#god fucking damn it and americans make their homes out of twigs so the damn house are paper thing. im the quiet sort anyway. he is not.

[magnoliamyrrh]

.

[terrence-silver]

Hey, I saw your gorgeous faceclaims for Terry's parents earlier, so I was wondering; could you perhaps do some sort of quick one-shot featuring the two of them? Nothing long or complicated. Just a little insight into their daily (messy?) lives back in the 50s? Thanks a lot. 💙

He waddled in drunk.

Again.

Thing is, he didn’t understand how come Red 31 wasn’t a winning option on the roulette wheel when red as a color has never failed him before - his lucky choice for years, in a sense. He could’ve swore to god almighty, that fucking game was rigged. It was rigged and it was rigged in such a way to harm the economic savings of decent, hard-working Americans like himself. Really, if anything, he blamed McCarty for letting in all those damn Communists into the country and messing up the order of things around here. That was the only way Morton could explain his losses tonight. Fifty thousand dollars in one sitting. Straight ripoff and as such, the deplorable state he was in tonight was well-warranted. Did he try to fight those bastards in the security department? Yes! Did he get thrown out of the casino? Yes, he was! Did he, by any chance get in an alteration with one of the suckers who did in fact win a sizeable amount of money tonight on the same fucking roulette wheel and were slaps generously thrown around? Yes, they absolutely were! And proudly at that! This was a free land.

And now, he was home.

Deep-fucking-joy.

His beautiful pastel Harrods catalogue house.

To his gorgeous nagging wife and their gorgeous tiny brat son.

-”It’s three in the morning.”-

A voice chided and of course Myra would be awake waiting for him like some sort of interrogator in the partial darkness of the hallway, stepping out of the bedroom in a silk bathrobe over her lace chemise and her blue rollers strapped to her curls, arms crossed over her chest with bloody intent, a scowl gracing her red lips as she took a long drag out of her cigarette, huffing the smoke into the air. She had time to put on a lipstick? In the middle of the night? The damn casino scammed him out of his own money and she had time for her goddamn rouge face-paint? The absolute nerve of this broad. She didn’t even wear her usual house slippers. No. She had her heels on like some manner of decadent, shameless saloon harlot. Because of course she did.

Wretched Biblical viper.

-”Y’know. If I knew you’d be so good at stating the obvious and telling the damn time I’ve would’ve strapped you to my wrist instead of a Rolex and just carried you with me around all day.”-

Morton shook his hand at her frantically to nail the idea behind his words into her head, clanking the gold clasp of his arm-watch in her direction. The general idea was, that before she even tried to accuse him of anything at this late hour, to gently remind her, as she often needed to be, that he in fact made all the money in this household, and as such, he could waste and spend as much of it as he pleased, however he pleased, whenever he pleased like the man he was. Because, really - who was going to stop him? Did she really think he didn’t know what time it was? There were no clocks in casinos. Yet, he always knew, regardless. It was an ingrained instinct, by now.

-”You’re bleeding, you reek and you look like hell, Morty.”-

She clicked her tongue in annoyance alongside an eyeroll, using an endearment instead of his full name, walking around him with her heels clicking on the marble carpeted floor as she plopped down in the velvet armchair facing him directly, crossing her legs, watching him pour himself a glass of scotch and downing it one swift move. This has happened before. Of course it has. But, was it such a sin he wanted out of this stifling, godforsaken upper middle class life out here in the fucking desert, peddling rings and knick-knack like a common salesman or roadside merchant? Was it so bad he wanted to make a quick spin of money? Was it so hard to understand he wanted Lady Fortune to smile at him? If only just once? Let him live the life he knew he deserved? That she deserved. That their son deserved. That he, correction and all humbleness aside, Morton Silver, deserved, most of all?

-”We can’t all look like Liz Taylor, ma’am. Respectfully.”-

He spat back in disgust, loathing how beautiful she appeared.

So close to making him behave in ways a gentleman never should.

-”How much?”-

She inquired firmly, with a certain sense of softness.

He immediately what she meant, even without clarifying.

He averted his gaze, sighing in defeat - putrid, bitter defeat.

Leveling his eyes instead, with the glass liqueur bottle in front of him.

-”That much, huh?”-

Myra knew, even without words spoken, more or less what the monetary casualties of tonight’s exploits were - she had an instinct for things like that by now, the damn woman - finishing the butt of her cigar and crushing it in the crystal ashtray next to her seat and leaning over her white cream boudoir instead, starting to remove the rolls from her hair one by one, combing them out steadily and attaching the pearled earrings to the pierced holes of her lobes. She once stated he had a serious addiction and that  she read in a health magazine at her book club that such things weren’t anything to be ashamed of and that it could be curable with the right methods and care - that she worried about the state of him - where he was headed - where they were headed, as a married couple - but he didn’t want to hear about it. If she intended to institutionalise him she had another thing coming. He knew what they did to people deemed crazy.

And the Silvers had a reputation to uphold around these parts.

His father was a jeweler and his father before him.

His father’s father, even.

He only wanted to increase what he inherited.

Not let it all go to waste with the knowledge that he wasn’t quite right.

People would avoid them both like the plague for it - bloody bastards.

-”I’ll make it back for us. I always do. You know me! You know I do! I’ve luck at the tip of my fingers, all I need is the right moment at the right time and it’ll find me when I least expect it! And you love me for it! Maybe next time this year, we’ll be sitting at a balcony somewhere, overlooking the sea! And you’ll be sunbathing with a big hat and we’ll never look back! Maybe up the West Coast - maybe -”-

He found himself ranting, a wave of desperation, guilt and hysteria taking over his senses, fueled by alcohol and a need to rationalize and justify himself, suddenly on his knees and grabbing Myra by her ankles, nearly ripping the nylon of her sheer, flesh-colored stockings with the sharpness of the ruby on his wedding band, pulling her away from the mirror and back unto her arm chair, embracing her legs and leaning his face unto her lap, trapping her in place because he needed her to stay put and listen like he needed air to breathe, rambling and stuttering as he did. He despised this place and he knew she did too, but money was never enough to move someplace better permanently and for that reason he hated it here all the more out of rage. All the dust and scorched, dryness of the earth, and the unbearable desert wind and the goddamn mob burring mutilated bodies out in the wild, and the hyenas, and the loan-sharks, and the snakes, and the hookers and the temptations and the sinning and people blowing their fucking brains out due to accumulated debt and he just couldn’t take it anymore. It was hell. And he wasn’t out of here in a couple of years, he’d just ram his car off of the first cliff with himself, Myra and Terry in it and call it a day. It wasn’t the most Christian way to go, but heck if he cared at this point. He was as far removed from God’s light as he could be by now.

-”You’ll wake up the child with your drunk rambling.”-

She chastised whispering, with infinite tenderness.

With a tinge of sadness and pity too, he figured tiredly.

Letting her run her manicured fingers through his hair sweetly.

Comforting him - another woman would’ve left him by now, surely.

He drank and whored around and gambled and cussed and shouted.

Not her though - all she wanted was him, their son and money.

And although a bit skinny, puny and small for his age.

Almost to the point of occasional embarrassment -

Morton figured a change of scenery would do Terence good too.

Get some strength back into him - make him tall, statuesque and healthy.

Last thing Morton Silver wanted was a malnourished, sickly offspring.

-”Do you believe me, though? Do you believe me when I say I’ll give us lives worthy of gods and leave behind this petty corner-store waste of time? I don’t want to spend the rest of my days behind an old, dusty counter, convincing people which fucking engagement ring to buy some random, nameless dame off of the street they met in a joint one time!”-

He looked up at her almost pleading, fingers digging into her skin to the borderline point of nearly making her bleed - his humiliation at requiring her approval in the first place mingling with genuine need and rage at even being in his position mixing into a potent sort of fury where he was just one inch away from slapping her if she answered negatively and then grabbing her and kissing her the next for running her pretty little mouth like that. He was an irresponsible, hypocrite, drunk gambler and lying, materialistic, greedy whore-mongerer. She was a tobbacco-addicted, fashion-crazed, haughty diva obsessed with her pearls and being the perfect, unassuming upper-crust housewife and mother. They were made for each other. Hell, they even looked alike, aesthetically speaking, both pale, lanky, dark haired, with stark blue eyes - like a matched pair of paper dressing dolls cut-out from a magazine. If anything - little Terry would be a looker. Not an overly wealthy looker, but a looker nonetheless. A little pretty twig-boy with no inheritance quite big enough or impressive to turn heads. Not if they stay here. In this crime-infested cesspool of filth that threatened to drag him down even lower.

He pressed a sloppy, inebriated half-kiss to the side of her mouth.

Trying to make himself forget how much he exactly lost tonight.

She turned her head away, nostrils flaring at the stench of him.

She didn’t exactly bear the scent of roses either, reeking of tobacco.

How many did she exactly smoke in the darkness expecting his return?

-”You always did things your way and I’ve enabled you, in part. Now all I can do is sit around and wait for you to come home alive and hope to god someone doesn’t beat you half to death on the steps of some sleazy, two-bit gambling den like a dog.”-

Myra’s voice cracked and she was overtaken by a wave of sobbing.

Tracing the fresh wound on his head, impartially.

In defeat - her tone pained, regretful.

They been through his debate a million times.

And a million times they’ve reached this exact conclusion.

She didn’t even bother cleaning the blood on his scalp.

This happened so often, there was hardly a point anymore.

He’d be battered and bruised at work again by tomorrow.

She’d ambush him in this same fashion, at this same hour.

Wearing the same bathrobe and spewing the same reprimanding.

And he wouldn’t really change or learn - neither would she.

[helaintoloki]

Hey, can I get american horror story xavier x reader? Pre established relationship of Xavier and reader seriously dating. The reader is wandering around the woods looking for Xavier and falls which causes her leg to be messed up somehow. (Twisted ankle?) She doesn't want to yell for help because you know. Xavier finds her and helps calm her down a bit then they try to make their way through the woods. Maybe Mr.Jingles finds them in the woods and end on a cliffhanger. Thanks in advance!!

a/n: this is full of soft Xavier bc I’m still not 100% sure about my thoughts on bad boy X :/

warnings: language, violence, gore, death

God damn Xavier and his stupid little pouty face that he specifically used whenever he wanted you to say yes to something. You hadn’t wanted to spend the whole summer counseling little kids at some rundown camp, but Xavier had been so damn adamant about going. He begged and persisted and insisted until you finally agreed to tag along on his little summer trip.

You knew it wouldn’t be that bad. After all, you’d be with your boyfriend and your close friends, and you didn’t mind little kids, so really, what was the worst that could happen?

“I’m gonna get you, you fucking bitch!” The Night Stalker seethed, knife clutched tightly in his palm as he angrily stomped around the camp grounds. The deep cut in his abdomen put there by you was enough to fuel the fire he felt deep inside. “Gonna gut you like a fish!”

“Fuck,” you whimpered, stepping as quietly as you could through the trees and the brush in an attempt to get as far away from the killer as you could. Okay, so you obviously underestimated just how fucked up Camp Redwood was. But you’d be damned if you didn’t try to fight and kick and scratch and claw your way out of there. No one was going to take you down without a fight.

A scream that sounded much like Brooke’s sounded in the far off distance and startled your already anxious form. With a small shriek you stumble forward, only to trip on a fallen tree branch and tumble down a steep hill. Discarded branches and twigs and rocks give your skin harsh kisses on the way down, littering your exposed arms and legs with various slices and cuts.

Your palms burn and bleed, your head aches terribly, but the worst part of it all is definitely the loud pop you hear when your sneaker catches onto a tree root sprouting out from the ground. After hitting your head one more time do you finally roll to a stop, but the damage has been done.

Tears well in your eyes and blood slowly pools in your mouth as you bite down on your tongue to keep from crying out. You desperately need help, and maybe some medical attention would be nice, but you don’t dare call for help. Doing something stupid like that would only give away your location to the psychos roaming around the camp, and then you’d really be done for.

“Oh god,” you whimper, biting down on your hand as you try to push yourself up, only to crash back down onto the ground harshly. Another muffled cry leaves your mouth at the stinging sensation that tingles up your leg. There’s no way you can run, no way you can walk, no way you can even crawl.

Rustling from the distance lets you know you’re done. That’s it. Either Jingles or Ramirez is gonna find you and then you’re toast. Dead. Finished.

“Babe?” A voice calls, causing you to snap your head up. A disheveled Xavier holds his flashlight to guide his way as he takes cautious steps around the camp, purple jacket tainted with the blood of tonight’s victims.

“Xavier?” You call out weakly, bloodied palm outstretching towards your boyfriend.

“Y/N, holy shit!” He exclaims, drooping his flashlight as he sprints towards you and kneels beside your broken figure.

“Xavier, it hurts so bad,” you weep, clutching tightly onto his jacket sleeve. “I’m not gonna make it.”

“Don’t say that!” He scolds, his own tears forming in his big blue eyes. “You and me are getting the fuck out of this place, I promise you.”

“I’m only going to slow you down,” you cry, “you have to leave me. Get out while you can.”

“Hey, hey, baby, listen to me, okay?” His hand cards gently through your dirtied hair as he tear soaked lips press against your forehead. “I love you and there’s no way I’m letting you die here by yourself. Either we leave here together or we die here together, and I’d much rather prefer it if we left alive. So get your shit together and let’s go.”

“O-Okay,” you sniffle, and you stifle a cry when he helps you up off the ground. Everything aches and blood falls from different wounds on your body, and the pain that shoots up your leg with every step is unbearable, but with Xavier’s help you push through and limp through the woods.

“Once we get home we’re enjoying a nice bath and forgetting any of this ever happened,” Xavier sighs. “I’m so sorry for bringing you here, bringing you into this.”

“Aw, don’t be sorry,” a third voice calls, halting your and Xavier’s motions. Margaret stands there behind you both, a gentle smile on her face and her hands held behind her back.

“Margaret!” Xavier exclaims in relief, a laugh breathing past his lips. “Thank god it’s you!”

“I’m hurt, can you help us??” You ask desperately.

“Of course I can,” she smiles, then raises her gun and shoots Xavier point blank in the forehead. You scream as he goes down, and as Xavier falls so do you.

“What did you do?!” You cry out, desperately trying to crawl away from the deranged woman. She steps on your ankle and you screech, head falling back with a thud as a fresh wave of tears spill from your eyes.

“Rid the world of a sinner,” she smiles, the gun cocking as she reloads the barrel.

“And I’m about to do it again,�� she says, then pulls the trigger.

[whitepearlsredroses]

So, I normally don’t do this (I’m mostly on here to reblog), but!  Last night’s episode of LOT really got me energized in some good ways and some not so good ways.  And I really have some strong opinions about all the stupid ways the Team has been dealing with the MacGuffin Stick.  So

Spoilers! Spoilers! Spoilers!

Okay, the best thing about last night’s episode:  MICK RORY GETTING SOME GOD DAMN RESPECT AND APPRECIATION!  Mick Rory has always deserved better and last night he got some of his own back... from GEORGE WASHINGTON.  He has a statute in D.C. and he was told BY GEORGE WASHINGTON that he was The Example of a True American.  So you know what this means???? That means Mick Rory, like Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer, has gone down in history.  But he is a real person!  However, since he is a time-traveler that means all kinds of stories can be made up about him.  You know those soldiers, after Washington talked about this awesome dude who stuck with him out of loyalty and love for the country and saved him from death, all were like, “Oh yeah!  I know that guy!  He was from so and so’s platoon and from such and such home town!  He is awesome and can do such awesome things!”  This will then grow and grow until Mick is almost Paul Bunyun-esque, but historians will know he is a real person because Washington wrote and talked about the guy (although there are probably a few who think he was supposed to be more a metaphor, a representation Washington used as to show what a True American was).  He’ll be like the Holy Grail of American historians as they try to find out anything about who he really was and where he came from.  This just makes the amazing @robininthelabyrinth‘s “Stayin’ Alive” story even more canon as apparently Mick does have amazing powers of persuasion and motivation if he was able to change Washington’s mind about honor and what it means to be an American in less than a night.  Mick is the new prophet, all hail Mick and Mayor Snart and their boy toy.

Jax was also pretty great.  Loved the Home Alone antics and Sara putting him in charge (and lovely Star Trek reference Professor).  The only problem came at the end with the MacGuffin Stick, but I’ll get to that later.

Not great stuff:  everything with Nate and Amaya.  First off, Amaya has basically been the town bike in that the show tried shoving her into a relationship with almost everyone on the ship to see what stuck.  Mick and Amaya?  Tried it in the Wild West episode.  Amaya and Sara?  Tried it in the Japanese episode.  Jax and Amaya?  Tried it in the zombie Confederates episode.  Amaya and Ray?  Well, I can’t think of an exact episode, I’m sure they tried it.  HELL!  AMAYA AND NATE AND RAY?! TRIED IN THE GOD DAMN STAR WARS EPISODE!  And the kicker here?

Amaya’s story is basically seeming to be Kendra’s story-arc. 

No really.  WOC is in long-term relationship with White Guy.  White Guy is killed by main villain.  WOC, whose powers are animal based and has mentioned leave her feeling animalistic inside (Kendra’s  rage thing and Amaya’s “taming the beast” chat with Mick), goes on time mission to avenge Her Fallen White Guy and stop/kill villain.  While on the mission, she all of the sudden enters into relationship with New Nerdy White Guy Who is Also Kind of Sweet.  And then she stops the relationship for Insert Reason.  I bet you that sometime in the next episode or two, Amaya and Nate will get back together because Love!  And then, boyfriend will either come back or when they kill villain he doesn’t die or something to give her angst about Old Love vs. New Love.  I am seriously willing to bet money this happens, folks.  I am not joking.  Sure the time line of things is a little turned around (Carter’s murder happens after Kendra already on revenge quest and small rejection before giving into Ray’s feelings happens first), but all the beats are there.  Amaya is New Kendra and Nate is New Ray, but with Ray still being there because two Rays are fine, two WOC on a single show, NO!  Just recycle them, no one will care.

The second thing that bothers me about Nate and Amaya is two-fold, but kind of same issue:  one, timing of romance is terrible right now, but sure guys have sex!  It’s not like the fate of America hangs in the balance or anything!  Two, the writers, who are being paid to write, used the fucking blanket scenario.  The Kid’s First Attempt at Writing Romance/Smut set-up Blanket Scenario.  That trope is like the training wheels of Romantic set-up, but the writers are apparently SO BAD at writing romance that they have to use the “Baby, It’s Cold Outside and There’s One Blanket so We Need to Share Body Heat to Survive, Whoops Sex!” scenario to make it work.  The LOT writers are really bad at romance guys.  I can’t even...

Finally, the MacGuffin Stick.  The Stick of Destiny, and now the bad guys have it along with a guy who knows where the other pieces are probably located.  Here are some ideas of other things to have done instead of Jax telling Rip where the Stick was and then letting him fuck-off back to the evil Legion:

1.  Make a bunch of Sticks.  They have a ship which can regrow a human’s hand.  I am sure Gideon could produce exact copies of the Stick.  I mean, the stick doesn’t glow or seem to do anything special that would let you know, “ah yes, this is the stick!”  Rip and others only seem to know what it looks like.  So get a bunch of damn twigs, make them look like the stick and GIVE THOSE TO BAD GUYS WHEN THEY HOLD PEOPLE HOSTAGE AND STUFF!  That way you still have Stick, bad guys don’t know this and think they have Stick.  As long as you play keep away, they can’t make the Spear to change realty work.  Good guys win!

2.  NOT tell Rip the actual hiding place!  This was kind of done already with fake trap door. Just do it again, Rip apparently trusts Jax enough to just leave him there while Rip went to go get Stick.  Tell him it’s at a place on the other side of the ship and keep him occupied until Gideon’s back online to help.  DON’T JUST BE HONEST AND TELL HIM WHERE THE STICK IS!

3. Shoot Rip.  You don’t have to shoot him fatally, just shoot him and drag him back to Gideon where you can deprogram him and heal him.  There, moral problem of “do I kill Rip or not” is solved and now you’ve got the Stick, and Rip so Legion doesn’t have their guy to tell them where the pieces are located.  Everyone is happy.  I mean you guys do have a brig!  Sure, you all seem to forget about it until writers need it, but hey!  It’s probably there and not in plot device land.  So Shoot Rip.  It would be cathartic to a lot of fans who don’t like Rip and Rip fans get to see a lot of their fave interacting with good guys and being de-programed.  Shoot Rip.

4. The Extreme One here, destroy your piece of the stick.  You don’t want the MacGuffin, you are playing keep away with the MacGuffin that the other side needs to win.  You don’t need to win, you just have to Not Lose.  So destroy your piece of the stick and it can’t be used then to alter realty.  All the problems are solved, and you can go and take care of bad guys knowing they can’t win because the MacGuffin they need to change everything is gone.  There has been no sign that the stick can’t be destroyed, just that no one has thought to do so.  I mean it, destroy the stick.

TL;DR:  Mick is an American Hero and Legend, Jax did okay for first time as captain, Amaya and Nate are new Kendra and Ray, while it’s fun to see elements of fan-fiction on a show THE BLANKET SCENARIO IS NOT ONE OF THOSE FUN THINGS, and destroy the Stick and you win and bad guys lose.  Easy.

[corvwase]

Crimson Earth, Pt III

Crimson Earth: The Gauntlet

This is a series I wrote several hundred years ago called Crimson Earth. I'm not even going to start on how much crap is in this and how much work it needs, but the basic idea is there. It started to trail off when the company I was running tanked, and I lost interest in writing for a few years until recently. There's a remote possibility I may reboot it and rewrite the whole thing. Until thin, I hope you can at least try to enjoy Crimson Earth, a post-apocalyptic story set in the American Midwest.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The moon hung in a vast, black expanse, tinted with purple and streaked with red. Scarlet clouds obscured the pale light now and again, and with the odd flapping of bat wings and the chirping of crickets it seemed to be as any other night.

There were no stars.

The sky, once twinkling with the cheerful blazes of millions of stars, now lay in all its ruin, a mess of thick, polluted air and dying atmosphere. The moon was tainted with blood, rendering the pines below flushed, their pride stripped from them long ago. This bloody war had taken its toll on the world, with trees dying as fast as humans could kill them and entire species wiped out in a matter of days. Massive nuclear blasts rocked the globe, destroying anything and everything it touched. For miles around the only things that survived the fission eruptions were the boulders upon which homes and entire cities once stood.

The luminous sphere suspended in such a sky shed its dying light, watching a small band of humans making their way through the stricken, dead forests below, sighing as it gazed upon yet another group of beings walking to their deaths.

********************

The tiny party weaving through the dead pine forest was a ragtag bunch, each carrying a weapon of some sort. Rifles, machetes, pistols, belts of grenades, the occasional machine gun. They wore dark olive green uniforms, torn and patched in countless places. They were mostly men, with the two women trailing behind with rifles. They were followed by a vanguard of three men with pistols and grenades. The group neared a clearing, setting up positions on both sides of the dirt path that ran through it. They awaited something, or someone. One of the men, apparently the leader, clutched his rifle while motioning for the women to get higher. They scrambled for the trees, slinging their guns over their shoulders and clambering for the positions.

The leader gave a grim smile of satisfaction as he lay down, shifting his rifle to cover the path. The machine gunner hid behind a tree on the other side, accompanied by two men with grenades and knives. The rest were scattered around the area, each ready to spring.

********************

Nord and Web stumbled into the clearing.

They had been hiking all day, knowing they were only getting further away with each step. The camp was left far behind, and there was no hope of survival there anymore. If they returned they would be shot on the spot for tardiness and their bodies hung for the crows as an example to the rest. The two men were tired and hungry; Nord turned to his companion.

“Web, can we just stop? I’m gonna die. Maybe we can pick up when the sun rises.”

Web exhaled slowly and nodded, “Yeah, this is useless. We can start again tomorrow but, like I said before, we aren’t heading back.”

Nord looked around, “Okay…so we can go back when?” he said with an oafish grin.

Web seized his collar, spinning him around. His hot breath smothered Nord, whose eyes were full of fear.

“Because, little man,” Web was irate, “We will die. They will shoot us. They will take our fucking bodies and hang them like Lebb and June. They don’t give a damn about you or I. So shut your trap and go find some firewood.”

Nord gulped and tore away from his grasp. He tripped on a stone and stumbled into the foliage, gathering twigs and sticks. Web gritted his teeth and checked his rifle. He hadn’t cleaned the damn thing in weeks. He’d used it a few times when out on patrol, shooting birds and those two brats who had cut a hole in the fence. He had stood over them, listening to their pleas for mercy. He had ignored them, throwing both into the ditch nearby, full of decaying corpses. Two shots, and they would never annoy him again. Then Nord had come into the picture, a killer if there ever was one. He claimed forty kills within two weeks, when that big execution was going on. God, I’m so done with him, he thought.

Nord came back, glancing over his shoulder. “You know, Web, I don’t think we should camp here. It’s too open, see? Should we move into the forest or what?”

He never knew what hit him. The bullet came flying from the barrel faster than the speed of sound, thudding into the back of his head. He was thrown to the ground, and blood gushed furiously from the wound. Web spun around sharply, spraying the area with bullets as he dashed for cover. The chatter of a machine gun nearby sent him sprawling for the nearest tree. A bullet caught him in the calf and another grazed his neck. He grunted quietly and slumped over.

Two men sprinted into the clearing, hitting his tree. He shot back, holding his rifle out but remaining hidden. The two men ran in separate directions, kneeling and squeezing off shots at random. Web took a deep breath and moved out, aiming at the man on the right. Web ran forward, blood covering his neck, leg searing with pain. He shot the man twice, turning quickly and firing into the other man. The bullet thudded into his stomach. Web gasped, choking on blood. He dropped his gun and fell to his knees.

Six men in green clothing approached him quietly. The leader looked him over.

“It’s about time, buddy. Finally got you.”

Web squinted up at the tall man. The leader bent down slowly, his lean frame silhouetted against the moon,.

“You’ve been runnin’ a long time. You’re done now, so just lie down and go to sleep. Just lie down now.”

Web’s journey earthward ended face down. His rifle and knife were taken and the group moved on. One more body added to the count. This was the rare but present battle–regime vs rebel. Tyranny vs partisan. The confrontations were rare, but ended with the annihilation of either party. The soldiers were usually in packs, hunting for stragglers and food, while the partisans traveled light, with the clothes on their backs and the weapons in their hands.

There were still rebellious thoughts, and they needed to be put down. The Gauntlet must be put down.