#the air thick with smoke and the cacophony of machines

[suparhythm]

A Tapestry of Dreams: A Wanderer's Tale of Beauty Across Worlds

Hark, gentle listener, and lend thine ear to a tale of love and wonder, a tale that spans the ages and traverses the realms of dreams. I am but a humble wanderer, a traveler through time and space, a witness to the ephemeral beauty that dances between the stars. My journey began in a world of ethereal hues, where the skies were painted with strokes of lavender and gold, and the air hummed with…

[yes-these-obsessions-are-healthy]

Excerpt - Convalesce

Young Jinx flees to the safety of Silco’s arms in search of refuge from the cacophony in her head. He obliges. As always. And a small game is played.

.

.

Confirming she possesses no further inclination to retreat, Silco reaches around her to retrieve his cigar, flicking off a generous nub of ash built on the tip. He holds it off to the side as he considers it, mindful of the curling smoke. Silco tilts his head to briefly touch his temple to hers, a silent affirmation.

He holds the next puff of smoke in his mouth until his lungs scream for relief. A hand returns to her back, fingers compelled to draw inane patterns while he resumes watching dust dance in the pale green light.

For some, fear is a sapling to be plucked, grasped and uprooted, giving way with a clod of dirt and a strained tug.

But her fear is not a weed, no. That much is painfully obvious. It is a shadow stitched to heart, a dark mimicry echoing her past mistakes and whispering her shortcomings in her ear, a cacophony silent to all but her. He cannot silence these voices, but he tries to speak over them, drown them out with sense, and for the most part he is at least partially successful. And on the rare occasions when he isn't..

He flicks some ash from his cigar.

The less said about those sleepless nights, the better.

Warm breath wrapped in a giggle settles against his neck, bringing Silco back to the present. ‘Si~ilco, what're you doing, algebra on my back? That's boring.’

The unmarred corner of his lips lifts into a faint smile she cannot see, then parts a sliver's worth to allow the smoke to languidly trickle out from the cavern of his mouth in a thick ribbon-like stream.

Her back transforms into a typewriter in his mind's eye. His fingers switch to skittering and pattering up and down the small expanse with the deftness of a secretary as he taps out a coded message. J-I-N-X-J-I-N-X-J-I-N-X. She giggles again, and the rest of the smoke gusts out from his toothy half-smirk like steam from a grate as he joins her with an amused huff. Such a wonderful sound. He wishes he could bottle it up and distill it into a tonic for occasions like this.

Do you remember the taste of your happiness, child? Drink, and recall.

If only it were that simple. "Or it could very well be nonsense."

Warmth is returning to the youth in his arms, spring swiftly bleeding into summer to leave dreary memories of winter behind. The wires are sparking, filling the air with the scent of sunshine and wax crayons.

She pulls back to grin at him, wiggling like a worm on a hook, or an overly-excited retriever. 'Write something else! Oh, oh, draw something and I'll guess!"

He hums in faux consideration. When she is distraught, her sense of self requires some time to return to form, her whimsical proclivities swinging ungainly between two stark poles, pitifully infantile or soberingly mature for her present age. A broken slot machine with its wheels ever-spinning. He is well aware of the strangeness, but he has never turned away anyone for being odd.

Dustin is oft times unintelligible in his speech, harboring brain damage from inhaling sump fumes in his formative years, yet when given a microphone can sing with the clarity of a lake lark.

Ran has no memory of their life before the age of fourteen--their genesis was upon that of a stained mattress within a rotting room, laces to their breeches untied and their hand trembling around the handle of a shiv sunken into the throat of a naked, disheveled woman looming above them like a gaunt spider—āyí. Auntie.

The Last Drop's bartender Thieram sometimes comes into work as Chella, the heavy-lashed dame with a spine of steel and nails to match; 'she' claims to be a soul residing within Thieram, a psychic fragment formed in childhood of whose existence he still remains starkly unaware.

Zaun as it stood now served as the dumping ground for Piltover's slag and refuse, a rubbish bin into which all things unsightly and ill-reputed were cast off.

Genius often wears the mask of madness, and this child was a prodigy tenfold.

So he honors these innocent, childish requests. Anything to keep her afloat.

He draws a waverider, which she guesses incorrectly as an alligator, then a gecko. 'Wrong genus.'

She groans dramatically. He can practically feel her eyes rolling in her head. Sapphire marbles. 'As if I know what that means!'

'You should,' he teases.

But he hums again, and draws a circle, the basic shape of a Poro. Funny little things, embodying empathy and cat-like curiosity. Thick white or yellowish fur, two curved goat horns, and a comically large panting tongue. Generally as big as an ottoman, though he's heard they can grow to dwarf even men. Their kind are as scarce as sunlight in Zaun given their sensitivity to suffering and conceit. They are fixtures in children's story books as heroes down here in the Lanes just as they are Topside, though a cunning and shrewdness has been allotted to their natures by his fellow Zaunites to afford them more..practicality and believability for the little ones. It did no one any good to fill their heads with naive notions of pure goodness and altruism as unshakeable forces found in nature. The world was not fated to be soft to those born on this side of the Gate.

There is a static-y pause, a taut coil of anticipation. She is waiting for more. He remains still, and when she eventually pulls back, he stifles a chuckle at how her brow furrows and her nose scrunches as if suddenly blinded by floodlight. 'That's it? That's just a circle!’

‘That is the animal's shape.’ He says from behind his cigar. The flaring of her nostrils makes him raise a challenging brow, though he maintains an unaffected air. ‘Anything more than that and it would be too easy. I know you're clever enough to figure it out without a hint.'

It is like a switch is flipped. The mirth buzzing within her stalls, stilts as her head lolls, a secondhand doll with a broken neck socket joint. Her expression darkens, her mouth twisting tight and bunching up like a ruined seam as she glares out from under a contorted shelf formed across her brow. Her eyes, still unchanged from the same brilliant blue that cloud of magic that blew his dockside shimmer operations sky-high, are no longer illuminated by sunlight glittering atop ocean surf. Instead they are mute, flat as cold stone. Unmerciful as kerosene flame.

Silco watches this quiet anger seep to the surface in equal parts caution and patience. He will never tell her that she is disallowed from feeling as she does, to the degree that she does. However, emotions were energy, and among his scores of lessons was how to best economically harness and direct that energy. The hungry black flame that shaped her ire could be better suited to tinkering or testing her projects than gouging out chunks of her flesh, or his. And energy disconnected from a proper set of conduits and outlets was inevitably fated to combust in a multitude of messy ways, perishing the host.

Needless waste.

The seconds tick by.

Poke.

The tip of her small finger darts out to stab his lapel, a spiteful peck with enough force behind it for the point of contact to well with transient ache.

Silco’s aloft eyebrow is joined by its painted brother to form a banner of quiet challenge. But as expected, this gesture only further deepens the creases of her mulish pout, reminding him of those pitiful inbred lapdogs adored by Piltovian ladies.

In her grousing, she fails to consider, or forgets, the presence of his hand hovering over her back. Another lesson to impart. Maintaining one's awareness of the world around them even whilst simmering in their own recalcitrance.

With a bored look, he pokes her in the back. Hard. Right between the vertebrae.

Jinx jolts forward, more so in surprise than propulsion, and makes a show of twisting and turning to dart her attention between his face and his hand, her sullenness now resembling that of a runt resentful of its target status by local bullies.

Her fingers curl into fists, fury building..

But she has not yet raked her nails down his cheek nor grabbed him by the ears to scream in his face, or made a lunge for his hair..

And suddenly, the clouds break. She gives him a thousand watt gap-toothed grin and begins to assail him with a series of rapid pokes upon his chest, little pecks with her pointer fingers that he can feel through his waistcoat. She pairs it with small sounds that simulate punching--'pow pow pow pow pow pow!'

It takes all of his self-control not to displace his cigar. His teeth sink into the filter as his lips pull back in a grin wide enough that he feels the familiar sharp numb-ache of his scarred cheek muscles pull and tug to accommodate. Pain she is able to make him relish as a gift.

'Come on, come on,' she chides, 'you gotta give me more than that, ‘wise 't's too hard! Powpowpowpowpowpow!!'

"Fine." She pauses in her assault, expectant. Bright, bright, bright with held breath.

He pokes two dots to serve as eyes, and grins even wider around his cigar when her anticipation crumples into another one of her frustrated groans.

'Is it a pet rock?'

'A what?'

'A pet rock. You know,' she drawls, bobbling her head as if it was obvious, 'a rock you have as a pet?'

Silco turns this absurd explanation in his head, and comes up blank. 'I still do not understand, but no.'

'Well if you don't get it, then it's a freebie! Point for me!'

'Mm. And how is it your point?'

She wiggles in his lap, pride threatening to spill out of her like unfiltered sunlight. Endearingly volatile and pure. 'I know something you don't know!' She sing-songs, lifting a finger from his vest to wave it back and forth in a tiny circling dance.

'That is not the game we're playing.'

'It is always being played.' She rebuts.

.

.

.

Deeply, madly, truly appreciate any comments. I have a whole lot more but the pieces are stuck in between very unsatisfactory paragraphs.

[lucas-03321]

Rebirth

Preamble--

Death follows everyone. Its fair towards all. The young, the old, the fortunate and the unfortunate. This story is about an old Chinese ceremony performed by a family for their departed loved one. The ceremony went well until something unprecedented happens.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The night was shrouded in a chilling silence as my mother sped through the streets, her knuckles white from gripping the steering wheel. The rain pounded against the windshield, blurring her vision, but she couldn’t afford to slow down. Every second counted. My grandfather was being rushed to the hospital, his life hanging by a thread.

Flashing red and blue lights pierced the darkness as the ambulance sped ahead. Inside, paramedics worked frantically to stabilize him. His face was pale, his breaths shallow and labored. Each jolt of the ambulance seemed to draw him closer to the brink.

When my mother finally arrived at the hospital, her heart was a cacophony of dread and desperation. She sprinted through the sterile hallways, her shoes squeaking against the tiles. The smell of antiseptic hung heavy in the air, mingling with the underlying scent of fear and uncertainty.

She reached the operating room just as a stern-faced doctor emerged, his expression grave. “Mrs. Lee, I’m afraid your father’s condition is critical. His underlying health issues have complicated things significantly. I... I don’t think he’s going to make it.”

“No,” she gasped, tears streaming down her face. “Please, do everything you can to prolong his life. He has to make it through this.”

The doctor shook his head, his eyes filled with a sorrowful resolve. “I’m sorry, but any further intervention requires his consent. Without it, we can’t proceed.”

Desperation clawed at her insides as she was led to my grandfather’s bedside. He lay there, surrounded by the cold hum of medical machines, his body frail and weak. She took his hand in hers, her voice trembling. “Baba, please, just try to speak. Give them your consent. We need you. I need you.”

His eyes fluttered open, glassy with pain and fatigue. His lips moved, forming silent words that never made it past his throat. He struggled, a faint wheeze escaping him, but he couldn’t speak. The effort was too great. The light in his eyes dimmed, and with one final, labored breath, he was gone.

My mother collapsed into the chair beside his bed, her sobs echoing through the room. She had been so close, yet so helpless. My grandfather with his remaining strength and will, had passed away, unable to say goodbye. The cold grip of death had stolen his voice, leaving us to grapple with a silence that would never be filled.

Growing up, my grandfather was the pillar of our family. He embodied everything I aspired to be: a loving father to his children, a devoted husband to his wife, and a wise elder to his family. He was always there, guiding me with his gentle wisdom and unwavering support. When he passed away a decade ago, the void he left in our lives was immense. To honor his memory and wish him a peaceful rebirth, our family gathered for a traditional Chinese ceremony.

In our family, the traditional Chinese ceremony we held was a reverent ritual known as the "Ching Ming" or "Tomb-Sweeping Day." This ceremony is deeply rooted in our cultural heritage, a time when families gather to honor their ancestors and seek their blessings for the living. It involves meticulous preparation: cleaning the ancestors' gravesites, offering incense, and performing prayers to ensure that the spirits are at peace and are blessed in their next life. It is a gesture of respect and a way to bridge the gap between the present and the past, allowing us to connect with our loved ones who have passed on.

The air was thick with reverence. We gathered, dressed in somber hues, our hearts heavy but united in our wish for his rebirth. The ceremony was solemn and beautiful, filled with incense smoke and the murmur of prayers. As it concluded, we began to disperse, exchanging quiet goodbyes.

Then, out of the silence, my young cousin began to speak in a voice not his own. It was the voice of my cousin but his words, was grandfather’s. The words were unmistakable, laced with the same wisdom and cadence that had guided me all my life. But the family dismissed it as a tasteless prank. They reprimanded him, accusing him of dishonoring our grandfather's memory.

Weeks passed, and my cousin’s parents grew increasingly alarmed by his behavior. He was reading old Chinese newspapers, the kind my grandfather used to savor. He spent hours playing old-style mahjong by himself, mimicking my grandfather’s skillful hands. And then there was the harmonica, the same melancholy tunes that had once floated through my grandfather’s room now echoed through their home. My cousin, a child with no prior interest or knowledge of these things, seemed to be channeling our grandfather in ways that defied explanation.

Despite the mounting evidence, it was easier for us to dismiss these occurrences as coincidence rather than confront the chilling possibility of possession. Our reluctance to believe grew into regret when, one night, my cousin suffered a heart attack. The circumstances were eerily identical to my grandfather's death—both sudden and devastating.

In the wake of my cousin’s death, our family was plunged into a deeper grief, now mixed with the horrifying realization that we had ignored the signs.

Now, as I sit in my study, staring at the altar that once held my grandfather, I can almost hear his harmonica playing softly. The air feels colder, heavier with unspoken words and missed connections. I wonder if his spirit still lingers, seeking a vessel, a voice, to tell his untold stories and share his timeless wisdom. We had wished for his rebirth, but in our ignorance and fear, we had lost him once more.

The house is quiet now, but the silence is alive with the echoes of the past. Each creak of the floorboards and whisper of the wind reminds us of the unseen presence that once walked among us.

If only I had understood my cousin's actions for what they truly were, I might have been able to reconnect with my grandfather, to hear his voice through the channels he had chosen. Now, the silence in the house is heavy with the echoes of what could have been. I am left with the haunting regret of having missed the chance to speak with him once more.

[rustedleopard]

These are my works from “Life with Psychics” ported over from AO3 with no edits/changes. These works are no longer available on my AO3.

Part Two

(Posted 06-26-2021)

Out of the Bag

Paula huddles warmly under a woolen blanket dug out from some forgotten drawer in Dr. Andonuts’ laboratory, sapping heat from one of the doctor’s many strange apparatuses chugging along steadily, as she watches Ness finish tucking Jeff delicately into the Instant Revitalizing Machine. Jeff’s head hangs limply; Ness frowns and shuts the door. The machine activates with a burst of light and sound.

Ness’ lips are mauvish and he’s shaking profusely. Obligingly, she opens the blanket. Less obligingly—and more demandingly—she gives him a few telepathic nudges, encouraging him to her side. He joins her, pressing against her, body frigid. She takes his hands in hers, rubbing the knuckles to encourage warmth to them as he watches the machine’s lights flicker off and fall silent.

“I messed up,” mumbles Ness, so quietly Paula strains to hear it under the laboratory’s cacophony of noise.

Paula cups a hand around the back of Ness’ head and delicately—because she can feel an egg-sized lump (Ness still refuses to heal himself before others, much to her frustration)—presses his face into the crook of her neck. His hat rides up his head. He wraps his arms around her waist and shakes.

“No you didn’t, you did amazing. Did you see the way you took out all those aliens?”

Ness responds with silence.

Paula sighs. It was just like Ness to let one screw up knock the wind from his sails; to take every failure as a product of his actions. While he had made strides in becoming more self-assured, all it takes is one bad day to ruin his momentum. He still has yet to learn that sometimes things go poorly just because.

From where he’s nestling against her, she can feel the chill leaving him. “How… did you do that?” she says. “How did you turn into a dragon? Tell me all about it.”

“Me and Jeff were–” he says, voice thick. From where he has his face pressed up against her neck, she can feel him wince.

me and jeff were in this cave in the desert resounds inside her head. there were all of these monkeys and it was super confusing because the cave was actually a big maze and the monkeys wouldn’t let us go deeper unless we gave them something that they wanted. From where Paula is wrapped around Ness, she can feel the tension ebb out of him as he gets caught up in telling the story. there was even this monkey that wanted a fresh egg but it hatched in my pocket before i could bring it to him so we had to go back to this other monkey to get another.

Ness snorts a gust of air against her neck, tickling her.

we found this bag at the end of one of the caves. talah rama called it bag of dragonite. a powerful weapon. A pause. he told us to never use it. i guess i broke that rule.

“No, I think it was the right thing to do,” she says. She closes her eyes and leans against him as the events of this afternoon come back to her: the aliens and robots that swarmed the party; that emerged seemingly from nowhere; that bore down on them far too numerously, their attacks overwhelming, especially when coupled with the exhaustion of having fought their way through a Your Sanctuary. Jeff felled by a laser blast. Despair constricting Paula.

Then a heaven-rending roar as a silhouette eclipsed the sun. A draconic beast, more fantastical than her wildest dreams, towering over them; thorny backed, clad in stone-like scales; feet tipped with gleaming sickles; its molten-gold reptilian eyes that regarded them for a moment—so terrifying, they paralyzed her to the spot—as its body shifted over her and Jeff’s prone form, houselike and shielding. It rumbled lowly, the very marrow of her bones quaked, and the air itself trembled with the promise of violence as its lips peeled back, revealing rows upon rows of diamantine fangs—plumes of smoke and tongues of flame, untameable and scorching, thirsty to lick at their enemies: thirsty for retribution.

In the end, there hadn’t been much of anything left: bisected tentacles, metal glowing hotly, thawed permafrost, charred earth. And then there was Ness, dusted with a fine layer of ash, blinking a daze from his eyes as he pressed Lifeup to their wounds, piggybacking Jeff back through the snow and the cave, back all the way to Dr. Andonuts’ lab to rest and heal.

There’s a rattle from within the Instant Revitalizing Device as Jeff stirs. She can feel Ness pulling away, eager to make sure that he’s alright. She pulls him close, enjoying his returning warmth, threading her hands through his hair while avoiding his goose egg. He gives her a tight squeeze.

“You did good.”

[caeruleis]

@eternalwhite​ (Starter Call) 

   Scattered lights of blues, reds, and yellows bathed the marble floors of the old chapel in a rainbow glow where they filtered in through the elaborate stained glass windows. Shards of rumble and glass were scatted on and between the scarred pews that ran along the tainted walls - their usual white color now littered with stains of crimson and mahogany until they stopped short of the alter at the center back of the building. The stench of smoke and steel and blood was thick even within these four walls, and, when his gaze lifted upwards towards shattered windows, the usual soft blue of the skies had been dyed a bright orange and deep gray. And the sounds of warfare could still be heard, muffled as they might have been by the cackle of smoke and the roar of fire, from well beyond the aged door. The cacophony of steel striking steel and the shouts that rang out beside it nearly drowned out the hushed whimpering of the handful of humans tucked away on the floor between the pews that bounced off of the walls. Their fearful sobs muffled by their gloved hands and their chattering teeth mellowed the noise of their thick coats as they shivered against one another. He could hear their frightened conversation from where he stood by the door - how they spoke of salvation and hope all while their hearts pumped a thousand miles a minute within their chests. 

       In a way, he was envious of their ability to feel terror and cling to desperation - of their ability to feel the tremor of their hearts within their bodies. When his hand lifted to press the tips of hardened fingers against his own chest, his core removed entirely unmoving and wholly silent. And he could feel nothing save for the artificial blood that flowed through his makeshift veins. Something inhuman. And not unlike the other archangel that had turned against their maker and started this war upon a world that had never belonged to them. He had been on the other side before, as well - he was far from innocent, but he grew weary after the war began to carry on, and now found himself tip-toeing the line between his desire for rebellion and his lack of will to involve humans in a conflict that didn’t involve them. In the end, his own opinion and abilities mattered little. He could scarcely think for himself let alone feel much of anything - created empty and hollow for a set purpose. The other archangels who had stripped themselves of their divine titles and waved the flag of the fallen proudly as they mingled with the metahumans to start a riot were passionate creatures. Even if he were to join them once more - even if, by some miracle - he were able to meet their maker or even the Supreme Primarch himself, he wouldn’t have been able to change their fate. He was more a device than a living being.

      And, yet, he harbored enough free will to linger in the chapel - away from the terrified humans who had rushed through its doors to take shelter. To choose to protect the humans huddled inside despite the fact that he had little desire to engage with his brethren should it come to that. But the city has mostly fallen now - he imagines the people gathered here might very well be the last remaining survivors of this human settlement. Though, he can’t even begin to say what had lead him to that choice. However, it remained his and his alone. Possibly the first choice he’s made of his own accord in the few thousand years since his creation. So fingers curl against dark fabric - the gentle rattle of the chains gathered about his hand echoes through the hall. And he swallows against the frigid air when he hears footsteps just beyond the door. On instinct, he takes a few silent steps back to put distance between himself and whoever laid beyond. Though fear was hardly the reason - he was incapable of feeling such a thing - but he was better suited for long distance combat if the need arose.   

      The chains wrapped about his hands began to vibrate as his muscles tensed when he noticed the door tremble, and then, after a moment, it opened to a whirlwind of ice and snow that poured in from the harsh weather inside. Behind him, he heard the group yelp in surprise - and they dove beneath the pews. Amber irises lifted to greet the stranger - her silver hair fluttering in the frigid breeze that had come with her. But his own muscles relaxed after a moment. Though not mortal like the humans hidden from view beyond him were, she wasn’t one of his kind either - something in-between, perhaps. It mattered little to him. “And you are?” His tone is overly rude, but it is blunt. Monotone and devoid of emotion entirely. Despite how forward he is, there’s a certain formality to it. Though he moves to position himself better between her and the humans - their startled screams having already made their presence within the chapel apparent so there was little reason to pretend they weren’t there. “Though I dislike fighting, if you’ve come to do them harm I will stop you.” The words feel strange when spoken from his tongue - in his own lackluster and distant voice. He doesn’t know why he’s come to protect them. He doesn’t understand what’s driving him now. “Though...if you’ve come to take them somehow safer I can be of assistance to you...I believe.” He almost sounds like a machine rather than a organic being.  

[craftramsay]

The Fall of Ala Mhigo

It was chaos.

Smoke and dust swirled in the wind, carrying with it the mingling scents of blood and burning flesh. The sound of metal against metal that had been ringing throughout the city has dropped away leaving an unnatural silence for a moment. A moment that seemed to last eternity.

“Ala Mhigo is FREE!” A singular voice broke the silence, but it was soon echoed by others. Dozens. Then hundreds.

Craft Ramsay fell to his knees in the streets of Ala Mhigo, a sudden weariness causing him to finally feel every ache he felt. Every wound he had taken in the hours of fighting against the last of the Mad King’s loyal followers – The Corpse Brigade. He was young, just on the cusp of manhood, but the fighting had been intense, it had raged from outside the walls of the city and through the streets. For Craft itself it had started years earlier in the small village he had grown up in, isolated in the heights of Abalathia’s Spine.

“Yah hear that, Ramsay? Theordoric is dead!”

The hand of Caius Athol slapped against Craft’s thick shoulder and he looked up at his wiry and energetic friend. Caius had grown up in that same village and they had been friends since childhood.

“Finally.” Craft had to agree, sucking dusty air into his burning lungs, grinning a wolfish grin.

“Finally.” Caius said with a nod, turning away from his friend, sheathing his two blades at his side. They were stained a dark rust, blood that had already started to dry. Craft wanted to tell him he should wipe the blades clean, that those blades might need to be used again. He resisted though, knowing that they had won the day. It didn’t prevent him from wiping the blade of his claymore clean as he stood.

“Fucking hells… I hurt all over.”

Caius looked over his shoulder at his friend, “You took a beating, Ramsay. I’m not sure how many of those bastards you were dealing with at a time, but you drew them to you like moths to a flame.”

Craft had always been skilled at combat; his father had taught him young. He was using a sword almost as soon as he could walk. That wasn’t exactly unusual for those that lived in the untamed cliffs of the spine, as there were all sorts of dangers that could befall one should they wander too far from the wooden ramparts that provided a base amount of protection to the village.

“Your father would be proud.” Caius added, more solemnly. Though he was known for his sense of humour, he knew he should make that statement, he knew what had brought the both of them to the city.

Craft’s father had been a member of the Fist of Rhalgr, a monk belonging to the order that the Mad King Theordoric had sought to eliminate. After destroying the monk’s temple and decimating the order there, he had sent elite units of the Corpse Guard to eliminate any other members of the Fist that had spread out through Gyr Abania. One unit had arrived in the small village and destroyed it, all to ensure the death of Craft’s father. He had been forced to run from the blaze, watching the execution from a distance before being pulled away. As soon as he could join up with the Revolution he had, and Caius had accompanied his friend. Since then it had been non-stop fighting for the two of them.

“Fuck.” Craft swore and pulled a small water skin from the bag he had slung over his shoulder. He took a quick draught from it and spat the water, rinsing away the taste of smoke before drinking deeply, then offering it to his friend. The calm silence of the city was the closest to peace and quiet either of them had felt in a long time.

Caius took a drink, then arched an eyebrow. “Do ya hear that?”

Craft didn’t and shook his head to indicate so. But he also didn’t say anything, focusing on the noises, dull and mute compared to the fury of the battle that had just ended. Caius always had keen hearing and he didn’t doubt that there was something he should hear.

Then it came, like the distant percussion of a drum. Could it be the victors starting a celebration? Craft managed a grin at the thought of what the celebration of the fall of the Mad King would be: Drunken debauchery in the streets of Ala Mhigo.

That grin vanished quickly, as he heard screams tear through the calm, followed by the sounds of explosions and the undeniable thrum of Magitek equipment.

“Fucking hell!” Craft cursed as he pulled his blade free from the sheath and turned to see lines of Imperial Soldiers start marching down the street. “How’re they here so quickly?”

Caius’ blades were in his hands as other members of the recently victorious force of Ala Mhigans formed up to fight another battle. “Probably waiting like the scavengers they are.”

A roar erupted from the Ala Mhigans. They had just freed their city after a long-fought war of resistance against the Mad King. They were battled hardened and would not let this day be lost. The first of them charged at the line of soldiers, led by an elder monk who had somehow avoided the purge. He dropped a few soldiers with a flurry of attacks. Others clanged blades and hammers against Garlean armour. Craft was soon charging forward as part of this mob, sword catching some of the lesser armoured infantry and hewing limbs. Crimson arced through the air as the earlier aches and pains vanished – all that remained was the fury of battle.

At first it seemed that they were winning. The first fodder of the Empire fell swiftly, though they took their toll. That elder monk had been surrounded and slain by a handful of troops, blades skewering him. A large highlander had managed to bisect a pair of soldiers before a lucky strike had cleaved his calf and dropped him. The Imperials swarmed them like Antlions. Too late, Craft realized, that this line of attackers was thrown against them to wear the already bloodied Ala Mhigans down. That similar attacks would be occurring throughout the city, against every pocket of resistance there could be.

The next line of Imperial attackers now approached. These soldiers were better armoured, and many carried Garlean gunblades, which volleyed off fire in a loud cacophony of blasts, and Craft saw spurts of blood from many of his friends and allies. They dropped to the ground, dead or dying, as the Imperials readied another volley.

“For Ala Mhigo!” Caius yelled and darted forward, blades flashing as he charged the line. Craft roared and followed his friend, realizing that staying at a distance would not be a benefit. Some others followed, but more fled, down the streets and away from the battle.

Craft fought on, his heavy blade catching a soldier across the soldier and crumpling armour enough to send the man down. A downward thrust to the man’s exposed neck ended him. Another whirled-on Craft and he could barely bring a blade up fast enough to catch the edge of a gunblade. He twisted his sword and managed to pry the weapon from his opponents’ hands, then smashed the hilt of his claymore into the soldier’s exposed face, sending teeth and blood through the air. Next to him Caius was darting between lunges of the Garlean weapons, his own blades connecting with flesh through the exposed parts of the armour. He wasn’t landing devastating hits, but his opponents staggered with a lose of blood. Craft took the opportunity to swing his great sword in an arc, smashing through the staggered soldiers, destroying them. This is how they best worked together, Caius landing quick attacks and Craft devastating the opposition when able. They fell into this co-operation easily, having fought together on a near daily basis since the destruction of their childhood home.

“We’re doing it!” a voice bellowed from somewhere near, but Craft couldn’t pinpoint the location, “We’re defeating the fucking EMPIRE!”

And, for a moment, it felt like they were.

It did not last.

The thrum of Magitek grew, and rockets launched from armored soldiers engulfed the streets in explosions and fire. Imperials and Ala Mhigans both died to this assault, but only the Imperials had reserves that could afford such losses. Craft was blown backwards, tumbling back down the street, his weapon wrenched from his hand. Caius, somehow, managed to avoid the brunt of the explosion and stood standing in the smoking ruin, a solitary figure amongst flames and death. He whirled around, looking for an enemy, an opponent to strike at and seeing nothing.

“Craft?” he called, looking at the corpses that lay strewn and smoking.

“I’m here…” Craft called, struggling to get to his feet, his head throbbed, and his vision was foggy. He bent over and nearly fell again but wrapped his fingers around the hilt of the weapon nearest to him: A Garlean Gunblade.

“Still standing, Cai.” Which was true, but his face was crimson, blood cascading from a wound hidden somewhere under his dark hair, flowing like a gory waterfall.

“Good…” Caius stated, his back to his friend as he watched something emerge from the smoke, “Because I’m going to need your help.”

It took a moment for Craft to focus on the monstrosity that stood Infront of Caius, a giant Magitek Colossus. He had never seen one but had heard others speak of them and the damage they could do. Seeing the first swing of its blade towards Caius, he darted aside. The impact of the blade against the street had cracked the stone sending sharp splinters flying in every direction.

Blinking away astonishment, Craft fumbled with the gunblade and quickly figured out how to fire that damned thing, sending a volley of blasts that seemed to ring off the armour of the Colossus. Seeing how ineffective his attack was, Craft started to close the gap, hoping to allow Caius to flank the giant and hopefully find a weak spot. It worked as the Colossus focused on Craft and made a few surprisingly quick strikes against him, which were barely deflected. Each impact of blade against blade sent Craft staggering backwards, as the machine’s strength far out matched the Highlander’s own.

“Work quickly Caius…” Craft panted, raising his blade into a guard position and catching the downward strike of the Colossus. His whole body trembled at the impact, his muscles strained to hold the blade off, “Can’t take too much of this…”

If Caius replied, Craft never heard it, he instead spun away from another arcing slash of the Colossus, then rolled away from a blow that would have completely torn through him. He paused for a moment to wipe the blood from his eyes, but even that second allowed the Colossus to close the distance and lunge with a strike. Craft was barley able to twist away, and the massive sword sliced through his makeshift armour and tore flesh. He roared in pain and grasped his side, feeling the pulse of blood.

“Craft!”

Caius called out from behind the Colossus and drove both his blades between joints in the machine’s plates, he twisted and turned hoping to find something internally that would break and drop the monster. Instead he soon found himself knocked backwards, his swords so firmly caught in the machine that he was wrenched away and left unarmed. He looked up to see the Colossus standing over him.

“Fuck you. And fuck your fucking Empire.” Caius spat defiantly at the impassive Magitek creation. The Colossus only response was to lower a robotic hand to Caius, which engulfed his head… then lifted and tossed Caius through the smoke and over one of the city walls.

“CAIUS!” Craft bellowed, rising to his feet. He had lost so much in the recent years. Those he considered friends and family all destroyed. Ala Mhigo regained but for a moment before this Imperial attack. He looked upwards and roared, calling up at Rhalgr himself to intervene for this land that had worshiped him so.

No response came, and Craft Ramsay cursed Rhalgr too.

He could hear the internal gears of the Colossus whirl and turn as it stepped towards him; massive blade lifted high to smite this one last opponent.

He should have fled. He should have tried to escape, to meet up with any other survivors and prepare to fight another day.

Instead he charged, gunblade pointed at the Colossus as his fingers squeezed the trigger. Explosives went off with each strike of his weapon against Magitek armour, and he swung and squeezed again. And again. And again. Until there was naught by a smoldering wreckage on the ground before him. He was soaked crimson with his own blood, weak and barely able to stand, but the Colossus had fallen. A victory.

He panted and fell to his knees when he heard the soft sound of clapping behind him.

“Impressive. I think we may have a use for this one.”

Craft didn’t have the opportunity to turn to see who the voice belonged to. He felt something clamp across his neck and he fell into darkness.

[thesoundlessvoid]

::// c o o r d i n a t e s  t r a n s f e r r e d. //::

Blackout's optics barely flicker as he reads the update text that scrolls across his HUD. It's dark, the clouds are thick, and there's almost no visibility.

It's exactly as he wants it.

::// w e ' v e  t r a n s f e r r e d   a   3 d   m a p   o f   t h e   t a r g e t .   t h e   t o w e r   i s   s u p p o r t e d   b y   t h r e e   m a i n   b e a m s .  t a r g e t   t h o s e. //::

The tyton scoffs silently, scarred lips curling. This isn't his first rodeo, and yet, the console jockeys always felt it necessary to tell him precisely what to do and how to do it. Oh well. He supposes it's the only opportunity the idiots get to boss anyone around, much less a member of the Decepticon Heavy Brigade.

:://  b l a c k o  u t ?  d o   y o u   c o p y ? //::

::// g o i n g   d a r k . //::

He has everything he needs. Activating heavily modified cloaking systems, Blackout simply disappears from radar -- not that anyone would have been looking for one mech in the first place. The enemy is looking for an army, a horde, a swarm of Decepticons to come their way if anyone does at all. Single mechs are usually neutrals trying to survive in the nearly apocalyptic Cybetronain scenery, which makes this a brilliant place to hide a weapons depot.

The Autobots even have it disguised. It's just one, small, damaged tower that managed to remain upright in the battle that previously pounded the area to a pulp. As Blackout approaches the target, the Caribbean blue biolights that seem to cover every inch of the tyton's frame go out, though he can't do much more than dim the energy feathers adoring his wings. It's because of that birdlike modification that he can get this close to his objective sites without alerting anyone because, to be fair, helicopters are extremely noisy. 

Blackout stays in the clouds until the last possible moment. Once he is directly above his target, the tyton suddenly clamps his wings in and dives in silence as lightning brightens the sky for a single moment. The thunder that results makes his armor vibrate, but no sound reaches the Decepticon's audios. The buzzing of the atmosphere is enough to nearly drive him to distraction, but he gains a fresh bloom of focus when the top of the tower comes into view, melting out of the gloom. 

He knows his job. Dual sonic canons activate and charge with a sharp hissing whine, blue-white energy lighting up the wide barrels in Blackout's forearms as he drops like a stone alongside the skyscraper. The skies open, stinging rains as cold as ice cascading down in great, icy curtains, but it matters little. The atmosphere here is surprisingly clean; the rain should only be a little acidic.

The ground is coming at him at a frightening pace, but the deaf mute holds his nerve. He will hit the support beams and be gone before anyone in the unfortunate place knows their fate is sealed. He has to be gone quickly, as there’s no telling what sort of weapons stockpile the Autobots are hiding in there.

That’s close enough. Steeling himself, Blackout opens his wings and braces hard against the crushing pull of gravity, yanking himself out of the dive mere meters above the cracked street. The tyton overlays the map he was given with what he is seeing in real time, picking out the first beam’s location and firing. 

::// o n e   a w a y  //::

Blue flames erupt behind him as Blackout throws himself into a hard bank, slingshotting around the base of the tower, cutting through the punishing rain like an axe passes through sand. Carmine optics slit in both effort and concentration; he is a very heavy mech to be flying heedless like this. There’s the second beam. 

Fire. 

::// t w o   a w a y. //::

He can’t keep the track he’s on; the turn is too sharp for him to make, and he’s heading straight for the fallen remains of some other destroyed ruin. Blackout changes his course and bullets straight upwards, momentum bleeding out the higher he goes until there is no more to spare. Drifting to a momentary halt, the Brigadier curves his back and drops again, righting himself into a more sedate, controlled descent. Dust and glass are already littering the charged atmosphere, adding to the chaos of rain, thunder, lightning, and explosions. The third and final pillar lights up in red across the deaf mute’s HUD. 

The blast shreds it in a violent display of power. 

::// t h r e e  a w a y . //::

Banking the opposite way, Blackout pumps his wings to gain as much speed as possible, augmenting his momentum as much as he can to flee the tower as it buckles. He can’t hear the cacophony of destruction he is leaving behind, but as he flies, Blackout ducks his helm to get a quick visual check of the target to confirm it’s collapse. 

::// o b j e c t i v e  r e a c h e d .   t h e   t o w e r   is   i m p l o  d i n g. //::

There’s a pause on the other end. ::// b l a c k o u t   w a i t  //::

::// w h a t //::

::// n e w   i n t e l   i s   c o m i n g   i n .   t a r g e t   i s   b o g u s . t a r g e t   i s   b o g u s . :://

Blackout scowls and tilts his head, glancing back again, optics blinking rapidly against the pounding rain and screaming gales. There’s no ordinance going up. ::// t h i s   m i s s i o n   w a s   c o n f i r m e d . ::// Did he just waste his time and energy blowing up and empty slagging building? 

::// c o n f i r m a t i o n   w a s   i n c o r r e c t ,   b r i g a d i e r. :://

A flash of teeth and Blackout pulls up, wings beating to keep him aloft as he turns. The skyscraper is gone, having collapsed under it’s own weight. ::// w h a t   t h e   s l a g   d i d   i   d r o p   o r d i n a n c e   o n? //::

::// i n f o r m a t i o n   n o w   s u g g e s t s   i t   m i g h t   h a v e   b e e n   a n   i n f i r m a r y. :://

The tyton huffs, optics widening a degree. There’s no sport in killing the already dying. ::// w h a t   a   w a s t e :://

::// b l a c k o u t //:: 

::// w h a t  //::

::// i n t e l   t h i n k s   i t   m i g h t   h a v e   b e e n   a   p e d i a t r i c   i n f i r m a r y. //::

His spark suddenly bottoms out and feels like it could stop at any second. Black dread bubbles up thick  like tar, closing his throat, choking him of any rational thought. 

He can’t breathe. They have to be wrong. They have to be wrong. 

The tyton scrambles, bolting back the way he came, flying as hard and fast as he can. There’s no way anyone in their right might would put a sparkle hospital in the middle of a warzone. The intel has to be bad. 

It isn’t a warzone anymore, is it? the black voice says, whispering only for Blackout to hear. He ignores it, flashing back towards ground zero as the sky splits with light. 

It’s brilliant. A perfect place to hide a refuge. The war machine has come and gone; the Decepticons have no reason to come back.

The rubble is spread out, now, encompassing a huge area. It’s an absolute disaster zone. Despite the rain and wind, smoke and dust billow into the air, whipped into a froth by the storm raging above him. Blackout pants hard, landing on a somewhat flat spot, carmine optics darting about to survey his surroundings. 

They have to be wrong. 

Please be wrong. 

He digs. Heavy claws throw the ruins about as though the shattered walls and thick steel supports weigh nothing. Killing adults is one thing, though the idea of bombing a hospital leaves a sour taste in the brigadier’s mouth. But the young? No. Blackout likes to believe that even the worst of them, a category he tends to include himself in, wouldn’t kill babies. 

We don’t kill babies. 

I don’t kill babies.

Frantically, he searches. Blackout looks for any sign of anything that had been living, desperate to find, perhaps, the shattered corpses of some manner of military personnel instead of nurses, medics, and patients. For several agonizing minutes, he doesn’t find anything at all. But then he does. 

The tyton jerks upright, yanking his hands back to his own chest as though he’d been electrocuted. 

::// b l a c k o u t,  y o u   h a v e   a u t o b o t  s   o  n   y o u r   s i x .   s m a l l   g r o u p ,   b u t    i    t  h i n k   y o u   s h o u l d   l e a v e. //::

The rain is punishing and cold, stinging his joints, seeping into gaps in his armor and eating at the soft insulation surrounding his wiring, but Blackout feels none of it. He doesn’t feel the biting wind or the pounding sleet, even as it burns his optics and cascades down his face. 

::// b l a c k o u t ? c o p y ?  g e t   o u t   o f   t h e r e ! //::

They weren’t wrong. The intel wasn’t wrong.

Blackout’s hands shake uncontrollably as he falls to his knees and reaches out into the hole he’d dug. Gently, every so gently, he slips a claw beneath the tiniest hand he’s ever seen and lifts it, searching for any signs of life. 

But there are none. 

The war machine did return. It sent you. 

Even his sobs are silent. The massive mech’s frame quakes as the wintry gales kick up, but he stays, holding the hand of someone whose life he never meant to take. There are so many things Blackout is willing to do in the name of war, but this he will never forgive himself for. 

A plasma bolt explodes in the rubble to his right, and the tyton jerks around. A squad of ten or so Autobots are weapons hot and coming for him, climbing the ruins. 

I didn’t mean to do this, he wants to cry. I didn’t mean it! Please help them. Please help me.

But the words won’t come out. A shot lands, striking him square in the chest, causing Blackout to stumble and nearly fall. Trembling, he scrubs his arm across his face and stands his ground, cannons charging with that fateful, horrible whine. The enemy stops and aims, laser sites crawling over the tyton’s frame. He pauses. 

No more death. Not today. 

Another plasma bolt slams into his shoulder and the tyton uses the momentum to turn and run, wings flaring to carry him away into the dark. 

[unicyclehippo]

the thing that brings me joy in the world is writing. the thing that brings me the most joy in writing is when there is a very cool character who is suave & handsome when standing still, who just Fucks Up on the reg

example:

‘Is everyone clear on the plan? Enter the building - Rosy, you’re headed left to the server room, Theo -‘

‘We’ve got it, Mac,’ Theo interrupts, rolling his eyes. ‘Need me to pop the window?’

‘Nah, I’ve got it.’ Mac stands slowly from their crouch, glances in through the window. The room is empty, as Mac had been sure it would be - they’ve been staking the place for two weeks and the workers routines haven’t shifted once. ‘Good luck, people. No heroics now - just stick to the plan.’

‘Got it.’

‘Got it.’

Mac nods. Manoeuvres the lock until it clicks open and the windows open without so much as a creak. Strange. Some Good Samaritan must have been oiling them every single day twice a day for two weeks for no discernible reason. They plant their hands on the window sill and push up into the window. Mac stops halfway in, arms shaking as they hold still.

‘Is that - is something caught on my leg?’ Mac hisses.

‘You’re caught on a nail!’

‘Fu - get me off it!’

‘Hold still-‘

‘Theo get me off the fucking nail right now -‘

‘I need you to stay calm,’ Theo hisses back.

‘I need both of you to be quiet!’ Rosy snaps. Her fingers fumble at the nail and the thick denim. Some twist of fate means that the nail is crooked and she has to work it off. She almost there when she hears an ‘ah fuck!’ and Mac topples forward into the room, crashing to the floor. The move tears their jeans on the nail with an ungodly rip louder than either Rosy or Theo had thought jeans could be.

‘This is still salvageable,’ they hear Mac croak. Mac stands, puts out a hand to steady themself. Fingers brush the bookcase next to them. Mac would never have guessed that a touch so gentle could cause such destruction but they cannot deny the evidence of their eyes when the movement sends of a cataclysmic level Rube Goldberg machine. First is the bookcase, which has been precariously and inexplicably stacked with weights. As first one shelf and then the next cracks and empties their heavy payloads to the shelf beneath, Mac freezes in place. The weights tumblr to the floor, breaking the floorboards. Nails squeal and pop from where they been set, which Mac had thought quite outside of the realm of possibility. Nails are hammered into boards and they stay there, Mac thinks, even as they watch one fly gracefully through the air toward the opposite wall, which has been lined with large glass jars in which all manner of preserved materials have been showcased.

‘Who owns this building?’ Mac wonders aloud.

The nail hits. The glass jar shatters and, because this feature wall is all about stacking jars not simply setting them out on shelves, the jars above begin to fall, destabilised, and crash to the floor. The jars below, in apparent solidarity, soon begin to topple as well.

As this happens on the right hand wall, the other end of the Rube Goldberg Machine of Imprombable and Impromptu Material tringles along happily. The bookcase that had finished collapsing is indeed shoddily built and each side of it collapses out. The left hand side, onto the wall, where it apparently stops. The right hand side, onto the desk. It hits a flipboard hard enough to propel a paperweight into the left hand side. The sound of crunching plaster is, at this time, simply accompaniment to the cacophony of glass.

Upon the desk, a stress ball rolls quietly to the chair where it falls. Drops to the floor, hits the underside of the desk. Messes with some things under there with incredible momentum for something that had barely been touched. Bounces with surprising energy into the rest of the space where it hits with astounding accuracy the light switch on the far wall.

Next to Mac, where the left hand side of the bookcase had hit the wall, there is a faint sizzling sound.

‘What the fuck,’ Mac says.

The stress ball - which must be reclassified as a bouncy ball now, or perhaps the single most sentient bouncy ball in existence - proceeds to catapult itself into the glass tank that lines the far wall.

‘Don’t do it,’ Mac says. They’re not ashamed to admit they’re begging.

The table groans.

‘No.’

It creaks.

‘Please don’t.’

It collapses. The glass tank falls. There is a sign Mac can now see above it, which had been hidden until this point by the coloured glass back of the tank, that reads BEWARE - VENEMOUS.

‘Venemous what?’ Mac asks—the sign? A god? Cruel fate?

From within the shattered remnants of the tank there is no sign of movement, and that doesn’t seem like such a good thing at the moment.

The sizzling to the left grows louder. The smell of smoke begins to fill the air. Mac turns carefully, one eye on the tank still, and they can see sparks and stuttering light from where the bookcase had apparently landed on and broken a cable of some kind or important wiring that has started to spit and build heat and now, abruptly, flames.

Mac nods. That seems about right.

[revthepunchbear]

The Guardian

The silence was deafening. Where once there would have been the sounds of a forest alive with life, now… There was nothing. Except for the breeze. Which was of no comfort at this moment. On its winds came the odor of war, death, the Blight, burning fumes of goblin machines defiling a once pure land. Sitting in a tree was the form of a twisted owl. Snow white feathers with gnarled twisting horns of bone jutting from it’s head. Wicked sharp talons wrapped about a branch, holding the creature in place. Inky black hues overlooked the landscape, taking their time to scout the area. After a moment, the owl alights from the tree, spreading it’s wings to glide down low to the ground. As it flew through the wartorn forest, the sound of rushing water grew louder and louder. Suddenly the tree line ended and the owl burst from the forest, swooping out over a vortex of water churning in a basin below. The creature took time to ride the currents of the air, searching the water almost as if looking for prey. This calm gliding wasn’t to last long though. With a zip, an arrow flew past the creature and off into the forest. Onyx orbs jerked to the shore to find the source, revealing a lone orc taking pot shots at the owl. Pulling wings and feet in tight, the owl made itself like a missile, dive bombing towards the attacker. Arrows kept flying, even grazing the creature as the orc belted out a cacophony of laughter. Even as an arrow embedded itself in the owl’s left shoulder, it made no cries. Then, just before it would impact upon the orc, a shift occurred. No more was the owl but now the lithe and svelte form of a leather-clad kaldorei woman. Ghostly white hair whipped and trailed in the air behind her, a stark contrast to the black leathers she wore. Clawed fingers came up from her side to savagely rip at the orc man’s face as she barreled into him. The momentum and weight of her dive were enough to knock him to the ground as those clawed fingers began to lash with speed and ferocity.

Inky black hues stared with rage at the man, the moonlight reflected in them as Reveria brutally pummeled her foe. She didn’t have the advantage long though, the orc soon gave her a swift punch to the chest which knocked the wind right from her. Staggered, the orc had his chance to bellow and throw her down on her back, climbing atop her. He began to twist the arrow in her left shoulder causing her to howl in pain. A hand lashed out to pull her mask down, and he began to chortle with delight seeing such a beautiful face. Rev had no idea what he was saying in orchish but she wasn’t about to let him have his way with her. With a snarl of hatred, she wrapped her arms about the man’s neck, screaming through the pain before her fanged teeth found his throat. She clamped down and began to vice into his throat, kicking up with her feet to try and bowl him over. That would have worked if they hadn’t already been at the edge of the basin. They tumbled over the edge as her teeth broke the surface of his skin and the beast within began to viciously tear at his throat. They plummeted towards the water, the sound of a screaming orc and snarling kaldorei echoing off the cliffs. With an enormous splash, the pair fell into the water which soon sucked the under and swirled them away.

Reveria never let go, the taste of blood in her mouth fueling her rage and desire to kill. As they were buffeted by the current, the orc suddenly went limp. At almost the same time, the pair were deposited unceremoniously onto a ledge in an underground cavern. With a punch and a final snarl, Reveria ripped her teeth from the man’s throat, tearing it out completely. His already lifeless form sat there and bled as she huffed heaving breaths. A clawed hand shot out and dug in his throat, pulling a pool of blood out that she wiped across her face with a tremble of delight. Finally, she looked around with those inky hues, a sigh of relief leaving her. By some miracle, she’d ended up right where she wanted to be.

She stood, giving the corpse of the orc a solid kick before spitting on it. Moving to follow a passage deeper into the cavern, Reveria let her clawed fingers trail along the moss-covered walls. Already memories were flooding back to her of times she had been here. Memories of Faendris. Her Shan’do. She had no idea where he was now but she could feel that he wasn’t here. An image of herself shivering, naked, sitting on the stone floor as she tried desperately to call moss to her to form clothes came to mind. Another image, a gateway to the dream. The Nightmare. Her min’da. Tears. Yet happiness lingered too. Stars falling from the cavern roof, dancing of crimson and azure flame mixed with shadows and violet. The astral plane.

The reverie was broken though as she came to the place she was seeking. The entire reason she’d risked coming to Darkshore in the first place. Within the cavern was an alcove. Which didn’t mean much because it was huge in and of itself. In the center was a bowl with ash, not much else in the area aside from a bundle of herbs next to the bowl. Another sigh of relief as she knelt before the bowl taking up the herbs in a clawed hand and bringing them to her nose. Not the freshest but they would still work. Her lighter came out and lit the bundle aflame as she set it in the bowl. Inhaling deeply, the familiar smoke filled her with a sense of peace. Suddenly an ethereal roar could be heard as if a great beast had woken and was bellowing it’s displeasure. The sound of rumbling thunder was heard, the roar growing ever louder until… He was there.

Rev slowly looked up into the face of the beast she had summoned, a fanged grin growing wide on her lips. Staring back at her was an impossibly huge bear, it’s wet nose wiggling as it sniffed at her. The two stared at one another for a time, almost as if challenging each other. The massive brown bear finally leaped at Rev, bowling her over with soft growls. The druid began to giggle as the beasts tongue lashed out, licking all over her face. “Uschi! Stop it you goofball! Gross!” There wasn’t much she could do other than flail around and hope the bear stopped, which, after a time he did. Uschi pulled back, canting his head as he stared at Rev’s stomach before nudging it over and over. “What the fuck Uschi! Stop being weird!” The kaldorei finally wiggled her way free, leaping to her feet. Her arms came out and wrapped around the great bear's neck and she laid her head to his a moment.

“Uschi… I need you. I’m sorry it’s been so long since I’ve been back. I shouldn’t have left you.” The bear warbled a soft tone, nuzzling against her face as if to say ‘It’s alright, I understand.’ Rev pulled her head back, looking with her inky hues into the vibrant emerald of Uschi’s. “I’m going to bring you with me Uschi. It’s not safe for you here anymore. It’s not safe for me. And… -He- isn’t here anymore. Will you come with me? Will you help me? Help me sate my cravings? Help keep me… Myself? Show me to the dream more often?” The bear didn’t even hesitate before licking her several times, front arms coming out to snag her up in a bear hug as he sat back on his hindquarters. “Oof.” Was all she could manage as she was squeezed tight against the soft fur of her spirit beast. Her own arms went around him, well, more like just… Laid against him. He was far too huge for her to even attempt to wrap him up. After a time, the bear set her down and looked at her, almost solemnly.

His paw came up to rest against her face, an almost sorrowful tone rumbling out from the creature. Rev fought off tears and looked away, down, anywhere but at Uschi. “I know… I’m not the same. It’s why I need you… I died Uschi. I thought I could handle things on my own and… I couldn’t.” Her gaze wandered back up to the great bear’s and she gently pressed a kiss to his wet nose. “I’m still me. Just… Different. I promise.” Clawed fingers ran through the thick fur of Uschi’s face, the bear practically moaning with delight as her scratches got all the right spots. As they came to a stop she gazed into her guardian’s eyes. “It’s time.” The bear snorted and pressed his nose to her forehead before standing back up on all fours.

Reveria limbered herself up, hopping in place and shaking her hands to loosen them up. Finally, she stood still before the great bear, bowing her head to the beast. He returned the gesture before lunging forward a step. He began to bellow a roar that might have deafened anyone else but Reveria was ready. She lunged herself forward as well, screaming back at Uschi. Slowly as the two raged at each other, Reveria began to lift into the air, and Uschi began to grow immaterial. Swirls of green energy flowed from the great bear to the druid, somehow neither one running out of breath to continue their shows of might. Her guardian grew fainter and fainter with each passing moment until with a final burst of emerald energy, he vanished completely. Reveria fell from the air, landing gracefully in a squat on the floor with her eyes closed.

Standing slowly, flexing as she did, the druid could feel the might of her guardian within her, his ethereal shadow forming around her like an avatar until she opened her jet black hues. ‘It’s done Uschi. You’ll be safe. I promise.’ She thought to herself. Now began the long journey back to Dead Sun, the first step… leaving this cavern and escaping from Horde territory. With a crack of her neck, Reveria set off, feeling safer already with Uschi in tow.

[postedbygaslight]

You’ll Be the One to Turn - Part 25: Cacophony

...

The shuttle ramp lowers with a hiss of steam as Kylo descends to the landing platform. From this vantage, there’s little to no visibility, and the darkness is thick and menacing. The orange of the smog clouds casts everything in a dim, burnt hue, and a following wind whips across the airdrome tower. He can see the floodlights of the other transports cutting hazy lines of bluish light into the ruins below. The stormtroopers are already filing down the ramps and staircases, their plastene armor plates clacking as they keep step as they’ve been trained.

He can sense her. She’s close. And as he reaches out to find her, he’s suddenly shaken by dull cracking sound, followed by a hollow boom. The terminal. Right down there. He doesn’t wait for the lift. He doesn’t go down the stairs. He walks without breaking stride to the edge of the platform, and drops to the surface, dulling the impact of the drop with the Force. Even so, he feels the pinch scream through his shins and the throb in his joints as he sets off at a run into the wrecked and upturned streets.

***

The world is still on its end and her ears are still ringing as Rey staggers to her feet. The air is thick with concrete dust and smoke, and she sputters a few breaths before being racked with coughs. The incandescent blaze of her saber illuminates the smoke billows and lights her way as she stumbles to the top of the concourse stairs.

She thinks a moment of Finn and the others, trapped below, but it’s a thought that is swiftly dashed from her mind as the Force shrieks its warning through her and she leaps blindly to one side. She hasn’t even seen it yet, but she knows the droid is on her, a bringing down a shock baton and swinging a vibro-blade. She swings her saber around, its electric whine trailing behind its slash of deadly light, meeting the baton, batting it aside, and she dodges backward, parrying the droid’s thrusting blade at the last possible moment.

She can sense the machine now in its entirety, and she anticipates its next attack, ducking under its arm and bringing the saber in an arcing overhand cut, severing the droid’s arm at the elbow. She spins into her follow-through and cuts across the droid’s waist with a one-handed slash, closing her empty fist and not even turning to watch as the machine’s chassis snaps under the Force like a hollow cylinder in a pressure chamber.

Before she can process what’s happening, another droid is on her and she’s falling back between the cement blocks that litter the terminal floor. Rey brings her saber back level, but suddenly senses another droid approaching from her left. She dashes to right, hurtling a cement shard at the advancing droid, which it bats away without breaking its stride.

Just as she’s about to turn and face her twin opponents, the ground beside her blasts apart and she’s thrown sidelong into a concrete surface. Gasping for breath, she pulls herself up, using the wall for balance, and is only barely able to jump backward as a huge plume of flame bursts through the smoke and haze. She dives forward, avoiding the flames, bringing her saber around, slicing right through the droid’s knee joint, and it staggers forward, still blasting the ground with its flamethrower. In one motion, she tucks into a roll, comes to her feet, and stabs the saber through the back of the droid’s head.

But the other droid has only been half a step away, and she flings it backward with a thought. The droid fires rockets to counter the Force push and she cuts it off abruptly, causing the droid to slam forward at tremendous speed, right into Rey’s waiting blade, and the smell of melted durasteel curls through the air as the machine is bisected at the chest.

She’s only just beginning to understand that there are more droids, and they’re closing in. And her chest is heaving, and her muscles ache, and her ears are still ringing, and the air is thick with black smoke, fires now raging all around. Which is why she thinks she’s unable to anticipate the attack that comes next. Her senses have been dulled by exhaustion, confusion, smoke inhalation. It’s only sheer luck that allows her to bring her saber up to bash aside the incoming thrust.

When her saber impacts the other weapon, the unmistakable clashing of kyber plasma on kyber plasma echoes through the high-ceilinged chamber. And as she’s falling backward, and feels the presence of at least three more droids closing in, she sees the hulking figure above her. Sees, but cannot sense. Dark gray and glinting with licks of flame, her bright crimson lightsaber howling through the air as she advances through the smoke, blank eyes set in a dark mask, blazing violet.

***

Almost there, he thinks, racing through the blackness and wreckage, shoving barriers aside with the Force. He can hear blaster fire now, off in the distance, and shouts of fighting blocks and blocks to the north. But that doesn’t matter. His troops don’t matter. The war doesn’t matter. And he knows that if his own men were to stand in his way, he’d kill every last one of them without a thought.

There’s pain surging through him. Pain and panic. And it’s not his. He vaults over a twisted pile of concrete and rebar, his heart bashing against his ribs as he ignites his lightsaber and sprints even faster, the crackle of his blade trailing embers behind him as he rushes into the dark.

***

It’s like fighting a ghost. Or the wind. But that’s not something she can focus on, because she’s busy staying alive.

The hunter is relentless, and each smash of her saber as Rey strains to fend off the assault feels bone-shattering. All the while, retreating back and back, she’s flailing around with the Force, wildly lashing out to keep the battle droids at bay. The hunter is enormous, and she moves so quickly and with such skill that Rey is barely able to bring her blade around for each strike. And she’s beginning to realize just how much she’s relied on the Force to help her overcome her opponents, even before she awoke to her powers. Now it’s as though she’s blind, and it’s a bizarre and terrifying experience, being able to see this nightmare apparition right in front of her while sensing nothing of her in the Living Force.

Rey can sense the outer wall of the terminal is coming up behind her. She maneuvers toward it, hoping to keep the droids away from her flank, and the hunter slices downward to block her retreat. Rey ducks under the blow, the red plasma singing her wrappings as they flow behind her, and she rolls to an unbalanced crouch inches away from a column of fire. She whips around, unused to being unaware of her enemy’s position, and sees the hunter bearing down on her. She feints with her saber, dips to the side, and thrusts her hand out, pushing the hunter into the air.

The hunter’s armor fires thrusters to keep her aloft, and three small devices eject from her arm guards, impacting the ground. And all at once, the world goes numb as the thudding percussion of sonic blasts batter her in place, and she has only time enough for her vision to clear as the hunter’s spiked boot smashes into her chest, knocking her on her back.

There’s no purchase to be found for breath. And she’s dropped her lightsaber. And she can’t sense the droids anymore, but it hardly matters. Because the violet eyes of the hunter are above her and closing in, the droning hum of her blade cutting down, suffocating other sounds with promises of the void. And Rey is reaching for her saber, calling to it, knowing it’s too late, as a blur of black and red streaks across her vision and the hunter is sent sprawling out of sight.

***

The droids had proven short work, but he’s never seen anything like this creature before. As he enters the terminal, he sees, through the pitch of smoke and steam, a towering armored woman, masked and cowled, bearing a lightsaber. And she’s about to kill Rey.

He summons what breath he has left in his aching lungs and flings himself at the hunter, crashing into her side, and bringing his blade in where the armor segments. But rather than feel the familiar sink of plasma into flesh, a strange vibration blasts out from the armor, and, as he and the hunter are sent tumbling into the fiery ruin, his saber shorts out and the blade retracts.

He scrambles to his feet, staggering to the side as he strains to find breath. He clicks his saber’s ignition switch. Nothing. He swings around, looking for the hunter. She’s nowhere to be seen. And he can’t sense her movements. He can’t sense anything of her at all. He can sense Rey, somewhere on the other side of the fire, and he turns his attention that way.

And the hunter is on him, her saber cutting a ghastly wail through the air, burning the color of fire and blood. He tries to dodge, but he’s at the limits of exhaustion, and the saber catches him, glancing off the back of his hand as he leaps to safety. Tumbling over, he throws off his smoking glove and presses the ignition switch on his saber again. Nothing. Knowing there are only seconds to spare, he screams his command through the Force to the crystal in his lightsaber, and, in a burst of fear and pain, the blade erupts from the emitter, quillions blasting out to form the cross guard.

Kylo lurches to his feet, only to be met by the ground blowing apart beneath him, and he staggers back, and hears the sharp hiss of thrusters as an armored fist smashes him across the face. He knows the lightsaber is coming. But not the direction. As he brings his saber up to meet it, he realizes, too late, that he’s guessed wrong, and the thrust coming toward his neck is going to strike. But before it can happen, he feels a tremor speeding through the Force and he leans back just enough so that when the cement slab slams into the hunter’s side, he avoids being hit by less than an inch.

Rey is standing there, her silhouette backed by a tower of flame, the blue of her lightsaber casting a ghostly aura around her in the dust and smoke.

***

She’s not sure how she isn’t dead. As she struggles to stand, she casts about for some understanding.

Ben.

He’s somewhere on the other side of the flames, and he’s exhausted and confused. Rey calls her lightsaber to her and ignites the blade, setting off around the perimeter of the fire to find a way around. The smoke is burning her lungs. She’s bruised and bleeding and her head is pounding. But she’s got to find him before the hunter gets to him.

The fires are raging through the terminal, and the heat is weighing on her as she breaks into a run. She can sense him. She only needs to—

She feels a sudden spike of panic in the Force and, almost instinctively, hurls a huge cement slab through the flames, the mass of it clearing a path that she follows behind. She hears the smack of concrete on metal, and a howl of pain as the hunter’s massive form is thrown against the outer wall of the terminal. Ben is standing in almost the exact place she’d just flung the stone, and he turns his head, meeting her eyes. He’s like a shadow cut away from the firelight, and his saber ripples and sparks, casting his face in a mesmerizing blend of surging reds.

They stand across from each other a moment before the hunter rejoins them in the circle of stone and flame. Her armor is dented and sparking. Her mask is cracked. The red-violet cloth of her tunic is singed and smoking at the elbows. Rey reaches out to Ben through their bond and her heart slows, and she feels his beating in time to match it, and a calm settles in her mind as she brings her saber back to a fighting stance. She hears Ben’s saber cut its sparking hum as he twirls it once and brings it up in front of him, blade straight out and aimed at their enemy.

The hunter regards them warily. She takes her saber and secures it to her hip before crossing her arms, hands on her belt. In one fluid movement, she slashes outward with both arms, igniting a red saber with each. Rey’s never seen a fighter like this before. And as the hunter drops into a two weapon stance, she can feel a keening in the Force, and she knows exactly how Ben is going to move and when he’s going to do it. And more than that, she can influence that movement, just as she can feel his subtle influences on her. Just as it seems the circling dance the hunter has engaged with them will explode again into a flurry of combat, the hunter rushes toward them, but not at them, Rey realizes.

And that’s when she sees the thermal detonators flying out from the hunter’s armor as the hunter leaps into the air, sheathing the sabers. Her thrusters activate, and, smashing through the boarded windows, she disappears into the night. The blinking detonators hit the ground, and, as though they are of one mind and body, she and Ben both use the Force to throw the lethal bombs into the air, and they explode in a shower of shrapnel and fire above them.

Rey sheathes her saber and clips it to her belt and she turns to see Ben has done the same. She meets his eyes and there are a thousand things she wants to say. But as he opens his mouth to speak, she closes the distance between them and pulls him down into a kiss so driven and fierce she swears she’s going to eat him alive.

[bunchamunchafaunus]

Chaos in Ventus [Part 2]

“Giulia help us all...” 

Screams, the roaring of countless flames, quiet paced breathing. A loud sound tearing through the burning atmosphere. 

The cacophony of screams from the civilians of Ventus were immediately drowned out, quickly being replaced as they fell silent in a split second. This sound demanded the attention of all. It was bloodcurdling, and oh so familiar. As it should be to whom live in Remnant.

Nevermore. Not one, but dozens, hundreds even. Not just them, Griffons too.

Then the cries of the winged beasts were joined by others. Roaring, howling, growling, it was impossible to tell just what was coming alongside the flying monsters at the moment.

Finally coming to end, the screams began again in the aftershock of what had just been heard.

“Drone R, deploy.” 

A soft puff of air could be heard, then an ever so gentle hum just barely sounding from beneath the horrified shouting of the people and the crackling roars of the fires tearing through the Island Kingdom.

A short second later, a beep could be heard, then multiple video windows came into view. One central window that showed a first person view, as in the previous playback, and four others. The main view displaying a wide road descent from the building it had left a moment earlier, and the mass of buildings below. 

The other four, wide angle shots showing the surroundings. The top, left, and right windows showing the surrounding multitude of buildings in each direction. Fires, smoke pillars rising to the darkened sky, flashes of light with thunderous bangs following shortly after. The bottom window showed the Marble structure behind the main view.

The main footage panned to it’s two sides, scanning over the countless burning flames, the smoke pillars connecting to the darkened sky above, a couple explosions even. Pausing every now and then to focus to areas of quick flashes of light that were followed by loud booms. Though they weren’t as loud as the screams of countless victims or the Grimm creatures closing in

As the view scanned the surroundings, the voice from before spoke up

“Launch Howl”

Across the top of the main view, red text appeared across it, blinking a message. 

[ WEAPON CASE LAUNCH: 5 ]

The five quickly turning to four, three, two, one... The red text was replaced, now green.

[ DESTINATION REACHED: 5 ] 

Immediately after the red text was replaced with green and a new countdown began, the main view began rushing down the descent, the four others moving with it. About half way down by the time the countdown ended. A tall angular case impacted with the ground at the bottom, embedding itself into the cement surprisingly neatly. With the view closing in on it, the last of the distance was crossed and an armored hand reached to it. The front opening automatically as the hand neared it, revealing a weapon within. 

Shining silver sheath disappearing behind black cloth material, a basic cross-guard handle with two clear gems embedded, one on each side of the guard. Retrieving the weapon from the case, the hand brought it back, camera following, and lowered it to an armored hip. Holding it in place as another hand came to view, pressing at a well blended button in the metal suit before both hands moved away, leaving the sheathed blade in place.

Turning forward again, the filming man took into a jog down the street without a second of hesitation. 

The four extra camera views displayed the destruction occurring across the area. A few brief sights of bodies, injured people being helped by those around them, others working their way away from the mountain which had been descended a moment earlier. A few flashes of armor here and there among those dead, injured, and others running around with weapons armed.

Every now and then the main view would turn aside, looking to armored corpses and injured civilians that were along the main road. Turning from their main path to stop by an injured man. Transparent text came across the main view, asking them what had happened. To which he received an answer which he feared.

“I-I don’t know!” A cough. “One second everything was fine, the next there was a bang from the Manor and soldiers started drawing their weapons and cutting others down. Everyone was shocked by it!”

The text disappeared before reappearing with a new question for the injured person. ‘Can you move?’, to which the civilian nodded as they coughed.

They helped the man stand from their seated position on the ground, making sure they would look to them for a moment so they could see one last message. An image of a bridge. Flat, a few archways supporting the earliest and furthest portions of it. Two spires in the shaped of curved horned equine heads with thick wires connecting to the mid section from each end.

The sight of it was instantly familiar to the injured man, nodding his head as he understood the meaning. Informing he’d let others know while he’s on his way before beginning down the road.

Just a second later, so did the main view, quickly rushing from person to person that seemed like they could be helped. Each time showing the image of the bridge, and each time being understood despite the wordless exchanges. A few minutes passing as person by person was checked on and sent on their way. A dozen of the civilians along the main road sent to what would hopefully be safety.

So many more could be seen and heard along the road, in the side view cameras, it was going to take too long to get all of them on the right path. the main view came to a stop for a minute at least. Thinking likely.

“Drone R, evacuation order, Chroma Bridge.”

As the voice suddenly spoke up, text on the main view appeared as he ordered the evacuation, copying his spoken destination and beginning to blink for a few seconds. As it blinked, the view looked up to a small circular black machine with four sections branching off with propellers spinning at high speeds. The text turned green, then changed to display a new message.

[ EVACUATION ORDER PLAYING ]

A loud, robotic, monotone female voice began playing from the drone above. 

“Citizens of Ventus, please make your way to Chroma Bridge immediately.”

The message repeated a few seconds after it finished the first time. The view looking forward again as it played the second time. Beginning down the road once more.

> FFWD

Like before, the footage speeds up. The main view making twists and turns here and there as it went person to person along the main road. The four extra views watching the surroundings as more and more people began moving from hiding spots towards either the main road, or toward the same direction that the main camera was heading.

Every now and then experiencing quick glances upward, looking to the black skies above. The smoke from the various fires making it worse and worse as time went on. This went on for a bit before suddenly the camera came to a stop, a black mass having plummeted down before it, laying immobile on the ground.

> PLAY

The evacuation order was still playing from above, repeating again and again with five seconds between each replay. Roaring flames could be heard in multiple directions, more gunshots, a sudden explosion in the distance. But the clearest sound was a low angry grumbling from the black mass in view.

As it began to shift, a blade quickly came into view on the main camera. Long, thin, shining gently with the light of a nearby flame. Over the next few seconds, metal slowly shifted and the blade went from a forward hold to an angled point towards the mass. 

The black now joined by white exoskeletal plates with red markings across them. A Grimm,  large as it got to it’s feet and got an idea of it’s surroundings. Turning it’s head to look with it’s glowing yellow eyes to the armored individual the camera showed the view from. It took one step closer, growling a little before beginning to open it’s mouth to roar. Yet it didn’t get the chance.

Within a second the camera was right up to the dark beast, looking to it’s bone face, the blade now embedded i the creature through it’s mouth. The yellow glow fading to darkness a few seconds later before the Grimm being began to disperse, as they all did when killed.

Swiftly the blade was withdrawn from the beast, untainted and still shining with the gentle light provided. Lowered and held aside, out of the camera’s view as it began moving again. Passing the dead beast and now running down the road. It was difficult to see with so much smoke, and the various dark creatures beginning to fall from the sky, but there was a slight view of shinning metal in the distance. A little closer than that was the sight of a mass of countless individuals. 

To the top window, it was a bit clearer that this mass was civilians. Countless people headed toward the bridge, and countless more beginning past the support pillars and across. A few dozen of them being armored individuals, some closer than others, some with weapons drawn and fighting off various creatures of Grimm. 

Some more of which came crashing down in the camera’s path again. Though it didn’t stop, it continued forward. Metal swinging across the screen now and then as it closed in on one Grimm then another. Each time slicing through the dark monsters and coming out shining bright. A few times the camera would lower, others it would spin, but it always fixed itself forward to the bridge again. 

Dozens of Grimm came into view of the camera before being passed by seconds later, not once slowing as it drew closer and closer to it’s suspected goal. Only once it was a few feet from the soldiers guarding the crowd would it’s movement finally slow down to a stop. Text appearing across the main view as a few of the soldiers stepped up in front of it.

‘NeverCondor inbound. Draw the far side of the bridge and get ready.’ The message read. 

The soldiers nodding before relaying the message vocally, one of them pushing through the crowd toward the bunch of civilians currently crossing. While the main view turned away from the crowd, the top window still looked out over the bride, allowing the one soldier to just barely be seen moving through the crowd and stopping them before they could get across, instead sending them back. Once sure the group was going so, they continued across the bridge and off to the side.

All the while, Grimm after Grimm came crashing down or running out to the main street and rushing the main camera of the footage. Ursai, a few Beowolves, Boartusks and Creeps galore. Many that approached were cut down quickly by the one who’s view the camera shared. Each one dissolving to leave nothing behind.

This kept on for a few minutes, every now and then having a Nevermore fly down across one of the four extra views. Other times a Griffon or two. Every now and then the growls and roars of the negativity-hungry monsters being joined by a shriek from some civilian, or perhaps multiple, in fear. Rightful fear.

Every now and then the main view would turn skyward, other times seaward, looking for something. It wasn’t clear exactly what, but something.

A something that finally came, but only as sound at first. Some sort of corded instrument, clapping, it sounded distant, but it drew closer. Drums and a cheer adding to the sound as it boomed out and ruling over the roars of flames, the explosions, and all the gunshots. The cheer repeating once over, twice, three times, and finally a fourth, loud over head.

The main camera turned skyward to watch as a darkened sky was suddenly pierced by a bright white and silver metal. A large, long ship forcing it’s way through the thick cloud of smoke that hung over Ventus, and within a second of the object forcing through, it became clear it was an airship.

The music continued, echoing out loud and clear from the ship as a feminine voice began singing.

“You know there’s something that’s hidden within

     When you close your eyes, you can’t help but to think

Tell you the truth, I don’t know what to say

     But, we have no home, no real place to stay~!”

As the second line went on, multiple figures descended from the ship, all tall red haired men, each one wielding a long, curved blade in both hands. Six of them, each glowing gently with a light green hue, just faintly visible over their forms. 

In an instant, the six began rushing from Grimm to Grimm, killing any that came toward the group. So few of them compared to the two dozen soldiers that were already there, yet they were able to keep up. In fact, their movements were faster than the armor clad soldiers. Much faster. Thanks to them, the knights were able to turn their focus to calming the civilians behind them and telling of what was to happen.

The main view focused to the ship above caught two things as the song went into it’s next verse. 

One, a smaller ship flying off from over the top of the larger one. Flying a short distance away before circling back towards the bridge right as the opposite half began to rise, making room for what was essentially a shuttle ship to come to a stop where the bridge once was. 

The other thing caught, not only by the camera but everyone in the vicinity, was a series of explosions and a bright blue light. Something fired on the ship now hovering over head, yet it took no damage. It soon fired back, multiple explosions of it’s own sounding off as streaks of light shot across the gloomy sky. 

The right side view watching the shots fly. Soaring over land, across the ocean, and crashing into sea-bound ships. 

Not just any ships though, they were battleships. Two were lit ablaze, two more now visible within the new light provided. The rest of the shots missed, as was evident from the water rising in momentary pillars beyond the four. Two more shots fired off, flying to the air-bound ship and being met with that blue light again, yet it didn’t fire back.

The top camera began turning, rising up to look past nigh-invisible propellers and over the ship, just barely allowing a sudden bolt of lightning to be caught on the video. Right side view showing the bolt shoot towards the four ships in the water, piercing one of the flaming ones before stopping for a moment. Starting up again the next, jumping to the nearest undamaged ship with an explosion following it’s impact.

“Sorry we took so long!” A sudden voice spoke up, just barely audible. Central view turning itself down to look forward once more where a redheaded man now stood. Clad in leathers, some kind of cloak, and the two curved blades like the others. The outlining box from earlier with an extended line showed again, this time connected to the name ‘Maho Agna’.

“At least you got the distress call!”

The voice from before, from the one who’s view was being recorded.

“A good thing we did too, shit’s really hit the fan huh!?”

A rise and fall in the view suggested nodding.

“Let’s get these people onto the NeverCondor and get the hell out of here!”

“Don’t need to tell me twice!”

The song overhead was in full swing now, the cheering from before echoing out once more, but with some lyrics in between.

“All I wanted

     Rain fallin’

All I needed

     Rain fallin’ “

Almost as if a command to the weather itself, something happened that was new to Ventus. 

Rainfall. Not snow, as was the usual with the northern climate most of the island kingdom experienced, but rain. A heavy downpour even. It almost drowned out the sound of the shuttle at the bridge as it began moving again. Top camera turning down once more to watch as it flew forward, out from the bridge before circling to the left again. Disappearing off the one view into the left cam where it could be seen circling around again, this time to rush up over the airship.

The evacuation had begun.

The four camera angles caught everything that was happening off the main view. The shuttle launching from over the airship above to descend to pick up more people. An ever so slowly dwindling crowd of survivors. The canon fire being traded between the two weaponize ships. Various cracks of lightning jumping across the water bound battleships. The seemingly endless horde of Grimm flooding toward the bridge.

Central view was occupied, now dashing from one beast to another, the sword from before swinging, stabbing, cutting down beast after beast. A few times seeming to even grow in size and length, requiring two hands to the handle and more force behind the attacks. Taking split seconds after every couple of the monsters to turn to the crowd an assess the situation.

The upbeat music blasting out all the while over the sound of the downpour and all the various chaotic battling occurring. Though it seemed it was coming to an end, as the music, while still going strong, was beginning to calm. One last time the words rang out across the kingdom.

“All I wanted

    Rain fallin’

All I needed

    Rain fallin’ “

Right as the last word was sung, the music died off. For a moment, chaos was all anyone could hear. The heavy rain crashing down on the surroundings, people screaming, monsters roaring, metal clanging, the odd explosions of canon fire here and there and the cracks of lightning that followed off in the distance. 

For this moment, it was all too clear. This was real. This was happening. Ventus, a Kingdom so plagued by unstable rule, was falling apart.

The grim reality was suddenly interrupted by new music. Chimes sounding out in a slow, unfitting peaceful tone at first. Slowly turning to a melody as the singing voice from before began again, yet this time in an odd tongue. Where once there was a faint green glow over the six fighters from the ship above, there was now a gentle purple around the creatures of Grimm. Hundreds, thousands of them now outlined by such a gentle glow.

With the change in musical sped and tone, the six weren’t moving as fast as before, but neither were the countless Grimm. It wasn’t much of a difference in their movement, but it was noticeable. Allowing those still fighting off the Grimm to have more ease moving from one to another to eliminate them. Even as the singing changed to a gentle rising and falling single note, this change stayed.

Now the musical chimes were replaced with a drum and chord, the singing beginning again. The tone now with more force behind it, slightly faster, the purple glow ‘round the beasts staying, and a new, warm red around the six from the ship. Their attacks against the beasts suddenly carving larger gaps in them, more easily finding purchase in their bodies.

Such didn’t last as long though, the vocals stopping entirely while the effect lingered. The drums becoming higher, beating faster, a whistle, some sort of technical sound, another cord, a single chime. The pace was faster now, more up-beat and energetic. Yet the voice still calm and graceful, singing it’s song and bringing a new glow to the six warriors. Green like before, yet dark, speeding up their movements only slightly as everything else returned to normal.

Even shorter did this last, once again the music changed, the same as last shift, but with much more energy to it. Faster and faster it got, adding more instrumental noise to the mixture. When the voice returned, it almost seemed too slow and calming for such active music. Drawing out it’s words, and once again changing what lights surrounded some of the nearby beings. 

Leaving the low green where it was, but having the purple from before return. Both the increased speed for the six from the ship and the slowed movements of the Grimm that were everywhere.

Once more the audio changed, seemingly peaking in it’s pace and energy as all the previous instruments sounded off in a beautiful harmony that would get anyone’s energy rising when they heard it. Even still the voice was filled with grace. Working this time to brighten the glow surrounding the six and the horde. Seemingly making it’s effects even stronger, as those with the green grew faster while the Grimm grew slower.

It seemed impossible, but the music picked up yet again, even more being added to it. Even the singing voice beginning to pick up it’s pace to match more. With the change, the purple around the countless monstrosities died off, only leaving he green around those from the airship. However it was now joined by the earlier red, this time solely around their weapons instead of their entire forms.

Quickly they dashed from beast to beast, carving each one with ease. Some in two, others decapitated, some flying ones even getting wings removed. But just as each section of this song that came before, this one began to end and change. This time slowing down and taking a more somber pace, while still being full of energy.

A glance back as this began showed to the main camera that the crowd had shrunk significantly, the last of the current load filing into the shuttle before the doors closed to take them to the Airship over head. Turning back to the endless fight, it was clear now that this would stay for at least a little bit. The six still with the green about them, but now in it’s darker shade with less of a boost to their movements, the red acting the same. 

They had much less to defend now with so much of the crowd gone, but at the same time it seemed there were so much more Grimm. Not even a single second of break being allowed to any of those fighting the beasts as they kept rushing in almost endlessly.

The music above began to slow and calm, as did the singing. With the dwindling song, the glow ‘round the six from the ship came to an end. An almost sad, slow tone now taken by the audio playing from the ship as the chaos surrounding the last of the civilians and the soldiers protecting them forced itself to be heard once again. Only interrupted every few seconds by a single chime of varying notes.

In the central camera, the sword was enlarged, being swung to cut into an Ursa and sever a leg from it’s form. Being brought down quickly after, now in it’s thinner form again, to stab into the head of the beast as it dropped. Just as it sunk into the head, however, a blur rushed past the view of the camera.

A second passed, screams sounding out behind the camera before it would turn in realization of what had gotten by. Some of the small crowd of civilians that had yet to be evacuated had scattered, running to the edges of the bridge, others into the small post that held the controls for the current side. But two were pinned beneath the large, spiked form of a Beowolf. An Alpha who’s claws and muzzle were drenched red.

Head rising to the side an snarling at some of the other, horrified people around it.

The music now quiet, having ended a second before, the sounds of war filled the footage once more. Only with a series of metal foot falls now accompanying it as the first person perspective closed in on the Beowolf. Blade thrusting forward, sinking into the creature’s back, clearly harming it, as it gave off a howl in response. But it’s movements didn’t seem hindered in anyway, quickly bringing an arm back to hit the person capturing such footage. The view recoiling from it, turned aside and rushing back. Impacting with the ground and, for a split second, experiencing static.

Clearing up, the view quickly fixed itself back to the Beowolf on the bridge that had moved to it’s next victim. Tearing into the flesh of a man that had run to the edge of the bridge, unable to run elsewhere.

Almost to time passed between the footage clearing and it moving for the beast once more. Tackling it this time, off the fresh corpse and to the edge of the bridge itself. The creature growling again like before, harmed in some way. A glance down from the camera revealing that the blade had been pushed up the side of the Beowolf. 

Metal clad hand quickly took hold of the handle, pulling it up. Cutting further across the beasts, form, it clawed at the individual filming. Sparks flying off across the pavement due to the contact. Still, the hand pulled again, nearly severing half the beast’s midsection. It’s retaliating attacks easing a little, though still trying.

At last the bade was pulled free from the dark beast, rising to strike down through it’s chest now. Hands now tugging it down, closer to the filming knight’s own form, towards the previously made cut. By the time the two intersected, the foul creature finally seemed to lose all it’s energy. Falling limp below them.

The camera was too focused on the beast below that it didn’t catch the sight of the shuttle coming to a stop at the end of the half of the bridge again. It took the call of a name from the voice that spoke before.

“Umbir!” They called out.

Rising from the dissolving dark creature, the view focused in the direction of the call, watching as the last few people boarded the shuttle. Just barely catching sight of a bright light occurring off screen on the island side of the bridge with a loud bang. Though there was no time wasted looking to it, instead, the view turned back to the blade, drawing it from within the Grimm and rising to begin to the shuttle.

The roars and howls of the unknown number of Grimm behind the camera sounded louder and louder with each step. Closer and closer with each second. Then it was all muffled, only the sound of the rain hitting the outside of the shuttle and the hum of it’s engine as it took off from the bridge. As it circled ‘round, an explosion went off over the bridge, visible through a window in the door of the shuttle. Some of the dark creatures being sent flying into the ocean below.

Another explosion.

Another.

One last blast went off in the same place, just barely visible before being covered by the top deck of the airship as the shuttle came over top. Slowing to land and open it’s doors one last time.

The four extra views showing the drone moving up over the airship, finding it’s owner as the armored individual exited the shuttle before the rest. Weapon still in one hand, the other stretched back toward the ship. A gesture for those within to stay in for the moment. 

Yet the red headed man didn’t stay inside, instead stepping out with hand raised, waving at seemingly nothing. A mere moment after, canon fire started blasting out from the airship rapidly. The machine beginning to move, rising into the smokey clouds again an pushing through as each shot worked to keep the multitudes of Grimm from approaching the ship itself.

In this moment, the four extra views turned off, letting the central one take full focus again. The gentle buzz of the drone being barely heard beneath the downpour of rain as it returned to where it belongs. Once done, a turn to the group within the shuttle could be seen. Outstretched hand now gesturing for them to leave the smaller ship and head inside the larger. 

With the sight of such gesture, they did just that, whether by themselves or in groups of two or three, the last evacuated group rushed out from the shuttle towards a set of doors a ways back. It was only now that the camera would get a good enough view at some of the civilians to see that, while some where adults, there were a few in their teens, even children. In the crowd of them before, it was too thick to be able to tell who was who. 

Yet there they were, some of them looked scared. Others were crying, the adults with them trying to help them calm down. But there were also a few that looked toward the redheaded man or the armored one with the camera in awe. Their eyes showing amazement.

With the civilians rushing in and the last handful of Ventian soldiers rushing to the entrance into the airship, the shuttle, now empty, took off as the dark clouds swallowed up everything. The canon fire ending as it did. 

It was difficult to see anything but the light from the engines of the shuttle flying up and just a faint outline of the redhead man a few feet away.

“Maho!” 

An unknown voice called out, smaller figure just barely visible as it ran toward that of the man. Seemingly jumping to him, and being caught. It looked like the two were hugging, though it was a little too hard to tell due to the dark, smoke filled clouds covering the deck.

Thankfully, the dark cover over the deck began clearing up over the next couple seconds. The two figures parting a little just before the view could clear up entirely. 

“I got worried a few times watching you down there, I’ve not seen so many Grimm since the footage of the attack in Vale.” The voice could be heard again, coming from the shorter figure which turned out to be a woman. About chest height on the man standing with her, dirty blonde hair, animalistic ears atop her head. Their hands linked and smiles across their faces.

“I know, I know, but we had Rosa’s help down there.”

“I'll thank her later, c’mon, lets get inside you two. Gonna be getting a little difficult to breathe out here soon.”

Maho nodded a little in agreement as the woman began turning him with her and heading toward the door that everyone else had gone in before. The view didn’t turn to it on it’s own, nor did it move, staying where it was and watching the pair.

“Well, Umbir, where are we headed?”

“Vale.”

“Vale? Why Vale? They’re still recovering from that attack a while ago.”

“I know, but it’s where the Princess is. I hate the idea of putting such a weight on her, but we’ve got no other choice. Samuel’s unstable, and we were just recovering from Manus. We can’t go through that again. Not now.”

There was some silence between the three for a moment. Maho beginning to nod again in understanding.

“Alright, Vale it is.”

The next few minutes of footage showed no movement from the camera itself, simply watching the two disappear beyond the doorway of the airship. Staring on for a while longer in silence beyond the rushing wind.

A sigh.

“Recording, stop...”

Static.

‘I’m sorry, Emma...”

[novantinuum]

April Fool’s

I meant to have this done on Saturday but time got away from me. Here, take some shameless stangst. I may continue this to include aftermath?

AO3

Rating: T (for violence and some language)

Word Count: 1600~

Summary: Stan’s attempt at an April Fool’s prank goes terribly wrong.

Stanley Pines hummed merrily as his gnarled knuckles wrapped around the sink tap and twisted it on. Lukewarm water slowly began to pour from the facet, drumming against the base of his metal bucket with a resonant ring. He nearly winced at how loud the initial rush of water was, but he supposed the noise couldn’t be helped. If he were lucky, his nerd brother would find himself so absorbed in studying and cataloging their latest catch that he wouldn’t find any iota of suspicion in his current doings… He doubted Ford remembered, but today marked April first. April Fool’s Day. One of their favorite days as kids. Forty plus years prior, they took great pleasure in springing pranks on each other and their family that day. Young Stan aimed for the classics- whoopee cushion under his father’s seat at dinner, Groucho Marx glasses at the temple, smearing whipped cream over Ford’s face when he was sleeping- the list of practical jokes was nearly endless. Ford, on the other hand, was more of a Rube Goldberg machine kind of guy. He’d spend weeks engineering and constructing elaborate set-ups that would fling those plastic slinky snakes at Ma from across the room when her heel hit a tripwire hidden in the carpet. Oh man, they could laugh for hours at the sheer variety of treacherous gags they’ve pulled on this day! However, he and Ford hadn’t gotten to terrorize each other with stupid pranks since they were seventeen. Truth be told, this was one of the things he missed most about their relationship. While they’d long since made up, and while Stan recognized they were still working towards rekindling their brotherhood, he longed for the day when he stopped feeling like he was constantly tiptoeing around Ford. He longed for the day his brother stopped treating him like fragile glass. And his hope was that cracking a classic, harmless prank might help with those issues. Remind them of their past a little. To remind them that a little poking fun at each other is okay.

“Doo-doo-doo da-doo, filling a big metal bucket full of water,” he muttered to himself in a sing-song voice as the tap continued to pour, “so I can dump it on my twin bro’s head!” Stan faintly recalled pulling a similar prank when they were nine. He poured a tray of ice cubes down the back of Ford’s shirt. His brother shrieked like a five-year-old girl at first, and then proceeded to chuck the ice right back at him, giggling the whole time. Their Ma threw a fit when she found the watery mess their feud left in the kitchen, but it was worth it for the laughs. Man, he hoped they could both get a similar chuckle out of this. He always loved the sound of Ford’s laughter. Stanley waited until the water filled the bucket, and promptly shut off the tap. With a labored grunt, he hefted the bucket out of the sink and onto the floor, wincing at the way his joints creaked as he straightened his back. Step one was complete. Step two was to simply smoke ol’ Sixer out of his hive, get into place, and wait for the perfect moment…

_____________________________ “Hey Sixer, get out here, would ya’? There’s somethin’ all spooky like out in the water. I think it might be another one a’ those… uh, another one of ‘em seven headed squid things?” “Mmm, coming,” Ford muttered distractedly, eyes securely fixed on the half-filled parchment before him and the nerve sample suspended in a vial of formaldehyde upon the desk. The sample came from the thirteen-armed serpent they conquered a week prior. From all the taxonomic scientific literature he’d referenced while conducting his study, the creature seemingly had not yet been discovered by marine scientists. Excitingly, this meant that he would be tasked with naming this new strange anomalous species, and with presenting his findings to the scientific community when they reached shore again. The moment his pen touched to make the first stroke against roughhewn paper, Stan’s gravelly voice filtered through the thin walls again. “Ford, if ya’ don’t get your nerd ass out on deck in the next minute, I’m feeding you to the squid!” He tossed the fountain pen to the side of his journal and pushed himself out of his chair in one fluid motion. “All right, all right!” he hollered back. Ford carded all twelve fingers through his thick greying hair, and rolled his eyes at the wooden ceiling with a heavy breath. God, what had gotten into Stanley today? He wasn’t usually so unnerved about the magical creatures they encountered in this span of open sea. Hastily, he snagged one of his overcoats and a scarf from the coat hook by the door. He shrugged his shoulders through the long, padded sleeves as he crossed into the main cabin of their ship, and then wound the warm knit scarf— midnight blue and peppered with glitter for stars, Mabel’s design— around his neck. His hand brushed against the comforting weight at the left of his hips, the titanium blaster he’d brought back with him from his journeys through the multiverse. He only had to use it once since his return home, and probably didn’t need to lug it everywhere now that he wasn’t constantly on the run from bounty hunters, but old habits die hard. Beyond that, in his first weeks back in Gravity Falls, he quickly discovered that the familiar weight helped ground him whenever he was griped with panic or fell into dissociation. He swung the cabin door open with caution. Cool, salty sea air filled his nose almost instantly, and tickled at the hair at his jawline and chin he’d allowed to grow slightly beyond stubble. (Any longer, and he might soon have a burgeoning beard just like Stanley’s, he realized with a snort.) From first glance, the water seemed too calm to be hiding any large territorial creatures that might pose threat to their ship, but admittedly he had been woefully wrong in his assumptions before. Sea monsters were nothing but unpredictable, and especially those that had evaded oceanic cataloguers’ sights all this time. Meanwhile, Stan was nowhere to be seen on deck—despite his call— proving nearly as evasive as their deep-sea cryptids. Ford had just opened his mouth to call for his brother when his sensitive ears picked up on the muted sound of liquid sloshing from above. _____________________________ Barely holding in his laughter, Stanley— who knelt on the roof of the cabin right over the outer doorway— tipped his bucket over the edge. He watched with anticipation as the water cascaded down towards his brother’s head. If only he noticed earlier how Ford’s dominant hand nervously twitched next to the holster at his hip as he exited the cabin, perhaps he would have possessed the good sense to leave him be.

If only he took account of the way his brother’s entire body seized up milliseconds before the water’s impact as if expecting an attack… perhaps he would have had time to duck. _____________________________

The instant he heard it, it was as if his conscious mind drifted a thousand miles away. His legs were rooted to the deck. Distantly, Ford felt the lukewarm liquid hit his head, utterly flattening his hair and soaking through his overcoat and shirt all the way to skin. Heard a loud clap as the remaining fluid splashed onto the deck. It was warm. His imagination immediately brought images of the multitude of monolithic horrors he'd faced, especially the kinds that soaked their food in tepid stomach acid to aid in digestion before their victims were consumed. Suddenly midday turned into night, and the nebulous skies of alien worlds soared overhead. His vision became glassy and his pulse skyrocketed as the lifesaving mantra that consistently dominated his mind whilst beyond the portal took hold of his tense limbs. Danger! Danger! Danger!!

From outside himself he watched his hand find the grip of his gun, tightening around the thick rubber. Watched his body fall easily into an offensive stance as he’d done time after time after time. He swung around, senses alight, brain conjuring any number of fearsome beasts from the scourges of his memory…

Finger on the trigger.

Hands shaking.

Eyelids squeezed shut. Muscles contracting.

Even though his mind felt miles away from the deck of the ship, the firing of the gun left a cacophony of ringing in his ears. The kickback shook his joints.

It was his brother’s scream that finally knocked him back into himself.

“AUGGH, goddamn!”

With a heaving gasp, he was violently thrown into full awareness of his own body. He could barely push past his own quickened breaths to concentrate on the scene before him. His eyes panned from the gun he held in trembling hands, to the emptied bucket that had fallen onto deck, to above. To Stanley. Images of demons and leviathans and beasts shattered like glass, replaced by the sight of his own twin brother, cradling his left shoulder. He could already see blood pooling from in between his fingers.

“F-fuck,” Stan hissed, tears rimming his reddened eyes. Ford let out a choked sob as he realized what just happened, what he just did. The muscles of his right hand went slack, and the gun clattered onto the wooden deck. His lungs burned as his already hastened breathing turned into strained wheezing. Numbed fingers frantically pressed against his face, clawing at the frame of his glasses. He felt his legs propel him through the door, into his cabin, away. Heard Stan’s voice hollering his name. Sensed his body folding in on itself, his hands griping harshly at his hair. A harsh ringing echoed through his ears, causing his head to seem heavy and the world he inhabited to feel little more than an elaborate, cruel facade.

Monster, he spat at himself. Clutching his knees tight to his chest and struggling to breathe, the man began to weep.

[creativitytoexplore]

[AA] The Punk. https://ift.tt/3phGRux

‘Bang.’ Paul Buchanan’s ears cried out. A strong ringing resided within the walls of his skull for a moment, reverberating the obnoxious blare back and forth between his stirrup, hammer and anvil until his brain caught wind of itself. The musty smell of discharged sulphur was similar to his mother’s famous burnt steak, all the way back home in Point Pleasant, West Virginia. But Paul was far from Point Pleasant, he was currently caught in a moment of panic somewhere north of Saigon, Vietnam. You see, the year was 1972, the second to last year of American involvement in the Vietnam war, and Paul’s platoon, known as Peeler Squad, was on lookout duty, manning a small camp and acting as the first line of defence in the event that the Vietcong made a push for the capital of Vietnam, Saigon. The Punk was probably the closest thing the Vietnam war had ever seen to a real life G.I Joe action figure. Any closer to him and he would have been made of plastic. Buchanan had earned the callsign of ‘The Punk’ due to his reckless nature and his tendency to disobey the orders of his Commanding Officer, Commander Thorne. The only justifiable reason The Punk hadn't been discharged from the military already was because he was one of the most efficient, capable and competent soldiers the army had planted in Vietnam. At the adolescent age of twenty three, The Punk had already managed to earn himself a nifty scar going from the right side of his lip down to his chin back in some bar in Charleston. His eyes were a piercing cobalt blue, sharp enough to pierce military kevlar, He sported a classic military buzz cut, leaving very little of his gorgeous blonde hair left, only a coarse and rough stubble to match his face. Paired alongside his square nose and bushy eyebrows, he made quite the handsome man. The Punk never got along well with others, leaving him mainly isolated in the jungle, despite having his platoon for company. He left school at fifteen, in an attempt to join the army, not realizing he was too young. His reckless nature earned him the respect of Peeler Squad, when it usually paid off on missions, but lost the trust of Commander Thorne and became nothing more than a loose cannon in his eyes. Alerted by the gunshot that so rudely awoke him, The Punk rushed to his feet, the musty smell of gunpowder lingering in the air and pulsating through his nostrils. He grabbed his light machine gun, an M-60, which most American troops were armed with. The Punk cocked his eyes, scanning the jungle expertly for his platoon. He felt the warm hug of the sunlight, breaking through the thick jungle canopy, wrapping around the land with its great, golden arms. If Paul's past experiences could tell him anything, it would be how dangerous the Viet Cong were, once encountered within the deep recesses of the great Vietnamese jungles. The Viet Cong were expert guerilla fighters, using their vast knowledge of the local land to coordinate attacks upon the South Vietnamese and American Troops. While he searched, he saw nothing, but he was certain that the Viet Cong could see him. Whoever the mysterious shooter was, they could not be far. Examining the empty campsite for clues, the camp that Peeler Squad had settled in had three tents, each with one inhabitant that utilised the lousy excuse of bunks and tables that they had been supplied with. A single firepit brought each tent together into one communal area, in which the platoon would sit around, reciting old stories of the glories of childhood and past battles. While scanning the area for his two fellow squad members, Paul caught a glimpse of a pair of footsteps. One pair per tent. They were intertwined by a mud path that led further into the claustrophobic, damp jungle. The Punk maneuvered his way cautiously down the mud path, leaves brushing off his coarsely shaven head as he followed the ominous footsteps, ready for a fight. Not long after, Paul came to a clearing. He sensed he was heavily outgunned, and assumed the rest of the platoon was probably on their way to some rotten bamboo cage, filled with American corpses on the north side of Vietnam. Paul set down his clunky equipment and his M-60 upon the muddy, leaf covered detritus and bent down to his knees, ready for surrender. As he closed his eyes, the enthusiastic, outspoken and oblivious whistles of the neighbouring birds reverberated through his skull, like a peaceful gunshot and yet an angel's hymn simultaneously. The birds inadvertently created one magnificent symphony, briefly diverting Pauls attention away from the thought of the brutal torture he believed awaited him. The stridulation of the shrouded cicadas created an ever-present cacophony, denying any and all trespassers to their sanctuary the prospect of appreciating the silence of their jungle. The natural beauty was swiftly interrupted by a barrage of gunfire from a machine gun, darting over the space above Paul's head. Unfortunately for his assailant, The Punk was extremely well versed in his knowledge of firearms. He opened his eyes, let out a huge sigh of relief, stood himself up straight, and began to speak in his deep, but amused West Virginian accent; “All right, all right, Treeleaves, you got me, kid. You had me worried there for a hot minute though, I gotta hand it to you.” The Punk could recognise the tickle of an American M-60 machine gun anywhere. The Viet Cong only carried crude, homemade rifles constructed out of PVC pipes and copper, or they carried high class Soviet weaponry, supplied by the Reds themselves, with the sound of each being easily recognisable to any trained soldier. The man whom Paul identified as Treeleaves, was no other than his close friend and fellow squadmate. Treeleaves stepped out from the thick, emerald leaves of the nearby tree, revealing his face in the glorious sunlight. Bradley Smith, aka ‘Treeleaves’, was an Alaskan straight out of Anchorage. He gained the first half of the Treeleaves callsign from his height. The man was a giant, standing at a lumbering 6”3, making Paul look like a punk standing next to him, incidentally. As for the second half, Smith gained it from his reputation of always bringing a little fun to the party. Treeleaves always carried a few 10 gram bags of dope to share around with the rest of Peeler squad. He disregarded the military buzz cut rule as soon as he entered the deep jungle, away from commanding officers, and let his hair grow out. Bradley had healthy, brown hair that reached all the way down to his ears and matched his brown, African-American skin tone. He was only seventeen years old and one of the latest victims to conscription. His mother and father were the religious zealots of their neighbourhood, back in Anchorage and had condemned ‘the devils lettuce’ their little Bradley had found himself so fond of. Understandably, Old Mr and Mrs Smith gave the word to the local recruiters and ‘Treeleaves’ as he became known, found his way deep into the Vietnamese jungle, just to be assigned to Peeler Squad. The teenager was giddy after pulling a prank on the closest person he had to a friend, with his acne ridden face and gleaming white teeth, he stood hunched over with laughter as the kid he was, giggling like a hyena, upon exiting the bushes to greet Paul. The friendliest face of the bunch, Bradley always managed to set the mood for the rest of the squad, sometimes swapping roles between the kid of the group, into the mature, well needed leader they required, when Captain Stewart was too busy not caring about them. Captain Grant Stewart was the lazy Captain standing beside Treeleaves, with his face rooted firmly in a playboy magazine. Grant Stewart was a stern man in his early forties who miraculously managed to crawl his way up to the rank of captain and just about hung on to the military, way past the recommended age of thirty five. He wasn't a bad guy or anything, he just came off like a selfish jerk, who didn't care about anybody else. He had definitely seen some stuff though, and you could tell there was a grizzled war hero back with a heart back there, buried somewhere. But for now, the black haired, stubble covered, cigar-smoking ugly bastard was amusing young Bradley with his extreme wakeup call. Stewart hid his black, balding hair with an Olive helmet and cast the most unwelcoming look from his deep brown eyes, especially when compared alongside the grinning Bradley. Bradley and Captain Stewart stood, Bradley set his recently discharged, shiny M-60 down on the ground. The Punk gave Treeleaves a playful nudge on the shoulder. “You goddamn schemer, I coulda killed you dead, I hope you know”, The Punk said sternly. Bradley bantered back with Paul, “Nahhhhh, my grandpappy could probably shoot straighter than you and he's been dead for fifteen years! I was giving you a very special wake up call and plus, it was old Stewart’s idea in the first place.” The Punk glanced over at the moody Captain, who was nose deep in the latest edition of Playboy magazine. “Is that true, Captain?” Paul tested him to see if he was even listening. “Uhhh yeah, um sure, kid” Stewart replied inattentively, and unaware of what he was asked. “Alright, well whatever the case we oughta head back over to the camp, Thornes probaby pinging the radio like crazy for our wake up”, Treeleaves announced, as if overtaken by the need to take over the mantle of leader, seeing Stewarts laziness, as his opportunity. The platoon headed back to camp, with Treeleaves taking lead like a valiant soldier and with The Punk and the Captain not too far behind. The Punk arrived not long after retracing the footsteps that initially led him there, although this time, he had some well needed company in the form of Peeler Squad. As he set his legs up upon his bunk, the dusty, large radio that sat upon the table in Stewarts room began to signal an incoming call. “Get up and get that, captain!” Paul shouted, in a tone that desperately seemed to want to go back to sleep after all the useless commotion that had awoke him. Captain Stewart huffed. He was lazy but he followed Commander Thornes orders, like a good soldier. He arose from his bunk and made his way over to the small wooden table that the radio was resting on. He picked up the clunky, dusted technology to hear Commander Thorne’s gravely voice on the other end. In a voice not too dissimilar from a stereotypical drill sergeant, Thorne began to scream,with his voice, clearly accented from the deep south pouring out of the speaker of the radio “PEELER SQUAD, REPORT IN, YOU INTOLERABLE SCUMBAGS, THIS IS YOUR FINAL WAKE UP CALL UNTIL I MAKE MY WAY OUT THERE AND WAKE YOU BASTARDS UP MYSELF! Captain Stewart replied in typical Stewart fashion; by not giving a damn. “Awh come on now Thorne, you know better than anyone that we were up at the crack of dawn hunting for the Reds and helping your sorry asses in holdin Saigon.” Paul and Bradley had to hand it to old Stewart, he was the only one who personally knew Thorne, and knew him well enough to know how to make him go back on himself. Thorne sighed, audibly beaten and slightly embarrassed, “Alright. I suppose that's okay then. Captain Stewart, but in future I ask for you three to bring that radio with you on any future early morning expeditions and the next time we don't get a reply, I’m coming out there to deal with you fellas myself, and I will NOT be as forgiving! Anyways, I have other news to report that I hope y’all will be happy to hear, seeing as you boys love to leave that camp so much. A private, by the name of Carl Jennings has gone missing on a stealth operation to scout the area north of your camp for potential base locations.” As Thorne calmed himself, his fiery voice extinguished, turning the loud radio call to a quiet, private conversation between himself and Captain Stewart. As Stewart sat down, he took out a small, blue notepad and began writing notes for this operation. Paul hesitantly sat with Bradley by the firepit and began to play a game of poker to pass the time while Stewart was being given some sort of secret information to scrawl in his notepad. About five minutes into the poker game, Stewart sat up from his chair and began to holler orders. “All right, fellas. Special day. We’ve got to cross into Viet Cong turf and look for the private known as Carl Jennings.” Treeleaves picked himself up, took a military stance and asked eagerly; “Um, Captain, who's gonna be taking charge of this mission?” Stewart didn't want to be in charge anyways, so he responded; “Go crazy, kid, it's all you. Simple mission, about 40 klicks north of here, we’re looking for a tall, african-american guy, probably dead in some crocodile's lair, but as long as we find what's left of him, we’re going home heroes. Treeleaves grinned. The kid loved nothing more than being put in charge so he could feel like the big man and make his parents back home finally proud of him, and maybe accept him back home. “Alrighty troops, this trip is looking to be about 8 hours, but only if we keep pace! As long as nothing unexpected occurs we could make it home for nightfall. Now let's get ready to kick some ass!”, he hollered enthusiastically. Captain Stewart went to the arms cabinet he kept in his tent and tossed a few fragmentation grenades and the mysterious blue notepad into his satchel. Treeleaves grabbed the essentials, including marijuana and a spyglass, that could prove useful in surveying locations. The Punk grabbed his freshly cleaned M-60 machine gun, lugged its belt over his shoulder and into a cradle around his waist, before grabbing his swiss army knife that his mother gave him back in Point Pleasant. Paul rarely followed orders, but under Treeleaves, he felt like it’d be a good idea to play along with him, since he was only a teenager and doing so might make him feel better about himself. He enjoyed seeing Treeleaves actually enjoying the adventure, opposed to most other guys his age, who seek the adventure, but all they get is PTSD and their legs blown off, or even worse, killed. When they had all supplies necessary packed, the trio headed north through the dense jungle. As Peeler Squad trudged onwards through the dense jungle, and thick bamboo, things seemed serene. The birds were chirping, the cicadas stridulating and the sun was shining a gleaming glow through the cracks of the green canopy. After the third and a half hour of the journey, it dawned upon Treeleaves how boring an 8 hour walk could really be. The green of his surroundings poised a question, to which his response was the marijuana he had packed. As he pulled a 10 gram bag out of his satchel, He offered a joint to The Punk and to the gruff Captain Stewart , to which The Punk graciously declined out of respect for the mission. While he was reckless and didn’t usually follow orders very well, The Punk was well aware of the risks that came attached to being high on such a crucial operation, an operation that could potentially result in the life or death for Private Jennings. Paul was not prepared mentally to have the blood of Private Jennings on his hands. If his reaction time was even half a second off, Peeler squad could be wiped out in just a moment. Stewart on the other hand gladly accepted the offer of the joint and began to smoke with Treeleaves. Many drags later, Stewart began to tumble out a few words that eventually rolled themselves into a few sentences that seemed heavily out of character for the battered soldier. His speech was slurred, but he still began to speak; “You know, at the end of the day, I actually do love you guys. I really do. Soo much. So so so much. I just don't really fit in, I really don't and I know that. Like you guys are young and you have the cool soldier callsigns and you probably got loads of babes back home but I don't. My wife left me a few years ago for a girl. I’m useless. I got nobody. Not even a cool callsign like The Punk or Treeleaves or whatever, I’m just the grumpy old Captain to you guys. What's even lousier is that I signed up for this shit. I wasn't conscripted. I’m too old. I had nobody at home. I came here because if I’m gonna die anyways, I want it to be for a cause. I just want you guys to know that while I dont show it, I am happy as Larry to have you guys as my only two friends.” Bradley and Grant embraced in a goofy hug, the two of them flying as high as kites. While Paul didn’t join the uncanny new friends in their hug, he smiled, having not seen the humanised side of Stewart before. It entered Paul's head that he could perhaps make some friends, and become more than a merciless soldier. Hours passed of clawing through the dense foliage, and Treeleaves noted that the map indicated that they had left Southern Vietnam and they had entered into the North, which was controlled by the Viet Cong and backed by the Soviets. As they continued on, Bradley bantered with Grant and offered him another pull of his joint. But before Grant could accept, the trio came to a clearing, and the air went cold. The once enthusiastic and outspoken whistles of the neighbouring birds had now fallen dead silent. The cicadas had paused their humming. For the first time since The Punk had arrived in Vietnam, he heard total silence. “What had interrupted them? Something was seriously wrong.“ Thousands of different thoughts flooded The Punks brain, as he searched his mind for an outcome that didn't end with the death of him or his squadmates. The silence was ultimately interrupted violently, by a shaky barrage of gunfire from an unidentified weapon, stinging the air just overhead. The Punks lungs became heavy, as if replaced by stones. He was now certain. That was no M-60. That was the noise of a crude, homemade weapon, cobbled together from copper and PVC pipes. Viet Cong. “Alright. It's them. Fellas, lets just stay calm,I’ll…uh we’ll think of something”. The Punk was out of ideas. From the thick bushes stepped a group of shadowy figures. Stepping into the golden sunlight, there appeared to be about five or six vietnamese rice farmers, wielding homemade rifles. They began furiously shouting in vietnamese; “Bạn đang xâm phạm tài sản cá nhân! Hãy bỏ đi ngay bây giờ và chúng tôi sẽ tha mạng cho bạn, vì chúng tôi không tham gia vào cuộc chiến ngớ ngẩn này!” The Punk had no idea what any of that meant, but it couldn't have been good. “Any plans?”, The Punk asked Grant in a frightened tone, hoping his years of experience would kick in. Captain Stewart dropped his weapon. “Listen up.” The Captain began to speak in a conflicted tone, “When I say ‘GO!’, you fellas better run for your lives.” Treeleaves and The Punk shared a confused look with Grant “I hope you guys know you made this old Captain happy for one last day. Enjoy your lives, and get out of this damn jungle as soon as you can.” He shuffled around in his satchel and tugged on a fragmentation grenade. “GO!” Before Bradley or Paul had any time to reason with him, Grant lunged forward towards the rice farmers and pulled the pin on the grenade. The Punk and Treeleaves leapt their way through the air, out of the way of the explosion, missing the impact by just enough to avoid serious burns. The pair turned around, only to see the gruesome sight left behind, which had gone from being the lush, green forest floor, to a now scorched and pitch black covered waste, covered in the scarlet blood and limbs of Grant Stewart and the rice farmers. After performing a quick scan of the area to ensure their safety, Paul found no traces of extra hostiles. Paul and Bradley took the time to create a small grave sight; a cross, fashioned out of bamboo from a nearby tree and engraved with the initials ‘G.S’, and the remnants of Grant’s olive helmet resting on top and a single burnt and torn page of playboy magazine resting on the bottom, as a rememberance. What remained of the platoon mutually agreed that silence might be good for them for the time being and they could talk about the incident in the morning. They decided resting up would be smart, if they were to finish the search for Private Jennings. They hastily set up a small camp, just well enough to keep them safe until dawn. But as morning broke, so did Bradley Smith. Paul awoke to find him knelt, sobbing by the gravesite. “Listen, Treelea-, Bradley. I know it's tough. He was a good man and a hero.” Paul too began to break down into tears, “It's a shame we saw that side of him just too late. But after living in pain and sadness for years, I think we can both take solace in the fact that he died happy and on his own terms. Surrounded by his friends, the only people who he loved.” Bradley sniffled. The poor child was only seventeen and he had already experienced the true horrors of war. “Your right, Paul. Thank you, friend. That means a lot to me” It seemed that Treeleaves had made peace with it, but he was a changed man. “I think it would be best for us to keep moving”, Paul motioned to Treeleaves, “whenever your ready, pal.” Treeleaves picked himself up, and the pair began to head north once again, but not before Paul noticed a small blue notebook lying burnt on the forest floor, next to the destroyed radio that must've been blown from the explosion. As Bradley continued walking, Paul knelt down to pick it up. Not much of the notebook was left, however one legible page presented itself, one that simply read, ‘avoid th- .tell the ot-.’ There was clearly more to it, but with the page being burnt to a crisp, that's all that remained. Judging by the English writing, it must have come from Grant's notebook, and probably the same one he wrote the directions from Thorne in earlier. Keeping that enigmatic information in mind, Paul caught up with Treeleaves down the jungle trail, where the two walked in silence for a couple more hours. The jungle was not as beautiful as it once seemed. The cicadas had begun to rumble once more, and the birds were singing a beautiful tune, but the atmosphere was dry and depressing,with a heavyshower of rainfall setting the mood. As the remnants of Peeler Squad continued onwards, a small settlement poked itself out from between the trees, showcasing what appeared to be their destination. Treeleaves stood, and raised the military hand signal for ‘halt’. He took a knee and began to inspect the area expertly with a spyglass. It was most definitely a Viet Cong hideout, and judging by the information supplied to them, most likely the place of capture, or possible death of Private Jennings. Paul awaited orders from Treeleaves, loosely gripping his dirty machine gun patiently. Treeleaves turned around and began to speak in a stern and commanding voice. “This is a small camp, but I estimate that we have approximately twelve Viet Cong patrolling the area. Whatever they’re guarding, it must be important, I would wager its Private Jennings. We should set up a small lookout base, overlooking the camp on that small ridge to the east. It should shroud us from them, where we will wait until nightfall to commence the rescue, in order to preserve the element of surprise.” Paul was taken aback by Treeleaves’ behaviour. He was no longer some child, playing pranks. He was now a man and a soldier. An emotionless being, just trying to survive another day. Seeing him like this resonated with Paul, as he noticed they walked the same road, just Bradley was walking his at a later point in time. As Paul thought of the road he had to walk in life, it dawned on him just how young he still was. All his time he had been thinking of Bradley as the child, when in reality, Paul was only 5 years older than him. Before he delved further into his own psyche, The Punk snapped himself out of it. He couldn't let his emotions tamper with the mission at hand. Private Jennings' life rested upon his shoulders, and he needed to be on his A-Game if the platoon were to succeed, and survive. As the two continued to survey the camp from the ridge, nightfall crept closer and closer. The jungle never slept, like a living machine, it kept turning its cogs, working endlessly to fit in the wildlife that resided there. The time was creeping. The air was tense. Everything had led up to this moment. As The Punk and Treeleaves readied themselves for their final mission, Paul remembered the blue notebook, but before he could mention his findings, an odd hissing sound began to fill the air. The pair turned around to investigate, but it was far too late. The sound was followed up by a noxious green gas, that surrounded them from all angles and engulfed them within. The next thing The Punk heard was the cackling of six Viet Cong, giggling as they captured the two Americans, followed by the chuffing of what sounded to be a helicopter and gunshots. The darkness soon overtook them, leaving the pair unconscious, lying on the dirty jungle floor. When Paul awoke, he found himself to be alone. Treeleaves was nowhere to be seen. He took a look at his surroundings, finding himself in what appeared to be in a Viet Cong camp of some kind, laying on a surprisingly comfortable bed inside a scrappy wooden building. There was a bed next to him, with a single Viet Cong resting like an angel. Paul wondered why he wasn't tied up, was he too, a prisoner? A hostage? Where was Treeleaves? As Paul stood out of the bed, his head began to spin. The Viet Cong in the bed next to him began to wake up and took notice of his odd behaviour. He began to speak to Paul in an alarmed tone. “Anh bạn ổn chứ !? Điều cuối cùng tôi nhớ là chúng tôi đã được cứu bởi chiếc trực thăng đói!” Paul did not understand the Vietanmese, but with the large chance that the man could possibly raise the alarm, The Punk reached for his swiss army knife and mercilessly took his life with a quick slash to the throat, killing him instantly. The blood spurted over The Punk, splashing his rough, unshaven face in the crimson red. The soldier had an M-60 machine gun by his bedside, most likely stolen from Treeleaves upon their capture. He turned and grabbed the pristine machine gun, and left the room in search for his only friend. Exiting the building, The Punk was greeted by about twenty armed Viet Cong, all staring at him, confused and somewhat alarmed. Without hesitation however, The Punk gripped the machine gun, and began to open fire on the Viet Cong. As he ripped through them, he only had one objective on his mind; to rescue Bradley, wherever he may be held. The Punk watched the Viet Cong fall one by one, the clatter of his machine gun roaring, as the life left each of their bodies. The splash of the blood hitting the dirty forest floor, the lingering smell of gunpowder filling his nostrils, and fueling his bloodlust even further. Like G.I Joe, The Punk expertly weaved and dodged his way around the base, murdering every one of them. He had done it. Each and every one of the twenty soldiers were dead. But Paul began to feel uneasy. Twenty Viet Cong vs one American? Something about this didn't sit right with him. He should really be dead, outgunned to that capacity. Paul began to look around in confusion. What was going on here? He looked to his left and saw an American attack helicopter. How could the Viet Cong have stolen an American chopper? He continued to investigate the area, something was definitely up. Paul knelt down beside one of the slaughtered Viet Cong. He looked around him, but there were no weapons near him. Unarmed Vietcong? He swore they had just shot at him not ten minutes ago. Things were getting stranger. He began to inspect the soldier, who appeared to be wearing dog tags for some odd reason. They read ‘Jennings, Carl F., 411-0340-201, B-POS, Catholic’ Paul examined the Viet Cong wearing the tags once again. As he took a second glance, he was horrified. The soldier wasn't Vietnamese. He was an American soldier. He was black. Tall. Young. That was Carl Jennings. And The Punk had killed him. His head began to spin. Paul felt sick. He began to question if he was human or if he was simply a soldier. He looked around. He came to the horrified realisation. There was no Viet Cong camp. There never was. He looked around. Body after body. Lifeless Soul after soul. American after American, they lay on the jungle floor. Paul vomited, horrified by the atrocity he had just committed. He swore they were Viet Cong. He swore they had spoken Vietnamese just fifteen minutes ago. He swore they had gassed and captured him. It dawned upon Paul what events must have occurred. When Captain Stewart's died, and the radio was destroyed, Commander Thorne must have sent a platoon out to search for them by helicopter. As the platoon located Paul and Bradley, the Viet Cong ambushed them using the mysterious gas, causing the pair to lose consciousness. The platoon arrived by helicopter and rescued the two, wiped out the true Viet Cong and rescued the still alive Private Jennings while doing so. The platoon must have brought Paul, Bradley and Jennings back to a medic base for medical assessment. But the gas must have damaged Paul's brain, causing him to begin to crack between the man and the soldier within. This was mad. Paul couldn’t believe it. He was horrified by his own actions. He was a stone cold killer, and a traitor. It was ridiculous. But then it dawned upon Paul the fate of Bradley Smith. Horror-struck and sickened, Paul Buchanan entered the building he awoke in, which now appeared to be nothing but an unarmed American medic outpost. Paul knelt to the soldier he believed to be Viet Cong and had brutally murdered in bed, only twenty minutes ago. As Paul began to sob, the seventeen year olds cold, lifeless corpse dropped to the side, his ghostly, face staring Paul directly in the eyes. Bradley Smith’s face was stuck in an endless expression of horror, a poor child whose last sight was his only remaining friend in the world, slitting his throat in a fit of pure, psychotic rage. A kid who never earned the respect of his parents, and died just when he had made it into safety. As Paul mourned the loss of his friend, the loud, metallic whirring of helicopter blades sounded from the outside. The grief-stricken and mentally scarred Paul left young Bradleys side, to meet the small fleet of attack helicopters that surrounded him. Commander Thorne began to speak on a radio; “IT'S OVER, BUCHANAN! WE HAVE YOU SURROUNDED! IN THE NAME OF THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA, YOU'RE UNDER ARREST, TRAITOR. LAY DOWN YOUR ARMS AND COME QUIETLY, YOU MONSTER! WE WILL NOT HESITATE TO KILL YOU ON SIGHT. YOUR REIGN OF TERROR HAS COME TO AN END! Paul couldn't believe what he was hearing. He felt a tear within himself, like the soldier inside had now fully separated itself from the human. He then began to chatter apprehensively; “No. No. NO! It wasn't me. It was the gas, it was The Punk. I would NEVER - no I would NEVER do those things. It wasn't me, It was THE PUNK.”

His brow began to twitch furiously,

“It wasn't me, it was The Punk. It wasn't me, it was THE PUNK!. IT WASN'T ME, IT WAS THE PUNK”

The punk gripped his bloody machine gun tight and stood firm, his crimson blue eyes darting savagely, up at the mechanical beast in the skies above, and prepared to take aim.

But it was him.

He was The Punk.

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