrance, their annhilator blades crossed across the thick iron gate. Five Winter Guardsmen stood with rifles ready, a beautifully deadly woman in front of them. She smiled at the sight of Martyn, that same look that she gave every time she interrogated him. Martyn's eyes slid away from her gaze and landed on the wooden pillar sunk into the ground of the yard, a pocked mark brick wall behind it. A priest of Morrow waited besides it, garbed in the vestments of his faith. "The earth is still frozen right now." One of the guards said. Martyn shrugged, letting any fear wash over him. "I don't suppose you could lend me a fur coat then?"
	[WP] You're an employee in hell. Fed up with your current job you try everything possible to get a promotion.	"What", the great demon Blaurtoug spluttered, "is this meant to be, Smaslort!" A single elongated finger scratched at his furry tongue, quite incredulously. He was staring, dumbfounded, at the ring of tarmac that was currently being laid by chain-gangs of bulbous imps. Smaslort was a lot smaller than Blaurtoug. In fact, the lesser demon looked like a child in comparison to the hulking overseer - a strange and twisted child built mainly from bone. His lipless mouth, permanently grinning, seemed to widen further at his immediate superior's rage. "This is the future of Hell, Blaurtoug." Smaslort said, barely concealing his dislike for his small-minded boss."Mark my words, you'll be seeing one of these everywhere from the Screaming Pits to the Human Forest before long!" Blaurtoug's tail whipped the burnt earth beneath his feet, and every one of his seventeen shoulders bristled with with the purest annoyance. Meanwhile, a passing band of imps dragged a central divider past the two demons in their usual haphazard way, clunking and jabbering away as they went. "Your plans are always terrible, Smaslort. Look at the resources you're using up here! Two thousand imps. Just imagine - two thousands imps, whipping at one hundred times a minute... you've wasted thousands of torture-hours on this ridiculous pet project. Oh yes, I'm definitely going to have to write you up for this one." Blaurtoug pulled out a clipboard concealed in one of his spiny appendages and began filling out a form, labelled 'DEMON DISCIPLINARY PROCEDURE 221B-46'. "And this is your fourth warning this month" he continued. "You know what this means? A personal inspection from him." On speaking the last word, Blaurtoug pointed to the tower in the very centre of Hell, permanently encircled by a ring of malevolent red clouds. "And by him," Blaurtoug said, somewhat obviously, "I mean our Lord. Lucifer himself." Smaslort's shit-eating grin shrunk noticeably on the mention of that name. He had been expecting it - no, his plan relied on an inspection - but the name of the Lord of the Underworld spoken out loud was still enough to make him panic a little. Anything, he thought, anything was worth being promoted above the feckless Blaurtoug, no matter the risk involved. Smaslort saw him as the absolute embodiment of the ridiculous system of privilege that Hell ran by. Sure, he wasn't born with permanent flames erupting from his torso like Blaurtoug. Sure, he didn't have ninety-two different types of claw. But he had something else going for him. Something he was going to prove. Two imps dragged a few trees into place by the tarmac while others were laying down white markings. Blaurtoug had stomped off to Lucifer's lair to deliver his forms, so Smaslort rallied his troops with a crack of the whip. It was all coming together now. - "So they truly believe they're on the motorway?" Lucifer said, the pungent fumes from his breath almost causing Smaslort to lose consciousness as he spoke. "Yes, M'lord. You see, each of them believes themselves to be alive and late for a great event in their lives - graduation, a big job interview, the birth of a child - etc." There were cars all the way around the gigantic tarmac loop now, and a cacophony of horns rang from all around. Sometimes the traffic shifted forwards a little, but it never allowed more than a single lane to go at more than 5MPH for more than a few seconds. "But actually, they're all stuck in this traffic jam for eternity. They never realise they've been there forever and they'll be in this state for forever more. Their pain and frustration is permanent, thus filling my torture-quota for the month every twenty-four hours." Lucifer raised his formerly angelic head with a smile. "Oh my, small Smaslort. It appears you have bigger things in store than I ever imagined." In that very moment, Blaurtoug's sullen face was worth more to Smaslort than even returning to heaven. - >Hey guys, this is my first time contributing to /r/Writingprompts - long story short, fell out of love with writing and trying to pick it up again. CC welcome, but hope you enjoyed!	Everyday I slave away at work. Boss doesn't give a shit about what I do everyday. I even killed Gary or whatever his fucking name was and Satan doesn't even bat an eye. For fucks sake I even gassed 6 million jews while I was alive. What more does it fucking take? What else does he want me to do? My god Satan just promote me god damn it "Sorry Hitler, you're just not as sick and twisted as this 4chan guy."
	[WP] A teenage boy is woken up late at night to an AMBER alert on his phone that says that he is missing.	You’re jolted into consciousness by the electric shrill of your phone. With a painful moan, you gingerly reach for your sore, throbbing head. It’s wet. Blood.  You slowly become dimly aware that you’re not in your bedroom at home. The waxing crescent moon looms high above you in the flickering starlight, masked by shadowy wisps of clouds and the looming presence of the ragged pine trees jutting out of the damp foliage smothering the earth. Your phone screeches again. It’s a struggle to rummage through your pocket It’s hard to see on what the cracked, glitched out screen is trying to display, but you can barely make out the text. ̂ ͕̫ ͔̠͚͚͔͆̀ ̲̣̭̗̦ͯ̂̾̋̂ͥ͝Ả̵̹̞̺͓͇̭M͈͕̲̘͔͑ͪ8̀̚E̳͚̼̭̹͕͑̔ͭ̒̍̆̚R͔̭̜̈́ ͉A̷̜͖̦̥̰͖ͅL̴͙͔̩̺̪̬E͇R̞̻̆ͬ̌̑̋ͧ͒ͅT͚̼͑ͭͨͨ ̴́͌͊ͯͮ̈̚ ̶͙̼̳͉̗̇̂Ä͉̯̹̻͉̦̪́̈́̂ͤ͡p̖̝̖̪̜̰̀̌r͇̘̹̝͈̩̩͠i̦̬l͉̗͚̳̣̼̊͗͘ ̫͍̻͕̒͗́ͣͤ3̼̜̖̺̗̀ͧ̋ͬͅ0͉̹ͥ͑̆̀ ͯL̵͍̫̲̞̝͆I̘͓̒ͬͣ̈́̋͐C͇͙͚̉̂̃̈̋ͧ̀/̠͆͛ͧ̎ͫ̒͋8A̰̼̣̖̟̲͒̂̈́_̱̥͚̂̆ͅS̰̫ͣ̍̅̆͑0̦̘̥̜̑̆ͪ̽͑ͅ3̨̫̊ͪ ̮̟͔̩̰̱ͬ̎̎̔̏ͅ ̯̑̿̀̈ͬͮ͡1̦͍͇9̡͍͓̰ͫͅ9̌8̶̦͉̪̔̿̾ͧ ̧̯͔̺R̼̊e̮̥͈̬̅̅͌ͭͤ͌͡d͚̦͙͓͕ͯͥ ͕̘͚ͪ̽ͧͭF̻̤͈͎̭ͦͥ̂͟o̞r̤̙̯͔̘͚ͥ͑͘d́͏͈̻͎ͅ ̈́͏̤̺̥R̜̩͋̀ͥ͡a̯͓̲̰n͓̿ͭ͒̋g̩̰̼̰̟̙̑̓̀ę̯̬̝͎̲̏̋̑̎r̿ͪ͗͆͑͏̺͎̖̘͇̖ͅ You pass out right as you notice your name on the dying phone. --- It seems like hours later when you regain consciousness. The blood on your head is mostly dried up into a tough congealed mass, but you still feel dizzy and aching. Your phone is dead now. You need to figure out how you’re going to get out of here. You take a better look around, the harsh moonlight barely illuminating your surroundings. In the distance, you can see the glare of headlights coming from a still running, but empty truck. You freeze. There’s a man lying in a bed of the dead leaves nearby yourself, not more than a few steps away. It’s Darryl. You know him; everyone at your prep school knows him. He’s the college dropout/loser who always wears the same ratty red flannel every day you see him. He hangs around by a gas station nearby campus, looking to sell his goods to the bored rich kids wanting to party. Weed was just for starters; you know for a fact that many of your classmates were buying cocaine, bennies, xanax, and a whole pharmacy of other prescription meds from him. Of course, you’ve never tried the stuff. You were too smart for that. (Besides, you wouldn’t want to ruin your chances at getting into your university, would you?) You stumble over to him. There are bulges and dents warping his skull. Glassy eyes lay fixed and motionless towards the moon. A puddle of blood leaks out of his mouth, held open by jaws in a sick, unnatural angle. There’s a large, splintered branch covered in your bloody handprints dropped near his side. You shiver in the warm humid night. A quiet, steady voice in your head tells you: “It wasn’t your fault. You had to survive. Him, or you.”   You push the corpse over and fumble for the truck keys. You manage to clamber into the driver seat and get yourself out of the woods. You’re flagging down an officer on the country road. You wake up in a hospital.    ---    You’re touring the school’s campus in your freshmen orientation group. It’s still early fall; the trees haven’t shed their leaves yet. The brisk air makes everyone huddle close together for warmth, even though the sun is beaming down on the dew-covered grass. The group is busy introducing themselves to each other; excited discussions about classes and football and parties floats around. You pay only the minimum amount of attention to their trivialities. You’re searching for something else. There; you spot a girl who’s acting just slightly too gregarious. Well, actually, you probably should’ve just been looking at her rasta bracelet. Well, it’s not too obvious, you suppose, but it should still be plenty advertisement for anyone looking.  You make your way over to her with a practiced smile. “Hey there,” you introduce yourself. “I guess you smoke too, huh?” You glance at her bracelet. She laughs.   “Yup, just a little from time to time. I’ve been meaning to try acid and maybe coke while I’m here in college though! You know what they say about experimentation, right?” The girl flippantly shrugs, grinning. “Actually, I think I know how to get some,” you start prodding. “One of the other people I’ve talked to says he knows a guy who sells in the dorms. It’s pretty expensive individually though, but if you get it in larger quantities it starts getting a lot cheaper. Plus, you can just sell off whatever you don’t want, right?”   “Right…” The girl nodded thoughtfully, but you could see the eagerness. The considerations. Just like with the others you pitched to.   You’re smarter now. You don’t supply directly to the low-level dealers anymore. Layers upon layers of deniability. The people you directly supply to don’t even know who they’re getting it from. They just know the dropsites and the phone numbers of your burners. And if any of them do figure out who you are and try to blackmail you, well…you don’t want to relive the situation with Darryl again, but it’s better to linger that above their heads so they don’t fuck with you. Them, or you.	Huh? What? Amber Alert? Who gives a shit, I'm not a missing child. I beg to differ. Hey, who are you? What are you doing in my room? Your room is a 1988 Winnebago? Well... yeah. I know! That's why kidnapping you was so easy. I got behind the wheel, I slit your parents throats-- You what now? And here we are, a good fifty miles from where you were parked. My parents are dead? Yeah, YOU'RE WELCOME. I've been scoping your facebook page for weeks. "I wish my mom was dead!" Well, careful what you wish for. I'm the closest you're ever gonna get to a genie. You killed my mom? And your dad, too. Hey, it's his fault for being here, otherwise he could be out for a swim or something. But he's just floating off the coast instead. I thought you said you slit their throats? And then I pushed them into the ocean. WORK WITH ME HERE! Anyhow, don't worry, I'm not gonna do weird sex things to you. Oh, good. Well, maybe. I mean, YOLO, right? Please no! Kidding! I'm taking you to my house. My wife and I could never have a kid, so we just stole you. Why? I'm 17? Yeah, like we're gonna deal with the diaper phase. And the expensive early days of child rearing. The orthodontist. The trumpet lessons. No thank you, Mr President! We got you now, then you're out on your 18th birthday. I turn 18 in two days. Then you're gonna need to find a new Winnebago then and pay for your own college. You killed my parents for this? Well, that and for sport, you know, like that one Ice-T and Gary Busey movie. But if I didn't, God would have gotten them in the end. He always wins. Yeah, I guess. Hahahahahaha! Oh, man, the universe is cruel! I wonder what will happen to us nex-- (Winnebago explodes) (freeze frame) (applause) (executive producer credit) Fremulon
	[WP] A teenage boy is woken up late at night to an AMBER alert on his phone that says that he is missing.	Bing The loud noise of my phone infiltrates my subconscious. I internally sigh, pull the pillow over my face, and almost instantly fall back asleep. Bing Bing The noise wouldn't quit. I grab my phone from the side, reaching out to muffle the piercing tones. I felt groggy, and my throat felt like sandpaper. Maybe I had one too many swigs straight from my parents liquor cabinet last night. Bing A picture of my face flashes up on my screen. It takes a while for me to wake up properly. My surroundings felt familiar, but I couldn't recognise any of the furnishings. My stomach dropped, and I turned my attention back to my phone. "AMBER alert: Teenager Eric Iser reported missing from home, last seen in Andover, VT" But, this made no sense, I was the only Eric Iser that lived in Andover, it's a tiny town, the kind of place where you would know if someone shared your moniker. I hear voices nearby, so I open my mouth to shout, but nothing comes out. It is too dark to see my surroundings, but I can vaguely make out a lamp on the other side of the room. I try to swing my legs off the side of the bed, but realise my legs and torso are bound to the bed. The lamp looks like something I had when I was a kid, the kind of thing that gets assimilated in various moves. I can still hear people below me, but the voices are fading fast. I again try to let out a noise to alert them to my presence but all that comes out is a strangled gurgle. I reach for my phone, just as the battery flickers and dies. I panic. I hear a door shut in the distance, followed by footsteps coming closer. A hole in floor opens, bathing the room in a warm light. In the light I recognise my old guitar from fifth grade, a couple of tents from when my family used to go camping, and boxes of discarded toys. I jolt to the realisation that I was imprisoned in my own attic. I see a figure emerge through the trap door. She stands there staring at me, a strange smile on her face. I try to plead with my eyes 'why?' She realises what I'm trying to ask, and chuckles under her breath. 'How else am I supposed to get noticed in this small town? But it's finally happened Eric, your mother is finally on TV' She flicks her hair, almost manically. 'Sorry about the vocal cords Eric, they were a necessity.' Her eyes glinted. 'But don't worry, I'll make sure we both go down in history'	It was originally called Wristcutteria. Then we thought that was too emo, and we changed it to Freedomnia. We thought that was too on the nose, so, again, we changed it. To United Youth State. UYS. We didn't think that one was too emo or on the nose or lame or anything. UYS. So it stayed. 'You-why-ass', for shorts. Or not . Whatever. That's our country, anyway. This started out as a joke (I think), and a joke it was until like five minutes ago. Started out as a commentary between puffs of marijuana smoke by Shannon, like, "You know what? We should start our own country". We were at the old Steinberg's ruins -- that abandoned house at the top of the hill on the end of the street of every town in America, you know? Ours was in Flagstaff, Arizona. Our little headquarters. Our fort. Our tree house. Really just a place to smoke pot and listen to music and hate our parents, is what it was. Me, Shannon, Gary and Timmy. Our sad little gang of bad haircuts and cigarettes. "Our own country?" I asked. "Yeah, Charlie. Our own country. Why every time someone says something to you, you gotta repeat the last thing they say before actually reacting to the thing they actually said?" "The thing they actually said?" "You guys should read Fleur du Mal, by Baudelaire", Timmy said, taking the joint out of my hand. "I think it'd be cool to have our own country", Gary intervened. "We could make pot legal." "How do you make a country, anyway?" Timmy asked. "Make a country?" I asked, taking the joint. ____________________ See? That's how it started. A joke. A pot-passing-circle in the ruins of an abandoned house joke that grew larger and larger and larger until I got the AMBER alert. I'm missing. I'm not, really. I mean, to my parents, I probably am. But I'm not missing. I'm right here. Right here at You Why Ass, smoking and writing as we speak and telling you this has gone too far. In a good way, maybe. But too far. Our country, it has a flag now, and an anthem. It has a population of 32 young miserable upper class punk rock listening kids who think their life is shit because their parents took them to Disney World instead of Albania. That's our people. Our proud. Our free and our brave. Kids who read Ham on Rye and Catcher and watched Fight Club twice and now think they know what the whole world is about. You see, I'm one of them. But I can distance myself enough to see us for what we are. Isn't that cool? That makes me even more special. Specialler. Now it's been two months, and we're here at a big old house in Blah Bah Blah Town (I'm not disclosing exactly where because... well, you probably got the AMBER alerts, too, and we're not stupid), and things grew. We live here, all 32 of us. The house is almost no big enough, but if functions. We separate tasks. One day I do the laundry. One day Shannon and the girls, they clean the floor. One day I go with some guys to the supermarket and steal some shit for us to eat. One day Timmy climbs his bedroom in the middle of the night and takes some money from his mother's purse. One day he tells us she's got pills in her purse. He thinks it's all the stress from her child being missing and all. Timmy took the pills and we had a fun night. One day we try and plant some lettuce and we fail. One day we get fast food from the garbage. We've been making it work, more or less. Our little country. We're learning. But it was a joke. Something we could back off of. Something I could just say, "You know what? This is crazy", and let go. Until. __________________________ The thing we need, now that we have a flag and an anthem, Shannon is telling us -- is an army. "An army?" I say. "An army. Let's face it. The US won't recognize us as an independent state. Neither will any of the other countries in the world." "Maybe Canada", Timmy tries. "Yeah, they're not really a country, as well, Timmy. Wake up." Shannon clears her throat. We're all listening in a circle like AA member as she talks between crossing and uncrossing leather pant legs and smoking her thin log cloves. "We need armed response, case the police ever finds out about us. And sooner or later they will, what with every one of our faces in the news now." "And if they come here?" "Well, they'll take us back to our parents", Gary explains. "And there's nothing we can do." "Which is why we need an army", Shannon says. "If and when the police gets here, we should be able to hold our ground." She pauses. "If the police, or our parents, or whomever... If they cross into our back or front yard. Into our borders... We declare war." "And to declare war... We need an army", Gary completes. "An army..." I say. "Hey..." A boy in a blue Simple Plan sweater raises his hand. "I'm all up for that and all... But where are we getting guns?" And Shannon pulls a pistol from her leather pants and the moment she takes the metal out and the leather pulls away and I can see her pale skin under and inside for a second I feel all kinds of funny inside. "We have one already. We'll work on getting everyone a gun, in time." What I feel is uneasy. And not just because of Shannon's legs. Another hand in the air. "Shannon... What... Uh..." The little blond girl with the Jared Leto T-Shirt clears her throat. "What happened to that garbage man that came over last night? The one who said we couldn't be here in the house? The one who said he was going to call the police." Silence. Now this sounds like everyone was wanting to ask this shit, and this girl lost the bet and had to do it, shaking as she is. Staring from her to Shannon to her as everyone else is. No one blinks. "Cause... Uh..." Another hand in the air. "We heard a noise. A bang. And... Uh --" "A bang", I say, and I look at Shannon. She doesn't blink. I think I know what happened to the garbage man. You see? This was a joke, not too long ago. Now it's not that funny anymore.
	[WP] One day you wake up and there are no numbers floating over peoples head because we finally stopped doing prompts about that	Susan was going ballistic, arms flailing, hair in a brown mess, her blue eyes were wide open. "But I need my numbers!" She walked over to her bed. I spoke up, "No, you don't. It going to be ok Sus-" She turned around a pushed me against the wall. Her eyebrows furrowed in anger. She yelled into my face, "YOU DONT UNDERSTAND, I NEED THE NUMBERS!" I put my hand on Susan's shoulder. I really hated doing this. "It'll be alright" She hugged me, my ribs felt like they were going to crack. She stuffed her face into my chest. A muffled voice said, "But I had so many ideas, so many things I've seen. They were real!" "It will be alright. Look, its almost 12 now. Lets have lunch and then you take your pills, ok?" She looked up at me, "Dr.Stevens, will the numbers ever come back?" I looked away, "hopefully" -not. "what about my friends, the other people who see the numbers?" Looks like it was feeding into her delusions. I really should block r/writingprompts on her laptop... "I'm sure they will come back." Hopefully with better content.	Since the day I turned 16, I saw numbers above people's heads. That was they day we got out super powers. The meanings changed for everyone. For Sylvia, it was the number of days until she found her soulmate. For the president of Czechoslovakia, it was the percentage of the vote he won, and for the aliens that showed up at the whitehouse it was their attraction to human libido. Even actors in post-apocalyptic movies had numbers above corresponding to how likely they were to get zombified or how accurately they reflected the Apocalypse. One day I walked to the mirror and the numbers were gone. "Mom!" I cried out, "I can't see my numbers." She walked over from the living room and sighed. "A girl in Kansas just got the superpower to make anything she reads on reddit come true. I think there was a writing prompt about numbers or people losing super powers. " "oh," I said, too stunned by the news to wonder how my mother knew about reddit, "So if I want my powers back, I need to make a link about it get to the front page?" She shrugged, "worth a shot, kiddo."
	[WP] One day you wake up and there are no numbers floating over peoples head because we finally stopped doing prompts about that	Susan was going ballistic, arms flailing, hair in a brown mess, her blue eyes were wide open. "But I need my numbers!" She walked over to her bed. I spoke up, "No, you don't. It going to be ok Sus-" She turned around a pushed me against the wall. Her eyebrows furrowed in anger. She yelled into my face, "YOU DONT UNDERSTAND, I NEED THE NUMBERS!" I put my hand on Susan's shoulder. I really hated doing this. "It'll be alright" She hugged me, my ribs felt like they were going to crack. She stuffed her face into my chest. A muffled voice said, "But I had so many ideas, so many things I've seen. They were real!" "It will be alright. Look, its almost 12 now. Lets have lunch and then you take your pills, ok?" She looked up at me, "Dr.Stevens, will the numbers ever come back?" I looked away, "hopefully" -not. "what about my friends, the other people who see the numbers?" Looks like it was feeding into her delusions. I really should block r/writingprompts on her laptop... "I'm sure they will come back." Hopefully with better content.	Turns out I'm not worth 50 trill, it was a side effect from the pills / that they're making me take 'cause I act like a flake ever since that motorbike spill.
	[WP] One day you wake up and there are no numbers floating over peoples head because we finally stopped doing prompts about that	Susan was going ballistic, arms flailing, hair in a brown mess, her blue eyes were wide open. "But I need my numbers!" She walked over to her bed. I spoke up, "No, you don't. It going to be ok Sus-" She turned around a pushed me against the wall. Her eyebrows furrowed in anger. She yelled into my face, "YOU DONT UNDERSTAND, I NEED THE NUMBERS!" I put my hand on Susan's shoulder. I really hated doing this. "It'll be alright" She hugged me, my ribs felt like they were going to crack. She stuffed her face into my chest. A muffled voice said, "But I had so many ideas, so many things I've seen. They were real!" "It will be alright. Look, its almost 12 now. Lets have lunch and then you take your pills, ok?" She looked up at me, "Dr.Stevens, will the numbers ever come back?" I looked away, "hopefully" -not. "what about my friends, the other people who see the numbers?" Looks like it was feeding into her delusions. I really should block r/writingprompts on her laptop... "I'm sure they will come back." Hopefully with better content.	I agree that some writing prompts are recycled way too much. One writing prompt that I could do without is Hitler. Apart from Jesus Christ did some people go overboard with that one. It's like every day. One about him being the new savior, reincarnated, stealing ice cream, being a tranny. Lets give it a rest.
	[WP] One day you wake up and there are no numbers floating over peoples head because we finally stopped doing prompts about that	I yawned and stepped in front of the mirror to brush my hair. It took a few seconds to realise what was wrong: there were no numbers above my head. In shock I dropped my brush. For ever since I can remember everyone has floating numbers or text messages above their heads. It differed per day what information was given, so if you saw the same person often you learned a lot about them. But now, the numbers were gone. I immedeately checked number.prompt.com, the newssite about all the numbers, what kind of number people today have and which celebrities had what numbers. Empty. Nothing. It didnt even load. It just directed me to www.bbc.co.uk. Nowhere on the internet was anything found about these numbers. Was it all just a dream?	"God dammit!" I punched the wall in anger. I saw the mirror shake a bit. I glanced again to see if it was true. The space above my head was empty. Blank. Nothing. no number, no latter, not even a floating dirt stain. "I can't believe this!" I shouted again. "You see it too, Bruce?" "Yes Adolf, I see that too. The numbers are gone." We both stood in silence for a few moments. Or minutes. I couldn't even tell the difference. All I could think about was the numbers. "What now?" I asked. Honestly, what more could I do? Without the numbers, there was no more meaning. Everything I thought about, it always had the numbers. And now.. "Well, you could try writing about some Greek gods.. Erm, super powers seems to be popular with the kids those da.." "Nein!" I screamed! He didn't understand. The numbers, they are all that mattered. I could hardly go a few minutes without thinking about them. And now, they are gone. All gone. "You know, you could write about wishes again..." "Wishes? Wieshes? This isn't nineteen bloody ninety five! Nobody writes about wishes! ARGH!" I looked in the mirror again. I saw tears in my reflection's eyes. Bats didn't say anything for a few minutes. "I'm sorry Adolf. But we have to move on now". "What now? Write another short story about Lucifer? Or do you want to write about some damn aliens again? Blah!" I spit in disgust. Why would they do it? Why would the mods remove all stories with those rad, beautiful floating numbers above people's heads? My life is ruined, I realized. I took the Chronoport amulet out of my pocket. I glanced behind my back - Bruce wasn't looking. Nineteen... Nineteen. If I have to suffer, I will make sure the world suffers with me.
	[WP] One day you wake up and there are no numbers floating over peoples head because we finally stopped doing prompts about that	Norman got up, realizing that, as always, nothing floated up above his head. He shaved, got a cup, filled it with coffee, said goodbye to Norman, his cat, and headed out to work. 😀	"God dammit!" I punched the wall in anger. I saw the mirror shake a bit. I glanced again to see if it was true. The space above my head was empty. Blank. Nothing. no number, no latter, not even a floating dirt stain. "I can't believe this!" I shouted again. "You see it too, Bruce?" "Yes Adolf, I see that too. The numbers are gone." We both stood in silence for a few moments. Or minutes. I couldn't even tell the difference. All I could think about was the numbers. "What now?" I asked. Honestly, what more could I do? Without the numbers, there was no more meaning. Everything I thought about, it always had the numbers. And now.. "Well, you could try writing about some Greek gods.. Erm, super powers seems to be popular with the kids those da.." "Nein!" I screamed! He didn't understand. The numbers, they are all that mattered. I could hardly go a few minutes without thinking about them. And now, they are gone. All gone. "You know, you could write about wishes again..." "Wishes? Wieshes? This isn't nineteen bloody ninety five! Nobody writes about wishes! ARGH!" I looked in the mirror again. I saw tears in my reflection's eyes. Bats didn't say anything for a few minutes. "I'm sorry Adolf. But we have to move on now". "What now? Write another short story about Lucifer? Or do you want to write about some damn aliens again? Blah!" I spit in disgust. Why would they do it? Why would the mods remove all stories with those rad, beautiful floating numbers above people's heads? My life is ruined, I realized. I took the Chronoport amulet out of my pocket. I glanced behind my back - Bruce wasn't looking. Nineteen... Nineteen. If I have to suffer, I will make sure the world suffers with me.
	[WP] One day you wake up and there are no numbers floating over peoples head because we finally stopped doing prompts about that	I wake up and brush the sleep from my eyes, though as I examine the ceiling I realize there is no information cluttering my field of view. "Well." I say, "I guess I have to start using Facebook again."	"God dammit!" I punched the wall in anger. I saw the mirror shake a bit. I glanced again to see if it was true. The space above my head was empty. Blank. Nothing. no number, no latter, not even a floating dirt stain. "I can't believe this!" I shouted again. "You see it too, Bruce?" "Yes Adolf, I see that too. The numbers are gone." We both stood in silence for a few moments. Or minutes. I couldn't even tell the difference. All I could think about was the numbers. "What now?" I asked. Honestly, what more could I do? Without the numbers, there was no more meaning. Everything I thought about, it always had the numbers. And now.. "Well, you could try writing about some Greek gods.. Erm, super powers seems to be popular with the kids those da.." "Nein!" I screamed! He didn't understand. The numbers, they are all that mattered. I could hardly go a few minutes without thinking about them. And now, they are gone. All gone. "You know, you could write about wishes again..." "Wishes? Wieshes? This isn't nineteen bloody ninety five! Nobody writes about wishes! ARGH!" I looked in the mirror again. I saw tears in my reflection's eyes. Bats didn't say anything for a few minutes. "I'm sorry Adolf. But we have to move on now". "What now? Write another short story about Lucifer? Or do you want to write about some damn aliens again? Blah!" I spit in disgust. Why would they do it? Why would the mods remove all stories with those rad, beautiful floating numbers above people's heads? My life is ruined, I realized. I took the Chronoport amulet out of my pocket. I glanced behind my back - Bruce wasn't looking. Nineteen... Nineteen. If I have to suffer, I will make sure the world suffers with me.
	[WP] One day you wake up and there are no numbers floating over peoples head because we finally stopped doing prompts about that	When I saw Mom, I was surprised. First of all, her danger number, formally a ten was now nonexistent. Also, she was whistling and seemed happy. "Hi, Mom," I said. "Oh, honey! It's amazing! All of the numbers are gone!" I started to sigh in the teenager way, but then I realized something, "wait, you could see the numbers, too?" "Yes, I could. Everyone could. They all meant different things, though." I nodded, "mine represented danger," "Yes, that one was quite popular, wasn't it?" I coughed. My mother nodded. We both stood still and watched the news, which, ~~in the Deus ex Machina way~~ was on this whole time. They were talking about how there'd been another attempt to bring Hitler into The Plot. Then, they talked about how the sightings of Satan had gone down, as well as the amount of superheros. All in all, life in ~~an alternate universe based off /r/writingprompts~~ the real world seemed to be in an upswing. Except, that there were a few more wars than usual this week. But it wasn't as bad as the number of hardboiled detectives that had existed a week ago. Unexpectedly, Mom started sobbing. "What is it?" I whispered. I was terrified of defying The Plot. "I'm just sick of it, Jason. Sick of having to follow The Plot, sick of not knowing where Satan or Hitler will show up next. You're going to college soon; I don't want you to have to get involved in any hunger games," "You can't say these things," I said, nervously, "they'll hear, they'll write you out." She started sobbing again, but this time, she pulled me closer. She said, "me and my friends, we've started a resistanc–" and just like that, she stopped existing. The Plot swirlled around my mouring, tryinh to give her a plausible reason to not exist. So, I didn't mourn her. I didn't mourn her harder than Thomas Throne did not mourn his sibling. At least, that was what I told myself as I kept watching the news. The were a few stories about serial killers, a few about pedophilla, and an odd one about a squirrel and a life debt. But then, something faded into existance above the newscaster's head. It was a price tag. $500,000. The next stage of The Plot was beginning. So, I slowly opened a drawer, and pulled out a notepad. I also took out a pen. To whomever may find this I wrote we don't have to live in fear anymore. There's a resistance gro	"God dammit!" I punched the wall in anger. I saw the mirror shake a bit. I glanced again to see if it was true. The space above my head was empty. Blank. Nothing. no number, no latter, not even a floating dirt stain. "I can't believe this!" I shouted again. "You see it too, Bruce?" "Yes Adolf, I see that too. The numbers are gone." We both stood in silence for a few moments. Or minutes. I couldn't even tell the difference. All I could think about was the numbers. "What now?" I asked. Honestly, what more could I do? Without the numbers, there was no more meaning. Everything I thought about, it always had the numbers. And now.. "Well, you could try writing about some Greek gods.. Erm, super powers seems to be popular with the kids those da.." "Nein!" I screamed! He didn't understand. The numbers, they are all that mattered. I could hardly go a few minutes without thinking about them. And now, they are gone. All gone. "You know, you could write about wishes again..." "Wishes? Wieshes? This isn't nineteen bloody ninety five! Nobody writes about wishes! ARGH!" I looked in the mirror again. I saw tears in my reflection's eyes. Bats didn't say anything for a few minutes. "I'm sorry Adolf. But we have to move on now". "What now? Write another short story about Lucifer? Or do you want to write about some damn aliens again? Blah!" I spit in disgust. Why would they do it? Why would the mods remove all stories with those rad, beautiful floating numbers above people's heads? My life is ruined, I realized. I took the Chronoport amulet out of my pocket. I glanced behind my back - Bruce wasn't looking. Nineteen... Nineteen. If I have to suffer, I will make sure the world suffers with me.
	[WP] One day you wake up and there are no numbers floating over peoples head because we finally stopped doing prompts about that	I wake up and brush the sleep from my eyes, though as I examine the ceiling I realize there is no information cluttering my field of view. "Well." I say, "I guess I have to start using Facebook again."	The alarm clock still buzzed in my head as I dragged myself out of bed groggily, shuffling toward the bathroom door. Once inside, I weakly squeezed some paste onto the head of my toothbrush and started scrubbing, my eyes wandering up to the mirror. My brushing hand froze, along with the rest of my body, and my eyes widened. Where had they gone? Where were my numbers? My 0/0 kill-death ratio proving I'm not a murderer, the $5,000 net value of my life (that one was pretty pathetic compared to most, so I figured I could do without mourning its disappearance), the ever-changing date of my death (last I saw it said twelve days away, which was as comforting as it was terrifying, is that locked in now?)... all of them, gone! Dropping my brush and quickly spitting, I dashed down the stairs and out onto the busy street. The masses of pedestrians walking down the wide sidewalk were all barren like me. So is this what it's like to be one of them? No readout on everyone's stats? As people walked by, I couldn't even tell how many sexual exploits they'd had, whether they'd killed, how many lies they'd told, how much they liked me, or anything else. They were all walking enigmas now. How do they live like this? So... blind. Once I finally got over the shock and confusion, I decided to investigate the cause. The source of my "powers," the subreddit that always caused such strange things to happen to me... something must have changed. I darted back inside my dingy apartment and fired up the noisy old computer. Once it was ready I navigated to /r/writingprompts, and was met as I suspected by a catchy green sticky at the top. NEW RULE: No more prompts about numbers floating over heads! Well damn.
	[WP] One day you wake up and there are no numbers floating over peoples head because we finally stopped doing prompts about that	When I saw Mom, I was surprised. First of all, her danger number, formally a ten was now nonexistent. Also, she was whistling and seemed happy. "Hi, Mom," I said. "Oh, honey! It's amazing! All of the numbers are gone!" I started to sigh in the teenager way, but then I realized something, "wait, you could see the numbers, too?" "Yes, I could. Everyone could. They all meant different things, though." I nodded, "mine represented danger," "Yes, that one was quite popular, wasn't it?" I coughed. My mother nodded. We both stood still and watched the news, which, ~~in the Deus ex Machina way~~ was on this whole time. They were talking about how there'd been another attempt to bring Hitler into The Plot. Then, they talked about how the sightings of Satan had gone down, as well as the amount of superheros. All in all, life in ~~an alternate universe based off /r/writingprompts~~ the real world seemed to be in an upswing. Except, that there were a few more wars than usual this week. But it wasn't as bad as the number of hardboiled detectives that had existed a week ago. Unexpectedly, Mom started sobbing. "What is it?" I whispered. I was terrified of defying The Plot. "I'm just sick of it, Jason. Sick of having to follow The Plot, sick of not knowing where Satan or Hitler will show up next. You're going to college soon; I don't want you to have to get involved in any hunger games," "You can't say these things," I said, nervously, "they'll hear, they'll write you out." She started sobbing again, but this time, she pulled me closer. She said, "me and my friends, we've started a resistanc–" and just like that, she stopped existing. The Plot swirlled around my mouring, tryinh to give her a plausible reason to not exist. So, I didn't mourn her. I didn't mourn her harder than Thomas Throne did not mourn his sibling. At least, that was what I told myself as I kept watching the news. The were a few stories about serial killers, a few about pedophilla, and an odd one about a squirrel and a life debt. But then, something faded into existance above the newscaster's head. It was a price tag. $500,000. The next stage of The Plot was beginning. So, I slowly opened a drawer, and pulled out a notepad. I also took out a pen. To whomever may find this I wrote we don't have to live in fear anymore. There's a resistance gro	The alarm clock still buzzed in my head as I dragged myself out of bed groggily, shuffling toward the bathroom door. Once inside, I weakly squeezed some paste onto the head of my toothbrush and started scrubbing, my eyes wandering up to the mirror. My brushing hand froze, along with the rest of my body, and my eyes widened. Where had they gone? Where were my numbers? My 0/0 kill-death ratio proving I'm not a murderer, the $5,000 net value of my life (that one was pretty pathetic compared to most, so I figured I could do without mourning its disappearance), the ever-changing date of my death (last I saw it said twelve days away, which was as comforting as it was terrifying, is that locked in now?)... all of them, gone! Dropping my brush and quickly spitting, I dashed down the stairs and out onto the busy street. The masses of pedestrians walking down the wide sidewalk were all barren like me. So is this what it's like to be one of them? No readout on everyone's stats? As people walked by, I couldn't even tell how many sexual exploits they'd had, whether they'd killed, how many lies they'd told, how much they liked me, or anything else. They were all walking enigmas now. How do they live like this? So... blind. Once I finally got over the shock and confusion, I decided to investigate the cause. The source of my "powers," the subreddit that always caused such strange things to happen to me... something must have changed. I darted back inside my dingy apartment and fired up the noisy old computer. Once it was ready I navigated to /r/writingprompts, and was met as I suspected by a catchy green sticky at the top. NEW RULE: No more prompts about numbers floating over heads! Well damn.
	[WP] One day you wake up and there are no numbers floating over peoples head because we finally stopped doing prompts about that	The morning was frigid, too cold for the dead The morning that everything changed That morning when everyone looked overhead And felt they'd become most deranged No digits adorned them, that brisk winter morn No quantification or number Nothing to advertise, notice, or warn When woke they up from their slumber Without such an accurate, straight indication Of everyone's purpose of birth How could you know whom to trust--ah, damnation How could you tell someone's worth? On what would societal hierarchy rest On what would we base our opinion How would we separate sovereign from pest How would we keep our dominion Yet after that morning, everything shifted What mattered before mattered less It felt like a terrible weight had been lifted The end of an infinite stress As we all looked away from above our heads To our parents and sister and brother As we noticed we looked at the faces instead We noticed we noticed each other	The alarm clock still buzzed in my head as I dragged myself out of bed groggily, shuffling toward the bathroom door. Once inside, I weakly squeezed some paste onto the head of my toothbrush and started scrubbing, my eyes wandering up to the mirror. My brushing hand froze, along with the rest of my body, and my eyes widened. Where had they gone? Where were my numbers? My 0/0 kill-death ratio proving I'm not a murderer, the $5,000 net value of my life (that one was pretty pathetic compared to most, so I figured I could do without mourning its disappearance), the ever-changing date of my death (last I saw it said twelve days away, which was as comforting as it was terrifying, is that locked in now?)... all of them, gone! Dropping my brush and quickly spitting, I dashed down the stairs and out onto the busy street. The masses of pedestrians walking down the wide sidewalk were all barren like me. So is this what it's like to be one of them? No readout on everyone's stats? As people walked by, I couldn't even tell how many sexual exploits they'd had, whether they'd killed, how many lies they'd told, how much they liked me, or anything else. They were all walking enigmas now. How do they live like this? So... blind. Once I finally got over the shock and confusion, I decided to investigate the cause. The source of my "powers," the subreddit that always caused such strange things to happen to me... something must have changed. I darted back inside my dingy apartment and fired up the noisy old computer. Once it was ready I navigated to /r/writingprompts, and was met as I suspected by a catchy green sticky at the top. NEW RULE: No more prompts about numbers floating over heads! Well damn.
	[WP] One day you wake up and there are no numbers floating over peoples head because we finally stopped doing prompts about that	"Yo, dude, there's no number over your head?" "Yea, the mods decided that it's an overused theme, so there's no number anymore!" "What? Mods? What are you talking about?" "Well, we're put here as a hypothetical device to test out scenarios that the writers post on Reddit. And these scenarios are regulated by the forum mods on Reddit." "... man. You're crazy, abed." "Cool. Cool cool cool."	The alarm clock still buzzed in my head as I dragged myself out of bed groggily, shuffling toward the bathroom door. Once inside, I weakly squeezed some paste onto the head of my toothbrush and started scrubbing, my eyes wandering up to the mirror. My brushing hand froze, along with the rest of my body, and my eyes widened. Where had they gone? Where were my numbers? My 0/0 kill-death ratio proving I'm not a murderer, the $5,000 net value of my life (that one was pretty pathetic compared to most, so I figured I could do without mourning its disappearance), the ever-changing date of my death (last I saw it said twelve days away, which was as comforting as it was terrifying, is that locked in now?)... all of them, gone! Dropping my brush and quickly spitting, I dashed down the stairs and out onto the busy street. The masses of pedestrians walking down the wide sidewalk were all barren like me. So is this what it's like to be one of them? No readout on everyone's stats? As people walked by, I couldn't even tell how many sexual exploits they'd had, whether they'd killed, how many lies they'd told, how much they liked me, or anything else. They were all walking enigmas now. How do they live like this? So... blind. Once I finally got over the shock and confusion, I decided to investigate the cause. The source of my "powers," the subreddit that always caused such strange things to happen to me... something must have changed. I darted back inside my dingy apartment and fired up the noisy old computer. Once it was ready I navigated to /r/writingprompts, and was met as I suspected by a catchy green sticky at the top. NEW RULE: No more prompts about numbers floating over heads! Well damn.
	[WP] One day you wake up and there are no numbers floating over peoples head because we finally stopped doing prompts about that	When I saw Mom, I was surprised. First of all, her danger number, formally a ten was now nonexistent. Also, she was whistling and seemed happy. "Hi, Mom," I said. "Oh, honey! It's amazing! All of the numbers are gone!" I started to sigh in the teenager way, but then I realized something, "wait, you could see the numbers, too?" "Yes, I could. Everyone could. They all meant different things, though." I nodded, "mine represented danger," "Yes, that one was quite popular, wasn't it?" I coughed. My mother nodded. We both stood still and watched the news, which, ~~in the Deus ex Machina way~~ was on this whole time. They were talking about how there'd been another attempt to bring Hitler into The Plot. Then, they talked about how the sightings of Satan had gone down, as well as the amount of superheros. All in all, life in ~~an alternate universe based off /r/writingprompts~~ the real world seemed to be in an upswing. Except, that there were a few more wars than usual this week. But it wasn't as bad as the number of hardboiled detectives that had existed a week ago. Unexpectedly, Mom started sobbing. "What is it?" I whispered. I was terrified of defying The Plot. "I'm just sick of it, Jason. Sick of having to follow The Plot, sick of not knowing where Satan or Hitler will show up next. You're going to college soon; I don't want you to have to get involved in any hunger games," "You can't say these things," I said, nervously, "they'll hear, they'll write you out." She started sobbing again, but this time, she pulled me closer. She said, "me and my friends, we've started a resistanc–" and just like that, she stopped existing. The Plot swirlled around my mouring, tryinh to give her a plausible reason to not exist. So, I didn't mourn her. I didn't mourn her harder than Thomas Throne did not mourn his sibling. At least, that was what I told myself as I kept watching the news. The were a few stories about serial killers, a few about pedophilla, and an odd one about a squirrel and a life debt. But then, something faded into existance above the newscaster's head. It was a price tag. $500,000. The next stage of The Plot was beginning. So, I slowly opened a drawer, and pulled out a notepad. I also took out a pen. To whomever may find this I wrote we don't have to live in fear anymore. There's a resistance gro	I wake up and brush the sleep from my eyes, though as I examine the ceiling I realize there is no information cluttering my field of view. "Well." I say, "I guess I have to start using Facebook again."
	[WP] One day you wake up and there are no numbers floating over peoples head because we finally stopped doing prompts about that	"Yo, dude, there's no number over your head?" "Yea, the mods decided that it's an overused theme, so there's no number anymore!" "What? Mods? What are you talking about?" "Well, we're put here as a hypothetical device to test out scenarios that the writers post on Reddit. And these scenarios are regulated by the forum mods on Reddit." "... man. You're crazy, abed." "Cool. Cool cool cool."	Warm rays of late-morning sun falling across her face, Melissa stretched and rolled onto her side, one hand sliding over Bruce's shoulder. Lost in the glowing void of snug half-wakefulness which all mammals find so pleasing to lounge in, when they can. She opened her eyes, to find Bruce already gazing at her. They smiled together. His hand glided comfortably up and down her thigh, fingers tracing small, lovely patterns on her skin. She giggled. She glanced up. She screamed. "What? What is it?" The alarm in his eyes was alien to her. His golden hair, chiseled jaw... None of it looked right. "WHERE'S YOUR NUMBER?" Her voice was shrill with panic. She leapt out of bed, flattening herself against the bedroom wall, face pale, eyes accusing. He squeezed his eyes shut in confusion, then squinted at her. "Yours is gone too... Hey..." His voice incredulous, one trembling finger raised to point at the empty space above her head. "HOW AM I SUPPOSED TO KNOW WHEN YOU'RE GOING TO DIE OR GET TAKEN BY SHADOW ALIENS OR WIN THE LOTTERY? HOW CAN I ASSIGN YOUR LIFE A MONETARY VALUE GREATER OR LESSER THAN THE LIVES OF EVERYONE ELSE? HOW CAN WE TELL WHO REALLY TURNS OUT TO BE THE BRAIN WHICH IS HOOKED UP TO A COMPUTER IMAGINING US ALL AND THAT'S THE TWIST? NOTHING MAKES SENSE ANYMORE." Then she doused them both in gasoline and lit a match, but it was okay because the shadow aliens put them both in stasis and anyway they were both clones and the whole thing was a dream one of them was having but then they woke up and IT WAS REAL ALL ALONG.
	[WP] Everyone gets a bracelet that will light up more and more the closer they get to the person/thing that will kill them. Yours has never glowed. One day, you meet a person whose bracelet has never stopped glowing.	I “Hey you, haven’t seen you all night. Too busy getting wasted with your frat buddies?” “I drink. I go to parties. That's me. What’s your excuse? I thought frat parties were a means with which the patriarchy oppresses women. Not really your scene, Emma.” “Can you not? Just because I’m a gender studies major, my god. I like parties. Parties are fun.” “You still having fun at 3:30 am?” “Nah, just waiting around to sober up. What’s your excuse?” “Oh… I’m always up this late.” “Are you serious?! Like every weekend?” “Every day, actually. I don’t really do sleep.” “Rob. How is that even possible?! You play varsity sports, you’re in my 8 am physics lab… ” “I survive.” "Good to know my friend's either a superhero or a cyborg." II “Emma?” “Yeah. …you okay, Rob?” “Can we go to my room?” “Why, cause you need someone to take care of you after you puke, or cause you want to hook up? Either way, probably not my favorite thing to do.” “Neither, I promise. I just want to…show you something.” “Okay. Are you sure nothing’s wrong? Now I’m scared there’s a dead body in your bathroom or something.” “Nothing like that. You just have to promise to never tell anyone else.” “…I promise.” III “Shit, Rob, what’s making it glow?” “Me.” “What? How?” “It’s always been like this. Literally never stops glowing unless I take it off. Why do you think I never wore it?” “I…I thought you just wanted to look like a daredevil.” “I’m not a daredevil, Emma.” “Look, it’s got to be a mistake. Send it back. Have it tested.” “Did that in second grade. That was when my parents got me a dog.” “…this means, means you’re going to…” “Kill myself, yes. Apparently so.” “No. That’s not possible. You're Rob. You wouldn’t choose to kill yourself.” “I know it’s possible. I see it happen every time I go to sleep. Cliffs, ropes, pills, guns. My subconscious is persistent, if not creative.” “Oh god. That’s why you don’t sleep.” “Bingo.” “You, you can’t let it freak you out like this. It’ll probably be...when you’re really old, you know. Like you’re really old and Alzheimer’s is starting to set in and you want to end it on your own terms. There’s nothing wrong with that, right?” “I don’t know, Emma.” “I don’t know either.” “I’m sorry.” “Me too.” IV Emma woke up disoriented. She was in a bed, but not hers. Rob’s? She vaguely remembered tears and hugs and drifting in and out of wakefulness. Someone had covered her with a blanket and taken off her shoes. Rob’s room, yes. He was already gone, probably off on a morning walk. His bracelet sat on the desk, inches from her face, glowing faintly. So he wasn’t close. Maybe at the gym, or getting coffee, but it didn’t matter. Emma watched the red light slowly grow brighter. Quietly, with a sense of peace, she removed her own bracelet, dull gray as always, and left it on the desk. On her own wrist she slipped Rob’s bracelet, and as it began to grow brighter, she straightened the bedcovers and left.	I'm not really sure why I was given something that looks so bland. My whole graduating class 60 years back was given these bracelets for "good measure". The purpose of these bracelets are to shine when something would potentially threaten our life. Problem is, mine hasn't shined at all for the 60 years I have been out of high school. I could either be a lucky man, or this bracelet is a total fraud - with the ladder beginning to seem like the more realistic option. I suppose I lost nothing from owning this bracelet except for the fact that I've been wearing a tacky accessory for 60 years. I'm only concerned about this bracelet right now because my highschool reunion is tomorrow. I'm a fairly superstitious person, which is why I've kept this bracelet on for 60 years straight without fail. However, I do not want to show up to the reunion and seem childish for wearing something that is now so dated, especially if it turns out that it didn't work for anybody else. I'll just ditch it for this one day, I don't want to seem like the same dork I was in the past. -- Entering my old school, familiar faces are all I see. Jenny, Andrew, John, Richard, and all of the others have not changed one bit. However, I don't see Kayla anywhere, which is weird because she is the type of person to be ecstatic to come to these events. She's way too joyful to miss something like this. I decide to ask the group about her. "Kayla? Yeah, she's here! She just went to the bathroom, she'll be back soon." "Oh, great! I was beginning to think she didn't show up at all." Catching up with the crew was great - all of our lives seem to have gone the way we wanted them to, ending up successful by our own terms. I wanted to leave already - the reunion didn't really live up to my expectations - but I wanted to see Kayla before I left, so I stuck around a bit. Eventually, Kayla made herself present, and I rushed on over to greet her. "Kayla! How's it going!? I haven't seen you in forever!" "Eric! I'm so glad to see you!" As Kayla approached me, I couldn't help but notice something glowing around her wrist. Shit, that's right, the bracelets. I take a quick glance around the room and notice that nobody besides Kayla is wearing the bracelets we were given. "How's life been Kayla? Is everything okay?" "Everything is fine! I started my own business and it's so successful! I have never been happier in my entire life." "That's great to hear! I have a small question for you though - you see the bracelet on your wrist?" "Oh, this ol' thing? Yeah, it's kind of pretty. I know it's very old and probably embarrassing to wear, but it shines a pretty color that I've just grown to adore. I basically don't leave the house without it!" "You mean to tell me that it's always shining in that color?" "Yes!" Odd. Hers always shines while mine has never shone once. I dismissed the oddity and quickly decided that these bracelets were in fact busted. I wrap things up with Kayla and tell her to take care. As I enter my house, I look at the bracelet I left on the dining room table. Still nothing. I guess it's time to put it away for good since it has no practical use anymore. As it approaches midnight, I get ready for bed. It's a very calm time for me, being alone and all. My phone, however, abruptly rings. It's a phone call from Andrew. "Hey man - we need you here asap." "Why, what's up?" "Just come back to the reunion quick." I make my way back to the school in a rush to see a crowd, an ambulance, and some police cars around the school. Dead in the center is Kayla, faded of life. Richard approaches me, informing me that soon after she and I talked, she disappeared. Only until after the reunion finished did everybody find Kayla lying on the floor, devoid of life. He then tells me something I've never known about Kayla - her history of depression, which has never escaped her life. Had I known that, the conversation she and I held would have instead saved her life. (this is my first time writing here, I'm not sure if I did well or what)
	[WP] Humanity has finally cured it's need to sleep with a very cheap, easily manufactured pill. It only took 5 years for the side effects to become apparent.	I told my brother it wasn't a good idea. But as usual, he brushed my warnings away like an irritating fly. I stood over his wailing, thrashing form, tears streaming down my face. When Insomniak became available on the market, there was a huge rush. The pharmacy's were sold out for weeks. There was no separation of day and night. Stores were open 24 hours and admittedly, it was good. unemployment was down because overnight shifts became available for stores that once closed by nightfall. But it was unnatural. It was strange. I didn't see the advantage to being awake all the time. It felt like the stimulation would drive me nuts. I felt my pocket buzzed as I sat at the small scrub table in my kitchen, tousel haired and my eyes still full of sleep. My brother stood at the fridge; it was his fourth year of taking Insomniak and he hadn't slept since. "I Don't know why you won't try it, sis. It's amazing." He said, shoving an entire hardboiled egg into his mouth. "Hmm..." I replied, staring at the screen of my smartphone. This was probably the 150th time Taylor had talked about Inomniak. Me and Bailey are meeting at 4am tomorrow. Are you in? A message from my friend Dave read. I rolled my eyes. It was 12:30 in the afternoon and I planned on being asleep at 4am. People had no concept of time any more. Had I read this message 5 years ago, I would have told them they were crazy. Time meant nothing any more. I was let go from my job because I refused to take Insomniak to work 20 hour shifts. No sleep meant no rest periods. There wasn't a reason to rest when you were awake all the time. No excuse of tiredness existed any more. "Come onnn Just try it once!" Taylor said, shaking the bottle of blue and white pills under my nose. I jumped, I hadn't even realized he was standing behind me. "Come off it Taylor I don't want it!" I said, pushing the bottle away and standing up. The chair squealed across the tile floor. I glared at him and immediately took a step back. "Taylor... What's wrong with your eyes?" I said, horrified. The write park of Taylor's eyes was stained a deep red. They looked almost black. "Nothing! They're fine." He said dismissively, pocketing the bottle of pills. I stared at him concernedly. "Taylor you don't seem right. There's something off about you. And I don't mean your eyes...." I said. And now that I studied him, his appearance seemed wan and unkempt. His sandy hair seemed to be thinning and he appeared paler than usual. "Why don't you skip a dose and just sleep for a couple of hours." I pleaded. "No, I have stuff to do today." He said simply, and he turned towards the pantry and pulled the door forcefully open. He stepped inside and slammed it shut. I stared. A second later the door swung open again, and Taylor stood there, looking confused. "Where did the living room go?" He mused, staring around. "Oh, hey Liz, have you tried Insomniak? It's fantastic." He said, as if seeing me for the first time. My mouth fell open. "Taylor... You need to rest." I said, taking his arm and pulling him out of the walk in pantry. He pulled his arm forcefully away and glared at me, his black scleras giving him an almost demonic appearance. "GET OFF OF ME HOW DARE YOU TOUCH ME!" He bellowed, cradling his arm as if I had injured it. "Please, Taylor just stay home today. We can watch TV and just relax." I begged, my voice breaking with anxiety. I reached for his hand again. Taylor let out a howl and all of a sudden I was on the floor. Taylor had punched me square in the jaw. "WHAT DID YOU DO THAT FOR?" I screamed, tears streaming down my face, rubbing my cheek gingerly. Taylor stormed back into the pantry and slammed the door again. A minute passed as I pulled myself to my feet. The pantry opened again, slowly this time. And Taylor stood framed in the door. His expression was blank. "T-Taylor?" I squeaked, backing away. He didn't acknowledge me. he took a tiny step forward, still cradling his arm. I saw with horror that his arm had turned a deep purple from the spot where I had touched it with my hand. "P-Please say s-something." And without warning Taylor fell forward, stiff as a board, and hit the floor with a sickening thud. That was 2 weeks ago. And Taylor hasn't been conscious since. The hospitals have been flooded with hundreds of thousands of people with the same symptoms. Insomniak was immediately pulled from the market. I would say Taylor was in a coma, but his endless screaming tells me otherwise. The doctors said he's not in pain. The bruises and the black sclera were superficial; the memory loss and confusion were temporary. But the endless, unceasing nightmares are what is plaguing my brother. And if I walk outside, I can hear the screams of a hundred thousand other people succumbing to Insomniak.	Sleep. Something I think we all took for granted. Pills, drinks, even different types of foods; we had an infinite number of ways to stay awake, to avoid sleep. Little did we know. At first it came in a bottle. For a small price of ten credits, about a weeks salary for most one could evade sleep for close to four days. No side effects, besides a deep sleep on the final day. Then followed stronger and stronger versions and finally, when it had been developed, an immunization. A pill delivered en mass. And for the world sleep was just a myth. At first, we attributed it and them to drug use. Strange reports about creatures and vivid hallucinations. Visions of a world so unlike ours it was driving people into madness. Disturbing to be sure, but nothing to worry about. What did the good people of the world have to fear about the disillusioned? But when the first of us died, these problems became very real. The media called it an 'Awakening', believing that these creatures we were seeing had been here the whole time, hidden beneath the earth's crust. Scientists disagreed; few of them had the characteristics of burrowing creatures. Most of us believed they were aliens, or perhaps invaders form another dimension. Either way there was little we could do against them. What was our military to do against monsters that appeared and disappeared with but a moments notice? What were guns against twelve-armed monstrosities? Those of us who no longer slept were doomed. And it felt Humanity couldn't stand a chance. But there were some. South Africa. North Korea. Russia. Places where sleep still occurred. Repressed, yes, but they learned quickly to take away sleep represents. They had no problems with these other-worlders. But when we found out, it was too late. These beings manifested themselves so vividly within our subconscious and in our minds, that we made them into reality. They followed the sleepless. Rubble. Chaos. Our cities have been reduced to almost nothing. We railed against it and against them to be sure. It never matter. In the end, well all knew, this was some twisted play of fate, something we had forced upon ourselves. Those monsters roam the streets, searching for us. For another victim.
	[WP] Humanity has finally cured it's need to sleep with a very cheap, easily manufactured pill. It only took 5 years for the side effects to become apparent.	In the year 2036, the vaccine for sleep was developed: Sleepless. At first, everything went smoothly with the introduction of the Sleepless. Adoption was very marginal, at best. Sleepless' inventors -- two lifetime programmers in their 50s fascinated by the merging of software and biology via nanites -- were now fabulously wealthy, but that was due mainly to what was left of the United States military buying the vaccine for their soldiers. Oh, and everyone who traded on the Futures market had to have it, "Because the markets never sleep, baby, and neither should you!" That's how the PR people spun it. Ever since High Frequency Trading and automatic trading in general had been banned in response to the Great Crunch of 2017, the need for investors had skyrocketed. The United States, now thoroughly corporatized, had immediately bought majority share of Sleepless, Inc., and enforced patent protection with the full might of its armed forces. Sleepless was instantly classified as a Restricted Weapon, available to U.S. citizens but exportation was strictly prohibited. For the first few years, adoption was minimal at best. Who, really, truly wanted to give up sleep for 6 months at a time? It required careful planning, lots of life changes, and only the most resolute would choose to be bereft of family and friends during the wee hours of the night. A spouse who slept with one who didn't? It turned out to be highly incompatible and was the second leading cause of divorce among Sleepless' partakers; something Marketing and Legal did their best to keep quiet. Eventually, however, the United States came to dominate international finance in ways that were unimaginable just a few years prior. Combined with neural implants for near-instantaneous memory recall and infinite memory storage, coupled with the latest in Brain-Computer Interfaces (BCIs), 21st Century investors and Processors [people hired to basically make International commerce happen, sans 2017] became all the rage. And because Americans could work 18-20 hours a day, if motivated, their efficiency barred none and they took an ever increasing chunk of the processing of international transactions. Soon, almost every young person in America was on Sleepless. Their slogan: "Sleep when you're 30!" The idea was simple: Take Sleepless and live through your 20s wide awake, not missing a single minute! When you turn 30, get off of it, fall in love, have kids, sleep a well-deserved slumber. While you're sleepless, become an investor, or at least a processor, and rake in the dough! Almost everybody was doing it, and by 2040, less than 2% of those under 30 had not taken Sleepless at least once. The world economy flowed because of Sleepless. On 5 March 2041, however, the newsnets reported what would turn out to be the second biggest story of the 21st Century to date: All of the rumors and anecdotes turned out to be true: Taking Sleepless even one time made you sterile for life. The nanities literally scrambled the partakers' DNA so that neither sperm nor ova could be produced. Oh, the public cried foul! The investors revolted. Within a half-night, the stock valuation was down 80% and the U.S. government sought to nationalize the company. How could it be possible? How could such a specific and damaging change be put into the source code? The U.S. government attempted to arrest the inventors, but they were no where to be found. Rumors circulated immediately and the conspiracy theory in vogue was that they had successfully developed cryogenics and were asleep for the long haul in a bunker somewhere in the Sahara. Or Antarctica. No one knew. They did chirp a cryptic final message, however: "Sleepless was meant for the world!" Now, it's 4 July 2041, four months later. The grim statistics are in: Of the 40.2 million Americans between the ages of 18 and 30, only 300,000 have never taken Sleepless once. Of those, only roughly 280,000 are fertile. And of those, few are of a desirable stock. The nation faces its greatest crisis since the dark dark days of the Great Crunch of 2017, when currency was worthless overnight and no one knew if a loaf of bread should cost $0.01 or $1,000. But unlike then, with this crisis we have time. People aren't going to be dying in the streets, and bullets won't be the most valuable bartering item. This time, there is more hope but an equal amount of sadness. Of potential lost. How will we solve the crisis? No one knows. At least there is hope, for now. America will survive.	Sleep. Something I think we all took for granted. Pills, drinks, even different types of foods; we had an infinite number of ways to stay awake, to avoid sleep. Little did we know. At first it came in a bottle. For a small price of ten credits, about a weeks salary for most one could evade sleep for close to four days. No side effects, besides a deep sleep on the final day. Then followed stronger and stronger versions and finally, when it had been developed, an immunization. A pill delivered en mass. And for the world sleep was just a myth. At first, we attributed it and them to drug use. Strange reports about creatures and vivid hallucinations. Visions of a world so unlike ours it was driving people into madness. Disturbing to be sure, but nothing to worry about. What did the good people of the world have to fear about the disillusioned? But when the first of us died, these problems became very real. The media called it an 'Awakening', believing that these creatures we were seeing had been here the whole time, hidden beneath the earth's crust. Scientists disagreed; few of them had the characteristics of burrowing creatures. Most of us believed they were aliens, or perhaps invaders form another dimension. Either way there was little we could do against them. What was our military to do against monsters that appeared and disappeared with but a moments notice? What were guns against twelve-armed monstrosities? Those of us who no longer slept were doomed. And it felt Humanity couldn't stand a chance. But there were some. South Africa. North Korea. Russia. Places where sleep still occurred. Repressed, yes, but they learned quickly to take away sleep represents. They had no problems with these other-worlders. But when we found out, it was too late. These beings manifested themselves so vividly within our subconscious and in our minds, that we made them into reality. They followed the sleepless. Rubble. Chaos. Our cities have been reduced to almost nothing. We railed against it and against them to be sure. It never matter. In the end, well all knew, this was some twisted play of fate, something we had forced upon ourselves. Those monsters roam the streets, searching for us. For another victim.
	[WP] Humanity has finally cured it's need to sleep with a very cheap, easily manufactured pill. It only took 5 years for the side effects to become apparent.	Miracle drug, they called it. The last dream you'll ever have, come true in an easy-to-swallow pill. The solution to sleep. The market went crazy when it was announced. The promise of a 100% increase to productivity worldwide drove every sector higher. Those with investments in the pharmaceutical company manufacturing Hypnosia become multi-millionaires over night. Pharmacies and grocery stores couldn't keep their shelves stocked with the stuff, so high was the demand for the drug. And who could blame them, those people clamoring for the means to never need sleep again? All it took was one pill each night with a glass of water. One, little pill. I had bought into the promises before. One drink to forget your problems. One line to be lifted away. One needle to stop feeling the pain. Six hundred, forty five days. I was almost two years sober when Hypnosia was released. I could not begin to imagine struggling with my addiction for a full 24 hours every day. Sleep was an escape I was not ready to give up. But now, five years later, here I sit at my kitchen table with the little white pill in front of me. I have no other choice. The same markets that blew their trumpets and heralded Hypnosia as angels descending from the heavens now gasped for breath. The resulting crash had thrown global economies into chaos. Those who had started taking the pill when it became publicly available were the first to experience the unintended side effect. It had taken nearly five years to realize what we had done. And by then, it was too late. Those who had initially resisted taking the pill were next. They were the skeptics that eventually succumbed to the pressures placed upon them by society. It was almost impossible to find a job, back then, if you weren't able to commit 16 hours a day. So they too swallowed their nightly dose to stay awake and keep up with their neighbors. Nothing could be done for them now, either. One by one, they would finally give in. It could happen at any time: late one night while reading at home, or in the middle of the day while flying a plane. One by one, they would fall asleep. The endless, frightful sleep, never to be awoken. Those of us still awake, the ones accustomed to looking in from outside of society, doubted they would ever come back to join us. We were society now. We are the few. We walk among dreamers in an empty, barren world. And this pill - this little, white pill - it's the only place left to turn. There is so much to be done. And so little time.	Sleep. Something I think we all took for granted. Pills, drinks, even different types of foods; we had an infinite number of ways to stay awake, to avoid sleep. Little did we know. At first it came in a bottle. For a small price of ten credits, about a weeks salary for most one could evade sleep for close to four days. No side effects, besides a deep sleep on the final day. Then followed stronger and stronger versions and finally, when it had been developed, an immunization. A pill delivered en mass. And for the world sleep was just a myth. At first, we attributed it and them to drug use. Strange reports about creatures and vivid hallucinations. Visions of a world so unlike ours it was driving people into madness. Disturbing to be sure, but nothing to worry about. What did the good people of the world have to fear about the disillusioned? But when the first of us died, these problems became very real. The media called it an 'Awakening', believing that these creatures we were seeing had been here the whole time, hidden beneath the earth's crust. Scientists disagreed; few of them had the characteristics of burrowing creatures. Most of us believed they were aliens, or perhaps invaders form another dimension. Either way there was little we could do against them. What was our military to do against monsters that appeared and disappeared with but a moments notice? What were guns against twelve-armed monstrosities? Those of us who no longer slept were doomed. And it felt Humanity couldn't stand a chance. But there were some. South Africa. North Korea. Russia. Places where sleep still occurred. Repressed, yes, but they learned quickly to take away sleep represents. They had no problems with these other-worlders. But when we found out, it was too late. These beings manifested themselves so vividly within our subconscious and in our minds, that we made them into reality. They followed the sleepless. Rubble. Chaos. Our cities have been reduced to almost nothing. We railed against it and against them to be sure. It never matter. In the end, well all knew, this was some twisted play of fate, something we had forced upon ourselves. Those monsters roam the streets, searching for us. For another victim.
	[WP] Humanity has finally cured it's need to sleep with a very cheap, easily manufactured pill. It only took 5 years for the side effects to become apparent.	In the year 2036, the vaccine for sleep was developed: Sleepless. At first, everything went smoothly with the introduction of the Sleepless. Adoption was very marginal, at best. Sleepless' inventors -- two lifetime programmers in their 50s fascinated by the merging of software and biology via nanites -- were now fabulously wealthy, but that was due mainly to what was left of the United States military buying the vaccine for their soldiers. Oh, and everyone who traded on the Futures market had to have it, "Because the markets never sleep, baby, and neither should you!" That's how the PR people spun it. Ever since High Frequency Trading and automatic trading in general had been banned in response to the Great Crunch of 2017, the need for investors had skyrocketed. The United States, now thoroughly corporatized, had immediately bought majority share of Sleepless, Inc., and enforced patent protection with the full might of its armed forces. Sleepless was instantly classified as a Restricted Weapon, available to U.S. citizens but exportation was strictly prohibited. For the first few years, adoption was minimal at best. Who, really, truly wanted to give up sleep for 6 months at a time? It required careful planning, lots of life changes, and only the most resolute would choose to be bereft of family and friends during the wee hours of the night. A spouse who slept with one who didn't? It turned out to be highly incompatible and was the second leading cause of divorce among Sleepless' partakers; something Marketing and Legal did their best to keep quiet. Eventually, however, the United States came to dominate international finance in ways that were unimaginable just a few years prior. Combined with neural implants for near-instantaneous memory recall and infinite memory storage, coupled with the latest in Brain-Computer Interfaces (BCIs), 21st Century investors and Processors [people hired to basically make International commerce happen, sans 2017] became all the rage. And because Americans could work 18-20 hours a day, if motivated, their efficiency barred none and they took an ever increasing chunk of the processing of international transactions. Soon, almost every young person in America was on Sleepless. Their slogan: "Sleep when you're 30!" The idea was simple: Take Sleepless and live through your 20s wide awake, not missing a single minute! When you turn 30, get off of it, fall in love, have kids, sleep a well-deserved slumber. While you're sleepless, become an investor, or at least a processor, and rake in the dough! Almost everybody was doing it, and by 2040, less than 2% of those under 30 had not taken Sleepless at least once. The world economy flowed because of Sleepless. On 5 March 2041, however, the newsnets reported what would turn out to be the second biggest story of the 21st Century to date: All of the rumors and anecdotes turned out to be true: Taking Sleepless even one time made you sterile for life. The nanities literally scrambled the partakers' DNA so that neither sperm nor ova could be produced. Oh, the public cried foul! The investors revolted. Within a half-night, the stock valuation was down 80% and the U.S. government sought to nationalize the company. How could it be possible? How could such a specific and damaging change be put into the source code? The U.S. government attempted to arrest the inventors, but they were no where to be found. Rumors circulated immediately and the conspiracy theory in vogue was that they had successfully developed cryogenics and were asleep for the long haul in a bunker somewhere in the Sahara. Or Antarctica. No one knew. They did chirp a cryptic final message, however: "Sleepless was meant for the world!" Now, it's 4 July 2041, four months later. The grim statistics are in: Of the 40.2 million Americans between the ages of 18 and 30, only 300,000 have never taken Sleepless once. Of those, only roughly 280,000 are fertile. And of those, few are of a desirable stock. The nation faces its greatest crisis since the dark dark days of the Great Crunch of 2017, when currency was worthless overnight and no one knew if a loaf of bread should cost $0.01 or $1,000. But unlike then, with this crisis we have time. People aren't going to be dying in the streets, and bullets won't be the most valuable bartering item. This time, there is more hope but an equal amount of sadness. Of potential lost. How will we solve the crisis? No one knows. At least there is hope, for now. America will survive.	I told my brother it wasn't a good idea. But as usual, he brushed my warnings away like an irritating fly. I stood over his wailing, thrashing form, tears streaming down my face. When Insomniak became available on the market, there was a huge rush. The pharmacy's were sold out for weeks. There was no separation of day and night. Stores were open 24 hours and admittedly, it was good. unemployment was down because overnight shifts became available for stores that once closed by nightfall. But it was unnatural. It was strange. I didn't see the advantage to being awake all the time. It felt like the stimulation would drive me nuts. I felt my pocket buzzed as I sat at the small scrub table in my kitchen, tousel haired and my eyes still full of sleep. My brother stood at the fridge; it was his fourth year of taking Insomniak and he hadn't slept since. "I Don't know why you won't try it, sis. It's amazing." He said, shoving an entire hardboiled egg into his mouth. "Hmm..." I replied, staring at the screen of my smartphone. This was probably the 150th time Taylor had talked about Inomniak. Me and Bailey are meeting at 4am tomorrow. Are you in? A message from my friend Dave read. I rolled my eyes. It was 12:30 in the afternoon and I planned on being asleep at 4am. People had no concept of time any more. Had I read this message 5 years ago, I would have told them they were crazy. Time meant nothing any more. I was let go from my job because I refused to take Insomniak to work 20 hour shifts. No sleep meant no rest periods. There wasn't a reason to rest when you were awake all the time. No excuse of tiredness existed any more. "Come onnn Just try it once!" Taylor said, shaking the bottle of blue and white pills under my nose. I jumped, I hadn't even realized he was standing behind me. "Come off it Taylor I don't want it!" I said, pushing the bottle away and standing up. The chair squealed across the tile floor. I glared at him and immediately took a step back. "Taylor... What's wrong with your eyes?" I said, horrified. The write park of Taylor's eyes was stained a deep red. They looked almost black. "Nothing! They're fine." He said dismissively, pocketing the bottle of pills. I stared at him concernedly. "Taylor you don't seem right. There's something off about you. And I don't mean your eyes...." I said. And now that I studied him, his appearance seemed wan and unkempt. His sandy hair seemed to be thinning and he appeared paler than usual. "Why don't you skip a dose and just sleep for a couple of hours." I pleaded. "No, I have stuff to do today." He said simply, and he turned towards the pantry and pulled the door forcefully open. He stepped inside and slammed it shut. I stared. A second later the door swung open again, and Taylor stood there, looking confused. "Where did the living room go?" He mused, staring around. "Oh, hey Liz, have you tried Insomniak? It's fantastic." He said, as if seeing me for the first time. My mouth fell open. "Taylor... You need to rest." I said, taking his arm and pulling him out of the walk in pantry. He pulled his arm forcefully away and glared at me, his black scleras giving him an almost demonic appearance. "GET OFF OF ME HOW DARE YOU TOUCH ME!" He bellowed, cradling his arm as if I had injured it. "Please, Taylor just stay home today. We can watch TV and just relax." I begged, my voice breaking with anxiety. I reached for his hand again. Taylor let out a howl and all of a sudden I was on the floor. Taylor had punched me square in the jaw. "WHAT DID YOU DO THAT FOR?" I screamed, tears streaming down my face, rubbing my cheek gingerly. Taylor stormed back into the pantry and slammed the door again. A minute passed as I pulled myself to my feet. The pantry opened again, slowly this time. And Taylor stood framed in the door. His expression was blank. "T-Taylor?" I squeaked, backing away. He didn't acknowledge me. he took a tiny step forward, still cradling his arm. I saw with horror that his arm had turned a deep purple from the spot where I had touched it with my hand. "P-Please say s-something." And without warning Taylor fell forward, stiff as a board, and hit the floor with a sickening thud. That was 2 weeks ago. And Taylor hasn't been conscious since. The hospitals have been flooded with hundreds of thousands of people with the same symptoms. Insomniak was immediately pulled from the market. I would say Taylor was in a coma, but his endless screaming tells me otherwise. The doctors said he's not in pain. The bruises and the black sclera were superficial; the memory loss and confusion were temporary. But the endless, unceasing nightmares are what is plaguing my brother. And if I walk outside, I can hear the screams of a hundred thousand other people succumbing to Insomniak.
	[WP] Humanity has finally cured it's need to sleep with a very cheap, easily manufactured pill. It only took 5 years for the side effects to become apparent.	Miracle drug, they called it. The last dream you'll ever have, come true in an easy-to-swallow pill. The solution to sleep. The market went crazy when it was announced. The promise of a 100% increase to productivity worldwide drove every sector higher. Those with investments in the pharmaceutical company manufacturing Hypnosia become multi-millionaires over night. Pharmacies and grocery stores couldn't keep their shelves stocked with the stuff, so high was the demand for the drug. And who could blame them, those people clamoring for the means to never need sleep again? All it took was one pill each night with a glass of water. One, little pill. I had bought into the promises before. One drink to forget your problems. One line to be lifted away. One needle to stop feeling the pain. Six hundred, forty five days. I was almost two years sober when Hypnosia was released. I could not begin to imagine struggling with my addiction for a full 24 hours every day. Sleep was an escape I was not ready to give up. But now, five years later, here I sit at my kitchen table with the little white pill in front of me. I have no other choice. The same markets that blew their trumpets and heralded Hypnosia as angels descending from the heavens now gasped for breath. The resulting crash had thrown global economies into chaos. Those who had started taking the pill when it became publicly available were the first to experience the unintended side effect. It had taken nearly five years to realize what we had done. And by then, it was too late. Those who had initially resisted taking the pill were next. They were the skeptics that eventually succumbed to the pressures placed upon them by society. It was almost impossible to find a job, back then, if you weren't able to commit 16 hours a day. So they too swallowed their nightly dose to stay awake and keep up with their neighbors. Nothing could be done for them now, either. One by one, they would finally give in. It could happen at any time: late one night while reading at home, or in the middle of the day while flying a plane. One by one, they would fall asleep. The endless, frightful sleep, never to be awoken. Those of us still awake, the ones accustomed to looking in from outside of society, doubted they would ever come back to join us. We were society now. We are the few. We walk among dreamers in an empty, barren world. And this pill - this little, white pill - it's the only place left to turn. There is so much to be done. And so little time.	5 years ago, /r/nosleep released a never-seen-before product: the sleep pill. It was announced all over the news, and virtually everyone in the world longed for these pills in less than a week. As you may imagine, everyone rushed to the store to get them, wishing to add more hours awake onto their pathetic lives. Humanity is more productive and more stressed out than ever. They have more hours of jobs and school to attend to, after all. Today, humanity celebrates the five-year anniversary of the pill. Actually, they can't celebrate, because humans across the world were plunged into eternal slumber as a side effect of the pill! Over the course of 2 weeks, everyone is asleep on the streets. One class of humans remain: the anti-vaccine, feminazi, organic mothers of the world.
	[WP] The year is 2315 and the Amish are living like its the 21st century.	"Timothy, supper's ready!" shouted his mother, the message echoed softly in the old house. "Mom! Don't call me that. I go by Tim now. God!" shouted Timothy. "Don't bring god into this, Timmy!". "Timmy's even worse!" with a frown on his face, Timothy made his way to the dining room. He briefly idled by a mirror for a brief flex-session and to fix his hair. As he joined his family at the dining table his father started to flex, "Who am I ?" he asked. "Timothy. Oh I'm sorry Tim" replied Martha, Timothy's sister. "Ugh, Stop. You're not even funny." said Timothy as he sat down and pulled out his phone. His mother walked in carrying the large pot that held dinner. "Tim, you know the rules. No hardware at the dining table." she said as she took off her flower-pattered oven mitts. "This hardware?" his father stood up and started to flex again, his sister joined in. Timothy slammed his hands on to the dining table "I'm not hungry anymore!" he proclaimed, and stormed out. Once outside he immediately pulled out his phone and posted to social media. "Ugh, parents are so lame!" his status read. As he sat down in the grass, a spacecraft emerged from the clouds above him. The ominous monstrosity hung motionlessly in the air - the eerie silence finally broken as the side of it slowly started to open. Timothy knew what was going to happen next, he closed his eyes and accepted his fate. Once the side of the spacecraft had fully swung open, a voice boomed from it "And here we see young Timothy Troyer, a farmhand and frequent poster on social media. He enjoys taking pictures of himself and putting them on display, possibly to attract female attention. ". "Tim! My name is Tim!" yelled Timothy. "Fascinating" an unknown voice replied. Timothy was momentarily blinded by the amount of flash photography. When Timothy finally regained his vision he saw that his father had come out to assess what was happening. "Now you lot be careful, he might pull his guns out." His father kept a stern composure as shock rippled across the faces of the tourists on the "Blast from the past!" spacecraft. After a moment of silence his father rolled up his sleeve and pinched his upper arm "These guns". Timothy whimpered softly.	A mother walks past her son and notices he's doing something very bad. "WHAT IS THIS! You should not be looking up Thorad culture. It's a sin and I will not have any of it. Just wait until the Bishop hears about this." "No please, don't. I don't want to be shunned! I just got to the end of The Last of Us!" the boy pleads but, he knows he'll be shunned as soon as mother sends the text. The mother responds with anger "Just because those Thorads showed themselves doesn't mean we have to believe they exist. The bible specifically says 'Thy breaketh bread with the Thorad, thy breaketh thy faith' Kyle: 56:9. IT SAYS IT IN THE BIBLE CONNER!" "OKAY MOM! Geez, I won't read about the Thorads anymore. Can we just sweep this under the rug? I really don't want to be shunned again. Those 10 minutes of timeout are unbearable."
	[WP] The year is 2315 and the Amish are living like its the 21st century.	The sun was setting over the western hillside of the plantation when Mr. Miller arrived. Jacob looked up from his Bible, noticing the motorcade of police cars and a dark limousine silhouetting the brilliant sky. He marked his page, placed the book on the table, and stood up to meet them. "Hallo," Jacob said to the first of the security personnel to approach. The man, dressed in a black power suit, had the disconcerting air of a thief. "Hallo," Jacob repeated. "I'd like to know what you're doing here." A number of black-suited figures had appeared from the vehicles, seemingly uninterested in the conversation. They began scouring the area. "You know what this is about," rang a voice like a rattling can. Jacob recognized it instantly from his dreams. He had prayed against such sounds, and he had Heard answers. He witnessed the response of God in the plants that were brought forth from the earth of his farm, and the family he had sustained upon it, and the sunset which ended every day. The voice was familiar, something he had heard before, yet he shuddered nonetheless when he heard it. Jacob looked down as Mr. Miller, the IRS agent, walked up to him. "Hello, Jacob. Your establishment hasn't payed its taxes for 2 1/2 years. You know the trouble you're in." "But--" "Don't bother talking." "It's a religious right--" "The Cease and Desist Order is as clear as day. Any use of the thought Amish® belongs to Amish Company International." "Yes, I know..." "Then you also know that any words you utter also belong to Amish®. "Ye--" "That's enough." Two of the suited men grabbed Jacob by the arms, holding him steady. "Your operation here has been found guilty of treason of copyright in the highest degree. You know the consequences..." "No! I swear, I--" "This program must end." Jacob appeared from this program unphased. He found it mildly interesting to replay portions of the past when consciousness was bogged down by trivialities like words.	A mother walks past her son and notices he's doing something very bad. "WHAT IS THIS! You should not be looking up Thorad culture. It's a sin and I will not have any of it. Just wait until the Bishop hears about this." "No please, don't. I don't want to be shunned! I just got to the end of The Last of Us!" the boy pleads but, he knows he'll be shunned as soon as mother sends the text. The mother responds with anger "Just because those Thorads showed themselves doesn't mean we have to believe they exist. The bible specifically says 'Thy breaketh bread with the Thorad, thy breaketh thy faith' Kyle: 56:9. IT SAYS IT IN THE BIBLE CONNER!" "OKAY MOM! Geez, I won't read about the Thorads anymore. Can we just sweep this under the rug? I really don't want to be shunned again. Those 10 minutes of timeout are unbearable."
	[WP] The year is 2315 and the Amish are living like its the 21st century.	I’ve always found it fascinating how traditions ebb and flow over time. I mean I guess they’re analogous to culture, which by its very nature is anything but static. Though in my culture, every tradition is held onto to the very last thread. Based on the Amish tradition we live very simple lives. Back in the 20th century with the advent of the industrial revolution, increasing globalism, and secularism winning the day, they tried to maintain the agrarian ideal. Set gender roles, little interaction outside the confines of religion. A lot of them, most actually, were based in rural Pennsylvania, but a few of us followed our elders to a commune to Arkansas. Now I’m very wary of the word cult, due to some bad preconceptions with the word, but as a subset of the Amish, I suppose we were. Whereas those in Pennsyvania didn’t necessarily plant themselves in a specific period of time. Simply a time without secular distractions. Instead we progressed, but with a lag. We progressed as a culture; technologically, theologically, ideologically 100 years in the past. The elders we’re zealous and so were we. By the time the elders had died and a new generation came to head, we were driving cars, using phones, listening to the radio. It was quite remarkable really. We were officially designated non-Amish by the traditional sects, but we weren’t particularly deterred. Maybe a little pissed off even. Driven by what seemed to be the most realistic way of declaring our faith. Backwards, a little, but not completely out of touch. Like I said though. Traditions change. By the 22nd century most of the Pennsylvania sects died out. A few tiny villages sporadically spread out. We were by far the largest continuum of any semblance of Amish culture. But by this point we were fully entrenched in the 21st century. Smartphones, LED TV’s. Supremely antiquated by modern times, but so far from the agrarian ideal that we were almost simply a mockery of ourselves. It was at this point that the elders. Several generations from those originals at this point, decided to stagnate again. To stop progressing. To regress if it was prudent. And that’s where we were for another hundred years. So there’s this ritual that’s been a part of the Amish culture, including ours, forever. Rumspringa, the entering into adulthood, is a time where teenagers get a chance to exist in the outside world. To get a taste for what the faith looks like from the outside in. This wasn’t some form of strange torture. Giving them a glimpse of life outside and reeling them back in. In fact you could leave and never come back. Very few did though. There’s comfort in tradition, in culture. In having a shared sense of being. Not with strangers, but with your family, with your community. Almost everyone came back. Well that was the case until now. We have stagnated almost 300 years into the past. We have to build walls higher and higher to keep out the continuing suburbanization of just about every free space in the country. Without arable land, and without the proper infrastructure to maintain an antiquated lifestyle, we are literally falling apart. We can’t regress any more or we’ll starve, but at our current state of technological wherewithal, planned obsolescence will do us in anyways. In fact, we have so few young adults that we probably won’t last much more than twenty years longer. We are at the crossroads of our identity. The more we resist change, the faster our downfall. But the more we adopt it, the less we retain. The world around us isn’t fit for an ascetic lifestyle anymore. To what extent is our self tied to our surroundings? For my entire life I have defined myself by my faith, by my lifestyle. By the writings and teaching of those that came before me. The stories, the songs, the prayers. I think this is why we have maintained such a tight knit, restrictive culture for such a long time. There’s comfort in community. In tradition. In culture. Once we leave these walls, the core tenets of my being are lost. But to what extent do we owe it to ourselves to experience hardship? To be tested each and every day, fighting a constant battle between who we want to be and who we are becoming. That’s a thought for another day though.	A mother walks past her son and notices he's doing something very bad. "WHAT IS THIS! You should not be looking up Thorad culture. It's a sin and I will not have any of it. Just wait until the Bishop hears about this." "No please, don't. I don't want to be shunned! I just got to the end of The Last of Us!" the boy pleads but, he knows he'll be shunned as soon as mother sends the text. The mother responds with anger "Just because those Thorads showed themselves doesn't mean we have to believe they exist. The bible specifically says 'Thy breaketh bread with the Thorad, thy breaketh thy faith' Kyle: 56:9. IT SAYS IT IN THE BIBLE CONNER!" "OKAY MOM! Geez, I won't read about the Thorads anymore. Can we just sweep this under the rug? I really don't want to be shunned again. Those 10 minutes of timeout are unbearable."
	[WP] A prompt that begins and ends with the same sentence, but one core thing changes completely by the end.	Soon, I will be happy. Soon high school will be over and college will start after that; everyone says that life really starts once you get that freedom. Soon I won't have to deal with the petty kids that just don't see who I am. Soon I won't have to hear Dad storming off for reasons I have examined and physically cannot understand. Soon I won't have to hear the drone of how unfair life is from Mom, and Brother, and Sister. Soon I won't have to look in the mirror and nit pick at the image that stares back at me; disliking even its best features. Soon I won't have to open my eyes again. Soon I won't have to breathe again. Soon, I will be happy.	It was a good day. The sun rose. I fed and walked my dog. Did my yoga. Even got further into one of my challeng positions. I went to work- Pam was out sick so no one yelled at me. No traffic on the way home. The grocery had a sale on the sirloins my husband likes. My husband was coming home tonight. And then the state trooper came. "I'm sorry, ma'am... " But... No. It was a good day.
	[WP] You survive a brain transplant and now have a teenager's body. Unfortunately, the law dictates that you have to go back to school.	Planning to carry on with this later after I'm done with a Pixar/Valve games crossover, but this is what I've written so far. "So, how about it, John? This operation could restart your life, get things the way you want them to be." said the man with the crooked teeth. "Somehow, hearing that from a black market organ trader does not fill me with confidence." "Oh, please. I know what I'm doing, you're depressed and want to start from scratch, and this shindig means you have a shot at immortality! Plus, it's untraceable." "You what?" "You walk into that operating room, it will be as if Joe Chesterfield was murdered violently three streets away, his head altered and battered so the fact the brain has been replaced with the nearest genetic twin in my stock. To you, you'll be an orphan recently found in the abandoned car of an associate of mine, with odd memories of an adult life! So, what do you say?" "Deal. But, a favour? Can I please ensure I..." Indications were made. "Oh... Well, I don't do that usually, but sure, I can get you set up for that, sure." "Awesome." "Okay, then sit in that chair over there, and write out your bank details. All your assets need to be liquidated away into cash if you want to have any of it in your new life without the authorities finding out. Scene change. "So, how you feeling, Joanna?" "What?" "Joanna. Your new name. You do remember our deal, right?" "That did not... ow... involve making me a woman. Quite th-urgghhh... opposite, in fact." "Well, you're stuck now, til you're adult again, unless you want to die from organ shock from too much change at once." "How long?" "10 years." "You're shitting me." "I shit you not. Your body needs time to heal. You'll be a touch lacking on reflexes until you're around 20, and you'll be ready to do this again at 23, Jo." "You pronounced that without an 'e', didn't you?" The surgeon cackled. Scene change. "So, Joanna... Any idea what happened to your parents?" the suited man asked. "I... I've no idea. My dad was in the mall, I was waiting in the car, and he never came back... I waited all weekend, and tried to phone him too, but..." "He never came back. I see. Well, as far as we can tell, Joanna, you don't exist. Your fingerprints don't match up to any biometrics we have on file. Your dad's car was bought with cash, and apparently overseas, without a name. In short, Joanna... You appear to have arupted from nowhere. You're a ghost in the system, and as far as the State is concerned, you're probably an immigrant, though your accent matches the local one perfectly." "Wait, what? I knew my dad was nuts, but... You don't think he erased my records? Wouldn't there be a birth certificate at least?" "Near as we can tell, he has somehow gotten all the way to the top in security to erase everything, top to bottom. You don't know what his job was, do you?" "He didn't have one. We moved from state to state, he would buy stuff from shops then sell them online at a markup, but I don't think he paid taxes or anything." "Damn. Um... Where did you go to school?" "Home taught. Well, trailer taught, technically. I know my reading and writing, and he made sure I knew my maths so I could do our stocktake every few months." "So you've never been to school? How did you make friends?" "I... hung out with people online, plus during summer holidays and spring break it's easy to find people to hang out with." "Sounds lonely. And like you needed to lie about a lot to your friends..." "Yeah... M-my dad was angry with me about that when he left. I was saying I wanted to go to school and live a normal life, he said it was safer on the road, then when I argued, he hit me, called me a... c-commie slut, then parked up and left." "... Damn. Well, we'll try to find your father, but in the meantime we're going to have to put you in a safe place..." "Like an orphanage?" "Hah, you look so horrified. Modern orphanages aren't like in Oliver Twist. They're more like the young teen version of college sorority houses, a lot of close friends who sometimes leave to be in a family. You aren't going to deal with Fagin." "Sounds... cool. Are there any other choices I can make?" "Not really. The law requires you to be signed into the system, start producing documentation of your existence. This is honestly the easiest and best option beyond sticking you in a borstal on false charges." "What's that?" "Like... A place where underage kids are placed temporarily when they commit a crime." "So... Pretty rough then?" "Yeah. And very illegal for me to do. I'd lose my job if I did that to you." "Okay then. So... Orphanage?" "I'll get you to sign a couple of things at the precinct, but then we'll head over to St Hodgkinson's in a bit. Do you need anything to eat?" "I could murder a biriyani right now." "Curry-lover eh? I know a decent place, owners are proper Indians, Hindu and all, hottest curry in town, I get a vindaloo there from time to time." "Awesome! Thank you, sir!" smile and wave. I am curious why he's no nice. When I was a kid the police were kind of assholes. Could just be a thing of the times or be because I'm a girl now. Next scene if I remember to write it: first day at high school.	Blue sky, brown trees, wet shores. Hot dawn, cold breeze, shed doors. Armed men, drunk rage, red floors. Old life, new shell, restored. ^^^^. Strange body, white light, next day. Second chance, scared fright, chest pain. Surgery, recite, explain. School tests, rewrite, segue. ^^^^. Highschool, new name, misfit. No friends, stay same, timid. Bad grades, no shame, dimwit. Train hard, for fame, win it. ^^^^. Last exam, try hard, left hand. No job, bank card, wrist band. Get attacked, off guard, on cam. John Cena, worldstar, unplanned.
	[WP] You survive a brain transplant and now have a teenager's body. Unfortunately, the law dictates that you have to go back to school.	Amanda Patterson looked like she was wearing a denim hand towel around her waist, and the tank top wasn't much bigger. How could her parents let her leave the house like that?! Her tanned, taut stomach seemed so smooth and sculpted... Stop it! I berated myself as I made my way back to my locker. They're 16, for god's sake! I passed by Christina Baret, wearing knee-high socks, a skimply plaid skirt, a white shirt so thin that I could see the outline of her bra. This isn't even a catholic school! She smiled as I passed, and I'm pretty sure I saw her wink. This new body that they've given me was certainly a lot more attractive and fit than my last one. They're sixteen, you're fifty. They're sixteen, you're fifty. They're sixteen, you're fifty. I kept my eyes down and clutched my books to my chest, avoiding any and all eye contact. I had to navigate to my locker by avoiding the other shoes. "Hey, Sam!" a soft voice called out. I recognized it immediately: Sarah White, the perky (in multiple ways) blonde who sat behind me in trigonometry. Just keep going! I told myself. I'd be safe if I could just get to the locker, put my stuff away, and make it to the parking lot. "Sam!" she called again, louder this time, chasing after me. I made it to the locker and scrambled to put in my combination in time. My fingers fumbled nervously, and I passed the third number and had to start all over again. Damn it! She leaned against the locker next to me, and my eyes couldn't help themselves. It was all I could do to keep them from falling straight out of their sockets. She was wearing her cheerleader outfit, for god's sake! Her hair fell in loose curls over her smooth shoulders, and... god, had she cut her uniform to show off more cleavage?! She's sixteen, I reminded myself. "Oh, hi Sarah. Didn't see you there." She leaned in close. Her lips were glossy and red. "I hope you're not avoiding me." "No, of course not. Just been busy, you know. Sports and stuff..." She's sixteen, I chanted over and over. It's illegal. And wrong. No it's not, another part of me answered. Certainly not my brain. Let's say it was my heart. Your body is sixteen now, and very few people know about the operation. Who's going to tell? She's sixteen, you're fifty, I thought again, trying to drown myself out. "Good," she grinned. Her teeth were perfectly straight and white. "I've been having some trouble with trig and I was wondering..." she bit her lower lip and batted her eyelashes. "Maybe you'd want to tutor me? You're just so smart, and mature..." Her blue eyes glanced down for just a moment. She's checking me out! Am I living in a letter to Penthouse?! "I don't know if that's a good idea..." I managed to stammer, holding a thick history textbook over my crotch as casually as possible. She leaned closer, giving me a glimpse of her perfect breasts in a lacy pink bra. "Don't tutor me, then," she whispered. "But come over tonight anyway." All I could do was nod. God, I'm going to hell.	The accident wasn’t really half bad when I think back on it. Free morphine. Free place to sleep. Free food. I couldn’t complain. The only part that really sucked was waking up. But then that always sucked so again no complaints. The doctor was a woman. Which made me nervous for some reason. She was a cute woman. This made me more nervous. She sat over me with a chart and a little smile. “Alright hun, how ya doing?” She asked. “Mehbvbm dman smd.” I replied. “Yeah don’t try and talk. We’re going to have to operate.” “Mehgdm men bffrd” I replied frustrated now “I said don’t talk.” She quipped back her ponytail bouncing angrily. She turned heel sharply and walked away making notes on her clipboard. They had me sign a paper with my eyes. If I blinked once it meant no. Twice then yes. They just left the paper there until I had to blink. It took a while but it was effective that’s for sure. Looking back I think they wanted the fame, I mean the first ever full body transplant. They could try with impunity, after all who would miss a hoboe with women problems and a couple habits. I guess the only part that concerned me at the time was that it was to a girls body. Not that I’m opposed to that but really? There were no guys? That’s a big transition right? Jenny Loveloon. What a fked up name. Really? Loveloon? I guess it’s what it is right? My link to my roots. Her roots. Our roots. Its roots. I dunno who but there are definitely roots and something is linked to them and the stupid name Loveloon is there. I’ve never felt like this before. I’ve felt like I’ve been hit by a bus before. That’s nothing. This is all so. New. I don’t even know how to describe the newness. Yeah there was pain everywhere. I was surrounded in it. The flesh seemed to want to reject me. It knew I was foreign that I wasn’t supposed to be here. It hated me. I fought it. I fought it like I’d fought nothing else before. Subdued it. Beat it back. Sunk my white tentacles that were really just nerves I guess into it’s spine. We merged. “Whaaaaaa….” I muttered. My lips felt strangely puffy. “Whaaaaaa” my voice sounded high and nasally in my throat. “She wants water” The woman said. Water was poured down my throat but no help. I coughed and retched. .... When you first see yourself in a new body it's a bit uncanny. Out of body really. "Is that really me?" The girl in the mirror asked incredulously. "Yeah that's you." The doctor with the ponytail replied with a satisfied little tick on her box. "Wow that's odd" I moved my arm back and forth. The girl in the mirror did too. She was tallish for a girl and had a nice face. Pretty but not gorgeous. A little chubby. I liked her instantly. .... The days that followed were full of rehab. It was difficult to do even the most simple exercises. Walking was a bch. Eventually I got out though. That's when I met my "family". An older woman walked in one day and just stared at me. I remember because I was doing squats and I thought it was awkward that this lady just stared at me doing squats. Who does that? FU** off lady. She didn't. The next day she brought a man with her. The man seemed distant. The lady got something in her eyes this time and had to go to the bathroom. Eventually I met Carl and Sarah. I even pretended to be their daughter. It was difficult at first but worth it. I'd never had parents like them before. They helped me through the rough patches. Sobriety was tough. I mean this body never used before which was strange but my mind always thought about it. The blood coming out scared the sh*t outta me. I'm glad Sarah could help with that. I'm not gonna go into some of the things I did at first with this body cause their might be kids who read this. But they were done. It happened in my math class of all places. No one knew about the operation they just knew I was suddenly way more chill and swore more. Anyways in math I'm talking to Joey. "What the fu%k Joey?" I wisper joking angrily Joey looks back confused. "Stop looking at my a&% yeah pervert. Aren't you like 22 anyways?" Joey smiled and winked then turned back to the teacher. We had a running joke that Joey was way too yoked to be a student here. That's when it happened. I saw Joey different then as he turned back. Suddenly he wasn't just some dude. His hair kind of sparkled I guess. At first I was confused. I didn't know what was going on. Eventually I got it. Then I rebelled against it. I wasn't no faggot. I'm pushing a stroller with Joey Jr. in it now. We just passed a hoboe wasted on the sidewalk clearly not going anywhere anytime soon and I have to pause like I always do and drop in a dollar and a prayer of gratitude. Joey never suspects a thing. [seedsoftantalus.wordpress.com]
	[WP] Every human soul that passes through the threshold of Death, discovers that Life was merely a pasture designed to ripen each soul for consumption.	I watched silently as fresh crop made its way into the auditorium. Young children taken too soon, the diseased, the elderly, the damned. All eyes wide in awe and terror. Their pain relieved, their wounds healed, their fate sealed. Entities as old as mankind sauntered toward them. Wicked grins with razor teeth, fleshy, and rotting and hungry. The ancients were always the first to dine. They made their way through the crop, towering over the tallest of them like behemoths, their claws and tendrils inspecting each morsel in turn. The children. The children were always first. So scared. So innocent. Their screams were always the hardest to endure. The ancients ripped and chewed and gulped, licking blood with their long black tongues. Once they had their fill, it was our turn to feed. I still had a hard time feeding, even now. This was only my sixth crop, and I had not yet become a true soul-eater. I still looked human to them. The ancients had filled them with the deepest horror. But we newcomers were different. We showed them the truth. We showed them what would become of those who survived. As I tore into the soft flesh of the scared young man, I almost cried. They tell us to live decent lives in the human world, to be kind, and to love. What a cruel joke that the innocent should become the food of the wicked.	“Come on through Simon everyone is eager to meet you” I was afraid at this point and you would think I would only have been afraid as I died but that fear stayed with me. I had no idea where I was, was this heaven, hell or something else? The room is spacious without being too big but is it ostentatious. High back chairs that are as black as I have ever seen gilded with silver and gold patterns that catch the light. Amazing paintings hang on every wall filled with scenes from worlds I have never seen or knew existed. A jet back table inlay-ed with gold artwork and a beautiful crystal dinner set, 12 people sit around it all looking at me intently. I am sat at the head of the table as the host said “Tonight we have a very special person over for dinner he is the first person ever to complete a 1000 item bucket list, journeyed to every country on Earth, had a long and fulfilling life. Never has a soul come to us with this much experience. He has been there and done it all. Savoir this as it may never come again” I was proud of my life, at 8 I had child hood leukemia and made a list of 1000 places to visit and things to do. At the time of my death at the age of 98 I had climbed Everest, completed 2 PHD's, spoke 5 languages and had 15 grand children and 4 great grandchildren. A life to be proud of. I never stole or hurt anyone and always lived to further my knowledge of the world and to experience everything in it. Sitting at the head of the table I felt honored and respected as if it really all was worth it what more could I have done with my life, maybe this is heaven. My host taps his glass with a small golden knife “Now my friends lets us start the meal” I put my hand up before anyone could move and asked “Why do we need to eat if we are all dead?” A bemused look came over the hosts perfect face. “My boy we are not dead you are, your soul left your body and due to it's unique amount of experience you made it all the way to the top. To us, so that we can eat you” “Eat me? Are you serious” “Yes very much so, we here around this table have sampled souls from all over the universe only the very best make it to our table” Stalling for time if it still exists here I ask what happens to all the people that did not live a life like mine. “Well we have many hungry mouths to feed and souls are our food, your soul and the souls of billions of humans and other beings we farm are parceled out to our kind. The best souls like your's the ones who have the most experiences are sent to us as only the best ever reaches this table" With that I grabbed the nearest piece of cutlery and threw it at him. I am not sure that ever happened to them before as it made my host stand stock still for a few seconds whilst I leaped for the door. I am hiding in a small room and I can hear them searching for me, somehow I have to get this information back to earth.
	[WP] Every human soul that passes through the threshold of Death, discovers that Life was merely a pasture designed to ripen each soul for consumption.	"The soul market is a very lucrative and fruitful business." "Sure, there is an abundance of your run of the mill generic souls who just go through life doing nothing significant. Some deities actually prefer the taste of average souls. You see, there are beings, with how should I put this, acquired tastes? They are willing to pay top dollar for specially matured souls!" "And this is where I come in. Oh sorry, I forgot to introduce myself. I am what you would call a byproduct of the soul market. I fulfill niches in the market that require special skills. I am not a sole trader you see but I am the best of the best. I pride myself in delivering quality and accurate merchandise to my buyers. I go by many names, people even refer me to the deity death himself. My contacts, rivals and customers call me Grim, humans call me The Grim Reaper. Yeah I am pretty famous." "If I were to describe my services, I would compare myself to a Michelin star restaurant providing expensive cuisines versus cheap, fast food joints that provide your average meal. I pride myself into going out of the way to procure specially prepared souls for my discerning customers. I don't judge, you want an infant soul then you will get a fresh, untainted premature infant soul! You like serial killers who get away with all their crimes and die at old age, then that's exactly what you get! The more specific your requests, the higher the charge. I accept half before the work (fully refundable if criteria is unmet), and half upon deliverance of the product. I have yet to refund anyone!" "What sets me apart from my rivals is I procure fresh souls. I don't stockpile and hand out the closest match. I don't display my wares for people to browse. I go by word of mouth from delivering unprecedented and excellent service to my clients. Upon request I even reveal myself to humans before their dying moments.This supposedly adds an interesting aftertaste to the souls. All upon request of course, no one gets anything they didn't pay for. Not many reapers do this because it makes it extremely hard for us to extract the soul from an aware human being, but I am a pro." "You must be wondering what the hell counts as currency here? What's in it for the reapers? Well, we kind of need to consume soul energy to survive. Its byproduct leftover from deity meals. I guess you could say its deity poop. We can't separate memories and feelings from the energy of the soul, its actually poisonous to us. But deities use it to get their kicks. The downside is soul energy is tasteless, so for us its quantity over quality. There was a time when deities walked the earth and they would just take souls themselves. They created us because they needed an efficient way to dispose of useless soul energy, and because gathering souls was beneath them. We all have our place." "You must be thinking this is all inhumane and what the point of life is. Well its the price of free will. Deities are pretty up themselves you know. After centuries, someone decided that it was too cruel to farm human destinies to make ideal tasting souls. And it really was depressing eating a set flavor of souls. What they lacked was variety so free will was born. We don't interfere with humans and they live out life however they see fit. This was mind blowing to the deities, for the souls that were created from the randomness of humans tasted so much better then anything they could have thought up! And there were also enough souls with generic template tastes with slight deviations here and there." "Now deities can get their fix from trying out the big chain reapers that go quantity over quality and hoping to roll lucky with an exceptional soul out of a million. Or if they liked the good old days where they could influence the taste of souls, which is a highly outlawed practice, they could come to vendors like me! We go for quality and sometimes spend weeks waiting for a soul to die so I can take it for my clients. Usual rate for soul is one soul energy for two souls. But I can charge upwards of a thousand or even a million soul energies depending on the requirements of the customer!" "So why are you telling me all this?" Questions, one of the reasons I hate revealing myself. Well the requirements were pretty specific. Find a male atheist and reveal yourself to them. Check! Tell them the bleak reality of the purpose of a soul. Check! Answer all his questions and convince him to willingly come without force. Fuck! "Well I am just filling out requirements from a client who is paying me top dollar for you. Now I need you to come willingly. So can you accept this and just come with me?" Poor guy was horrified at my emotionless businesslike tone. Oh, and also what I told him. "Wait what?! NO Get the fuck away from me! I refuse so leave me alone." I was beginning to lose my patience now. I whip out my scythe to intimidate him. "Well I guess I am going to have to do it painfully then." An idea popped in his head. I don't like it when they use their brains. "W-Well wont you fail if you have to take me by force? Wont you have to return the deposit and sully your reputation?" Why was one of the requirements to tell him everything?! "Well if that is how you want to play it, then let me tell you about your options. You either come willingly and pass through like normal. The process of your soul being taken is painless if you want it to be. And when you leave with a reaper, you lose your consciousness forever. That means you don't even feel let alone comprehend the fact that you are being devoured." "Your other option is to just stay here in the veil. Your body will be buried and you will watch your loved ones die. You will watch them get turned into souls by other reapers, maybe even me. Your spirit will experience madness from being alone and left behind for eternity. I can make it so that no reaper ever turns you into a soul. No matter how hard you scream, no matter how badly you want to be turned." He looked at me with bewilderment. He didn't need to think, humans ultimately want peace. Its in their design, and this isn't my first rodeo. "Fine, you win. Lets get this over with. Can I at least know who is going to eat me?" I was puzzled by his request, not that it mattered if he knew. "Agnos, the god of atheists!" And with a fell swoop of my scythe he turned into my million energy soul. I love my job!	“Come on through Simon everyone is eager to meet you” I was afraid at this point and you would think I would only have been afraid as I died but that fear stayed with me. I had no idea where I was, was this heaven, hell or something else? The room is spacious without being too big but is it ostentatious. High back chairs that are as black as I have ever seen gilded with silver and gold patterns that catch the light. Amazing paintings hang on every wall filled with scenes from worlds I have never seen or knew existed. A jet back table inlay-ed with gold artwork and a beautiful crystal dinner set, 12 people sit around it all looking at me intently. I am sat at the head of the table as the host said “Tonight we have a very special person over for dinner he is the first person ever to complete a 1000 item bucket list, journeyed to every country on Earth, had a long and fulfilling life. Never has a soul come to us with this much experience. He has been there and done it all. Savoir this as it may never come again” I was proud of my life, at 8 I had child hood leukemia and made a list of 1000 places to visit and things to do. At the time of my death at the age of 98 I had climbed Everest, completed 2 PHD's, spoke 5 languages and had 15 grand children and 4 great grandchildren. A life to be proud of. I never stole or hurt anyone and always lived to further my knowledge of the world and to experience everything in it. Sitting at the head of the table I felt honored and respected as if it really all was worth it what more could I have done with my life, maybe this is heaven. My host taps his glass with a small golden knife “Now my friends lets us start the meal” I put my hand up before anyone could move and asked “Why do we need to eat if we are all dead?” A bemused look came over the hosts perfect face. “My boy we are not dead you are, your soul left your body and due to it's unique amount of experience you made it all the way to the top. To us, so that we can eat you” “Eat me? Are you serious” “Yes very much so, we here around this table have sampled souls from all over the universe only the very best make it to our table” Stalling for time if it still exists here I ask what happens to all the people that did not live a life like mine. “Well we have many hungry mouths to feed and souls are our food, your soul and the souls of billions of humans and other beings we farm are parceled out to our kind. The best souls like your's the ones who have the most experiences are sent to us as only the best ever reaches this table" With that I grabbed the nearest piece of cutlery and threw it at him. I am not sure that ever happened to them before as it made my host stand stock still for a few seconds whilst I leaped for the door. I am hiding in a small room and I can hear them searching for me, somehow I have to get this information back to earth.
	[WP] Every human soul that passes through the threshold of Death, discovers that Life was merely a pasture designed to ripen each soul for consumption.	The soft weight of my daughter’s hand on my own lifted my foggy mind back to semi-consciousness. Light wavered at the center of my vision, distorting my perception of the blue hospital bed fabric. Sand shifted between my toes as the cool sea gently rocked me back and forth, warm summer sun beating down on my shoulders. Instead of seagulls and waves, I heard the beeping of the heart monitor, distant and muffled. It melted into the chiming beat of the song being played by my toddler jumper as I bounced towards my mother’s open arms. Orange lights, green lights, a flash with every step. The dog’s fur brushed across my leg as the ball left my brother’s hand, arcing through the bright sky towards the trees in the back yard. A faraway whistle. The light of a flashlight cut through the leaves, blinding me as we searched for the dog. I remembered our efforts were futile. A gentle tug on my hand drew me back to the soft blue blanket. The nurse passed by the bed to check the monitor. Someone’s tears dripped onto my hand as the light filled my vision again, and then I was falling – falling back into the spectrum of memories. I braced myself for the next sensation. There wasn’t one. Straining against my unraveling mind, I struggled to find a grip on my thoughts. Was I dying? Where was I? Who was I? The light was still there. It hungered for more. Hungered for what--? A feeling of intense horror sank in as I began to understand. All my memories over the course of a lifetime – the fragments that made up my identity had been siphoned away by this predatory entity that now left me with nothing, as nothing. The pressure on my hand lifted, drawing me senseless, back to the bed. I found myself staring at the tube protruding from an emaciated arm. My arm? I couldn’t recall. The light pulled away, disappearing along with my vision as I felt the last pulsations of my heart dwindle into nothing. Darkness enveloped my hapless soul.	“Come on through Simon everyone is eager to meet you” I was afraid at this point and you would think I would only have been afraid as I died but that fear stayed with me. I had no idea where I was, was this heaven, hell or something else? The room is spacious without being too big but is it ostentatious. High back chairs that are as black as I have ever seen gilded with silver and gold patterns that catch the light. Amazing paintings hang on every wall filled with scenes from worlds I have never seen or knew existed. A jet back table inlay-ed with gold artwork and a beautiful crystal dinner set, 12 people sit around it all looking at me intently. I am sat at the head of the table as the host said “Tonight we have a very special person over for dinner he is the first person ever to complete a 1000 item bucket list, journeyed to every country on Earth, had a long and fulfilling life. Never has a soul come to us with this much experience. He has been there and done it all. Savoir this as it may never come again” I was proud of my life, at 8 I had child hood leukemia and made a list of 1000 places to visit and things to do. At the time of my death at the age of 98 I had climbed Everest, completed 2 PHD's, spoke 5 languages and had 15 grand children and 4 great grandchildren. A life to be proud of. I never stole or hurt anyone and always lived to further my knowledge of the world and to experience everything in it. Sitting at the head of the table I felt honored and respected as if it really all was worth it what more could I have done with my life, maybe this is heaven. My host taps his glass with a small golden knife “Now my friends lets us start the meal” I put my hand up before anyone could move and asked “Why do we need to eat if we are all dead?” A bemused look came over the hosts perfect face. “My boy we are not dead you are, your soul left your body and due to it's unique amount of experience you made it all the way to the top. To us, so that we can eat you” “Eat me? Are you serious” “Yes very much so, we here around this table have sampled souls from all over the universe only the very best make it to our table” Stalling for time if it still exists here I ask what happens to all the people that did not live a life like mine. “Well we have many hungry mouths to feed and souls are our food, your soul and the souls of billions of humans and other beings we farm are parceled out to our kind. The best souls like your's the ones who have the most experiences are sent to us as only the best ever reaches this table" With that I grabbed the nearest piece of cutlery and threw it at him. I am not sure that ever happened to them before as it made my host stand stock still for a few seconds whilst I leaped for the door. I am hiding in a small room and I can hear them searching for me, somehow I have to get this information back to earth.
	[WP] Every human soul that passes through the threshold of Death, discovers that Life was merely a pasture designed to ripen each soul for consumption.	"A lifetime of experiences", the book said. "That's what it takes for someone to be mature enough". I reflected on these words. My mother wrote this book just before she died. I remember her writing it. I was just a boy at the time, yet I understood that she knew things that I didn't. When I stumbled across this book today after so many years, I did not know that I would be old enough to understand it. It all made sense now, and with it came a crashing sense of realization. A moment where everything fell right in place like some sort of jigsaw. Every time I questioned the purpose of my existence, it was just to mature myself for the end. Every heartbreak, every leap of joy, every last morsel of emotion was just part of a grand scheme written to prepare me. A moment that made me fall to my knees. Because that meant that this emotion too, just like the ones before was for the same purpose, and that it meant no more and no less than the sharpest pain or the most euphoric memory. A moment that made me cry I remember running up to her, barely able to tie my shoelaces together. "Ma, why should someone be mature?" "Consider the odds of all the scattered atoms and cells coming together so you can exist. Being mature gives some quality to your life, so you can compare your ups and downs. For as long as you exist, let it have some meaning." "And what happens when you're mature enough?", I might have asked. "That's when you become ready to be consumed", she would say. "Consumed by what?", I would ask. "By the universe of course. We all end up as stardust after all, back from where we come from."	Life brews the most pleasant meals Oh, how tasty is each soul's death knell Their lives spent in mortal Hell The true meaning of Life I'll never tell For I am The Fell The true meaning and master of Hell I hear always the dinner bell And I love it when you kill You do it so well Though you have no true free will Your soul is just dinner for the Lord of Hell.
	[WP] After spending 150 years in jail, the world finally figures out that you don't age, and have been alive since the fall of Rome, due to a genetic defect. After taking some DNA samples, NASA comes to you and asks you to go on a 500 year interstellar mission to the closest habitable planet, alone.	A man once told me a story about his first night in college. He said that he came to a party at 7:45 on a Friday (he remembered for the odd punctuality of it) and left the party on 9:00 the following Sunday. He had lost an entire weekend - lost a part of his life. As he claimed, it was his inspiration to get clean from booze and drugs and all those nasty things; a very, very powerful wake up call. I tell people this story when they ask how it feels - I leave out his later suicide, though. It tends to leave them rather speechless and confused, allowing me to slip away back into whatever bliss I was currently experiencing. It doesn’t really feel like anything at all. Years slip past to me. My childhood in Roma remains a faded memory; hardly a picture, more of a piece of paper sat behind one written on. The lines are there, but unreadable. Although, as it turns out, I exist in as a painting in some Spanish church in Barcelona. Allegedly it was brought there by Gothic pillagers long, long ago. I think they call it “Insanum aede rogaverat.” I don’t recall Latin any more to know what that means. Longer ago still, I think. I don’t remember much of that place anymore. All I have now is thirteen square feet of cockpit, thirty-five square feet of living quarters, and fifty square feet of storage space. My own little Earth. I was told (am told. I watch the video every twenty-nine hours.) I’m heading for Kepler 476-C, thirteen-hundred light years from the coast of Florida. Once there, I will establish living quarters, build self-sustainability, and lock down, waiting for Humans to follow. Or, as they say, it’s entirely possible Humans will be already there, having beaten me there with advanced technology. Regardless, I am to become the first extrasolar being in history as of 2016 - however long ago that is. Or was. Or will be. I’ve stopped looking at the instruments now.I mostly just sit. I don’t think NASA thought of the mental consequences on anyone on this type of journey. In their greed they seized the only physical doer of the task, poor old me, and shot him off on a rocket to a piece of rock miles and miles and miles and miles away. Some nights, when I sleep, I can feel my mother against me. I can hear her breath, holding her baby in our cottage outside the city. Whatever holds me at night floats away before I can get a look. One night I managed to hear it shut the door to the supply canister. Or maybe that was me? I don’t get food often enough to go in there. Best to not look in the window, at any rate. It’s too dark in there for me. Reminds me of out there. The black, inky ocean of my life. If you could call it a life. It’s more of a saga. I did kill a dragon once - or was it a horse? I can never remember, life on that island was rather horrid. Better than this, though. NASA forgot to account for the CRUSHING LONELINESS (this capsule carries sound very well. My ears hurt.) space just likes to bring a guy. Or humanoid being. Maybe it wants to be friends? It would explain the cuddling quite a bit. We could even bond on our shared heritage of space-capsules. Two-hundred years left.	"No! Fuck off! I'm not legally obligated to do that, why would i even want to? Whats in it for me? I just got out of jail mate, i was in there for over a century! Do you have any idea how long that is? Of course you don't, no one does. After all that your basically asking me to live alone forever! The isolation would drive me insane! What would you even want me to do when i got there? Set up a tent for the other unaging people who get sent there? Frankly this sounds like a massive waste of resources. How the hell would you inhabit this habitable planet!" "Is there nothing we can say to convince you?" The Nasa official inquired. "Not a chance, I've got immortal person shit to do. I'm gonna go get laid or something."
	[WP] After spending 150 years in jail, the world finally figures out that you don't age, and have been alive since the fall of Rome, due to a genetic defect. After taking some DNA samples, NASA comes to you and asks you to go on a 500 year interstellar mission to the closest habitable planet, alone.	A man once told me a story about his first night in college. He said that he came to a party at 7:45 on a Friday (he remembered for the odd punctuality of it) and left the party on 9:00 the following Sunday. He had lost an entire weekend - lost a part of his life. As he claimed, it was his inspiration to get clean from booze and drugs and all those nasty things; a very, very powerful wake up call. I tell people this story when they ask how it feels - I leave out his later suicide, though. It tends to leave them rather speechless and confused, allowing me to slip away back into whatever bliss I was currently experiencing. It doesn’t really feel like anything at all. Years slip past to me. My childhood in Roma remains a faded memory; hardly a picture, more of a piece of paper sat behind one written on. The lines are there, but unreadable. Although, as it turns out, I exist in as a painting in some Spanish church in Barcelona. Allegedly it was brought there by Gothic pillagers long, long ago. I think they call it “Insanum aede rogaverat.” I don’t recall Latin any more to know what that means. Longer ago still, I think. I don’t remember much of that place anymore. All I have now is thirteen square feet of cockpit, thirty-five square feet of living quarters, and fifty square feet of storage space. My own little Earth. I was told (am told. I watch the video every twenty-nine hours.) I’m heading for Kepler 476-C, thirteen-hundred light years from the coast of Florida. Once there, I will establish living quarters, build self-sustainability, and lock down, waiting for Humans to follow. Or, as they say, it’s entirely possible Humans will be already there, having beaten me there with advanced technology. Regardless, I am to become the first extrasolar being in history as of 2016 - however long ago that is. Or was. Or will be. I’ve stopped looking at the instruments now.I mostly just sit. I don’t think NASA thought of the mental consequences on anyone on this type of journey. In their greed they seized the only physical doer of the task, poor old me, and shot him off on a rocket to a piece of rock miles and miles and miles and miles away. Some nights, when I sleep, I can feel my mother against me. I can hear her breath, holding her baby in our cottage outside the city. Whatever holds me at night floats away before I can get a look. One night I managed to hear it shut the door to the supply canister. Or maybe that was me? I don’t get food often enough to go in there. Best to not look in the window, at any rate. It’s too dark in there for me. Reminds me of out there. The black, inky ocean of my life. If you could call it a life. It’s more of a saga. I did kill a dragon once - or was it a horse? I can never remember, life on that island was rather horrid. Better than this, though. NASA forgot to account for the CRUSHING LONELINESS (this capsule carries sound very well. My ears hurt.) space just likes to bring a guy. Or humanoid being. Maybe it wants to be friends? It would explain the cuddling quite a bit. We could even bond on our shared heritage of space-capsules. Two-hundred years left.	They told me they'd throw me in jail again if I didn't go. I still refused. When given the ultimatum between years of isolation and introspection, and living in jail, I said, "Jail is only for sentences under a year anyway. Prison is for more than a year. I honestly don't know why I've been committing one year crimes for 150 years, or why no one has sentenced me for longer than a year for any of the 150 crimes I've committed, but surely, now I'll just stop committing them. You only found me after realizing all my name changes, anyway." They looked at me puzzled. "Don't be so naive, friends. I don't age, am ostensibly evil, and seem to get away with everything, and if not, only be punished slightly." They had never considered this. The fear was developing over their faces like the way shadows disappear when a cloud slowly covers the sun. I chuckled, and took a deep breath at its end. The room was quiet. I leaned forward in my chair - the front legs creaked. Staring unyieldingly at the lead engineer I spoke softly, "I don't know who you are, and I don't care. I will see you again someday, and I don't have to travel to another planet and wait for that day to come. I am forever everywhere and no where. I am permanently here, and yet, I've never actually been here. I see you all, but none of you have ever seen me. Your plans won't work. If they were going to, I'd already be there - waiting." Shocked by my response they just stared blankly, as if they had lost their souls; like in that instance everything they were had lost its meaning. One of the engineers spoke up almost to convince himself that the truth was a lie, "Are we really going to listen to this nut? The only thing we know, for sure, is that this guy is insane. He can't be counted on to control a spacecraft, that's obvious now." Still, with his eyes and mine still at a deadlock, the lead engineer said, "We go. We find someone who can be," and proceeded to back out of the room and walk away. Little did they know, I was the only one in this World that could always be counted on.
	[WP] After spending 150 years in jail, the world finally figures out that you don't age, and have been alive since the fall of Rome, due to a genetic defect. After taking some DNA samples, NASA comes to you and asks you to go on a 500 year interstellar mission to the closest habitable planet, alone.	A man once told me a story about his first night in college. He said that he came to a party at 7:45 on a Friday (he remembered for the odd punctuality of it) and left the party on 9:00 the following Sunday. He had lost an entire weekend - lost a part of his life. As he claimed, it was his inspiration to get clean from booze and drugs and all those nasty things; a very, very powerful wake up call. I tell people this story when they ask how it feels - I leave out his later suicide, though. It tends to leave them rather speechless and confused, allowing me to slip away back into whatever bliss I was currently experiencing. It doesn’t really feel like anything at all. Years slip past to me. My childhood in Roma remains a faded memory; hardly a picture, more of a piece of paper sat behind one written on. The lines are there, but unreadable. Although, as it turns out, I exist in as a painting in some Spanish church in Barcelona. Allegedly it was brought there by Gothic pillagers long, long ago. I think they call it “Insanum aede rogaverat.” I don’t recall Latin any more to know what that means. Longer ago still, I think. I don’t remember much of that place anymore. All I have now is thirteen square feet of cockpit, thirty-five square feet of living quarters, and fifty square feet of storage space. My own little Earth. I was told (am told. I watch the video every twenty-nine hours.) I’m heading for Kepler 476-C, thirteen-hundred light years from the coast of Florida. Once there, I will establish living quarters, build self-sustainability, and lock down, waiting for Humans to follow. Or, as they say, it’s entirely possible Humans will be already there, having beaten me there with advanced technology. Regardless, I am to become the first extrasolar being in history as of 2016 - however long ago that is. Or was. Or will be. I’ve stopped looking at the instruments now.I mostly just sit. I don’t think NASA thought of the mental consequences on anyone on this type of journey. In their greed they seized the only physical doer of the task, poor old me, and shot him off on a rocket to a piece of rock miles and miles and miles and miles away. Some nights, when I sleep, I can feel my mother against me. I can hear her breath, holding her baby in our cottage outside the city. Whatever holds me at night floats away before I can get a look. One night I managed to hear it shut the door to the supply canister. Or maybe that was me? I don’t get food often enough to go in there. Best to not look in the window, at any rate. It’s too dark in there for me. Reminds me of out there. The black, inky ocean of my life. If you could call it a life. It’s more of a saga. I did kill a dragon once - or was it a horse? I can never remember, life on that island was rather horrid. Better than this, though. NASA forgot to account for the CRUSHING LONELINESS (this capsule carries sound very well. My ears hurt.) space just likes to bring a guy. Or humanoid being. Maybe it wants to be friends? It would explain the cuddling quite a bit. We could even bond on our shared heritage of space-capsules. Two-hundred years left.	As I slowly rose from my slumber there was a knock at the door. I got up and quickly threw on some pants before walking to the front door. There was another series of knocks only this time followed by a faint voice. It sounded much like King Charles of the Holy Roman Empire, the thought of that man brought a smile to my lips; a good friend, hated to see him go. I shook my head and opened the door. A small Latina woman in a blue NASA shirt greeted me. She smiled and looked at the paper she had in her hand "Mr Fitzgerald I presume?" She asked. "Yes, but enough about me. Let's talk about you." I said with a smile. "Mr Fitzgerald I do not like men." The woman said with a straight face. "...oh. We'll then what do you want?" I asked again. "I am from NASA, for NASA and with a proposition." She said with a smile. "What is it?" I asked, annoyed. I had been approached my many science agencies ever since the bewildered guards set me free three weeks ago. 150 years for 24 counts of murder and 7 accounts of attempted murder was my crime. After a DNA analysis it was found I had extreme regenerative abilities preventing me from dying. I had records placing my date of birth at the late 400's. I am a wonder of science. In response to this I had been subject to every test known to man and constant research. Honestly I just want to die, after the first 30 wives...well. "Mr Fitzgerald? Are you alright?" The lady at my door asked. It was then I realized I had begun daydreaming. "No, I haven been 'alright' since 1680, but I'm as good as I'm gonna get; now answer my question." I said "NASA wants to send you to the nearest habitable planet Kepler 48b. It will take about 500 years but that should only be a blink of an eye for you." The lady said with a glowing smile. "No." I said simply and began to shut the door but the lady put her foot in the way. I sighed heavily as she opened it back up "Why? Your the only one who can finally take us to the stars!" The lady said motioning to the sky. "We don't deserve it. Besides it will NOT be a 'blink of an eye' for me. It's going to be 500 years, and feel longer." I said as I began to close the door. The woman intervened again and despite her small stature opened it up despite my efforts. "Wait a second what do you mean we don't deserve it? We have done so much! We invented penicillin, increased the life expectancy ten fold and increased infant morality rates even more." She insisted. "I have seen things no man should see. I watched the Mongols raze Bagdad to the ground, the Black Death kill men, woman and children, armies raised in the name of god do the same based on a faulty sense of superiority. I have seen the Ancient Empires of Mesoamerica fall because of greed and racial superiority, I watched my family and all my dearest held loved ones die at the hands of slave drivers, I watched and felt the horrors wrought by the Civil War. I witnessed ethnic cleansings so thorough that nobody but I remember them. I survived the Holocaust, the Thirty Years War; the Dark Ages and most mass killings you know. I have seen the worst of the worst...he'll i voted more than one of them into positions of power. I guess what I'm trying to say is that we don't deserve it because we have done nothing too deserve it. Now get away and let me live the rest of eternity in peace." I said. Thing is, it's all true. I have witnessed humanity at its worst and resent it for what I have seen. The lady had a surprised look on her face as I closed the door and went back to sleep.
	[WP] After spending 150 years in jail, the world finally figures out that you don't age, and have been alive since the fall of Rome, due to a genetic defect. After taking some DNA samples, NASA comes to you and asks you to go on a 500 year interstellar mission to the closest habitable planet, alone.	A man once told me a story about his first night in college. He said that he came to a party at 7:45 on a Friday (he remembered for the odd punctuality of it) and left the party on 9:00 the following Sunday. He had lost an entire weekend - lost a part of his life. As he claimed, it was his inspiration to get clean from booze and drugs and all those nasty things; a very, very powerful wake up call. I tell people this story when they ask how it feels - I leave out his later suicide, though. It tends to leave them rather speechless and confused, allowing me to slip away back into whatever bliss I was currently experiencing. It doesn’t really feel like anything at all. Years slip past to me. My childhood in Roma remains a faded memory; hardly a picture, more of a piece of paper sat behind one written on. The lines are there, but unreadable. Although, as it turns out, I exist in as a painting in some Spanish church in Barcelona. Allegedly it was brought there by Gothic pillagers long, long ago. I think they call it “Insanum aede rogaverat.” I don’t recall Latin any more to know what that means. Longer ago still, I think. I don’t remember much of that place anymore. All I have now is thirteen square feet of cockpit, thirty-five square feet of living quarters, and fifty square feet of storage space. My own little Earth. I was told (am told. I watch the video every twenty-nine hours.) I’m heading for Kepler 476-C, thirteen-hundred light years from the coast of Florida. Once there, I will establish living quarters, build self-sustainability, and lock down, waiting for Humans to follow. Or, as they say, it’s entirely possible Humans will be already there, having beaten me there with advanced technology. Regardless, I am to become the first extrasolar being in history as of 2016 - however long ago that is. Or was. Or will be. I’ve stopped looking at the instruments now.I mostly just sit. I don’t think NASA thought of the mental consequences on anyone on this type of journey. In their greed they seized the only physical doer of the task, poor old me, and shot him off on a rocket to a piece of rock miles and miles and miles and miles away. Some nights, when I sleep, I can feel my mother against me. I can hear her breath, holding her baby in our cottage outside the city. Whatever holds me at night floats away before I can get a look. One night I managed to hear it shut the door to the supply canister. Or maybe that was me? I don’t get food often enough to go in there. Best to not look in the window, at any rate. It’s too dark in there for me. Reminds me of out there. The black, inky ocean of my life. If you could call it a life. It’s more of a saga. I did kill a dragon once - or was it a horse? I can never remember, life on that island was rather horrid. Better than this, though. NASA forgot to account for the CRUSHING LONELINESS (this capsule carries sound very well. My ears hurt.) space just likes to bring a guy. Or humanoid being. Maybe it wants to be friends? It would explain the cuddling quite a bit. We could even bond on our shared heritage of space-capsules. Two-hundred years left.	"No," was his reply. "I'm a freak. Not stupid." The bureaucrat scowled. "But we're offering you a full pardon. Limitless exploration. Your name in the annals of history. What could be keeping you here?" The Ageless Man pointed to the cafeteria sign just beyond his visitor's shoulder. He was grinning. Showing teeth. Too much excitement to contain; it was perverse. "It's chicken tendy night."
	[WP] After spending 150 years in jail, the world finally figures out that you don't age, and have been alive since the fall of Rome, due to a genetic defect. After taking some DNA samples, NASA comes to you and asks you to go on a 500 year interstellar mission to the closest habitable planet, alone.	"500 years." I take a long draw of the cigarette the colonel had offered me upon my arrival. I exhale. Expensive brand. Though if I had had any doubts about the man's taste, he wouldn't have pulled whatever strings he had to get me out of prison. "Yes, that's right," the colonel repeated. To his credit, he hid his excitement well. It wasn't every day you met someone who'd been around as long as I have. "I secure your release, wipe your record, give you a nice clean slate. And you leave Earth, make a 500 year trip, become a hero. You'd be a modern Christopher Columbus, a John Cabot. A Marco Polo. What do you say?" I flick the ash from the borrowed cigarette into the cheap ashtray. "Having met some of those men, I'm not entirely sure your comments are complimentary. That aside, being an explorer has its drawbacks, and I'm not even talking about the isolation, the difficulty of the work. Being born some two thousand years ago and watching everyone you meet grow old and die is isolation. And all of the things you offer me- a clean slate? I wouldn't even be here! My crime? I wait long enough, and everyone who'd ever heard the details would be dust. You are offering me nothing but glory. I, who walked with Christ. What need have I for your accolades, accepted in absentia as I hurtle through the void? It seems I am to do you a favour with no thought of reciprocation or reward." The colonel's face reddened. "Listen here, you sack of-" "No, colonel," I say, putting out the cigarette, a symbolic gesture of defiance. "You come here, on behalf of your government, to offer me nothing of consequence to undertake significant hardship. And all of this AFTER I rot in prison for over a century. I witnessed the birth and evolution of bureaucracy, colonel. And your entire way of operating disgusts me." I lean back in the creaky wooden chair. "If you cannot offer me anything worthwhile, then I refuse. And I don't think you can send me on your mission without my consent, or you'd have done so. The media attention I'd receive, having served what many would fully accept in lieu of a "life" sentence? No. You need me. I want more." The colonel stared at me, trying to intimidate me. The pair of armed guards flanking the door behind me shifted uncomfortably. I simply sat and waited. I'd fought in too many wars, seen too many heroes and martyrs die for no reason. A long life desensitizes you, leaving you simply... alive. My life had been overlong, and I found it was hardly worth living. I already knew at this point, I think, that I would go. There was certainly little enough left for me here. A few descendants I was aware of but had no contact with. They wouldn't understand. And why taint their lives with the knowledge that but for random chance, they too might have been immortal? No, family was no concern. And I'd been somewhat out of touch for the last century and a half, anyway. A few affairs to settle, some things to give away. And then, I supposed I'd be ready to face the void in my own way. It was time for a change of pace. The colonel remained silent. "What," he said finally, his jaw clenched, "could you possibly want?" "Well," I said slowly, "how about another cigarette, for starters?" _________________________________________________ I leave tomorrow. Tonight's my last night on Earth, and I'm grateful, in way. The colonel was true to his word. I was released with a full pardon, as he'd said. A token gesture, since the person I'd "wronged" had been dead for 96 years. No details of my personal circumstances were released to the media. As far as the people of this little blue planet would be concerned, I was to be cryogenically frozen on board the spacecraft and monitored by an artificial intelligence. It served no purpose to have people thinking some sort of angel was returning to the heavens, or any other sort of religious nonsense. I'd had a week to see to my affairs. Upon the invention of modern banking, I'd set some money aside. A few centuries of interest, and I'd ammassed a fortune. This I'd divided and given away, shared among my descendants. I wrote a large cheque to a pro-transparency organization in the hope that people wouldn't be imprisioned for centuries with the government thinking it was normal. Apart from that, my family got the rest. Many of them were good people, working hard to better themselves. I was never much concerned with my legacy, but I'd done well, I think. I wasn't even guilty of the crime that landed me in jail, but shooting a President is a crime that tends to illicit knee-jerk reactions like that. The people resonsible were caught, eventually, but it hadn't led to my release. And anything you say in prison to the effect of, "I've been here for seventy, eighty, ninety years" just leads to medication and isolation, though that may have been because I look 35. 150 years is a pittance, for someone like me, but the act of jailing an abolitionist for shooting Lincoln still stings. In a lot of ways, I'll be glad to leave this rock. I took a long pull from the bottle of Dom Perrignon that was provided, courtesy of the colonel. The high-class escort that I'd shared my last night with shifted and muttered something in her sleep. The military could deliver, when it wanted to. I looked at the clock. I had to be up in five hours, and sleep was nowhere in sight.	Transferred between various American prisons over the years, today I woke up in Riker's Island. It started like another day. I woke up in a hard bunk, above a terrified teenager who had been there for over a month with no charges. I didn't pay him any mind. When you've lived as long as I have, the struggles of those much younger didn't mean much. The prison guards let us both out of the cell and to the cafeteria. 150 years- possibly slightly more, possibly slightly less- that's how long I'd been imprisoned. The world changed outside, and I was put in a new prison every now and then, in short enough intervals that nobody noticed that I was perpetually 30 years old. At some point early on, the South no longer had slaves and the Civil War ended. A little later, I was moved to a prison with electrical lights. We were at war, then not at war, in intervals I do not fully recall- some have referred to these conflicts as the "World Wars", though sitting in a prison eating oatmeal while people talked about war in Europe and Asia hardly compared to my youth in London (or Londinium, as we used to call it) when the legions left. All the wars blurred together, as did all the events. So perhaps I can be forgiven for not really paying attention when people started talking about me. Often, I'm half-present, both past and present reduced to an overwhelming blur by passing millennia. While eating, a prison guard came to me. "Stand up, you have a visitor." "It's not visiting day," I said, sipping some coffee. The guard grabbed my arm and yanked me from my seat. I looked at him- so angry, and all I could feel towards him was an overwhelming apathy. But I followed him. We left the cafeteria, and made our way to a private visiting office, where the guard closed and locked the door. A woman and a man, both in white coats, sat across a cold, steel table from me. "Hello, Julian," said the woman, "My name is Dr. Walker, and this is Mr. Harris." "Morning," I said, "What do you want?" Dr. Walker and Dr. Harris looked at each other. Then Dr. Harris spoke. "We're here from NASA. We saw a recent news story- you were sentenced to life in prison in 1862. Yet somehow you're still alive. And don't look a day over 30." "Yeah, so?" I said, "I've been alive for awhile. What do you want?" Dr. Harris shifted in his seat, and Dr. Walker took in a deep breath, then spoke. "We want to talk to you about humanity's future." "What about it?" I asked. "We have identified a planet, several solar systems away," Dr. Walker said, "And our analysis suggests that it can support life, human life." "Great, get to the point," I said. "It's 78 light years away, and what we have can get someone there and back in about 500 years," said Dr. Harris, "We need someone who can get there and back alive." Dr. Walker spoke next. "We want to send you. Alone. Are you interested?" "What's in it for me?" I asked. "Freedom," Dr. Walker said. "And how can I be sure that whatever exists in half a millennium will honor that?" I said. "We will have documentation with the United States government," said Dr. Walker, "And with the United Nations. Instructions are clear for when you get back." "I've seen a lot of things happen in the world," I said, "The Romans were gone before they could honor their promises to me. When I spent time working with the Arabs, their Caliphate collapsed come payday. The Mongols only even asked when they began fighting themselves and the plague. Everybody always thinks I can help them, just because I can live a little longer. And they only ask when they're losing. How do I know Washington won't be sacked centuries before I get back?" "Why would Washington be sacked?" said Dr. Harris, confused. "Or bombed, or whatever you've figured out how to do to cities," I said, "Point is, 500 years is a long time. I'm not sure you can make any promise you can honor. You wouldn't even ask if you weren't scared of something happening. And I know damned well that they can't keep me here forever." Dr. Walker sighed, then Dr. Harris whispered into her ear. She scowled. "We're asking, but it's not a choice. We will be back next week with an executive order." "I'd like to see that," I said. Dr. Walker and Dr. Harris stood up, and left, the guard unlocking the door before them. Then he came in and I stood up. He led me back to my cell, and closed the door. In the bunk below me, the young man with no charges sat, staring at the wall. "Julian?" the young man asked. "What do you want, kid?" I said. "Will I be okay?" he asked. I thought about what to say. I'd seen people his age thrown in jail and left there for months, even years. But I decided, fuck it, I'll try to say something nice for once. "Kid, you'll be fine," I said, "Because no matter how long you're here, your sentence will never be as long as mine." "How long's your sentence?" the kid asked. I smiled. "650 years."
	[WP] After spending 150 years in jail, the world finally figures out that you don't age, and have been alive since the fall of Rome, due to a genetic defect. After taking some DNA samples, NASA comes to you and asks you to go on a 500 year interstellar mission to the closest habitable planet, alone.	You'd be surprised what a man can teach himself in 500 years. Well, that's not entirely accurate. I may not age, but I still need to sleep. Unfortunately, cryogenic stasis technology hasn't yet gotten over the hurdle of inducing brain damage. So, in actuality, you'd be surprised what a man can teach himself in, oh, say 358 years and change... A major stipulation of my agreeing to do this mission was that I be allowed a modest collection of tools and the means with which I can safely use those tools. I requested a supply of metals in various shapes. Some brass square stock, brass rods, stainless steel and aluminum square and rod stock. Some German nickel silver too, in case I wanted to take up clock or watch making. I also asked for a supply of woods, mostly pine as it's rather easy to carve, some oak, some walnut and a few planks of tiger maple. The engineers designed a separate, little workbench cabin room in which they had to modify the air circulation system to allow for a lot more dust. Dust can be very dangerous in a spacecraft full of sensitive equipment. Equipment I am in charge of maintaining for five hundred plus years. There is also on board a media server with 2.4 petabytes of storage, already mostly full of all available English language cinema, television, music and literature. The rest of the space is for 500 years of experiment logs, diagnostic logs and my personal data. It's set up with a double-redundant RAID array and a supply of extra drives so I can replace them as they fail, and they will. There is a link to headquarters to offload pertinent data, but after about 80 years, data transmissions are no longer possible. As for the on-board experiments, there are a handful. There is a greenhouse capsule for botanical experiments including both edible and non-edible plants. Aside from the obvious advantages of growing my own vegetables, I'm also very interested in the viability of growing my own wood stock. Not only would it be the first tree grown in space, I'm fairly certain the wood I'm starting with won't last 500 years. There is a protein structure research capsule. Part of the job of this experiment is to supplement my diet with necessary proteins. We're able to synthesize what looks and tastes mostly like "meat" but is derived from plant-based proteins. The EGSC, or "eejisk" as I call it, is an Earth Gravity Simulating Centrifuge. In the EGSC is our nutria colony experiment. This is the first experiment done in space to maintain a small colony of rodents. There are two breeding pairs which are replaced as they die. Offspring are chemically sterilized. Again, part of the reason of this experiment is to supplement my diet. The faux-meat synthesis experiment doesn't produce enough to keep up with my dietary needs. I'm excited. A bit fearful contemplating the prospect of five hundred years of solitude, but mostly excited. The Japanese say you can master anything in 10 years. I wonder what I'll be able to master.	The screen above me displays the would-be mob bubbling and frothing in organized chaos outside. Journalists and other news crews flocked outside the doors of a conference room in Area 51, pens clicking nervously and hushed arguments flitting between cameramen and reporters. The U.S. government finally decided to reveal their "greatest secret," the source of many a fictional tale and speculation on our place in the universe. The clock ticking echoed in my mind as I sat and waited for the chime to hit 12. Doors swung open and the cacophony of noise that burst with the giant doors quickly dimmed to confused silence upon seeing me, seated, with two guards standing at my sides. "Hello." I chirp and wave. Might as well milk the situation for whatever amusement I can. Days like this come only once every couple of centuries, and it's so hard to find new entertainment. "Please, sit down." Bargaining with the scientists took little effort on my part. I wanted to explain myself to the world, not have the populace sit bored with their "science." Studying humanity for as long as I have, I knew better. I knew more what they wanted. Besides, it's not as if their many years of study managed to amount to any conclusions. I'd since given up on figuring out my immortality. "You can call me Carl, though in another century I might go by Anton. Reminds me of home. I've also been called Cato, Julian, Marcus, Timothy, Sebastian, Philippe, Ivan... the list goes on." My candor and casual tone confuse them further. "Well, I'm sure you have questions. Not every day your government reveals the world's only immortal." The room explodes in a mixture of frustration of time wasted, demands for proof, and furious scribbling of those who take this on faith. I nod briefly to the guard on my left and shout, "For those recording live, censor this next bit." Screams follow as the guard points a gun to my head and fires. I shake my head back and forth vigorously. "Ah, that always hurts. As I was saying..." I smile as the expected storm of noise continues, and gesture to the guard at my left again, making it clear if they did not silence themselves I would continue. Silence fell. "I accepted an offer to travel for humanity to the outer reaches of space, to a planet that may sustain human life comparable to Earth. This journey will take 500 years. Your scientists have all the genetic information they could possible get from me, and my prsence here serves little purpose. They agreed to release me, so I agreed to assist them." Time to lay it on thick, just for the fun. I stand at my desk, palms flat on the wooden surface, and lean over to make eye contact with as many in the room as possible. "Pray that I succeed, for I have seen the fall of empires, looked upon the thrones of would-be gods who fell like any man. Earth is just another empire, and you cannot sustain it forever." With that, I fold my hands behind my back and smile. "Any questions?"
	[WP] After spending 150 years in jail, the world finally figures out that you don't age, and have been alive since the fall of Rome, due to a genetic defect. After taking some DNA samples, NASA comes to you and asks you to go on a 500 year interstellar mission to the closest habitable planet, alone.	Year 474. Twenty-six years until arrival. "It is time." Riley looked up at his displays, noticing a flashing red prompt superseding everything else. The AI on board, his only company through the centuries, had adapted it's protocols and methods to communicating with him. His own personalized ship that imitated sentience. "It is? Time... flies. Literally flies in here." Riley joked, waiting to see if the AI, AL, had picked up on the humor. Riley was dressed in a simple, full-bodied grey suit, adapted for the habitat within the ship. My mother would have laughed at this outfit, he thought to himself. "But then again, I don't remember what her laugh sounded like anymore, or what she looked like..." "You have a vast amount of memories stored in your brain, Riley, it is no wonder you cannot remember." Riley looked up at the flashing red light. "Thanks, AL. I know. You would have been considered a God to my mother, you know." "Is this one of your jokes, Riley?" "Ah.. no, forget it. Well, twenty six years to go. Let's get to work." The ship was massive, far too big for one person alone. When NASA had approached him with this highly publicized mission for human-kind they had kept one thing very quiet. There were three hundred other humans on board in the form of cryogenically frozen fertilized eggs. Today Riley began setting the gestation processes in motion. He would be father to 300 humans, 140 females and 160 males, the first generation to colonize Gaia Nova. In nine months he would hear other humans in person for the first time in 474 years. This part of the mission would be hardest. The ship was timed to arrive at the planet when the new humans on board hit 25, that meant a quarter century of Riley raising 300 children by himself. But of course, he wouldn't be by himself. He had AL. And AL had been programmed for this. The children's upbringing would be highly structured, Spartan, and backed with the best social programming and education techniques science had to offer. Riley thought about all this has he walked through the ships main corridor. Half a mile and ten minutes later he arrived at the gestation chambers. Fighting a shudder he opened the door to the first one, a long, narrow, ominous looking room that housed a hundred soon-to-be humans. At the start of his journey he had spent many days in this room, staring longingly at the little artificial habitats. Feeling lonely in jail was nothing like the loneliness he'd felt in space. There was a button on the wall that begun the process. He had pressed it many times in fits of rage, remorse, depression, loneliness, elation... and more. It had been unresponsive. Time locked, he'd realized. Riley walked over to the button and pressed it. The lights in the room dimmed, except for a pulsing red light in the far right corner. AL. "Gestation engaged."	The screen above me displays the would-be mob bubbling and frothing in organized chaos outside. Journalists and other news crews flocked outside the doors of a conference room in Area 51, pens clicking nervously and hushed arguments flitting between cameramen and reporters. The U.S. government finally decided to reveal their "greatest secret," the source of many a fictional tale and speculation on our place in the universe. The clock ticking echoed in my mind as I sat and waited for the chime to hit 12. Doors swung open and the cacophony of noise that burst with the giant doors quickly dimmed to confused silence upon seeing me, seated, with two guards standing at my sides. "Hello." I chirp and wave. Might as well milk the situation for whatever amusement I can. Days like this come only once every couple of centuries, and it's so hard to find new entertainment. "Please, sit down." Bargaining with the scientists took little effort on my part. I wanted to explain myself to the world, not have the populace sit bored with their "science." Studying humanity for as long as I have, I knew better. I knew more what they wanted. Besides, it's not as if their many years of study managed to amount to any conclusions. I'd since given up on figuring out my immortality. "You can call me Carl, though in another century I might go by Anton. Reminds me of home. I've also been called Cato, Julian, Marcus, Timothy, Sebastian, Philippe, Ivan... the list goes on." My candor and casual tone confuse them further. "Well, I'm sure you have questions. Not every day your government reveals the world's only immortal." The room explodes in a mixture of frustration of time wasted, demands for proof, and furious scribbling of those who take this on faith. I nod briefly to the guard on my left and shout, "For those recording live, censor this next bit." Screams follow as the guard points a gun to my head and fires. I shake my head back and forth vigorously. "Ah, that always hurts. As I was saying..." I smile as the expected storm of noise continues, and gesture to the guard at my left again, making it clear if they did not silence themselves I would continue. Silence fell. "I accepted an offer to travel for humanity to the outer reaches of space, to a planet that may sustain human life comparable to Earth. This journey will take 500 years. Your scientists have all the genetic information they could possible get from me, and my prsence here serves little purpose. They agreed to release me, so I agreed to assist them." Time to lay it on thick, just for the fun. I stand at my desk, palms flat on the wooden surface, and lean over to make eye contact with as many in the room as possible. "Pray that I succeed, for I have seen the fall of empires, looked upon the thrones of would-be gods who fell like any man. Earth is just another empire, and you cannot sustain it forever." With that, I fold my hands behind my back and smile. "Any questions?"
	[WP] After spending 150 years in jail, the world finally figures out that you don't age, and have been alive since the fall of Rome, due to a genetic defect. After taking some DNA samples, NASA comes to you and asks you to go on a 500 year interstellar mission to the closest habitable planet, alone.	Year 474. Twenty-six years until arrival. "It is time." Riley looked up at his displays, noticing a flashing red prompt superseding everything else. The AI on board, his only company through the centuries, had adapted it's protocols and methods to communicating with him. His own personalized ship that imitated sentience. "It is? Time... flies. Literally flies in here." Riley joked, waiting to see if the AI, AL, had picked up on the humor. Riley was dressed in a simple, full-bodied grey suit, adapted for the habitat within the ship. My mother would have laughed at this outfit, he thought to himself. "But then again, I don't remember what her laugh sounded like anymore, or what she looked like..." "You have a vast amount of memories stored in your brain, Riley, it is no wonder you cannot remember." Riley looked up at the flashing red light. "Thanks, AL. I know. You would have been considered a God to my mother, you know." "Is this one of your jokes, Riley?" "Ah.. no, forget it. Well, twenty six years to go. Let's get to work." The ship was massive, far too big for one person alone. When NASA had approached him with this highly publicized mission for human-kind they had kept one thing very quiet. There were three hundred other humans on board in the form of cryogenically frozen fertilized eggs. Today Riley began setting the gestation processes in motion. He would be father to 300 humans, 140 females and 160 males, the first generation to colonize Gaia Nova. In nine months he would hear other humans in person for the first time in 474 years. This part of the mission would be hardest. The ship was timed to arrive at the planet when the new humans on board hit 25, that meant a quarter century of Riley raising 300 children by himself. But of course, he wouldn't be by himself. He had AL. And AL had been programmed for this. The children's upbringing would be highly structured, Spartan, and backed with the best social programming and education techniques science had to offer. Riley thought about all this has he walked through the ships main corridor. Half a mile and ten minutes later he arrived at the gestation chambers. Fighting a shudder he opened the door to the first one, a long, narrow, ominous looking room that housed a hundred soon-to-be humans. At the start of his journey he had spent many days in this room, staring longingly at the little artificial habitats. Feeling lonely in jail was nothing like the loneliness he'd felt in space. There was a button on the wall that begun the process. He had pressed it many times in fits of rage, remorse, depression, loneliness, elation... and more. It had been unresponsive. Time locked, he'd realized. Riley walked over to the button and pressed it. The lights in the room dimmed, except for a pulsing red light in the far right corner. AL. "Gestation engaged."	You'd be surprised what a man can teach himself in 500 years. Well, that's not entirely accurate. I may not age, but I still need to sleep. Unfortunately, cryogenic stasis technology hasn't yet gotten over the hurdle of inducing brain damage. So, in actuality, you'd be surprised what a man can teach himself in, oh, say 358 years and change... A major stipulation of my agreeing to do this mission was that I be allowed a modest collection of tools and the means with which I can safely use those tools. I requested a supply of metals in various shapes. Some brass square stock, brass rods, stainless steel and aluminum square and rod stock. Some German nickel silver too, in case I wanted to take up clock or watch making. I also asked for a supply of woods, mostly pine as it's rather easy to carve, some oak, some walnut and a few planks of tiger maple. The engineers designed a separate, little workbench cabin room in which they had to modify the air circulation system to allow for a lot more dust. Dust can be very dangerous in a spacecraft full of sensitive equipment. Equipment I am in charge of maintaining for five hundred plus years. There is also on board a media server with 2.4 petabytes of storage, already mostly full of all available English language cinema, television, music and literature. The rest of the space is for 500 years of experiment logs, diagnostic logs and my personal data. It's set up with a double-redundant RAID array and a supply of extra drives so I can replace them as they fail, and they will. There is a link to headquarters to offload pertinent data, but after about 80 years, data transmissions are no longer possible. As for the on-board experiments, there are a handful. There is a greenhouse capsule for botanical experiments including both edible and non-edible plants. Aside from the obvious advantages of growing my own vegetables, I'm also very interested in the viability of growing my own wood stock. Not only would it be the first tree grown in space, I'm fairly certain the wood I'm starting with won't last 500 years. There is a protein structure research capsule. Part of the job of this experiment is to supplement my diet with necessary proteins. We're able to synthesize what looks and tastes mostly like "meat" but is derived from plant-based proteins. The EGSC, or "eejisk" as I call it, is an Earth Gravity Simulating Centrifuge. In the EGSC is our nutria colony experiment. This is the first experiment done in space to maintain a small colony of rodents. There are two breeding pairs which are replaced as they die. Offspring are chemically sterilized. Again, part of the reason of this experiment is to supplement my diet. The faux-meat synthesis experiment doesn't produce enough to keep up with my dietary needs. I'm excited. A bit fearful contemplating the prospect of five hundred years of solitude, but mostly excited. The Japanese say you can master anything in 10 years. I wonder what I'll be able to master.
	[WP] Do your best to describe a color	"Describe it to me please mommy." "Hmmm. I don't really know how to, dear." "Try mommy please! All the other kids in school know what colours are. Please mommy?" "Oh all right. You learnt colours in school today did you?" "Yep I did. Richard of York Gave Battle In Vain. That's how Miss Watson taught us to remember it mommy, Red, Yellow, Green, Blue, Indigo and Violet!" "Good girl! Now lets start with red shall we?" "Okay mommy!" She sat down front of me, touching my face as I sat down in front of her. "Red is hot. Its the taste of spices and chillies, when the heat fills your mouth and you can't breathe because your throat is on fire. Red comes in two different kinds, good red and dark red. Good red is the warm cosiness of a fireplace burning in the heath, the love of a mother caring for her child. Bad red... bad red is when the heat inside you explodes out and you say things meant to hurt and wound, to make other people cry. You drive them away when you're bad red even if they love you very very much. Yellow is a different kind of warmth, the warmth of sunshine on your face, the happiness you feel when you skip in a circle with your friends playing ring around the roses. Yellow is laughter... Green is mother nature. Green is the smell and feel of cut grass, velvety and sure on the fingers. Its the smell of fresh unpoluted air when you're bored in class, face a window and take a deep breath. Green can be small and yet big, small when you need it to be, lying on a field of grass and big when you need an oak tree behind your back. Blue is the feeling of the sea around your ankles, its cold and yet once you plunge right in, it feels warm and welcoming. Its soothing and drifting, letting you go where ever you want. It's wet and freshens you up, letting you be awake for the important things that happen. Indigo is imagination. No one really says at what point indigo starts when blue stops. Its the colour of imagination. Its the colour of deep deep thinking like when Ruffles lies down with his head on his paws and just stares at you for hours and hours. Indigo is thought and imagination, Purple is fun! Purple is when you play hide and seek with your friends or dress up as a princess! Purple is the nervous excited feeling you get when the it is almost about to catch you but you avoid him, just. And that's the colours of the rainbow, baby. All together, they're all of life's experiences. May your life be a rainbow..." I lowered her slowly into her bed, careful not to wake her up as I gave her eyes a kiss.	What do you feel when you feel calm. Do you feel a gentle breeze blow over you or do you feel the soft grass in your hand. What do you Smell when you are calm. The morning dew on the grass or the gentle pine from the forest. What do you hear when you are calm. A wisp of wind or you stomping through snow. What do you taste when you are calm. Hot chocolate that is hot enough to warm you but not enough to burn you or the soft chewing of a apple. These are the colors blue and green. These colors are deep within your mind and they will never be found on a color wheel. For seeing these colors would take away the meaning and beauty that belongs only to you.
	[WP] Do your best to describe a color	When we met, the first question was "How long?" "All my life." The world wasn't a mystery. I knew stop signs were 'red'. I knew that the sky was 'blue'. I just didn't know what those meant. And it never mattered. Until we met. Because around him, everything felt more. Like the air was better, the sounds around me clearer, and every smell, every touch had depth I had never felt before. With him the world was more alive than I had ever known. One night, my body curled to his, I touched his face and slid my fingers over the lines I knew by heart, a series of textures and dips that I could sculpt with memory as reference. But my fingers skimmed passed the full lips I had kissed and the ears that listened to my troubles, and buried themselves into the thick strands that he had begun to complain were too long. I thought they were perfect, more so in that moment. "What colour is your hair?" The question escaped as soon as if appeared in my mind, both of us going still in the following moment. I felt the muscles against my body relax, and when he spoke, I could hear the soft smile in his voice. I one I knew he wore when his eyes crinkles at the sides, the one he wore just before he kissed me the first time. "It's black." There was another thoughtful pause, my fingers still combing the strands. "When we went camping, and I had you lay in the field with me to star gaze, and it was quiet except for the wind, and you told me how it felt to feel just so much nothing above your head? When its night, and just cold enough for a sweater, so your body can be warm, but the air on your cheeks is cool. That's black." A soft hum escaped my throat, letting his arms pull me close, a breeze from the open window brushing my back as he fell asleep, my fingers still in his hair. __________________ I fell laughing in the park, fall breeze pushing leaves across the grass. I could hear them spinning through the trees and whispering in the wind. I deeper chuckle and a heavy form sat next to me. I could hear the kids keep running, my younger cousins watched by the rest of my family. "Having fun?" "It's a family reunion. I didn't even think people did that stuff in real life." "Well, my family does." I grinned and reached over, smiling as he picked up my hand, pulling my fingers to his lips for a kiss. "What color is the sun today?" "Well, I'd say orange." I could hear the curve of his lips as he leaned back to be next to me. "So... what is orange?" I heard the brush of his hair on the grass as he shook his head, and I smiled at the sky above me, "Don't roll your eyes at me." "Mm, I hate when you know that." Squeezing my hand, he began twining our fingers together. "Its... when you get too close to the campfire, and the dry heat brushes your face. Like the smell of dried leaves still on trees..." I took a deep breath, letting the musty rustle of those same leaves rush through my senses. ______________ I had walked to the corner store, not realizing how cold it had gotten. the wind whipped at my face and dug through the fabric of my coat. The blizzard had come and gone two nights ago, and now that all the sidewalks had been cleared, I needed to get out of the house. While I was gone, he had gotten home, and accosted me as soon as I was through the door. "I can't believe you went out in this." His voice should have been scolding, but I knew the current underneath- worry. He started helping me out of my jacket, hanging it and my scarf in the hall closet. "Are you alright?" My teeth chattered slightly, and he moved to grab a blanket from the couch to wrap around me. "What does white look like?" A grunt answered me, as if he couldn't decide to answer or try to keep being cross with me. "It's bright and flashy, if the sun is out. It's probably how your fingers feel right now." He rubbed the icy digits between his palms, leaning over to kiss my forehead softly. "Soft and hard, cold and warm all at once, like putting a fur coat in the freezer before you run your hands throught the fur." I raised an eyebrow at him, and he laughed. "Trust me on this one, okay?" _____ Everyone said our wedding was beautiful, I smiled and nodded because I didn't care. The food was great and I held his hand tightly and wouldn't let go even after the ceremony. I smiled every time he squeezed my fingers, and my chest felt tight and warm and my cheeks started to hurt because I smiled so much. He held me and we danced our first dance, and if felt like my chest would burst. He kissed me. "Is this red?" He didn't answer, but kissed me again, and I could taste the smile on his lips. ___________________ The breeze was crisp, pulling orange fingers across my cheeks, listening to the quiet intonation of the priest. The sun pushed warm yellows through the layers of my clothes, warming my skin, even if I didn't want it too. There were others there, people I didn't want to identify right now, their silence brown and suffocating behind me. The cracks of rifles- three shots by seven men- sharp purple rapports I bore without flinching. A song was played as they lowered the casket, a soft pink tinged with blue, brushed at the edges with a shadow of black. I held tight to the flag at my chest, folded triangle a harsh white scrape at my fingertips, contrasting the soft brush of green pressed tightly in my palm. A rose for him. It felt too green. I told my mother to go, and I stood by the headstone until all but one of the cars had left, letting hip touch the stone, its edge a sharp copper where I let it dig in. My chest tightened, and I could feel tears slip down my cheeks, trying to hold myself upright as I wanted to let my knees give out. "Is this grey?" I asked the sky, waiting for an answer that would never come, throat too tight to sob, body to weak to scream, "Please... is it?" It must be.	What do you feel when you feel calm. Do you feel a gentle breeze blow over you or do you feel the soft grass in your hand. What do you Smell when you are calm. The morning dew on the grass or the gentle pine from the forest. What do you hear when you are calm. A wisp of wind or you stomping through snow. What do you taste when you are calm. Hot chocolate that is hot enough to warm you but not enough to burn you or the soft chewing of a apple. These are the colors blue and green. These colors are deep within your mind and they will never be found on a color wheel. For seeing these colors would take away the meaning and beauty that belongs only to you.
	[WP] Do your best to describe a color	When we met, the first question was "How long?" "All my life." The world wasn't a mystery. I knew stop signs were 'red'. I knew that the sky was 'blue'. I just didn't know what those meant. And it never mattered. Until we met. Because around him, everything felt more. Like the air was better, the sounds around me clearer, and every smell, every touch had depth I had never felt before. With him the world was more alive than I had ever known. One night, my body curled to his, I touched his face and slid my fingers over the lines I knew by heart, a series of textures and dips that I could sculpt with memory as reference. But my fingers skimmed passed the full lips I had kissed and the ears that listened to my troubles, and buried themselves into the thick strands that he had begun to complain were too long. I thought they were perfect, more so in that moment. "What colour is your hair?" The question escaped as soon as if appeared in my mind, both of us going still in the following moment. I felt the muscles against my body relax, and when he spoke, I could hear the soft smile in his voice. I one I knew he wore when his eyes crinkles at the sides, the one he wore just before he kissed me the first time. "It's black." There was another thoughtful pause, my fingers still combing the strands. "When we went camping, and I had you lay in the field with me to star gaze, and it was quiet except for the wind, and you told me how it felt to feel just so much nothing above your head? When its night, and just cold enough for a sweater, so your body can be warm, but the air on your cheeks is cool. That's black." A soft hum escaped my throat, letting his arms pull me close, a breeze from the open window brushing my back as he fell asleep, my fingers still in his hair. __________________ I fell laughing in the park, fall breeze pushing leaves across the grass. I could hear them spinning through the trees and whispering in the wind. I deeper chuckle and a heavy form sat next to me. I could hear the kids keep running, my younger cousins watched by the rest of my family. "Having fun?" "It's a family reunion. I didn't even think people did that stuff in real life." "Well, my family does." I grinned and reached over, smiling as he picked up my hand, pulling my fingers to his lips for a kiss. "What color is the sun today?" "Well, I'd say orange." I could hear the curve of his lips as he leaned back to be next to me. "So... what is orange?" I heard the brush of his hair on the grass as he shook his head, and I smiled at the sky above me, "Don't roll your eyes at me." "Mm, I hate when you know that." Squeezing my hand, he began twining our fingers together. "Its... when you get too close to the campfire, and the dry heat brushes your face. Like the smell of dried leaves still on trees..." I took a deep breath, letting the musty rustle of those same leaves rush through my senses. ______________ I had walked to the corner store, not realizing how cold it had gotten. the wind whipped at my face and dug through the fabric of my coat. The blizzard had come and gone two nights ago, and now that all the sidewalks had been cleared, I needed to get out of the house. While I was gone, he had gotten home, and accosted me as soon as I was through the door. "I can't believe you went out in this." His voice should have been scolding, but I knew the current underneath- worry. He started helping me out of my jacket, hanging it and my scarf in the hall closet. "Are you alright?" My teeth chattered slightly, and he moved to grab a blanket from the couch to wrap around me. "What does white look like?" A grunt answered me, as if he couldn't decide to answer or try to keep being cross with me. "It's bright and flashy, if the sun is out. It's probably how your fingers feel right now." He rubbed the icy digits between his palms, leaning over to kiss my forehead softly. "Soft and hard, cold and warm all at once, like putting a fur coat in the freezer before you run your hands throught the fur." I raised an eyebrow at him, and he laughed. "Trust me on this one, okay?" _____ Everyone said our wedding was beautiful, I smiled and nodded because I didn't care. The food was great and I held his hand tightly and wouldn't let go even after the ceremony. I smiled every time he squeezed my fingers, and my chest felt tight and warm and my cheeks started to hurt because I smiled so much. He held me and we danced our first dance, and if felt like my chest would burst. He kissed me. "Is this red?" He didn't answer, but kissed me again, and I could taste the smile on his lips. ___________________ The breeze was crisp, pulling orange fingers across my cheeks, listening to the quiet intonation of the priest. The sun pushed warm yellows through the layers of my clothes, warming my skin, even if I didn't want it too. There were others there, people I didn't want to identify right now, their silence brown and suffocating behind me. The cracks of rifles- three shots by seven men- sharp purple rapports I bore without flinching. A song was played as they lowered the casket, a soft pink tinged with blue, brushed at the edges with a shadow of black. I held tight to the flag at my chest, folded triangle a harsh white scrape at my fingertips, contrasting the soft brush of green pressed tightly in my palm. A rose for him. It felt too green. I told my mother to go, and I stood by the headstone until all but one of the cars had left, letting hip touch the stone, its edge a sharp copper where I let it dig in. My chest tightened, and I could feel tears slip down my cheeks, trying to hold myself upright as I wanted to let my knees give out. "Is this grey?" I asked the sky, waiting for an answer that would never come, throat too tight to sob, body to weak to scream, "Please... is it?" It must be.	What do you feel when you feel Hatred? Do you feel the anger in your head or the feeling of killing them with your own bare hands. What do you smell when you smell fear? Is their actually a sent being transmitted or is it just your blood lust looking for the man. What do you hear when you are trying to find him? Do you hear ever little thing or do you hear the voices in you head telling you what to do. What do you taste when you eat at those times? Do you taste each flavor or do you imagine it as the flesh of your enemies. This is the color Red and black for they are intertwined. Whatever you chose their is ether a hellish red found within you or a empty void of black. You wont ever find these colors on the color wheel for they do not exist but only in the depths of your mind and whatever you thought.
	[WP] Teleportation renders all other modes of transportation obsolete and makes travel time nonexistent—there are no 'journeys,' only 'destinations'. One morning, as you're getting ready for an average day, your teleporter breaks.	My bed vibrates, gently waking me up from sleep at the optimal time. I glance at the window, where my clock dimly shows the time of 6:22. I weighed the thought of sleeping in longer, but I knew that I’d only be more tired. The SmartAlarm woke me up now for a reason. Stretching, I waved my hand at the windows, and the dark mist blocking the sunlight slowly dissipated. The clock glowed a bright red across the blue sky, and beside it, a list of notifications and news began scrolling. I blinked, eyes still bleary from sleep. The blurred letters only got worse as I squinted at them. “Notifications, please,” I said aloud to my empty room. “Good morning, Zeek,” a female voice, Vega, said. I gave a begrudging greeting back as I slid out of bed. I’m not a fan of the new personable update on my computer. “Today,” she continued, after waiting for my hello, “Dane would like to know if you would like to get lunch. Around noon, he says.” I wander over to the bathroom and rinse my face off. “Uh, where?” I ask, muffled through the towel. “There are a few places you two seem to have enjoyed in the past. Café One-12, Teriyaki House, Greens and Grass-“ “I hated Greens and Grass. Why would I go out to eat raw food?” “Noted. I thought you liked it.” She paused while updating her list. “Maybe a smoothie place?” “Just tell him he can choose.” “Okay. There are a few emails from Di, but-“ “Ignore them, I’ll see her later.” Vega continued telling me how my day was going to go, and then transitioned into news as I put in my screened contacts. I blinked hard, feeling them move into place, and then the world around me lit up. I don’t like putting things in my eyes, but the surgery creeps me out. “Your eggs are ready.” “Thanks, Vega.” I wander into the kitchen, where my fried eggs sit happily on the plate. My toast, however, is nowhere to be seen. A clinking noise behind me draws my attention, and I notice the bread, still stuck in the machine. “Hey Vega?” I say, pulling it out. “Remind me to get this fixed.” “Sure thing.” She stops, but her voice doesn’t click off, so I know she’s still there. “Something wrong?” I ask, casting the news stories I was most interested in on the table with my contacts. I skim them as they scroll by. “There was a small power surge just now. Something may have shorted out. I’m running a diagnostic now.” I glance around the room, and the news stops scrolling as I look away. “I don’t see anything wrong.” “I’m sure everything is- ah.” I stop eating. “What’s wrong? That didn’t sound good.” “It seems that your teleporter never turned off last night. It’s on the fritz. I’m going to turn it off and notify a repairman.” “Whoa, what?” I glance at the clock in the corner of my eye. 7:32. “Vega, I have to go in a few minutes. You can’t turn it off.” “I’m sorry, Zeek, but the teleporter is too dangerous. I’ve sent you the directions to the nearest public transporter. It’s only a mile away, an easy walk. I’ve also emailed your boss that you may be a few minutes late.” I grimace. The public transporters weren’t known for being extremely sanitary. “When will the repairman be out?” I could stand to be a couple of hours late. “Unfortunately there isn’t one available until 4:00.” I frown and glance at the directions. Twenty minute walk. I need to leave now to make it. “Thanks, Vega,” I sigh. My briefcase sits beside the door where she left it, along with a toothpaste capsule. I pop it in my mouth before I realize that I’ll have to actually lock the door behind me. “Vega? Where are my keys?” A blinking light in the corner of my eye leads me to my desk, under a box of papers. I push them to the side to find a box I never bothered to unpack. “Are you kidding me? Can’t you just lock it behind me?” “No. We can unlock with your permission, but robot safety laws don’t allow us to lock doors.” I grumble as I reach into the box, pulling out items wrapped in newspaper until I find the key set, a simple fingerprint scanner. Grabbing my briefcase, I put in my earpiece and head out the door, locking it with a quick press of my thumb.	The thing about travel is it makes everything else so damn complicated. There was a time (you may not believe me) when entire cities were built around roads--long, flat stretches of concrete for the now extinct car. If you think that's absurd, listen to this: in the past, if you wanted the opportunity to enjoy a natural wonder, you actually had to live by it! Can you imagine? Whole cities built in the places least suitable for residences. The environmental impact alone. It wasn't always like it is now. You couldn't always go from your apartment to the ocean in one simple step. You couldn't always have anything you wanted show up instantly in at your house. People used to have to work for this--it was a big deal! Ever heard of a traffic jam? Thank your lucky stars. We used to have hell on earth, every day from seven to nine and again from four to six. Which is a long way of saying I need this fixed. I was told these machines don't break. I was told they were entirely dependable. I was told these things because I knew what a risk I was taking installing one in the first place. I knew it was a risk to build a life on something that so completely cut me off from the way things used to be done. It's all well and good when it works, but now? I'm trapped in a teleporters residence, middle of nowhere and underground. Can't get any food, that all came in the 'porter. No door--that's what the 'porter was for. There's an emergency hatch of sorts, a twenty story climb up a steel ladder. You think I'm going to do that? At my age? No. That won't work. You send someone down here today. Not next week, not tomorrow, today. Because I gave up that other life, with your assistance. I paid you to take away the complications, with your assurance. So you get down here soon, or you'll be dealing with one tough old bastard. I've known a level of rage you couldn't dream of.
	[WP]The year is 3015. You've found a way to travel to the past, and have decided to go back to the year 2015 and see what life was like back then. You take a box with you, it contains the tools that you think you may need for survival in this ancient era, as well as one single present for humanity.	We had worked tirelessly for this day. And finally, after many a sleepless night spent toiling away in the humid depths of our laboratory, we had done it. The Time-Breaker, we called it. An opaque black cube, embossed on all sides and riddled with special conduits, channels that pulsated with life and light all their own. In the dimly-lit corridors that snaked beneath the city, the colours that danced from our masterpiece painted the darkness brilliant shades we could scarcely begin to appreciate... And with the press of button, the darkness swallowed its brilliance, leaving us to finish our work without distraction. To the untrained eye, it appeared to be an ornately designed box. To us, it was so much more. It was an ensured future. I was chosen to partake in the journey before we had even begun development. The luck of the draw, as they call it. The night prior to my departure, I prayed to those above for a safe journey, to grant me solace in the fact that I would return, in what would seem an instant, to the family which I held so close. They begged me not to leave, to find another to carry out this most exalted of tasks. "I cannot disappoint Him, my children. I cannot disobey Him, my husband. You know this as well as I." Despite their reservations, their hesitance, they understood. As the sun's light painted our ivory walls with the hues of dusk, I scrutinized the drudges scurrying in the maze of streets below with a queasy mixture of pity and disdain. As the sun's light withdrew slowly from our domicile, I dwelt upon His words. His command, given to me atop the ivory spires at the heart of our city. "We need their aid, Satish. You know this as well as the rest of our people. Our drudges can only do so much before they... Languish, and their population dwindles further still. Go back, Satish. Return to yesteryear and conscript the men and women of the past. Without their 'assistance,' our way of life will soon cease to exist. Do it for us all, Satish." And with that, the decision was made. I, one of the wisest, strongest-willed of our people, would set off as soon as possible. I would not disappoint Him. I would ensure our continued survival. I would return. As the sun crested the jagged mountain range at my back, I knew this was for the best. For the future. Resigned to my fate, I prodded the 'on' button with a stiff digit. The Time-Breaker blinked to life, wheezing and droning and bathing me in a cascade of swimming colours. In an instant, they were gone. Everything was gone, devoured by the all-encompassing void. All that remained was my mind, left floating in an expanse of emptiness. In another instant, an alien world exploded into view, wrapped me in a bizarre and unfamiliar reality. Grey, square-faced prisms reached towards the heavens, only to be consumed by a blanket of haze. Before me stretched winding pathways of cracked, sun-baked stone, marked with lines of faded white and bold yellow. Round-legged beasts thundered all about, squealing as they skirted past me. And all the while, drudges went about their business. They littered the landscape, clad in fabrics both unorthodox and bizarre. The fur topping their skulls was worn in a plethora of fashions. Some stood agape, transfixed on me and presumably shocked at my sudden appearance. Others blared hideously, lost in a wild panic. A scarce few hadn't noticed my arrival. No matter. I was here to grant them a gift, and a gift I would grant them. "Drudges! I come at the behest of Him, the all-mighty and gracious. Your services are required, and I come bearing a most precious gift." Looking down at the Time-Breaker, clutched firmly in my claws, I grinned wickedly. Turning it over, I revealed an array of bright red switches, promptly flipping them up. The Breaker whirred in approval, signifying the completion of my task. In a moment, our people would join me en masse. One. Two. Three-four-five, and so forth at an increasing rate, familiar faces and figures popped into existence, clutching snares, prods and the like. Try as they might, the drudges' vicious flailing and shrill cries did naught to quell their captors. Soon, they would all be bound and ready for sedating. "Your gift, O drudges, is simple: Servitude."	I quickly skimmed the posts from /r/EDC using the waybackmachine on the extranet. After some alloy fabricating I was ready. 2 Glocks, 1 snub nosed revolver and a Nugget (A Mosin Nagant rifle, as I learned later). It seemed strange to me, how much firepower would someone need back then to just survive. I also packed some rare Pepe frog fabrications I won in a Danken Memen tournament two months ago.
	[WP]The year is 3015. You've found a way to travel to the past, and have decided to go back to the year 2015 and see what life was like back then. You take a box with you, it contains the tools that you think you may need for survival in this ancient era, as well as one single present for humanity.	As I knelt before the machine, Juanito burst into my dark, dusty room from behind. Gasping for breath, my best friend said "Jon, you can't go. You've studied this stuff for years, one wrong move back there and it could destroy the world as we know it." I replied to him without looking back, "We are on the brink of nuclear war... If I don't stop this, we'll all be dead anyways." Juanito looked distressed, he had always been there for me before as I did my research. He was the descendant of a very dangerous man who, almost 1000 years ago, started a chain of events that would eventually lead to world war III. What started as a small gang to "fight the man" escalated over time into something much, much bigger. Whole towns would join their cause in fear of offending someone if they didn't. Juanito had inherited an old house from his father, which he later found out had an ancient bomb shelter within. It was filled with Journals and history books on what had happened nearly 1000 years ago. I kept fiddling with the settings within the gray machine, Juanito sat down and waited as I made the final calibrations. "Why can't you take me with you?" Juanito asked "The machine can only carry one person at a time." I told him. "Any more would risk over-working it. And we'd die before we could get back." I slammed the small hatch shut and stood up. I looked down at my holo-watch: I had calibrated the machine to send me back to November 1st 2016. Juanito turned pale as he realized my imminent departure. "You won't be able to come back." he said, grimly. "That doesn't matter" I told him. I walked over to my shelf, where there was a small shoebox in which I had packed the things I'd need. I walked over to Juanito and said my goodbyes. Then I climbed into the machine and closed the door. I navigated my holo-watch to the launch button and tapped it. Then I laid my head back as the machine sent me through the wormhole. The machine that had taken 12 years of my life to build. The machine that would lead me to my inevitable death. The machine that could have easily held two people. ____________________________________________________________ I awoke from what felt like the biggest nap of my life, with my head spinning. I knew the machine wouldn't deliver me easily, but this was worse than I expected. I could barely make out my surroundings, but I looked to be in the middle of a field. I was feeling sick, and after vomiting a few times I finally came to my senses enough to examine where I was a bit closer. On the ground was a human sized circle of burned ground, as well as the shoebox I had brought. I scooped it up and settled it under my arm. Scanning from left to right I saw that I was, in fact, in a field and that there was nobody and no buildings around. Looking down at my Holo-watch I was surprised to see that it was broken. No. Not broken, out of battery. I flipped open the hatch that exposed a small solar pannel to the midday sun. It would take a few minutes but it should've been charged soon enough. In the distance I thought I saw the tip of what looked to be a bell tower. So I started trudging towards it. After a good 10 minutes walk to my destination I parted the bushes to find several small buildings. A few children ran along the road, but seemed a bit weary at my appearance. I walked up to a building with a large, cheap looking sign reading "Katie's Krispy Khicken Diner" As I opened the greasy doors everyone turned an eye at me. I was wearing a filthy duster coat, and I'm sure I didn't look too well myself at the time. Not to mention it was a small town, most of the people there probably recognized each other, so naturally they'd be surprised at a dirty stranger walking in randomly. I sat down at a booth, as I did a waitress named Sarah walked up. "What'll it be darlin'?" I ordered a coffee from her and stared out the window, still trying comprehend what was happening. Just as I did my holo-watch blipped to life. In horror I looked at the date: 9/20/2015 The machine had malfunctioned, I was more than a year early. Just to be certain as Sarah the waitress came back I asked her for the date. She told me the same as my watch had. September 20th 2015. The waitress noticed my thousand mile stare and asked what was wrong. I regarded her with a simple shake of the head. I had prepared for something like this, I opened up the shoe box I had been carrying with me and pulled out a 20$ bill from the thick wad of green paper and placed it on the table. "Keep the change." I said as I walked out of the establishment. I spotted a small apartment building and walked through the doors into the dark lobby. I gave the landlord the required fee and walked into my new room. It looked like this would be my home for awhile. _____________________________________________________________ It's been roughly one year and two months since I found myself in 2015. The date was now November 1st 2016. I woke up in my bed and looked over my shoulder to my left, Sarah was sleeping peacefully. I had to take a job at the diner, the money I brought lasted a good while, but I hadn't expected the machine to send me so far back. I remembered pulling the faked job application out of that old shoe box. Me and Sarah formed a bond while working together. I climbed out of the bed, today was the day I did what I came to do. Many hours of research with my old friend Juanito had led me to believe the only way to truly stop the future events from happening was to make sure their gang leader never got into America. I left a note for Sarah and left home early in the morning. I had to make sure I had time to enact my plan. I stood in line for nearly an hour before the people between me and the small voting machine that would decide the fate of humanity dwindled. I pushed aside the curtain and stared deeply into the electronic screen. There were several boxes to be checked. I tapped the one reading "Donald Trump". I remembered the conversation with my old friend. "This guy's gang only rose to the level of power it had because they were based in the states, if we can keep them from getting in, our problem will have solved itself." I pulled out the shoe box, inside was a small device I could connect to with my Holo-watch. I held it near the voting machine and it connected magnetically. Sweat was beading from my face as I tapped away on my watch. Rigging the amount of votes to the perfect amount. The watch beeped and a promp popped up asking "Are You Sure?". This was it, after all this time, this is what I came to do. I froze as I heard the curtain rustle from behind me, and I felt cold steel on the back of my neck. "Who are you?" I shakily asked. "My name, is Sancho Santaolalla. And if you hit that button, you will die." He replied "How... How did you find me?" I demanded "We got a hold of your buddy, he talked after enough 'encouragement'. It took us a long time to find you, hard to find someone who was technically never born." I had rigged the machine to be nearly unusable after I left, somehow they had rebuilt it. But along with bringing back the machine, they brought back whatever bug sent me to 2015. "If you hit that button, don't think we won't forget about that girlfriend of yours." he taunted at me I didn't want to hit the button, I wanted to live out the rest of my life. But I knew that I had no choice. This was my gift to humanity. I hit the button and watched as the machine input thousands upon thousands of votes for Donald Trump. I braced myself for death, and flinched as I heard the gun go off right behind my head. The pain in my ears was surprisingly the only pain I felt. I turned around to see what had happened, and saw the gun pointed at the roof. Someone had come up behind Sancho and was holding his gun away from my face. Sancho was frozen with surprise as he looked back at the Beautiful-Haired man who foiled his plan. Donald Trump snatched the gun from his hand and chucked it across the room. "N-no. Not you!" Sancho said in the most terrified voice I've ever heard. Donald Trump grabbed Sancho's face, covering it. "Sancho, you're fired." A blinding light shot out from the space between Trump's hand and Sancho's face. Sancho screamed in pain as his face was burned with pure freedom. He fell to the floor, lifeless. Thank you, Donald Trump. Thank you.	I quickly skimmed the posts from /r/EDC using the waybackmachine on the extranet. After some alloy fabricating I was ready. 2 Glocks, 1 snub nosed revolver and a Nugget (A Mosin Nagant rifle, as I learned later). It seemed strange to me, how much firepower would someone need back then to just survive. I also packed some rare Pepe frog fabrications I won in a Danken Memen tournament two months ago.
	[WP]The year is 3015. You've found a way to travel to the past, and have decided to go back to the year 2015 and see what life was like back then. You take a box with you, it contains the tools that you think you may need for survival in this ancient era, as well as one single present for humanity.	As I knelt before the machine, Juanito burst into my dark, dusty room from behind. Gasping for breath, my best friend said "Jon, you can't go. You've studied this stuff for years, one wrong move back there and it could destroy the world as we know it." I replied to him without looking back, "We are on the brink of nuclear war... If I don't stop this, we'll all be dead anyways." Juanito looked distressed, he had always been there for me before as I did my research. He was the descendant of a very dangerous man who, almost 1000 years ago, started a chain of events that would eventually lead to world war III. What started as a small gang to "fight the man" escalated over time into something much, much bigger. Whole towns would join their cause in fear of offending someone if they didn't. Juanito had inherited an old house from his father, which he later found out had an ancient bomb shelter within. It was filled with Journals and history books on what had happened nearly 1000 years ago. I kept fiddling with the settings within the gray machine, Juanito sat down and waited as I made the final calibrations. "Why can't you take me with you?" Juanito asked "The machine can only carry one person at a time." I told him. "Any more would risk over-working it. And we'd die before we could get back." I slammed the small hatch shut and stood up. I looked down at my holo-watch: I had calibrated the machine to send me back to November 1st 2016. Juanito turned pale as he realized my imminent departure. "You won't be able to come back." he said, grimly. "That doesn't matter" I told him. I walked over to my shelf, where there was a small shoebox in which I had packed the things I'd need. I walked over to Juanito and said my goodbyes. Then I climbed into the machine and closed the door. I navigated my holo-watch to the launch button and tapped it. Then I laid my head back as the machine sent me through the wormhole. The machine that had taken 12 years of my life to build. The machine that would lead me to my inevitable death. The machine that could have easily held two people. ____________________________________________________________ I awoke from what felt like the biggest nap of my life, with my head spinning. I knew the machine wouldn't deliver me easily, but this was worse than I expected. I could barely make out my surroundings, but I looked to be in the middle of a field. I was feeling sick, and after vomiting a few times I finally came to my senses enough to examine where I was a bit closer. On the ground was a human sized circle of burned ground, as well as the shoebox I had brought. I scooped it up and settled it under my arm. Scanning from left to right I saw that I was, in fact, in a field and that there was nobody and no buildings around. Looking down at my Holo-watch I was surprised to see that it was broken. No. Not broken, out of battery. I flipped open the hatch that exposed a small solar pannel to the midday sun. It would take a few minutes but it should've been charged soon enough. In the distance I thought I saw the tip of what looked to be a bell tower. So I started trudging towards it. After a good 10 minutes walk to my destination I parted the bushes to find several small buildings. A few children ran along the road, but seemed a bit weary at my appearance. I walked up to a building with a large, cheap looking sign reading "Katie's Krispy Khicken Diner" As I opened the greasy doors everyone turned an eye at me. I was wearing a filthy duster coat, and I'm sure I didn't look too well myself at the time. Not to mention it was a small town, most of the people there probably recognized each other, so naturally they'd be surprised at a dirty stranger walking in randomly. I sat down at a booth, as I did a waitress named Sarah walked up. "What'll it be darlin'?" I ordered a coffee from her and stared out the window, still trying comprehend what was happening. Just as I did my holo-watch blipped to life. In horror I looked at the date: 9/20/2015 The machine had malfunctioned, I was more than a year early. Just to be certain as Sarah the waitress came back I asked her for the date. She told me the same as my watch had. September 20th 2015. The waitress noticed my thousand mile stare and asked what was wrong. I regarded her with a simple shake of the head. I had prepared for something like this, I opened up the shoe box I had been carrying with me and pulled out a 20$ bill from the thick wad of green paper and placed it on the table. "Keep the change." I said as I walked out of the establishment. I spotted a small apartment building and walked through the doors into the dark lobby. I gave the landlord the required fee and walked into my new room. It looked like this would be my home for awhile. _____________________________________________________________ It's been roughly one year and two months since I found myself in 2015. The date was now November 1st 2016. I woke up in my bed and looked over my shoulder to my left, Sarah was sleeping peacefully. I had to take a job at the diner, the money I brought lasted a good while, but I hadn't expected the machine to send me so far back. I remembered pulling the faked job application out of that old shoe box. Me and Sarah formed a bond while working together. I climbed out of the bed, today was the day I did what I came to do. Many hours of research with my old friend Juanito had led me to believe the only way to truly stop the future events from happening was to make sure their gang leader never got into America. I left a note for Sarah and left home early in the morning. I had to make sure I had time to enact my plan. I stood in line for nearly an hour before the people between me and the small voting machine that would decide the fate of humanity dwindled. I pushed aside the curtain and stared deeply into the electronic screen. There were several boxes to be checked. I tapped the one reading "Donald Trump". I remembered the conversation with my old friend. "This guy's gang only rose to the level of power it had because they were based in the states, if we can keep them from getting in, our problem will have solved itself." I pulled out the shoe box, inside was a small device I could connect to with my Holo-watch. I held it near the voting machine and it connected magnetically. Sweat was beading from my face as I tapped away on my watch. Rigging the amount of votes to the perfect amount. The watch beeped and a promp popped up asking "Are You Sure?". This was it, after all this time, this is what I came to do. I froze as I heard the curtain rustle from behind me, and I felt cold steel on the back of my neck. "Who are you?" I shakily asked. "My name, is Sancho Santaolalla. And if you hit that button, you will die." He replied "How... How did you find me?" I demanded "We got a hold of your buddy, he talked after enough 'encouragement'. It took us a long time to find you, hard to find someone who was technically never born." I had rigged the machine to be nearly unusable after I left, somehow they had rebuilt it. But along with bringing back the machine, they brought back whatever bug sent me to 2015. "If you hit that button, don't think we won't forget about that girlfriend of yours." he taunted at me I didn't want to hit the button, I wanted to live out the rest of my life. But I knew that I had no choice. This was my gift to humanity. I hit the button and watched as the machine input thousands upon thousands of votes for Donald Trump. I braced myself for death, and flinched as I heard the gun go off right behind my head. The pain in my ears was surprisingly the only pain I felt. I turned around to see what had happened, and saw the gun pointed at the roof. Someone had come up behind Sancho and was holding his gun away from my face. Sancho was frozen with surprise as he looked back at the Beautiful-Haired man who foiled his plan. Donald Trump snatched the gun from his hand and chucked it across the room. "N-no. Not you!" Sancho said in the most terrified voice I've ever heard. Donald Trump grabbed Sancho's face, covering it. "Sancho, you're fired." A blinding light shot out from the space between Trump's hand and Sancho's face. Sancho screamed in pain as his face was burned with pure freedom. He fell to the floor, lifeless. Thank you, Donald Trump. Thank you.	We had worked tirelessly for this day. And finally, after many a sleepless night spent toiling away in the humid depths of our laboratory, we had done it. The Time-Breaker, we called it. An opaque black cube, embossed on all sides and riddled with special conduits, channels that pulsated with life and light all their own. In the dimly-lit corridors that snaked beneath the city, the colours that danced from our masterpiece painted the darkness brilliant shades we could scarcely begin to appreciate... And with the press of button, the darkness swallowed its brilliance, leaving us to finish our work without distraction. To the untrained eye, it appeared to be an ornately designed box. To us, it was so much more. It was an ensured future. I was chosen to partake in the journey before we had even begun development. The luck of the draw, as they call it. The night prior to my departure, I prayed to those above for a safe journey, to grant me solace in the fact that I would return, in what would seem an instant, to the family which I held so close. They begged me not to leave, to find another to carry out this most exalted of tasks. "I cannot disappoint Him, my children. I cannot disobey Him, my husband. You know this as well as I." Despite their reservations, their hesitance, they understood. As the sun's light painted our ivory walls with the hues of dusk, I scrutinized the drudges scurrying in the maze of streets below with a queasy mixture of pity and disdain. As the sun's light withdrew slowly from our domicile, I dwelt upon His words. His command, given to me atop the ivory spires at the heart of our city. "We need their aid, Satish. You know this as well as the rest of our people. Our drudges can only do so much before they... Languish, and their population dwindles further still. Go back, Satish. Return to yesteryear and conscript the men and women of the past. Without their 'assistance,' our way of life will soon cease to exist. Do it for us all, Satish." And with that, the decision was made. I, one of the wisest, strongest-willed of our people, would set off as soon as possible. I would not disappoint Him. I would ensure our continued survival. I would return. As the sun crested the jagged mountain range at my back, I knew this was for the best. For the future. Resigned to my fate, I prodded the 'on' button with a stiff digit. The Time-Breaker blinked to life, wheezing and droning and bathing me in a cascade of swimming colours. In an instant, they were gone. Everything was gone, devoured by the all-encompassing void. All that remained was my mind, left floating in an expanse of emptiness. In another instant, an alien world exploded into view, wrapped me in a bizarre and unfamiliar reality. Grey, square-faced prisms reached towards the heavens, only to be consumed by a blanket of haze. Before me stretched winding pathways of cracked, sun-baked stone, marked with lines of faded white and bold yellow. Round-legged beasts thundered all about, squealing as they skirted past me. And all the while, drudges went about their business. They littered the landscape, clad in fabrics both unorthodox and bizarre. The fur topping their skulls was worn in a plethora of fashions. Some stood agape, transfixed on me and presumably shocked at my sudden appearance. Others blared hideously, lost in a wild panic. A scarce few hadn't noticed my arrival. No matter. I was here to grant them a gift, and a gift I would grant them. "Drudges! I come at the behest of Him, the all-mighty and gracious. Your services are required, and I come bearing a most precious gift." Looking down at the Time-Breaker, clutched firmly in my claws, I grinned wickedly. Turning it over, I revealed an array of bright red switches, promptly flipping them up. The Breaker whirred in approval, signifying the completion of my task. In a moment, our people would join me en masse. One. Two. Three-four-five, and so forth at an increasing rate, familiar faces and figures popped into existence, clutching snares, prods and the like. Try as they might, the drudges' vicious flailing and shrill cries did naught to quell their captors. Soon, they would all be bound and ready for sedating. "Your gift, O drudges, is simple: Servitude."
Then make me feel bad about it. Then make it heartwarming. Also, do it to music.	[WP] Break the Villain.	I wrote the prompt with this song in the background: [click here](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ZxnqSTzq6-w) They called him the man with the golden voice. When Mayhern spoke, the people would listen. When he preached, the people would drop to their knees. And when he walked, the world would fall silent to hear his very footsteps. He was the most respected priest in the land, and the chronicler of our adventures against the Dragon Emperor. “What will you do?” asked Mayhern, bobbing up and down upon his horse. “The people are not yet ready to accept you.” I let my gaze linger on the horizon. Ahead stood the grand capital of Klesia; it was a sprawling city, built upon four gigantic islands, each sloping up towards the floating castle of King Neruvia. “I don’t know,” I answered. It was true. I didn’t know where to go. Cathy rode up beside us and poked Mayhern in the shoulder, causing his armor to clank loudly. “Gisella will be fine,” she said. “She’s a hero! When the people hear of her exploits, they’ll warm up to her.” I grabbed the cowl of my hood and pulled it further over my head. “Gisella,” said Cathy. “Don’t run away, okay? There’s nothing wrong with necromancy. If anyone says otherwise I’ll put an arrow between their eyes.” “Don’t do that,” I whispered. “I’m just joking,” said Cathy hastily, but I saw her fingers slide over her bow. I glanced at Mayhern, but he didn’t need to answer. I still remembered the glare he gave me when I was first inducted into the ranks of his army. They wanted every able bodied magic user, male or female, against the might of the Dragon Emperor. The king’s recruiters had been everywhere, from the grand houses of the lords and nobles (coincidentally, all their children suddenly came down with a bad case of consumption on the day of conscription) to the slums of Blackvine, where children over the age of fourteen were herded out in droves. And then they had found me. In the plague infested houses of Maple’s End, I was the only survivor. Well, survivor was putting it wrongly. Because I am already dead. This body of mine lives through the necromancy passed on through my mother. In any time of peace, I would’ve been put to death for practicing forbidden magic by Mayhern’s church. But the King was desperate. They wanted every magic user – any magic user in the ranks of their armies. Anything to stop the onslaught of the Dragon Emperor’s demonic army. Turns out, necromancy is pretty good when everything around you is dying. Turns out, the Dragon Emperor’s absolute barrier only worked against living things. Mayhern sighed. “I might be able to turn a blind eye for now, but the rest of the church will not. Your presence will not be tolerated in front of the king.” I cocked my head towards him. “And what would you have me do?” “Ride. Far and away. And don’t worry about your share of the rewards. The church will send someone to collect and transfer to you –“ “Oh really?” growled Cathy. “The very same church that tithes half the commoner’s pay?” “I cannot speak for all our denominations –“ “Then maybe you shouldn’t speak at all. It wasn’t your god that won us this war, Mayhern. But it certainly was your church that ostracized Gisella’s people.” “She has no people,” said Mayhern simply. Actually there are plenty of necromancers out there. But I didn’t dare speak those words. We reached the large gate of the kingdom. Ahead, the Klesian guard shacks held four guards, watching our every step towards them. “So you’ll be going to the city then?” asked Mayhern. “…Yeah. I guess. It might be nice.” To walk around the city like a normal person. To see the sights for once. “Your choice.” The guards formed a barrier in front of the gate. “Hold there! In the name of the King, state your name and business!” “Grand Priest Mayhern of the Sixteen Apostles. I bring with me the two heroes of the land: Cathy of the Swiftarrow Clan and Gisella from the guild of Zera.” The guards immediately focused their eyes upon me. “Necromancer?” they whispered. “Indeed,” said Mayhern. “But she is under my protection.” “Understood…but Grand Priest, we have rules for this.” Mayhern waved them away. “Go on then.” The guards ran into the shack and after much deliberation, pulled out a large sigil out of a sack. He ran back and presented it to Mayhern. “Rules are rules,” said the priest. “We have to give up our weapons. Gisella, that means you’ll have to surrender the souls you keep.” “Souls aren’t classified as weapons,” I pointed out. Mayhern recited a passage from his holy book. “Alcefiore 20:85. If a person may hold a soul that is not their own, then he has blasphemeth the name of God, and he shall be barred from the city of God.” There was a long pause. “The ‘city of God’ refers to the capital of Klesia.” Cathy snorted. “In church they taught me that the city of God meant heaven. Now you’re twisting it to mean the city itself?” “Look, I’m not exempt from the rules either.” Mayhern handed over his battle mace and buckler shield to the guards. Cathy grunted and surrendered her bow and arrow. “Gisella?” asked Mayhern. “It’s fine,” I said. Handing over the souls I collected was not a big deal. Mind you, it was the same as disarming me (which I supposed was the point of it all), but then again, everyone was told to give up their weapons. I touched the sigil and felt a tremendous pull. In an instant, all the voices inside my mind were muted and shut out. The soulmates I had earned on the battlefield, their lives I had taken with their blessing, were all gone. I was empty. Death had never bothered me. I could always hear the voices. I could still feel the presence of those long gone. But now, for a brief moment, I truly understood what it was like to lose someone. “It’s done,” said Mayhern. Then he turned towards me. “I’m sorry.” “What –“ The whistle of arrows reached out ears. Flights of them. Hundreds of them, black against the dark sky. At least ten of them pierce my face. The sharp metal slices through my eyes, nose, and lips. In less than a second my skull is punctured repeatedly. I was blind. The impact threw me off my horse, and I heard it neigh and scream. I remember my powers. A black cloud forms around me, but the torrent of arrows pierces through and disperses my shadow shield. I call out to my friends, to my dear soulmates, but none answered. Then it stops. My body is pinned to the gravel by a hundred quivering wooden shafts. My remaining ear hears a gurgle. It was a sound that should not have come out of that mouth. Cathy. My lovely Cathy. Cathy who had protected me all this time. Cathy who had loved me and promised to love me forever more. Cathy who is dead. Then the hard sound of gravel crunching beneath boots. Leather touches metal. Mayhern’s gloves grip his battlemace and I can see his image in my mind. The same grand image that the army worshipped; his strong posture, his bulging muscles, and that violent look in his eye as he stared down the demon army of the Dragon Emperor. He brings the mace down on my skull and pulverizes my brain. “Oh Lord, grant me strength to consecrate this vile corpse!” The mace smashes my windpipe and severs my spine. The next hit breaks my ribcage open and crushes my lungs. “I consign this villain into oblivion! I consign this godless being into the void in thy holy name!” ---- They called him the man with the golden voice. When he spoke, the world would listen. And now, Mayhern stood upon the wooden podium erected in the city square. For he is the chronicler of the crusade against the Dragon Emperor, and he is the only hero to have returned alive. The people gathered around him, their ears perked up, and their hands clasped in prayer. But beneath the crowd’s feet, a shadow began to form. “People! I come to you now, to speak of a greater evil than the one I have just vanquished! The Dragon Emperor may be dead, but I have seen his true form! His visage was blasphemy, his body was profaneness incarnate, but his mind was true heresy to our Lord and Savior!” Mayhern could speak all he wants. But he couldn’t stop the death that was coming. “The true evil still lurks out there. I have seen such evil even within our very ranks. I have felt the disbelief in your hearts! People, let not your minds turn against our Lord and Savior. Let not your hunger for power turn to the dark arts. Stay true to the path laid down by our God and accept his holiness into your hearts.” Because there was one more soul Gisella had harvested. “The greatest enemy I faced was not the Dragon Emperor. I saw a villain far more depraved and immoral. A villain who dabbled in necromancy and death! A villain who had turned away from the kind face of God and spat at his feet!” Cathy’s body had not been consecrated. Cathy’s soul had not come in contact with the holy sigil. So let Mayhern speak. Let his golden voice ring out through the streets and echo in the alleys. In the end, Gisella would have her revenge.	[The musical accompaniement](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=NdXCsXcs6nA) The rain flowed over the sidewalk, running in small streams out of the alley. Telltale ribbons of red washed into the street in slow curling patterns before washing into an iron grate with the rest of the underworld's filth. Mira stepped into the darkness, marching upstream as her black combat boots sprayed red tinged water droplets into the air. Those that didn't seep into the hem of her trench coat fell alongside the raindrops in the increasing water flow, mixing with an equally increasing flow of blood. Soft cries could be heard over the splattering of water, echoing between the brick walls and made etherious as the sound mixed with the pattering of the rain. Mira nearly stumbled into her quarry as she rounded a corner. The cries were replaced with a groan of pain as the shadowed form keeled over from the strike of her boot. She watched mercilessly as the form gasped briefly before righting itself. "A hearty greeting to you too, Mira." The woman hissed between gasps. "How nice of you to check in on me." "Katchen," Mira, pouted in false sympathy, "what sister would I be if I didn't make sure you died of those bullet wounds. Though I see from your current state that I shouldn't have worried." "Katchen." The woman scoffed, glaring daggers into the sunglasses covering Mira's eyes "Mutti called me Katchen, you called me Katchen, but only when you were looking after me. You call me Katy now." Mira drew her face into an exaggerated frown. "Katy, you hurt me. I've always taken care of you. Who do you think kept your case from going to more experienced detectives, detectives who would have moved half the force to find you? Who do you think tampered with key evidence to keep the search parties one step behind you, making your reputation as a genius criminal internationally notorious? Who do you think," Mira paused to look deeply into her sister's glaring blue eyes, "shot to wound, and not to kill you tonight?" Katy broke down, voice cracking as she gasped against the sobbing breaths pushing blood out the wounds in her chest. Tears mixing with her blood before being spirited away in the water around her. "This was-" Her voice hiccoughed. "-never how it was supposed to be." Through the sobs Katy continued. "We were sisters, we were supposed to work together. Remember Mira? We were ready to do anything for little Klaus. Even putting on this charade of cat and mouse to keep you in a job. Oh- oh, Klaus. What have we done? Mira, we were great, we could have had banks, strongboxes, money, gold, but we didn't want to hurt anyone. It was perfect in the beginning, all the evidence planted, we controlled the process, the searches, everything. We had certainty, Klaus ate, he laughed. Mira, how long has it been since he laughed?" From under Mira's shades; tears, hidden among the drops of water falling on her face, began to flow. "It was perfect, as perfect as when Papa and Mutti were alive." Her confident, authoritative voice cracked. "No one was actually hurt. You had your takings, I my wages and my department was made relevant in the hunt for the 'Crazy Cat'." Mira steeled her nerves, more than one officer had been taken by her sister's wiles. She would not be made a fool of tonight "You were the one who ruined it, Katy. Not me. You-" Her facade crumbled, she sobbed once more, "-you took it too far. All you had to do was stay low until we shook them off your trail. But you kept coming back-" "To see Klaus," Katy snapped, gasping immediately as pain shot through her ribs, "you had forgotten why we started it all; to keep him happy. He knew something was wrong, he needed me to tell him everything was alright or it would have all come to nothing." "It came to nothing anyways. You were spotted, guards were posted, but you continued your reckless visits." Mira's tone became flat, accusatory. "Five officers dead, Katy. They were good people, and suddenly you became a priority to the Federal branch. And for what? Not even I can keep the SEK off of a case, not even with all my pull." Katy coughed up blood as she tried to speak, thick and deep crimson, not even the rain could keep it from staining her jacket. "They tried to keep me from Klaus." She offered weakly. "And so killing them was justified? Was it Katy? I think you got used to being a criminal, tell me, Katy; when did it stop being a game for you? When did you decide pretending to be a criminal wasn't enough?" "Well, Mira." Katy looked sorrowfully at her sister, "When did you decide pretending to chase me wasn't enough? You could have resigned, and we would have run together. We were good, it could have worked, but I think you took to your role even more than I did. You took an office for us, but you couldn't leave it when we needed you" As the sisters shared a final moment, Katy tried in vain to see Mira's eyes through her dark sunglasses. Cold and alone, bitter tears at a bitter end washed away Katy's sympathy. She who laughs last. "It takes two to play cat and mouse; I stopped running, all you had to do was let go."
Then make me feel bad about it. Then make it heartwarming. Also, do it to music.	[WP] Break the Villain.	I wrote the prompt with this song in the background: [click here](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ZxnqSTzq6-w) They called him the man with the golden voice. When Mayhern spoke, the people would listen. When he preached, the people would drop to their knees. And when he walked, the world would fall silent to hear his very footsteps. He was the most respected priest in the land, and the chronicler of our adventures against the Dragon Emperor. “What will you do?” asked Mayhern, bobbing up and down upon his horse. “The people are not yet ready to accept you.” I let my gaze linger on the horizon. Ahead stood the grand capital of Klesia; it was a sprawling city, built upon four gigantic islands, each sloping up towards the floating castle of King Neruvia. “I don’t know,” I answered. It was true. I didn’t know where to go. Cathy rode up beside us and poked Mayhern in the shoulder, causing his armor to clank loudly. “Gisella will be fine,” she said. “She’s a hero! When the people hear of her exploits, they’ll warm up to her.” I grabbed the cowl of my hood and pulled it further over my head. “Gisella,” said Cathy. “Don’t run away, okay? There’s nothing wrong with necromancy. If anyone says otherwise I’ll put an arrow between their eyes.” “Don’t do that,” I whispered. “I’m just joking,” said Cathy hastily, but I saw her fingers slide over her bow. I glanced at Mayhern, but he didn’t need to answer. I still remembered the glare he gave me when I was first inducted into the ranks of his army. They wanted every able bodied magic user, male or female, against the might of the Dragon Emperor. The king’s recruiters had been everywhere, from the grand houses of the lords and nobles (coincidentally, all their children suddenly came down with a bad case of consumption on the day of conscription) to the slums of Blackvine, where children over the age of fourteen were herded out in droves. And then they had found me. In the plague infested houses of Maple’s End, I was the only survivor. Well, survivor was putting it wrongly. Because I am already dead. This body of mine lives through the necromancy passed on through my mother. In any time of peace, I would’ve been put to death for practicing forbidden magic by Mayhern’s church. But the King was desperate. They wanted every magic user – any magic user in the ranks of their armies. Anything to stop the onslaught of the Dragon Emperor’s demonic army. Turns out, necromancy is pretty good when everything around you is dying. Turns out, the Dragon Emperor’s absolute barrier only worked against living things. Mayhern sighed. “I might be able to turn a blind eye for now, but the rest of the church will not. Your presence will not be tolerated in front of the king.” I cocked my head towards him. “And what would you have me do?” “Ride. Far and away. And don’t worry about your share of the rewards. The church will send someone to collect and transfer to you –“ “Oh really?” growled Cathy. “The very same church that tithes half the commoner’s pay?” “I cannot speak for all our denominations –“ “Then maybe you shouldn’t speak at all. It wasn’t your god that won us this war, Mayhern. But it certainly was your church that ostracized Gisella’s people.” “She has no people,” said Mayhern simply. Actually there are plenty of necromancers out there. But I didn’t dare speak those words. We reached the large gate of the kingdom. Ahead, the Klesian guard shacks held four guards, watching our every step towards them. “So you’ll be going to the city then?” asked Mayhern. “…Yeah. I guess. It might be nice.” To walk around the city like a normal person. To see the sights for once. “Your choice.” The guards formed a barrier in front of the gate. “Hold there! In the name of the King, state your name and business!” “Grand Priest Mayhern of the Sixteen Apostles. I bring with me the two heroes of the land: Cathy of the Swiftarrow Clan and Gisella from the guild of Zera.” The guards immediately focused their eyes upon me. “Necromancer?” they whispered. “Indeed,” said Mayhern. “But she is under my protection.” “Understood…but Grand Priest, we have rules for this.” Mayhern waved them away. “Go on then.” The guards ran into the shack and after much deliberation, pulled out a large sigil out of a sack. He ran back and presented it to Mayhern. “Rules are rules,” said the priest. “We have to give up our weapons. Gisella, that means you’ll have to surrender the souls you keep.” “Souls aren’t classified as weapons,” I pointed out. Mayhern recited a passage from his holy book. “Alcefiore 20:85. If a person may hold a soul that is not their own, then he has blasphemeth the name of God, and he shall be barred from the city of God.” There was a long pause. “The ‘city of God’ refers to the capital of Klesia.” Cathy snorted. “In church they taught me that the city of God meant heaven. Now you’re twisting it to mean the city itself?” “Look, I’m not exempt from the rules either.” Mayhern handed over his battle mace and buckler shield to the guards. Cathy grunted and surrendered her bow and arrow. “Gisella?” asked Mayhern. “It’s fine,” I said. Handing over the souls I collected was not a big deal. Mind you, it was the same as disarming me (which I supposed was the point of it all), but then again, everyone was told to give up their weapons. I touched the sigil and felt a tremendous pull. In an instant, all the voices inside my mind were muted and shut out. The soulmates I had earned on the battlefield, their lives I had taken with their blessing, were all gone. I was empty. Death had never bothered me. I could always hear the voices. I could still feel the presence of those long gone. But now, for a brief moment, I truly understood what it was like to lose someone. “It’s done,” said Mayhern. Then he turned towards me. “I’m sorry.” “What –“ The whistle of arrows reached out ears. Flights of them. Hundreds of them, black against the dark sky. At least ten of them pierce my face. The sharp metal slices through my eyes, nose, and lips. In less than a second my skull is punctured repeatedly. I was blind. The impact threw me off my horse, and I heard it neigh and scream. I remember my powers. A black cloud forms around me, but the torrent of arrows pierces through and disperses my shadow shield. I call out to my friends, to my dear soulmates, but none answered. Then it stops. My body is pinned to the gravel by a hundred quivering wooden shafts. My remaining ear hears a gurgle. It was a sound that should not have come out of that mouth. Cathy. My lovely Cathy. Cathy who had protected me all this time. Cathy who had loved me and promised to love me forever more. Cathy who is dead. Then the hard sound of gravel crunching beneath boots. Leather touches metal. Mayhern’s gloves grip his battlemace and I can see his image in my mind. The same grand image that the army worshipped; his strong posture, his bulging muscles, and that violent look in his eye as he stared down the demon army of the Dragon Emperor. He brings the mace down on my skull and pulverizes my brain. “Oh Lord, grant me strength to consecrate this vile corpse!” The mace smashes my windpipe and severs my spine. The next hit breaks my ribcage open and crushes my lungs. “I consign this villain into oblivion! I consign this godless being into the void in thy holy name!” ---- They called him the man with the golden voice. When he spoke, the world would listen. And now, Mayhern stood upon the wooden podium erected in the city square. For he is the chronicler of the crusade against the Dragon Emperor, and he is the only hero to have returned alive. The people gathered around him, their ears perked up, and their hands clasped in prayer. But beneath the crowd’s feet, a shadow began to form. “People! I come to you now, to speak of a greater evil than the one I have just vanquished! The Dragon Emperor may be dead, but I have seen his true form! His visage was blasphemy, his body was profaneness incarnate, but his mind was true heresy to our Lord and Savior!” Mayhern could speak all he wants. But he couldn’t stop the death that was coming. “The true evil still lurks out there. I have seen such evil even within our very ranks. I have felt the disbelief in your hearts! People, let not your minds turn against our Lord and Savior. Let not your hunger for power turn to the dark arts. Stay true to the path laid down by our God and accept his holiness into your hearts.” Because there was one more soul Gisella had harvested. “The greatest enemy I faced was not the Dragon Emperor. I saw a villain far more depraved and immoral. A villain who dabbled in necromancy and death! A villain who had turned away from the kind face of God and spat at his feet!” Cathy’s body had not been consecrated. Cathy’s soul had not come in contact with the holy sigil. So let Mayhern speak. Let his golden voice ring out through the streets and echo in the alleys. In the end, Gisella would have her revenge.	"You don't kill!" "No. We haven't killed. Doesn't mean we can't, does it?" As the Purity Beam began to shoot towards my face, I involuntarily considered my life up until now. Time seemed to slow, though ny muscles did not respond. It all began when a shadowy figure gave me a talisman, in exchange for which he would ensure my sister's autism and afasia would... Not quite be cured, as I knew that would require serious brain alteration, but be more easily reversible into a state where she could speak. I knew about Faustian deals, and how they never worked out for the one making it unless they were a culture hero of some sort. But to see my sister be able to simply ask for a drink with actual words out loud and not sign language or a visual picture card system like PECs without prompting... I signed my soul away for that. The talisman was the contract, in metallic form. It bound me to the will of my master. If he wants me to burn down an orphanage, I must. If he wants me to wound myself, I must. If he wants me to strangle my sister to death for his amusement... I must. As I said. Faustian deals never work out for the one making it. I did what I was told. The rare moment of clarity I had, I used it to anger the heroes. I wanted to die. I wanted to end it all. The beam hit, and the talisman disintegrated. The contract was annuled. I stared at the melted shards on the ground. "That... Didn't kill me." "We try not to kill people who are prisoners." the magical girl smirked. I snarled, and slammed her into the ground, pounding her face with my fists as hard as I could. I wanted death. I wanted release. I wanted to find my sister's spirit and apologise to her. As her companion shot a lethal prismatic ray at me, I sighed a sigh of relief, and soon crumpled to the ground, a corpse over the unconscious body of a pummeled shoujo heroine. As my spirit departed, I wished them luck with their fight against my old employer, then vanished into realms unknown. I had a big apology to make.
	[WP] Rap battle between Pope Francis and Donald Trump	Pope time, Dope rhymes, It ain't hard to see there ain't never been a mc quite as fly as me, I'm the voice of the eternal i aint never tripped a hurdle, should be respected not contested because I'm the best you see, Sit down turn around study that verse, the word is the verb you shouldve rehearsed, if you don't you'll be in need of a devilish hurst... wwooah wait step it up put it in reverse you may be the pope but I'm spoutin the word, I'm the one, that top gun for better or worst, I got riches n bitches all while spoutin fly game, I'm the head honcho, got conchos, remember my name, I'm the big poppy, dont copy I play my own game, call me big daddy, ride in my caddy, trump is the name! Trump your a frump you bought all your fame, I worked and I ran when the Lord called my name, I aint living my life for some personal gain, You're playing a game when all you have is your name and your hair is as real as the virgins Muhammed claims, I speak the truth ain't placin no blame my sin is my own I aint trippin today. The only trippin is you thinking you've got reasons to stay all your rhymes are simple and stand on As, I'm varied, I'll parry my hair is to stay, I'm working and twerkin, know how to put words to work, when it comes to rap yours are the worst, you're simple and trifle let me grab my rifle I'll show you my worst, I'll put a hole in you and still have time to lay down my verse. Trump I can't lie your rhymes are dope, But you're mistaken If you think you can best the pope, I'm heavenly youre leathery I got the backing of the lord, Your riches are fictitious your collateral is poor I put my stock in something that doesn't really on bureaucratic wars, if you can't see the light there's the front door. *mic drop	Francis I'm the Pope, i'm so dope, you bitch ain't like me, nope./ I cover priests, while they grope, little kiddies' butts, hope/ that I never run for president. Bet you would be hesitant/ to go against the friend of god, a future heaven's resident./ You polarize on purpose, your evidential surplus of cash/ might help you gaining voters in your country-wide circus. Just flash/ Enough verbal middle fingers to get those news stingers/ capture that attention, get the system to crash./ Trump I'm the baddest motherfucker. Rich like rockefeller, lock a/ couple grand away and tuck a couple hundred in your sock, ah/ Doesn't matter 'cause I'll buy your fancy shire up in rome/ And in the middle i will stick a giant residential dome./ You're just a heavenly apprentice, so modest you drive a fiat/ It's all theater, you know that, this is why we both will see at/ the gates of hell whose sins the devil finds swell. Does it/ Ring a bell? I'll bribe him cash. Oh, guess you got that as well./
Oh my.	[WP] Chris Hansen steps down and names Arnold Schwarzeneggar as his successor on To Catch a Predator. Arnold misunderstands the type of Predator he's hunting.	This is one of those early morning posts I read before coffee sets in, think it's a post for a news sub, shrug, take another sip of coffee, and scroll down......	Arnold: "Chris! You son of a bitch! Its been a long time. Whats with this fuckin tie business? The network got you pushin too many penises?" Chris: "Arnold, Simple setup. We need to keep catching predators, run 'em down, grab those kids and bounce back across the border before anybody knows we were there. " Arnold: "Whaddya mean "we"?" Chris: "Im goin in with you, at least until you can take over on your own" Arnold: "My team works alone. You know that. Whose our backup?" Chris: "Well...once shit goes down the police will there to back us up? Arnold: "POLICE? WE ARE FUCKIN CRACK COMMANDOS AND OUR BACKUP IS THE POLICE? Chris: "YEH?...if you lose it here you are in a world of hurt" Arnold: "What ever happened you Chris? You use to be somebody i could trust" Chris: "Look Arnold, Calm down.Come back and have a think about it." Arnold: "Yeh. I'll be back."
Oh my.	[WP] Chris Hansen steps down and names Arnold Schwarzeneggar as his successor on To Catch a Predator. Arnold misunderstands the type of Predator he's hunting.	The moonlight glimmered off of the trees. The air was dank and humid, and sat heavily in the moon gilded jungle night. The bushes suddenly began to give way and eventually birthed a shape...with no shape. Branches cracked and snapped with no visible force applied. A shimmer of motion and the hunter was on the move. Heavy footsteps impressed into the ground marked his progress. The hulking figure suddenly turned, and cocked his head. Hues of red, blue, orange, and yellow flicked between branches. He could barely make out a form sitting within it, but it was there. The footsteps ended, and the branches of a nearby tree began to creak softly. The man sat, sipping coffee from a tin cup, and stared into the fire. His posture was hunched, almost tired. The hunter moved over his unsuspecting prey. The hunter dropped down in absolute silence and stepped forward to claim his prize...then stopped short. "Vat are you Vaiting for?" The hunter jumped back. "Go ahead, do it now." A well built man walked out of the shadows. "Vat exactly did you come here for tonight?" The hunter backed up, looking unsure. The large man gestured to a chair, "stick around." Dumbfounded, the hunter did. The man sat and steepled his fingers. "So, vat vere your intentions for the man at zat campfire? vere you meeting this man here to kill and skin him?" The predator shook its head violently. "Zen vat's with ze shoulder cannon?" The predator was still.	Arnold: "Chris! You son of a bitch! Its been a long time. Whats with this fuckin tie business? The network got you pushin too many penises?" Chris: "Arnold, Simple setup. We need to keep catching predators, run 'em down, grab those kids and bounce back across the border before anybody knows we were there. " Arnold: "Whaddya mean "we"?" Chris: "Im goin in with you, at least until you can take over on your own" Arnold: "My team works alone. You know that. Whose our backup?" Chris: "Well...once shit goes down the police will there to back us up? Arnold: "POLICE? WE ARE FUCKIN CRACK COMMANDOS AND OUR BACKUP IS THE POLICE? Chris: "YEH?...if you lose it here you are in a world of hurt" Arnold: "What ever happened you Chris? You use to be somebody i could trust" Chris: "Look Arnold, Calm down.Come back and have a think about it." Arnold: "Yeh. I'll be back."
Oh my.	[WP] Chris Hansen steps down and names Arnold Schwarzeneggar as his successor on To Catch a Predator. Arnold misunderstands the type of Predator he's hunting.	Arnold: Hi Chris, so you are finally casting for Predator again. That's good to hear. Chris: It's great that you are interested in this. Frankly I did not think you would be. It's going to be awesome with you in it. Arnold: Are you kidding me? I have been saying to my agent for far too long that Predator is gold and it needs to be rejuvenated. It's been languishing, gathering dust for far too long. Chris: That's great but it's been doing pretty well by most standards. It has really ratings. Arnold: Of course, people like it a lot. That is my point. Everywhere I go people ask me about it. Chris: So you are saying the word has already leaked that we are trying to cast you? Arnold: Who else are you going to cast when I am still alive and making movies. They cannot make Predator without me. After all it was a hit because of me. Chris: Oh. Arnold I think there has been a misunderstanding. Hear me out.	Arnold: "Chris! You son of a bitch! Its been a long time. Whats with this fuckin tie business? The network got you pushin too many penises?" Chris: "Arnold, Simple setup. We need to keep catching predators, run 'em down, grab those kids and bounce back across the border before anybody knows we were there. " Arnold: "Whaddya mean "we"?" Chris: "Im goin in with you, at least until you can take over on your own" Arnold: "My team works alone. You know that. Whose our backup?" Chris: "Well...once shit goes down the police will there to back us up? Arnold: "POLICE? WE ARE FUCKIN CRACK COMMANDOS AND OUR BACKUP IS THE POLICE? Chris: "YEH?...if you lose it here you are in a world of hurt" Arnold: "What ever happened you Chris? You use to be somebody i could trust" Chris: "Look Arnold, Calm down.Come back and have a think about it." Arnold: "Yeh. I'll be back."
Oh my.	[WP] Chris Hansen steps down and names Arnold Schwarzeneggar as his successor on To Catch a Predator. Arnold misunderstands the type of Predator he's hunting.	Paul was delighted to have been selected by the network to assist Mr Schwarzenegger during his transition into the new role. When he had first heard the news he was a little ashamed to admit it, but he had peed himself a little. No matter; this was Arnie. He had once accused Satan of being a choir boy. And now here he was, finally. Through just one door. Inches away. A childhood dream about to be fulfilled for a man who had once idolized him as an absolute titan of the silver screen. Arnie had been the only person in the world capable of accurately firing a heavy duty machine gun with just one hand, and Paul would never forget it. A deep breath. And then a knock. "Enter" came the unmistakably thick Austrian growl. Here goes nothing... "Hello, Mr Schwarzenegger sir, I have been sent by the network studio to personally assist you with anything you might require." Arnold was bending over a workbench of some kind, wearing full safety visor and holding what looked to be a crude type of blowtorch. He barely looked up before answering. "This is good. I will start with an Uzi. Nine millimetre." "Sir?" "Just for close quarter combat. For ranged encounters I will need two plasma cannons with burst fire capability, some tomahawks, at least twenty ninja stars and an elephant gun. It is time for us to hunt the big game" tbc...	Arnold: "Chris! You son of a bitch! Its been a long time. Whats with this fuckin tie business? The network got you pushin too many penises?" Chris: "Arnold, Simple setup. We need to keep catching predators, run 'em down, grab those kids and bounce back across the border before anybody knows we were there. " Arnold: "Whaddya mean "we"?" Chris: "Im goin in with you, at least until you can take over on your own" Arnold: "My team works alone. You know that. Whose our backup?" Chris: "Well...once shit goes down the police will there to back us up? Arnold: "POLICE? WE ARE FUCKIN CRACK COMMANDOS AND OUR BACKUP IS THE POLICE? Chris: "YEH?...if you lose it here you are in a world of hurt" Arnold: "What ever happened you Chris? You use to be somebody i could trust" Chris: "Look Arnold, Calm down.Come back and have a think about it." Arnold: "Yeh. I'll be back."
Oh my.	[WP] Chris Hansen steps down and names Arnold Schwarzeneggar as his successor on To Catch a Predator. Arnold misunderstands the type of Predator he's hunting.	--I'm stoned and sleep deprived so bear with me here. wrote this in about 15 minutes without really planning it out lol-- (i suggest reading it like the narrator from Sin City) The media coverage was surreal. His body count was climbing and I sat there, jaw to the ground, knowing damn well that it was my fault. How could I be so stupid? I kept going over the details in my head, trying to piece together where we went wrong. It had all happened so fast and felt like a blur. My last day on set was like any ordinary day. Pose like a 13 year old in a chatroom here. Lock up some sad lonely soul there. It's like throwing candy into a circle of hungry children, really. If you want to know the truth, the fact that anyone still uses chatrooms had always been the most astounding thing to me; potential sex crimes with children aside, of course. People ask me how I did it, but I guess you become numb to it eventually. It wasn't until we wrapped up that long final day of catching kid diddlers, that it hit me. I remember feeling both incredibly relieved that I didn't have to check into this macabre line of duty anymore, and saddened at the same time. The thought that I, Chris Hansen from Dateline NBC, would no longer be baiting heinous sex criminals into their fates troubled me deeply. I tried to calm my nerves with stale cookies and lemonade but I knew it was time to pass the torch. Louis Conradt still haunted me in my sleep and I needed to move on. The weekend before, some Dateline/NBC studio heads, my crew and myself went on a drunken bender as sort of a farewell. With the line of work I did, being celebrated is to be expected; I couldn't blame them. We drank into the early hours, sharing old relationship stories and tossing around drunken pitch ideas for new shows. That's when I made the biggest mistake of my life. It was nearing 2am and I was in a near blackout state. The rest of the morning got fuzzy. I woke up distraught next to a woman I didn't know, covered in vomit and still wearing the rubber. My head was pounding. I tried to patch together what had happened, but the only thing I could remember was a name. Arnold Schwarzenegger. I thought nothing of it and coasted into my final week, smelling like sex and fighting back the urge to puke. My boss greeted me at the door of the house we were using in suburban Petaluma. She had generally only observed from behind the ratings, and today she was unusually chipper. We exchanged "Good Mornings" and then she unknowingly dropped the news on me like a sack of bricks. It didn't click at first when she had told me that the execs at NBC loved my new idea. I gazed at her blankly and then it all came rushing back to me. Arnold Schwarzenegger. I had always been his biggest fan and owned every copy of every movie he's been in. Even the shitty ones. Hercules In New York, The Villain, Junior; you name it, I have it. So it may come as no surprise that in the midst of my belligerent stupor, I pitched the idea that it would be, "a great spin on the name "To Catch A Predator" if we got the guy who killed Predator in the greatest movie of all time: Predator, to catch real predators.". . . My slurred words echoed and my headache developed into a migraine. I never thought the notion of something so ridiculous would be taken remotely serious, but apparently the execs "loved it". They were streamlining the idea and would have Mr. Schwarzenegger saving the streets from real life Predators in no time. Or so they thought. . . The blood curdling screams and explosions from the news cast brought me to. I could only see a glimpse of his pixelated face through the smoke. There he was, the monster that I had created. He was holding an M16 Assault Rifle and screaming, "GET TO THE CHOPPA" while frantic civilians whizzed by. Entire city blocks were being destroyed by the second. It would have been an awe inspiring moment, had I not unleashed this beast onto the unsuspecting public. Who knew that after spending so many decades in the United States, there would still be a language barrier issue resulting in confusion over the name "To Catch A Predator"?. . . I had one more job to do. . . (Stay tuned for Chris Hansen From Dateline NBC Vs. Arnold Schwarzenegger Vol 1. Issue #2.)	Arnold: "Chris! You son of a bitch! Its been a long time. Whats with this fuckin tie business? The network got you pushin too many penises?" Chris: "Arnold, Simple setup. We need to keep catching predators, run 'em down, grab those kids and bounce back across the border before anybody knows we were there. " Arnold: "Whaddya mean "we"?" Chris: "Im goin in with you, at least until you can take over on your own" Arnold: "My team works alone. You know that. Whose our backup?" Chris: "Well...once shit goes down the police will there to back us up? Arnold: "POLICE? WE ARE FUCKIN CRACK COMMANDOS AND OUR BACKUP IS THE POLICE? Chris: "YEH?...if you lose it here you are in a world of hurt" Arnold: "What ever happened you Chris? You use to be somebody i could trust" Chris: "Look Arnold, Calm down.Come back and have a think about it." Arnold: "Yeh. I'll be back."
Oh my.	[WP] Chris Hansen steps down and names Arnold Schwarzeneggar as his successor on To Catch a Predator. Arnold misunderstands the type of Predator he's hunting.	[The light from monitors inside the makeshift production room glowed from the dark shadowy corner of an empty house. Thunder and wind howled and boomed outside the house as a girl sitting at one of the workstations watched her screen intensely.](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=-eDAoheZrY8) "We're not getting any hits, Arnold." the girl exclaimed frustrated. "They're all too afraid to come out because of this damn storm." "Dun worry, Lori. He will answer deh call." Arnold Schwarzenegger assured as he watched the front door with the same intensity. "Maybe we should just call it a night. I know the guys would like to try and get home before the storm really hits." Lori continued. "And ruin our only chance to trap it!?" Arnold yelled. "Trap 'it'?" Lori asked, but chalking it up to a grammatical error, she continued, "I've tried everything, I can't get a single predator to come out." "I putd out the bait hours ago. He'w be here any minute now." Arnold spoke softly. "I'm sorry, what? Did you use my computer to lure someone in?" Lori inquired, irritated by the thought of an actor thinking he could do her job. Crazy eyed, Arnold scolded Lori, "Oh when are you eggheads gonna get it through ya skulls? Doe's machines won't get him, yew gotta use a beacon like dis one which fell from his ship!" With that, Arnold revealed his bait as an alien artifact covered in mysterious writing and buttons. It glowed green and put Lori into a state of awe. "Where... Where did you get that?" Lori asked concerned. "Deh jungle." Arnold explained as he continued to fiddle with the device, changing the tone of it's color each time he pressed a new button. As Lori backed away slowly, a young man in his early 20's ran into the room still laughing from something he and the other members had gotten into in the back. "You guys gotta see this, the model house actually has a _bidet_!" His attention was quickly drawn to the glowing device Arnold was tapping away on. "Say, what's that?" "I think he's lost his mind, Duncan!" Lori pleaded. "Quiet, both of you!" Arnold commanded. "But I-" Lori continued. "I SAID QUIET!" Arnold commanded again as he put his hand over Lori's mouth. "You hear dat? He's here!" "Who's here?" Duncan whispered. As the three cowered in the corner listening for sounds, thuds could be heard on the roof of the house followed by a loud noise just outside the kitchen window. Clicking sounds and heavy alien breathing sent chills down the spines of the crew but gave Arnold a smile. "Go, tell the od'thers." Arnold softly instructed. "Do it! Do it now!" Lori and Duncan visibly gripped by fear slowly crawled out of the room. The quiet empty setting suddenly burst into commotion as the kitchen wall was completely blown out and a shadowy large figure stepped through the rubble and smoke. "GOOOO!" Arnold now screamed as he pulled an M16 from the rear of the couch. "GET TO DA CAMERAS!" As Lori and Duncan ran down the hallway to the garage where the rest of the crew had been spending their time, Lori screamed incoherently through the sound of gunfire and blasts. "Harry! Harry get the camera!" Duncan yelled. "What the hell's goin on out there? Are you people nuts, we're renting this house you know." A stocky bald man with a Brooklyn accent yelled as Lori collapsed into his arms. "Hey what is wrong!?" Duncan began gathering equipment while explaining the situation. "He brought the predator and now we've got something that might just be the best episode we have ever done." "Wait a minute, he got one guy from the internet to come and they're making all that racket in there? Oh jeez we're gonna get sued!" Harry worried. "Not a predator, _the_ predator!" Duncan corrected as a loud scream from Arnold could be heard from the living room, now in hand-to-hand combat. Duncan and Harry gathered their equipment while the rest of the crew, including Lori, ran out through the garage door, leaving behind another young man who stood still in absolute fear. Duncan tried to utilize him and began to hand him a camera, but realized three red lights now rested on the young man's forehead. "Cohagen!" Duncan screamed as his companion's head exploded from a laser blast. "Come on! Come on Duncan, he's dead!" Harry yelled as he pulled Duncan towards the commotion with their cameras. The two rushed towards the living room to find Arnold being held by his neck and thrown into the hallway. "What ah you waiding for? Film dis!" Arnold screamed as he got up and ran right back at the predator. The two locked again and Arnold was again thrown, this time into the kitchen where the predator had initially entered. The predator was now free to reclaim his safety beacon. Growling and clicking, he analyzed the beacon and pressed a few buttons before it's glow vanished. The predator stood for a moment analyzing the device when suddenly gun fire from the kitchen blasted the device from his hands and splattered neon blood against the wall. The alien screamed in pain so loud that Duncan and Harry both grabbed their ears. "Not today." Arnold spoke calmly as he unloaded all his M16 had to offer, sending the predator out into the street where the commotion had drawn neighbors out of their homes. "He's getting away!" Arnold screamed as he chased after him. The two cameramen followed soon after, exiting through the giant hole left in the side of the rented house. Just outside in the cul de sac a small ship de-cloaked into view. A stairway entrance was expanded with mist pouring out from the mysterious innards of the ship. "Arnold no! We can't follow him in there!" Duncan pleaded. "If we don't, we don't have an episode, now come ahn!" Arnold shouted as the three ran down the street. As they reached the ship, the entrance platform had already begun to withdraw and the ship began to leave. All three men jumped into the ship on time and the neighborhood was left to watch as they ascended into the dark storm above. Now on board, the three men found themselves in an eerily silent misty room with the predator nowhere in sight. Arnold investigated closer to find neon green drops forming a trail to a corridor in front of them. "Follow me." Arnold spoke as the two men continued to film. The three men moved slowly down a hall, passing by rooms each meant for some bizarre alien function until reaching what could only be described as a human child's play room. Inside slept a young teenage girl, chained to the wall behind her. "Holy shit, the predator is an actual predator." Duncan said while putting his camera down to help. "Duncan, save deh gurl. Harwwy, you on me ok?" Arnold instructed. "You got it." Harry acknowledged, never once turning his camera off. As the two continued down the misty hallway, it opened up into a navigation room with the predator standing behind a console controlling the ship. "Yew ah one ugly mudda fucka" Arnold spoke as he aimed through the sites of his gun, startling the beastly alien hunter which knew it had no way out. "Why dun you have a seat right over dere." Arnold continued. As the predator sat down on a bench against the wall, Duncan and a girl ran into the room. The girl was overjoyed to be rescued, and spat into the predator's face. Arnold turned to Harry and smiled. "I tink we got ah episode." he said. "I think we do!" Harry giggled in response as all four human beings on board the alien ship cheered. Months later the episode aired with it's new host. Arnold spoke into the camera, wrapping up the episode with an introduction to a slight recap, "And now, how about a followup to dat predator we caught? We found him during his court hearing later this fall." A clip of the predator standing before a judge next to his lawyer played for the audience. "And now Mr. - Predator? Is it?" spoke the judge. "It says here you kidnapped a 12 year old girl on your spaceship? How do you plead." The predator leaned over to his lawyer and whispered into his ear. Speaking on the predators behalf, the lawyer addressed the judge, "Your honor we plead not-guilty on account of a lack of proper warrant for my client's ship. Any and all evidence sought here throughout shall not be admissible into a court of law. We wish to file a motion to have this case thrown out." "Your client was caught breaking federal law during a pursuit for a non-related crime. Your motion is denied." As the predator heard this he looked straight up and screamed at the top of his lungs. "You do that again and I'll hold you in contempt, mister." the judge reprimanded, shocking the predator who then made the same scream only far softer and under his breath." "Next!" the judge screamed as the predator was led off in his orange jumpsuit and chains. Cutting back to Arnold, the episode ended with a final note, "So dere you have it, another predator off the streets and out of the cosmos. This has been a great adventcha, tank you watching. Goodnight!"	Arnold: "Chris! You son of a bitch! Its been a long time. Whats with this fuckin tie business? The network got you pushin too many penises?" Chris: "Arnold, Simple setup. We need to keep catching predators, run 'em down, grab those kids and bounce back across the border before anybody knows we were there. " Arnold: "Whaddya mean "we"?" Chris: "Im goin in with you, at least until you can take over on your own" Arnold: "My team works alone. You know that. Whose our backup?" Chris: "Well...once shit goes down the police will there to back us up? Arnold: "POLICE? WE ARE FUCKIN CRACK COMMANDOS AND OUR BACKUP IS THE POLICE? Chris: "YEH?...if you lose it here you are in a world of hurt" Arnold: "What ever happened you Chris? You use to be somebody i could trust" Chris: "Look Arnold, Calm down.Come back and have a think about it." Arnold: "Yeh. I'll be back."

Subsets and Splits