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[WP] Your name is Dave. People keep trying to call you other things, like "The Scourge of Seven Worlds," or "The Dread One," or "The Fifth Horseman." It's all very annoying. You just want to be called "Dave."

Dave was only 133 years old but he still got called "Bringer of Pollution" and "He who rides on a horse of plastic and rust". All dave did was make plastic comercially availlable and all of a sudden four people clad in respectively battle armor colored red with the blood of warriors, a long black cape made from the mist of the universe, a plague doctor outfit made out of sickly souls and dirty worn out pants. They introduced themselves as the four horsemen: war, death, plague and famine. After which they told me I was the fifth horseman, "pollution". Dave didn't believe them untill he noticed what his presence did to stuff around him. The ground he walked on decayed became littered with plastic, the wind around him carried the smell of garbage and at least ten empty chips packets, the air he breathed out smelled of burnt plastic. Still he refused to do anything other then normal. He finished college with a in engineering and went on to get a job at a well known hardware store where he worked for 5 years untill he got fired because of all the tools he turned to piles of rust. He tried to get a job in another hardware job but got refused and spent is 2 years in unemployment during which he got visited by plague. Plague told Dave that Armaggedon was started and that he needed to ride out on his horse of plastic and rust. Dave refused because he had a job interview tomorrow. The next day war was at his door. War also tried to convince Dave to start Armageddon with the rest of the horsemen. Dave said no, he wanted to stay on earth a bit longer. Famine was the next to knock on his door but this too was unsuccesful since Dave was at his new job as an officeworker. The last day death came to his job and made a display of power by killing on of Dave's coworkers by just looking at them. Dave was just angry and told death he would never take up his job as the fifth horseman because he was Dave. Dave worked at his current job untill he turned 80 and decided to go on vacation for a bit and discover the world. He met his future wife in germany and married her after a year of being together. When she died 99 he took it really hard and spiralled into a pit of depression until it was 2020 when the four horsemen contacted him again. He agreed on the note that he was to be called Dave.

"The Four Horsemen have nothing on me....ALL will CALL ME by what I have demanded the whole tiiiiimeeee...! DAAAAAAAVE!" Everyone. Every. Day. David. Ugh. Five Letters given to me at birth, they say a name of a king yet my kingdom is nowhere near a fief. Yet I trudge. Practically alone yet everyone wants me. "David Oh my Gawsh!" Please. Dave. "Like the one with the Goliath??" Why. I don't go to church. They all know, time after time. I don't remember being named Doormat David so why do they always think they can ALWAYS step on me? David you're nothing. David you exist to die. Not Dave. David. The E imprints my face as the ID shows me what I have needed this whole time. The mirror creaks with whispers as it tells me "Dav they'll never listen..." Well. I got something that'll make them listen....close your eyes when the iron rang "Dave" was all that was sang....A king of none, showed them change with the sound of a

[WP] Your name is Dave. People keep trying to call you other things, like "The Scourge of Seven Worlds," or "The Dread One," or "The Fifth Horseman." It's all very annoying. You just want to be called "Dave."

Another robed, bearded man with far too much going on behind his eyes walked into work today. My job is writing legal boilerplates, by the by. My name is Dave. Really. Dave. And Robe Guy is definitely violating the company dress code. He's better than the Burning Man that came in LAST week, though. You know. Man. On fire. Also, no clothing unless you counted the wing stubs. Crotch looked like one of those shows in Hawaii with the flaming stick juggling. Or jiggling. Ew. "DARK LORD OF LEGALESE!" Fuck. Now everyone's staring in the secretarial pool. Again. And I'm gonna snap, because he's using Names. My Names. *sploosh* And spill cold coffee on my goddamn best slacks. "YOUR TIME TO RISE IS AT HAND, TWISTER OF LAW!". OK, that is fucking IT. I yell out the words that will ruin my life. (Okay. His.) "MY. NAME. IS. DAAAAAAAAAAAVE!" and I slam my hand to the desk. Right on top of the letter opener. Blood spurts onto my work. My hand grows...blackened. The color of printer ink. The ruffle of ten thousand collated impact forms fills the air, but not a page is seen. "Dave. DAVE. Dave. DAVE. DAVE. DAVE." - and there goes the entire goddamn room. Eyes filled with something that would make a squid squirt look like liquid paper. Empty of sanity, full of- I wave my hand, and the power erases itself from the room, from the people. The muzak starts like nothing had happened a moment ago. And the robed freak is now wearing a business suit. Just the way I like it. We needed a new intern after the last one snapped. Dave. The Dave. And woe to the mortal who calls me anything else. The new intern is promptly instructed on everyone's coffee needs and sent to Starbreak's for a drink run. Even Hell likes a good latte, if you don't go light on the soul dust.

"The Four Horsemen have nothing on me....ALL will CALL ME by what I have demanded the whole tiiiiimeeee...! DAAAAAAAVE!" Everyone. Every. Day. David. Ugh. Five Letters given to me at birth, they say a name of a king yet my kingdom is nowhere near a fief. Yet I trudge. Practically alone yet everyone wants me. "David Oh my Gawsh!" Please. Dave. "Like the one with the Goliath??" Why. I don't go to church. They all know, time after time. I don't remember being named Doormat David so why do they always think they can ALWAYS step on me? David you're nothing. David you exist to die. Not Dave. David. The E imprints my face as the ID shows me what I have needed this whole time. The mirror creaks with whispers as it tells me "Dav they'll never listen..." Well. I got something that'll make them listen....close your eyes when the iron rang "Dave" was all that was sang....A king of none, showed them change with the sound of a

[WP] Your name is Dave. People keep trying to call you other things, like "The Scourge of Seven Worlds," or "The Dread One," or "The Fifth Horseman." It's all very annoying. You just want to be called "Dave."

I sat in a small cafe, sipping a single-shot cappuccino, and sighed. In the corner nearby, hiding in the shadows, was a very nervous looking skeleton. His eyes, normally a burning flame of hatred and vengeance, looked downright apologetic. He kept looking up at me, and then down, sometimes knocking his bones together. I just wanted a coffee. Alone. Eventually I couldn't stand waiting for him to gather the courage. "Yes?" I asked. "If you're going to say something, at least say it, then you can leave and I can drink my coffee in peace." I never used to be so mean, but this happened all the time. It wears down your soul. The skeleton somehow looked as if all the blood drained from his (already bloodless) face. He stood up, holding a small leather pouch in his hands. "U-uh, great Master of the Nine Shadows, I– I seek your blessing. I want vengeance against those who wrongfully killed me, but... but they are in your territory, oh Malevolent One." He walked up, placed the pouch on the table, bowed, and stepped back. Waiting. I sighed again. "Yes, you may go get your vengeance, but only directly against those that harmed you. Not their family, friends, or town, only them. Understand?" The skeleton gasped in relief that I hadn't somehow melted his bones with a snap of my fingers. "T-Thank you, Ruler of the Endless Night, thank you!" He bowed again and left the cafe as quickly as he could while maintaining formality. I just looked back at my coffee. Another couple minutes rest, I suppose. A tear rolled down my cheek. "It's Dave," I whispered to myself, "just Dave. I don't know who the hell you're all mistaking me for, but I'm just a normal guy." Maybe one day they'll find out and strip the flesh off my bones. I no longer freak out at seeing them. I looked at the pouch, sitting on the table, and saw some diamond rings, ancient golden coins, and loose gems spilling out onto the table. Enough to pay for a lifetime of coffee, I guess. I just wish I could go back to being Dave.

"The Four Horsemen have nothing on me....ALL will CALL ME by what I have demanded the whole tiiiiimeeee...! DAAAAAAAVE!" Everyone. Every. Day. David. Ugh. Five Letters given to me at birth, they say a name of a king yet my kingdom is nowhere near a fief. Yet I trudge. Practically alone yet everyone wants me. "David Oh my Gawsh!" Please. Dave. "Like the one with the Goliath??" Why. I don't go to church. They all know, time after time. I don't remember being named Doormat David so why do they always think they can ALWAYS step on me? David you're nothing. David you exist to die. Not Dave. David. The E imprints my face as the ID shows me what I have needed this whole time. The mirror creaks with whispers as it tells me "Dav they'll never listen..." Well. I got something that'll make them listen....close your eyes when the iron rang "Dave" was all that was sang....A king of none, showed them change with the sound of a

[WP] Your name is Dave. People keep trying to call you other things, like "The Scourge of Seven Worlds," or "The Dread One," or "The Fifth Horseman." It's all very annoying. You just want to be called "Dave."

As soon as he came in, I could tell he was going to be one of \*those\* customers. He had the shaved head, gaunt face, coppery smell, and clothes from the 15th century that I'd come to associate with headaches and conversations that go in circles. "Welcome to Dave's Deli. What can I get for you today?" I say as I try to project cheerful professionalism. "I have come to serve you, O Dread One," he says. Of course. I try to keep my smile in place. "Well, thanks, but here at Dave's Deli, we say the customer is always right. Can I get a sandwich started for you?" "The Reckoning approaches. Your army awaits your commands. What do you prescribe?" The woman behind him in line has been slowly backing up. Hopefully I can wrap this up before the paying customers start leaving. "Well, I always like a turkey club. That's on special today for $5.99, with chips and a fountain drink." He pauses, looking a bit perplexed. "As you desire, Destroyer of Worlds," he replies after a while. "Great! Cash or credit?" This is where the conversation usually goes south. "I pledge to you my sword and my valor. I will serve you in the End of Days, Horseman!" he exclaims. The woman behind him walks away as she pretends to answer her phone, which is clearly off. The next customer lingers awkwardly for a moment before following her out. Great, there goes all my business. But I have this guy's valor, apparently. I sigh. "Sir, if you can't pay, then please leave." "I pledge my sword..." "I said, leave," I repeat firmly. "Your army awaits..." "LEAVE!" He looks crestfallen as he shuffles out the door. It's only 12:15, so there's still time for the lunch crowd. I try to collect myself, as I refill the napkin dispenser. The napkins erupt in a burst of flames. I close my eyes and take a deep breath. Get it together, Dave. Your name is Dave, and you run a deli. That's all you need to do. I open my eyes in time to see a family of four coming in. With forced cheerfulness, I plaster a smile on my face. "Welcome to Dave's Deli. What can I get for you today?"

"The Four Horsemen have nothing on me....ALL will CALL ME by what I have demanded the whole tiiiiimeeee...! DAAAAAAAVE!" Everyone. Every. Day. David. Ugh. Five Letters given to me at birth, they say a name of a king yet my kingdom is nowhere near a fief. Yet I trudge. Practically alone yet everyone wants me. "David Oh my Gawsh!" Please. Dave. "Like the one with the Goliath??" Why. I don't go to church. They all know, time after time. I don't remember being named Doormat David so why do they always think they can ALWAYS step on me? David you're nothing. David you exist to die. Not Dave. David. The E imprints my face as the ID shows me what I have needed this whole time. The mirror creaks with whispers as it tells me "Dav they'll never listen..." Well. I got something that'll make them listen....close your eyes when the iron rang "Dave" was all that was sang....A king of none, showed them change with the sound of a

[WP] Your name is Dave. People keep trying to call you other things, like "The Scourge of Seven Worlds," or "The Dread One," or "The Fifth Horseman." It's all very annoying. You just want to be called "Dave."

I did everything right. For the last year, I just focused on self-betterment. Eating healthy, working out, saving and investing my money, listening to NPR, listening to Joe Rogan, meditating, doing yoga but not in gay way, not that there’s anything wrong with being gay, I’ve got plenty of gay friends, but I digress….. you know, self-betterment. She was beautiful. We’d only been going out for four months. But I knew she was the one I wanted to marry. One night, I made a mistake of taking her to a fancy restaurant. It was near the bookstore. “What are the odds,” I thought. We left the restaurant in a giggly mood. All of sudden they emerged from the bookstore, wearing their capes. They saw me and screamed. “OH MY GOD! THE DREAD ONE!” She looked at them in a confused manner. I pretended to be baffled as they approached and began to kneel before me. “THE FIFTH HORSEMAN! THE SCOURGE OF SEVEN WORLDS!” “The what?” she said. “Woman does thou not knoweth the most renowned fantasy player in thy realm?” “Wait what,” she said. “Your seed-giver. He is a living legend in our fantasy board game league.” “You play fantasy board games?” “What? No. Of course not!” “But thou does tho. Feast your eyes on me cellular phone.” It was a pic of me in full costume with them. I was about 120 pounds heavier. She knew it was me and asked. “How long were you about this life?” “Four hundredth fortnights me lady.” “What?” “A decade,” I said reluctantly as I heard her pussy dry up like the Sahara desert. “Thou can see our lord is busy with a lady. We only wished to express our praise and hope ye return to thy kingdom some day. Good night my liege.” They left. Then we left. No sex that night. She asked why I didn’t tell her and I told her I was embarrassed. She said it was nothing to be ashamed of. A week later she broke up with me because she “wasn’t feeling it anymore.” Gee, I wonder why. A few weeks later I passed her on the street while she was walking with her friends. One of them said “hi The Dread One.” “My name’s Dave you cunt.” They snickered and kept walking. If there’s one thing I’ve learned in life is that your past will most likely find you. When it does a lot of times there’s nothing you can really do about it. So whatever you’re doing right now; make sure you’re ok with the consequences it might bring. The kingdoms you build will haunt you.

"Dave. It's Dave. That's what you're going to call me." He started and ended another morning with his chin resting on the cold window pane. The winter dragged on, the Christmas lights had gone, their absence piercing the afternoon sunlight. A blank sheet of snow was comfort enough. He had to wait for them to appear. Usually no more than a glint in his peripheral vision. A rustle of a sleeve, a thud of bare foot on parquet, a joint turn and crack. He could not force them to show themselves in full, nor could he make them follow his schedule. "Just Dave this time. Just Dave. Forget the rest." He always prevailed in these matters. Eventually, the resistance let up and he walked away sure of himself. In time, the kids started calling him Dave. He won in the musky waterlogged changerooms. In time, the doctors started calling him Dave. He won in the sterile institution halls. They would accept him, and it really was just a matter of time. Yet they got more determined with each attempt. Sympathy changed to confrontation, benevolent smiles replaced with pursed lips. A bloodlust appeared in the voices, the pity he first sensed and resented had faded. What pity was there in a name like The Dread One or The Fifth Horseman? He would settle for Dave. And they would appear.

[WP] Your name is Dave. People keep trying to call you other things, like "The Scourge of Seven Worlds," or "The Dread One," or "The Fifth Horseman." It's all very annoying. You just want to be called "Dave."

Dave was only 133 years old but he still got called "Bringer of Pollution" and "He who rides on a horse of plastic and rust". All dave did was make plastic comercially availlable and all of a sudden four people clad in respectively battle armor colored red with the blood of warriors, a long black cape made from the mist of the universe, a plague doctor outfit made out of sickly souls and dirty worn out pants. They introduced themselves as the four horsemen: war, death, plague and famine. After which they told me I was the fifth horseman, "pollution". Dave didn't believe them untill he noticed what his presence did to stuff around him. The ground he walked on decayed became littered with plastic, the wind around him carried the smell of garbage and at least ten empty chips packets, the air he breathed out smelled of burnt plastic. Still he refused to do anything other then normal. He finished college with a in engineering and went on to get a job at a well known hardware store where he worked for 5 years untill he got fired because of all the tools he turned to piles of rust. He tried to get a job in another hardware job but got refused and spent is 2 years in unemployment during which he got visited by plague. Plague told Dave that Armaggedon was started and that he needed to ride out on his horse of plastic and rust. Dave refused because he had a job interview tomorrow. The next day war was at his door. War also tried to convince Dave to start Armageddon with the rest of the horsemen. Dave said no, he wanted to stay on earth a bit longer. Famine was the next to knock on his door but this too was unsuccesful since Dave was at his new job as an officeworker. The last day death came to his job and made a display of power by killing on of Dave's coworkers by just looking at them. Dave was just angry and told death he would never take up his job as the fifth horseman because he was Dave. Dave worked at his current job untill he turned 80 and decided to go on vacation for a bit and discover the world. He met his future wife in germany and married her after a year of being together. When she died 99 he took it really hard and spiralled into a pit of depression until it was 2020 when the four horsemen contacted him again. He agreed on the note that he was to be called Dave.

"Dave. It's Dave. That's what you're going to call me." He started and ended another morning with his chin resting on the cold window pane. The winter dragged on, the Christmas lights had gone, their absence piercing the afternoon sunlight. A blank sheet of snow was comfort enough. He had to wait for them to appear. Usually no more than a glint in his peripheral vision. A rustle of a sleeve, a thud of bare foot on parquet, a joint turn and crack. He could not force them to show themselves in full, nor could he make them follow his schedule. "Just Dave this time. Just Dave. Forget the rest." He always prevailed in these matters. Eventually, the resistance let up and he walked away sure of himself. In time, the kids started calling him Dave. He won in the musky waterlogged changerooms. In time, the doctors started calling him Dave. He won in the sterile institution halls. They would accept him, and it really was just a matter of time. Yet they got more determined with each attempt. Sympathy changed to confrontation, benevolent smiles replaced with pursed lips. A bloodlust appeared in the voices, the pity he first sensed and resented had faded. What pity was there in a name like The Dread One or The Fifth Horseman? He would settle for Dave. And they would appear.

[WP] Your name is Dave. People keep trying to call you other things, like "The Scourge of Seven Worlds," or "The Dread One," or "The Fifth Horseman." It's all very annoying. You just want to be called "Dave."

Another robed, bearded man with far too much going on behind his eyes walked into work today. My job is writing legal boilerplates, by the by. My name is Dave. Really. Dave. And Robe Guy is definitely violating the company dress code. He's better than the Burning Man that came in LAST week, though. You know. Man. On fire. Also, no clothing unless you counted the wing stubs. Crotch looked like one of those shows in Hawaii with the flaming stick juggling. Or jiggling. Ew. "DARK LORD OF LEGALESE!" Fuck. Now everyone's staring in the secretarial pool. Again. And I'm gonna snap, because he's using Names. My Names. *sploosh* And spill cold coffee on my goddamn best slacks. "YOUR TIME TO RISE IS AT HAND, TWISTER OF LAW!". OK, that is fucking IT. I yell out the words that will ruin my life. (Okay. His.) "MY. NAME. IS. DAAAAAAAAAAAVE!" and I slam my hand to the desk. Right on top of the letter opener. Blood spurts onto my work. My hand grows...blackened. The color of printer ink. The ruffle of ten thousand collated impact forms fills the air, but not a page is seen. "Dave. DAVE. Dave. DAVE. DAVE. DAVE." - and there goes the entire goddamn room. Eyes filled with something that would make a squid squirt look like liquid paper. Empty of sanity, full of- I wave my hand, and the power erases itself from the room, from the people. The muzak starts like nothing had happened a moment ago. And the robed freak is now wearing a business suit. Just the way I like it. We needed a new intern after the last one snapped. Dave. The Dave. And woe to the mortal who calls me anything else. The new intern is promptly instructed on everyone's coffee needs and sent to Starbreak's for a drink run. Even Hell likes a good latte, if you don't go light on the soul dust.

"Dave. It's Dave. That's what you're going to call me." He started and ended another morning with his chin resting on the cold window pane. The winter dragged on, the Christmas lights had gone, their absence piercing the afternoon sunlight. A blank sheet of snow was comfort enough. He had to wait for them to appear. Usually no more than a glint in his peripheral vision. A rustle of a sleeve, a thud of bare foot on parquet, a joint turn and crack. He could not force them to show themselves in full, nor could he make them follow his schedule. "Just Dave this time. Just Dave. Forget the rest." He always prevailed in these matters. Eventually, the resistance let up and he walked away sure of himself. In time, the kids started calling him Dave. He won in the musky waterlogged changerooms. In time, the doctors started calling him Dave. He won in the sterile institution halls. They would accept him, and it really was just a matter of time. Yet they got more determined with each attempt. Sympathy changed to confrontation, benevolent smiles replaced with pursed lips. A bloodlust appeared in the voices, the pity he first sensed and resented had faded. What pity was there in a name like The Dread One or The Fifth Horseman? He would settle for Dave. And they would appear.

[WP] Your name is Dave. People keep trying to call you other things, like "The Scourge of Seven Worlds," or "The Dread One," or "The Fifth Horseman." It's all very annoying. You just want to be called "Dave."

I sat in a small cafe, sipping a single-shot cappuccino, and sighed. In the corner nearby, hiding in the shadows, was a very nervous looking skeleton. His eyes, normally a burning flame of hatred and vengeance, looked downright apologetic. He kept looking up at me, and then down, sometimes knocking his bones together. I just wanted a coffee. Alone. Eventually I couldn't stand waiting for him to gather the courage. "Yes?" I asked. "If you're going to say something, at least say it, then you can leave and I can drink my coffee in peace." I never used to be so mean, but this happened all the time. It wears down your soul. The skeleton somehow looked as if all the blood drained from his (already bloodless) face. He stood up, holding a small leather pouch in his hands. "U-uh, great Master of the Nine Shadows, I– I seek your blessing. I want vengeance against those who wrongfully killed me, but... but they are in your territory, oh Malevolent One." He walked up, placed the pouch on the table, bowed, and stepped back. Waiting. I sighed again. "Yes, you may go get your vengeance, but only directly against those that harmed you. Not their family, friends, or town, only them. Understand?" The skeleton gasped in relief that I hadn't somehow melted his bones with a snap of my fingers. "T-Thank you, Ruler of the Endless Night, thank you!" He bowed again and left the cafe as quickly as he could while maintaining formality. I just looked back at my coffee. Another couple minutes rest, I suppose. A tear rolled down my cheek. "It's Dave," I whispered to myself, "just Dave. I don't know who the hell you're all mistaking me for, but I'm just a normal guy." Maybe one day they'll find out and strip the flesh off my bones. I no longer freak out at seeing them. I looked at the pouch, sitting on the table, and saw some diamond rings, ancient golden coins, and loose gems spilling out onto the table. Enough to pay for a lifetime of coffee, I guess. I just wish I could go back to being Dave.

"Dave. It's Dave. That's what you're going to call me." He started and ended another morning with his chin resting on the cold window pane. The winter dragged on, the Christmas lights had gone, their absence piercing the afternoon sunlight. A blank sheet of snow was comfort enough. He had to wait for them to appear. Usually no more than a glint in his peripheral vision. A rustle of a sleeve, a thud of bare foot on parquet, a joint turn and crack. He could not force them to show themselves in full, nor could he make them follow his schedule. "Just Dave this time. Just Dave. Forget the rest." He always prevailed in these matters. Eventually, the resistance let up and he walked away sure of himself. In time, the kids started calling him Dave. He won in the musky waterlogged changerooms. In time, the doctors started calling him Dave. He won in the sterile institution halls. They would accept him, and it really was just a matter of time. Yet they got more determined with each attempt. Sympathy changed to confrontation, benevolent smiles replaced with pursed lips. A bloodlust appeared in the voices, the pity he first sensed and resented had faded. What pity was there in a name like The Dread One or The Fifth Horseman? He would settle for Dave. And they would appear.

[WP] Your name is Dave. People keep trying to call you other things, like "The Scourge of Seven Worlds," or "The Dread One," or "The Fifth Horseman." It's all very annoying. You just want to be called "Dave."

As soon as he came in, I could tell he was going to be one of \*those\* customers. He had the shaved head, gaunt face, coppery smell, and clothes from the 15th century that I'd come to associate with headaches and conversations that go in circles. "Welcome to Dave's Deli. What can I get for you today?" I say as I try to project cheerful professionalism. "I have come to serve you, O Dread One," he says. Of course. I try to keep my smile in place. "Well, thanks, but here at Dave's Deli, we say the customer is always right. Can I get a sandwich started for you?" "The Reckoning approaches. Your army awaits your commands. What do you prescribe?" The woman behind him in line has been slowly backing up. Hopefully I can wrap this up before the paying customers start leaving. "Well, I always like a turkey club. That's on special today for $5.99, with chips and a fountain drink." He pauses, looking a bit perplexed. "As you desire, Destroyer of Worlds," he replies after a while. "Great! Cash or credit?" This is where the conversation usually goes south. "I pledge to you my sword and my valor. I will serve you in the End of Days, Horseman!" he exclaims. The woman behind him walks away as she pretends to answer her phone, which is clearly off. The next customer lingers awkwardly for a moment before following her out. Great, there goes all my business. But I have this guy's valor, apparently. I sigh. "Sir, if you can't pay, then please leave." "I pledge my sword..." "I said, leave," I repeat firmly. "Your army awaits..." "LEAVE!" He looks crestfallen as he shuffles out the door. It's only 12:15, so there's still time for the lunch crowd. I try to collect myself, as I refill the napkin dispenser. The napkins erupt in a burst of flames. I close my eyes and take a deep breath. Get it together, Dave. Your name is Dave, and you run a deli. That's all you need to do. I open my eyes in time to see a family of four coming in. With forced cheerfulness, I plaster a smile on my face. "Welcome to Dave's Deli. What can I get for you today?"

"Dave. It's Dave. That's what you're going to call me." He started and ended another morning with his chin resting on the cold window pane. The winter dragged on, the Christmas lights had gone, their absence piercing the afternoon sunlight. A blank sheet of snow was comfort enough. He had to wait for them to appear. Usually no more than a glint in his peripheral vision. A rustle of a sleeve, a thud of bare foot on parquet, a joint turn and crack. He could not force them to show themselves in full, nor could he make them follow his schedule. "Just Dave this time. Just Dave. Forget the rest." He always prevailed in these matters. Eventually, the resistance let up and he walked away sure of himself. In time, the kids started calling him Dave. He won in the musky waterlogged changerooms. In time, the doctors started calling him Dave. He won in the sterile institution halls. They would accept him, and it really was just a matter of time. Yet they got more determined with each attempt. Sympathy changed to confrontation, benevolent smiles replaced with pursed lips. A bloodlust appeared in the voices, the pity he first sensed and resented had faded. What pity was there in a name like The Dread One or The Fifth Horseman? He would settle for Dave. And they would appear.

[WP] Your name is Dave. People keep trying to call you other things, like "The Scourge of Seven Worlds," or "The Dread One," or "The Fifth Horseman." It's all very annoying. You just want to be called "Dave."

I did everything right. For the last year, I just focused on self-betterment. Eating healthy, working out, saving and investing my money, listening to NPR, listening to Joe Rogan, meditating, doing yoga but not in gay way, not that there’s anything wrong with being gay, I’ve got plenty of gay friends, but I digress….. you know, self-betterment. She was beautiful. We’d only been going out for four months. But I knew she was the one I wanted to marry. One night, I made a mistake of taking her to a fancy restaurant. It was near the bookstore. “What are the odds,” I thought. We left the restaurant in a giggly mood. All of sudden they emerged from the bookstore, wearing their capes. They saw me and screamed. “OH MY GOD! THE DREAD ONE!” She looked at them in a confused manner. I pretended to be baffled as they approached and began to kneel before me. “THE FIFTH HORSEMAN! THE SCOURGE OF SEVEN WORLDS!” “The what?” she said. “Woman does thou not knoweth the most renowned fantasy player in thy realm?” “Wait what,” she said. “Your seed-giver. He is a living legend in our fantasy board game league.” “You play fantasy board games?” “What? No. Of course not!” “But thou does tho. Feast your eyes on me cellular phone.” It was a pic of me in full costume with them. I was about 120 pounds heavier. She knew it was me and asked. “How long were you about this life?” “Four hundredth fortnights me lady.” “What?” “A decade,” I said reluctantly as I heard her pussy dry up like the Sahara desert. “Thou can see our lord is busy with a lady. We only wished to express our praise and hope ye return to thy kingdom some day. Good night my liege.” They left. Then we left. No sex that night. She asked why I didn’t tell her and I told her I was embarrassed. She said it was nothing to be ashamed of. A week later she broke up with me because she “wasn’t feeling it anymore.” Gee, I wonder why. A few weeks later I passed her on the street while she was walking with her friends. One of them said “hi The Dread One.” “My name’s Dave you cunt.” They snickered and kept walking. If there’s one thing I’ve learned in life is that your past will most likely find you. When it does a lot of times there’s nothing you can really do about it. So whatever you’re doing right now; make sure you’re ok with the consequences it might bring. The kingdoms you build will haunt you.

“The antichrist”. “Satan”. “The devil”. You probably know me better from those names, right? Thing is, none of those are correct. I’m genuinely just called Dave. I don’t know how on earth - for it is only on earth that this misconception seems to have occurred - my name got lost in translation over the years. I’ve tried to explain to thousands of you hapless mortals for what feels like an eternity now that it’s Dave, not “The devil” or any of these other bizarre terms, however it’s incredibly difficult to do so when the very sight of me seems to throw even the bravest of souls into a wailing fit of despair. Truth is, I’m not even a bad guy. You’ve heard of hell, I’m sure. I mean, you will have, if you truly know anything of me. What’s all this nonsense about “eternal suffering” and “lakes of lava” and “fire and flames”? You mortals need to, as you put it, chill. The REAL bad guys? They don’t get a heaven OR a hell. They’re toast. Gone. See, Hell is just where all the folk who didn’t make the cut for heaven go. Yeah, it’s a bit shabby round the edges, but hey, better than nothing I reckon. Like my name, it’s just a bit, well, bland. I’d say I rule over the place but I don’t even really do that. I’ll check in now and then, make a wee cuppa here and there. But that’s it really. That’s all. That song you’re all so fond of, about that highway going to hell? Wasted trip if you ask me. So please, call me Dave. That way, when you inevitably end up down here with me, we don’t have to play those god awful (if you’ll pardon the pun) icebreaker games. I’m flattered that you all seem to think I have these unlimited powers, but unless you count my power to bake a MEAN rustic olive focaccia loaf, I’m just a regular bloke really.

[WP] Your name is Dave. People keep trying to call you other things, like "The Scourge of Seven Worlds," or "The Dread One," or "The Fifth Horseman." It's all very annoying. You just want to be called "Dave."

Another robed, bearded man with far too much going on behind his eyes walked into work today. My job is writing legal boilerplates, by the by. My name is Dave. Really. Dave. And Robe Guy is definitely violating the company dress code. He's better than the Burning Man that came in LAST week, though. You know. Man. On fire. Also, no clothing unless you counted the wing stubs. Crotch looked like one of those shows in Hawaii with the flaming stick juggling. Or jiggling. Ew. "DARK LORD OF LEGALESE!" Fuck. Now everyone's staring in the secretarial pool. Again. And I'm gonna snap, because he's using Names. My Names. *sploosh* And spill cold coffee on my goddamn best slacks. "YOUR TIME TO RISE IS AT HAND, TWISTER OF LAW!". OK, that is fucking IT. I yell out the words that will ruin my life. (Okay. His.) "MY. NAME. IS. DAAAAAAAAAAAVE!" and I slam my hand to the desk. Right on top of the letter opener. Blood spurts onto my work. My hand grows...blackened. The color of printer ink. The ruffle of ten thousand collated impact forms fills the air, but not a page is seen. "Dave. DAVE. Dave. DAVE. DAVE. DAVE." - and there goes the entire goddamn room. Eyes filled with something that would make a squid squirt look like liquid paper. Empty of sanity, full of- I wave my hand, and the power erases itself from the room, from the people. The muzak starts like nothing had happened a moment ago. And the robed freak is now wearing a business suit. Just the way I like it. We needed a new intern after the last one snapped. Dave. The Dave. And woe to the mortal who calls me anything else. The new intern is promptly instructed on everyone's coffee needs and sent to Starbreak's for a drink run. Even Hell likes a good latte, if you don't go light on the soul dust.

Dave was only 133 years old but he still got called "Bringer of Pollution" and "He who rides on a horse of plastic and rust". All dave did was make plastic comercially availlable and all of a sudden four people clad in respectively battle armor colored red with the blood of warriors, a long black cape made from the mist of the universe, a plague doctor outfit made out of sickly souls and dirty worn out pants. They introduced themselves as the four horsemen: war, death, plague and famine. After which they told me I was the fifth horseman, "pollution". Dave didn't believe them untill he noticed what his presence did to stuff around him. The ground he walked on decayed became littered with plastic, the wind around him carried the smell of garbage and at least ten empty chips packets, the air he breathed out smelled of burnt plastic. Still he refused to do anything other then normal. He finished college with a in engineering and went on to get a job at a well known hardware store where he worked for 5 years untill he got fired because of all the tools he turned to piles of rust. He tried to get a job in another hardware job but got refused and spent is 2 years in unemployment during which he got visited by plague. Plague told Dave that Armaggedon was started and that he needed to ride out on his horse of plastic and rust. Dave refused because he had a job interview tomorrow. The next day war was at his door. War also tried to convince Dave to start Armageddon with the rest of the horsemen. Dave said no, he wanted to stay on earth a bit longer. Famine was the next to knock on his door but this too was unsuccesful since Dave was at his new job as an officeworker. The last day death came to his job and made a display of power by killing on of Dave's coworkers by just looking at them. Dave was just angry and told death he would never take up his job as the fifth horseman because he was Dave. Dave worked at his current job untill he turned 80 and decided to go on vacation for a bit and discover the world. He met his future wife in germany and married her after a year of being together. When she died 99 he took it really hard and spiralled into a pit of depression until it was 2020 when the four horsemen contacted him again. He agreed on the note that he was to be called Dave.

[WP] Your name is Dave. People keep trying to call you other things, like "The Scourge of Seven Worlds," or "The Dread One," or "The Fifth Horseman." It's all very annoying. You just want to be called "Dave."

I sat in a small cafe, sipping a single-shot cappuccino, and sighed. In the corner nearby, hiding in the shadows, was a very nervous looking skeleton. His eyes, normally a burning flame of hatred and vengeance, looked downright apologetic. He kept looking up at me, and then down, sometimes knocking his bones together. I just wanted a coffee. Alone. Eventually I couldn't stand waiting for him to gather the courage. "Yes?" I asked. "If you're going to say something, at least say it, then you can leave and I can drink my coffee in peace." I never used to be so mean, but this happened all the time. It wears down your soul. The skeleton somehow looked as if all the blood drained from his (already bloodless) face. He stood up, holding a small leather pouch in his hands. "U-uh, great Master of the Nine Shadows, I– I seek your blessing. I want vengeance against those who wrongfully killed me, but... but they are in your territory, oh Malevolent One." He walked up, placed the pouch on the table, bowed, and stepped back. Waiting. I sighed again. "Yes, you may go get your vengeance, but only directly against those that harmed you. Not their family, friends, or town, only them. Understand?" The skeleton gasped in relief that I hadn't somehow melted his bones with a snap of my fingers. "T-Thank you, Ruler of the Endless Night, thank you!" He bowed again and left the cafe as quickly as he could while maintaining formality. I just looked back at my coffee. Another couple minutes rest, I suppose. A tear rolled down my cheek. "It's Dave," I whispered to myself, "just Dave. I don't know who the hell you're all mistaking me for, but I'm just a normal guy." Maybe one day they'll find out and strip the flesh off my bones. I no longer freak out at seeing them. I looked at the pouch, sitting on the table, and saw some diamond rings, ancient golden coins, and loose gems spilling out onto the table. Enough to pay for a lifetime of coffee, I guess. I just wish I could go back to being Dave.

Dave was only 133 years old but he still got called "Bringer of Pollution" and "He who rides on a horse of plastic and rust". All dave did was make plastic comercially availlable and all of a sudden four people clad in respectively battle armor colored red with the blood of warriors, a long black cape made from the mist of the universe, a plague doctor outfit made out of sickly souls and dirty worn out pants. They introduced themselves as the four horsemen: war, death, plague and famine. After which they told me I was the fifth horseman, "pollution". Dave didn't believe them untill he noticed what his presence did to stuff around him. The ground he walked on decayed became littered with plastic, the wind around him carried the smell of garbage and at least ten empty chips packets, the air he breathed out smelled of burnt plastic. Still he refused to do anything other then normal. He finished college with a in engineering and went on to get a job at a well known hardware store where he worked for 5 years untill he got fired because of all the tools he turned to piles of rust. He tried to get a job in another hardware job but got refused and spent is 2 years in unemployment during which he got visited by plague. Plague told Dave that Armaggedon was started and that he needed to ride out on his horse of plastic and rust. Dave refused because he had a job interview tomorrow. The next day war was at his door. War also tried to convince Dave to start Armageddon with the rest of the horsemen. Dave said no, he wanted to stay on earth a bit longer. Famine was the next to knock on his door but this too was unsuccesful since Dave was at his new job as an officeworker. The last day death came to his job and made a display of power by killing on of Dave's coworkers by just looking at them. Dave was just angry and told death he would never take up his job as the fifth horseman because he was Dave. Dave worked at his current job untill he turned 80 and decided to go on vacation for a bit and discover the world. He met his future wife in germany and married her after a year of being together. When she died 99 he took it really hard and spiralled into a pit of depression until it was 2020 when the four horsemen contacted him again. He agreed on the note that he was to be called Dave.

[WP] Your name is Dave. People keep trying to call you other things, like "The Scourge of Seven Worlds," or "The Dread One," or "The Fifth Horseman." It's all very annoying. You just want to be called "Dave."

As soon as he came in, I could tell he was going to be one of \*those\* customers. He had the shaved head, gaunt face, coppery smell, and clothes from the 15th century that I'd come to associate with headaches and conversations that go in circles. "Welcome to Dave's Deli. What can I get for you today?" I say as I try to project cheerful professionalism. "I have come to serve you, O Dread One," he says. Of course. I try to keep my smile in place. "Well, thanks, but here at Dave's Deli, we say the customer is always right. Can I get a sandwich started for you?" "The Reckoning approaches. Your army awaits your commands. What do you prescribe?" The woman behind him in line has been slowly backing up. Hopefully I can wrap this up before the paying customers start leaving. "Well, I always like a turkey club. That's on special today for $5.99, with chips and a fountain drink." He pauses, looking a bit perplexed. "As you desire, Destroyer of Worlds," he replies after a while. "Great! Cash or credit?" This is where the conversation usually goes south. "I pledge to you my sword and my valor. I will serve you in the End of Days, Horseman!" he exclaims. The woman behind him walks away as she pretends to answer her phone, which is clearly off. The next customer lingers awkwardly for a moment before following her out. Great, there goes all my business. But I have this guy's valor, apparently. I sigh. "Sir, if you can't pay, then please leave." "I pledge my sword..." "I said, leave," I repeat firmly. "Your army awaits..." "LEAVE!" He looks crestfallen as he shuffles out the door. It's only 12:15, so there's still time for the lunch crowd. I try to collect myself, as I refill the napkin dispenser. The napkins erupt in a burst of flames. I close my eyes and take a deep breath. Get it together, Dave. Your name is Dave, and you run a deli. That's all you need to do. I open my eyes in time to see a family of four coming in. With forced cheerfulness, I plaster a smile on my face. "Welcome to Dave's Deli. What can I get for you today?"

Dave was only 133 years old but he still got called "Bringer of Pollution" and "He who rides on a horse of plastic and rust". All dave did was make plastic comercially availlable and all of a sudden four people clad in respectively battle armor colored red with the blood of warriors, a long black cape made from the mist of the universe, a plague doctor outfit made out of sickly souls and dirty worn out pants. They introduced themselves as the four horsemen: war, death, plague and famine. After which they told me I was the fifth horseman, "pollution". Dave didn't believe them untill he noticed what his presence did to stuff around him. The ground he walked on decayed became littered with plastic, the wind around him carried the smell of garbage and at least ten empty chips packets, the air he breathed out smelled of burnt plastic. Still he refused to do anything other then normal. He finished college with a in engineering and went on to get a job at a well known hardware store where he worked for 5 years untill he got fired because of all the tools he turned to piles of rust. He tried to get a job in another hardware job but got refused and spent is 2 years in unemployment during which he got visited by plague. Plague told Dave that Armaggedon was started and that he needed to ride out on his horse of plastic and rust. Dave refused because he had a job interview tomorrow. The next day war was at his door. War also tried to convince Dave to start Armageddon with the rest of the horsemen. Dave said no, he wanted to stay on earth a bit longer. Famine was the next to knock on his door but this too was unsuccesful since Dave was at his new job as an officeworker. The last day death came to his job and made a display of power by killing on of Dave's coworkers by just looking at them. Dave was just angry and told death he would never take up his job as the fifth horseman because he was Dave. Dave worked at his current job untill he turned 80 and decided to go on vacation for a bit and discover the world. He met his future wife in germany and married her after a year of being together. When she died 99 he took it really hard and spiralled into a pit of depression until it was 2020 when the four horsemen contacted him again. He agreed on the note that he was to be called Dave.

[WP] Your name is Dave. People keep trying to call you other things, like "The Scourge of Seven Worlds," or "The Dread One," or "The Fifth Horseman." It's all very annoying. You just want to be called "Dave."

I sat in a small cafe, sipping a single-shot cappuccino, and sighed. In the corner nearby, hiding in the shadows, was a very nervous looking skeleton. His eyes, normally a burning flame of hatred and vengeance, looked downright apologetic. He kept looking up at me, and then down, sometimes knocking his bones together. I just wanted a coffee. Alone. Eventually I couldn't stand waiting for him to gather the courage. "Yes?" I asked. "If you're going to say something, at least say it, then you can leave and I can drink my coffee in peace." I never used to be so mean, but this happened all the time. It wears down your soul. The skeleton somehow looked as if all the blood drained from his (already bloodless) face. He stood up, holding a small leather pouch in his hands. "U-uh, great Master of the Nine Shadows, I– I seek your blessing. I want vengeance against those who wrongfully killed me, but... but they are in your territory, oh Malevolent One." He walked up, placed the pouch on the table, bowed, and stepped back. Waiting. I sighed again. "Yes, you may go get your vengeance, but only directly against those that harmed you. Not their family, friends, or town, only them. Understand?" The skeleton gasped in relief that I hadn't somehow melted his bones with a snap of my fingers. "T-Thank you, Ruler of the Endless Night, thank you!" He bowed again and left the cafe as quickly as he could while maintaining formality. I just looked back at my coffee. Another couple minutes rest, I suppose. A tear rolled down my cheek. "It's Dave," I whispered to myself, "just Dave. I don't know who the hell you're all mistaking me for, but I'm just a normal guy." Maybe one day they'll find out and strip the flesh off my bones. I no longer freak out at seeing them. I looked at the pouch, sitting on the table, and saw some diamond rings, ancient golden coins, and loose gems spilling out onto the table. Enough to pay for a lifetime of coffee, I guess. I just wish I could go back to being Dave.

Another robed, bearded man with far too much going on behind his eyes walked into work today. My job is writing legal boilerplates, by the by. My name is Dave. Really. Dave. And Robe Guy is definitely violating the company dress code. He's better than the Burning Man that came in LAST week, though. You know. Man. On fire. Also, no clothing unless you counted the wing stubs. Crotch looked like one of those shows in Hawaii with the flaming stick juggling. Or jiggling. Ew. "DARK LORD OF LEGALESE!" Fuck. Now everyone's staring in the secretarial pool. Again. And I'm gonna snap, because he's using Names. My Names. *sploosh* And spill cold coffee on my goddamn best slacks. "YOUR TIME TO RISE IS AT HAND, TWISTER OF LAW!". OK, that is fucking IT. I yell out the words that will ruin my life. (Okay. His.) "MY. NAME. IS. DAAAAAAAAAAAVE!" and I slam my hand to the desk. Right on top of the letter opener. Blood spurts onto my work. My hand grows...blackened. The color of printer ink. The ruffle of ten thousand collated impact forms fills the air, but not a page is seen. "Dave. DAVE. Dave. DAVE. DAVE. DAVE." - and there goes the entire goddamn room. Eyes filled with something that would make a squid squirt look like liquid paper. Empty of sanity, full of- I wave my hand, and the power erases itself from the room, from the people. The muzak starts like nothing had happened a moment ago. And the robed freak is now wearing a business suit. Just the way I like it. We needed a new intern after the last one snapped. Dave. The Dave. And woe to the mortal who calls me anything else. The new intern is promptly instructed on everyone's coffee needs and sent to Starbreak's for a drink run. Even Hell likes a good latte, if you don't go light on the soul dust.

[WP] Your name is Dave. People keep trying to call you other things, like "The Scourge of Seven Worlds," or "The Dread One," or "The Fifth Horseman." It's all very annoying. You just want to be called "Dave."

I... I think I'm adopted. For one, my dad doesn't look anything like me... He says we have the same eyes, but he doesn't even have a third for fourth eye lid. I don't know what to believe, but he says I'll understand when I'm older. I am only... one hundred and eighty six years? No, one hundred and eighty seven years old, after all. I've always been tall for my age. Dad says I still have a lot of growing to do, before he can put his plans in action... whatever that means. Dad and I live in a volcano, that's fun. We can look down and can see the little village full of... things. They look kinda like Dad, but without the crazy eyebrows. When I was really little, like fifteen or so, I accidentally burnt up his big old bushy beard and singed one of his eyebrows off. He was pissed. And told me to fix it, but I didn't have the words for that. I had never grown a beard. And to this day, I'm not sure why anyone would choose to have a big ball of flammable fur stuck on their face. That's what some would call, an occupational hazard. The things with the well groomed eyebrows come up and call me names. They come up here and wave those sharp pointy metal claws at me whenever I forget and eat the little white hairy things they like so much. I don't think those little white hairy things should be made out of food if your not suppose to eat them. Dad, he talks funny to scare the things with the well groomed eyebrows off. I can't help myself, Dad keeps trying to use the dragon words. But he usually says them with a weird accent and makes me laugh. He might sound stupid, but can still shoot fire from his scary stick and tell clouds to scream at people and burn their house down. But to native speaker he just has a squeaky cute little voice. I don't eat the people, cause dad told me not to. And he tells me that eventually, we will rule over all mankind. That sounds fun. I guess. He keeps telling me about this pretty girl we gotta go help. Her name is Princeps. That's a funny name. I'm gonna be like... "Hello Princeps, my name is Dave and I am here to rescue you." Dad says pretty ladies scream when they are happy. I don't know, I've never met a pretty lady. I hope she is happy to be rescued. Sometimes Dad and I go out for a picnic. His wings fell off a long time ago, cause he is real old. So, I do the flying for him. We go out to his favorite spot with all the big black trees. And he says a whole bunch of dragon words that make those big scary rocks glow. He doesn't know all the dragon words though... I think he is trying to say "Summon fourth" but he keeps saying "Salami five." I tell him the book is wrong, and he just keeps on doing it. I dunno. Dad repeats himself a whole bunch of times and he gets angry and burns something down. I like it when he does that. Then we settle down to eat a mountain goat or two there in the meadow, with those dark trees. We just sit together, watching the planets go out of alignment and cursing. I have such a cool Dad.

Hi! It's me, Dave? Sorry, it was an old photo on my dating profile. Before the flames. Yeah, that's my bad. Anyway, so you say you're into...look, stop screaming. What's wrong? Well, Susan, I'm sorry about the demons, but I've ruled this world for a while now, I thought you'd be used to them. No, I think things are going well. Waiter? Waiter? Did I kill the waiter? Fuck. Gimmie a minute. There we go. THANK YOU WAITER. You have to speak up when talking to the undead, you see. So, anyway. Sorry about that. What are you into? Avenging your father? What do you mean... Ok, Ok, look. *Lots* of people were killed when my armies razed the ten largest cities on Earth. It wasn't anything against your father! I don't see why people get so annoyed about it. Honestly, compared to a lot of things I've done, it's not that bad. Yeah, no, I saw it as I said it. Bad phrasing. But the red sun is cool, though, right? Didn't have that before I showed up. Ok, it's not enough to make up for the acid mines and the Polynesian torture factories, I get that. I'm just saying, it's pretty cool. Right, how about this. I can bring your dad back as a zombie, if you want? Ok, I'm trying to be reasonable, stop yelling Stop... Is that lead? Have people been spreading the rumor that my one weakness is lead again? It's not, you know. I'll have to torture some people to find out why that keeps happening. Sorry, you seem nice, but I just don't think this will work. I have a lifespan of 4000 years and you're furiously stabbing me with a lead knife. I think we should maybe call it a night? Oh, yeah, also your skeleton is aflame now. Sorry. Thought I should take care of that. \*sigh\*. Last time I'm using Tinder. Next time, I'm meeting someone in person. I think we're consuming the cities of South America next week? I'll check my schedule, maybe I'll meet someone there. Well, sorry for all this. Goodbye, Susan. Ah, oops. I keep forgetting. GOODBYE SUSAN!

[WP] Your name is Dave. People keep trying to call you other things, like "The Scourge of Seven Worlds," or "The Dread One," or "The Fifth Horseman." It's all very annoying. You just want to be called "Dave."

As soon as he came in, I could tell he was going to be one of \*those\* customers. He had the shaved head, gaunt face, coppery smell, and clothes from the 15th century that I'd come to associate with headaches and conversations that go in circles. "Welcome to Dave's Deli. What can I get for you today?" I say as I try to project cheerful professionalism. "I have come to serve you, O Dread One," he says. Of course. I try to keep my smile in place. "Well, thanks, but here at Dave's Deli, we say the customer is always right. Can I get a sandwich started for you?" "The Reckoning approaches. Your army awaits your commands. What do you prescribe?" The woman behind him in line has been slowly backing up. Hopefully I can wrap this up before the paying customers start leaving. "Well, I always like a turkey club. That's on special today for $5.99, with chips and a fountain drink." He pauses, looking a bit perplexed. "As you desire, Destroyer of Worlds," he replies after a while. "Great! Cash or credit?" This is where the conversation usually goes south. "I pledge to you my sword and my valor. I will serve you in the End of Days, Horseman!" he exclaims. The woman behind him walks away as she pretends to answer her phone, which is clearly off. The next customer lingers awkwardly for a moment before following her out. Great, there goes all my business. But I have this guy's valor, apparently. I sigh. "Sir, if you can't pay, then please leave." "I pledge my sword..." "I said, leave," I repeat firmly. "Your army awaits..." "LEAVE!" He looks crestfallen as he shuffles out the door. It's only 12:15, so there's still time for the lunch crowd. I try to collect myself, as I refill the napkin dispenser. The napkins erupt in a burst of flames. I close my eyes and take a deep breath. Get it together, Dave. Your name is Dave, and you run a deli. That's all you need to do. I open my eyes in time to see a family of four coming in. With forced cheerfulness, I plaster a smile on my face. "Welcome to Dave's Deli. What can I get for you today?"

Hi! It's me, Dave? Sorry, it was an old photo on my dating profile. Before the flames. Yeah, that's my bad. Anyway, so you say you're into...look, stop screaming. What's wrong? Well, Susan, I'm sorry about the demons, but I've ruled this world for a while now, I thought you'd be used to them. No, I think things are going well. Waiter? Waiter? Did I kill the waiter? Fuck. Gimmie a minute. There we go. THANK YOU WAITER. You have to speak up when talking to the undead, you see. So, anyway. Sorry about that. What are you into? Avenging your father? What do you mean... Ok, Ok, look. *Lots* of people were killed when my armies razed the ten largest cities on Earth. It wasn't anything against your father! I don't see why people get so annoyed about it. Honestly, compared to a lot of things I've done, it's not that bad. Yeah, no, I saw it as I said it. Bad phrasing. But the red sun is cool, though, right? Didn't have that before I showed up. Ok, it's not enough to make up for the acid mines and the Polynesian torture factories, I get that. I'm just saying, it's pretty cool. Right, how about this. I can bring your dad back as a zombie, if you want? Ok, I'm trying to be reasonable, stop yelling Stop... Is that lead? Have people been spreading the rumor that my one weakness is lead again? It's not, you know. I'll have to torture some people to find out why that keeps happening. Sorry, you seem nice, but I just don't think this will work. I have a lifespan of 4000 years and you're furiously stabbing me with a lead knife. I think we should maybe call it a night? Oh, yeah, also your skeleton is aflame now. Sorry. Thought I should take care of that. \*sigh\*. Last time I'm using Tinder. Next time, I'm meeting someone in person. I think we're consuming the cities of South America next week? I'll check my schedule, maybe I'll meet someone there. Well, sorry for all this. Goodbye, Susan. Ah, oops. I keep forgetting. GOODBYE SUSAN!

[WP] Your name is Dave. People keep trying to call you other things, like "The Scourge of Seven Worlds," or "The Dread One," or "The Fifth Horseman." It's all very annoying. You just want to be called "Dave."

As soon as he came in, I could tell he was going to be one of \*those\* customers. He had the shaved head, gaunt face, coppery smell, and clothes from the 15th century that I'd come to associate with headaches and conversations that go in circles. "Welcome to Dave's Deli. What can I get for you today?" I say as I try to project cheerful professionalism. "I have come to serve you, O Dread One," he says. Of course. I try to keep my smile in place. "Well, thanks, but here at Dave's Deli, we say the customer is always right. Can I get a sandwich started for you?" "The Reckoning approaches. Your army awaits your commands. What do you prescribe?" The woman behind him in line has been slowly backing up. Hopefully I can wrap this up before the paying customers start leaving. "Well, I always like a turkey club. That's on special today for $5.99, with chips and a fountain drink." He pauses, looking a bit perplexed. "As you desire, Destroyer of Worlds," he replies after a while. "Great! Cash or credit?" This is where the conversation usually goes south. "I pledge to you my sword and my valor. I will serve you in the End of Days, Horseman!" he exclaims. The woman behind him walks away as she pretends to answer her phone, which is clearly off. The next customer lingers awkwardly for a moment before following her out. Great, there goes all my business. But I have this guy's valor, apparently. I sigh. "Sir, if you can't pay, then please leave." "I pledge my sword..." "I said, leave," I repeat firmly. "Your army awaits..." "LEAVE!" He looks crestfallen as he shuffles out the door. It's only 12:15, so there's still time for the lunch crowd. I try to collect myself, as I refill the napkin dispenser. The napkins erupt in a burst of flames. I close my eyes and take a deep breath. Get it together, Dave. Your name is Dave, and you run a deli. That's all you need to do. I open my eyes in time to see a family of four coming in. With forced cheerfulness, I plaster a smile on my face. "Welcome to Dave's Deli. What can I get for you today?"

I... I think I'm adopted. For one, my dad doesn't look anything like me... He says we have the same eyes, but he doesn't even have a third for fourth eye lid. I don't know what to believe, but he says I'll understand when I'm older. I am only... one hundred and eighty six years? No, one hundred and eighty seven years old, after all. I've always been tall for my age. Dad says I still have a lot of growing to do, before he can put his plans in action... whatever that means. Dad and I live in a volcano, that's fun. We can look down and can see the little village full of... things. They look kinda like Dad, but without the crazy eyebrows. When I was really little, like fifteen or so, I accidentally burnt up his big old bushy beard and singed one of his eyebrows off. He was pissed. And told me to fix it, but I didn't have the words for that. I had never grown a beard. And to this day, I'm not sure why anyone would choose to have a big ball of flammable fur stuck on their face. That's what some would call, an occupational hazard. The things with the well groomed eyebrows come up and call me names. They come up here and wave those sharp pointy metal claws at me whenever I forget and eat the little white hairy things they like so much. I don't think those little white hairy things should be made out of food if your not suppose to eat them. Dad, he talks funny to scare the things with the well groomed eyebrows off. I can't help myself, Dad keeps trying to use the dragon words. But he usually says them with a weird accent and makes me laugh. He might sound stupid, but can still shoot fire from his scary stick and tell clouds to scream at people and burn their house down. But to native speaker he just has a squeaky cute little voice. I don't eat the people, cause dad told me not to. And he tells me that eventually, we will rule over all mankind. That sounds fun. I guess. He keeps telling me about this pretty girl we gotta go help. Her name is Princeps. That's a funny name. I'm gonna be like... "Hello Princeps, my name is Dave and I am here to rescue you." Dad says pretty ladies scream when they are happy. I don't know, I've never met a pretty lady. I hope she is happy to be rescued. Sometimes Dad and I go out for a picnic. His wings fell off a long time ago, cause he is real old. So, I do the flying for him. We go out to his favorite spot with all the big black trees. And he says a whole bunch of dragon words that make those big scary rocks glow. He doesn't know all the dragon words though... I think he is trying to say "Summon fourth" but he keeps saying "Salami five." I tell him the book is wrong, and he just keeps on doing it. I dunno. Dad repeats himself a whole bunch of times and he gets angry and burns something down. I like it when he does that. Then we settle down to eat a mountain goat or two there in the meadow, with those dark trees. We just sit together, watching the planets go out of alignment and cursing. I have such a cool Dad.

[WP] Your name is Dave. People keep trying to call you other things, like "The Scourge of Seven Worlds," or "The Dread One," or "The Fifth Horseman." It's all very annoying. You just want to be called "Dave."

As soon as he came in, I could tell he was going to be one of \*those\* customers. He had the shaved head, gaunt face, coppery smell, and clothes from the 15th century that I'd come to associate with headaches and conversations that go in circles. "Welcome to Dave's Deli. What can I get for you today?" I say as I try to project cheerful professionalism. "I have come to serve you, O Dread One," he says. Of course. I try to keep my smile in place. "Well, thanks, but here at Dave's Deli, we say the customer is always right. Can I get a sandwich started for you?" "The Reckoning approaches. Your army awaits your commands. What do you prescribe?" The woman behind him in line has been slowly backing up. Hopefully I can wrap this up before the paying customers start leaving. "Well, I always like a turkey club. That's on special today for $5.99, with chips and a fountain drink." He pauses, looking a bit perplexed. "As you desire, Destroyer of Worlds," he replies after a while. "Great! Cash or credit?" This is where the conversation usually goes south. "I pledge to you my sword and my valor. I will serve you in the End of Days, Horseman!" he exclaims. The woman behind him walks away as she pretends to answer her phone, which is clearly off. The next customer lingers awkwardly for a moment before following her out. Great, there goes all my business. But I have this guy's valor, apparently. I sigh. "Sir, if you can't pay, then please leave." "I pledge my sword..." "I said, leave," I repeat firmly. "Your army awaits..." "LEAVE!" He looks crestfallen as he shuffles out the door. It's only 12:15, so there's still time for the lunch crowd. I try to collect myself, as I refill the napkin dispenser. The napkins erupt in a burst of flames. I close my eyes and take a deep breath. Get it together, Dave. Your name is Dave, and you run a deli. That's all you need to do. I open my eyes in time to see a family of four coming in. With forced cheerfulness, I plaster a smile on my face. "Welcome to Dave's Deli. What can I get for you today?"

Nothing ever seemed to come easily for Dave. Ask the general to lead an army to siege the wall of Galanth? Failure. Dave had to do the job himself, *and* get a new general. Ask for meals to not include pickles, ever? The green monsters showed up at least once a week, no matter who cooked for him. Fighting a war as supreme leader wasn’t all it was cracked up to be, in Dave’s opinion. Neither was an intimidating throne made of iron spikes and spines. It had poky edges that made sitting in any position uncomfortable, and more than one of Dave’s favorite outfits had been sacrificed to its unforgiving points. It had cost a fortune to make, too. So Dave fidgeted on his uncomfortable overlord throne as the prisoner was brought in. She was bloody and bruised, but fought the guards dragging her in at every turn, spitting like a wild animal. “They don’t call you The Leopard for nothing,” Dave said. “And they don’t call you The Dread One for nothing either!” she fired back, her firey eyes catching his. Dave shifted on the throne. “Leave us,” he said to the guards. The Leopard, feared warrior-mage and ruler of Galanth, didn’t blink or break eye contact as the guards put her down. A woman of many titles, she had experience to match her reputation. “So,” The Leopard said, “how are you going to kill me? Public execution to make your victory absolute? I expect that The Fifth Horseman would have several creative ways to do *that.*” Dave tapped the arm of the throne gently. “Before we get down to business, introductions. What should I call you?” “You have no right to my name,” she spat. He shrugged to cover the shuffling of his legs. “I’ll go first, then. Call me Dave.” “Dave?” she echoed, squinting at him suspiciously. “Dave. Pretty simple name, I’m sure you’ve heard of it.” Dave stretched his arm out and grabbed the meal of the night, some sort of sandwich. She opened her mouth for a few moments before deciding to speak. “I’ve...heard of it.” “Ah, good, then there should be no issues. It’s just Dave, after all.” He held up the sandwich and sniffed it. She shook her head. “Dave? Seriously?” “As serious as I am about not liking pickles.” Dave opened his mouth to take a bite of his sandwich, but saw the look on her face, and thought better of it. “You’d be surprised about how hard it is to get people to learn my name. It’s always ‘Overlord’ this, ‘Dread One’ that. I mean,” he laughed, “‘The Scourge of the Seven Worlds’ is *such* a mouthful, but people keep using it for some reason. I mean, it’s good branding, but it doesn’t roll off the tongue, you know?” “It doesn’t,” she said. Dave moved further forwards on the throne to sit at the edge of his seat. “Alright, enough about me. I *really* don’t feel like calling you Leopard forever, though it is good branding, which I can respect. Give me something.” She shook her head and sighed. “I never thought I’d see the say when I’d tell The Dread One this, but fine. Call me Alexia. If you must,” she added with another glare. Dave sighed. “There it is again. ‘The Dread One.’ How many times do I have to repeat it? It’s *just Dave.*” “Why do you want to be called Dave?” she burst. “You’re despicable!” Dave took a sharp breath and started to gesture with his sandwich. “What is with you people? I don’t ask for much, but *no,* apparently wanting no pickles, world dominion, and to be called by my own name makes me *despicable.*” “It’s mostly the world dominion part,” Alexia said. “You’re oppressing millions with your brutal regime, and who knows how many you’ve performed magical experiments on!” Dave let the sandwich rest. “Oh. That’s what you’re on about?” “It’s not about your name...*Dave*, no. It’s about all the death, destruction, and complete cruelty—“ His eyes lit up. “Finally. *Someone* who uses my name. Now, if you’ll excuse me for one moment, I’m famished. Spent the whole morning torturing your whereabouts out of prisoners and extracted a few souls in the afternoon.” He raised the sandwich up to his mouth, stomach growling. But as soon as he took a bite, something was wrong. He spat out the bite and threw the offending sandwich across the room. Dave formed a ball of fire and shot it at the sandwich, lying prone on the ground. “Pickles!” he muttered, watching it burn into ashes. It was the second most annoying thing about his existence, and he would be happy to watch every pickle burn.

[WP] Your name is Dave. People keep trying to call you other things, like "The Scourge of Seven Worlds," or "The Dread One," or "The Fifth Horseman." It's all very annoying. You just want to be called "Dave."

Davenkothet Keelzedar Vargetorix, he whose heart devours hope and whose whispers cower gods, had not always been called Davenkothet Keelzedar Vargetorix. His mother, Ketra Davidson, a simple yet educated barista who enjoyed romance novels, Victorian history, knitting, and gore-core movies from the 1970s, had dubbed him Davensworth Davidson, or Davie-dunkins for short. She had opted for Davensworth because it sounded noble, after all, it had 'worth' inside of it, while David was common and tired and her child would be anything but common and tired. His father, David Davidson the Eighth, did not agree with his wife's decision, much preferring David Davidson the Ninth. He had compiled a well thought out and organized slide show about why the child's name should be David, a slide show which culminated with "well, we've gone through a lot of trouble getting up to the eighth and it seems like a bit of a waste to toss that away now." Ketra had watched the presentation patiently, smiled here and there and nodded at the proper moments, then presented her own slide show about why he should be called Davensworth. Her slideshow consisted of a single slide which read: "Because I said so." Ketra won the argument in a landslide victory and little Davie-dunkins had squealed into this world with a right respectable name and a flash of fel-fire. David Davidson the Eighth had sulked and pouted and been a poor sport about his defeat in the great naming debate of 1993, but some curious events through little Davie-dunkins life had caused him to reconsider his position. For example, one night David Davidson the Eighth had gone up to Davie-dunkins room to peek in and check if he was sleeping well. He found instead a four year old Davie hovering two feet off the ground over a demonic summoning circle chanting in a language David didn't recognize, but he suspected was foreign, with fel-green light pouring out of his eyes. David had quickly retreated. Another evening, after a hard day's work at Corporation Inc. ("We do things good and stuff"), David thought it would be nice to help Davie-dunkins with his homework. David had, after all, passed Calculus on his second try and was something of a whiz. Unfortunately Davie-dunkins already had help, his room was filled with behooved and behorned youths who seemed to suffer some rather terrible skin conditions and whose clothing choices flagged them as bad influences. David once again stepped out, and shook his head. He was beginning to think that, all things considered, it might have been a good thing that he lost that argument so long ago. Maybe they could call the next one David and that one could carry forward the family legacy, this other Dave-child wasn't quite up to snuff in his books. Things went on like this for a few years, Davie-dunkins grew into a Davensworth, and then into a Davenkothet Keelzedar Vargetorix when his unruly gang of friends initiated him into whatever nonsense they were involved in. There was a bit of a kerfuffle after dinner, a tuna-mac-n-cheese bake, over little-Davie's life choices and facial tattoos and refusal to speak in anything other than iambic hexameter, and big-David's refusal to countenance any alternative lifestyles that didn't involve working for Corporation Inc. or at least Business Co., one night in 2014 which had culminated in a lot of broken dishes, a couple broken feelings, and one broken family. David kicked Davie out into the world on his own to "learn what life is really all about." Davie's gang of hoodlums were in the news frequently for their flash-mob style performances which included calling down meteor strikes on Mega Co. headquarters, summoning a plague of sewer rabbits in New York City, and replacing all songs on the FM radio with Tibetan throat-singing for three days straight. David watched his son, and would wonder to himself where he went wrong. His poor boy, acting out in such a fashion and him not being able to share his knowledge with the lad, not being able to properly explain why living the calm and steady life he did wasn't really all that bad. The two didn't speak for many years. Then, one night, a knocking came at the door. David, becaned and begoggled in his age, went to the door and opened it to see his son, tattood and hoodied, looking properly depressed. "Hey, dad." "Hey, son." The two stared at each other wordlessly for a long time, in that manner of communication men prefer, that silence that says "you're here, and I'm here, and that's what's happening right now and that's okay" (but which many people interpret, rather unfairly, to mean "I absolutely hate this, please go away"). David broke the nonversation off by turning about and walking into his house, through the foyer and into the den to pour a drink, and leaving the door open in that charitable and hospitably wordless way fathers do, there may even have been a grunt or two. Davie walked in soundlessly behind him, and accepted the proffered glass of whiskey. The two sat down, David in the armed chair which had been the only piece of furniture in the house he'd been allowed to pick (from three options selected by Ketra), Davie on the couch. Somewhere around the second whisky, David broke the silence. "So, Davenkothet Keelze--" "Just Dave, dad. I'm done with that stuff now. I just wanted to know if you had any," he struggled with this part, "any advice for me, about how to, you know, life and stuff." David smiled. "Of [course](https://www.reddit.com/r/jacktheritter), son."

I pushed open the door to the tavern and walked in, shaking the rain off of my coat. The noises of the common-room rolled over me; glasses clinking, cloths rustling and the slow steady hum of conversation. Then they began to notice. Silence spread out, like ripples in a pond as the patrons of *The Last Stand* realized I was there. I sighed. It was going to be one of *those* nights. I made my way to the booths that Lasner, the owner, set up against the far wall. There was a Scraeling seated there with an armor sigil indicating that he was blood-bound to the Lord of the Seventh Tower. Despite that, he shuffled out as soon as I walked towards him. His eyes never rose to meet mine. I sat on the bench and made a point of placing my right hand in full view on the table. I wasn’t wearing the Gauntlet of Ash or any other objects of Power that came with my position among the Horsemen. I leaned back and waited. After a while the conversations resumed, albeit much subdued. Eventually Tiera, Lasner’s daughter and barmaid, approached. “W...What can I get for you, Dreadlord?” Her voice had none of the cheer that I was used to hearing. By the gods, she sounded terrified. She wouldn’t even look at me. “Tiera” I said. “Tiera, its still me. It’s still Dave.” Her eyes darted up to my face, fastened on the faintly glowing sigil between my eyes, and went right back to the table. “As you say, Scourge-lord”. I closed my eyes and took a deep breath. It was like Valdenfall all over again. I made a conscious effort to keep the irritation from my voice. “Bring me ale, please. And whatever is on the roast”. Tiera nodded, still not looking at me, and fled back to the kitchen. Jaralk’s rune pulsed faintly in my mind; a sending that indicated he wanted to talk. I ignored it. I was off duty. For the first time in weeks, I could simply be me again and not the Horseman of Ash, Dread Scourge of the Seven Worlds. I looked around the tavern at the patrons who trying very hard not to stare. Sure I could. From the far side of the room, Lasner was looking at me from his position behind the bar. I’ve known the old man for years, from back when I enlisted with the Stormrunner Company all those years ago. When he saw me looking back, Lasner dropped his eyes to the bar. I leaned my head against the wall and sighed. I was willing to bet anything that if I went up to him, he would call me ‘Earthbreaker’ or ‘Charred One’ or something ridiculous like that. It was just a *position* dammit. I left before Teira got back with the ale and roast. If I tried very hard, I might be able to forget the palpable sigh of relief that went through the room as I closed the door behind me. Fine. If I’m not welcome in the old hangouts as Dave, then I guess I’m going back to being the Scourge of Worlds. With an effort of will, I summoned my gauntlet and helm. If Jaralk wanted to talk to me, that meant that we were probably launching another offensive against the Mistkeepers. It was something to pass the time.

[WP] A necromancer doesn't know that he can bring back the dead using magic, he just thinks he's a really good doctor.

For years they had called him an ambulance chaser, a parasite, a drain on society. Even in law school most of his peers had either laughed at him or avoided him. Those who had gone into law to protect civil rights called him immoral, and those who had chosen law in order to make a ton of money called him an idiot. But this case, this would be the defining case of his career. Medical law wasn't the most glamorous of careers, but oh boy could it be ... strange. The first time a client who reeked of death had appeared in John Maggel's office, shambling with every step as if he had lost control of his basic motor functions, he had thought it was an isolated incident. An anomaly: man suffers brain damage after being reanimated. Sad, of course, but no cause for anyone to suspect that something unethical, or even, unholy, might be taking place. That was until John met Sascha. Now Sascha wasn't his run of the mill client; Sascha was a bus driver. And although being a bus driver is an honorable profession, they are not exactly regularly screened for cognitive abilities.So when Sascha clocked into work hunch-backed and mumbling about brains, her colleagues wrote it off as her just needing an extra cup of coffee, she'd be fine.When Sascha, however proceeded to drive head-first off a cliff with a packed morning-commute bus, only to walk away, well, unscathed might be an exaggeration as she had ripped her arm right off, but it didn't seem to bother her that much. Sascha's family brought her in after the ordeal, as they were both very concerned about her health as well as the fact that she might be liable for the dozens that had died in the crash. Sascha had just been reinstated at work after suffering complications with her heart. She had gone to see a doctor Levi who had cured her, quite miraculously. Now John had had other clients who had had dealings with this mystery doctor, and they all seemed to have similar problems. But whenever he tried to get a phone call to inform about a class action lawsuit, the line was always disconnected. This time though, he knew he had doctor Levi dead to rights. And he had a literal busload of clients to prove it. Because doctor Levi and his team had been the first on the scene of the crash, and the passengers followed their driver into the lawyer's office the same way that they had followed their driver down the cliff: without any say in the matter. When the day of the trial came John Maggel wore his finest three piece suit and made sure he looked the part of an impeccable lawyer. His nephew had given him a pin to wear, of a helmet with a cross on it, he'd told him that it represented a 'paladin', whatever that might be. John Maggel somehow felt that it might just be the good luck charm he would need today. In his opening statement John Maggel was brief and fierce. Questioning the legitimacy of doctor Levi's medical degree. 'Where even is this *college of Winterhold*?' he asked.He attacked the would-be physician's moral character in every way he could short of mentioning the fact that his last name was an anagram for the word evil.It couldn't have gone better, John Maggel thought. This case might just be the defining moment of his career.He could however not shake the piercing eyes of the doctor's defense council, if the doctor WAS in fact a necromancer then surely this man was a demon in human form. When the time came for the defense to make its statement however, John Maggel's day, and perhaps career, was ruined. 'The defense does not deem it necessary to respond to any of the allegations made against my client today. We simply ask that the defense proceed with the testimony of their representatives.' John Maggel felt an eery suspicion, but he had no other course of action.When the first passenger ascended the stage mumbling, John Maggel realised he had made a terrible mistake. One by one the witless zombies made their way through the court, saying nothing of substance. The court notary squinted her eyes as she typed down every *ugggh* and *ahhhh* and *brainzzz.* In the end, Sascha herself, who was supposed to be the crown witness vomited a vile black bile on the floor, instead of saying anything remotely coherent. The judge deemed the members of the prosecuting party unfit to testify, and the case was thrown out. John Maggel learned a valuable lesson that day. He learned that as evil an art as necromancy might be, it would never be able to hold a candle to bureaucracy.

The woman's heels clicked softly across the floor, _click click click_, as she followed the waiter to the window booth where the man was sitting. Although he was gazing out of the window, his face turned away from her, she knew- as did most of the city- what he looked like. His face was splashed across billboards all across the city, after all; his square-jawed, blue-eyed patrician's gaze looking out at all of them, smiling benevolently at a populace he'd saved from countless brinks of death. "Dr West?", she spoke, smiling first at the waiter as he span on his heel and walked away, and then at the seated man as he turned his attention to her. As he gestured to her to sit, she slipped into the seat, her eyes fixed on his. "Herb, please", he replied, and his voice was warm, deep, comforting; a hug, a blanket, a salve for the soul. He smiled, and those blue eyes twinkled. For a moment, she let herself forget why she was there, let herself forget everything she'd heard about him- then he dropped the smile, and something _dark_ lashed behind his eyes. "Herb, sure. I'm Daniella Cain. From The Herald?", she widened her eyes slightly with the question mark, and allowed herself a smile when he nodded in recognition. "Of course, Miss Cain. I've read your paper a few times- and of course, I'm familiar with...." He paused, sighed, added, "What can I help you with? I assume this is about..." "Major Clapham-Lee. Dean Halsey. Yes. Both of them were friends of yours, and patients of yours. Both men were known to be close to death when they came to you. Both men made full recoveries, being reported by friends and family as...." she held up a finger, dug in her purse for a notepad, lowering her finger after she'd flicked a few pages, "quote '_hale and hearty_' unquote. Both men _also_, a short while after their recoveries, became what can only be described as '_explosively violent and murderous_'." She looked up at him, her eyes meeting his, and although he smiled again, although his brow knit in confusion, she saw that darkness lashing behind his eyes once more. "I'm not sure where you're going with this, Miss Cain", he replied, anger and suspicion hardening his voice, "but I'm not sure I appreciate your tone". "Both men", she continued smoothly as though he hadn't spoken, "both men were subdued by armed officers, and shot to death in tragic accidents. At their post mortem, the medical examiner noted that both men had, and I apologise if I get the terminology wrong here, flesh mortification consistent with decomposition of several weeks. That is to say, although both men had _seemed_ healthy, they had, in fact, been dead for several weeks. We found out that several of your other patients had been involved in reports of violence, and several of those, too, had decomposition consistent with several weeks of death when they'd been dead only a day or two. All of them, in addition, had a strange concoction in their veins". At this she leaned forward, at this she stared that darkness down until the lashing behind his eyes eased a little. "So tell me, _Herb_, have you always known you were bringing them back from the dead, or did you really think you'd developed a miracle cure?". "I..." he opened his mouth, shut it. For a long moment she fancied she saw the darkness shrink away- but only for a moment, for it flared enough to darken his eyes for a second, as he smirked and opened his mouth to reply. --------------------------------- Sorry if this doesn't _exactly_ fit the theme of the prompt, but I saw this, and the idea came to mind. I haven't replied to many of these, or written for a little bit, so I hope this is okay!

[WP] A necromancer doesn't know that he can bring back the dead using magic, he just thinks he's a really good doctor.

My pager went off. It only does for the worst kinds of emergencies. I stand up, a half-eaten lunch already forgotten on the cafeteria table. I start running to the emergency department. Other doctors and nurses step aside quickly. They know what it means when I am running. Someone has died. I don't know how I got these skills, or this reputation. I just know that the more urgent the situation is, the better I seem to perform. The number of patients declared medically dead before I manage to bring back a steady heartbeat... I have lost count. But that doesn't stop the adrenaline pounding in my own heart whenever that pager starts beeping. I finally come to the doors of the surgery room. A man in his 40s is lying still on the table. A nurse is doing a final check on vitals. A doctor is sitting on the ground, back against a wall, looking very tired. They look up as I enter. "Dr. Stein!" The nurse spoke quickly. "We've already called it. Several lacerations across the spine, from a car crash with no seatbelt. Wounds all over, but the spine seems to be what got him in the end. I thought you might be able to help, but..." She gestured at the lifeless corpse on the table. I looked, saw the bruises and cuts all over. But surely there was something I could do. There's always something. "Don't unplug the monitor yet." I said, walking quickly to the sink to wash my hands. "It might be a small chance, but I've worked with small chances before." The nurse looked unsure, glancing at the doctor still sitting on the floor. He nodded to her, and slowly stood up. "He's the best we've ever seen, Rose, we'd better do anything he asks, no time to question now." For the next 40 minutes, we pumped the man's heart and fed him oxygen. I pulled tendons and spinal cord together, patching up as best as I could. As I reattached muscle and tendon, I swear I could see them fuse together. That happened sometimes. I had discussed it with other doctors in the past, they reckoned it was a minor stress-induced hallucination, coming from a strong belief that I _was_ healing them to such an extent. They thought it was why I was such a good doctor. I'm not so sure. As I worked, I muttered in the old tongue my grandma used to whisper to me. I have no idea what the words mean, but it always calmed me when she spoke them to me, and I noticed it has the same effect on my patients. Even under anaesthesia, they seem to calm when I start speaking the words. I think they are some kind of ancient arabic. I kept working, and speaking, until there was a moment of intuition. "Ok," I said, "turn off the life support, the heart and lungs should be functioning independently now." The nurse and doctor, who had been diligently focused on the work, looked up with raised eyebrows. But by now they really had come to trust me. They turned off the machines, and watched as the heart continued to beat. The chest continued to rise and fall with a steady breath. The doctor breathed out a sigh of amazement. The nurse had tears running down her cheeks, looking over to the table where the papers were to declare a death. They were half filled out. 15 minutes later, just as we had moved the patient to a non-urgent ward in the hospital, he opened his eyes and spoke. The nurse almost fainted. "I lived for my wife and kids, but sometimes I would be angry at both." He spoke with a distant look in his eyes, like he was still waking up, but the words were clear. "I would live for a higher purpose, if it were offered to me." He slowly looked at me. This happens a lot, too. People I treat seem to wake far sooner than the drugs would normally allow, and they always seem to want advice on how to live, what to do. "It is a noble thing, to live for your family," I reassured him, "but perhaps you can seek therapy to resolve your anger issues, to care for them better. But for now, it's good that you rest." The man nodded, satisfied with that response. He closed his eyes and went to sleep almost immediately. I sighed, letting the tension of the day out. Another miracle. He would check up on me periodically for the rest of his life. The others all do. They keep asking if there's anything they can do for me. I guess they think they owe anything to the man that brought them back from the brink (sometimes past the brink) of death. I haven't really needed anything so far, I'm just happy to do my job. But sometimes I wonder. I have saved hundreds so far. What happens when it reaches thousands? What can I do with an army of grateful people? Is there some way to make this world a better place?

The woman's heels clicked softly across the floor, _click click click_, as she followed the waiter to the window booth where the man was sitting. Although he was gazing out of the window, his face turned away from her, she knew- as did most of the city- what he looked like. His face was splashed across billboards all across the city, after all; his square-jawed, blue-eyed patrician's gaze looking out at all of them, smiling benevolently at a populace he'd saved from countless brinks of death. "Dr West?", she spoke, smiling first at the waiter as he span on his heel and walked away, and then at the seated man as he turned his attention to her. As he gestured to her to sit, she slipped into the seat, her eyes fixed on his. "Herb, please", he replied, and his voice was warm, deep, comforting; a hug, a blanket, a salve for the soul. He smiled, and those blue eyes twinkled. For a moment, she let herself forget why she was there, let herself forget everything she'd heard about him- then he dropped the smile, and something _dark_ lashed behind his eyes. "Herb, sure. I'm Daniella Cain. From The Herald?", she widened her eyes slightly with the question mark, and allowed herself a smile when he nodded in recognition. "Of course, Miss Cain. I've read your paper a few times- and of course, I'm familiar with...." He paused, sighed, added, "What can I help you with? I assume this is about..." "Major Clapham-Lee. Dean Halsey. Yes. Both of them were friends of yours, and patients of yours. Both men were known to be close to death when they came to you. Both men made full recoveries, being reported by friends and family as...." she held up a finger, dug in her purse for a notepad, lowering her finger after she'd flicked a few pages, "quote '_hale and hearty_' unquote. Both men _also_, a short while after their recoveries, became what can only be described as '_explosively violent and murderous_'." She looked up at him, her eyes meeting his, and although he smiled again, although his brow knit in confusion, she saw that darkness lashing behind his eyes once more. "I'm not sure where you're going with this, Miss Cain", he replied, anger and suspicion hardening his voice, "but I'm not sure I appreciate your tone". "Both men", she continued smoothly as though he hadn't spoken, "both men were subdued by armed officers, and shot to death in tragic accidents. At their post mortem, the medical examiner noted that both men had, and I apologise if I get the terminology wrong here, flesh mortification consistent with decomposition of several weeks. That is to say, although both men had _seemed_ healthy, they had, in fact, been dead for several weeks. We found out that several of your other patients had been involved in reports of violence, and several of those, too, had decomposition consistent with several weeks of death when they'd been dead only a day or two. All of them, in addition, had a strange concoction in their veins". At this she leaned forward, at this she stared that darkness down until the lashing behind his eyes eased a little. "So tell me, _Herb_, have you always known you were bringing them back from the dead, or did you really think you'd developed a miracle cure?". "I..." he opened his mouth, shut it. For a long moment she fancied she saw the darkness shrink away- but only for a moment, for it flared enough to darken his eyes for a second, as he smirked and opened his mouth to reply. --------------------------------- Sorry if this doesn't _exactly_ fit the theme of the prompt, but I saw this, and the idea came to mind. I haven't replied to many of these, or written for a little bit, so I hope this is okay!

[WP] A necromancer doesn't know that he can bring back the dead using magic, he just thinks he's a really good doctor.

I've always been a good surgeon. It started when I was young, you see. I always had a fascination with more... macabre pursuits. I would wander in the woods outside of my family's manor and if I were ever to come across a corpse of an animal dedicated from a fresh kill, well, I wouldn't be able to help myself. I wanted to see what made the creatures around me tick. Mother was never too pleased about my return, my fine shirt stained in blood. It turned from a childhood pursuit of analyzing animal corpses to performing improvised dissections out in the woods, scalpels of sharpened stone and forceps naught more than my own two hands. My parents saw this as an excellent opportunity. I pursued the biological studies better than anything else during my education, enjoyed the class dissections staring fascinated while my peers squirmed and retched. I graduated my primary school with a goal. I wished to learn what made people tick, and moreover I wished to fix them when what made them tick stopped working. I went to university and majored in the anatomical studies and excelled, earning accolades from the university leadership, my professors and my peers. The mock trials were a cinch, the anatomical studies of cadavers fascinating, and the live practice... exhilarating. At university I also met the love of my life, Julia. It was a chance encounter, we simply met eyes while I was studying for an exam in the university library and she was checking out books. I was stunned when our eyes met, although I know her eyes saw nothing more than a meeting of eyes with a stranger. I watched as she left the library, her gorgeous hair trailing behind her. I looked for her after that day, I wished to ask her to court. She denied at first, but my persistence let us be together. We did much together, we spent time at her family home downtown, ventured through the park on long walks to her home, spent time at restaurants and cafes.... she always was a foodie. I always loved to draw her image wherever I went, the lessons taken in anatomical sketching put to excellent use. We both graduated university in the same year. I graduated with an early doctorate, my natural talents leading me to skip many requisite courses and I quickly set up my own practice. I was very successful, although Julia didn't take much noticed. Ah, Julia... ever focused on her career. I watched her grow and develop her own business, she took to art very well and was quite a successful artist in her own right, painting for lords and nobility that resided at the center of our town. I became known as a miracle worker of sorts, capable of closing the most heinous of lacerations, fixing wounds other surgeons would have written off as irreparably fatal, taking care with my revolutionary methods of hand washing and my unique methods of conducting surgery, preventing heinous infection from taking root. Patients flocked to me far and wide, the old and the young, the ill and the well. But my love and fascination always went to Julia. I wished to know what made her tick. I paid a visit to her home, wishing to show off my talents. She tried to turn me away once more, recreating our first meeting all those years ago the silly girl... but I entered into her home laughing away, recalling all the time we had spent together. But I was confused. She screamed and turned to run, she splashed hot tea she had prepared for my visit all over my face, scalding me. She grabbed the knife for her tea cakes and ran at me. Why was my darling treating me this way? I came to covered in blood. My beloved who had turned so harshly after all the time we spent together this fateful night. When I had thrown rocks at her window at her old family home, beckoning her to come outside. When that hadn't worked, simply watching her elegance from outside. Walking her to her home after classes, watching over her from afar. Enjoying the same meals she enjoyed at her cafes, even if they weren't always to my taste... such wonderful times and yet she hurt me so. My thoughts turned to all of my sketches in my room at my home down the road... and I set to work. It was not easy sequestering her corpse to my practice. The night guards were all about that night, but I made it safely and without incident. I could fix her, I knew I could. I had set still hearts beating again in the past after all. I laid her elegance in my theater and set to work. I connected old arteries, I transfused the correct blood type, I sewed her delightful checks back together, her face given a perfect smile. I put a glass eye in her one empty socket, and put her broken skull plate back into position. I worked and worked, and slowly she was becoming whole once more... even more perfect than before. She rose from the table, docile and mine. I knew I could do it. I've *always* been a good surgeon.

The woman's heels clicked softly across the floor, _click click click_, as she followed the waiter to the window booth where the man was sitting. Although he was gazing out of the window, his face turned away from her, she knew- as did most of the city- what he looked like. His face was splashed across billboards all across the city, after all; his square-jawed, blue-eyed patrician's gaze looking out at all of them, smiling benevolently at a populace he'd saved from countless brinks of death. "Dr West?", she spoke, smiling first at the waiter as he span on his heel and walked away, and then at the seated man as he turned his attention to her. As he gestured to her to sit, she slipped into the seat, her eyes fixed on his. "Herb, please", he replied, and his voice was warm, deep, comforting; a hug, a blanket, a salve for the soul. He smiled, and those blue eyes twinkled. For a moment, she let herself forget why she was there, let herself forget everything she'd heard about him- then he dropped the smile, and something _dark_ lashed behind his eyes. "Herb, sure. I'm Daniella Cain. From The Herald?", she widened her eyes slightly with the question mark, and allowed herself a smile when he nodded in recognition. "Of course, Miss Cain. I've read your paper a few times- and of course, I'm familiar with...." He paused, sighed, added, "What can I help you with? I assume this is about..." "Major Clapham-Lee. Dean Halsey. Yes. Both of them were friends of yours, and patients of yours. Both men were known to be close to death when they came to you. Both men made full recoveries, being reported by friends and family as...." she held up a finger, dug in her purse for a notepad, lowering her finger after she'd flicked a few pages, "quote '_hale and hearty_' unquote. Both men _also_, a short while after their recoveries, became what can only be described as '_explosively violent and murderous_'." She looked up at him, her eyes meeting his, and although he smiled again, although his brow knit in confusion, she saw that darkness lashing behind his eyes once more. "I'm not sure where you're going with this, Miss Cain", he replied, anger and suspicion hardening his voice, "but I'm not sure I appreciate your tone". "Both men", she continued smoothly as though he hadn't spoken, "both men were subdued by armed officers, and shot to death in tragic accidents. At their post mortem, the medical examiner noted that both men had, and I apologise if I get the terminology wrong here, flesh mortification consistent with decomposition of several weeks. That is to say, although both men had _seemed_ healthy, they had, in fact, been dead for several weeks. We found out that several of your other patients had been involved in reports of violence, and several of those, too, had decomposition consistent with several weeks of death when they'd been dead only a day or two. All of them, in addition, had a strange concoction in their veins". At this she leaned forward, at this she stared that darkness down until the lashing behind his eyes eased a little. "So tell me, _Herb_, have you always known you were bringing them back from the dead, or did you really think you'd developed a miracle cure?". "I..." he opened his mouth, shut it. For a long moment she fancied she saw the darkness shrink away- but only for a moment, for it flared enough to darken his eyes for a second, as he smirked and opened his mouth to reply. --------------------------------- Sorry if this doesn't _exactly_ fit the theme of the prompt, but I saw this, and the idea came to mind. I haven't replied to many of these, or written for a little bit, so I hope this is okay!

[WP] A necromancer doesn't know that he can bring back the dead using magic, he just thinks he's a really good doctor.

"Well... shit." Dr. B said as soon as she was back in the surgical workroom, away from the patient's frantic family. She slipped into the chair as the rest of the trauma team filed in behind her, crowding around the single computer as Dr. B pulled up the CT. "Can't believe he was still talking, let alone awake with a fucking pole through his gut." Jake said as he slid into the room, which was more closet sized than anything. The temperature started to rise as the rest of the trauma team pushed their ways in, shoulder to shoulder. "And that the ER was even able to get a CT." Tom, the chief surg resident, remarked from the doorway. He wasn't even on the case but still wanted to see what the hell was going on. Dr. B couldn't blame him - this was something she'd only read about in journals and hadn't actually seen before. She glanced over at the M3, who for once looked wide awake at 4:47 am. They were undoubtedly aware this could easily be turned into a case study. "We're dealing with the gut, not a stroke." Dr. B sighed as she scrolled through the CT. "I've only read about this, but I suppose it was only a matter of time before we saw it." The room was quiet as Dr. B stopped at a certain part of the CT. The senior residents started crowding around behind her, pushing the med students to the back corners of the tiny, closet sized room. "Is that... the celiac trunk?" Jake's voice was, for once, uncertain. "That *was* the celiac." Tom confirmed gravely. "His SMA and IMA are about as bad, too. Frankly, I don't know how he's alive at this point." Dr. B said quietly before rubbing her temples. This was going to be an all-day and nighter at the least, and even if they could get vasc surg into the OR with them, it probably wouldn't be enough for the poor guy. He'd been hit by a drunk driver on his way home from a double shift. She'd just met his wife, too, who had brought their kids to the hospital still in their pajamas. It was going to be hard to make his miraculous recovery look plausible. (Not impossible, though - just hard.) Dr. B stood up and the residents immediately backed up and started backpedalling toward the door. It was a weird habit that she'd noticed them start to do in the past year or so, when the department had decided to take interest her eight year 0-mortality streak. She'd only seen them do it with the old guns, the 80 year olds who remembered when residents actually l*ived* in the hospital. It was a weird kind of respect and awe she wasn't fully comfortable with yet. It was strange to go from being "the female surgeon" to *that* surgeon. "Alright. Jake, you take our med student and get scrubbed in. It's OR 5, I'll meet you there. The rest of you know what to do." Dr. B said, still rubbing her temples. She needed some ibuprofen and a nap. "Yes ma'am!" Jake and the med student immediately ran off, pushing through the rest of the team to get out first. Dr. B sighed and stepped out of the pseudo computer closet once everyone else was gone. She made her way through the pre-op bay to the bed where her patient had been set up. Tom trailed behind. "You want some help on this one?" Tom asked once they got there, before she went through the dividing curtain. Dr. B shook her head. "We'll take care of it." She said as she passed through the veil. "Absolutely. He's in good hands." Tom nodded, pretending he didn't hear the EKG's rapid beeping shift to a slower, more normal pace behind the curtain. He waited until he heard the EKG stay at a normal pace for another few moments. He smiled, and then quietly walked away.

The woman's heels clicked softly across the floor, _click click click_, as she followed the waiter to the window booth where the man was sitting. Although he was gazing out of the window, his face turned away from her, she knew- as did most of the city- what he looked like. His face was splashed across billboards all across the city, after all; his square-jawed, blue-eyed patrician's gaze looking out at all of them, smiling benevolently at a populace he'd saved from countless brinks of death. "Dr West?", she spoke, smiling first at the waiter as he span on his heel and walked away, and then at the seated man as he turned his attention to her. As he gestured to her to sit, she slipped into the seat, her eyes fixed on his. "Herb, please", he replied, and his voice was warm, deep, comforting; a hug, a blanket, a salve for the soul. He smiled, and those blue eyes twinkled. For a moment, she let herself forget why she was there, let herself forget everything she'd heard about him- then he dropped the smile, and something _dark_ lashed behind his eyes. "Herb, sure. I'm Daniella Cain. From The Herald?", she widened her eyes slightly with the question mark, and allowed herself a smile when he nodded in recognition. "Of course, Miss Cain. I've read your paper a few times- and of course, I'm familiar with...." He paused, sighed, added, "What can I help you with? I assume this is about..." "Major Clapham-Lee. Dean Halsey. Yes. Both of them were friends of yours, and patients of yours. Both men were known to be close to death when they came to you. Both men made full recoveries, being reported by friends and family as...." she held up a finger, dug in her purse for a notepad, lowering her finger after she'd flicked a few pages, "quote '_hale and hearty_' unquote. Both men _also_, a short while after their recoveries, became what can only be described as '_explosively violent and murderous_'." She looked up at him, her eyes meeting his, and although he smiled again, although his brow knit in confusion, she saw that darkness lashing behind his eyes once more. "I'm not sure where you're going with this, Miss Cain", he replied, anger and suspicion hardening his voice, "but I'm not sure I appreciate your tone". "Both men", she continued smoothly as though he hadn't spoken, "both men were subdued by armed officers, and shot to death in tragic accidents. At their post mortem, the medical examiner noted that both men had, and I apologise if I get the terminology wrong here, flesh mortification consistent with decomposition of several weeks. That is to say, although both men had _seemed_ healthy, they had, in fact, been dead for several weeks. We found out that several of your other patients had been involved in reports of violence, and several of those, too, had decomposition consistent with several weeks of death when they'd been dead only a day or two. All of them, in addition, had a strange concoction in their veins". At this she leaned forward, at this she stared that darkness down until the lashing behind his eyes eased a little. "So tell me, _Herb_, have you always known you were bringing them back from the dead, or did you really think you'd developed a miracle cure?". "I..." he opened his mouth, shut it. For a long moment she fancied she saw the darkness shrink away- but only for a moment, for it flared enough to darken his eyes for a second, as he smirked and opened his mouth to reply. --------------------------------- Sorry if this doesn't _exactly_ fit the theme of the prompt, but I saw this, and the idea came to mind. I haven't replied to many of these, or written for a little bit, so I hope this is okay!

[WP] A necromancer doesn't know that he can bring back the dead using magic, he just thinks he's a really good doctor.

The perks were great, the nice car, the good-sized house, the awards, recognition from peers. After all, being the country’s leading cardiologist and heart surgeon took a lot of skill and technical ability. Well, I like to let them think that anyway. I haven’t lost a patient in 6 years. It shouldn’t be possible, I do around two surgeries a week. People come from all over the world and pay ridiculous amounts of money to get onto my table. It seems that they can give me the people that are for sure doomed to die on the slab, and without fail, they all pull out of it no matter their age, congenital defects or cardio abnormalities. Have you ever felt you have imposter syndrome? I live it every day, these people shouldn’t survive my surgery, and some of them flat out die on the table, some for minutes at a time, but they always come back. In my first year in surgical they christened me the ‘comeback kid’ and the name has stuck, but what was first an endearing nickname that came about by an air of beginners luck, was now uttered with a bit of ice under the breath of other surgeons. My patients all recover, but not quite to the extent you would expect, not that anyone ever expects things to go back to normal after heart surgery. They report strange things like incredibly weak pulses, ravenous hunger and an affinity for blue rare meats, but for the most part life goes on, even if their family members mention their dear ones seem to be more aloof than they were before. We recommend counselling and chalk it up to coming face to face with their mortality for the most part, but it doesn’t quite sit right. Today’s surgery was one of those that leaves me shaking and confused. She was dead, at eight years old, after myself and my entire surgical team witnessed the most erratic ventricular fibrillation we had ever experienced, right there on our table. She had lost so much blood, her skin was growing cold around where I worked, I could feel it through the gloves. I was sure today was the day. They all stared at me, the anaesthesiologist had tracks down his mask where he had been crying, and I could hear the haunting sobbing of family that was in the viewing window. I closed my eyes did what I always do. I clasped my hands over the tiny heart, filling her minute chest cavity with my hands,and I started to pump gently with the rhythm in my head that always started when they flat lined. I pictured the structures of the heart in my mind, and I visualised a bright white liquid flowing and healing through each chamber as it moved. One, two, three, four. And the monitor lit up, weak but present. There were howls of relief and gasps of disbelief from all but my usual surgery team. Who smiled and went about helping me finish up the procedure. The parents were so thankful, I accepted their hugs and praise, but as usual I felt nothing. I never have been able to enjoy what other surgeons call the best perk, the gratitude. I just don’t really have ‘feelings’ anymore, I guess it’s from all the stress. I got home and watched tv, like any other day, saw my spot on the news having saved the young girls life, she still looked pale and lifeless in her interview, asking her mommy for food cause she was so hungry, the interviewer laughed. I sat on the bed, I should have been exhausted, but there wasn’t really any noticeable change in my fatigue these days, not since that fateful day 6 years ago when I had my heart attack. I was all alone sitting at the breakfast table when the numbness came, then the shooting pain, and then the pressure. Being a surgical resident my first instinct was to grab an aspirin, but I could feel the corners of my vision darkening, there was no way I would make it to the medicine cabinet. I had read about the urban legends of cough CPR, and decided this was the only choice and it would either work or I would die. As I coughed, a rhythm started beating in my head, like an old animal skinned drum, that was the first day I heard it. As my eyes closed and I passed out, I could feel the burning white hot liquid circle it’s way around the chambers of my heart. I woke up feeling fine, a little dazed, and strangely, extremely hungry. I asked my good friend and fellow resident to do a check up on me, and he couldn’t find anything wrong, apart from the fact that my heart didn’t seem to beating at all. He blamed the equipment, said I was pale and that I should get checked out by a real cardiologist. I never did. **First timer here! Be gentle lol**

The woman's heels clicked softly across the floor, _click click click_, as she followed the waiter to the window booth where the man was sitting. Although he was gazing out of the window, his face turned away from her, she knew- as did most of the city- what he looked like. His face was splashed across billboards all across the city, after all; his square-jawed, blue-eyed patrician's gaze looking out at all of them, smiling benevolently at a populace he'd saved from countless brinks of death. "Dr West?", she spoke, smiling first at the waiter as he span on his heel and walked away, and then at the seated man as he turned his attention to her. As he gestured to her to sit, she slipped into the seat, her eyes fixed on his. "Herb, please", he replied, and his voice was warm, deep, comforting; a hug, a blanket, a salve for the soul. He smiled, and those blue eyes twinkled. For a moment, she let herself forget why she was there, let herself forget everything she'd heard about him- then he dropped the smile, and something _dark_ lashed behind his eyes. "Herb, sure. I'm Daniella Cain. From The Herald?", she widened her eyes slightly with the question mark, and allowed herself a smile when he nodded in recognition. "Of course, Miss Cain. I've read your paper a few times- and of course, I'm familiar with...." He paused, sighed, added, "What can I help you with? I assume this is about..." "Major Clapham-Lee. Dean Halsey. Yes. Both of them were friends of yours, and patients of yours. Both men were known to be close to death when they came to you. Both men made full recoveries, being reported by friends and family as...." she held up a finger, dug in her purse for a notepad, lowering her finger after she'd flicked a few pages, "quote '_hale and hearty_' unquote. Both men _also_, a short while after their recoveries, became what can only be described as '_explosively violent and murderous_'." She looked up at him, her eyes meeting his, and although he smiled again, although his brow knit in confusion, she saw that darkness lashing behind his eyes once more. "I'm not sure where you're going with this, Miss Cain", he replied, anger and suspicion hardening his voice, "but I'm not sure I appreciate your tone". "Both men", she continued smoothly as though he hadn't spoken, "both men were subdued by armed officers, and shot to death in tragic accidents. At their post mortem, the medical examiner noted that both men had, and I apologise if I get the terminology wrong here, flesh mortification consistent with decomposition of several weeks. That is to say, although both men had _seemed_ healthy, they had, in fact, been dead for several weeks. We found out that several of your other patients had been involved in reports of violence, and several of those, too, had decomposition consistent with several weeks of death when they'd been dead only a day or two. All of them, in addition, had a strange concoction in their veins". At this she leaned forward, at this she stared that darkness down until the lashing behind his eyes eased a little. "So tell me, _Herb_, have you always known you were bringing them back from the dead, or did you really think you'd developed a miracle cure?". "I..." he opened his mouth, shut it. For a long moment she fancied she saw the darkness shrink away- but only for a moment, for it flared enough to darken his eyes for a second, as he smirked and opened his mouth to reply. --------------------------------- Sorry if this doesn't _exactly_ fit the theme of the prompt, but I saw this, and the idea came to mind. I haven't replied to many of these, or written for a little bit, so I hope this is okay!

[WP] A necromancer doesn't know that he can bring back the dead using magic, he just thinks he's a really good doctor.

My pager went off. It only does for the worst kinds of emergencies. I stand up, a half-eaten lunch already forgotten on the cafeteria table. I start running to the emergency department. Other doctors and nurses step aside quickly. They know what it means when I am running. Someone has died. I don't know how I got these skills, or this reputation. I just know that the more urgent the situation is, the better I seem to perform. The number of patients declared medically dead before I manage to bring back a steady heartbeat... I have lost count. But that doesn't stop the adrenaline pounding in my own heart whenever that pager starts beeping. I finally come to the doors of the surgery room. A man in his 40s is lying still on the table. A nurse is doing a final check on vitals. A doctor is sitting on the ground, back against a wall, looking very tired. They look up as I enter. "Dr. Stein!" The nurse spoke quickly. "We've already called it. Several lacerations across the spine, from a car crash with no seatbelt. Wounds all over, but the spine seems to be what got him in the end. I thought you might be able to help, but..." She gestured at the lifeless corpse on the table. I looked, saw the bruises and cuts all over. But surely there was something I could do. There's always something. "Don't unplug the monitor yet." I said, walking quickly to the sink to wash my hands. "It might be a small chance, but I've worked with small chances before." The nurse looked unsure, glancing at the doctor still sitting on the floor. He nodded to her, and slowly stood up. "He's the best we've ever seen, Rose, we'd better do anything he asks, no time to question now." For the next 40 minutes, we pumped the man's heart and fed him oxygen. I pulled tendons and spinal cord together, patching up as best as I could. As I reattached muscle and tendon, I swear I could see them fuse together. That happened sometimes. I had discussed it with other doctors in the past, they reckoned it was a minor stress-induced hallucination, coming from a strong belief that I _was_ healing them to such an extent. They thought it was why I was such a good doctor. I'm not so sure. As I worked, I muttered in the old tongue my grandma used to whisper to me. I have no idea what the words mean, but it always calmed me when she spoke them to me, and I noticed it has the same effect on my patients. Even under anaesthesia, they seem to calm when I start speaking the words. I think they are some kind of ancient arabic. I kept working, and speaking, until there was a moment of intuition. "Ok," I said, "turn off the life support, the heart and lungs should be functioning independently now." The nurse and doctor, who had been diligently focused on the work, looked up with raised eyebrows. But by now they really had come to trust me. They turned off the machines, and watched as the heart continued to beat. The chest continued to rise and fall with a steady breath. The doctor breathed out a sigh of amazement. The nurse had tears running down her cheeks, looking over to the table where the papers were to declare a death. They were half filled out. 15 minutes later, just as we had moved the patient to a non-urgent ward in the hospital, he opened his eyes and spoke. The nurse almost fainted. "I lived for my wife and kids, but sometimes I would be angry at both." He spoke with a distant look in his eyes, like he was still waking up, but the words were clear. "I would live for a higher purpose, if it were offered to me." He slowly looked at me. This happens a lot, too. People I treat seem to wake far sooner than the drugs would normally allow, and they always seem to want advice on how to live, what to do. "It is a noble thing, to live for your family," I reassured him, "but perhaps you can seek therapy to resolve your anger issues, to care for them better. But for now, it's good that you rest." The man nodded, satisfied with that response. He closed his eyes and went to sleep almost immediately. I sighed, letting the tension of the day out. Another miracle. He would check up on me periodically for the rest of his life. The others all do. They keep asking if there's anything they can do for me. I guess they think they owe anything to the man that brought them back from the brink (sometimes past the brink) of death. I haven't really needed anything so far, I'm just happy to do my job. But sometimes I wonder. I have saved hundreds so far. What happens when it reaches thousands? What can I do with an army of grateful people? Is there some way to make this world a better place?

For years they had called him an ambulance chaser, a parasite, a drain on society. Even in law school most of his peers had either laughed at him or avoided him. Those who had gone into law to protect civil rights called him immoral, and those who had chosen law in order to make a ton of money called him an idiot. But this case, this would be the defining case of his career. Medical law wasn't the most glamorous of careers, but oh boy could it be ... strange. The first time a client who reeked of death had appeared in John Maggel's office, shambling with every step as if he had lost control of his basic motor functions, he had thought it was an isolated incident. An anomaly: man suffers brain damage after being reanimated. Sad, of course, but no cause for anyone to suspect that something unethical, or even, unholy, might be taking place. That was until John met Sascha. Now Sascha wasn't his run of the mill client; Sascha was a bus driver. And although being a bus driver is an honorable profession, they are not exactly regularly screened for cognitive abilities.So when Sascha clocked into work hunch-backed and mumbling about brains, her colleagues wrote it off as her just needing an extra cup of coffee, she'd be fine.When Sascha, however proceeded to drive head-first off a cliff with a packed morning-commute bus, only to walk away, well, unscathed might be an exaggeration as she had ripped her arm right off, but it didn't seem to bother her that much. Sascha's family brought her in after the ordeal, as they were both very concerned about her health as well as the fact that she might be liable for the dozens that had died in the crash. Sascha had just been reinstated at work after suffering complications with her heart. She had gone to see a doctor Levi who had cured her, quite miraculously. Now John had had other clients who had had dealings with this mystery doctor, and they all seemed to have similar problems. But whenever he tried to get a phone call to inform about a class action lawsuit, the line was always disconnected. This time though, he knew he had doctor Levi dead to rights. And he had a literal busload of clients to prove it. Because doctor Levi and his team had been the first on the scene of the crash, and the passengers followed their driver into the lawyer's office the same way that they had followed their driver down the cliff: without any say in the matter. When the day of the trial came John Maggel wore his finest three piece suit and made sure he looked the part of an impeccable lawyer. His nephew had given him a pin to wear, of a helmet with a cross on it, he'd told him that it represented a 'paladin', whatever that might be. John Maggel somehow felt that it might just be the good luck charm he would need today. In his opening statement John Maggel was brief and fierce. Questioning the legitimacy of doctor Levi's medical degree. 'Where even is this *college of Winterhold*?' he asked.He attacked the would-be physician's moral character in every way he could short of mentioning the fact that his last name was an anagram for the word evil.It couldn't have gone better, John Maggel thought. This case might just be the defining moment of his career.He could however not shake the piercing eyes of the doctor's defense council, if the doctor WAS in fact a necromancer then surely this man was a demon in human form. When the time came for the defense to make its statement however, John Maggel's day, and perhaps career, was ruined. 'The defense does not deem it necessary to respond to any of the allegations made against my client today. We simply ask that the defense proceed with the testimony of their representatives.' John Maggel felt an eery suspicion, but he had no other course of action.When the first passenger ascended the stage mumbling, John Maggel realised he had made a terrible mistake. One by one the witless zombies made their way through the court, saying nothing of substance. The court notary squinted her eyes as she typed down every *ugggh* and *ahhhh* and *brainzzz.* In the end, Sascha herself, who was supposed to be the crown witness vomited a vile black bile on the floor, instead of saying anything remotely coherent. The judge deemed the members of the prosecuting party unfit to testify, and the case was thrown out. John Maggel learned a valuable lesson that day. He learned that as evil an art as necromancy might be, it would never be able to hold a candle to bureaucracy.

[WP] A necromancer doesn't know that he can bring back the dead using magic, he just thinks he's a really good doctor.

I've always been a good surgeon. It started when I was young, you see. I always had a fascination with more... macabre pursuits. I would wander in the woods outside of my family's manor and if I were ever to come across a corpse of an animal dedicated from a fresh kill, well, I wouldn't be able to help myself. I wanted to see what made the creatures around me tick. Mother was never too pleased about my return, my fine shirt stained in blood. It turned from a childhood pursuit of analyzing animal corpses to performing improvised dissections out in the woods, scalpels of sharpened stone and forceps naught more than my own two hands. My parents saw this as an excellent opportunity. I pursued the biological studies better than anything else during my education, enjoyed the class dissections staring fascinated while my peers squirmed and retched. I graduated my primary school with a goal. I wished to learn what made people tick, and moreover I wished to fix them when what made them tick stopped working. I went to university and majored in the anatomical studies and excelled, earning accolades from the university leadership, my professors and my peers. The mock trials were a cinch, the anatomical studies of cadavers fascinating, and the live practice... exhilarating. At university I also met the love of my life, Julia. It was a chance encounter, we simply met eyes while I was studying for an exam in the university library and she was checking out books. I was stunned when our eyes met, although I know her eyes saw nothing more than a meeting of eyes with a stranger. I watched as she left the library, her gorgeous hair trailing behind her. I looked for her after that day, I wished to ask her to court. She denied at first, but my persistence let us be together. We did much together, we spent time at her family home downtown, ventured through the park on long walks to her home, spent time at restaurants and cafes.... she always was a foodie. I always loved to draw her image wherever I went, the lessons taken in anatomical sketching put to excellent use. We both graduated university in the same year. I graduated with an early doctorate, my natural talents leading me to skip many requisite courses and I quickly set up my own practice. I was very successful, although Julia didn't take much noticed. Ah, Julia... ever focused on her career. I watched her grow and develop her own business, she took to art very well and was quite a successful artist in her own right, painting for lords and nobility that resided at the center of our town. I became known as a miracle worker of sorts, capable of closing the most heinous of lacerations, fixing wounds other surgeons would have written off as irreparably fatal, taking care with my revolutionary methods of hand washing and my unique methods of conducting surgery, preventing heinous infection from taking root. Patients flocked to me far and wide, the old and the young, the ill and the well. But my love and fascination always went to Julia. I wished to know what made her tick. I paid a visit to her home, wishing to show off my talents. She tried to turn me away once more, recreating our first meeting all those years ago the silly girl... but I entered into her home laughing away, recalling all the time we had spent together. But I was confused. She screamed and turned to run, she splashed hot tea she had prepared for my visit all over my face, scalding me. She grabbed the knife for her tea cakes and ran at me. Why was my darling treating me this way? I came to covered in blood. My beloved who had turned so harshly after all the time we spent together this fateful night. When I had thrown rocks at her window at her old family home, beckoning her to come outside. When that hadn't worked, simply watching her elegance from outside. Walking her to her home after classes, watching over her from afar. Enjoying the same meals she enjoyed at her cafes, even if they weren't always to my taste... such wonderful times and yet she hurt me so. My thoughts turned to all of my sketches in my room at my home down the road... and I set to work. It was not easy sequestering her corpse to my practice. The night guards were all about that night, but I made it safely and without incident. I could fix her, I knew I could. I had set still hearts beating again in the past after all. I laid her elegance in my theater and set to work. I connected old arteries, I transfused the correct blood type, I sewed her delightful checks back together, her face given a perfect smile. I put a glass eye in her one empty socket, and put her broken skull plate back into position. I worked and worked, and slowly she was becoming whole once more... even more perfect than before. She rose from the table, docile and mine. I knew I could do it. I've *always* been a good surgeon.

Doctor Jonathan prepared his tools; various vials of fluids with varying viscosity - from those with that of water to those with the viscosity of tar, but sickeningly green, syringes of bronze, tin and silver of the needlessly large kind and of course plenty of belts and ropes to restrain the subject as the procedures are performed without rendering the patient unconscious with ether. The doctor tightened the belts on the patient's limbs - this time a boy with frostbitten hands and leg. A dreadful sight to those of the faint of heart, but Jonathan was not of such cut for his father was a butcher and he did study the books his mother left him - they contained the teachings on the human body and soul; from the inner workings of the human subject to how to save a recently deceased subject back to the Surface Realm. For him, his mother was the greatest doctor to ever exist in the Surface Realm. While humming the song his mother taught him to steady the scalpel hand, Jonathan precisely cut intricate patterns on the frostbitten limbs of the boy. The boy writhed in pain as the steel blade danced on his flesh but Jonathan did not falter at the cries for his parents the boy gave out. "Child, please remain quiet or my methods will not succeed in treating the ailment" Jonathan scolded the child "B-Bu-But it HUUURTS!" Cried the boy The blade has finished the first shape - a circle of various medicinal sigils with various herbs applied. The scalpel is dipped into the herbal tincture as per book's teachings. The smells of a lavender field and the metallic smell of blood flowed throughout the room. The humming resumes and the scalpel emerges once again from the herbal tincture to dance on the limbs anew. A wicked symphony of wailing and cries can be heard outside the apothecary. "The left arm's frostbite is lesser than that of the right, thus a lesser pattern is necessary" The doctor mumbled to himself. The metallic smell of blood begins to overtake the lavender within the airs of the room. The scalpel is once again submerged into the herbal tincture. Jonathan began working on the largest of the boy's frostbites. The pattern had to be much more intricate than before, as it required three converging circles within an octagonal frame with the diameters of the three circles creating a triangle in the very center of the pattern. This pattern would begin the healing process once finished. As Jonathan finished cutting the intricate shape into the dead flesh of the limb the boy's breathing became smoother: the pattern started working already. Jonathan ignited the candles around the room and left the boy in it for the night. /The light dances around the carcass/ /The flesh will awaken anew/ /The flesh will gnaw its way back to its soul/ /And drag it back onto the Surface World/ Once Jonathan came back to see the boy, the frostbite was gone and the boy's cheeks were a healthy pink. He has released the boy and led him to the mother awaiting outside. "As it is for everyone else, make sure that the boy is not in contact with blessed waters for a week, for the surgery renders the subject vulnerable to it" Jonathan informed the mother. "Blessings of the Great on your name Doctor!" The mother replied. Maybe one day, Jonathan will learn of his mother's past...

[WP] A necromancer doesn't know that he can bring back the dead using magic, he just thinks he's a really good doctor.

"Well... shit." Dr. B said as soon as she was back in the surgical workroom, away from the patient's frantic family. She slipped into the chair as the rest of the trauma team filed in behind her, crowding around the single computer as Dr. B pulled up the CT. "Can't believe he was still talking, let alone awake with a fucking pole through his gut." Jake said as he slid into the room, which was more closet sized than anything. The temperature started to rise as the rest of the trauma team pushed their ways in, shoulder to shoulder. "And that the ER was even able to get a CT." Tom, the chief surg resident, remarked from the doorway. He wasn't even on the case but still wanted to see what the hell was going on. Dr. B couldn't blame him - this was something she'd only read about in journals and hadn't actually seen before. She glanced over at the M3, who for once looked wide awake at 4:47 am. They were undoubtedly aware this could easily be turned into a case study. "We're dealing with the gut, not a stroke." Dr. B sighed as she scrolled through the CT. "I've only read about this, but I suppose it was only a matter of time before we saw it." The room was quiet as Dr. B stopped at a certain part of the CT. The senior residents started crowding around behind her, pushing the med students to the back corners of the tiny, closet sized room. "Is that... the celiac trunk?" Jake's voice was, for once, uncertain. "That *was* the celiac." Tom confirmed gravely. "His SMA and IMA are about as bad, too. Frankly, I don't know how he's alive at this point." Dr. B said quietly before rubbing her temples. This was going to be an all-day and nighter at the least, and even if they could get vasc surg into the OR with them, it probably wouldn't be enough for the poor guy. He'd been hit by a drunk driver on his way home from a double shift. She'd just met his wife, too, who had brought their kids to the hospital still in their pajamas. It was going to be hard to make his miraculous recovery look plausible. (Not impossible, though - just hard.) Dr. B stood up and the residents immediately backed up and started backpedalling toward the door. It was a weird habit that she'd noticed them start to do in the past year or so, when the department had decided to take interest her eight year 0-mortality streak. She'd only seen them do it with the old guns, the 80 year olds who remembered when residents actually l*ived* in the hospital. It was a weird kind of respect and awe she wasn't fully comfortable with yet. It was strange to go from being "the female surgeon" to *that* surgeon. "Alright. Jake, you take our med student and get scrubbed in. It's OR 5, I'll meet you there. The rest of you know what to do." Dr. B said, still rubbing her temples. She needed some ibuprofen and a nap. "Yes ma'am!" Jake and the med student immediately ran off, pushing through the rest of the team to get out first. Dr. B sighed and stepped out of the pseudo computer closet once everyone else was gone. She made her way through the pre-op bay to the bed where her patient had been set up. Tom trailed behind. "You want some help on this one?" Tom asked once they got there, before she went through the dividing curtain. Dr. B shook her head. "We'll take care of it." She said as she passed through the veil. "Absolutely. He's in good hands." Tom nodded, pretending he didn't hear the EKG's rapid beeping shift to a slower, more normal pace behind the curtain. He waited until he heard the EKG stay at a normal pace for another few moments. He smiled, and then quietly walked away.

Doctor Jonathan prepared his tools; various vials of fluids with varying viscosity - from those with that of water to those with the viscosity of tar, but sickeningly green, syringes of bronze, tin and silver of the needlessly large kind and of course plenty of belts and ropes to restrain the subject as the procedures are performed without rendering the patient unconscious with ether. The doctor tightened the belts on the patient's limbs - this time a boy with frostbitten hands and leg. A dreadful sight to those of the faint of heart, but Jonathan was not of such cut for his father was a butcher and he did study the books his mother left him - they contained the teachings on the human body and soul; from the inner workings of the human subject to how to save a recently deceased subject back to the Surface Realm. For him, his mother was the greatest doctor to ever exist in the Surface Realm. While humming the song his mother taught him to steady the scalpel hand, Jonathan precisely cut intricate patterns on the frostbitten limbs of the boy. The boy writhed in pain as the steel blade danced on his flesh but Jonathan did not falter at the cries for his parents the boy gave out. "Child, please remain quiet or my methods will not succeed in treating the ailment" Jonathan scolded the child "B-Bu-But it HUUURTS!" Cried the boy The blade has finished the first shape - a circle of various medicinal sigils with various herbs applied. The scalpel is dipped into the herbal tincture as per book's teachings. The smells of a lavender field and the metallic smell of blood flowed throughout the room. The humming resumes and the scalpel emerges once again from the herbal tincture to dance on the limbs anew. A wicked symphony of wailing and cries can be heard outside the apothecary. "The left arm's frostbite is lesser than that of the right, thus a lesser pattern is necessary" The doctor mumbled to himself. The metallic smell of blood begins to overtake the lavender within the airs of the room. The scalpel is once again submerged into the herbal tincture. Jonathan began working on the largest of the boy's frostbites. The pattern had to be much more intricate than before, as it required three converging circles within an octagonal frame with the diameters of the three circles creating a triangle in the very center of the pattern. This pattern would begin the healing process once finished. As Jonathan finished cutting the intricate shape into the dead flesh of the limb the boy's breathing became smoother: the pattern started working already. Jonathan ignited the candles around the room and left the boy in it for the night. /The light dances around the carcass/ /The flesh will awaken anew/ /The flesh will gnaw its way back to its soul/ /And drag it back onto the Surface World/ Once Jonathan came back to see the boy, the frostbite was gone and the boy's cheeks were a healthy pink. He has released the boy and led him to the mother awaiting outside. "As it is for everyone else, make sure that the boy is not in contact with blessed waters for a week, for the surgery renders the subject vulnerable to it" Jonathan informed the mother. "Blessings of the Great on your name Doctor!" The mother replied. Maybe one day, Jonathan will learn of his mother's past...

[WP] A necromancer doesn't know that he can bring back the dead using magic, he just thinks he's a really good doctor.

The perks were great, the nice car, the good-sized house, the awards, recognition from peers. After all, being the country’s leading cardiologist and heart surgeon took a lot of skill and technical ability. Well, I like to let them think that anyway. I haven’t lost a patient in 6 years. It shouldn’t be possible, I do around two surgeries a week. People come from all over the world and pay ridiculous amounts of money to get onto my table. It seems that they can give me the people that are for sure doomed to die on the slab, and without fail, they all pull out of it no matter their age, congenital defects or cardio abnormalities. Have you ever felt you have imposter syndrome? I live it every day, these people shouldn’t survive my surgery, and some of them flat out die on the table, some for minutes at a time, but they always come back. In my first year in surgical they christened me the ‘comeback kid’ and the name has stuck, but what was first an endearing nickname that came about by an air of beginners luck, was now uttered with a bit of ice under the breath of other surgeons. My patients all recover, but not quite to the extent you would expect, not that anyone ever expects things to go back to normal after heart surgery. They report strange things like incredibly weak pulses, ravenous hunger and an affinity for blue rare meats, but for the most part life goes on, even if their family members mention their dear ones seem to be more aloof than they were before. We recommend counselling and chalk it up to coming face to face with their mortality for the most part, but it doesn’t quite sit right. Today’s surgery was one of those that leaves me shaking and confused. She was dead, at eight years old, after myself and my entire surgical team witnessed the most erratic ventricular fibrillation we had ever experienced, right there on our table. She had lost so much blood, her skin was growing cold around where I worked, I could feel it through the gloves. I was sure today was the day. They all stared at me, the anaesthesiologist had tracks down his mask where he had been crying, and I could hear the haunting sobbing of family that was in the viewing window. I closed my eyes did what I always do. I clasped my hands over the tiny heart, filling her minute chest cavity with my hands,and I started to pump gently with the rhythm in my head that always started when they flat lined. I pictured the structures of the heart in my mind, and I visualised a bright white liquid flowing and healing through each chamber as it moved. One, two, three, four. And the monitor lit up, weak but present. There were howls of relief and gasps of disbelief from all but my usual surgery team. Who smiled and went about helping me finish up the procedure. The parents were so thankful, I accepted their hugs and praise, but as usual I felt nothing. I never have been able to enjoy what other surgeons call the best perk, the gratitude. I just don’t really have ‘feelings’ anymore, I guess it’s from all the stress. I got home and watched tv, like any other day, saw my spot on the news having saved the young girls life, she still looked pale and lifeless in her interview, asking her mommy for food cause she was so hungry, the interviewer laughed. I sat on the bed, I should have been exhausted, but there wasn’t really any noticeable change in my fatigue these days, not since that fateful day 6 years ago when I had my heart attack. I was all alone sitting at the breakfast table when the numbness came, then the shooting pain, and then the pressure. Being a surgical resident my first instinct was to grab an aspirin, but I could feel the corners of my vision darkening, there was no way I would make it to the medicine cabinet. I had read about the urban legends of cough CPR, and decided this was the only choice and it would either work or I would die. As I coughed, a rhythm started beating in my head, like an old animal skinned drum, that was the first day I heard it. As my eyes closed and I passed out, I could feel the burning white hot liquid circle it’s way around the chambers of my heart. I woke up feeling fine, a little dazed, and strangely, extremely hungry. I asked my good friend and fellow resident to do a check up on me, and he couldn’t find anything wrong, apart from the fact that my heart didn’t seem to beating at all. He blamed the equipment, said I was pale and that I should get checked out by a real cardiologist. I never did. **First timer here! Be gentle lol**

Doctor Jonathan prepared his tools; various vials of fluids with varying viscosity - from those with that of water to those with the viscosity of tar, but sickeningly green, syringes of bronze, tin and silver of the needlessly large kind and of course plenty of belts and ropes to restrain the subject as the procedures are performed without rendering the patient unconscious with ether. The doctor tightened the belts on the patient's limbs - this time a boy with frostbitten hands and leg. A dreadful sight to those of the faint of heart, but Jonathan was not of such cut for his father was a butcher and he did study the books his mother left him - they contained the teachings on the human body and soul; from the inner workings of the human subject to how to save a recently deceased subject back to the Surface Realm. For him, his mother was the greatest doctor to ever exist in the Surface Realm. While humming the song his mother taught him to steady the scalpel hand, Jonathan precisely cut intricate patterns on the frostbitten limbs of the boy. The boy writhed in pain as the steel blade danced on his flesh but Jonathan did not falter at the cries for his parents the boy gave out. "Child, please remain quiet or my methods will not succeed in treating the ailment" Jonathan scolded the child "B-Bu-But it HUUURTS!" Cried the boy The blade has finished the first shape - a circle of various medicinal sigils with various herbs applied. The scalpel is dipped into the herbal tincture as per book's teachings. The smells of a lavender field and the metallic smell of blood flowed throughout the room. The humming resumes and the scalpel emerges once again from the herbal tincture to dance on the limbs anew. A wicked symphony of wailing and cries can be heard outside the apothecary. "The left arm's frostbite is lesser than that of the right, thus a lesser pattern is necessary" The doctor mumbled to himself. The metallic smell of blood begins to overtake the lavender within the airs of the room. The scalpel is once again submerged into the herbal tincture. Jonathan began working on the largest of the boy's frostbites. The pattern had to be much more intricate than before, as it required three converging circles within an octagonal frame with the diameters of the three circles creating a triangle in the very center of the pattern. This pattern would begin the healing process once finished. As Jonathan finished cutting the intricate shape into the dead flesh of the limb the boy's breathing became smoother: the pattern started working already. Jonathan ignited the candles around the room and left the boy in it for the night. /The light dances around the carcass/ /The flesh will awaken anew/ /The flesh will gnaw its way back to its soul/ /And drag it back onto the Surface World/ Once Jonathan came back to see the boy, the frostbite was gone and the boy's cheeks were a healthy pink. He has released the boy and led him to the mother awaiting outside. "As it is for everyone else, make sure that the boy is not in contact with blessed waters for a week, for the surgery renders the subject vulnerable to it" Jonathan informed the mother. "Blessings of the Great on your name Doctor!" The mother replied. Maybe one day, Jonathan will learn of his mother's past...

[WP] A necromancer doesn't know that he can bring back the dead using magic, he just thinks he's a really good doctor.

Life is good. Hard work pays off. After all those hours in medical school it turns out I'm a natural prodigy when I get my hands on a patient. It all started on my second ER all nighter. Man with a surely fatal stab wound came under my care. Walked out just fine a few hours later. A miracle really, I thought we lost him for a minute there. I've been lucky with near death patients ever since then. Zero deaths on my record actually.Everyone says my luck's bound to run out soon but I'm not so sure. There's almost a pattern to it. The patient goes under, I use the defibrillator on them and they come back. Weird part is they always seem to come back a little bit off. Coworkers say its just the way people act after facing death. This is different though. Its like they come back as a completley different person. Screw it. I'm not worried about it, I'm raking in money. Medical school was the best decision of my life.

My methods may be slightly unusual but the results are undeniable. I have brought people back from the verge of death, sometimes back from death itself! All of this was a massive relief to me as I faked my qualifications to become a doctor. I had nothing to worry about, it didn't matter that I didn't know what that weird thing at the back of someone's mouth was as long as in the end I saved them. Usually people think it's weird that my cases always get worse before they get better but now they're just used to my method, doesn't matter that the person in A&E who was just getting stitches nearly died, because after all, they left without any scars despite the wound. Well, it didn't used to matter, until he showed up. The good doctor appeared unnerved by my presence, of course he would be, damn necromancer, the ministry can't let people know about his kind and then he makes a Goddamned holy show of bringing back the dead. It was difficult to watch him perform the rituals, so clumsily trying to make it look like the work of an actual doctor. The dude in front of him clearly just had a bad burn and here he was sucking out his life force just to heal him. Dear Jesus, there were so many better ways to go about this. Didn't he know that when his magic wore off this "Perfectly healthy person" drops dead a few days later on the subway. It's a damn disgrace. Oh God, oh God he's on to me, I can't help but sweat, he knows I faked my qualifications, oh God, the hospitals going to get sued to shit or something and I'll end up fired or in prison. Oops, my hand slipped, damn, I must be so transparent. His eyes seeing through my impression of an actual doctor. Oh dear lord, he's just stabbing the body at this point with the needle. Oh well, this looks about done, I suppose I'll let the poor chap leave now that he's all better. So clumsy, how many humans must have figured out by now? Oh God it makes me sick. 'Excuse me sir, may I check something', why was the agent speaking to the patient? Did I make some rookie mistake. 'Alright, you may go'. Perhaps he didn't find the mistake he was looking for. 'He didn't have a pulse.' I let out a sigh of relief, 'Aw, yeah, thought that was a bit strange'. Perhaps he doesn't know just yet that I faked my qualifications.

[WP] A necromancer doesn't know that he can bring back the dead using magic, he just thinks he's a really good doctor.

Warning: some profanity ----- I could taste the goddamn necromagic as soon as I walked in. Rotten flesh, mold, and the alcohol scent of mana boiling it all into my nose. Makes my insides curl. And here it covers everything like someone smeared bodies all over the place. Of course the patients in the waiting room have no idea. There's one guy, finger bent backwards, looking like he's about to blow this place up. If he was one of us, he probably would. The receptionist's tag reads "Mary." Wonder if that's actually her name. "Welcome to Rosewood Hospital, how can I help you?" "I'd like to visit a close friend." "And what would your friend's name be?" "Daniel Thomas." "Alright, give me one, second…" She types into the computer. She's fast, almost technomancer level - but I taste nothing. I'd have to come back for her - an Awakening would be bad news. "Ah, Daniel Thomas. Came in by ER, and, oh. I see that he's currently in surgery right now." Damn. I'm late. Was hoping I'd see Dr. Frankenstein before he sewed his zombie back up. "Is there any way I can see him? Please, it's very important to me." People think I'm hiding something. I am. But I let them fill in their own blanks. The girl at the counter looks at me, fills me in, and reads it right back to me. "I understand, sir, don't worry. I know you really care, and that makes it hard to wait." She's said this many times before. I can see it in her eyes. "Unfortunately, we can't let visitors into the operating rooms. But as soon as Dr. Falk is done with the surgery, you can visit Mr. Thomas in the ICU." I study her face, showing exactly the right amount of anger and frustration. But everything about her is sincere in the old customer-service way. Either she's got no clue about Falk, or she knows exactly how to hide it. Either way, there's nothing more to gain here. "Okay, then." I sigh, looking defeated. "Is there any place I can wait in the meantime?" "Yes, of course! The waiting room is open to anyone, patient or visitor." I look back. I swear the necromagic is even stronger now. "Our cafeteria is also open until 5." I nod, grunt, and sit in one of the chairs. I can feel *it*, like blood and guts, smearing all over my khakis. Camouflage, ol' Grim would say. I call it fuckin' hell. I glance at the clock; five minutes, and then I can do things the way I like. If I left now, "Mary" might remember. The outside door slides open, and a paramedic crew rush in surrounding a stretcher. Most of his body's covered by a blanket, but his head isn't, and it looks like someone cracked it open and scrambled the insides. His mana's leaking like crazy, too, leaving an alcohol-y trail on the floor and pooling when the paramedics stop in front of the receptionist desk. I discreetly pass the poor guy a chunk of my own mana - not that it really matters, in his state. Angry finger guy sits down, face frozen in fear. Don't think he'll forget that. I glance at the clock again. Three minutes, but it might as well have been ten. "Mary" peeks at the doorway to the operating rooms, and I slip out of the door. Finally. I don't walk far. Just to the parking garage, lowest level. No cars. Perfect, right down to the dinky water fountain in the elevator lobby. I take a drink of water, rinsing the necromagic away. Work up a spitball, give a hack for good measure, and spit. I love this part. The spitball hovers in the air, like it's floating in space. Then, it turns around and hits me in the face, exploding in a great big splatter that soaks me from head to toe. I check my hands. Invisible. Good. Time for a little scry n' spy. ----- Part 2 coming soon!

My methods may be slightly unusual but the results are undeniable. I have brought people back from the verge of death, sometimes back from death itself! All of this was a massive relief to me as I faked my qualifications to become a doctor. I had nothing to worry about, it didn't matter that I didn't know what that weird thing at the back of someone's mouth was as long as in the end I saved them. Usually people think it's weird that my cases always get worse before they get better but now they're just used to my method, doesn't matter that the person in A&E who was just getting stitches nearly died, because after all, they left without any scars despite the wound. Well, it didn't used to matter, until he showed up. The good doctor appeared unnerved by my presence, of course he would be, damn necromancer, the ministry can't let people know about his kind and then he makes a Goddamned holy show of bringing back the dead. It was difficult to watch him perform the rituals, so clumsily trying to make it look like the work of an actual doctor. The dude in front of him clearly just had a bad burn and here he was sucking out his life force just to heal him. Dear Jesus, there were so many better ways to go about this. Didn't he know that when his magic wore off this "Perfectly healthy person" drops dead a few days later on the subway. It's a damn disgrace. Oh God, oh God he's on to me, I can't help but sweat, he knows I faked my qualifications, oh God, the hospitals going to get sued to shit or something and I'll end up fired or in prison. Oops, my hand slipped, damn, I must be so transparent. His eyes seeing through my impression of an actual doctor. Oh dear lord, he's just stabbing the body at this point with the needle. Oh well, this looks about done, I suppose I'll let the poor chap leave now that he's all better. So clumsy, how many humans must have figured out by now? Oh God it makes me sick. 'Excuse me sir, may I check something', why was the agent speaking to the patient? Did I make some rookie mistake. 'Alright, you may go'. Perhaps he didn't find the mistake he was looking for. 'He didn't have a pulse.' I let out a sigh of relief, 'Aw, yeah, thought that was a bit strange'. Perhaps he doesn't know just yet that I faked my qualifications.

[WP] A necromancer doesn't know that he can bring back the dead using magic, he just thinks he's a really good doctor.

"It's always darkest before the dawn." That quote describes my whole career, and my best medical cases. You see, I used to be a perfectly average doctor. I graduated med school with C's and B's, and went on to work in a perfectly average hospital in a suburb of Ohio. I did my best to keep people healthy and happy, or at least, alive. But Dr. Curgon was a perfectionist. He knew he was destined for better things than "Ohio", and "average". Unluckily for him, we worked at the same hospital. Even worse, we were on call together more often than not. And let me tell you, he *really* didn't like the way I sometimes fumbled things up. Always yelling at me, glaring, and rudely pouting about how unlucky he was to have to work with me. We had one particularly bad case when we had three patients rushed in from a car accident during a winter storm. We were the only surgeons in the hospital that early morning, but the cases were straightforward - brusing, mild internal bleeding, some cracked ribs - and they just needed to be put together inside and have broken bones set, so they didn't call in any other surgeons. For each patient, we worked side by side in the beginning, but when things started going wrong, as they often do, he pushed me out of the way screaming about "incompetence," and didn't even let me touch them anymore. And when we lost all of the "easy" patients, we were vilified by the hospital, and the town. Dr. Curgon decided he needed to destroy my reputation by proving that the tragic losses were *my* fault, not his. He said he was fully competent, and he should get the promotion he deserved, and I shouldn't even be a janitor. It was hard enough on me when we lost the patients. I grieved with their families, even went to their funerals, but his hate made it almost too much for me to bear. Some people are just jerks, you know? So anyway, he started planning to sabotage me. It was a small hospital, so he got himself in charge of scheduling all the hospital shifts and arranged for me to be the only surgeon around the next time a big blizzard hit, while he was on vacation. Then, if we lost someone, all the fault would be on me, and his name would be cleared. Of course, someone had an accident on the icy roads and came in in critical condition, needing immediate surgery. His spleen was ruptured, his intestines were a mess, and several ribs were sticking out of his body. It was the grimmest case I'd seen, but I went to work, with two nurses by my side, and not much hope. But I had my Christmas spirit around, and worked diligently. At some point we nearly lost him, and I prayed a prayer my mother had taught me to pray in times of sickness and death. *Hear me, poor soul, and come along -* *When you are weak, then you will be strong -* *You are never too far-gone -* *It's always darkest before the dawn -* *Wake up!* I touched his forehead to finish the prayer and felt a little shock. Almost that instant, he started breathing again. I thanked my lucky stars for the answered prayer and picked up the scalpel again. As soon as he was in stable condition, I got a call from the next operating room. Another ambulance had come in, this time with an injured family - a man and his wife, both 32 years old, and two 2-year-old twins, all in critical condition. My heart nearly broke from the thought of losing them and I rushed to work, repeating my mother's prayer over each of them. I thought for sure I would lose the mother, as her heart had stopped for more than 10 minutes before I could attend to her and she had even been declared dead before I reached her side. But I tried anyway, and by some miracle, they all pulled through. I handled seven more accidents that night - it truly was a terrible blizzard - but it also caught the media's attention. In the worst blizzard in the last ten years, a single doctor and her team of nurses had saved thirty people in one day without a single loss. It started my career, and I quickly became famous for working on the hardest cases around the world. Though I couldn't seem to treat small injuries very well, I had amazing success at healing people in the worst conditions, and I never lost another patient. They called me a god. Well, my patients often called me "master", and vowed to serve me for eternity, but I told them I was just doing my duty and they should go back to their families, and hopefully their medical bills would be paid off in finite time. They were all so grateful. Dr. Curgon didn't take it well. I think he blamed himself for the first deaths, you see? Anyway, I was the doctor who treated him after a nearly successful suicide attempt, and he came around to my side after that. I told him I forgave him for the pettiness before, and he became my firmest supporter.

My methods may be slightly unusual but the results are undeniable. I have brought people back from the verge of death, sometimes back from death itself! All of this was a massive relief to me as I faked my qualifications to become a doctor. I had nothing to worry about, it didn't matter that I didn't know what that weird thing at the back of someone's mouth was as long as in the end I saved them. Usually people think it's weird that my cases always get worse before they get better but now they're just used to my method, doesn't matter that the person in A&E who was just getting stitches nearly died, because after all, they left without any scars despite the wound. Well, it didn't used to matter, until he showed up. The good doctor appeared unnerved by my presence, of course he would be, damn necromancer, the ministry can't let people know about his kind and then he makes a Goddamned holy show of bringing back the dead. It was difficult to watch him perform the rituals, so clumsily trying to make it look like the work of an actual doctor. The dude in front of him clearly just had a bad burn and here he was sucking out his life force just to heal him. Dear Jesus, there were so many better ways to go about this. Didn't he know that when his magic wore off this "Perfectly healthy person" drops dead a few days later on the subway. It's a damn disgrace. Oh God, oh God he's on to me, I can't help but sweat, he knows I faked my qualifications, oh God, the hospitals going to get sued to shit or something and I'll end up fired or in prison. Oops, my hand slipped, damn, I must be so transparent. His eyes seeing through my impression of an actual doctor. Oh dear lord, he's just stabbing the body at this point with the needle. Oh well, this looks about done, I suppose I'll let the poor chap leave now that he's all better. So clumsy, how many humans must have figured out by now? Oh God it makes me sick. 'Excuse me sir, may I check something', why was the agent speaking to the patient? Did I make some rookie mistake. 'Alright, you may go'. Perhaps he didn't find the mistake he was looking for. 'He didn't have a pulse.' I let out a sigh of relief, 'Aw, yeah, thought that was a bit strange'. Perhaps he doesn't know just yet that I faked my qualifications.

[WP] A necromancer doesn't know that he can bring back the dead using magic, he just thinks he's a really good doctor.

​ The man had had his entire abdomen sliced open. Blood gushed out. Looking down, I could see multiple lacerations in his organs. His liver was almost in half, and acid from the sliced open stomach coated it. I wrinkled my nose and looked at the woman. “This… I’m sorry. Whatever has caused him to sustain such an injury—it has killed him. He probably bled to death moments after the injury”. Telling the truth was always hard as a doctor, but as the woman’s face twisted in anger and grief, I was once again reminded of why. I braced myself for what I knew was coming next. “No!” She insisted, almost delirious. Her voice wavered with anguish as she demanded to see someone else. Another doctor who would take on the case. I sighed. All the doctors here were equally qualified, I tried to tell her. There was nothing more any doctor could do for a patient in a state like this. But as she grabbed Aiora, who was passing by, I shook my head lightly, resigned. Cases like this weren’t rare, but it was rare to see someone who so insisted that there was a chance for someone whose guts have been all but sliced into bits and turned into mush inside their own body. “... Have to help him! He’s a good man, and he really didn’t deserve this!” I heard her beg Aiora. I looked at my fellow doctor, and we made eye contact. I tiled my head. *You’re not seriously going to tell her this is feasible, right?* Instead of responding, she looked away, seeming troubled. I frowned, wondering at that, and turned my attention back into the conversation. “I understand. I understand.” Aiora was telling her. “Loss is painful, and we’ve all been there… I’ll do my best. Let me take a look at him”. I closed my eyes. Getting a patient’s hopes up never ended well. As Aiora bent down to examine the body, I averted my gaze. The woman seemed to do the same. It was the natural thing to do. As she worked, I waited for her to finally declare that this was an impossible case. Nobody survived having their abdomen destroyed like that. It was just a matter of time before she broke the news herself. When I heard the wheeze behind me as he took another breath, I almost gasped in disbelief. Turning around was hard, as if I was compelled to avert my eyes. But as I fought it and laid eyes on the now-breathing patient, I saw it: a light, purple glow surrounded the man. Almost too faint to notice. But noticeable nonetheless. An ear piercing shriek came from the woman as she saw the same. “*What did you do to him? What did you do to my poor Danny?”* Her shrill voice pierced the air. Aiora took a step back in surprise as the woman continued her vocal attacks. I took a step forward. “Stop! She was trying to *help* you! You *asked* her to try!” I yelled. The faint purple glow lingered in my mind, but first and foremost, I had to protect my own colleague. And I stepped between her and Aiora. The woman looked all but ready to charge Aiora down and wrestle her to the ground. As the woman stared at the patient, Danny, I heard Aiora’s soft voice behind me. “I… I don’t know why… I… He…” I heard her take slow steps back. Away from Danny. From the woman. And when I turned, I saw her running out the exit. Leaving the building. Leaving me. Her dark hair flew behind her. “Wait!” I called. “Aiora!” Next to me, the patient groaned. “Owwww…. What the hell?” He had sat up and was now trying to stand. Both the woman and I turned to look at him. Both saw the now barely-noticeable glow of purple surrounding him, particularly in his abdomen, which now was sealed by a few stitches. As she went to support his weight, the woman glared daggers at me with her red, puffy eyes . “I’m calling the authorities. We have a *witch—*” She spat out the word, “hiding in the city”. She left, leaving me alone in the office. ​ ​ \_\_\_\_\_\_ ​ Thanks for reading! Constructive feedback appreciated :) Edit: I've written a second part! It is a reply to this comment. Here's a link: [https://www.reddit.com/r/WritingPrompts/comments/hd89ik/wp\_a\_necromancer\_doesnt\_know\_that\_he\_can\_bring/fvl5xw3?utm\_source=share&utm\_medium=web2x](https://www.reddit.com/r/WritingPrompts/comments/hd89ik/wp_a_necromancer_doesnt_know_that_he_can_bring/fvl5xw3?utm_source=share&utm_medium=web2x)

My methods may be slightly unusual but the results are undeniable. I have brought people back from the verge of death, sometimes back from death itself! All of this was a massive relief to me as I faked my qualifications to become a doctor. I had nothing to worry about, it didn't matter that I didn't know what that weird thing at the back of someone's mouth was as long as in the end I saved them. Usually people think it's weird that my cases always get worse before they get better but now they're just used to my method, doesn't matter that the person in A&E who was just getting stitches nearly died, because after all, they left without any scars despite the wound. Well, it didn't used to matter, until he showed up. The good doctor appeared unnerved by my presence, of course he would be, damn necromancer, the ministry can't let people know about his kind and then he makes a Goddamned holy show of bringing back the dead. It was difficult to watch him perform the rituals, so clumsily trying to make it look like the work of an actual doctor. The dude in front of him clearly just had a bad burn and here he was sucking out his life force just to heal him. Dear Jesus, there were so many better ways to go about this. Didn't he know that when his magic wore off this "Perfectly healthy person" drops dead a few days later on the subway. It's a damn disgrace. Oh God, oh God he's on to me, I can't help but sweat, he knows I faked my qualifications, oh God, the hospitals going to get sued to shit or something and I'll end up fired or in prison. Oops, my hand slipped, damn, I must be so transparent. His eyes seeing through my impression of an actual doctor. Oh dear lord, he's just stabbing the body at this point with the needle. Oh well, this looks about done, I suppose I'll let the poor chap leave now that he's all better. So clumsy, how many humans must have figured out by now? Oh God it makes me sick. 'Excuse me sir, may I check something', why was the agent speaking to the patient? Did I make some rookie mistake. 'Alright, you may go'. Perhaps he didn't find the mistake he was looking for. 'He didn't have a pulse.' I let out a sigh of relief, 'Aw, yeah, thought that was a bit strange'. Perhaps he doesn't know just yet that I faked my qualifications.

[WP] A necromancer doesn't know that he can bring back the dead using magic, he just thinks he's a really good doctor.

Warning: some profanity ----- I could taste the goddamn necromagic as soon as I walked in. Rotten flesh, mold, and the alcohol scent of mana boiling it all into my nose. Makes my insides curl. And here it covers everything like someone smeared bodies all over the place. Of course the patients in the waiting room have no idea. There's one guy, finger bent backwards, looking like he's about to blow this place up. If he was one of us, he probably would. The receptionist's tag reads "Mary." Wonder if that's actually her name. "Welcome to Rosewood Hospital, how can I help you?" "I'd like to visit a close friend." "And what would your friend's name be?" "Daniel Thomas." "Alright, give me one, second…" She types into the computer. She's fast, almost technomancer level - but I taste nothing. I'd have to come back for her - an Awakening would be bad news. "Ah, Daniel Thomas. Came in by ER, and, oh. I see that he's currently in surgery right now." Damn. I'm late. Was hoping I'd see Dr. Frankenstein before he sewed his zombie back up. "Is there any way I can see him? Please, it's very important to me." People think I'm hiding something. I am. But I let them fill in their own blanks. The girl at the counter looks at me, fills me in, and reads it right back to me. "I understand, sir, don't worry. I know you really care, and that makes it hard to wait." She's said this many times before. I can see it in her eyes. "Unfortunately, we can't let visitors into the operating rooms. But as soon as Dr. Falk is done with the surgery, you can visit Mr. Thomas in the ICU." I study her face, showing exactly the right amount of anger and frustration. But everything about her is sincere in the old customer-service way. Either she's got no clue about Falk, or she knows exactly how to hide it. Either way, there's nothing more to gain here. "Okay, then." I sigh, looking defeated. "Is there any place I can wait in the meantime?" "Yes, of course! The waiting room is open to anyone, patient or visitor." I look back. I swear the necromagic is even stronger now. "Our cafeteria is also open until 5." I nod, grunt, and sit in one of the chairs. I can feel *it*, like blood and guts, smearing all over my khakis. Camouflage, ol' Grim would say. I call it fuckin' hell. I glance at the clock; five minutes, and then I can do things the way I like. If I left now, "Mary" might remember. The outside door slides open, and a paramedic crew rush in surrounding a stretcher. Most of his body's covered by a blanket, but his head isn't, and it looks like someone cracked it open and scrambled the insides. His mana's leaking like crazy, too, leaving an alcohol-y trail on the floor and pooling when the paramedics stop in front of the receptionist desk. I discreetly pass the poor guy a chunk of my own mana - not that it really matters, in his state. Angry finger guy sits down, face frozen in fear. Don't think he'll forget that. I glance at the clock again. Three minutes, but it might as well have been ten. "Mary" peeks at the doorway to the operating rooms, and I slip out of the door. Finally. I don't walk far. Just to the parking garage, lowest level. No cars. Perfect, right down to the dinky water fountain in the elevator lobby. I take a drink of water, rinsing the necromagic away. Work up a spitball, give a hack for good measure, and spit. I love this part. The spitball hovers in the air, like it's floating in space. Then, it turns around and hits me in the face, exploding in a great big splatter that soaks me from head to toe. I check my hands. Invisible. Good. Time for a little scry n' spy. ----- Part 2 coming soon!

Life is good. Hard work pays off. After all those hours in medical school it turns out I'm a natural prodigy when I get my hands on a patient. It all started on my second ER all nighter. Man with a surely fatal stab wound came under my care. Walked out just fine a few hours later. A miracle really, I thought we lost him for a minute there. I've been lucky with near death patients ever since then. Zero deaths on my record actually.Everyone says my luck's bound to run out soon but I'm not so sure. There's almost a pattern to it. The patient goes under, I use the defibrillator on them and they come back. Weird part is they always seem to come back a little bit off. Coworkers say its just the way people act after facing death. This is different though. Its like they come back as a completley different person. Screw it. I'm not worried about it, I'm raking in money. Medical school was the best decision of my life.

[WP] A necromancer doesn't know that he can bring back the dead using magic, he just thinks he's a really good doctor.

"It's always darkest before the dawn." That quote describes my whole career, and my best medical cases. You see, I used to be a perfectly average doctor. I graduated med school with C's and B's, and went on to work in a perfectly average hospital in a suburb of Ohio. I did my best to keep people healthy and happy, or at least, alive. But Dr. Curgon was a perfectionist. He knew he was destined for better things than "Ohio", and "average". Unluckily for him, we worked at the same hospital. Even worse, we were on call together more often than not. And let me tell you, he *really* didn't like the way I sometimes fumbled things up. Always yelling at me, glaring, and rudely pouting about how unlucky he was to have to work with me. We had one particularly bad case when we had three patients rushed in from a car accident during a winter storm. We were the only surgeons in the hospital that early morning, but the cases were straightforward - brusing, mild internal bleeding, some cracked ribs - and they just needed to be put together inside and have broken bones set, so they didn't call in any other surgeons. For each patient, we worked side by side in the beginning, but when things started going wrong, as they often do, he pushed me out of the way screaming about "incompetence," and didn't even let me touch them anymore. And when we lost all of the "easy" patients, we were vilified by the hospital, and the town. Dr. Curgon decided he needed to destroy my reputation by proving that the tragic losses were *my* fault, not his. He said he was fully competent, and he should get the promotion he deserved, and I shouldn't even be a janitor. It was hard enough on me when we lost the patients. I grieved with their families, even went to their funerals, but his hate made it almost too much for me to bear. Some people are just jerks, you know? So anyway, he started planning to sabotage me. It was a small hospital, so he got himself in charge of scheduling all the hospital shifts and arranged for me to be the only surgeon around the next time a big blizzard hit, while he was on vacation. Then, if we lost someone, all the fault would be on me, and his name would be cleared. Of course, someone had an accident on the icy roads and came in in critical condition, needing immediate surgery. His spleen was ruptured, his intestines were a mess, and several ribs were sticking out of his body. It was the grimmest case I'd seen, but I went to work, with two nurses by my side, and not much hope. But I had my Christmas spirit around, and worked diligently. At some point we nearly lost him, and I prayed a prayer my mother had taught me to pray in times of sickness and death. *Hear me, poor soul, and come along -* *When you are weak, then you will be strong -* *You are never too far-gone -* *It's always darkest before the dawn -* *Wake up!* I touched his forehead to finish the prayer and felt a little shock. Almost that instant, he started breathing again. I thanked my lucky stars for the answered prayer and picked up the scalpel again. As soon as he was in stable condition, I got a call from the next operating room. Another ambulance had come in, this time with an injured family - a man and his wife, both 32 years old, and two 2-year-old twins, all in critical condition. My heart nearly broke from the thought of losing them and I rushed to work, repeating my mother's prayer over each of them. I thought for sure I would lose the mother, as her heart had stopped for more than 10 minutes before I could attend to her and she had even been declared dead before I reached her side. But I tried anyway, and by some miracle, they all pulled through. I handled seven more accidents that night - it truly was a terrible blizzard - but it also caught the media's attention. In the worst blizzard in the last ten years, a single doctor and her team of nurses had saved thirty people in one day without a single loss. It started my career, and I quickly became famous for working on the hardest cases around the world. Though I couldn't seem to treat small injuries very well, I had amazing success at healing people in the worst conditions, and I never lost another patient. They called me a god. Well, my patients often called me "master", and vowed to serve me for eternity, but I told them I was just doing my duty and they should go back to their families, and hopefully their medical bills would be paid off in finite time. They were all so grateful. Dr. Curgon didn't take it well. I think he blamed himself for the first deaths, you see? Anyway, I was the doctor who treated him after a nearly successful suicide attempt, and he came around to my side after that. I told him I forgave him for the pettiness before, and he became my firmest supporter.

Life is good. Hard work pays off. After all those hours in medical school it turns out I'm a natural prodigy when I get my hands on a patient. It all started on my second ER all nighter. Man with a surely fatal stab wound came under my care. Walked out just fine a few hours later. A miracle really, I thought we lost him for a minute there. I've been lucky with near death patients ever since then. Zero deaths on my record actually.Everyone says my luck's bound to run out soon but I'm not so sure. There's almost a pattern to it. The patient goes under, I use the defibrillator on them and they come back. Weird part is they always seem to come back a little bit off. Coworkers say its just the way people act after facing death. This is different though. Its like they come back as a completley different person. Screw it. I'm not worried about it, I'm raking in money. Medical school was the best decision of my life.

[WP] A necromancer doesn't know that he can bring back the dead using magic, he just thinks he's a really good doctor.

"It's always darkest before the dawn." That quote describes my whole career, and my best medical cases. You see, I used to be a perfectly average doctor. I graduated med school with C's and B's, and went on to work in a perfectly average hospital in a suburb of Ohio. I did my best to keep people healthy and happy, or at least, alive. But Dr. Curgon was a perfectionist. He knew he was destined for better things than "Ohio", and "average". Unluckily for him, we worked at the same hospital. Even worse, we were on call together more often than not. And let me tell you, he *really* didn't like the way I sometimes fumbled things up. Always yelling at me, glaring, and rudely pouting about how unlucky he was to have to work with me. We had one particularly bad case when we had three patients rushed in from a car accident during a winter storm. We were the only surgeons in the hospital that early morning, but the cases were straightforward - brusing, mild internal bleeding, some cracked ribs - and they just needed to be put together inside and have broken bones set, so they didn't call in any other surgeons. For each patient, we worked side by side in the beginning, but when things started going wrong, as they often do, he pushed me out of the way screaming about "incompetence," and didn't even let me touch them anymore. And when we lost all of the "easy" patients, we were vilified by the hospital, and the town. Dr. Curgon decided he needed to destroy my reputation by proving that the tragic losses were *my* fault, not his. He said he was fully competent, and he should get the promotion he deserved, and I shouldn't even be a janitor. It was hard enough on me when we lost the patients. I grieved with their families, even went to their funerals, but his hate made it almost too much for me to bear. Some people are just jerks, you know? So anyway, he started planning to sabotage me. It was a small hospital, so he got himself in charge of scheduling all the hospital shifts and arranged for me to be the only surgeon around the next time a big blizzard hit, while he was on vacation. Then, if we lost someone, all the fault would be on me, and his name would be cleared. Of course, someone had an accident on the icy roads and came in in critical condition, needing immediate surgery. His spleen was ruptured, his intestines were a mess, and several ribs were sticking out of his body. It was the grimmest case I'd seen, but I went to work, with two nurses by my side, and not much hope. But I had my Christmas spirit around, and worked diligently. At some point we nearly lost him, and I prayed a prayer my mother had taught me to pray in times of sickness and death. *Hear me, poor soul, and come along -* *When you are weak, then you will be strong -* *You are never too far-gone -* *It's always darkest before the dawn -* *Wake up!* I touched his forehead to finish the prayer and felt a little shock. Almost that instant, he started breathing again. I thanked my lucky stars for the answered prayer and picked up the scalpel again. As soon as he was in stable condition, I got a call from the next operating room. Another ambulance had come in, this time with an injured family - a man and his wife, both 32 years old, and two 2-year-old twins, all in critical condition. My heart nearly broke from the thought of losing them and I rushed to work, repeating my mother's prayer over each of them. I thought for sure I would lose the mother, as her heart had stopped for more than 10 minutes before I could attend to her and she had even been declared dead before I reached her side. But I tried anyway, and by some miracle, they all pulled through. I handled seven more accidents that night - it truly was a terrible blizzard - but it also caught the media's attention. In the worst blizzard in the last ten years, a single doctor and her team of nurses had saved thirty people in one day without a single loss. It started my career, and I quickly became famous for working on the hardest cases around the world. Though I couldn't seem to treat small injuries very well, I had amazing success at healing people in the worst conditions, and I never lost another patient. They called me a god. Well, my patients often called me "master", and vowed to serve me for eternity, but I told them I was just doing my duty and they should go back to their families, and hopefully their medical bills would be paid off in finite time. They were all so grateful. Dr. Curgon didn't take it well. I think he blamed himself for the first deaths, you see? Anyway, I was the doctor who treated him after a nearly successful suicide attempt, and he came around to my side after that. I told him I forgave him for the pettiness before, and he became my firmest supporter.

Warning: some profanity ----- I could taste the goddamn necromagic as soon as I walked in. Rotten flesh, mold, and the alcohol scent of mana boiling it all into my nose. Makes my insides curl. And here it covers everything like someone smeared bodies all over the place. Of course the patients in the waiting room have no idea. There's one guy, finger bent backwards, looking like he's about to blow this place up. If he was one of us, he probably would. The receptionist's tag reads "Mary." Wonder if that's actually her name. "Welcome to Rosewood Hospital, how can I help you?" "I'd like to visit a close friend." "And what would your friend's name be?" "Daniel Thomas." "Alright, give me one, second…" She types into the computer. She's fast, almost technomancer level - but I taste nothing. I'd have to come back for her - an Awakening would be bad news. "Ah, Daniel Thomas. Came in by ER, and, oh. I see that he's currently in surgery right now." Damn. I'm late. Was hoping I'd see Dr. Frankenstein before he sewed his zombie back up. "Is there any way I can see him? Please, it's very important to me." People think I'm hiding something. I am. But I let them fill in their own blanks. The girl at the counter looks at me, fills me in, and reads it right back to me. "I understand, sir, don't worry. I know you really care, and that makes it hard to wait." She's said this many times before. I can see it in her eyes. "Unfortunately, we can't let visitors into the operating rooms. But as soon as Dr. Falk is done with the surgery, you can visit Mr. Thomas in the ICU." I study her face, showing exactly the right amount of anger and frustration. But everything about her is sincere in the old customer-service way. Either she's got no clue about Falk, or she knows exactly how to hide it. Either way, there's nothing more to gain here. "Okay, then." I sigh, looking defeated. "Is there any place I can wait in the meantime?" "Yes, of course! The waiting room is open to anyone, patient or visitor." I look back. I swear the necromagic is even stronger now. "Our cafeteria is also open until 5." I nod, grunt, and sit in one of the chairs. I can feel *it*, like blood and guts, smearing all over my khakis. Camouflage, ol' Grim would say. I call it fuckin' hell. I glance at the clock; five minutes, and then I can do things the way I like. If I left now, "Mary" might remember. The outside door slides open, and a paramedic crew rush in surrounding a stretcher. Most of his body's covered by a blanket, but his head isn't, and it looks like someone cracked it open and scrambled the insides. His mana's leaking like crazy, too, leaving an alcohol-y trail on the floor and pooling when the paramedics stop in front of the receptionist desk. I discreetly pass the poor guy a chunk of my own mana - not that it really matters, in his state. Angry finger guy sits down, face frozen in fear. Don't think he'll forget that. I glance at the clock again. Three minutes, but it might as well have been ten. "Mary" peeks at the doorway to the operating rooms, and I slip out of the door. Finally. I don't walk far. Just to the parking garage, lowest level. No cars. Perfect, right down to the dinky water fountain in the elevator lobby. I take a drink of water, rinsing the necromagic away. Work up a spitball, give a hack for good measure, and spit. I love this part. The spitball hovers in the air, like it's floating in space. Then, it turns around and hits me in the face, exploding in a great big splatter that soaks me from head to toe. I check my hands. Invisible. Good. Time for a little scry n' spy. ----- Part 2 coming soon!

[WP] You wake up after a cataclysmic event to find out that everyone around you is in stasis. You are met face to face with a being known as an Arbiter where you have to answer his questions as he audits the human race. Only you can save humanity.

I was having trouble processing what he'd said. People all in stasis? "What about airplane pilots? The planes are still in the air flying; are they going to crash?" He smiled and made a note on the paper attached to his clipboard: "Concern for others, one point." Then he asked "Is someone you know flying today?" "No, I don't think so." He nodded: "Concern for people one does not know, five points." "Okay, so I have six points, but what about the airplanes?" He sighed. "Everything on the planet is frozen; the airplanes too. No one will come to harm as a result of the actions I have taken so far." "So, let me just be sure I understand. You've frozen the planet in time, planes in midair, surgeons in mid-cut, everybody, except the two of us? Won't that screw up astronomical observations and satellite reception and so on?" He checked over his paper. "Intelligent considerations of things beyond his home world, five points." "It's not that I froze the planet, but that I've pulled you out of time. I doubt you'd understand the temporal mechanics of the full explanation. In any case, nobody is going to be hurt, and no observation made by anyone will be affected, no matter how long we're at this. Can we get started?" "That's the other part I wanted to get clear: you want audit me as a representative of the human race? Why not a lawyer or somebody who can argue, or somebody good like Mister Rogers? I'm nobody important. I'm pretty sure I'm the wrong guy for this." He nodded. "Believes self to be like others, not extra important, one point." Then he said "You were the first person I saw. It could just as easily have been that fellow over there, or someone on the other side of the planet, or some government or religious figure." I was the first person he saw because I was on the roof of my 12-story apartment building. I'd gone up there before all the excitement started, and watched as the first fragments of the unexpected meteor rammed into the skyscrapers near the city center. "Oh. Now what are we doing exactly?" Back to the clipboard. "Requesting fourth clarification, minus one point." He looked at me. "If I am satisfied with your answers, humanity will be allowed to continue and you will not remember any of this. If I am not satisfied with your answers, humanity will be erased from time, and some other species will be given the opportunity to spread across this planet." He scratched his chin. "It's an interesting case. Had I got here not long ago, during the time you call 'World War 2', I would have erased your species immediately. Had I got here when Fred Rogers was still alive - and that's one reason I didn't pick him today - I might have picked him just to chat for a while. Your people have gone to your moon, but then got bored and gave that up. You have advanced technology at a rate in the 90th percentile of other species in the galaxy, and yet your distribution systems are brutally primitive, leaving huge numbers of you suffer needlessly while others have so much luxury it actually damages them intellectually and morally. There are billions of you on the planet, many of whom are brilliant and wise, and yet you consistently choose grossly unqualified people to run your affairs. So it's nearly a coin toss, you see?" "I can't deny any of what you've said. So what do you want to ask of me?" "I can divert the rest of the meteor fragments to stop them running into your planet. I can leave them alone and let them wipe you out. Or I can go back 250,000 years, stop your species from arising in Africa, and let some other bunch take over. Then I'll come back here and pick one of them and possibly have this same discussion, presuming they've been as wasteful as you have in using your resources and can't stop a meteor heading to the planet. You understand that part, right?" I nodded. "Good. So what I want to find out from you, as humanity's representative, is whether your species is worth saving. Is humanity worth keeping around? Should I save you all, or erase you and offer to save whoever replaces you?" I shrugged. "Well, like I said, I'm pretty sure I'm the wrong guy for this. I came up on this roof to jump off."

The sheets were rumpled around him as Jacob crawled out of bed. He stretched his hands out above him dramatically and half yawned, half groaned as the stretch sent up a shiver of pleasure. ​ He was a morning person often to the disappointment of most of the people he interacted with on a daily basis. As was his routine after his stretch he leapt out of bed and to his feet. His eyes wide and a smile on his face. He went to look at his sleeping girlfriend but she was still as a board almost eerily still. Something about her sleeping posture unnerved him, but he knew if he woke her up early on a weekend he would have to vacate the house for a few hours to escape her rage. With this in mind he slowly sneaked his way to the edge of the room and opened the door just a crack and shimmied through it to minimize the disturbance to the sleeping dragon in his bed. ​ With a backward glance he looked one more time at his girlfriend and took the final step out of the room and into something. He probed the structure in front of him feeling rock hard pectorals as if they had actually been chiseled from rocks, he turned his eyes up and a giant of man carved from ebony stone peered down at him eyes glowing with golden fire. ​ "I am the Arbiter!" Rumbled the voice, sounding like an avalanche shaking his room. Jacob turned with fear towards his girlfriend she was still, utterly frozen. He sighed with relief. ​ "How did you get in here? Did Jessica forget the lock on the door?" Jacob demanded. "I am the Arbiter! Here to judge this world to see if its worth protecting from the wandering scourge!" declared the stone giant. His voice once more shook the house. ​ "What kind of prank is this! Listen if you wake her up! You will have to be saved from my wrath!" declared Jacob jabbing a finger at the stone man who stumbled back in surprise, "Now get out of my house." Jacob pushed the giant towards the door muttering about stupid pranks under his prank. The Arbiter allowed himself to be guided outside the house and through the door and turned to converse with Jacob one more to only have a wooden door slammed in his face and Jacob yelling from the other hand, "Come back after 8! And so help me god if you woke her up I'll hunt you down!" ​ The Arbiter could hear the human going deeper into his house his footsteps fading from his inhuman ears. He chuckled quietly to himself he had gotten all the information he needed from the strange human. He looked down at his wrist and a holographic display appeared before him, glowing yellow text saying "Stasis" pulsated in front of him. He swiped his hand across it and the text dissipated and the sound of birds and the rustling of small animals could be heard once more. ​ The display changed on the holograph again and a list of various items appeared below a heading saying Criteria for Survival. The Arbiter's eyes scanned through the list until he came across one that said Caring About Others. It was a simple one, but of the two hundred and forty three worlds he had found very few had exhibited even that basic level of care for their fellows. He checked off the list and the screen flashed and it said planet marked for protection. ​ (This is my first prompt ever, all criticism appreciated.)

[WP] You wake up after a cataclysmic event to find out that everyone around you is in stasis. You are met face to face with a being known as an Arbiter where you have to answer his questions as he audits the human race. Only you can save humanity.

I was having trouble processing what he'd said. People all in stasis? "What about airplane pilots? The planes are still in the air flying; are they going to crash?" He smiled and made a note on the paper attached to his clipboard: "Concern for others, one point." Then he asked "Is someone you know flying today?" "No, I don't think so." He nodded: "Concern for people one does not know, five points." "Okay, so I have six points, but what about the airplanes?" He sighed. "Everything on the planet is frozen; the airplanes too. No one will come to harm as a result of the actions I have taken so far." "So, let me just be sure I understand. You've frozen the planet in time, planes in midair, surgeons in mid-cut, everybody, except the two of us? Won't that screw up astronomical observations and satellite reception and so on?" He checked over his paper. "Intelligent considerations of things beyond his home world, five points." "It's not that I froze the planet, but that I've pulled you out of time. I doubt you'd understand the temporal mechanics of the full explanation. In any case, nobody is going to be hurt, and no observation made by anyone will be affected, no matter how long we're at this. Can we get started?" "That's the other part I wanted to get clear: you want audit me as a representative of the human race? Why not a lawyer or somebody who can argue, or somebody good like Mister Rogers? I'm nobody important. I'm pretty sure I'm the wrong guy for this." He nodded. "Believes self to be like others, not extra important, one point." Then he said "You were the first person I saw. It could just as easily have been that fellow over there, or someone on the other side of the planet, or some government or religious figure." I was the first person he saw because I was on the roof of my 12-story apartment building. I'd gone up there before all the excitement started, and watched as the first fragments of the unexpected meteor rammed into the skyscrapers near the city center. "Oh. Now what are we doing exactly?" Back to the clipboard. "Requesting fourth clarification, minus one point." He looked at me. "If I am satisfied with your answers, humanity will be allowed to continue and you will not remember any of this. If I am not satisfied with your answers, humanity will be erased from time, and some other species will be given the opportunity to spread across this planet." He scratched his chin. "It's an interesting case. Had I got here not long ago, during the time you call 'World War 2', I would have erased your species immediately. Had I got here when Fred Rogers was still alive - and that's one reason I didn't pick him today - I might have picked him just to chat for a while. Your people have gone to your moon, but then got bored and gave that up. You have advanced technology at a rate in the 90th percentile of other species in the galaxy, and yet your distribution systems are brutally primitive, leaving huge numbers of you suffer needlessly while others have so much luxury it actually damages them intellectually and morally. There are billions of you on the planet, many of whom are brilliant and wise, and yet you consistently choose grossly unqualified people to run your affairs. So it's nearly a coin toss, you see?" "I can't deny any of what you've said. So what do you want to ask of me?" "I can divert the rest of the meteor fragments to stop them running into your planet. I can leave them alone and let them wipe you out. Or I can go back 250,000 years, stop your species from arising in Africa, and let some other bunch take over. Then I'll come back here and pick one of them and possibly have this same discussion, presuming they've been as wasteful as you have in using your resources and can't stop a meteor heading to the planet. You understand that part, right?" I nodded. "Good. So what I want to find out from you, as humanity's representative, is whether your species is worth saving. Is humanity worth keeping around? Should I save you all, or erase you and offer to save whoever replaces you?" I shrugged. "Well, like I said, I'm pretty sure I'm the wrong guy for this. I came up on this roof to jump off."

Standing on what used to be the roof of the John Hancock Building in downtown Boston, I surveyed the damage. The fires have finally settled on their own, since there is no longer a firefighting crew to take care of them. Looking over at the freeway, the cars are all at a dead stop, with the dead still behind each wheel, looking peacefully asleep. Bumper to bumper traffic, as usual. I chuckled at the fact that no one can ever escape a traffic jam, even after they’re gone. I am not sure what has happened here, a once vibrant and full city. A few days ago, I went to bed, on a perfectly normal night, throwing the windows open to hear the cars zooming by and the planes landing at the nearby airport. It was quite an unsettling feeling, waking up to complete silence. I have finally made my way downtown, not meeting a single soul on the badly damaged road. I tried to turn on the TV and radio, but only static came through. Luckily, I had invested in a HAM radio, but even that was a dead end. I am alone. Utterly and hopelessly alone. So, there I was. Three days later, standing on top of this 790 foot skyscraper, trying to decide if I should continue to look for survivors or just take the plunge off the side and join the rest of the victims. The heat of the midday sun made me lightheaded, maybe just falling off the top would be simpler than finding a glass of clean water. A blinding white flash rudely interrupted my thoughts and a tall slender man dressed in a pinstripe blue suit, black eyeglasses and holding clipboard was standing not five feet behind me. “Excuse me, are you Jack?” he asked, while checking his clipboard. Stunned by his sudden appearance, I remained silent. “Sir?” He tried again. “I am looking for Jack. I have a few questions for him. Is that you?” “Yeees?” I replied slowly, no longer thinking about that ledge. I stepped closer to him, trying to see what was on his clipboard. “Well now! I have been looking for you for days! I tried your house, but no one was home. I tried your work, but you weren’t there either. I went to every place associated with you and kept coming up empty. We only have a few hours left before we can’t bring anyone back. Let’s get started shall we?” He turned and headed towards one of the patio tables someone had set up. Flipping a page on his clipboard, he sat down and waved me over. A bead of sweat dripped down his face as he pushed his glasses back into place. Finally getting over my shock, I was able to speak to this strange man. “Who are you? What is going on here?” I asked, my hands gesturing to the destroyed city around me. “Ah, right. I should introduce myself.” He smirked. “I am known as The Arbiter. I set a special bomb to cause all the people here to go into stasis. Unfortunately, the bomb does have some side effects to the city it was planted in. The good news is, everywhere else is just fine.” “Arbiter?” I asked skeptically. “Are you like a judge or something?” “Or something. I am here to assess this world to see if ‘humans’ are a viable addition to the universe. We have been watching Earth for some time now, but are undecided on what to do. We’ve seen humans do wonderful things, make great advancements in science and the arts. But have also seen them do atrocious things. It’s been decided that we will simply get involved and ask. You have been chosen to represent the human race and therefore, your answers will decide if humans continue.” His explanation hit me like a ton of bricks. To say the weight of the world is on my shoulders is a complete understatement. I finally know what Atlas feels like, carrying the sky. He has the wrong guy. I can’t be a spokesman for the world, I barely have my life together! The pressure is too great! “You need to wake up someone else. I’m not the one you’re looking for.” The Arbiter checks his clipboard again, a crease forming between his eyes. “Jack Helsson? 1247 West Broadway, Boston, Massachusetts. Is that not you?” “That is me, but someone else needs to do this!” I shout at him, my heartbeat starting to race faster and the sweat beginning to pour off of my body. I look down at my shaking hands and quickly jump out of my chair. Pacing the roof of the building, my jagged breaths doing little to calm me. “Let’s get inside and out of the sun.” The Arbiter makes a few notes on his clipboard before he walks over to me and puts his hand on my shoulder. Not expecting this, I spin around and clock him squarely in the jaw. He hits the ground with a loud thud. My eyes widen and I can feel the blood draining from my face. “Oh shit,” I whisper to myself. “I didn’t mean to do that.” The Arbiter stands up, looks at me crossly, and rubs his jaw. I see a bruise starting to form where my fist connected with his face. “Thank you for that. I now have all the information I need,” he said sternly. “You will know of our decision soon.” I see another flash of bright white light and he is gone.

[WP] You die as a devoted Christian, having served your life converting others. St Peter reads the stats he has in his book including how many people you converted to Christianity, and surprisingly you beat some high scores... Including jesus's.

"Uhh, shit, well, this is awkward." The man on the podium said, looking over the scores he had on whatever sheet of paper he was holding, he looked down with me at a smile, "Hold on a second, I've gotta call someone. He grabbed a phone, and walked through the pearly gates, "Yo Jesus, you've been bested." A man suddenly appeared, smiling slightly, "Oh? In what? If it's pool, that isn't really a surprise." "No, dude, look." The man flipped his papers, and showed them to the man. "Woah, holy shit, okay... That kid over there, converted more people than... Is he like, Me 2, or something?" St. Peter fumbled with some papers, and looked towards my name, "No, he's just some average man, really." "Average," Jesus laughed to myself, "There's no way in hell he's average. No person could convert an entire billion people to Christianity, and that quickly too." "Yeah...Yo, should we call your dad about this, and check what's up with him?" "I wanna know if he hit some random chick on Earth, and just didn't tell us about it, so yeah, call him up." Peter jumped back onto his podium with his phone, "Yeah, You've got some explaining to do about this kid." A man slammed into life. He seemed a bit tired, and rubbed at his eyes, as he looked towards his son and Peter. "Wassup?" He slurred, "And why the hell are the lights so bright down here." "Sorry about that," Peter laughed, snapping his fingers, and lowering the lights, "Had a rough night last night?" "Fuckin', nearly destroyed all of creation." "What! How?" Jesus asked. "I was, a lil bit drunk, trying to show off, I think. Aimed my hand at Earth, and, tried to fix climate change, and instead unleashed all of hell. Lucifer was certainly surprised, laughed his ass off at all of it, he did." The man I had always assumed to be holier than thou, was stumbling on the platform, with bleary eyes, and a half empty bottle in his hand, "So anyways, I got this one kid, and gave him superhuman powers at the last second, an' he destroyed all of 'em demons at once! It was so cool, you shoulda been there." Peter and Jesus looked towards me, and I waved silently. "Well that explains it." "Dad, we're gonna have to get you into rehab."

The light was bright, but not too bright. It reminded me of a warm spring day. You’d squint at the sun as its rays caressed your face, just barely strong enough to combat the chill from a slight breeze. It was a warm blanket that made me feel truly secure for the first time in my life. Or, I suppose, the first time in my afterlife, for I knew this light could only come from one thing. “My lord,” I said, prostrating myself on the soft grass at the feet of the Son of God. His presence inspired me, filled me, completed me. “I am truly blessed to be gifted by your-” “Oh, quit that,” Jesus snapped. He stormed over to St. Peter, who was dressed like a rural farmer sitting next to a rusty gate across a familiar dirt road. Jesus glanced around at the surroundings and snorted. “Nice. *This* is what you think of when you’re happiest? Please.” He rolled his eyes and muttered something about inbred farmers under his breath. “Jesus. How’s it going?” St. Peter asked, closing the Book. “Hand it over,” Jesus said. “Now, Jesus, you know I’m not supposed to do that. YHWH got very upset last time because you-” “Hand. It. Over.” “Alright, alright, chill out, J-man. Just doing my job.” St. Peter gave the Book, the Book that contained all knowledge of the acts done in a man’s life to Jesus. Jesus began flipping through it furiously. “No. No. I refuse.” I was still flat on the ground. “Refuse what, my lord?” I asked the dirt. “Oh, will you just get up? Enough of the humble act.” I slowly rose to my knees. “As my lord commands,” I said uncertainly. Jesus sighed theatrically. “Whatever.” He looked back at the book. “Peter, this book can’t be right.” “Your father made it, JC. It can’t be *wrong*.” St. Peter glanced nervously at the sky. “Right?” Thunder rumbled ominously despite the lack of visible storm clouds. “But it *can’t* be right. Who’s the best prophet to ever roam the Earth?” Peter shifted uncomfortably but said nothing. Jesus glared at him before turning to me. “You. Human. Best prophet to walk the Earth. Go.” “Well…” I hesitated. “Scholars would argue that as a manifestation of God himself, you can’t *also* be a prophet for yourself. Some might even say that calling you a prophet is specifically part of the Islamic tradition.” “Who. Is. The best. Prophet?” “You are, my lord, naturally,” I said, dropping to the dirt again. “Will you stop that?!” He cried. “We need to deal with the real issues here. I pushed myself off the ground again. “Real issues, my lord?” Jesus shoved the book into my hands. “Look. There. At that number. What is it?” I read the page slowly. “This is the stat for the number of people I converted. It says… Wow. That’s a big number.” “Too big,” Jesus hissed. “You beat me.” “Impossible, my lord. All glory and honor must go to you. As your will dictates, it is done.” I bowed again, forehead to the grass. “STOP IT! STOP!” I got up again and glanced at Him. “My lord, are you not pleased with this?” “Redo. I want a redo. It’s not fair. You must have had a TV show or a megachurch or something.” “Just a YouTube channel, my lord,” I said nervously. Jesus threw his arms in the air. “A YouTube channel. I’ve been bested by a YouTube channel.” He grabbed my arm, hauled me to my feet, and began pulling me away from the gate. “Jesus, wait! What are you doing?” Peter called. “It’s not fair!” He said, turning back. “There were only 300 million people alive when I was around, and only 5 million in the Roman Empire! It took me weeks just to see a few hundred, and he can reach 10 million in a second!” Jesus turned back and kept pulling me away. “It’s time for some reincarnation. We’re going head to [head](https://reddit.com/r/Badderlocks).”

[WP] You die as a devoted Christian, having served your life converting others. St Peter reads the stats he has in his book including how many people you converted to Christianity, and surprisingly you beat some high scores... Including jesus's.

"Uhh, shit, well, this is awkward." The man on the podium said, looking over the scores he had on whatever sheet of paper he was holding, he looked down with me at a smile, "Hold on a second, I've gotta call someone. He grabbed a phone, and walked through the pearly gates, "Yo Jesus, you've been bested." A man suddenly appeared, smiling slightly, "Oh? In what? If it's pool, that isn't really a surprise." "No, dude, look." The man flipped his papers, and showed them to the man. "Woah, holy shit, okay... That kid over there, converted more people than... Is he like, Me 2, or something?" St. Peter fumbled with some papers, and looked towards my name, "No, he's just some average man, really." "Average," Jesus laughed to myself, "There's no way in hell he's average. No person could convert an entire billion people to Christianity, and that quickly too." "Yeah...Yo, should we call your dad about this, and check what's up with him?" "I wanna know if he hit some random chick on Earth, and just didn't tell us about it, so yeah, call him up." Peter jumped back onto his podium with his phone, "Yeah, You've got some explaining to do about this kid." A man slammed into life. He seemed a bit tired, and rubbed at his eyes, as he looked towards his son and Peter. "Wassup?" He slurred, "And why the hell are the lights so bright down here." "Sorry about that," Peter laughed, snapping his fingers, and lowering the lights, "Had a rough night last night?" "Fuckin', nearly destroyed all of creation." "What! How?" Jesus asked. "I was, a lil bit drunk, trying to show off, I think. Aimed my hand at Earth, and, tried to fix climate change, and instead unleashed all of hell. Lucifer was certainly surprised, laughed his ass off at all of it, he did." The man I had always assumed to be holier than thou, was stumbling on the platform, with bleary eyes, and a half empty bottle in his hand, "So anyways, I got this one kid, and gave him superhuman powers at the last second, an' he destroyed all of 'em demons at once! It was so cool, you shoulda been there." Peter and Jesus looked towards me, and I waved silently. "Well that explains it." "Dad, we're gonna have to get you into rehab."

"Thank God my faith was correct all these times!" That was what I said to myself when I saw the pearly gates in heaven. As a priest, I always had my doubt in the darkest parts of my mind. It's certainly a shame for those close minded atheists. The man standing in front of the closed gate chuckled as he approached me. "You can thank the Lord in person if you want. I'll have to check you in first, though." The youthful looking man who wore surprisingly modern clothes and a sash fixed himself and grabbed a clipboard out of nothing. Now that I think about it, I look like my younger self right now, is this called being young at heart? "Good eternity to you, Jason. My name is Peter and I'm here to evaluate whether you deserve to be in the presence of our Lord for the rest of eternity." "Peter? As in the guy in the bible, Peter? I'm a huge fan!" "The thousands of Peters in heaven had heard of that before but yes, I am the Peter in the Bible." "What did I do to deserve the honor..?" He then quickly scans the clipboard he was holding. Nodding as his eyes goes through the pages. His eyes opened wide every now and then and a big smile appeared on his face. "Your guardian angel spoke fondly of you, Jason. A loyal servant to our Lord, an ability to earn the goodwill of others with kindness, converted a record making amount of people to Christianity. You did more than any pope. You're basically the second Jesus!" "Second Jesus?! That's too much, I was only doing my pastoral obligation to God." "And you had done so exceedingly well! That guy is the actual son of God! Even with his miracles, he wasn't able to match these numbers! It was unfortunate that Jesus died in his 30s, he could've raised the bar a lot more!" 'What in God's name is going on?!' - I thought to myself. I took a passing glance inside the pearly gates of heaven and saw someone peeking through the iron bars. It was a very familiar looking person but no way had I met him personally before. "J-Jesus?!" - I called out, hoping that I was right. Peter turned around and greeted him. "Oh, it's Mr. Messiah himself! What brings you here?" THAT REALLY IS JESUS?! He definitely had the hair, albeit, shorter than what I saw on common depictions of him. I almost forgot that he's actually dark skin. Quite a look he was sporting too. He's wearing a white coat over a white shirt and a yellow necktie, white slacks. It was almost something Michael Jackson would wear (hopefully, that guy is here) "I had heard from a guardian angel that someone had supposedly beat my conversion record and wanted to see for myself who it was." - Jesus said "Hmm... I'm starting to think that he deserves to be in heaven based on that achievement alone..." Jesus opened one side of the gate and called me over. "Hey! Jason, right? Stop talking to old Pete here and come on over! I'll vouch for you." "You can just do that?" - I muttered "Weeeell, if J-dude here wants you in, who am I to defy the son of God?" Somehow I think these two just talk to each other like best friends. These kinds of banter is allowed in heaven, huh? I walked over through the pearly gates. Everything suddenly glowed white. When the light faded, I was on a sandy beach. My mind feels a bit hazy with how bright everything seems to be. It felt like I was walking on this beach for a while but I couldn't feel my legs. Looking behind me, I could only see one set of footprints. "Jesus, are you carrying me?" - I said out loud. "Hahaha, you figured it out almost immediately, huh? I'll put you down." The haziness in my mind suddenly cleared. We were still on the beach but now I could feel my legs and there were two set of footprints from where I came from now. Now I'm just having a nice one on one talk with Jesus while walking on the beach. The sea breeze makes each step refreshing. This really was heaven. "First of all, big fan of your work." "I would say the same to you Jason." "I am flattered but your name is forever etched in history as the great Messiah! Such glory is worthy of eternal praise" "I'm glad to see that you're still a priest through and through even after being welcomed in heaven. Now, I need to talk to you about something." Jesus stopped walking and faced me. "I am sorry to ask you of this but would you come reincarnate back to earth with me?" "What? Why? Wait, no. Of course I'll join milord." "I am happy that you are devoted but I will feel guilty if you don't at least know the reason why. I guess I'll treat you with some of heaven's finest first..." In the next moment, we were sitting on a veranda of a beach side villa. There's a table between us with a tray of snacks, a pitcher of ice tea and luxurious looking glasses filled to the brim with the ice tea. Jesus was sitting across to me. Surprisingly, he had a phone on his right hand. I mean, with everything I saw so far, of course he would have a phone. I can't help but ask about it. "Everything is so modern here in heaven, huh?" - I said as I looked around in amazement. "In heaven, we still feel boredom so we go along with Earth's technology, making some tweaks here and there so that heaven... feels like heaven. Anyways, enjoy yourself for a bit." I nodded took a sip of the ice tea (It was of course heavenly) and had some of the snacks (it tasted divine) Jesus seems to be browsing some sort of social media app on his phone while also snacking. Leisure time seems to be the same in Earth as it is in heaven. "Do you see this? Believers are getting lower and lower each passing day. Atheism is growing in number and religious people are starting to be taken less seriously." - Jesus said as he showed me something on his phone's screen. "Uh... Yeah" I just saw some graphs, I don't claim to understand what any of it means but everything seems to be sloping downwards so I guess that's bad? "The world is heading towards chaos, too. You keep seeing it on the news, right? Deception, everywhere! Pollution! Global Warming! Corruption!" Jesus said as he slammed his phone on the desk. "Wait, where are you going with this?" That increasingly passionate and we'll intentioned speech...I was familiar with how he was speaking. He's preaching something to me, I just have to ask what he wants to say. I would agree with it anyways. "As the son of God, I have certain obligations in heaven and on Earth. In heaven, I need to maintain my image and for that, I need to beat your new conversion record. In Earth, I feel like the people need a Messiah to guide them again. The children had strayed for far too long but with you by my side and the power of modern technology and social media, we could restore people's faith and bring peace to the world!" HOLY! THAT'S QUITE THE EXPECTATION I took my time to process it. If I go along with this, then this would be the second coming of Christ! I can't believe that I would be the one to cause it, though. Isn't this the highest honor a priest could ever ask for even unrealistically. I'm quite worried about what he said about using social media... Still, I haven't spent much time here in heaven but I'm already given the chance to reincarnate. If Jesus wants my help, then I have no choice. If I didn't, then why did I swear my oath to God? "So, have you thought about it?" - Jesus asked calmly. "In your name and your father's, I will follow you back to Earth!"

[WP] To be Samurai is to be Honor personified. To be a Viking is to be Rage personified. To be a Centurion is to be Strength personified. But your people are much different. To be a warrior of your kind, you must be Death personified.

Every respectable warrior, whether of the northern barbarians, the eastern warlords, or the southern empire, are all the same. They think that death is an honor. That to die for your liege or people is to make up for the cost of death. How arrogant are they, that they think they can die? How foolish are they, that they think death a curse? We call the Lord of Death the Lord of Change, for to us, there is nothing that can die. We live in the garden of eternal life, where one form yet transforms into another for all eternity. What a thing to be revered! And yet those other peoples are full of hatred and discrimination. When Death takes them, so ends their selfishness. The dead give freely of even their bodies to the plants and bugs and all manner of life. Their hatred dies with them, and so too their discrimination. Death is the perfection of man. And so it is that even the raging barbarians are cowed by the glee on our faces, and by the sheer joy exuded when a blade enters the soft and pulsing hearts of their comrades. When they injure us, our cries of pain are intermingled with laughter, for never do we forget the fun of war, nor can we stop from laughing when we see the terror on their faces. The poor wretches. They fear death so much that it seems only natural they fear us too, for they fear what we do not. The Lord of Death is the Lord of Change, and we are his vassals, joyfully executing a task which to others brings graven words and sullen faces. That is the singular power of our warriors. We are not particularly quick nor strong, and yet never are we stupid, for we are not afraid. How ironic is it that our joy leads our enemies to quake in their boots? That our act of love is so feared? We are death personified.

Death... Many think of it as a destination, a conclusion that comes after life, and living has come to an end, for me and my kin who the joys of life have abandoned... We have learned to embrace the call of death, We relish it's coming and wish for All to share our conviction. Let me tell you of my people; The keyboard Warriors. Our enemy is happiness; A human in a moment of triumph? That is the joy of life that we do not know and the enemy of death. We seek war with happiness and happy people to spread our cause and the ways of death. Our weapon is a simple one but versatile. A machine to build words. words are the true weapon of our cause. A true keyboard warrior needs not skill, merely to fashion words of doubt, words that pull people into our despair and march for death. Our fight is not won when an argument is won, Our true goal is only to spread our cause and our existence is enough to sow the seeds of doubt and to leech away the happiness we eagerly fight to destroy. To follow us you must embrace our lifestyle, We care care not for our physical bodies in order to be closer death. We sit and fester before a strobing light, decaying, decaying... Fear us for we are the personification of death.

[WP] To be Samurai is to be Honor personified. To be a Viking is to be Rage personified. To be a Centurion is to be Strength personified. But your people are much different. To be a warrior of your kind, you must be Death personified.

—*Pinches morros*, they never learn —, uttered 'Piedra' as he holstered his golden, semi-automatic 9mm gun in his belt—. Every day's the same shit. Don't you ever get tired, Franco? Of all this? —Not really —, you answer, indifferent. —You're a *cabrón*, you know? That's why the boss likes you. You have *huevos*. You say nothing. What lies before you is just another day of what your regular life has become since you joined the Cartel: bodies of men sunken in pools of their own blood with their hands firmly gripping their guns - as if doing so would prevent their souls from leaving their bodies and kept them from dying. Today it was a small group of youngsters who thought they could outsmart the boss, hiding merchandise and selling it under the table to keep the profits for themselves. Just like last week and the month before, the boss found out. Soon enough, he sent you and your partner to have a little talk with the puppies and teach them not to bite the hand that feeds. "If we let them *chingarme*", your boss said, "they will screw you too". On the way back to the safehouse, you pulled a magazine out of one of the cabinets in the truck and sunk into it while 'Piedra' drove cautiously, trying to avoid as many traffic cameras as he could. —I'll never understand how you do it —, he began —. All this killing, all this butchering, all this blood and shit and you are still so... calm, *cabrón*! —You get used to it in the Army —, you reply without looking away form the magazine. —I come from the Army too, *güey*. Cutting fingers is no problem, neither is gutting a *pendejo* with a rusty knife like a fish. Thing is... you may have problems, you know? In your head. You say nothing. 'Piedra' continued on for several minutes about serial killers, psychopaths and many other types of "crazy people" - as he called them. Nonetheless you barely listened to anything of what he was talking about; you couldn't care less. Your mind was intrigued into reading this magazine you had bought last week, "History Revealed". It was a special edition about the greatest warriors that had ever existed, comparing them in several aspects such as honor, bravery, courage, rage, strength and many more. You bought it because, unknown to many of the people you work with, you had always been a history buff, an aficionado who liked reading about great battles and famous generals. As a kid you enjoyed playing in the fields after picking up the poppy, imagining you were amidst a dangerous forest fighting barbarians with your sword - the wooden stick your father would sometimes hit you with. Countless hours went by feigning you were a warrior in dangerous worlds. When you grew up you were forced to leave it all behind, but somehow it returned - twisted by the Fate you had been given by God. Fake swords became real guns. Cardboard armor became Kevlar vests and anti-gas masks. Killing became real. You had become a warrior, albeit in a modern and more dangerous reality. 'Piedra' stopped talking when he noticed you were smiling. —Woah, *cabrón*! I don't mean to offend you, okay? —, he exclaimed with an uneasy look in his eyes —. I'm not saying you're completely *loco*, just normal-*loco*. —Just keep driving, *hombre* —, you reply with a distinguishable smirk drawn on your lips —. Unless the boss commands it, I won't become Death to you. -- END -- Sorry for the formatting, I'm on my cellphone. Sorry for any mistakes made, English is second language to me. I wrote it hurriedly, for my battery is dying. Any clarifications about Mexican slang I will surely provide if any were to arise!

Death... Many think of it as a destination, a conclusion that comes after life, and living has come to an end, for me and my kin who the joys of life have abandoned... We have learned to embrace the call of death, We relish it's coming and wish for All to share our conviction. Let me tell you of my people; The keyboard Warriors. Our enemy is happiness; A human in a moment of triumph? That is the joy of life that we do not know and the enemy of death. We seek war with happiness and happy people to spread our cause and the ways of death. Our weapon is a simple one but versatile. A machine to build words. words are the true weapon of our cause. A true keyboard warrior needs not skill, merely to fashion words of doubt, words that pull people into our despair and march for death. Our fight is not won when an argument is won, Our true goal is only to spread our cause and our existence is enough to sow the seeds of doubt and to leech away the happiness we eagerly fight to destroy. To follow us you must embrace our lifestyle, We care care not for our physical bodies in order to be closer death. We sit and fester before a strobing light, decaying, decaying... Fear us for we are the personification of death.

[WP] To be Samurai is to be Honor personified. To be a Viking is to be Rage personified. To be a Centurion is to be Strength personified. But your people are much different. To be a warrior of your kind, you must be Death personified.

To be a warrior is to be an avatar. Honor, Courage, Rage, Strength, Discipline, and more; but there is always one that stands above the rest to each person, to each people. ​ Honor is easy: while its warriors call challenges to one another, we simply go around them and slaughter their kin and plunder their homes. Strength fares little better; we simply poison their supplies. ​ Rage requires caution, it can confer strength even beyond what the avatars of Strength command--but only briefly. These warriors we taunt until they are enraged beyond reason and then draw them after us, until even their rage-strength is exhausted and they fall so that a child can give the death-blow. Courage is not quite as easily baited; but its warriors also will not flee from an ambush, allowing us to destroy them all. ​ Discipline is hardest. In the field, we have found it best to call fog--its warriors cannot maintain their ranks if they cannot see even the man nearest to them. Then we give them voices in the fog, that sound just like their commanders. In the face of Confusion, they will break; and they may even begin killing one another. ​ Engineering is dangerous only when allied to Discipline; the rest of the time it is a serpent biting its own tail--making the weapons that knock down the walls it raised. When it and Discipline are working together, we must rely on pestilence, or sow division within their cities. Wealth and Words succeed where Strength cannot. ​ Many argue that the avatars of Wealth should not be called warriors, because they hire others to do their fighting for them. But that they are conquerors cannot be disputed. Every tactic, every virtue, they can draw to their defense--those who disdain gold still desire the things that gold can buy. Better weapons, better food, better wives, better stories... Sometimes we can simply whisper to their hirelings that they should have all the gold rather than just what their employers see fit to give them. The other method is to give Wealth what it wants. We give them the things that make them crave more, and more--until one day we tell them there is no more, and watch them destroy each other over what they have hoarded. ​ The Word warriors are hardest--killing them too often makes their words all the stronger. But most of them are easily co-opted, taking gold to spread words that serve our ends; or else stepping willingly into a gilded cage, unaware that those who praise their voices are deaf to their words. The few who refuse to be bribed and who are more dangerous dead than they are living we must guide to the things we want them to speak of and blind to what we wish to remain secret. They cannot tell what they do not see. ​ And who are we, to use every tactic, to use even our enemies as weapons? We are the avatar of Death, of course. All that we desire, comes to us in time. No, not Patience--Strength can crush that simply by striking before it is ready. ​ \*\*\*\*\* ​ And then *they* came. When we bypassed Honor, they met us with Discipline. When our captive Engineering breached their walls, they met us with Rage. When we tried to draw Rage out, they used Wealth to send others in pursuit. When we tried to use Words to turn their hirelings against them, we learned that they had not used their Wealth to hire warriors, but rather to give Strength to those who had been weak. And Words must ever bow before Deeds. ​ Discipline which had ever been our greatest challenge now became our last refuge. And they answered Discipline not with Confusion but with **Fire**. ​ \*\*\*\*\* ​ Only those of us who fell prey to Confusion have survived. How is this possible? Although many individuals can be avatars of the same attribute, and a warrior need not embody the same attribute as his people; at the scale of nations there can only be one Avatar of a given attribute at a time. Only Death can wield all the attributes, and our people were still the Avatar of Death when *they* arose. ​ And so i go to them, not as an assassin but rather as a supplicant. "How?" i ask. "What is your attribute, that you can use them all against us who were Death incarnate?" ​ And they answered: ​ "**Love**."

Death... Many think of it as a destination, a conclusion that comes after life, and living has come to an end, for me and my kin who the joys of life have abandoned... We have learned to embrace the call of death, We relish it's coming and wish for All to share our conviction. Let me tell you of my people; The keyboard Warriors. Our enemy is happiness; A human in a moment of triumph? That is the joy of life that we do not know and the enemy of death. We seek war with happiness and happy people to spread our cause and the ways of death. Our weapon is a simple one but versatile. A machine to build words. words are the true weapon of our cause. A true keyboard warrior needs not skill, merely to fashion words of doubt, words that pull people into our despair and march for death. Our fight is not won when an argument is won, Our true goal is only to spread our cause and our existence is enough to sow the seeds of doubt and to leech away the happiness we eagerly fight to destroy. To follow us you must embrace our lifestyle, We care care not for our physical bodies in order to be closer death. We sit and fester before a strobing light, decaying, decaying... Fear us for we are the personification of death.

[WP] To be Samurai is to be Honor personified. To be a Viking is to be Rage personified. To be a Centurion is to be Strength personified. But your people are much different. To be a warrior of your kind, you must be Death personified.

Ashes swirled as the quiet clashing of the last warriors came to a close. Their bodies broken and tired from the hours of death, and violence they had wrought against one another. With a gloomy snort, I pulled away the flap to my tent, and so my battlefield was opened to me. My attendants followed behind me as I surveyed the chaotic ruin of earth and blood. The weapons they had used lacked elegance, or subtlety. Still, I had my fight. My attendants, masked and cloaked as they were followed my direction, gathering up the spent bodies of all those I gestured to. They obeyed without question, as I continued my march. I cared not for faction, nor creed. I collected all those who caught my eye, and brought them back to my encampment. A heavy wind, blasted along the ruined trenches of packed soil, billowing the scorched remains of so many through the now silent battleground. Still, I remained pristine, apart, and yet all to close to it all. I had to remain strong, stoic, and most of all: discerning. I would not waste strength on the worthless. Once each of my attendants had taken a single warrior back with them, I returned with them. It was only the soft crunching of decay under my boots that reminded me that I was still alive myself, and not wandering some ghoulish road to hell. Once I am in my tent, I strip off the coverings I had, and cleansed myself thoroughly, as ritual demanded. I would not disgrace myself or my enemy by appearing covered in the ashes and rot of their allies. I looked to a mirror to be certain my gear was properly affixed, my scowl had set in so deeply, it felt like a natural part of my expression these days. When I stepped out of my personal tent, and onto the battlefield I had prepared, my attendants were relieved. I looked down at the ruined warriors around me, and sighed for a moment before affixing myself a stern expression. I was the one who decided when men would die on my battlefield, with deft hands and brutal efficiency I removed every obstacle within my grasp. Nothing could stop me, as long as they didn't escape my hold. My clutches. As I moved away from my most recent opponent, a hand reached out and grabbed my sleeve. Glancing back the man whom I had just finished with gave me a weak, almost sloppy grin. "Thank you. Doctor."

Death... Many think of it as a destination, a conclusion that comes after life, and living has come to an end, for me and my kin who the joys of life have abandoned... We have learned to embrace the call of death, We relish it's coming and wish for All to share our conviction. Let me tell you of my people; The keyboard Warriors. Our enemy is happiness; A human in a moment of triumph? That is the joy of life that we do not know and the enemy of death. We seek war with happiness and happy people to spread our cause and the ways of death. Our weapon is a simple one but versatile. A machine to build words. words are the true weapon of our cause. A true keyboard warrior needs not skill, merely to fashion words of doubt, words that pull people into our despair and march for death. Our fight is not won when an argument is won, Our true goal is only to spread our cause and our existence is enough to sow the seeds of doubt and to leech away the happiness we eagerly fight to destroy. To follow us you must embrace our lifestyle, We care care not for our physical bodies in order to be closer death. We sit and fester before a strobing light, decaying, decaying... Fear us for we are the personification of death.

[WP] To be Samurai is to be Honor personified. To be a Viking is to be Rage personified. To be a Centurion is to be Strength personified. But your people are much different. To be a warrior of your kind, you must be Death personified.

Quellen stepped out from hiding behind the parked armored vehicle that guarded the base and with only the whisper of a shuffled step drove the knife into the soldier’s neck. He kept moving not needing to check the body. Death was his mission, his hobby, his art. Alarms sounded as he moved toward the next guard already raising his rifle in response. He wouldn’t be quick enough, the knife left from his hand, landing in his neck with a satisfying thump like a ripe grapefruit falling from the tree to the pavement and splitting open, the results were similar as he removed the knife and the guard too spilled his liquid contents to the earth. Quellen removed the guard’s rifle and stepped through the gate. Inside the base the soldiers like ants had begun to move with frenzy and fear. He could always smell the fear. It disgusted him. Quellen could not remember the last time he killed a man that faced him with out fear. Maybe one of the Danes during his time there, but that was over a thousand years ago, and even then, his rage was so intense that maybe it simply masked the fear. Quellen had not bothered to ask. Just one more death for his master’s tally. Quellen’s memories dissipated as the bullets began to fly and he darted into the guard’s station. It was not that he feared the pain of being shot, or even the death. For the chosen few that were in his position death wasn’t something that could be avoided, it was part of the job. It was just that being shot was inefficient. It was like throwing paint on a canvas and calling it art. Where was the masterful brushstrokes that showed the mastery only achieved by someone who threw themselves into the art for years. He wasn’t a hired gun; he had been practicing his art for almost two thousand years. He was an artist. Quellen centered himself with a breath before stepping out into the fray. The rifle spit fire and death to all those who were unfortunate enough to find themselves in its path as he danced from cover to cover discarding weapons and picking those of the dead. Anything to keep the carnage alive and well. Seven minutes. That was all it took for the base to change from a place of everyday life, to a refuge of blood and lifeless bodies. Quellen stood amongst the bodies and looked to the sky. “It is done, I await your judgement” He whispered. Quell once again pulled the knife from his sheath, the knife that started this carnage and with a steady hand drove it into his own heart. He fell to his knees as he felt his life spill from the wound and join that of the already fallen soldiers around him and wondering if he had satisfied his master. Quellen did not live and die for honor, he did not seek to find the limits of his rage, nor to test his strength against the world. His art was death, his master reveled in it, but a true artist had to fully understand his medium. Quellen knew that his death was the master stroke of this piece, and if his master found it pleasing his life would be returned and he would find a new canvas to practice on. But as he clung to the last moments of life, he always wondered *What if this is the last time? What if this is the end?* Quelle slumped forward, his last breath given freely to his passion. This, while not his greatest piece, was still a work to be revered. “It will not be your last.” Quellen gasped for air as he pulled the knife from his heart.

Death... Many think of it as a destination, a conclusion that comes after life, and living has come to an end, for me and my kin who the joys of life have abandoned... We have learned to embrace the call of death, We relish it's coming and wish for All to share our conviction. Let me tell you of my people; The keyboard Warriors. Our enemy is happiness; A human in a moment of triumph? That is the joy of life that we do not know and the enemy of death. We seek war with happiness and happy people to spread our cause and the ways of death. Our weapon is a simple one but versatile. A machine to build words. words are the true weapon of our cause. A true keyboard warrior needs not skill, merely to fashion words of doubt, words that pull people into our despair and march for death. Our fight is not won when an argument is won, Our true goal is only to spread our cause and our existence is enough to sow the seeds of doubt and to leech away the happiness we eagerly fight to destroy. To follow us you must embrace our lifestyle, We care care not for our physical bodies in order to be closer death. We sit and fester before a strobing light, decaying, decaying... Fear us for we are the personification of death.

[WP] To be Samurai is to be Honor personified. To be a Viking is to be Rage personified. To be a Centurion is to be Strength personified. But your people are much different. To be a warrior of your kind, you must be Death personified.

Every respectable warrior, whether of the northern barbarians, the eastern warlords, or the southern empire, are all the same. They think that death is an honor. That to die for your liege or people is to make up for the cost of death. How arrogant are they, that they think they can die? How foolish are they, that they think death a curse? We call the Lord of Death the Lord of Change, for to us, there is nothing that can die. We live in the garden of eternal life, where one form yet transforms into another for all eternity. What a thing to be revered! And yet those other peoples are full of hatred and discrimination. When Death takes them, so ends their selfishness. The dead give freely of even their bodies to the plants and bugs and all manner of life. Their hatred dies with them, and so too their discrimination. Death is the perfection of man. And so it is that even the raging barbarians are cowed by the glee on our faces, and by the sheer joy exuded when a blade enters the soft and pulsing hearts of their comrades. When they injure us, our cries of pain are intermingled with laughter, for never do we forget the fun of war, nor can we stop from laughing when we see the terror on their faces. The poor wretches. They fear death so much that it seems only natural they fear us too, for they fear what we do not. The Lord of Death is the Lord of Change, and we are his vassals, joyfully executing a task which to others brings graven words and sullen faces. That is the singular power of our warriors. We are not particularly quick nor strong, and yet never are we stupid, for we are not afraid. How ironic is it that our joy leads our enemies to quake in their boots? That our act of love is so feared? We are death personified.

To be a Samurai was to have honor personified, with regal loyalty to their master and endless pride in honing their skills in using a katana. To be a Viking is to know rage, fierce and loyal to Njǫror with the same unrelenting will as the tides and storms. To be a centurion is to pride yourself on strength, resilience and discipline, with your bodies honed and trained to perfection. But to be death one needs *dedication*. You will have to believe with zealotry, faith and conviction. No task is too harsh, all orders are absolute. Only the words from the Old Man of the Mountain is law. Death is a gift after all, one should be grateful when giving or receiving it

[WP] To be Samurai is to be Honor personified. To be a Viking is to be Rage personified. To be a Centurion is to be Strength personified. But your people are much different. To be a warrior of your kind, you must be Death personified.

—*Pinches morros*, they never learn —, uttered 'Piedra' as he holstered his golden, semi-automatic 9mm gun in his belt—. Every day's the same shit. Don't you ever get tired, Franco? Of all this? —Not really —, you answer, indifferent. —You're a *cabrón*, you know? That's why the boss likes you. You have *huevos*. You say nothing. What lies before you is just another day of what your regular life has become since you joined the Cartel: bodies of men sunken in pools of their own blood with their hands firmly gripping their guns - as if doing so would prevent their souls from leaving their bodies and kept them from dying. Today it was a small group of youngsters who thought they could outsmart the boss, hiding merchandise and selling it under the table to keep the profits for themselves. Just like last week and the month before, the boss found out. Soon enough, he sent you and your partner to have a little talk with the puppies and teach them not to bite the hand that feeds. "If we let them *chingarme*", your boss said, "they will screw you too". On the way back to the safehouse, you pulled a magazine out of one of the cabinets in the truck and sunk into it while 'Piedra' drove cautiously, trying to avoid as many traffic cameras as he could. —I'll never understand how you do it —, he began —. All this killing, all this butchering, all this blood and shit and you are still so... calm, *cabrón*! —You get used to it in the Army —, you reply without looking away form the magazine. —I come from the Army too, *güey*. Cutting fingers is no problem, neither is gutting a *pendejo* with a rusty knife like a fish. Thing is... you may have problems, you know? In your head. You say nothing. 'Piedra' continued on for several minutes about serial killers, psychopaths and many other types of "crazy people" - as he called them. Nonetheless you barely listened to anything of what he was talking about; you couldn't care less. Your mind was intrigued into reading this magazine you had bought last week, "History Revealed". It was a special edition about the greatest warriors that had ever existed, comparing them in several aspects such as honor, bravery, courage, rage, strength and many more. You bought it because, unknown to many of the people you work with, you had always been a history buff, an aficionado who liked reading about great battles and famous generals. As a kid you enjoyed playing in the fields after picking up the poppy, imagining you were amidst a dangerous forest fighting barbarians with your sword - the wooden stick your father would sometimes hit you with. Countless hours went by feigning you were a warrior in dangerous worlds. When you grew up you were forced to leave it all behind, but somehow it returned - twisted by the Fate you had been given by God. Fake swords became real guns. Cardboard armor became Kevlar vests and anti-gas masks. Killing became real. You had become a warrior, albeit in a modern and more dangerous reality. 'Piedra' stopped talking when he noticed you were smiling. —Woah, *cabrón*! I don't mean to offend you, okay? —, he exclaimed with an uneasy look in his eyes —. I'm not saying you're completely *loco*, just normal-*loco*. —Just keep driving, *hombre* —, you reply with a distinguishable smirk drawn on your lips —. Unless the boss commands it, I won't become Death to you. -- END -- Sorry for the formatting, I'm on my cellphone. Sorry for any mistakes made, English is second language to me. I wrote it hurriedly, for my battery is dying. Any clarifications about Mexican slang I will surely provide if any were to arise!

To be a Samurai was to have honor personified, with regal loyalty to their master and endless pride in honing their skills in using a katana. To be a Viking is to know rage, fierce and loyal to Njǫror with the same unrelenting will as the tides and storms. To be a centurion is to pride yourself on strength, resilience and discipline, with your bodies honed and trained to perfection. But to be death one needs *dedication*. You will have to believe with zealotry, faith and conviction. No task is too harsh, all orders are absolute. Only the words from the Old Man of the Mountain is law. Death is a gift after all, one should be grateful when giving or receiving it

[WP] To be Samurai is to be Honor personified. To be a Viking is to be Rage personified. To be a Centurion is to be Strength personified. But your people are much different. To be a warrior of your kind, you must be Death personified.

To be a warrior is to be an avatar. Honor, Courage, Rage, Strength, Discipline, and more; but there is always one that stands above the rest to each person, to each people. ​ Honor is easy: while its warriors call challenges to one another, we simply go around them and slaughter their kin and plunder their homes. Strength fares little better; we simply poison their supplies. ​ Rage requires caution, it can confer strength even beyond what the avatars of Strength command--but only briefly. These warriors we taunt until they are enraged beyond reason and then draw them after us, until even their rage-strength is exhausted and they fall so that a child can give the death-blow. Courage is not quite as easily baited; but its warriors also will not flee from an ambush, allowing us to destroy them all. ​ Discipline is hardest. In the field, we have found it best to call fog--its warriors cannot maintain their ranks if they cannot see even the man nearest to them. Then we give them voices in the fog, that sound just like their commanders. In the face of Confusion, they will break; and they may even begin killing one another. ​ Engineering is dangerous only when allied to Discipline; the rest of the time it is a serpent biting its own tail--making the weapons that knock down the walls it raised. When it and Discipline are working together, we must rely on pestilence, or sow division within their cities. Wealth and Words succeed where Strength cannot. ​ Many argue that the avatars of Wealth should not be called warriors, because they hire others to do their fighting for them. But that they are conquerors cannot be disputed. Every tactic, every virtue, they can draw to their defense--those who disdain gold still desire the things that gold can buy. Better weapons, better food, better wives, better stories... Sometimes we can simply whisper to their hirelings that they should have all the gold rather than just what their employers see fit to give them. The other method is to give Wealth what it wants. We give them the things that make them crave more, and more--until one day we tell them there is no more, and watch them destroy each other over what they have hoarded. ​ The Word warriors are hardest--killing them too often makes their words all the stronger. But most of them are easily co-opted, taking gold to spread words that serve our ends; or else stepping willingly into a gilded cage, unaware that those who praise their voices are deaf to their words. The few who refuse to be bribed and who are more dangerous dead than they are living we must guide to the things we want them to speak of and blind to what we wish to remain secret. They cannot tell what they do not see. ​ And who are we, to use every tactic, to use even our enemies as weapons? We are the avatar of Death, of course. All that we desire, comes to us in time. No, not Patience--Strength can crush that simply by striking before it is ready. ​ \*\*\*\*\* ​ And then *they* came. When we bypassed Honor, they met us with Discipline. When our captive Engineering breached their walls, they met us with Rage. When we tried to draw Rage out, they used Wealth to send others in pursuit. When we tried to use Words to turn their hirelings against them, we learned that they had not used their Wealth to hire warriors, but rather to give Strength to those who had been weak. And Words must ever bow before Deeds. ​ Discipline which had ever been our greatest challenge now became our last refuge. And they answered Discipline not with Confusion but with **Fire**. ​ \*\*\*\*\* ​ Only those of us who fell prey to Confusion have survived. How is this possible? Although many individuals can be avatars of the same attribute, and a warrior need not embody the same attribute as his people; at the scale of nations there can only be one Avatar of a given attribute at a time. Only Death can wield all the attributes, and our people were still the Avatar of Death when *they* arose. ​ And so i go to them, not as an assassin but rather as a supplicant. "How?" i ask. "What is your attribute, that you can use them all against us who were Death incarnate?" ​ And they answered: ​ "**Love**."

To be a Samurai was to have honor personified, with regal loyalty to their master and endless pride in honing their skills in using a katana. To be a Viking is to know rage, fierce and loyal to Njǫror with the same unrelenting will as the tides and storms. To be a centurion is to pride yourself on strength, resilience and discipline, with your bodies honed and trained to perfection. But to be death one needs *dedication*. You will have to believe with zealotry, faith and conviction. No task is too harsh, all orders are absolute. Only the words from the Old Man of the Mountain is law. Death is a gift after all, one should be grateful when giving or receiving it

[WP] To be Samurai is to be Honor personified. To be a Viking is to be Rage personified. To be a Centurion is to be Strength personified. But your people are much different. To be a warrior of your kind, you must be Death personified.

Ashes swirled as the quiet clashing of the last warriors came to a close. Their bodies broken and tired from the hours of death, and violence they had wrought against one another. With a gloomy snort, I pulled away the flap to my tent, and so my battlefield was opened to me. My attendants followed behind me as I surveyed the chaotic ruin of earth and blood. The weapons they had used lacked elegance, or subtlety. Still, I had my fight. My attendants, masked and cloaked as they were followed my direction, gathering up the spent bodies of all those I gestured to. They obeyed without question, as I continued my march. I cared not for faction, nor creed. I collected all those who caught my eye, and brought them back to my encampment. A heavy wind, blasted along the ruined trenches of packed soil, billowing the scorched remains of so many through the now silent battleground. Still, I remained pristine, apart, and yet all to close to it all. I had to remain strong, stoic, and most of all: discerning. I would not waste strength on the worthless. Once each of my attendants had taken a single warrior back with them, I returned with them. It was only the soft crunching of decay under my boots that reminded me that I was still alive myself, and not wandering some ghoulish road to hell. Once I am in my tent, I strip off the coverings I had, and cleansed myself thoroughly, as ritual demanded. I would not disgrace myself or my enemy by appearing covered in the ashes and rot of their allies. I looked to a mirror to be certain my gear was properly affixed, my scowl had set in so deeply, it felt like a natural part of my expression these days. When I stepped out of my personal tent, and onto the battlefield I had prepared, my attendants were relieved. I looked down at the ruined warriors around me, and sighed for a moment before affixing myself a stern expression. I was the one who decided when men would die on my battlefield, with deft hands and brutal efficiency I removed every obstacle within my grasp. Nothing could stop me, as long as they didn't escape my hold. My clutches. As I moved away from my most recent opponent, a hand reached out and grabbed my sleeve. Glancing back the man whom I had just finished with gave me a weak, almost sloppy grin. "Thank you. Doctor."

To be a Samurai was to have honor personified, with regal loyalty to their master and endless pride in honing their skills in using a katana. To be a Viking is to know rage, fierce and loyal to Njǫror with the same unrelenting will as the tides and storms. To be a centurion is to pride yourself on strength, resilience and discipline, with your bodies honed and trained to perfection. But to be death one needs *dedication*. You will have to believe with zealotry, faith and conviction. No task is too harsh, all orders are absolute. Only the words from the Old Man of the Mountain is law. Death is a gift after all, one should be grateful when giving or receiving it

[WP] To be Samurai is to be Honor personified. To be a Viking is to be Rage personified. To be a Centurion is to be Strength personified. But your people are much different. To be a warrior of your kind, you must be Death personified.

To be a warrior is to be an avatar. Honor, Courage, Rage, Strength, Discipline, and more; but there is always one that stands above the rest to each person, to each people. ​ Honor is easy: while its warriors call challenges to one another, we simply go around them and slaughter their kin and plunder their homes. Strength fares little better; we simply poison their supplies. ​ Rage requires caution, it can confer strength even beyond what the avatars of Strength command--but only briefly. These warriors we taunt until they are enraged beyond reason and then draw them after us, until even their rage-strength is exhausted and they fall so that a child can give the death-blow. Courage is not quite as easily baited; but its warriors also will not flee from an ambush, allowing us to destroy them all. ​ Discipline is hardest. In the field, we have found it best to call fog--its warriors cannot maintain their ranks if they cannot see even the man nearest to them. Then we give them voices in the fog, that sound just like their commanders. In the face of Confusion, they will break; and they may even begin killing one another. ​ Engineering is dangerous only when allied to Discipline; the rest of the time it is a serpent biting its own tail--making the weapons that knock down the walls it raised. When it and Discipline are working together, we must rely on pestilence, or sow division within their cities. Wealth and Words succeed where Strength cannot. ​ Many argue that the avatars of Wealth should not be called warriors, because they hire others to do their fighting for them. But that they are conquerors cannot be disputed. Every tactic, every virtue, they can draw to their defense--those who disdain gold still desire the things that gold can buy. Better weapons, better food, better wives, better stories... Sometimes we can simply whisper to their hirelings that they should have all the gold rather than just what their employers see fit to give them. The other method is to give Wealth what it wants. We give them the things that make them crave more, and more--until one day we tell them there is no more, and watch them destroy each other over what they have hoarded. ​ The Word warriors are hardest--killing them too often makes their words all the stronger. But most of them are easily co-opted, taking gold to spread words that serve our ends; or else stepping willingly into a gilded cage, unaware that those who praise their voices are deaf to their words. The few who refuse to be bribed and who are more dangerous dead than they are living we must guide to the things we want them to speak of and blind to what we wish to remain secret. They cannot tell what they do not see. ​ And who are we, to use every tactic, to use even our enemies as weapons? We are the avatar of Death, of course. All that we desire, comes to us in time. No, not Patience--Strength can crush that simply by striking before it is ready. ​ \*\*\*\*\* ​ And then *they* came. When we bypassed Honor, they met us with Discipline. When our captive Engineering breached their walls, they met us with Rage. When we tried to draw Rage out, they used Wealth to send others in pursuit. When we tried to use Words to turn their hirelings against them, we learned that they had not used their Wealth to hire warriors, but rather to give Strength to those who had been weak. And Words must ever bow before Deeds. ​ Discipline which had ever been our greatest challenge now became our last refuge. And they answered Discipline not with Confusion but with **Fire**. ​ \*\*\*\*\* ​ Only those of us who fell prey to Confusion have survived. How is this possible? Although many individuals can be avatars of the same attribute, and a warrior need not embody the same attribute as his people; at the scale of nations there can only be one Avatar of a given attribute at a time. Only Death can wield all the attributes, and our people were still the Avatar of Death when *they* arose. ​ And so i go to them, not as an assassin but rather as a supplicant. "How?" i ask. "What is your attribute, that you can use them all against us who were Death incarnate?" ​ And they answered: ​ "**Love**."

Every respectable warrior, whether of the northern barbarians, the eastern warlords, or the southern empire, are all the same. They think that death is an honor. That to die for your liege or people is to make up for the cost of death. How arrogant are they, that they think they can die? How foolish are they, that they think death a curse? We call the Lord of Death the Lord of Change, for to us, there is nothing that can die. We live in the garden of eternal life, where one form yet transforms into another for all eternity. What a thing to be revered! And yet those other peoples are full of hatred and discrimination. When Death takes them, so ends their selfishness. The dead give freely of even their bodies to the plants and bugs and all manner of life. Their hatred dies with them, and so too their discrimination. Death is the perfection of man. And so it is that even the raging barbarians are cowed by the glee on our faces, and by the sheer joy exuded when a blade enters the soft and pulsing hearts of their comrades. When they injure us, our cries of pain are intermingled with laughter, for never do we forget the fun of war, nor can we stop from laughing when we see the terror on their faces. The poor wretches. They fear death so much that it seems only natural they fear us too, for they fear what we do not. The Lord of Death is the Lord of Change, and we are his vassals, joyfully executing a task which to others brings graven words and sullen faces. That is the singular power of our warriors. We are not particularly quick nor strong, and yet never are we stupid, for we are not afraid. How ironic is it that our joy leads our enemies to quake in their boots? That our act of love is so feared? We are death personified.

[WP] To be Samurai is to be Honor personified. To be a Viking is to be Rage personified. To be a Centurion is to be Strength personified. But your people are much different. To be a warrior of your kind, you must be Death personified.

Ashes swirled as the quiet clashing of the last warriors came to a close. Their bodies broken and tired from the hours of death, and violence they had wrought against one another. With a gloomy snort, I pulled away the flap to my tent, and so my battlefield was opened to me. My attendants followed behind me as I surveyed the chaotic ruin of earth and blood. The weapons they had used lacked elegance, or subtlety. Still, I had my fight. My attendants, masked and cloaked as they were followed my direction, gathering up the spent bodies of all those I gestured to. They obeyed without question, as I continued my march. I cared not for faction, nor creed. I collected all those who caught my eye, and brought them back to my encampment. A heavy wind, blasted along the ruined trenches of packed soil, billowing the scorched remains of so many through the now silent battleground. Still, I remained pristine, apart, and yet all to close to it all. I had to remain strong, stoic, and most of all: discerning. I would not waste strength on the worthless. Once each of my attendants had taken a single warrior back with them, I returned with them. It was only the soft crunching of decay under my boots that reminded me that I was still alive myself, and not wandering some ghoulish road to hell. Once I am in my tent, I strip off the coverings I had, and cleansed myself thoroughly, as ritual demanded. I would not disgrace myself or my enemy by appearing covered in the ashes and rot of their allies. I looked to a mirror to be certain my gear was properly affixed, my scowl had set in so deeply, it felt like a natural part of my expression these days. When I stepped out of my personal tent, and onto the battlefield I had prepared, my attendants were relieved. I looked down at the ruined warriors around me, and sighed for a moment before affixing myself a stern expression. I was the one who decided when men would die on my battlefield, with deft hands and brutal efficiency I removed every obstacle within my grasp. Nothing could stop me, as long as they didn't escape my hold. My clutches. As I moved away from my most recent opponent, a hand reached out and grabbed my sleeve. Glancing back the man whom I had just finished with gave me a weak, almost sloppy grin. "Thank you. Doctor."

Every respectable warrior, whether of the northern barbarians, the eastern warlords, or the southern empire, are all the same. They think that death is an honor. That to die for your liege or people is to make up for the cost of death. How arrogant are they, that they think they can die? How foolish are they, that they think death a curse? We call the Lord of Death the Lord of Change, for to us, there is nothing that can die. We live in the garden of eternal life, where one form yet transforms into another for all eternity. What a thing to be revered! And yet those other peoples are full of hatred and discrimination. When Death takes them, so ends their selfishness. The dead give freely of even their bodies to the plants and bugs and all manner of life. Their hatred dies with them, and so too their discrimination. Death is the perfection of man. And so it is that even the raging barbarians are cowed by the glee on our faces, and by the sheer joy exuded when a blade enters the soft and pulsing hearts of their comrades. When they injure us, our cries of pain are intermingled with laughter, for never do we forget the fun of war, nor can we stop from laughing when we see the terror on their faces. The poor wretches. They fear death so much that it seems only natural they fear us too, for they fear what we do not. The Lord of Death is the Lord of Change, and we are his vassals, joyfully executing a task which to others brings graven words and sullen faces. That is the singular power of our warriors. We are not particularly quick nor strong, and yet never are we stupid, for we are not afraid. How ironic is it that our joy leads our enemies to quake in their boots? That our act of love is so feared? We are death personified.

[WP] To be Samurai is to be Honor personified. To be a Viking is to be Rage personified. To be a Centurion is to be Strength personified. But your people are much different. To be a warrior of your kind, you must be Death personified.

Quellen stepped out from hiding behind the parked armored vehicle that guarded the base and with only the whisper of a shuffled step drove the knife into the soldier’s neck. He kept moving not needing to check the body. Death was his mission, his hobby, his art. Alarms sounded as he moved toward the next guard already raising his rifle in response. He wouldn’t be quick enough, the knife left from his hand, landing in his neck with a satisfying thump like a ripe grapefruit falling from the tree to the pavement and splitting open, the results were similar as he removed the knife and the guard too spilled his liquid contents to the earth. Quellen removed the guard’s rifle and stepped through the gate. Inside the base the soldiers like ants had begun to move with frenzy and fear. He could always smell the fear. It disgusted him. Quellen could not remember the last time he killed a man that faced him with out fear. Maybe one of the Danes during his time there, but that was over a thousand years ago, and even then, his rage was so intense that maybe it simply masked the fear. Quellen had not bothered to ask. Just one more death for his master’s tally. Quellen’s memories dissipated as the bullets began to fly and he darted into the guard’s station. It was not that he feared the pain of being shot, or even the death. For the chosen few that were in his position death wasn’t something that could be avoided, it was part of the job. It was just that being shot was inefficient. It was like throwing paint on a canvas and calling it art. Where was the masterful brushstrokes that showed the mastery only achieved by someone who threw themselves into the art for years. He wasn’t a hired gun; he had been practicing his art for almost two thousand years. He was an artist. Quellen centered himself with a breath before stepping out into the fray. The rifle spit fire and death to all those who were unfortunate enough to find themselves in its path as he danced from cover to cover discarding weapons and picking those of the dead. Anything to keep the carnage alive and well. Seven minutes. That was all it took for the base to change from a place of everyday life, to a refuge of blood and lifeless bodies. Quellen stood amongst the bodies and looked to the sky. “It is done, I await your judgement” He whispered. Quell once again pulled the knife from his sheath, the knife that started this carnage and with a steady hand drove it into his own heart. He fell to his knees as he felt his life spill from the wound and join that of the already fallen soldiers around him and wondering if he had satisfied his master. Quellen did not live and die for honor, he did not seek to find the limits of his rage, nor to test his strength against the world. His art was death, his master reveled in it, but a true artist had to fully understand his medium. Quellen knew that his death was the master stroke of this piece, and if his master found it pleasing his life would be returned and he would find a new canvas to practice on. But as he clung to the last moments of life, he always wondered *What if this is the last time? What if this is the end?* Quelle slumped forward, his last breath given freely to his passion. This, while not his greatest piece, was still a work to be revered. “It will not be your last.” Quellen gasped for air as he pulled the knife from his heart.

"You are *forbidden*!" Shouted Dayamaise. He rested atop his throne, fashioned of fallen warriors. His dark brows were serious, his white beard swaying in the wind. "Lord Father, the youth are restless, and I among them!" I objected. A resonant, guttural growl began at the back of Lord Dayamaise's throat. "You are yet a pup! There are souls to be harvested, certainly, but not by *you*." The inflection on 'you' caused my heart to flicker, then rage began to build. "You have kept us behind these walls *all our lives.* We are to become the next Vanguard, and you would have us inexperienced and unprepared." My voice was a venomous hiss. "We would be the laughingstock of the world. I am *taking my battalion* and I am venturing into the Valley with your blessing or not!" I turned on my heel and began to leave. "You are not ready! The Valley is treacherous for our kind!" "Apparently, so are you." I did not look back. "Etherios!" Dayamaise called after me, but I was heedless. My heart was set in stone. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ Etherios was furious- you could hardly tell by looking at him, though. He appeared comfortably nonchalant as he fashioned his armor- he was lean, tall- like a leopard, lazing in the sun. He skin was the color of ash, and his hair was black as night. He looked as he always did- painfully beautiful. Yet Aderos knew better- he knew where to look. Etherios gave no hint as to his mood with his body language, but Aderos had a gift. The Truesight- a blessing amongst the Magisters of his kind. Etherios had an Aura- as all living things did- and his aura was typically a sanguine pond in an ethereal swamp- all purple and brown, indefatigable... Right now, however, his aura was full of sharp edges, rotating around his Auric sphere like spinning blades. He was furious, Aderos knew. "Aderos. You're making me uncomfortable." Etherios said as he donned his Reaper Resin chest plate. "Begging your forgiveness, Etherios." Aderos released his vision on Etherios's Aura. "I'm not worried about the Valley, if that's what you're thinking." "I know you aren't. Even though we lack experience, we have you to guide us- we will surely unite with Death with minimal casualties." "Well- I'm not sure we're going to go *that* far into the Valley. Lady Death and the 13th Battalion *do* have a date, make no mistake about that- but I'm not planning on much more than a little flirting with her today. You know I'm just furious with Lord Dayamaise." Aderos nodded. "Your father is certainly set in his ways- and while his ways have got us very, very far, he tries to shelter you from the hardships he once gladly endured. He does you a disservice." "He does me no *credit*." Etherios hissed. "I've been trained daily to take his place on the throne, yet he gives me no responsibility! No way to *use* the skill I've developed. I can't stand it." Aderos took up Etherios's weapons and handed them to him- dual axes, made of blackened steel, and with a wedge of obsidian for the blade. Etherios took the weapons and dropped them into his magnetized belt loops. "Enough of my bitching." Etherios turned to the rest of the 13th Battalion. "Who's ready to hunt Shades?!" All 11 other members of the Battalion beat their chest in response with an affirmative "Aa-ou!" "Follow Left Hand Aderos, he's taking point. I'll be scouting. Dax, you're rear guard. Take whoever you want to be an extra set of eyes." Etherios looked at *his* battalion. Each of them fine young man- Aderos in particular. Each highly skilled, but untested. "Let's test our metal, boys!" He shouted, and Aderos led them out of the courtyard, into the wilderness. Etherios could *feel* his Father's gaze as he and his men left the safe confines of the mountain walled city- he cared not. This was what was needed for their society to stay strong. This was the future of the Grim Reapers.

[WP] To be Samurai is to be Honor personified. To be a Viking is to be Rage personified. To be a Centurion is to be Strength personified. But your people are much different. To be a warrior of your kind, you must be Death personified.

When fighting beckons, each tribe of people have their own way of fighting. This defines them, and how they kill. The Samurai of the East come from a land of plenty. Their history of looking out for one another gave birth to their way of war, Honor. They fight face to face, in carefully chosen duels. They strike at not the weak, but those who are in a position to fight. They do not ambush, but challenge. Their nobility is well known. The Vikings of the North live in a frozen wilderness. They became little more the beasts to survive, and hate those who have more then them. This led to the core of their fighting strength, Rage. They strike with wild abandon, foregoing defense in favour of overwhelming offense. They kill any who stand in their way, no matter who they are. Their ferocity is unmatched. The Centurions of the South come from a place with great mountains and chasms. These natural barriers and the predators that lived there, led them to value the idea of staying put. They embraced the ideal of Strength. For them, it is a careful march. They dig in, and fortify. They calculate their attack, to respond with the appropriate level of force to crush their enemies. Their fortresses are rarely breached. My tribe, one of the few tribes of the West, value something different. We do not have the cold lands of the North, with snow for water and will covered animals a plenty. We do not have a land of plenty, where food can grow in abundance, like that of the East. We do not even have the great barriers of the South. No, we live in a desolate wasteland. To live here is to live alongside death, every step of the way. We learned to value Death itself. We cannot care about a fair fight, like the fools of the East. A quick stab to the back is all that is required. The barbarians of the North may be ferocious warriors, but a single swift cut, and your foes fall. The cowards of the South may dig in well, but a well placed arrow will pierce the weak points. It is customary amongst my people for those who wish to fight to kill a spine beast alone in the Cauldron of Slayers. Should they survive, which most do, they get anointed as Protector. Every year there after, they may choose another creature to fight, and should they succeed, they receive a tattoo of it's spirit, to show their ability to kill. I, like many before, have chosen to pursue this path. But I am stronger then my peers. I have fought every creature, and survived. So I have chosen my new challenge. I will go to the other tribes of the world, learn their ways of fighting, and slay one of their greatest soldiers. I will find out their methods of killing myself, such that I may teach them to my tribe members, as new ways to fight. My name is Storn, and this is my chosen duty.

"You are *forbidden*!" Shouted Dayamaise. He rested atop his throne, fashioned of fallen warriors. His dark brows were serious, his white beard swaying in the wind. "Lord Father, the youth are restless, and I among them!" I objected. A resonant, guttural growl began at the back of Lord Dayamaise's throat. "You are yet a pup! There are souls to be harvested, certainly, but not by *you*." The inflection on 'you' caused my heart to flicker, then rage began to build. "You have kept us behind these walls *all our lives.* We are to become the next Vanguard, and you would have us inexperienced and unprepared." My voice was a venomous hiss. "We would be the laughingstock of the world. I am *taking my battalion* and I am venturing into the Valley with your blessing or not!" I turned on my heel and began to leave. "You are not ready! The Valley is treacherous for our kind!" "Apparently, so are you." I did not look back. "Etherios!" Dayamaise called after me, but I was heedless. My heart was set in stone. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ Etherios was furious- you could hardly tell by looking at him, though. He appeared comfortably nonchalant as he fashioned his armor- he was lean, tall- like a leopard, lazing in the sun. He skin was the color of ash, and his hair was black as night. He looked as he always did- painfully beautiful. Yet Aderos knew better- he knew where to look. Etherios gave no hint as to his mood with his body language, but Aderos had a gift. The Truesight- a blessing amongst the Magisters of his kind. Etherios had an Aura- as all living things did- and his aura was typically a sanguine pond in an ethereal swamp- all purple and brown, indefatigable... Right now, however, his aura was full of sharp edges, rotating around his Auric sphere like spinning blades. He was furious, Aderos knew. "Aderos. You're making me uncomfortable." Etherios said as he donned his Reaper Resin chest plate. "Begging your forgiveness, Etherios." Aderos released his vision on Etherios's Aura. "I'm not worried about the Valley, if that's what you're thinking." "I know you aren't. Even though we lack experience, we have you to guide us- we will surely unite with Death with minimal casualties." "Well- I'm not sure we're going to go *that* far into the Valley. Lady Death and the 13th Battalion *do* have a date, make no mistake about that- but I'm not planning on much more than a little flirting with her today. You know I'm just furious with Lord Dayamaise." Aderos nodded. "Your father is certainly set in his ways- and while his ways have got us very, very far, he tries to shelter you from the hardships he once gladly endured. He does you a disservice." "He does me no *credit*." Etherios hissed. "I've been trained daily to take his place on the throne, yet he gives me no responsibility! No way to *use* the skill I've developed. I can't stand it." Aderos took up Etherios's weapons and handed them to him- dual axes, made of blackened steel, and with a wedge of obsidian for the blade. Etherios took the weapons and dropped them into his magnetized belt loops. "Enough of my bitching." Etherios turned to the rest of the 13th Battalion. "Who's ready to hunt Shades?!" All 11 other members of the Battalion beat their chest in response with an affirmative "Aa-ou!" "Follow Left Hand Aderos, he's taking point. I'll be scouting. Dax, you're rear guard. Take whoever you want to be an extra set of eyes." Etherios looked at *his* battalion. Each of them fine young man- Aderos in particular. Each highly skilled, but untested. "Let's test our metal, boys!" He shouted, and Aderos led them out of the courtyard, into the wilderness. Etherios could *feel* his Father's gaze as he and his men left the safe confines of the mountain walled city- he cared not. This was what was needed for their society to stay strong. This was the future of the Grim Reapers.

ANTAGONIST! For the love of all that is holy, antagonist!

[WP] as the Main Character, you've enjoyed plot armour and the inability to die. After countless battles with the Protagonist you've come to an ugly realization - the Author is a moralist and the protagonist has plot armour too. You resolve to eliminate the evil by whatever means necessary.

“Ha ha! I have done it” said Graild the Mighty main character of all main characters or whatever else he wishes to call himself. “Finally I have the loophole that will kill BBG, Karel the Evil Antilight!” Or Karel the shoe stealer as everyone else calls him. Graild, yipping with joy, then explained what is going on in this nonsensical story. “It was only a year ago when I found out the truth of my world; It was all a book called the **Nonsensical Normal Life of Graild!** “ “Learning this I believed I could live consequence free, but nooo, the author just had to make it so I can never kill that one guy.” “MOTHER FLIPPING KAREL.” Graild then went on to describe how Karel ruined ruined his no consequence life for forty-five minutes before getting back on subject “Now by using the power of r/writingprompts I am able to bring a new author into this story that will let me kill!” But while Graild was monologuing, the current writer got bored and decided to drop a moon on Graild’s position, killing all of humanity, The End

*I've always known I was different. Well, not always. It started when I was recruited into The Agency at 18. During training, I slipped and fell from a tall tree, but hit the branches in the perfect manner as to only break my arm. At 19, in my second year, I nearly drowned when a bullet struck my left calf during amphibious combat, only for a comrade to appear right as I lost consciousness and pull me out of the frigid water.* *At first, I thought it was an Agency thing. I thought we were immortal, thought that somehow, The Agency had happened upon some secret, some special technique they could use to cheat death at the last second. That wasn't the case. By 20, I'd lost three close friends. No branches had broken their falls, no comrades jumped in to save them at the last minute; they'd just died. Plain and simple. One was shot through the head the first time he and I were in combat together. Bang. Over, just like that.* *But those things didn't happen to me. Somehow, always, I was spared. I'm writing this because, before today, I thought I was just lucky. Just a fluke of chance. That changed when I failed to assassinate John Cantor.* \--------- The crowed roared as John Cantor finished his speech. "... unity, and prosperity, for all!" Cantor raised his hands and spread them as he addressed his loving audience. He turned one way, and then the other, ensuring each and every member at his rally felt appreciated and attended to. Then, he allowed his hands to rest on the podium, and waited for the crowd to quiet. Seeing the speaker's posture, they did. John Cantor continued, in a soft but firm tone. "Our approval inside the UCP is already at 30%. And that, by the way, is *with* their rampant anti-reformation propaganda." More cheering. Cantor put raised a hand to quiet them. "This will not be a bloody takeover. No. We will simply displace their government as our ideas, our good ideas, begin to take hold in their people. We will fix their homes, fix their schools, and fix their lives." He paused for emphasis. "Reformation is the future!" The crowed hollered their agreement. \--------- *Three of us took our shots from just over 600m away. It should have been simple. The chance that one of us misses, maybe 5% with a little breeze. But all three of us? Close to impossible. But it wasn't just that. Two of us fired, one of us didn't - my buddy's gun jammed right as we gave the signal. The two of us who did shoot both missed, one to the left, and one to the right. At the impact, Cantor scrambled for cover as his bodyguards attempted to shield him.* *Then it got really strange. Each of us adjusted after our first misses, and we* couldn't *hit him. I had missed by about a half body length to the left and therefore adjusted my scope half a body length to the right. But then I missed again, too far right this time. That just didn't happen. My other man, the one who did shoot, felt the same thing. He wrote it off as bad luck, figured we were just off that, but I knew better. I'd seen this before. This man, John Cantor. He was the same as me.* \--------- "We don't know who that was, or what they want." John Cantor's bodyguard addressed him as they sped away from the attack site in an armored limousine. "We need to shelter you in place while we investigate." "Bulletproof glass at the speeches, but I still go out in public." John Cantor's voice was firm. "Sir-" his bodyguard objected, but Cantor cut him off with a swift, dismissive gesture. "I still go out. That is not negotiable. We are nearing the time when, even if I were to be killed as a martyr, the movement will live on. This isn't about my life, Alex. It's about freedom for all." \--------- *Someone or something is out there. Watching us. Watching me, watching John Cantor. Saving us from death. But is that all he's doing? I can't tell. Sometimes, even as I write, I can't locate the origin of these thoughts. Are they mine? Are they... his? Why am I being spared, why is John Cantor being spared.* \--------- John cantor strode out onto the debate stage, three inches of ballistic glass separating him, his opponent, and the audience. The moderator spoke, "Welcome, all. Today's topic is the downsides to the free market, and how to avoid egregious wealth disparities while still maintaining prosperity. Let's give a warm welcome first to one of our most popular speakers, Mr. John Cantor!" \--------- *What is it about me? I understand John Cantor. He's a revolutionary. He preaches freedom, liberty, safety. He's conducting a bloodless revolution, the first of it's kind. Whatever is protecting us, I understand why it won't let me assassinate John Cantor. But why... why me? Why am I spared from death?* \--------- The limousine's tires screeched against the pavement as Alex Mash, Cantor's bodyguard, swerved to the left. Gunshots rang out against it's armored exterior. "Dammit Cantor I told you this was a bad idea," the driver shouted to his sheltered passenger. Cantor remained silent, not wishing to distract his defender. A dark van with tinted windows pursued close behind, but it couldn't gain on the limousine. A hatch in the top opened, and one of them men stood up. He lifted something from inside. "Alex..." the passenger addressed his driver. "I think he's got a rocket." Alex remained silent, and then spoke softly. "It's been an honor serving with you John." \--------- *I must be meant to fight John Cantor. Whatever is protecting us, he could have simply let one of us die, the other free to roam this world alone. But he didn't. Our destiny, is it simply to fight? But why. I've been ordered to kill him. I must be missing something...* \--------- Approval of reformative ideas in the UCP is at 55% following the death of John Cantor, their primary proponent. It appears citizens see him as a martyr. To them, his brutal and public death, caused by a rocket propelled grenade impact to his limousine following his last debate, is definitive proof that the UCP government wanted him silenced. Unfortunately for the UCP brass, it had the opposite effect. It's projected that, next July, the Reformation party will sweep nearly every jurisdiction. We are witnessing an unprecedented change in political power. \--------- When John Cantor regained consciousness, he was chained to a bed in The Agency. The markings on the walls were quite distinctive. A young man, early 20s at the latest, was standing over him. "You're just like me," the man said. John looked up at him. "Are you the sniper?" he asked. "Yes, one of them. But we couldn't hit you. How do you think three trained Agency snipers all missed together?" John looked puzzled. "I remember two rounds." The man smiled. "Ah, yes. One of our guns jammed. Funny how those things happen around you, John Cantor." Cantor closed his eyes and smiled back. "Perhaps God has a plan for me." \--------- *"Perhaps God has a plan for me." Those were the words he said to me. And that's when I realized what God had wanted. Every time we'd tried to kill Cantor, something had gone wrong. Something would protect him. But now he was here, right in front of me, at my mercy. I could kill him in an instant.* *God must have what he wanted. I showed John Cantor the July elections. Showed him that his apparent martyrdom created a wave of Reformative support throughout the UPC. He smiled, and told me his job was done. I took out my dagger. He didn't react, although I'm sure he heard it. Then, I completed my mission.* *I'm still not sure if I'm... me. If these actions were my own, if these thoughts were my own, even if this life is mine to live. Does my immunity go away, now that John Cantor is dead? Is it my duty, now, to protect the Reformation? I don't know. Maybe it doesn't matter. I'm an Agent, and I had an order to assassinate John Cantor. Now, I've completed it. Maybe that's all there was to it.*

[WP] You come from a long line of healers who are capable of healing any living thing with a single touch. You have yet to receive your powers, but you store dying plants in your home to check for your powers every morning. One day, you wake up, touch one of the plants, and it withers completely.

"NO!" My hand recoiled in terror. Clutching it to my chest, and breathing deep to avoid hyperventilating, I stared numbly at the plant's withered form, unwilling to believe what I was looking at. I looked at another plant and reached out, hand shaking, touching it with the tip of two of my fingers. I don't know what I was expecting, maybe that the first one was a fluke. And then the second one all but confirmed it. I was a taker. This hadn't happened in my family for generations. But it wasn't like there was any ambiguity here. Once your powers came in, there were gradients, and you could improve your skills with time and practice, but there was no mistaking which camp you fell into. When your powers finally kicked in, whatever happened was who you would be forever. And this was me. I sat down at kitchen table, shoulders slumped, on the verge of a breakdown, watching my entire future crumble in front of me. Everything I thought I would be, gone in an instant. What was left for me now? The military? A euthanasia clinic? Or even worse, a life of hiding from organized crime, because once they find out that you can take life with a single touch, they find ... uses for you, and ways to hook you in. Amid these all consuming thoughts, I hadn't heard my mother and father come down the stairs. If my mother hadn't said "hey sugar cube..." before trying to hug me, it might have been disastrous. When I noticed her, I threw myself out of the chair, and away from her, before she could make contact. I was on the floor, leaning back on my palms when my mother saw the reason that I fled her touch written on my face . Her look of confusion instantly turned to tears and she said "Oh no, it can't be." She turned to father who had been digging through the cabinet for the coffee, and it only took a quick glance between my mothers face, and myself on the floor before he understood too. He didn't break into tears like my mother, he just deflated. His shoulders sank and he wrapped his arms around my mother. He looked at me as I stood up, with his chin on her shoulder. And though there were no tears in his eyes, they contained every ounce of pain that my mother's had. I looked away, unable to bear seeing what I had done to them. The pain I had caused. "I'm sorry." I croaked at the floor. My father released my mother, who instead of letting go, rotated around to his side. He said "Please don't think this is because of you. It's FOR you." he said glancing down at my mother. "More than anything in the world, we want to give you a hug and tell you that it will be ok, but we can't." His voice broke with that last word, and his eyes began to gloss. He took a deep, shakey breath, and walked my mother to a chair next to me, sitting down himself across the table. I took my seat again and gazed at their interlocked hands. My father said "We can figure this out together.", and my mother nodded in agreement, wiping her cheek on her shoulder. I wish I could say that I instantly felt better, but it just wasn't true. I felt like a ton of bricks had been dropped on me. Like everything I had hoped and dreamed of, all of the things that I had expected from life, had be snatched away from me in an instant. But sitting at this table with me, was a small ray of hope. And that would have to be enough.

“Sister, you can’t be serious.” “Of course I am. He’s a monster.” “He’s a *boy*.” “He’s always been trouble.” “He’s a boy.” “He’s a killer.” Silence. Wither sat with his back to the door, the shadows cast by their feet leaking into his dark room. In his hands, he held a rag doll with button-eyes, twisting his dainty, pale fingers through unraveled string. He didn’t mean to kill it, he really didn’t. He just did. “But,” Sister Maria whispered. “What you’re proposing…” “Quiet,” Sister Ava said. “It’s probably listening.” “He,” Maria said, her voice solemn and low. “He.” Wither heard their footsteps grow distant. For every step growing fainter, Wither felt a loneliness within him grow. He missed hearing the soft, sharp voices of the other boys, seeing the kind eyes of Sister Maria, and, strangely, he even missed the way Sister Ava’s bony hand stung his cheek. He clutched the rag-doll in his hands, it half-lit by a ceiling light flickering above him. Wither laid the doll down on a small, satin twin bed, tucking it in dutifully, the motions familiar and brotherly. He ran a hand through the scraps of thin fabric that was its hair. “Charlie,” he said. “I’m sorry, Charlie.” He kissed the doll on the forehead. Besides the bed, there was a table holding a potted plant with sickened, yellowing leaves fallen to the dirt like a body part discarded. The plant was a St. John’s Wort, the signature plant of the sanctuary, and he didn’t mean to kill it. He didn’t. Merely, he wanted to see what the petals of flowers felt like, so he touched it, and it was velvety and smooth before it was crisp and hard and dead. Now it lay on his desk, desiccated and sagging, like an old bloodhound ready to fall into an eternal, dreamless sleep. For the next few hours, Wither watched it die while seated in a cold, darkened corner of his room. The moon, through the bars, cast rectangles of stilted light on the plant that moved with the falling moon so no angle of its dying remained unremarked. Soon, Wither too slept.

[WP] You come from a long line of healers who are capable of healing any living thing with a single touch. You have yet to receive your powers, but you store dying plants in your home to check for your powers every morning. One day, you wake up, touch one of the plants, and it withers completely.

The sun was beating down hard as a lone figure approached the town. The man was covered from head to toe despite the temperature. His lips were cracked and he desperately ran his tongue over them. But his tongue itself felt like cardboard. One would be hard pressed to call the place a town. It was more a collection of few houses. An oasis on the desert that was highway 77. The lakes were on either side and in the middle lay Turnhill, population 673. An old man sat in his garden looking into the distance. He noticed the young man and raised his eyebrow. The young man used what was perhaps the last of his strength to approach the gate. “Wader. Can I... some wa...” The old man rushed to him and handed the stranger his own glass. He placed a hand on the stranger’s shoulder who brushed it off, in a rather rude fashion. The stranger gulped down the water, his mouth welcoming the moisture. “Slowly. Or else it will...” The old man didn’t have to finish the sentence as the newcomer threw up. Despite this, there was a spark in his eyes that was missing a few moments ago. “Come on inside. Name’s McArthur. You best rest a while.” “I shouldn’t.” “I insist.” McArthur reached for his arm again only to be brushed off again. “Please don’t touch me.” McArthur raised an eyebrow but moved aside. The young man drank another glass of water and then collapsed on the couch. When he finally came to, it was dark outside. He sat up and took off his gloves, flexing his fingers. He took a minute to remember where he was, and noticed a glass of what looked like milk and a sandwich on the table. He smiled a little, sending out a thanks to the old man. McArthur. Yes that was his name. He sat there eating when he heard a sound behind him. “So you finally woke up?” “What time is it?” “4 am. You’ve been out for about thirteen hours.” He hastily put on his gloves And pulled up his bandana as McArthur sat opposite him. “Thank you sir.” “What’s your name young man?” “Soren.” “You know it’s kind of rude to keep your hat, gloves and your bandana pulled up indoors. Any one of them would be rude, all three of them crosses over rude and into the strange territory.” Soren sighed. “I apologize. I don’t mean to be rude but it’s my curse.” “A curse? Now you have my attention.” “I suppose it doesn’t hurt to tell you. I come from a long line of healers. Everyone in my family has the ability to heal anything they touch.” “Doesn’t sound like a curse.” “It isn’t. My family had a gift. I was born with the dark mark on me. For all of my family’s abilities, I was curse with the opposite of their abilities. Anything I touch dies.” “Oh come on.” Soren smiled. He opened the door and pulled a couple of leaves from the tree outside. By the time he came inside, the green leaves were brown and brittle. “There. No one ever believes me at first.” McArthur’s eyes went wide. Soren continued. “I was ostracized. No one wanted anything to do with me. I was turned out from my community. My people were supposed to bring joy and happiness to people, not sorrow and death.” “Must be a lonely life.” Soren smiled again. “I’m used to it. Why are you up this early?” “Insomnia. Since my daughter died I can barely get any sleep.” “How did she die?” “She was murdered.” Soren winced. “I’m sorry.” “Why? It wasn’t you.” “Who was it?” “Nevermind. Do you like movies?” They say at a distance, two people alone in the entire world. *** “Hey Mac. You want me to carry these inside.” “Nah leave them in the garden. We’ll take them out back and...” McArthur stopped short, staring at a car speeding down the road. It had a distinctive hood ornament in the form of a claw. “Hey Mac.” Soren followed his gaze. “Hey. Mac. Who’s that?” “That. That’s Jack Worthington. Local politician. Well connected.” “Why do you hate him?” McArthur sighed. “Never mind That. Take the seeds and the fertilizer out back.” But Soren wasn’t in the mood to let it go. He asked again in the evening as they watched an old western. “He’s responsible for Sarah’s death.” “Your daughter?” “Yep. His kid. Drunk driving. And he had the gall to come here and offer me a *monetary compensation* afterwards.” “Sounds like a charmer.” “I took the opportunity to punch him. Broke my wrist. But it was worth it.” “Did the cops do nothing?” “They’re all in his pocket. He basically runs this town. Everyone is either on his payroll or too scared to do anything.” “Ok.” “Hey. What’re you thinking?” “I’m thinking we’ve already seen this movie.” “No. I’m sure we haven’t.” ***** Jack Worthington’s re-election was a certain thing. But he still had to keep up appearances. He smiled and waved, shaking hands and posing for pictures. He shook someone’s hand and felt a surge of pain. He looked at the man, a stranger, his face covered up, along with every other part of his body. Only his hand was naked. Jack Worthington’s eyes bulged as he saw his body lose colour. In roughly ten seconds of shaking the man’s hand, he was on the ground, dead. Jack’s security was running around, no one having seen this coming. They all shouted for someone to catch the man. But in the ensuing confusion he had calmly walked away. **** “Soren. What did you do?” “Nothing.” “I heard it on the news. They’ll come for you.” “Let them. Just remember. I was threatening you and you knew nothing about this.” “Don’t do this. Run away.” “I’ve been running away for a long time Mac. From my abilities. From my destiny. But it’s time to face it. I’m a reaper. I carry death in these hands. There will be no more running. Instead there will be a reckoning.” McArthur looked at him long and hard. “You know they were wrong. Your community, your family.” “Were they?” “They were healers. But so are you. You were given the abilities to heal something much larger. The human race is afflicted with evil. And you are the cure. You will heal us all. One by one. I just hope I can be a part of this journey.”

“Sister, you can’t be serious.” “Of course I am. He’s a monster.” “He’s a *boy*.” “He’s always been trouble.” “He’s a boy.” “He’s a killer.” Silence. Wither sat with his back to the door, the shadows cast by their feet leaking into his dark room. In his hands, he held a rag doll with button-eyes, twisting his dainty, pale fingers through unraveled string. He didn’t mean to kill it, he really didn’t. He just did. “But,” Sister Maria whispered. “What you’re proposing…” “Quiet,” Sister Ava said. “It’s probably listening.” “He,” Maria said, her voice solemn and low. “He.” Wither heard their footsteps grow distant. For every step growing fainter, Wither felt a loneliness within him grow. He missed hearing the soft, sharp voices of the other boys, seeing the kind eyes of Sister Maria, and, strangely, he even missed the way Sister Ava’s bony hand stung his cheek. He clutched the rag-doll in his hands, it half-lit by a ceiling light flickering above him. Wither laid the doll down on a small, satin twin bed, tucking it in dutifully, the motions familiar and brotherly. He ran a hand through the scraps of thin fabric that was its hair. “Charlie,” he said. “I’m sorry, Charlie.” He kissed the doll on the forehead. Besides the bed, there was a table holding a potted plant with sickened, yellowing leaves fallen to the dirt like a body part discarded. The plant was a St. John’s Wort, the signature plant of the sanctuary, and he didn’t mean to kill it. He didn’t. Merely, he wanted to see what the petals of flowers felt like, so he touched it, and it was velvety and smooth before it was crisp and hard and dead. Now it lay on his desk, desiccated and sagging, like an old bloodhound ready to fall into an eternal, dreamless sleep. For the next few hours, Wither watched it die while seated in a cold, darkened corner of his room. The moon, through the bars, cast rectangles of stilted light on the plant that moved with the falling moon so no angle of its dying remained unremarked. Soon, Wither too slept.

[WP] You come from a long line of healers who are capable of healing any living thing with a single touch. You have yet to receive your powers, but you store dying plants in your home to check for your powers every morning. One day, you wake up, touch one of the plants, and it withers completely.

“”Every Diothena was born a healer,” John said, “you just need to give it some time.” I was a Diothena, son of the great healer; Edgar Diothena. I just didn’t have the power to heal. I kept dying plants in my room and tried each day to rejuvenate them with my touch. Nothing ever happened. I gave my brother John a weak smile and went back to my room in the castle. I did not tell anyone that I could not heal. It was too embarrassing. On a particularly rainy day, my father’s servant woke me and begged for me to come see him. My father was very ill and they needed a healer to help him. His power would not work in his own body, everyone knew that. As I took a deep breath and readied myself to go see father, I took one last chance and touched one of the plants in my room. It withered and died. My face went pale. I was terrified of being thrust into a room with my father and expected to help him with my touch, only to find that I had murdered him as I did to the plant. “I cannot go,” I finally said to the servant, “I am not a healer.” The servant did not know how to respond. He just stood there. “I’m going to have to go see him anyway aren’t I?” “If it please my lord, I have the task of bringing you to him. I do not know what will happen after you arrive.” I sighed heavily. When we arrived in my father’s chambers, I was greeted by hopeful faces filled with relief at my arrival. My brother John was there and had already done what he could to heal our father who now had the strength to sit up in his bed. I nervously addressed the crowd of family members and well-wishers. “I am very sorry to say that I do not possess the family gift of healing.” The murmur of gossip that rang through the crowd of people in front of me was not in any way quiet. “Surely, you own father’s illness would be enough to cause you to search within yourself for the ability,” Aunt Rheta said. Her haughty eyes and downturned lips directed at my trembling hands. My father hushed the crowd and looked at me intently. “My boy, did we not embrace yesterday when I returned home from my travels?” “Yes, father.” “I felt a power leave your body and enter mine. If that was not the gift of healing, I do not know what it could be.” It all made sense to me. I looked up at him with mournful eyes. “Father?” “Yes?” “Were you ill *before* I touched you?” “What are you saying, Son?” “I think that power you felt was not healing, but the opposite. I have withered a plant just today with my touch.” As everyone in the room stepped back away from me, I felt like a monster. I could not stay in the castle anymore. I ran away and did not look back. And that is how I ended up here.” The highway bandits looked at one another in anxious thought. They were all thinking the same thing. If this story was true, they probably shouldn’t rob this man and should just stay far away from him. Merto spoke up first, “he’s lyin’ froo his teef I tells ya!” The bandits closed in on the well dressed man. He gave a great sigh and removed his gloves. Before long, the man was walking down the road, just as he was before, only now there were five rotting corpses left behind him.

“Sister, you can’t be serious.” “Of course I am. He’s a monster.” “He’s a *boy*.” “He’s always been trouble.” “He’s a boy.” “He’s a killer.” Silence. Wither sat with his back to the door, the shadows cast by their feet leaking into his dark room. In his hands, he held a rag doll with button-eyes, twisting his dainty, pale fingers through unraveled string. He didn’t mean to kill it, he really didn’t. He just did. “But,” Sister Maria whispered. “What you’re proposing…” “Quiet,” Sister Ava said. “It’s probably listening.” “He,” Maria said, her voice solemn and low. “He.” Wither heard their footsteps grow distant. For every step growing fainter, Wither felt a loneliness within him grow. He missed hearing the soft, sharp voices of the other boys, seeing the kind eyes of Sister Maria, and, strangely, he even missed the way Sister Ava’s bony hand stung his cheek. He clutched the rag-doll in his hands, it half-lit by a ceiling light flickering above him. Wither laid the doll down on a small, satin twin bed, tucking it in dutifully, the motions familiar and brotherly. He ran a hand through the scraps of thin fabric that was its hair. “Charlie,” he said. “I’m sorry, Charlie.” He kissed the doll on the forehead. Besides the bed, there was a table holding a potted plant with sickened, yellowing leaves fallen to the dirt like a body part discarded. The plant was a St. John’s Wort, the signature plant of the sanctuary, and he didn’t mean to kill it. He didn’t. Merely, he wanted to see what the petals of flowers felt like, so he touched it, and it was velvety and smooth before it was crisp and hard and dead. Now it lay on his desk, desiccated and sagging, like an old bloodhound ready to fall into an eternal, dreamless sleep. For the next few hours, Wither watched it die while seated in a cold, darkened corner of his room. The moon, through the bars, cast rectangles of stilted light on the plant that moved with the falling moon so no angle of its dying remained unremarked. Soon, Wither too slept.

[WP] You come from a long line of healers who are capable of healing any living thing with a single touch. You have yet to receive your powers, but you store dying plants in your home to check for your powers every morning. One day, you wake up, touch one of the plants, and it withers completely.

# Life's Touch On the desk, the snarled remains of vine and leaf retracted. Yellow, bordering on grey, the delicate veins had dried and withered. In the pot beneath, the grains of soil themselves had taken on a dusky hue. Close to sand, the once vital earth had crystallised as though in drought. Eyes wide and brows raised, Quentin froze. “Huh?” he said. Under the gentle puff of breath, the plant collapsed to ash. Serpentine threads of the dust streamed in the current, a final ghostly trace of the once-proud peony. His pulse ticking against his throat, he stretched a hesitant hand toward the wilting daisy in the next pot. His finger brushed against the petal. The colour shifted. Drained. From white to grey to floating ash. Cells died. Scattered. Two empty pots sat on his desk and the ticking jumped to a thundering roar and the weight shifted from his tense neck to press down on his whole world like a stifling cloud. Fingers scrunching and uncurling, he stood up. Sat down. His wrist was shaking now. Face numb. An absent hum stifling his ears. *This couldn’t be happening.* Opening the door with a forearm that left a smear of grease and sweat on the handle, he shouldered through to the bathroom. Hit the tap more than twisted it. Scrubbed and scrubbed and scrubbed until the breath ran back down his stiff throat and his eyes stung and his hands burned and the soap flecked his hair and he was *ok*. Empty shell shocked eyes gazed back at him from the mirror. A glow in his cheeks that lent toward the raw. “I’m Quentin Brigid, of the Brigid main line. Healers by birthright. I’m a late developer. I just have to wait. It will come. It always comes. It-” His mouth snapped shut, the muttered syllables trickling down into the sink. *The family, they’ll know what to do.* He ran back to the bedroom and halted. But he’d have to find out sooner or later. He stretched a hesitant hand to the phone on his bedside table. His fingers brushed against the glass. Nothing happened. Heart rate briefly rejoining a human standard, he flicked to the call list and hammered the home contact. “Quen, you up, mate?” Ed’s voice filtered through from the landing. *He couldn’t stay here.* The dialing ring buzzing against his head, he switched to earphones and headed for the hallway. Ed’s blond locks and still-hooded eyes peered at him from the door opposite. “Yeah?” his voice seemed to come from a distance, yet Ed didn’t react. “Yo, sorry to be a pain, but could you pick up some more milk? I think we’re out, and Izzy won’t get back till later.” Turning back to his door, and clicking the latch, Quentin tried with bated breath to keep his tone even, “Sure thing, mate, whole or semi?” “Absolute lad. Whole. I’m gonna stay in, I’m hanging something horrific.” Quentin kept his eyes on the stairs, a bland smile forced on unwilling lips, “Your fault for drinking so much.” Fumbling with the keys, he made it through the front door to the distant sounds of Ed slumping back onto his mattress with a non-committal groan. Through the buds, the chimes of the call at last connected. “Quen?” his mother’s tone grounded him as he relocked the door, stowed the keys. “Mum,” nearly at a whisper, he headed for the street, “something’s happened. With the plants.” An excited squeal punctuated the line. “Quen, that’s *wonderful*. I’ve got to tell your dad. *James, James come here!* This is so great, I mean I won’t deny we were worried after you passed your eighteenth with no… But that doesn’t matter now, I’m so happy for you…” With each word a leaden weight sank to his stomach, acidic and singeing. “No,” he tried to say. “… you’ll have to come home and have it verified by your Grandmama, we’ve got *so* much to teach you and…” “Mum.” “… maybe I should send out an email, hopefully your uncles are still on the chain and…” “*Mum.*” “Yes, honey?” Fighting a tongue that seemed glued to a dry mouth, he forced the words from locked lips, “the plants died.” Pulse once more drumming a tattoo that seemed to be escaping through his scorching ears, he glanced absently at the road and began to cross. The corner shop and milk for Ed would cover his flight from the house. “They what?” “They died.” This time the spike in his mother’s breathing was audible. His heart fell with his stomach. “Quentin,” tone sharp, the words tumbled over each other in a fight to arrive first, “I need you to be extremely clear. Tell me *exactly* what happened when you touched it.” “It was just like normal. I’d woken up, and I went to do the tests, just like you’d taught me. And I’d just touched the first one, the peony, and it just sort of crumbled. Went all yellow and then maybe grey and then it was dust. Just dust, and the –“ His vision spun. Concrete and hedge and pavement rotated past in a kaleidoscopic blur of confused pain. Caught between ice and fire he felt numb with spikes that cut his hearing into flickers of slurred sensation. He must’ve been on his side as the road and sky painted a two-tone impression in black and blue. “Oh, God.” The voice seemed to echo, or maybe drift. Filtering through across a vast distance. “Oh, God, I’m so sorry. He just came out of nowhere. Did anyone see?” “I’ll call an ambulance just stay with him.” “Jesus there’s so much blood.” And there was. The muted scarlet stream pooling on the blackened tarmac. He blinked, and the world flickered with it. “Can you hear me?” He tried to speak and the words appeared, hanging in space without his consent. “Phone?” “Did you say ‘from’? You weren’t watching. No, I should have… Oh, God, I’m so sorry, I was just on my way to… Look, an ambulance is coming and…” The numbness had spread to his chest, the blue sparking with dusty motes. Yet the fear still tickled the back of his mind. “Don’t touch me.” “Yes, I’m right here. Don’t worry, oh, God, please stay with me.” A hand reached toward his own, flimsy against the road. “No. Please. Don’t.” “I’m right here –“ The fingers brushed against his own. The colour shifted. Drained. From pale skin to dismal white to floating ash. A howl of agony died in a throat that crumbled beneath it. Comfortable warmth spread through him, washing through tissue and drilling deep into his core.. That glossy pool of crimson shrank as it flowed backward. A terrible itching spread as bone regrew and flesh re-knitted and skin crept a slender blanket across reinvigorated muscles. The pain faded alongside that fuzzy numbness, a strength that felt like it could move mountains building in its place. Quentin Brigid sat back up. A small pile of human ash blew forlornly in the gentle breeze and three witnesses stared at him with bulging eyes and trembling shoulders. He glanced at the shrinking pile. He glanced at his fist, still clenched from the pain of impact. He glanced at the three people. *No one could know.* And then the screaming started. --- If you somehow got down far enough to read this and still enjoyed it, you can find more like it [on my sub.](https://www.reddit.com/r/The_Crossroads) Any and all feedback welcomed.

“Sister, you can’t be serious.” “Of course I am. He’s a monster.” “He’s a *boy*.” “He’s always been trouble.” “He’s a boy.” “He’s a killer.” Silence. Wither sat with his back to the door, the shadows cast by their feet leaking into his dark room. In his hands, he held a rag doll with button-eyes, twisting his dainty, pale fingers through unraveled string. He didn’t mean to kill it, he really didn’t. He just did. “But,” Sister Maria whispered. “What you’re proposing…” “Quiet,” Sister Ava said. “It’s probably listening.” “He,” Maria said, her voice solemn and low. “He.” Wither heard their footsteps grow distant. For every step growing fainter, Wither felt a loneliness within him grow. He missed hearing the soft, sharp voices of the other boys, seeing the kind eyes of Sister Maria, and, strangely, he even missed the way Sister Ava’s bony hand stung his cheek. He clutched the rag-doll in his hands, it half-lit by a ceiling light flickering above him. Wither laid the doll down on a small, satin twin bed, tucking it in dutifully, the motions familiar and brotherly. He ran a hand through the scraps of thin fabric that was its hair. “Charlie,” he said. “I’m sorry, Charlie.” He kissed the doll on the forehead. Besides the bed, there was a table holding a potted plant with sickened, yellowing leaves fallen to the dirt like a body part discarded. The plant was a St. John’s Wort, the signature plant of the sanctuary, and he didn’t mean to kill it. He didn’t. Merely, he wanted to see what the petals of flowers felt like, so he touched it, and it was velvety and smooth before it was crisp and hard and dead. Now it lay on his desk, desiccated and sagging, like an old bloodhound ready to fall into an eternal, dreamless sleep. For the next few hours, Wither watched it die while seated in a cold, darkened corner of his room. The moon, through the bars, cast rectangles of stilted light on the plant that moved with the falling moon so no angle of its dying remained unremarked. Soon, Wither too slept.

[WP] You come from a long line of healers who are capable of healing any living thing with a single touch. You have yet to receive your powers, but you store dying plants in your home to check for your powers every morning. One day, you wake up, touch one of the plants, and it withers completely.

The sun was beating down hard as a lone figure approached the town. The man was covered from head to toe despite the temperature. His lips were cracked and he desperately ran his tongue over them. But his tongue itself felt like cardboard. One would be hard pressed to call the place a town. It was more a collection of few houses. An oasis on the desert that was highway 77. The lakes were on either side and in the middle lay Turnhill, population 673. An old man sat in his garden looking into the distance. He noticed the young man and raised his eyebrow. The young man used what was perhaps the last of his strength to approach the gate. “Wader. Can I... some wa...” The old man rushed to him and handed the stranger his own glass. He placed a hand on the stranger’s shoulder who brushed it off, in a rather rude fashion. The stranger gulped down the water, his mouth welcoming the moisture. “Slowly. Or else it will...” The old man didn’t have to finish the sentence as the newcomer threw up. Despite this, there was a spark in his eyes that was missing a few moments ago. “Come on inside. Name’s McArthur. You best rest a while.” “I shouldn’t.” “I insist.” McArthur reached for his arm again only to be brushed off again. “Please don’t touch me.” McArthur raised an eyebrow but moved aside. The young man drank another glass of water and then collapsed on the couch. When he finally came to, it was dark outside. He sat up and took off his gloves, flexing his fingers. He took a minute to remember where he was, and noticed a glass of what looked like milk and a sandwich on the table. He smiled a little, sending out a thanks to the old man. McArthur. Yes that was his name. He sat there eating when he heard a sound behind him. “So you finally woke up?” “What time is it?” “4 am. You’ve been out for about thirteen hours.” He hastily put on his gloves And pulled up his bandana as McArthur sat opposite him. “Thank you sir.” “What’s your name young man?” “Soren.” “You know it’s kind of rude to keep your hat, gloves and your bandana pulled up indoors. Any one of them would be rude, all three of them crosses over rude and into the strange territory.” Soren sighed. “I apologize. I don’t mean to be rude but it’s my curse.” “A curse? Now you have my attention.” “I suppose it doesn’t hurt to tell you. I come from a long line of healers. Everyone in my family has the ability to heal anything they touch.” “Doesn’t sound like a curse.” “It isn’t. My family had a gift. I was born with the dark mark on me. For all of my family’s abilities, I was curse with the opposite of their abilities. Anything I touch dies.” “Oh come on.” Soren smiled. He opened the door and pulled a couple of leaves from the tree outside. By the time he came inside, the green leaves were brown and brittle. “There. No one ever believes me at first.” McArthur’s eyes went wide. Soren continued. “I was ostracized. No one wanted anything to do with me. I was turned out from my community. My people were supposed to bring joy and happiness to people, not sorrow and death.” “Must be a lonely life.” Soren smiled again. “I’m used to it. Why are you up this early?” “Insomnia. Since my daughter died I can barely get any sleep.” “How did she die?” “She was murdered.” Soren winced. “I’m sorry.” “Why? It wasn’t you.” “Who was it?” “Nevermind. Do you like movies?” They say at a distance, two people alone in the entire world. *** “Hey Mac. You want me to carry these inside.” “Nah leave them in the garden. We’ll take them out back and...” McArthur stopped short, staring at a car speeding down the road. It had a distinctive hood ornament in the form of a claw. “Hey Mac.” Soren followed his gaze. “Hey. Mac. Who’s that?” “That. That’s Jack Worthington. Local politician. Well connected.” “Why do you hate him?” McArthur sighed. “Never mind That. Take the seeds and the fertilizer out back.” But Soren wasn’t in the mood to let it go. He asked again in the evening as they watched an old western. “He’s responsible for Sarah’s death.” “Your daughter?” “Yep. His kid. Drunk driving. And he had the gall to come here and offer me a *monetary compensation* afterwards.” “Sounds like a charmer.” “I took the opportunity to punch him. Broke my wrist. But it was worth it.” “Did the cops do nothing?” “They’re all in his pocket. He basically runs this town. Everyone is either on his payroll or too scared to do anything.” “Ok.” “Hey. What’re you thinking?” “I’m thinking we’ve already seen this movie.” “No. I’m sure we haven’t.” ***** Jack Worthington’s re-election was a certain thing. But he still had to keep up appearances. He smiled and waved, shaking hands and posing for pictures. He shook someone’s hand and felt a surge of pain. He looked at the man, a stranger, his face covered up, along with every other part of his body. Only his hand was naked. Jack Worthington’s eyes bulged as he saw his body lose colour. In roughly ten seconds of shaking the man’s hand, he was on the ground, dead. Jack’s security was running around, no one having seen this coming. They all shouted for someone to catch the man. But in the ensuing confusion he had calmly walked away. **** “Soren. What did you do?” “Nothing.” “I heard it on the news. They’ll come for you.” “Let them. Just remember. I was threatening you and you knew nothing about this.” “Don’t do this. Run away.” “I’ve been running away for a long time Mac. From my abilities. From my destiny. But it’s time to face it. I’m a reaper. I carry death in these hands. There will be no more running. Instead there will be a reckoning.” McArthur looked at him long and hard. “You know they were wrong. Your community, your family.” “Were they?” “They were healers. But so are you. You were given the abilities to heal something much larger. The human race is afflicted with evil. And you are the cure. You will heal us all. One by one. I just hope I can be a part of this journey.”

"NO!" My hand recoiled in terror. Clutching it to my chest, and breathing deep to avoid hyperventilating, I stared numbly at the plant's withered form, unwilling to believe what I was looking at. I looked at another plant and reached out, hand shaking, touching it with the tip of two of my fingers. I don't know what I was expecting, maybe that the first one was a fluke. And then the second one all but confirmed it. I was a taker. This hadn't happened in my family for generations. But it wasn't like there was any ambiguity here. Once your powers came in, there were gradients, and you could improve your skills with time and practice, but there was no mistaking which camp you fell into. When your powers finally kicked in, whatever happened was who you would be forever. And this was me. I sat down at kitchen table, shoulders slumped, on the verge of a breakdown, watching my entire future crumble in front of me. Everything I thought I would be, gone in an instant. What was left for me now? The military? A euthanasia clinic? Or even worse, a life of hiding from organized crime, because once they find out that you can take life with a single touch, they find ... uses for you, and ways to hook you in. Amid these all consuming thoughts, I hadn't heard my mother and father come down the stairs. If my mother hadn't said "hey sugar cube..." before trying to hug me, it might have been disastrous. When I noticed her, I threw myself out of the chair, and away from her, before she could make contact. I was on the floor, leaning back on my palms when my mother saw the reason that I fled her touch written on my face . Her look of confusion instantly turned to tears and she said "Oh no, it can't be." She turned to father who had been digging through the cabinet for the coffee, and it only took a quick glance between my mothers face, and myself on the floor before he understood too. He didn't break into tears like my mother, he just deflated. His shoulders sank and he wrapped his arms around my mother. He looked at me as I stood up, with his chin on her shoulder. And though there were no tears in his eyes, they contained every ounce of pain that my mother's had. I looked away, unable to bear seeing what I had done to them. The pain I had caused. "I'm sorry." I croaked at the floor. My father released my mother, who instead of letting go, rotated around to his side. He said "Please don't think this is because of you. It's FOR you." he said glancing down at my mother. "More than anything in the world, we want to give you a hug and tell you that it will be ok, but we can't." His voice broke with that last word, and his eyes began to gloss. He took a deep, shakey breath, and walked my mother to a chair next to me, sitting down himself across the table. I took my seat again and gazed at their interlocked hands. My father said "We can figure this out together.", and my mother nodded in agreement, wiping her cheek on her shoulder. I wish I could say that I instantly felt better, but it just wasn't true. I felt like a ton of bricks had been dropped on me. Like everything I had hoped and dreamed of, all of the things that I had expected from life, had be snatched away from me in an instant. But sitting at this table with me, was a small ray of hope. And that would have to be enough.

[WP] You come from a long line of healers who are capable of healing any living thing with a single touch. You have yet to receive your powers, but you store dying plants in your home to check for your powers every morning. One day, you wake up, touch one of the plants, and it withers completely.

# Life's Touch On the desk, the snarled remains of vine and leaf retracted. Yellow, bordering on grey, the delicate veins had dried and withered. In the pot beneath, the grains of soil themselves had taken on a dusky hue. Close to sand, the once vital earth had crystallised as though in drought. Eyes wide and brows raised, Quentin froze. “Huh?” he said. Under the gentle puff of breath, the plant collapsed to ash. Serpentine threads of the dust streamed in the current, a final ghostly trace of the once-proud peony. His pulse ticking against his throat, he stretched a hesitant hand toward the wilting daisy in the next pot. His finger brushed against the petal. The colour shifted. Drained. From white to grey to floating ash. Cells died. Scattered. Two empty pots sat on his desk and the ticking jumped to a thundering roar and the weight shifted from his tense neck to press down on his whole world like a stifling cloud. Fingers scrunching and uncurling, he stood up. Sat down. His wrist was shaking now. Face numb. An absent hum stifling his ears. *This couldn’t be happening.* Opening the door with a forearm that left a smear of grease and sweat on the handle, he shouldered through to the bathroom. Hit the tap more than twisted it. Scrubbed and scrubbed and scrubbed until the breath ran back down his stiff throat and his eyes stung and his hands burned and the soap flecked his hair and he was *ok*. Empty shell shocked eyes gazed back at him from the mirror. A glow in his cheeks that lent toward the raw. “I’m Quentin Brigid, of the Brigid main line. Healers by birthright. I’m a late developer. I just have to wait. It will come. It always comes. It-” His mouth snapped shut, the muttered syllables trickling down into the sink. *The family, they’ll know what to do.* He ran back to the bedroom and halted. But he’d have to find out sooner or later. He stretched a hesitant hand to the phone on his bedside table. His fingers brushed against the glass. Nothing happened. Heart rate briefly rejoining a human standard, he flicked to the call list and hammered the home contact. “Quen, you up, mate?” Ed’s voice filtered through from the landing. *He couldn’t stay here.* The dialing ring buzzing against his head, he switched to earphones and headed for the hallway. Ed’s blond locks and still-hooded eyes peered at him from the door opposite. “Yeah?” his voice seemed to come from a distance, yet Ed didn’t react. “Yo, sorry to be a pain, but could you pick up some more milk? I think we’re out, and Izzy won’t get back till later.” Turning back to his door, and clicking the latch, Quentin tried with bated breath to keep his tone even, “Sure thing, mate, whole or semi?” “Absolute lad. Whole. I’m gonna stay in, I’m hanging something horrific.” Quentin kept his eyes on the stairs, a bland smile forced on unwilling lips, “Your fault for drinking so much.” Fumbling with the keys, he made it through the front door to the distant sounds of Ed slumping back onto his mattress with a non-committal groan. Through the buds, the chimes of the call at last connected. “Quen?” his mother’s tone grounded him as he relocked the door, stowed the keys. “Mum,” nearly at a whisper, he headed for the street, “something’s happened. With the plants.” An excited squeal punctuated the line. “Quen, that’s *wonderful*. I’ve got to tell your dad. *James, James come here!* This is so great, I mean I won’t deny we were worried after you passed your eighteenth with no… But that doesn’t matter now, I’m so happy for you…” With each word a leaden weight sank to his stomach, acidic and singeing. “No,” he tried to say. “… you’ll have to come home and have it verified by your Grandmama, we’ve got *so* much to teach you and…” “Mum.” “… maybe I should send out an email, hopefully your uncles are still on the chain and…” “*Mum.*” “Yes, honey?” Fighting a tongue that seemed glued to a dry mouth, he forced the words from locked lips, “the plants died.” Pulse once more drumming a tattoo that seemed to be escaping through his scorching ears, he glanced absently at the road and began to cross. The corner shop and milk for Ed would cover his flight from the house. “They what?” “They died.” This time the spike in his mother’s breathing was audible. His heart fell with his stomach. “Quentin,” tone sharp, the words tumbled over each other in a fight to arrive first, “I need you to be extremely clear. Tell me *exactly* what happened when you touched it.” “It was just like normal. I’d woken up, and I went to do the tests, just like you’d taught me. And I’d just touched the first one, the peony, and it just sort of crumbled. Went all yellow and then maybe grey and then it was dust. Just dust, and the –“ His vision spun. Concrete and hedge and pavement rotated past in a kaleidoscopic blur of confused pain. Caught between ice and fire he felt numb with spikes that cut his hearing into flickers of slurred sensation. He must’ve been on his side as the road and sky painted a two-tone impression in black and blue. “Oh, God.” The voice seemed to echo, or maybe drift. Filtering through across a vast distance. “Oh, God, I’m so sorry. He just came out of nowhere. Did anyone see?” “I’ll call an ambulance just stay with him.” “Jesus there’s so much blood.” And there was. The muted scarlet stream pooling on the blackened tarmac. He blinked, and the world flickered with it. “Can you hear me?” He tried to speak and the words appeared, hanging in space without his consent. “Phone?” “Did you say ‘from’? You weren’t watching. No, I should have… Oh, God, I’m so sorry, I was just on my way to… Look, an ambulance is coming and…” The numbness had spread to his chest, the blue sparking with dusty motes. Yet the fear still tickled the back of his mind. “Don’t touch me.” “Yes, I’m right here. Don’t worry, oh, God, please stay with me.” A hand reached toward his own, flimsy against the road. “No. Please. Don’t.” “I’m right here –“ The fingers brushed against his own. The colour shifted. Drained. From pale skin to dismal white to floating ash. A howl of agony died in a throat that crumbled beneath it. Comfortable warmth spread through him, washing through tissue and drilling deep into his core.. That glossy pool of crimson shrank as it flowed backward. A terrible itching spread as bone regrew and flesh re-knitted and skin crept a slender blanket across reinvigorated muscles. The pain faded alongside that fuzzy numbness, a strength that felt like it could move mountains building in its place. Quentin Brigid sat back up. A small pile of human ash blew forlornly in the gentle breeze and three witnesses stared at him with bulging eyes and trembling shoulders. He glanced at the shrinking pile. He glanced at his fist, still clenched from the pain of impact. He glanced at the three people. *No one could know.* And then the screaming started. --- If you somehow got down far enough to read this and still enjoyed it, you can find more like it [on my sub.](https://www.reddit.com/r/The_Crossroads) Any and all feedback welcomed.

"NO!" My hand recoiled in terror. Clutching it to my chest, and breathing deep to avoid hyperventilating, I stared numbly at the plant's withered form, unwilling to believe what I was looking at. I looked at another plant and reached out, hand shaking, touching it with the tip of two of my fingers. I don't know what I was expecting, maybe that the first one was a fluke. And then the second one all but confirmed it. I was a taker. This hadn't happened in my family for generations. But it wasn't like there was any ambiguity here. Once your powers came in, there were gradients, and you could improve your skills with time and practice, but there was no mistaking which camp you fell into. When your powers finally kicked in, whatever happened was who you would be forever. And this was me. I sat down at kitchen table, shoulders slumped, on the verge of a breakdown, watching my entire future crumble in front of me. Everything I thought I would be, gone in an instant. What was left for me now? The military? A euthanasia clinic? Or even worse, a life of hiding from organized crime, because once they find out that you can take life with a single touch, they find ... uses for you, and ways to hook you in. Amid these all consuming thoughts, I hadn't heard my mother and father come down the stairs. If my mother hadn't said "hey sugar cube..." before trying to hug me, it might have been disastrous. When I noticed her, I threw myself out of the chair, and away from her, before she could make contact. I was on the floor, leaning back on my palms when my mother saw the reason that I fled her touch written on my face . Her look of confusion instantly turned to tears and she said "Oh no, it can't be." She turned to father who had been digging through the cabinet for the coffee, and it only took a quick glance between my mothers face, and myself on the floor before he understood too. He didn't break into tears like my mother, he just deflated. His shoulders sank and he wrapped his arms around my mother. He looked at me as I stood up, with his chin on her shoulder. And though there were no tears in his eyes, they contained every ounce of pain that my mother's had. I looked away, unable to bear seeing what I had done to them. The pain I had caused. "I'm sorry." I croaked at the floor. My father released my mother, who instead of letting go, rotated around to his side. He said "Please don't think this is because of you. It's FOR you." he said glancing down at my mother. "More than anything in the world, we want to give you a hug and tell you that it will be ok, but we can't." His voice broke with that last word, and his eyes began to gloss. He took a deep, shakey breath, and walked my mother to a chair next to me, sitting down himself across the table. I took my seat again and gazed at their interlocked hands. My father said "We can figure this out together.", and my mother nodded in agreement, wiping her cheek on her shoulder. I wish I could say that I instantly felt better, but it just wasn't true. I felt like a ton of bricks had been dropped on me. Like everything I had hoped and dreamed of, all of the things that I had expected from life, had be snatched away from me in an instant. But sitting at this table with me, was a small ray of hope. And that would have to be enough.

[WP] You come from a long line of healers who are capable of healing any living thing with a single touch. You have yet to receive your powers, but you store dying plants in your home to check for your powers every morning. One day, you wake up, touch one of the plants, and it withers completely.

# Life's Touch On the desk, the snarled remains of vine and leaf retracted. Yellow, bordering on grey, the delicate veins had dried and withered. In the pot beneath, the grains of soil themselves had taken on a dusky hue. Close to sand, the once vital earth had crystallised as though in drought. Eyes wide and brows raised, Quentin froze. “Huh?” he said. Under the gentle puff of breath, the plant collapsed to ash. Serpentine threads of the dust streamed in the current, a final ghostly trace of the once-proud peony. His pulse ticking against his throat, he stretched a hesitant hand toward the wilting daisy in the next pot. His finger brushed against the petal. The colour shifted. Drained. From white to grey to floating ash. Cells died. Scattered. Two empty pots sat on his desk and the ticking jumped to a thundering roar and the weight shifted from his tense neck to press down on his whole world like a stifling cloud. Fingers scrunching and uncurling, he stood up. Sat down. His wrist was shaking now. Face numb. An absent hum stifling his ears. *This couldn’t be happening.* Opening the door with a forearm that left a smear of grease and sweat on the handle, he shouldered through to the bathroom. Hit the tap more than twisted it. Scrubbed and scrubbed and scrubbed until the breath ran back down his stiff throat and his eyes stung and his hands burned and the soap flecked his hair and he was *ok*. Empty shell shocked eyes gazed back at him from the mirror. A glow in his cheeks that lent toward the raw. “I’m Quentin Brigid, of the Brigid main line. Healers by birthright. I’m a late developer. I just have to wait. It will come. It always comes. It-” His mouth snapped shut, the muttered syllables trickling down into the sink. *The family, they’ll know what to do.* He ran back to the bedroom and halted. But he’d have to find out sooner or later. He stretched a hesitant hand to the phone on his bedside table. His fingers brushed against the glass. Nothing happened. Heart rate briefly rejoining a human standard, he flicked to the call list and hammered the home contact. “Quen, you up, mate?” Ed’s voice filtered through from the landing. *He couldn’t stay here.* The dialing ring buzzing against his head, he switched to earphones and headed for the hallway. Ed’s blond locks and still-hooded eyes peered at him from the door opposite. “Yeah?” his voice seemed to come from a distance, yet Ed didn’t react. “Yo, sorry to be a pain, but could you pick up some more milk? I think we’re out, and Izzy won’t get back till later.” Turning back to his door, and clicking the latch, Quentin tried with bated breath to keep his tone even, “Sure thing, mate, whole or semi?” “Absolute lad. Whole. I’m gonna stay in, I’m hanging something horrific.” Quentin kept his eyes on the stairs, a bland smile forced on unwilling lips, “Your fault for drinking so much.” Fumbling with the keys, he made it through the front door to the distant sounds of Ed slumping back onto his mattress with a non-committal groan. Through the buds, the chimes of the call at last connected. “Quen?” his mother’s tone grounded him as he relocked the door, stowed the keys. “Mum,” nearly at a whisper, he headed for the street, “something’s happened. With the plants.” An excited squeal punctuated the line. “Quen, that’s *wonderful*. I’ve got to tell your dad. *James, James come here!* This is so great, I mean I won’t deny we were worried after you passed your eighteenth with no… But that doesn’t matter now, I’m so happy for you…” With each word a leaden weight sank to his stomach, acidic and singeing. “No,” he tried to say. “… you’ll have to come home and have it verified by your Grandmama, we’ve got *so* much to teach you and…” “Mum.” “… maybe I should send out an email, hopefully your uncles are still on the chain and…” “*Mum.*” “Yes, honey?” Fighting a tongue that seemed glued to a dry mouth, he forced the words from locked lips, “the plants died.” Pulse once more drumming a tattoo that seemed to be escaping through his scorching ears, he glanced absently at the road and began to cross. The corner shop and milk for Ed would cover his flight from the house. “They what?” “They died.” This time the spike in his mother’s breathing was audible. His heart fell with his stomach. “Quentin,” tone sharp, the words tumbled over each other in a fight to arrive first, “I need you to be extremely clear. Tell me *exactly* what happened when you touched it.” “It was just like normal. I’d woken up, and I went to do the tests, just like you’d taught me. And I’d just touched the first one, the peony, and it just sort of crumbled. Went all yellow and then maybe grey and then it was dust. Just dust, and the –“ His vision spun. Concrete and hedge and pavement rotated past in a kaleidoscopic blur of confused pain. Caught between ice and fire he felt numb with spikes that cut his hearing into flickers of slurred sensation. He must’ve been on his side as the road and sky painted a two-tone impression in black and blue. “Oh, God.” The voice seemed to echo, or maybe drift. Filtering through across a vast distance. “Oh, God, I’m so sorry. He just came out of nowhere. Did anyone see?” “I’ll call an ambulance just stay with him.” “Jesus there’s so much blood.” And there was. The muted scarlet stream pooling on the blackened tarmac. He blinked, and the world flickered with it. “Can you hear me?” He tried to speak and the words appeared, hanging in space without his consent. “Phone?” “Did you say ‘from’? You weren’t watching. No, I should have… Oh, God, I’m so sorry, I was just on my way to… Look, an ambulance is coming and…” The numbness had spread to his chest, the blue sparking with dusty motes. Yet the fear still tickled the back of his mind. “Don’t touch me.” “Yes, I’m right here. Don’t worry, oh, God, please stay with me.” A hand reached toward his own, flimsy against the road. “No. Please. Don’t.” “I’m right here –“ The fingers brushed against his own. The colour shifted. Drained. From pale skin to dismal white to floating ash. A howl of agony died in a throat that crumbled beneath it. Comfortable warmth spread through him, washing through tissue and drilling deep into his core.. That glossy pool of crimson shrank as it flowed backward. A terrible itching spread as bone regrew and flesh re-knitted and skin crept a slender blanket across reinvigorated muscles. The pain faded alongside that fuzzy numbness, a strength that felt like it could move mountains building in its place. Quentin Brigid sat back up. A small pile of human ash blew forlornly in the gentle breeze and three witnesses stared at him with bulging eyes and trembling shoulders. He glanced at the shrinking pile. He glanced at his fist, still clenched from the pain of impact. He glanced at the three people. *No one could know.* And then the screaming started. --- If you somehow got down far enough to read this and still enjoyed it, you can find more like it [on my sub.](https://www.reddit.com/r/The_Crossroads) Any and all feedback welcomed.

The sun was beating down hard as a lone figure approached the town. The man was covered from head to toe despite the temperature. His lips were cracked and he desperately ran his tongue over them. But his tongue itself felt like cardboard. One would be hard pressed to call the place a town. It was more a collection of few houses. An oasis on the desert that was highway 77. The lakes were on either side and in the middle lay Turnhill, population 673. An old man sat in his garden looking into the distance. He noticed the young man and raised his eyebrow. The young man used what was perhaps the last of his strength to approach the gate. “Wader. Can I... some wa...” The old man rushed to him and handed the stranger his own glass. He placed a hand on the stranger’s shoulder who brushed it off, in a rather rude fashion. The stranger gulped down the water, his mouth welcoming the moisture. “Slowly. Or else it will...” The old man didn’t have to finish the sentence as the newcomer threw up. Despite this, there was a spark in his eyes that was missing a few moments ago. “Come on inside. Name’s McArthur. You best rest a while.” “I shouldn’t.” “I insist.” McArthur reached for his arm again only to be brushed off again. “Please don’t touch me.” McArthur raised an eyebrow but moved aside. The young man drank another glass of water and then collapsed on the couch. When he finally came to, it was dark outside. He sat up and took off his gloves, flexing his fingers. He took a minute to remember where he was, and noticed a glass of what looked like milk and a sandwich on the table. He smiled a little, sending out a thanks to the old man. McArthur. Yes that was his name. He sat there eating when he heard a sound behind him. “So you finally woke up?” “What time is it?” “4 am. You’ve been out for about thirteen hours.” He hastily put on his gloves And pulled up his bandana as McArthur sat opposite him. “Thank you sir.” “What’s your name young man?” “Soren.” “You know it’s kind of rude to keep your hat, gloves and your bandana pulled up indoors. Any one of them would be rude, all three of them crosses over rude and into the strange territory.” Soren sighed. “I apologize. I don’t mean to be rude but it’s my curse.” “A curse? Now you have my attention.” “I suppose it doesn’t hurt to tell you. I come from a long line of healers. Everyone in my family has the ability to heal anything they touch.” “Doesn’t sound like a curse.” “It isn’t. My family had a gift. I was born with the dark mark on me. For all of my family’s abilities, I was curse with the opposite of their abilities. Anything I touch dies.” “Oh come on.” Soren smiled. He opened the door and pulled a couple of leaves from the tree outside. By the time he came inside, the green leaves were brown and brittle. “There. No one ever believes me at first.” McArthur’s eyes went wide. Soren continued. “I was ostracized. No one wanted anything to do with me. I was turned out from my community. My people were supposed to bring joy and happiness to people, not sorrow and death.” “Must be a lonely life.” Soren smiled again. “I’m used to it. Why are you up this early?” “Insomnia. Since my daughter died I can barely get any sleep.” “How did she die?” “She was murdered.” Soren winced. “I’m sorry.” “Why? It wasn’t you.” “Who was it?” “Nevermind. Do you like movies?” They say at a distance, two people alone in the entire world. *** “Hey Mac. You want me to carry these inside.” “Nah leave them in the garden. We’ll take them out back and...” McArthur stopped short, staring at a car speeding down the road. It had a distinctive hood ornament in the form of a claw. “Hey Mac.” Soren followed his gaze. “Hey. Mac. Who’s that?” “That. That’s Jack Worthington. Local politician. Well connected.” “Why do you hate him?” McArthur sighed. “Never mind That. Take the seeds and the fertilizer out back.” But Soren wasn’t in the mood to let it go. He asked again in the evening as they watched an old western. “He’s responsible for Sarah’s death.” “Your daughter?” “Yep. His kid. Drunk driving. And he had the gall to come here and offer me a *monetary compensation* afterwards.” “Sounds like a charmer.” “I took the opportunity to punch him. Broke my wrist. But it was worth it.” “Did the cops do nothing?” “They’re all in his pocket. He basically runs this town. Everyone is either on his payroll or too scared to do anything.” “Ok.” “Hey. What’re you thinking?” “I’m thinking we’ve already seen this movie.” “No. I’m sure we haven’t.” ***** Jack Worthington’s re-election was a certain thing. But he still had to keep up appearances. He smiled and waved, shaking hands and posing for pictures. He shook someone’s hand and felt a surge of pain. He looked at the man, a stranger, his face covered up, along with every other part of his body. Only his hand was naked. Jack Worthington’s eyes bulged as he saw his body lose colour. In roughly ten seconds of shaking the man’s hand, he was on the ground, dead. Jack’s security was running around, no one having seen this coming. They all shouted for someone to catch the man. But in the ensuing confusion he had calmly walked away. **** “Soren. What did you do?” “Nothing.” “I heard it on the news. They’ll come for you.” “Let them. Just remember. I was threatening you and you knew nothing about this.” “Don’t do this. Run away.” “I’ve been running away for a long time Mac. From my abilities. From my destiny. But it’s time to face it. I’m a reaper. I carry death in these hands. There will be no more running. Instead there will be a reckoning.” McArthur looked at him long and hard. “You know they were wrong. Your community, your family.” “Were they?” “They were healers. But so are you. You were given the abilities to heal something much larger. The human race is afflicted with evil. And you are the cure. You will heal us all. One by one. I just hope I can be a part of this journey.”

[WP] You come from a long line of healers who are capable of healing any living thing with a single touch. You have yet to receive your powers, but you store dying plants in your home to check for your powers every morning. One day, you wake up, touch one of the plants, and it withers completely.

# Life's Touch On the desk, the snarled remains of vine and leaf retracted. Yellow, bordering on grey, the delicate veins had dried and withered. In the pot beneath, the grains of soil themselves had taken on a dusky hue. Close to sand, the once vital earth had crystallised as though in drought. Eyes wide and brows raised, Quentin froze. “Huh?” he said. Under the gentle puff of breath, the plant collapsed to ash. Serpentine threads of the dust streamed in the current, a final ghostly trace of the once-proud peony. His pulse ticking against his throat, he stretched a hesitant hand toward the wilting daisy in the next pot. His finger brushed against the petal. The colour shifted. Drained. From white to grey to floating ash. Cells died. Scattered. Two empty pots sat on his desk and the ticking jumped to a thundering roar and the weight shifted from his tense neck to press down on his whole world like a stifling cloud. Fingers scrunching and uncurling, he stood up. Sat down. His wrist was shaking now. Face numb. An absent hum stifling his ears. *This couldn’t be happening.* Opening the door with a forearm that left a smear of grease and sweat on the handle, he shouldered through to the bathroom. Hit the tap more than twisted it. Scrubbed and scrubbed and scrubbed until the breath ran back down his stiff throat and his eyes stung and his hands burned and the soap flecked his hair and he was *ok*. Empty shell shocked eyes gazed back at him from the mirror. A glow in his cheeks that lent toward the raw. “I’m Quentin Brigid, of the Brigid main line. Healers by birthright. I’m a late developer. I just have to wait. It will come. It always comes. It-” His mouth snapped shut, the muttered syllables trickling down into the sink. *The family, they’ll know what to do.* He ran back to the bedroom and halted. But he’d have to find out sooner or later. He stretched a hesitant hand to the phone on his bedside table. His fingers brushed against the glass. Nothing happened. Heart rate briefly rejoining a human standard, he flicked to the call list and hammered the home contact. “Quen, you up, mate?” Ed’s voice filtered through from the landing. *He couldn’t stay here.* The dialing ring buzzing against his head, he switched to earphones and headed for the hallway. Ed’s blond locks and still-hooded eyes peered at him from the door opposite. “Yeah?” his voice seemed to come from a distance, yet Ed didn’t react. “Yo, sorry to be a pain, but could you pick up some more milk? I think we’re out, and Izzy won’t get back till later.” Turning back to his door, and clicking the latch, Quentin tried with bated breath to keep his tone even, “Sure thing, mate, whole or semi?” “Absolute lad. Whole. I’m gonna stay in, I’m hanging something horrific.” Quentin kept his eyes on the stairs, a bland smile forced on unwilling lips, “Your fault for drinking so much.” Fumbling with the keys, he made it through the front door to the distant sounds of Ed slumping back onto his mattress with a non-committal groan. Through the buds, the chimes of the call at last connected. “Quen?” his mother’s tone grounded him as he relocked the door, stowed the keys. “Mum,” nearly at a whisper, he headed for the street, “something’s happened. With the plants.” An excited squeal punctuated the line. “Quen, that’s *wonderful*. I’ve got to tell your dad. *James, James come here!* This is so great, I mean I won’t deny we were worried after you passed your eighteenth with no… But that doesn’t matter now, I’m so happy for you…” With each word a leaden weight sank to his stomach, acidic and singeing. “No,” he tried to say. “… you’ll have to come home and have it verified by your Grandmama, we’ve got *so* much to teach you and…” “Mum.” “… maybe I should send out an email, hopefully your uncles are still on the chain and…” “*Mum.*” “Yes, honey?” Fighting a tongue that seemed glued to a dry mouth, he forced the words from locked lips, “the plants died.” Pulse once more drumming a tattoo that seemed to be escaping through his scorching ears, he glanced absently at the road and began to cross. The corner shop and milk for Ed would cover his flight from the house. “They what?” “They died.” This time the spike in his mother’s breathing was audible. His heart fell with his stomach. “Quentin,” tone sharp, the words tumbled over each other in a fight to arrive first, “I need you to be extremely clear. Tell me *exactly* what happened when you touched it.” “It was just like normal. I’d woken up, and I went to do the tests, just like you’d taught me. And I’d just touched the first one, the peony, and it just sort of crumbled. Went all yellow and then maybe grey and then it was dust. Just dust, and the –“ His vision spun. Concrete and hedge and pavement rotated past in a kaleidoscopic blur of confused pain. Caught between ice and fire he felt numb with spikes that cut his hearing into flickers of slurred sensation. He must’ve been on his side as the road and sky painted a two-tone impression in black and blue. “Oh, God.” The voice seemed to echo, or maybe drift. Filtering through across a vast distance. “Oh, God, I’m so sorry. He just came out of nowhere. Did anyone see?” “I’ll call an ambulance just stay with him.” “Jesus there’s so much blood.” And there was. The muted scarlet stream pooling on the blackened tarmac. He blinked, and the world flickered with it. “Can you hear me?” He tried to speak and the words appeared, hanging in space without his consent. “Phone?” “Did you say ‘from’? You weren’t watching. No, I should have… Oh, God, I’m so sorry, I was just on my way to… Look, an ambulance is coming and…” The numbness had spread to his chest, the blue sparking with dusty motes. Yet the fear still tickled the back of his mind. “Don’t touch me.” “Yes, I’m right here. Don’t worry, oh, God, please stay with me.” A hand reached toward his own, flimsy against the road. “No. Please. Don’t.” “I’m right here –“ The fingers brushed against his own. The colour shifted. Drained. From pale skin to dismal white to floating ash. A howl of agony died in a throat that crumbled beneath it. Comfortable warmth spread through him, washing through tissue and drilling deep into his core.. That glossy pool of crimson shrank as it flowed backward. A terrible itching spread as bone regrew and flesh re-knitted and skin crept a slender blanket across reinvigorated muscles. The pain faded alongside that fuzzy numbness, a strength that felt like it could move mountains building in its place. Quentin Brigid sat back up. A small pile of human ash blew forlornly in the gentle breeze and three witnesses stared at him with bulging eyes and trembling shoulders. He glanced at the shrinking pile. He glanced at his fist, still clenched from the pain of impact. He glanced at the three people. *No one could know.* And then the screaming started. --- If you somehow got down far enough to read this and still enjoyed it, you can find more like it [on my sub.](https://www.reddit.com/r/The_Crossroads) Any and all feedback welcomed.

“”Every Diothena was born a healer,” John said, “you just need to give it some time.” I was a Diothena, son of the great healer; Edgar Diothena. I just didn’t have the power to heal. I kept dying plants in my room and tried each day to rejuvenate them with my touch. Nothing ever happened. I gave my brother John a weak smile and went back to my room in the castle. I did not tell anyone that I could not heal. It was too embarrassing. On a particularly rainy day, my father’s servant woke me and begged for me to come see him. My father was very ill and they needed a healer to help him. His power would not work in his own body, everyone knew that. As I took a deep breath and readied myself to go see father, I took one last chance and touched one of the plants in my room. It withered and died. My face went pale. I was terrified of being thrust into a room with my father and expected to help him with my touch, only to find that I had murdered him as I did to the plant. “I cannot go,” I finally said to the servant, “I am not a healer.” The servant did not know how to respond. He just stood there. “I’m going to have to go see him anyway aren’t I?” “If it please my lord, I have the task of bringing you to him. I do not know what will happen after you arrive.” I sighed heavily. When we arrived in my father’s chambers, I was greeted by hopeful faces filled with relief at my arrival. My brother John was there and had already done what he could to heal our father who now had the strength to sit up in his bed. I nervously addressed the crowd of family members and well-wishers. “I am very sorry to say that I do not possess the family gift of healing.” The murmur of gossip that rang through the crowd of people in front of me was not in any way quiet. “Surely, you own father’s illness would be enough to cause you to search within yourself for the ability,” Aunt Rheta said. Her haughty eyes and downturned lips directed at my trembling hands. My father hushed the crowd and looked at me intently. “My boy, did we not embrace yesterday when I returned home from my travels?” “Yes, father.” “I felt a power leave your body and enter mine. If that was not the gift of healing, I do not know what it could be.” It all made sense to me. I looked up at him with mournful eyes. “Father?” “Yes?” “Were you ill *before* I touched you?” “What are you saying, Son?” “I think that power you felt was not healing, but the opposite. I have withered a plant just today with my touch.” As everyone in the room stepped back away from me, I felt like a monster. I could not stay in the castle anymore. I ran away and did not look back. And that is how I ended up here.” The highway bandits looked at one another in anxious thought. They were all thinking the same thing. If this story was true, they probably shouldn’t rob this man and should just stay far away from him. Merto spoke up first, “he’s lyin’ froo his teef I tells ya!” The bandits closed in on the well dressed man. He gave a great sigh and removed his gloves. Before long, the man was walking down the road, just as he was before, only now there were five rotting corpses left behind him.

[WP] You're a lesser demon from actual hell who has taken a part-time job because the supernatural world has been cutting salaries. You suspect your coworker is secretly an angel in the same position. You're both appalled at the brazen evil of your human employers.

I wake up, shower, get dressed, and start my walk to work in a daze. Six months of working a 40 - 60 hour work week in hell, then having to go work another 20+ hours washing dishes had started to take it's toll on me. Of course the paycut hadn't really affected the upper tier demons, they all had tenure. I clock in and start my day of torture. 14 hours today. I like flaying the skin off of the wicked over and over as much as the next guy, but seriously!? 14 hours!? I'm running back to my place as quickly as I can. No time for a shower. I change and sprint to the portal. My heart sinks as I notice Azazel has monopolized it. I look at my watch. 30 minutes. I look around quickly then push my way through the crowd. I hold my hand up high and yell, "AZAZEL!" I'm nearly out of breath. "My apologies for my lateness" I keep my eyes on the floor. I hope this works "What are you doing here?", He asks in a very annoyed tone. I finally look up at him, "Routine possession..." I say as if I'm reminding him. "I signed up over a week ago", Without looking at his paperwork he waves me through, still looking as if he would rather tear my head off. Out of breath and covered in sweat, I clock in one minute late. My shift doesn't start for another 14 minutes, but Steve insists on everyone being 15 minutes early at least. Steve was a mid twenties college drop out, that had gotten lucky when his dad opened this place and let him run it. Run it into the ground was more like it, but I didn't care as long as I got paid. I'm heading to the dish room when I hear, "Hello Nicholas." I hated that voice. So full of smugness and self importance. "What is it Steve?" I try to sound polite. "You're late", cue evil smile/sneer, "That's and hour of pay docked" My eyes go wide and I know there are flames dancing in them. "It was one minute! My shift doesn't even start until 8!" He never broke eye contact. "You could go find another job if you prefer..." As I step closer, I feel a hand on my shoulder. I look back and see one of the cooks. An older man with bright blue eyes. He was the only person I really talked to here. And the calming presence told me he was most likely angelic. And if I suspected him, he most likely suspected me. "Pick your battles boy. We both know you need this job" I back off and storm to my dish room. I can hear Steve yelling at the old man, I never bothered to learn his name, telling him the next time he interrupted him, that he'd fire him. I put my head down and get to work. I clock out and step outside. Lighting a cigarette, I see the old man and wave. He waves back and disappears down an alley. I head home and go to sleep. I wake up, shower, get dressed, and head to work in a daze. I open the door to my torture chamber. It's empty. I ask the young lady at the front desk where my ward has gone. "He's been reassigned. You're new ward should be here in abo- oh! Here he is" I look to where she's looking, and smile. I hold the door to my chamber open for the guards then close it once they're gone. I walk over and lean on his shoulder, adding my weight to his. I know the shackles holding him up are cutting into his hands and wrists. I soak in his confused and terrified look for a few minutes before I speak. "I'm afraid you're a minute late. And that just won't do Steven."

I dreamed of home. The vast lava fields, the dark skies raining down sulfer, the great expanses of emptiness. I thought of my friends, going on to their new jobs torturing humans. Envy boiled up in my chest, I should have gotten one of those positions too. Torture workers were some of the highest paid skilled workers in Hell but somehow I just didn’t “have what it takes”. The heat of rage flushed over me, hearing my mothers words echo in my mind as if she were standing right here, sending me away again. Over and over I heard her demonic voice shouting, “You don’t have what it takes!” “You don’t have what it takes!” “You can have what it shakes!” Wait... what... “HEY! Can I just get a CHOCOLATE SHAKE!?” I was ripped from my reverie by the shrewd voice of a female human screeching into the microphone about some milky beverage concoction. “Our shake machine is down.” I replied, holding down the button on my headset so the human could hear me. “Are you kidding me!? I waited in line just to order a shake and YOURE going to tell me I can’t have one!?” I rolled my eyes. Here we go. Another day on earth. I opened my window to accept the payment of another human for their order. Coins sprayed from the car, hurdling towards my window. Three or four made it inside. One hit my between the eyes. The rest hit the ground outside as the car sped forward to the next window. I push the button on my headset again, “Is there something else I can get you sir?” “SIR!? Did you just call me sir!?” The female voice seethed into the speaker. Shit, forgot. Humans get really upset when you don’t get their gender right. Upset wasn’t even the right word. Vicious? Furious? Whatever: “Sorry m’am, you must have misheard me. Would you like to order something else?” “Oh now I have hearing problems. I see. No, take your broken shake machine and go to hell shit head!!” Oh how I wish I could m’am. How I wish I could. For a brief moment the sound of squealing tires ripped into my ears through the headset before it cut out. I looked at the time, only 7 1/2 more hours to go in this proverbial hell. “Hey Chad.” My eyes widened, I turned to see one of my co-workers now standing beside me. John. One of the people who worked here who hadn’t been completely emotionally obliterated by the constant onslaught of human verbal cruelty. “John. Come to take over the headset?” I asked, hopeful. Let him suffer. I would rather sweat in the heat of the grill than listen to another old hag on that speaker. “Nope, just the window. Boss still wants you on headset, supposed to be a dinner rush I guess. Hey you feeling ok Chad? You look like you’re having a rough day buddy. Maybe after this I can take the headset for a while for you too.” My eyes widened, my stomach rolled in disgust. Kindness. Blech. “Whatever.” I replied, indifferent. As bad as dealing with the humans being rude and demanding was, having kindness, thoughtfulness, thrown in my face was even worse. John was always happy go lucky at work. Happier than appeared humanly possible. Humanly... an interesting thought. Perhaps... no. He couldn’t be an angel... he was absolutely disgusting to be around though, with his bright clear eyes, and shining hair, and that aura of joy that just seemed to follow him where ever he went. He didn’t even smell like ketchup and burger grease like the rest of us. John always smiled, always showed concern for those around him. But no... it couldn’t be... could it? Besides what would an angel be doing in a place like this? “Yeah I would like a cheeseburger with nothing on it. That means NO pickles, NO ketchup, NO mustard! Do you got that?!”

[WP] You're a lesser demon from actual hell who has taken a part-time job because the supernatural world has been cutting salaries. You suspect your coworker is secretly an angel in the same position. You're both appalled at the brazen evil of your human employers.

"GRRRRRHHHH, GOD DAMN THAT BASTARD!!!!" I shouted directly towards Heaven, hoping God might grant the wish of a demon. "You do know that's not really how He does things, right Bella?" chimed a relaxing voice from behind the bar. "Just a figure of speech, Jude." As I sit down at the bar, I let out an exasperated sigh *"Not really,"* I thought to myself. *"When he dies, I'm going right to Lucifer and asking to be the one to torture Joe"* "Joe's the GM, and he cuts everyone's hours for no reason." His angelic voice trying to ease my frustration, and yet still falling short. "But that motherfucker scheduled me for only three days next week, from 6:30 to noon. There's barely any guests for breakfast, which means barely any normal pay, and hardly any tips either." The more I thought about it, the angrier I got. I could feel my face contorting in frustration, and my cheeks getting warmer. My rage must have been pretty obvious, because Jude took out two glasses and a bottle of bourbon. "How do you think I feel? Sam comes back here, makes one drink, and steals over half my tips. She's the assistant manager, and she steals tips from a *literal* angel." he vented to me as he poured the bourbon. "Ugh, don't even get me started on her," I said to him with a slightly demonic smile. "I saw her getting out of Joe's car after doing something that your holy ears should never hear about" Right as I said that, Jude gave me the strangest look; an expression that I can only describe was one of disgust, confusion, and and pity. "Aren't they both married?" he asked, the ridiculous facial contortion of an expression still lingering as he sipped his whiskey. "Oooh yeah, they're both cheating on their spouses with each other" We both sat there for a minute letting our conversation sink in. Myself staring at the bar behind Jude, and Jude staring down at his drink. Just then, Jude looks up from his glass with a look of concern. "Are we in Hell?" I think about his question for a moment, and give him a slight chuckle. "Hah, trust me, Hell isn't quite as bad as this place."

I dreamed of home. The vast lava fields, the dark skies raining down sulfer, the great expanses of emptiness. I thought of my friends, going on to their new jobs torturing humans. Envy boiled up in my chest, I should have gotten one of those positions too. Torture workers were some of the highest paid skilled workers in Hell but somehow I just didn’t “have what it takes”. The heat of rage flushed over me, hearing my mothers words echo in my mind as if she were standing right here, sending me away again. Over and over I heard her demonic voice shouting, “You don’t have what it takes!” “You don’t have what it takes!” “You can have what it shakes!” Wait... what... “HEY! Can I just get a CHOCOLATE SHAKE!?” I was ripped from my reverie by the shrewd voice of a female human screeching into the microphone about some milky beverage concoction. “Our shake machine is down.” I replied, holding down the button on my headset so the human could hear me. “Are you kidding me!? I waited in line just to order a shake and YOURE going to tell me I can’t have one!?” I rolled my eyes. Here we go. Another day on earth. I opened my window to accept the payment of another human for their order. Coins sprayed from the car, hurdling towards my window. Three or four made it inside. One hit my between the eyes. The rest hit the ground outside as the car sped forward to the next window. I push the button on my headset again, “Is there something else I can get you sir?” “SIR!? Did you just call me sir!?” The female voice seethed into the speaker. Shit, forgot. Humans get really upset when you don’t get their gender right. Upset wasn’t even the right word. Vicious? Furious? Whatever: “Sorry m’am, you must have misheard me. Would you like to order something else?” “Oh now I have hearing problems. I see. No, take your broken shake machine and go to hell shit head!!” Oh how I wish I could m’am. How I wish I could. For a brief moment the sound of squealing tires ripped into my ears through the headset before it cut out. I looked at the time, only 7 1/2 more hours to go in this proverbial hell. “Hey Chad.” My eyes widened, I turned to see one of my co-workers now standing beside me. John. One of the people who worked here who hadn’t been completely emotionally obliterated by the constant onslaught of human verbal cruelty. “John. Come to take over the headset?” I asked, hopeful. Let him suffer. I would rather sweat in the heat of the grill than listen to another old hag on that speaker. “Nope, just the window. Boss still wants you on headset, supposed to be a dinner rush I guess. Hey you feeling ok Chad? You look like you’re having a rough day buddy. Maybe after this I can take the headset for a while for you too.” My eyes widened, my stomach rolled in disgust. Kindness. Blech. “Whatever.” I replied, indifferent. As bad as dealing with the humans being rude and demanding was, having kindness, thoughtfulness, thrown in my face was even worse. John was always happy go lucky at work. Happier than appeared humanly possible. Humanly... an interesting thought. Perhaps... no. He couldn’t be an angel... he was absolutely disgusting to be around though, with his bright clear eyes, and shining hair, and that aura of joy that just seemed to follow him where ever he went. He didn’t even smell like ketchup and burger grease like the rest of us. John always smiled, always showed concern for those around him. But no... it couldn’t be... could it? Besides what would an angel be doing in a place like this? “Yeah I would like a cheeseburger with nothing on it. That means NO pickles, NO ketchup, NO mustard! Do you got that?!”

[WP] You're a lesser demon from actual hell who has taken a part-time job because the supernatural world has been cutting salaries. You suspect your coworker is secretly an angel in the same position. You're both appalled at the brazen evil of your human employers.

I don't know what I was thinking. Being a lesser demon from hell is usually a fun job, especially as a cross roads demon. You get to play all day and get summoned in all sorts of fun places whole consuming souls and life energy to give to the big boss, and you get to grant wishes. But the quotas were getting larger, and the pay was getting lousier. So I did the only thing a demon could do; I got an office job as a secretary for a Lawyer. Every day, I could see my co-worker leering at me as I repressed the urge to beat our asshole boss into the floor. And I couldn't understand why. She and I were both about the same height, and both relatively attractive, though I suspect the reason why is because we're both supernatural. She's never confirmed it, but her hair was just a little too blonde, almost like it was lit by a halo, and her eyes were just a little too blue, giving away that she was something not human. My diagnosis: Angel. Our boss, A guy named Richard Rickman, whom I had nicknamed Dickman rounded the corner and leaned against my desk. He was a portly, balding lawyer, with a stubbled beard that resembled pubic hair, and beady black eyes like a crow's. Somehow, this guy made my true boss, Satan, look like a good guy. "Hey, beautiful" he said. "It's Stella, sir." I responded coldly. "Whatever. So, when are you gonna let me tap that fat ass?" He said. My co-worker, Nyx, across the room coughed to hide the sound of shock. "Excuse me?" I asked. "You're excused. But still, when are you gonna let me hit it?" "Never. I'm commited" I responded. "Oh well, that'd be a shame. Especially if you lost your job due to negligence." He responded, circling his finger around my planner. "Good thing I'm good at my job." I retorted with a snort. He gave me that smile, the one that adults give to children when they've said something stupid, but they don't want to correct them. "we'll see" Over the next few days, more and more work piled up on my desk to the point I was staying late every day. Nyx took pity on me, and helped me out when she could, but as soon as Dickman knew she was helping me, her load increased as well. Finally one day, it came to a head. "Daisy, I asked for the Lauterdale clients folder an hour ago" Dickman said to me. "You haven't buzzed my line in 6 hours, what do you mean?" I asked. "Yes, I did. And I asked for that folder. Now I'm behind and the clients will be here any moment." He said with an accusatory glare "I know you've been slacking on your work lately, and quite frankly I'm disappointed. If this continues, I'll have to let you go." He leered at my chest and gave a smirk, "unless you can find of a reason to let me stay?" I had enough from him. I could feel my eyes burning with that otherworldly rage for a minute, and he backed away, and stuttered "j-just have it ready soon." He scuttled back into his office. "I was wondering when you'd do that." Nyx said. "Yeah well, I was sick of his Attitude" I grumbled while I sorted through my paperwork. "You know, I'm not obligated to report accidents to the big man upstairs. So if an evil human were to accidentally perish, I could look the other way if something... Supernatural.. were the cause." She suggested. "So you are an angel." I said with that I-knew-it sound in my voice. "I prefer the term, mankind's guidance, but yes. And you're a demon." She responded. "More of a punisher of greed." I responded. "So what do you want to do about this one?"

I dreamed of home. The vast lava fields, the dark skies raining down sulfer, the great expanses of emptiness. I thought of my friends, going on to their new jobs torturing humans. Envy boiled up in my chest, I should have gotten one of those positions too. Torture workers were some of the highest paid skilled workers in Hell but somehow I just didn’t “have what it takes”. The heat of rage flushed over me, hearing my mothers words echo in my mind as if she were standing right here, sending me away again. Over and over I heard her demonic voice shouting, “You don’t have what it takes!” “You don’t have what it takes!” “You can have what it shakes!” Wait... what... “HEY! Can I just get a CHOCOLATE SHAKE!?” I was ripped from my reverie by the shrewd voice of a female human screeching into the microphone about some milky beverage concoction. “Our shake machine is down.” I replied, holding down the button on my headset so the human could hear me. “Are you kidding me!? I waited in line just to order a shake and YOURE going to tell me I can’t have one!?” I rolled my eyes. Here we go. Another day on earth. I opened my window to accept the payment of another human for their order. Coins sprayed from the car, hurdling towards my window. Three or four made it inside. One hit my between the eyes. The rest hit the ground outside as the car sped forward to the next window. I push the button on my headset again, “Is there something else I can get you sir?” “SIR!? Did you just call me sir!?” The female voice seethed into the speaker. Shit, forgot. Humans get really upset when you don’t get their gender right. Upset wasn’t even the right word. Vicious? Furious? Whatever: “Sorry m’am, you must have misheard me. Would you like to order something else?” “Oh now I have hearing problems. I see. No, take your broken shake machine and go to hell shit head!!” Oh how I wish I could m’am. How I wish I could. For a brief moment the sound of squealing tires ripped into my ears through the headset before it cut out. I looked at the time, only 7 1/2 more hours to go in this proverbial hell. “Hey Chad.” My eyes widened, I turned to see one of my co-workers now standing beside me. John. One of the people who worked here who hadn’t been completely emotionally obliterated by the constant onslaught of human verbal cruelty. “John. Come to take over the headset?” I asked, hopeful. Let him suffer. I would rather sweat in the heat of the grill than listen to another old hag on that speaker. “Nope, just the window. Boss still wants you on headset, supposed to be a dinner rush I guess. Hey you feeling ok Chad? You look like you’re having a rough day buddy. Maybe after this I can take the headset for a while for you too.” My eyes widened, my stomach rolled in disgust. Kindness. Blech. “Whatever.” I replied, indifferent. As bad as dealing with the humans being rude and demanding was, having kindness, thoughtfulness, thrown in my face was even worse. John was always happy go lucky at work. Happier than appeared humanly possible. Humanly... an interesting thought. Perhaps... no. He couldn’t be an angel... he was absolutely disgusting to be around though, with his bright clear eyes, and shining hair, and that aura of joy that just seemed to follow him where ever he went. He didn’t even smell like ketchup and burger grease like the rest of us. John always smiled, always showed concern for those around him. But no... it couldn’t be... could it? Besides what would an angel be doing in a place like this? “Yeah I would like a cheeseburger with nothing on it. That means NO pickles, NO ketchup, NO mustard! Do you got that?!”

[WP] You're a lesser demon from actual hell who has taken a part-time job because the supernatural world has been cutting salaries. You suspect your coworker is secretly an angel in the same position. You're both appalled at the brazen evil of your human employers.

"Hey there, Perry!" Oh great, my boss. "Hello, sir." "Listen, I need to talk to you." Ah hell. "I recently got a complain from a customer. She said you told her to go to hell while she was returning a product." "Wow, I'm surprised she heard me." "You can't do that, Perry." "For goodness sake, she was trying to return a used plunger!" "Was it broken?" "No, just dirty and reeking of shit." "Then policy states you had to give her a refund." "What do we want with a used plunger?!" "I don't make the rules, Perry." "YES YOU DO!" "Enough! I will be sending a coupon to that lady for her troubles. And it's coming out of your paycheck." I sighed. "Yes sir." My boss smiled. "Great! It seems we're on the same page!" As he walked away, I cursed him in my native tongue. "Um, excuse me..." I turned around, and saw a rather youthful looking man. I immediately put on a friendly face. "Hi, welcome to Target! How can I help you?" "I'm, uh, a new hire." "Cashier?" "Yeah." I forgot all about it. Some kid got a job here, and I was in charge of training. "What's your name?" "Yuri." I squinted my eyes at him. "You're worse at fake names than me, angel." He stared at me, mouth agape. "Let's see, bright eyes, golden hair, I'm guessing Uriel?" "Hesperus?!" "Aw, you remembered me." "I, uh, haven't seen you since the war." "Likewise." "Why are you working at Target?" "Making deals with mortals hasn't been paying well. You?" "Well, uh, I wanted to know more about humans." "Angels aren't good liars, aren't they." "You got me," he said, embarrassed. "I got bored of Heaven." "I didn't think that was possible." "I didn't think I'd ever see a fallen angel." "Really? Isn't your job purging the wicked or whatever?" "Not directly." I chuckled. "Anyway, I don't think you need training. Divination, right?" Uriel nodded. "Then we can just chat. You're fine with talking to a sinner, right?" "The only one who can judge is G-" "Great! I can't wait to tell you all about humans! Have you heard of the internet?"

I dreamed of home. The vast lava fields, the dark skies raining down sulfer, the great expanses of emptiness. I thought of my friends, going on to their new jobs torturing humans. Envy boiled up in my chest, I should have gotten one of those positions too. Torture workers were some of the highest paid skilled workers in Hell but somehow I just didn’t “have what it takes”. The heat of rage flushed over me, hearing my mothers words echo in my mind as if she were standing right here, sending me away again. Over and over I heard her demonic voice shouting, “You don’t have what it takes!” “You don’t have what it takes!” “You can have what it shakes!” Wait... what... “HEY! Can I just get a CHOCOLATE SHAKE!?” I was ripped from my reverie by the shrewd voice of a female human screeching into the microphone about some milky beverage concoction. “Our shake machine is down.” I replied, holding down the button on my headset so the human could hear me. “Are you kidding me!? I waited in line just to order a shake and YOURE going to tell me I can’t have one!?” I rolled my eyes. Here we go. Another day on earth. I opened my window to accept the payment of another human for their order. Coins sprayed from the car, hurdling towards my window. Three or four made it inside. One hit my between the eyes. The rest hit the ground outside as the car sped forward to the next window. I push the button on my headset again, “Is there something else I can get you sir?” “SIR!? Did you just call me sir!?” The female voice seethed into the speaker. Shit, forgot. Humans get really upset when you don’t get their gender right. Upset wasn’t even the right word. Vicious? Furious? Whatever: “Sorry m’am, you must have misheard me. Would you like to order something else?” “Oh now I have hearing problems. I see. No, take your broken shake machine and go to hell shit head!!” Oh how I wish I could m’am. How I wish I could. For a brief moment the sound of squealing tires ripped into my ears through the headset before it cut out. I looked at the time, only 7 1/2 more hours to go in this proverbial hell. “Hey Chad.” My eyes widened, I turned to see one of my co-workers now standing beside me. John. One of the people who worked here who hadn’t been completely emotionally obliterated by the constant onslaught of human verbal cruelty. “John. Come to take over the headset?” I asked, hopeful. Let him suffer. I would rather sweat in the heat of the grill than listen to another old hag on that speaker. “Nope, just the window. Boss still wants you on headset, supposed to be a dinner rush I guess. Hey you feeling ok Chad? You look like you’re having a rough day buddy. Maybe after this I can take the headset for a while for you too.” My eyes widened, my stomach rolled in disgust. Kindness. Blech. “Whatever.” I replied, indifferent. As bad as dealing with the humans being rude and demanding was, having kindness, thoughtfulness, thrown in my face was even worse. John was always happy go lucky at work. Happier than appeared humanly possible. Humanly... an interesting thought. Perhaps... no. He couldn’t be an angel... he was absolutely disgusting to be around though, with his bright clear eyes, and shining hair, and that aura of joy that just seemed to follow him where ever he went. He didn’t even smell like ketchup and burger grease like the rest of us. John always smiled, always showed concern for those around him. But no... it couldn’t be... could it? Besides what would an angel be doing in a place like this? “Yeah I would like a cheeseburger with nothing on it. That means NO pickles, NO ketchup, NO mustard! Do you got that?!”

[WP] You're a lesser demon from actual hell who has taken a part-time job because the supernatural world has been cutting salaries. You suspect your coworker is secretly an angel in the same position. You're both appalled at the brazen evil of your human employers.

"GRRRRRHHHH, GOD DAMN THAT BASTARD!!!!" I shouted directly towards Heaven, hoping God might grant the wish of a demon. "You do know that's not really how He does things, right Bella?" chimed a relaxing voice from behind the bar. "Just a figure of speech, Jude." As I sit down at the bar, I let out an exasperated sigh *"Not really,"* I thought to myself. *"When he dies, I'm going right to Lucifer and asking to be the one to torture Joe"* "Joe's the GM, and he cuts everyone's hours for no reason." His angelic voice trying to ease my frustration, and yet still falling short. "But that motherfucker scheduled me for only three days next week, from 6:30 to noon. There's barely any guests for breakfast, which means barely any normal pay, and hardly any tips either." The more I thought about it, the angrier I got. I could feel my face contorting in frustration, and my cheeks getting warmer. My rage must have been pretty obvious, because Jude took out two glasses and a bottle of bourbon. "How do you think I feel? Sam comes back here, makes one drink, and steals over half my tips. She's the assistant manager, and she steals tips from a *literal* angel." he vented to me as he poured the bourbon. "Ugh, don't even get me started on her," I said to him with a slightly demonic smile. "I saw her getting out of Joe's car after doing something that your holy ears should never hear about" Right as I said that, Jude gave me the strangest look; an expression that I can only describe was one of disgust, confusion, and and pity. "Aren't they both married?" he asked, the ridiculous facial contortion of an expression still lingering as he sipped his whiskey. "Oooh yeah, they're both cheating on their spouses with each other" We both sat there for a minute letting our conversation sink in. Myself staring at the bar behind Jude, and Jude staring down at his drink. Just then, Jude looks up from his glass with a look of concern. "Are we in Hell?" I think about his question for a moment, and give him a slight chuckle. "Hah, trust me, Hell isn't quite as bad as this place."

"Motherf-" I swore after hitting my head on the desk above me after picking up a dropped pen, and raised my head to face the stark white light of the room once more. It was a fancy gadget shop in a shopping mall called *Adam's Apple*, somewhere downtown in the Bay Area. It has been a week since I started being a cashier overlooking the many low aisles of display-model overpriced hardware, and the experience had been enlightening, to say the least. What was the ultimate truth of this experience, you'd reckon? Retail is *hell.* And I came from hell. Like, literal **Hell**. Seven rings, eternal flames and damnation, one of Lucifer's employees and all that jazz. Last gig I had down in the rings was stringing up a real estate lawyer, and Satan said we had to drop him because we ran out of budget for *rope.* ***ROPE.*** Really makes you wonder where all that divine budget goes to. A second Ark? Prepping for the Second Coming? Sending down an Apocalypse? The Four Horsemen sure as hell don't do cheap. I sighed and pulled at the crumples of my clean collared shirt. Serve with a smile, they said, and the intercom buzzed on. "*Rudy, you're not smiling. The latest ePhone's screen isn't even that bright and you managed you make it shine like the sun.*" I pushed on the big red button. "Sorry, sir, I-" "*Don't apologize, Rudy,"* the intercom interrupted, and continued, "*the point of the sale is to be sweet to your customers and bolster our profit margins.* *Can't do sweet when you're sour all the time, can ya? How's about this, for every time I see you looking like your dog just died-*" "Sir, it won't happen aga-" "*-and it's a dollar's worth of a pay cut. Got it? Effective immediately.*" The intercom shuts off, and from the corner of my eye, I spied the blinking red dot of the security camera in the corner of the store; it had slowly shifted its gaze towards me, and of course, I smiled. More accurately a grimace but- "Hey!" A ringing voice called out from elsewhere, and I felt sick in my gut. "Why the long face, Rudy?" I turned towards the voice and saw this small girl in the same uniform no taller than five feet, perhaps but had the most radiant of expressions, almost like she could see deep within your soul in a single emerald-eyed gaze, and oh boy, I hated it so much. She had this flaxen hair that reached down to her tiny waist, and I could have sworn I saw her hair float sometimes. "Hey, Lyra, how's it hanging?" My face lightened up a little. Lyra pouted, her big green eyes trying to meet my averted gaze, and I laughed nervously. "I know what you're thinking Rudy." Lyra said, almost aggravated she could not see into me. I scoffed. "Oh, do tell." Lyra pulled her hair back, revealing her petite ears. "I may be tiny but you know what I can do." "Yeah, yeah," I dismissed her before meeting her gaze, "is that what you tell all your dates?" I leaned into the counter, and I could hear the intercom buzz on, then off. "*a dollar's pay cut, eff-why-eye.*" Without breaking gaze with Lyra, I forced a smile a regular person would call me a psychopath for. Lyra put her hands behind her back and shyly gestured, "...well, not all." She smiled and I felt my heart become weightless. "Arcade, after work?" Lyra chirped. "Bet I'll beat you at Lime Crisis." And with a mischievous grin, she turned heel and skipped off to intercept a customer with a hearty "Welcome!" For a brief moment, I saw her hair *float*. I raised my eyebrows, shook my head and chuckled lightly. "You're on." I grinned. The intercom buzzed again. "*Better.*" Tch.

[WP] You're a lesser demon from actual hell who has taken a part-time job because the supernatural world has been cutting salaries. You suspect your coworker is secretly an angel in the same position. You're both appalled at the brazen evil of your human employers.

I don't know what I was thinking. Being a lesser demon from hell is usually a fun job, especially as a cross roads demon. You get to play all day and get summoned in all sorts of fun places whole consuming souls and life energy to give to the big boss, and you get to grant wishes. But the quotas were getting larger, and the pay was getting lousier. So I did the only thing a demon could do; I got an office job as a secretary for a Lawyer. Every day, I could see my co-worker leering at me as I repressed the urge to beat our asshole boss into the floor. And I couldn't understand why. She and I were both about the same height, and both relatively attractive, though I suspect the reason why is because we're both supernatural. She's never confirmed it, but her hair was just a little too blonde, almost like it was lit by a halo, and her eyes were just a little too blue, giving away that she was something not human. My diagnosis: Angel. Our boss, A guy named Richard Rickman, whom I had nicknamed Dickman rounded the corner and leaned against my desk. He was a portly, balding lawyer, with a stubbled beard that resembled pubic hair, and beady black eyes like a crow's. Somehow, this guy made my true boss, Satan, look like a good guy. "Hey, beautiful" he said. "It's Stella, sir." I responded coldly. "Whatever. So, when are you gonna let me tap that fat ass?" He said. My co-worker, Nyx, across the room coughed to hide the sound of shock. "Excuse me?" I asked. "You're excused. But still, when are you gonna let me hit it?" "Never. I'm commited" I responded. "Oh well, that'd be a shame. Especially if you lost your job due to negligence." He responded, circling his finger around my planner. "Good thing I'm good at my job." I retorted with a snort. He gave me that smile, the one that adults give to children when they've said something stupid, but they don't want to correct them. "we'll see" Over the next few days, more and more work piled up on my desk to the point I was staying late every day. Nyx took pity on me, and helped me out when she could, but as soon as Dickman knew she was helping me, her load increased as well. Finally one day, it came to a head. "Daisy, I asked for the Lauterdale clients folder an hour ago" Dickman said to me. "You haven't buzzed my line in 6 hours, what do you mean?" I asked. "Yes, I did. And I asked for that folder. Now I'm behind and the clients will be here any moment." He said with an accusatory glare "I know you've been slacking on your work lately, and quite frankly I'm disappointed. If this continues, I'll have to let you go." He leered at my chest and gave a smirk, "unless you can find of a reason to let me stay?" I had enough from him. I could feel my eyes burning with that otherworldly rage for a minute, and he backed away, and stuttered "j-just have it ready soon." He scuttled back into his office. "I was wondering when you'd do that." Nyx said. "Yeah well, I was sick of his Attitude" I grumbled while I sorted through my paperwork. "You know, I'm not obligated to report accidents to the big man upstairs. So if an evil human were to accidentally perish, I could look the other way if something... Supernatural.. were the cause." She suggested. "So you are an angel." I said with that I-knew-it sound in my voice. "I prefer the term, mankind's guidance, but yes. And you're a demon." She responded. "More of a punisher of greed." I responded. "So what do you want to do about this one?"

Now that Hell City was making pay cuts I had to find a job in the human world. I took the Hells Express subway which transported demons up to the overworld which was known as Earth. I knew I could find a job since my old job was surveillance on human diplomats. As I made it through the rift, my form began to morph into a human shape. This was a given considering humans aren't exactly too fond of my kind. As I got off the subway I looked around for any indicator of where I landed. The sign said "Toronto" so I knew I was in Canada. A seemingly homeless man waked up to me and asked for some change. "I'm sorry sir I have none." "It's okay. God bless you." Said the man. I was shocked since the homeless people I had seen from other parts of the world were more aggressive and impolite. "This is going to be easy" I thought. For a few days I struggled to find a job until one printing company replied with an offer. I took it. Seeing as how I had no choice I couldn't say no. They told me to show up the next day at 8 AM sharp. So I did. In the morning I made my way to the downtown building and up to the 36th floor. When I entered the room of my work I was greeted kindly by all the other employees. In the corner I saw a door with my name on it. I walked up to my desk for the first time in my life. It was clean and organized. The folders were all stacked neatly into a drawer, the cup of pens on the corner had sections for each colour of pen, and the carpet smelled freshly washed with a lemon-scented detergent of some kind. They really went all out. I had spent enough time observing humans to perfectly mimick their behaviour. When my boss came in he greeted me and gave me the basic rundown of our goals for this year. When he left I thanked him and shook his hand with a smile. He smiled back. Just as I sat down and got ready for my first assignment, one of my coworkers stepped into the room with a thick folder labeled "Blue Eye Inc". He plopped it onto my desk and looked me up and down. "Do I know you from somewhere?" He asked suspiciously. "No I don't believe so. You don't look familiar to me." I replied. That's when I looked into his bright ocean blue eyes. The shining sparkle in his pupil was unlike any human I had seen before. He must be one of them. An angel. I had heard rumours about salary cuts in heaven too, but I dismissed them as it was highly unlikely. However this had to be an angel. He had a very slight glow to his face and his eyes sparkled in the light. "God damn.." I whispered to see if he would react. He turned around suddenly and said "Do not blaspheme the name of the lord." "I knew it!" I exclaimed. "You're an angel. What are you doing here? Are the rumours true?" "Keep your voice down. Yes the rumours are true but not for long. Some working around needs to be done but soon enough both Heaven and Hell will be back to normal." He explained. "What are the chances I get stuck here with an angel?" I laughed. "If you think angels are bad wait until you get to know the boss here. Worse than some of your kind if I say so myself." He joked. Just as he finished the boss stormed in looking redder than an apple. "WHAT ARE YOU DOING CHIT CHATTING GET BACK TO WORK YOU GOOD FOR NOTHINGS!" He screamed. "IF I CATCH YOU GOSSIPING ONE MORE DAMN TIME YOU'RE BOTH FIRED!!" I saw the look in the angels face and knew what he meant. I agree. Humans are the true evil.

[WP] You're a lesser demon from actual hell who has taken a part-time job because the supernatural world has been cutting salaries. You suspect your coworker is secretly an angel in the same position. You're both appalled at the brazen evil of your human employers.

"Hey there, Perry!" Oh great, my boss. "Hello, sir." "Listen, I need to talk to you." Ah hell. "I recently got a complain from a customer. She said you told her to go to hell while she was returning a product." "Wow, I'm surprised she heard me." "You can't do that, Perry." "For goodness sake, she was trying to return a used plunger!" "Was it broken?" "No, just dirty and reeking of shit." "Then policy states you had to give her a refund." "What do we want with a used plunger?!" "I don't make the rules, Perry." "YES YOU DO!" "Enough! I will be sending a coupon to that lady for her troubles. And it's coming out of your paycheck." I sighed. "Yes sir." My boss smiled. "Great! It seems we're on the same page!" As he walked away, I cursed him in my native tongue. "Um, excuse me..." I turned around, and saw a rather youthful looking man. I immediately put on a friendly face. "Hi, welcome to Target! How can I help you?" "I'm, uh, a new hire." "Cashier?" "Yeah." I forgot all about it. Some kid got a job here, and I was in charge of training. "What's your name?" "Yuri." I squinted my eyes at him. "You're worse at fake names than me, angel." He stared at me, mouth agape. "Let's see, bright eyes, golden hair, I'm guessing Uriel?" "Hesperus?!" "Aw, you remembered me." "I, uh, haven't seen you since the war." "Likewise." "Why are you working at Target?" "Making deals with mortals hasn't been paying well. You?" "Well, uh, I wanted to know more about humans." "Angels aren't good liars, aren't they." "You got me," he said, embarrassed. "I got bored of Heaven." "I didn't think that was possible." "I didn't think I'd ever see a fallen angel." "Really? Isn't your job purging the wicked or whatever?" "Not directly." I chuckled. "Anyway, I don't think you need training. Divination, right?" Uriel nodded. "Then we can just chat. You're fine with talking to a sinner, right?" "The only one who can judge is G-" "Great! I can't wait to tell you all about humans! Have you heard of the internet?"

Now that Hell City was making pay cuts I had to find a job in the human world. I took the Hells Express subway which transported demons up to the overworld which was known as Earth. I knew I could find a job since my old job was surveillance on human diplomats. As I made it through the rift, my form began to morph into a human shape. This was a given considering humans aren't exactly too fond of my kind. As I got off the subway I looked around for any indicator of where I landed. The sign said "Toronto" so I knew I was in Canada. A seemingly homeless man waked up to me and asked for some change. "I'm sorry sir I have none." "It's okay. God bless you." Said the man. I was shocked since the homeless people I had seen from other parts of the world were more aggressive and impolite. "This is going to be easy" I thought. For a few days I struggled to find a job until one printing company replied with an offer. I took it. Seeing as how I had no choice I couldn't say no. They told me to show up the next day at 8 AM sharp. So I did. In the morning I made my way to the downtown building and up to the 36th floor. When I entered the room of my work I was greeted kindly by all the other employees. In the corner I saw a door with my name on it. I walked up to my desk for the first time in my life. It was clean and organized. The folders were all stacked neatly into a drawer, the cup of pens on the corner had sections for each colour of pen, and the carpet smelled freshly washed with a lemon-scented detergent of some kind. They really went all out. I had spent enough time observing humans to perfectly mimick their behaviour. When my boss came in he greeted me and gave me the basic rundown of our goals for this year. When he left I thanked him and shook his hand with a smile. He smiled back. Just as I sat down and got ready for my first assignment, one of my coworkers stepped into the room with a thick folder labeled "Blue Eye Inc". He plopped it onto my desk and looked me up and down. "Do I know you from somewhere?" He asked suspiciously. "No I don't believe so. You don't look familiar to me." I replied. That's when I looked into his bright ocean blue eyes. The shining sparkle in his pupil was unlike any human I had seen before. He must be one of them. An angel. I had heard rumours about salary cuts in heaven too, but I dismissed them as it was highly unlikely. However this had to be an angel. He had a very slight glow to his face and his eyes sparkled in the light. "God damn.." I whispered to see if he would react. He turned around suddenly and said "Do not blaspheme the name of the lord." "I knew it!" I exclaimed. "You're an angel. What are you doing here? Are the rumours true?" "Keep your voice down. Yes the rumours are true but not for long. Some working around needs to be done but soon enough both Heaven and Hell will be back to normal." He explained. "What are the chances I get stuck here with an angel?" I laughed. "If you think angels are bad wait until you get to know the boss here. Worse than some of your kind if I say so myself." He joked. Just as he finished the boss stormed in looking redder than an apple. "WHAT ARE YOU DOING CHIT CHATTING GET BACK TO WORK YOU GOOD FOR NOTHINGS!" He screamed. "IF I CATCH YOU GOSSIPING ONE MORE DAMN TIME YOU'RE BOTH FIRED!!" I saw the look in the angels face and knew what he meant. I agree. Humans are the true evil.

[WP] You're a lesser demon from actual hell who has taken a part-time job because the supernatural world has been cutting salaries. You suspect your coworker is secretly an angel in the same position. You're both appalled at the brazen evil of your human employers.

“They cut ‘em again, bloody bastards,” I crushed my fork and tossed it into the hearth. My reptilian skin sizzled, its scales turning over, the gaps between glowing with fiery cinders. “Humans- those insects, they’ve turned agonistic. Atheist. Bullshit, really. If Satan hadn’t been banished, we wouldn’t be in stuck in shit, working part-time jobs in this damned planet.” Hell’s monarchy fell a millennium ago. Satan had been overthrown by revolutions upon revolutions of demons tired of having to torture souls that had sinned. The human realm’s government system looked much more appealing, so the system changed. Hell had its own Parliament, run by the elite classes of demons, and I just happened to be the butler of one of the elites. God approved because the commotion in Hell tarnished his holier-than-thou name. With the ancient system changing, the economy toppled. Mankind’s fear for the underworld steadily deteriorated, as more smartasses emerged generation by generation, blinded by incorrect ‘logic’. Chaos ensued. Budget restraints were introduced by the managers upstairs as they reduced Hell’s funding, and the next thing I knew, demons were starving. Cash was low. Hell’s intense heat turned a notch lower. Cannibalism wasn’t an option that had been ruled out during Jesus’ days. I heaved, on the verge of wrecking my computer. “Crowley! Crowley – my man, you put on some weight?” My Boss, Ryan, sauntered by. The racist, sexist fuck that he was disturbed me. Here I assumed the atrocious discrimination existing on Earth decades ago had lowered – apparently not. I stared him in the eye, the skin on my face tightening, my knuckles clenching. “I sure hope not, Boss.” My teeth were gritted, and my nails dug into my palm. “Is there anything you need?” “Right-o, I need you to pull a night shift, fill in those patents, do some extra research, you know the drill,” he flashed a toothy smile, “also, man-to-man, but your co-worker- Angelina, she single?” Angelina’s ears perked up, angelic hearing powers and all, and she rolled her eyes. “I wouldn’t know, Sir, besides you’re kinda her boss and you’re married, so-,” “Nuh-uh, Crowley. C’mon, we’re men, we make the rules, eh?” I let out a small growl. Who does this absolute moron of a mortal think he was? “I-, yes. Yes, of course, Boss.” But I couldn’t lose this job. “And about that extra work, I can’t make do, my wife’s pregnant and-,” “So? She isn’t giving birth to the baby, now is she? Pretty sure you can spare a night to get some extra work done, right?” His steely voice was laced with venom. I looked down at the floor, feeling the red lightning bolts in my eyes bulge. “Alright, Boss. Noted.” Ryan trudged away, hands pocketed, whistling and catcalling at the other women in the office. “Angelina?” I walked towards her cubicle, voice husky as my inner demon glowered, “Don’t you think the mortals have crossed certain lines?” She smiled, innocently, but had a mischievous glint in her eyes, “Crowley, I’m an angel. What are you suggesting?” “I’m suggesting, we teach the residents of this planet a lesson.” “Crowley-,” “Before you say anything, don’t you have morals? Do you really, really want a man like that to be able to have that kind of power?” She tilted her head and grinned. “Hm…what’s the plan?” \- - - Constructive criticism is very welcome! If you could, please comment how you liked it, I'd appreciate that :)

Now that Hell City was making pay cuts I had to find a job in the human world. I took the Hells Express subway which transported demons up to the overworld which was known as Earth. I knew I could find a job since my old job was surveillance on human diplomats. As I made it through the rift, my form began to morph into a human shape. This was a given considering humans aren't exactly too fond of my kind. As I got off the subway I looked around for any indicator of where I landed. The sign said "Toronto" so I knew I was in Canada. A seemingly homeless man waked up to me and asked for some change. "I'm sorry sir I have none." "It's okay. God bless you." Said the man. I was shocked since the homeless people I had seen from other parts of the world were more aggressive and impolite. "This is going to be easy" I thought. For a few days I struggled to find a job until one printing company replied with an offer. I took it. Seeing as how I had no choice I couldn't say no. They told me to show up the next day at 8 AM sharp. So I did. In the morning I made my way to the downtown building and up to the 36th floor. When I entered the room of my work I was greeted kindly by all the other employees. In the corner I saw a door with my name on it. I walked up to my desk for the first time in my life. It was clean and organized. The folders were all stacked neatly into a drawer, the cup of pens on the corner had sections for each colour of pen, and the carpet smelled freshly washed with a lemon-scented detergent of some kind. They really went all out. I had spent enough time observing humans to perfectly mimick their behaviour. When my boss came in he greeted me and gave me the basic rundown of our goals for this year. When he left I thanked him and shook his hand with a smile. He smiled back. Just as I sat down and got ready for my first assignment, one of my coworkers stepped into the room with a thick folder labeled "Blue Eye Inc". He plopped it onto my desk and looked me up and down. "Do I know you from somewhere?" He asked suspiciously. "No I don't believe so. You don't look familiar to me." I replied. That's when I looked into his bright ocean blue eyes. The shining sparkle in his pupil was unlike any human I had seen before. He must be one of them. An angel. I had heard rumours about salary cuts in heaven too, but I dismissed them as it was highly unlikely. However this had to be an angel. He had a very slight glow to his face and his eyes sparkled in the light. "God damn.." I whispered to see if he would react. He turned around suddenly and said "Do not blaspheme the name of the lord." "I knew it!" I exclaimed. "You're an angel. What are you doing here? Are the rumours true?" "Keep your voice down. Yes the rumours are true but not for long. Some working around needs to be done but soon enough both Heaven and Hell will be back to normal." He explained. "What are the chances I get stuck here with an angel?" I laughed. "If you think angels are bad wait until you get to know the boss here. Worse than some of your kind if I say so myself." He joked. Just as he finished the boss stormed in looking redder than an apple. "WHAT ARE YOU DOING CHIT CHATTING GET BACK TO WORK YOU GOOD FOR NOTHINGS!" He screamed. "IF I CATCH YOU GOSSIPING ONE MORE DAMN TIME YOU'RE BOTH FIRED!!" I saw the look in the angels face and knew what he meant. I agree. Humans are the true evil.

[WP] You're a lesser demon from actual hell who has taken a part-time job because the supernatural world has been cutting salaries. You suspect your coworker is secretly an angel in the same position. You're both appalled at the brazen evil of your human employers.

"...You just... upsold a retired woman on a laptop she will only use to call her grandkids and spread nonsense on facebook," I told Carl. Because apparently he didn't understand what he had done. Else, he wouldn't have done it, right? He shrugged. "Look, buddy, I'm paid by comission, alright?" I blinked. Made in the image of God, ladies and gentlemen. Michael came by and took one look at my horrified face before gesturing for me to follow him. "Come on, Mara, I'm getting some coffee." Carl went back to the cash register while Michael and I went to the break room. "You saw that, right?" I asked, once we were alone. "You saw that." "I saw it." "No *wonder* they're cutting our salaries! These fuckers don't need anyone tempting them to be assholes!" He shushed me and I *had* him. No normal person would respond to a statement like that by shushing of all things. "I'll show you mine if you show me yours?" I asked him with a smirk. He looked genuinely frightened for a moment, but then snapped his fingers and his halo blinked into existence just long enough for me to see it. I winked at him and my horns became visible just as briefly. "...You know I thought... Your people were, um. *Comfortable* with the exploitation of the elderly," he said sheepishly, clearly having believed I was an angel before I showed him otherwise. I didn't know angels had salaries to cut. "What the fuck? No! Exploiting the weak is such... Garbage. You want high-quality evil, get yourself a fucking army of able-bodied and well-trained men and fuck them all up. *That's* power. Exploiting a grandma is so small-potatoes it barely constitutes as an *action*, nevermind an evil one, except by how well it illustrates how shitty a person he is." "...Yeah. It's been messing me up, you know? We're supposed to encourage kindness and goodness and it just..." "It doesn't matter when all they care about is money?" "Goodheart's law, yes." I scoffed. "Well *that's* an ironic name..."

Now that Hell City was making pay cuts I had to find a job in the human world. I took the Hells Express subway which transported demons up to the overworld which was known as Earth. I knew I could find a job since my old job was surveillance on human diplomats. As I made it through the rift, my form began to morph into a human shape. This was a given considering humans aren't exactly too fond of my kind. As I got off the subway I looked around for any indicator of where I landed. The sign said "Toronto" so I knew I was in Canada. A seemingly homeless man waked up to me and asked for some change. "I'm sorry sir I have none." "It's okay. God bless you." Said the man. I was shocked since the homeless people I had seen from other parts of the world were more aggressive and impolite. "This is going to be easy" I thought. For a few days I struggled to find a job until one printing company replied with an offer. I took it. Seeing as how I had no choice I couldn't say no. They told me to show up the next day at 8 AM sharp. So I did. In the morning I made my way to the downtown building and up to the 36th floor. When I entered the room of my work I was greeted kindly by all the other employees. In the corner I saw a door with my name on it. I walked up to my desk for the first time in my life. It was clean and organized. The folders were all stacked neatly into a drawer, the cup of pens on the corner had sections for each colour of pen, and the carpet smelled freshly washed with a lemon-scented detergent of some kind. They really went all out. I had spent enough time observing humans to perfectly mimick their behaviour. When my boss came in he greeted me and gave me the basic rundown of our goals for this year. When he left I thanked him and shook his hand with a smile. He smiled back. Just as I sat down and got ready for my first assignment, one of my coworkers stepped into the room with a thick folder labeled "Blue Eye Inc". He plopped it onto my desk and looked me up and down. "Do I know you from somewhere?" He asked suspiciously. "No I don't believe so. You don't look familiar to me." I replied. That's when I looked into his bright ocean blue eyes. The shining sparkle in his pupil was unlike any human I had seen before. He must be one of them. An angel. I had heard rumours about salary cuts in heaven too, but I dismissed them as it was highly unlikely. However this had to be an angel. He had a very slight glow to his face and his eyes sparkled in the light. "God damn.." I whispered to see if he would react. He turned around suddenly and said "Do not blaspheme the name of the lord." "I knew it!" I exclaimed. "You're an angel. What are you doing here? Are the rumours true?" "Keep your voice down. Yes the rumours are true but not for long. Some working around needs to be done but soon enough both Heaven and Hell will be back to normal." He explained. "What are the chances I get stuck here with an angel?" I laughed. "If you think angels are bad wait until you get to know the boss here. Worse than some of your kind if I say so myself." He joked. Just as he finished the boss stormed in looking redder than an apple. "WHAT ARE YOU DOING CHIT CHATTING GET BACK TO WORK YOU GOOD FOR NOTHINGS!" He screamed. "IF I CATCH YOU GOSSIPING ONE MORE DAMN TIME YOU'RE BOTH FIRED!!" I saw the look in the angels face and knew what he meant. I agree. Humans are the true evil.

[WP] You're a lesser demon from actual hell who has taken a part-time job because the supernatural world has been cutting salaries. You suspect your coworker is secretly an angel in the same position. You're both appalled at the brazen evil of your human employers.

"Hey there, Perry!" Oh great, my boss. "Hello, sir." "Listen, I need to talk to you." Ah hell. "I recently got a complain from a customer. She said you told her to go to hell while she was returning a product." "Wow, I'm surprised she heard me." "You can't do that, Perry." "For goodness sake, she was trying to return a used plunger!" "Was it broken?" "No, just dirty and reeking of shit." "Then policy states you had to give her a refund." "What do we want with a used plunger?!" "I don't make the rules, Perry." "YES YOU DO!" "Enough! I will be sending a coupon to that lady for her troubles. And it's coming out of your paycheck." I sighed. "Yes sir." My boss smiled. "Great! It seems we're on the same page!" As he walked away, I cursed him in my native tongue. "Um, excuse me..." I turned around, and saw a rather youthful looking man. I immediately put on a friendly face. "Hi, welcome to Target! How can I help you?" "I'm, uh, a new hire." "Cashier?" "Yeah." I forgot all about it. Some kid got a job here, and I was in charge of training. "What's your name?" "Yuri." I squinted my eyes at him. "You're worse at fake names than me, angel." He stared at me, mouth agape. "Let's see, bright eyes, golden hair, I'm guessing Uriel?" "Hesperus?!" "Aw, you remembered me." "I, uh, haven't seen you since the war." "Likewise." "Why are you working at Target?" "Making deals with mortals hasn't been paying well. You?" "Well, uh, I wanted to know more about humans." "Angels aren't good liars, aren't they." "You got me," he said, embarrassed. "I got bored of Heaven." "I didn't think that was possible." "I didn't think I'd ever see a fallen angel." "Really? Isn't your job purging the wicked or whatever?" "Not directly." I chuckled. "Anyway, I don't think you need training. Divination, right?" Uriel nodded. "Then we can just chat. You're fine with talking to a sinner, right?" "The only one who can judge is G-" "Great! I can't wait to tell you all about humans! Have you heard of the internet?"

Duke looked over at the monitor, typing away. It was the same boring job for the last 3 years since he was Drakken Raggoth, the lesser demon that worked in the part of Hell where souls were chained up—Prometheus style. Now he was Duke Reignman, writer of reports in a bland office building. It had taken a while to get used to human form, but it had it’s appeal. Soon enough, his dick of a boss, Mike came in and slapped his back hard like always. Fixing his glasses, Duke turned to his boss. There was a girl with him this time. “Duke, there you are! Melissa here’s transferring from the Chicago branch.” Mike said, pointing at the woman beside him. “Now how’s that report going—Like I care, I want it done in 30 minutes before you get your pay docked.” Duke scowled as Mike left. He always hated his boss, much worse than his old one in Hell, Shawn. But Duke could still never understand why Shawn stayed in human form while in Hell. He then turned his attention to Melissa. Then he realized, she was quite beautiful, heavenly even. The air around her seemed to put him at ease. She them extended her hand. “I’m Melissa, nice to meet you.” Duke shook it, “Duke, nice to meet you too.” Melissa sat down at the desk beside him, getting her things ready. Something seemed off about her though, a few things really. Her shining child-like optimism, calm demeanor, and radiant smile. No human can have all at once! She’s got to be an angel. As soon as the door to Mike’s office closed and locked, she let out a sigh. “Gosh, Mike’s *so unbearable*!” “Oh tell me about it. I’ve been stuck like this for 3 years.” Duke responded. They both shared at least one thing: exasperation for their boss. At least they have that in common.

[WP] You're a lesser demon from actual hell who has taken a part-time job because the supernatural world has been cutting salaries. You suspect your coworker is secretly an angel in the same position. You're both appalled at the brazen evil of your human employers.

“They cut ‘em again, bloody bastards,” I crushed my fork and tossed it into the hearth. My reptilian skin sizzled, its scales turning over, the gaps between glowing with fiery cinders. “Humans- those insects, they’ve turned agonistic. Atheist. Bullshit, really. If Satan hadn’t been banished, we wouldn’t be in stuck in shit, working part-time jobs in this damned planet.” Hell’s monarchy fell a millennium ago. Satan had been overthrown by revolutions upon revolutions of demons tired of having to torture souls that had sinned. The human realm’s government system looked much more appealing, so the system changed. Hell had its own Parliament, run by the elite classes of demons, and I just happened to be the butler of one of the elites. God approved because the commotion in Hell tarnished his holier-than-thou name. With the ancient system changing, the economy toppled. Mankind’s fear for the underworld steadily deteriorated, as more smartasses emerged generation by generation, blinded by incorrect ‘logic’. Chaos ensued. Budget restraints were introduced by the managers upstairs as they reduced Hell’s funding, and the next thing I knew, demons were starving. Cash was low. Hell’s intense heat turned a notch lower. Cannibalism wasn’t an option that had been ruled out during Jesus’ days. I heaved, on the verge of wrecking my computer. “Crowley! Crowley – my man, you put on some weight?” My Boss, Ryan, sauntered by. The racist, sexist fuck that he was disturbed me. Here I assumed the atrocious discrimination existing on Earth decades ago had lowered – apparently not. I stared him in the eye, the skin on my face tightening, my knuckles clenching. “I sure hope not, Boss.” My teeth were gritted, and my nails dug into my palm. “Is there anything you need?” “Right-o, I need you to pull a night shift, fill in those patents, do some extra research, you know the drill,” he flashed a toothy smile, “also, man-to-man, but your co-worker- Angelina, she single?” Angelina’s ears perked up, angelic hearing powers and all, and she rolled her eyes. “I wouldn’t know, Sir, besides you’re kinda her boss and you’re married, so-,” “Nuh-uh, Crowley. C’mon, we’re men, we make the rules, eh?” I let out a small growl. Who does this absolute moron of a mortal think he was? “I-, yes. Yes, of course, Boss.” But I couldn’t lose this job. “And about that extra work, I can’t make do, my wife’s pregnant and-,” “So? She isn’t giving birth to the baby, now is she? Pretty sure you can spare a night to get some extra work done, right?” His steely voice was laced with venom. I looked down at the floor, feeling the red lightning bolts in my eyes bulge. “Alright, Boss. Noted.” Ryan trudged away, hands pocketed, whistling and catcalling at the other women in the office. “Angelina?” I walked towards her cubicle, voice husky as my inner demon glowered, “Don’t you think the mortals have crossed certain lines?” She smiled, innocently, but had a mischievous glint in her eyes, “Crowley, I’m an angel. What are you suggesting?” “I’m suggesting, we teach the residents of this planet a lesson.” “Crowley-,” “Before you say anything, don’t you have morals? Do you really, really want a man like that to be able to have that kind of power?” She tilted her head and grinned. “Hm…what’s the plan?” \- - - Constructive criticism is very welcome! If you could, please comment how you liked it, I'd appreciate that :)

Duke looked over at the monitor, typing away. It was the same boring job for the last 3 years since he was Drakken Raggoth, the lesser demon that worked in the part of Hell where souls were chained up—Prometheus style. Now he was Duke Reignman, writer of reports in a bland office building. It had taken a while to get used to human form, but it had it’s appeal. Soon enough, his dick of a boss, Mike came in and slapped his back hard like always. Fixing his glasses, Duke turned to his boss. There was a girl with him this time. “Duke, there you are! Melissa here’s transferring from the Chicago branch.” Mike said, pointing at the woman beside him. “Now how’s that report going—Like I care, I want it done in 30 minutes before you get your pay docked.” Duke scowled as Mike left. He always hated his boss, much worse than his old one in Hell, Shawn. But Duke could still never understand why Shawn stayed in human form while in Hell. He then turned his attention to Melissa. Then he realized, she was quite beautiful, heavenly even. The air around her seemed to put him at ease. She them extended her hand. “I’m Melissa, nice to meet you.” Duke shook it, “Duke, nice to meet you too.” Melissa sat down at the desk beside him, getting her things ready. Something seemed off about her though, a few things really. Her shining child-like optimism, calm demeanor, and radiant smile. No human can have all at once! She’s got to be an angel. As soon as the door to Mike’s office closed and locked, she let out a sigh. “Gosh, Mike’s *so unbearable*!” “Oh tell me about it. I’ve been stuck like this for 3 years.” Duke responded. They both shared at least one thing: exasperation for their boss. At least they have that in common.

[WP] You're a lesser demon from actual hell who has taken a part-time job because the supernatural world has been cutting salaries. You suspect your coworker is secretly an angel in the same position. You're both appalled at the brazen evil of your human employers.

"...You just... upsold a retired woman on a laptop she will only use to call her grandkids and spread nonsense on facebook," I told Carl. Because apparently he didn't understand what he had done. Else, he wouldn't have done it, right? He shrugged. "Look, buddy, I'm paid by comission, alright?" I blinked. Made in the image of God, ladies and gentlemen. Michael came by and took one look at my horrified face before gesturing for me to follow him. "Come on, Mara, I'm getting some coffee." Carl went back to the cash register while Michael and I went to the break room. "You saw that, right?" I asked, once we were alone. "You saw that." "I saw it." "No *wonder* they're cutting our salaries! These fuckers don't need anyone tempting them to be assholes!" He shushed me and I *had* him. No normal person would respond to a statement like that by shushing of all things. "I'll show you mine if you show me yours?" I asked him with a smirk. He looked genuinely frightened for a moment, but then snapped his fingers and his halo blinked into existence just long enough for me to see it. I winked at him and my horns became visible just as briefly. "...You know I thought... Your people were, um. *Comfortable* with the exploitation of the elderly," he said sheepishly, clearly having believed I was an angel before I showed him otherwise. I didn't know angels had salaries to cut. "What the fuck? No! Exploiting the weak is such... Garbage. You want high-quality evil, get yourself a fucking army of able-bodied and well-trained men and fuck them all up. *That's* power. Exploiting a grandma is so small-potatoes it barely constitutes as an *action*, nevermind an evil one, except by how well it illustrates how shitty a person he is." "...Yeah. It's been messing me up, you know? We're supposed to encourage kindness and goodness and it just..." "It doesn't matter when all they care about is money?" "Goodheart's law, yes." I scoffed. "Well *that's* an ironic name..."

Duke looked over at the monitor, typing away. It was the same boring job for the last 3 years since he was Drakken Raggoth, the lesser demon that worked in the part of Hell where souls were chained up—Prometheus style. Now he was Duke Reignman, writer of reports in a bland office building. It had taken a while to get used to human form, but it had it’s appeal. Soon enough, his dick of a boss, Mike came in and slapped his back hard like always. Fixing his glasses, Duke turned to his boss. There was a girl with him this time. “Duke, there you are! Melissa here’s transferring from the Chicago branch.” Mike said, pointing at the woman beside him. “Now how’s that report going—Like I care, I want it done in 30 minutes before you get your pay docked.” Duke scowled as Mike left. He always hated his boss, much worse than his old one in Hell, Shawn. But Duke could still never understand why Shawn stayed in human form while in Hell. He then turned his attention to Melissa. Then he realized, she was quite beautiful, heavenly even. The air around her seemed to put him at ease. She them extended her hand. “I’m Melissa, nice to meet you.” Duke shook it, “Duke, nice to meet you too.” Melissa sat down at the desk beside him, getting her things ready. Something seemed off about her though, a few things really. Her shining child-like optimism, calm demeanor, and radiant smile. No human can have all at once! She’s got to be an angel. As soon as the door to Mike’s office closed and locked, she let out a sigh. “Gosh, Mike’s *so unbearable*!” “Oh tell me about it. I’ve been stuck like this for 3 years.” Duke responded. They both shared at least one thing: exasperation for their boss. At least they have that in common.

[WP] You're a lesser demon from actual hell who has taken a part-time job because the supernatural world has been cutting salaries. You suspect your coworker is secretly an angel in the same position. You're both appalled at the brazen evil of your human employers.

"...You just... upsold a retired woman on a laptop she will only use to call her grandkids and spread nonsense on facebook," I told Carl. Because apparently he didn't understand what he had done. Else, he wouldn't have done it, right? He shrugged. "Look, buddy, I'm paid by comission, alright?" I blinked. Made in the image of God, ladies and gentlemen. Michael came by and took one look at my horrified face before gesturing for me to follow him. "Come on, Mara, I'm getting some coffee." Carl went back to the cash register while Michael and I went to the break room. "You saw that, right?" I asked, once we were alone. "You saw that." "I saw it." "No *wonder* they're cutting our salaries! These fuckers don't need anyone tempting them to be assholes!" He shushed me and I *had* him. No normal person would respond to a statement like that by shushing of all things. "I'll show you mine if you show me yours?" I asked him with a smirk. He looked genuinely frightened for a moment, but then snapped his fingers and his halo blinked into existence just long enough for me to see it. I winked at him and my horns became visible just as briefly. "...You know I thought... Your people were, um. *Comfortable* with the exploitation of the elderly," he said sheepishly, clearly having believed I was an angel before I showed him otherwise. I didn't know angels had salaries to cut. "What the fuck? No! Exploiting the weak is such... Garbage. You want high-quality evil, get yourself a fucking army of able-bodied and well-trained men and fuck them all up. *That's* power. Exploiting a grandma is so small-potatoes it barely constitutes as an *action*, nevermind an evil one, except by how well it illustrates how shitty a person he is." "...Yeah. It's been messing me up, you know? We're supposed to encourage kindness and goodness and it just..." "It doesn't matter when all they care about is money?" "Goodheart's law, yes." I scoffed. "Well *that's* an ironic name..."

“They cut ‘em again, bloody bastards,” I crushed my fork and tossed it into the hearth. My reptilian skin sizzled, its scales turning over, the gaps between glowing with fiery cinders. “Humans- those insects, they’ve turned agonistic. Atheist. Bullshit, really. If Satan hadn’t been banished, we wouldn’t be in stuck in shit, working part-time jobs in this damned planet.” Hell’s monarchy fell a millennium ago. Satan had been overthrown by revolutions upon revolutions of demons tired of having to torture souls that had sinned. The human realm’s government system looked much more appealing, so the system changed. Hell had its own Parliament, run by the elite classes of demons, and I just happened to be the butler of one of the elites. God approved because the commotion in Hell tarnished his holier-than-thou name. With the ancient system changing, the economy toppled. Mankind’s fear for the underworld steadily deteriorated, as more smartasses emerged generation by generation, blinded by incorrect ‘logic’. Chaos ensued. Budget restraints were introduced by the managers upstairs as they reduced Hell’s funding, and the next thing I knew, demons were starving. Cash was low. Hell’s intense heat turned a notch lower. Cannibalism wasn’t an option that had been ruled out during Jesus’ days. I heaved, on the verge of wrecking my computer. “Crowley! Crowley – my man, you put on some weight?” My Boss, Ryan, sauntered by. The racist, sexist fuck that he was disturbed me. Here I assumed the atrocious discrimination existing on Earth decades ago had lowered – apparently not. I stared him in the eye, the skin on my face tightening, my knuckles clenching. “I sure hope not, Boss.” My teeth were gritted, and my nails dug into my palm. “Is there anything you need?” “Right-o, I need you to pull a night shift, fill in those patents, do some extra research, you know the drill,” he flashed a toothy smile, “also, man-to-man, but your co-worker- Angelina, she single?” Angelina’s ears perked up, angelic hearing powers and all, and she rolled her eyes. “I wouldn’t know, Sir, besides you’re kinda her boss and you’re married, so-,” “Nuh-uh, Crowley. C’mon, we’re men, we make the rules, eh?” I let out a small growl. Who does this absolute moron of a mortal think he was? “I-, yes. Yes, of course, Boss.” But I couldn’t lose this job. “And about that extra work, I can’t make do, my wife’s pregnant and-,” “So? She isn’t giving birth to the baby, now is she? Pretty sure you can spare a night to get some extra work done, right?” His steely voice was laced with venom. I looked down at the floor, feeling the red lightning bolts in my eyes bulge. “Alright, Boss. Noted.” Ryan trudged away, hands pocketed, whistling and catcalling at the other women in the office. “Angelina?” I walked towards her cubicle, voice husky as my inner demon glowered, “Don’t you think the mortals have crossed certain lines?” She smiled, innocently, but had a mischievous glint in her eyes, “Crowley, I’m an angel. What are you suggesting?” “I’m suggesting, we teach the residents of this planet a lesson.” “Crowley-,” “Before you say anything, don’t you have morals? Do you really, really want a man like that to be able to have that kind of power?” She tilted her head and grinned. “Hm…what’s the plan?” \- - - Constructive criticism is very welcome! If you could, please comment how you liked it, I'd appreciate that :)

[WP] You're a lesser demon from actual hell who has taken a part-time job because the supernatural world has been cutting salaries. You suspect your coworker is secretly an angel in the same position. You're both appalled at the brazen evil of your human employers.

“Balthazar! Get your ass over here”, Sean grumbled. “Look at this slide right here! You see how it doesn’t line up? How many times have I told you Balathazar. You need to ZOOM. ZOOM! You have to make sure that this box is right here - see how this is lined up at height 500 pixels?” “Yes. sir”, I sighed. “Now look at the other box. Move your mouse over there. What do you see?”, Sean asked with an agitated voice. I proceeded to move my mouse. “NO YOU DOLT! Right! Right! How many f\*\*\*king times have I told you this?!” So I corrected my mouse and started moving it right. I could see Sean’s eyes burning a hole over the back of my head. Man. As my fingers hovered over this fake ass mouse, I began to reminiscence about my old gig. A few months ago, I could hold a *real* mouse. I began to imagine the fur of a live mouse over my hand. Scratch that. *Mice*. Cup as many mice I can hold in my bare hands. Drop them all over my customers. My delicious customers! OOOO!!! *Ahhhh,* sight to live for. *Drool.* .... “Finally. Put your mouse over the other box. See that pop-up? What does it say?” “498 pixels” “YES! YES! YEEEEESSSSSSS!” “Sean, with all due respect, 2 pixels are not - “ Before I could finish, Sean put his finger over my lips. “Balthazar - you may not know this since you’re new around here, but at Goatman Tech, we take great pride in the professional quality of our work. Our uncompromising determination to achieve excellence in everything we undertake. Off by two pixels is not acceptable at *our firm.* You being part-time is no excuse. I want this in my inbox before you leave.” “Sure Sean. Consider it do - ” “Oh - before I forget Balthazar - lay low on the red, will ya? You have this gigantic boner for red for some reason. Tone it down OK?”, Sean grumbled. “Okay…”, I sighed. I was seriously beginning to regret taking this job. I thought it was cake. A part time graphic designer with 5+ years in experience in deck building? Perfect. I was a veteran who built graphic things for Satan knows how many years.... I took a sip out of my cup. *Coffee*. Yuck. On top of being stuck in a confined prison called a cubicle all day, I had to deal with this awful drink these humans all loved so much. *Let’s go for coffee.* *Coffee break?* *Time for more coffee.* It did nothing to help me relax, and this crap would make me stay up. All. Night. Long. It was like I was always tingly and giggly. *Tap. Tap.* I turn around to be greeted by a friendly fist bump. Reluctantly, I bumped back. “Hey Balthy! Yo How’s it going man?”, Gabe asked. “Stressed out as hell. I just got hounded.” “Hell? Balthy - brotha, but hell isn’t something to take lightly. It’s a place of eternal damnation where filthy minions of Lucifier torture our miserable mortals. Do you know what hell feels like? Hell is a place of eternal damnation - “ ANNND Gabe launched into his monologue. There was something off about that guy. The dude always wore a clean white shirt, and there was not even a single strand of stain on him. Perfectly shaven. Not a single blemish. He was perfect. Too perfect. I was beginning to suspect he was a sworn enemy, but it didn’t make any sense. They were doing well up there right? Gabe sat down on this desk. Gabe was a recently hired Senior Software Engineer. I only met him a week ago, but this dude was just as incompetent as me. Could not write any lines on the screen that humans called code. What was that phrase? Can't code themselves out of a box? That was him. Everything seemed to point towards one thing. I proceeded to confirm my suspicions… “Hey Gabe, how did you end up at Goatman?” “Ah! Funny how you ask me that! I was going to ask you the same thing! Brotha, we are on the same page today.” Gabe took a deep breath. “I got laid off… ” “Laid off? Bad economy, huh?” “You know, our company faced a lot of end-user problems which led to the massive lay-off. Brotha, our end-user lifetime metric was around 40, but it rapidly crept up to 75. This meant that our end-user turn around became way too long. Not enough coming in through the funnel... a huge problem. So the higher ups decided to launch a new initiative to stimulate our user volume. But that plan was a world disaster. Sure, our end-user volume went up, but the quality of our users have significantly decreased. It also introduced another problem. Our potential users stopped reaching out to us. No orders, No PRs. Nothing.”, Gabe let out another huge sigh. “I used to work on designing softwear for our customers, but my boss says we don’t need to design as many exotic softwear cause all our customers don’t deserve it. No more VIPs :(” “Gabe, are you a - “ *Doo-do-doo-do.* A noise rang from my computer. An email! ​ To: Balthazar Bonefire. Title: Employ Pay Stubb - 8/31/20 I looked over the numbers. It made no sense. My paycheck was missing 30% of the total. Federal withholding? 401k? What kind of scam was this? I knew everything about this place was off. These high walls, trapped in a desk all day with three walls - and now they were docking my pay. Enough was enough. I took a quick glance at Gabe. “Hey Gabe, did you see your paycheck? ...Does it make sense?” “Brotha, this place has been pulling wool over our eyes... 30% Withholding? What kind of bonkers is this?” At this moment, we heard Sean’s booming voice. “GUYS! What’s this chatter I keep hearing? Get back to work!” I stretched out my left hand. A simmering red light began to hover over my fingers as I conjured up my weapon. It felt good to grasp my trusty FK-69 once again. I turned my head towards Gabe, and to no surprise, a rusty HVNYSPR-33 was squared up against his shoulders. I squinted at Gabe. He squinted right back. We both then turned our heads and headed towards Sean….

"Klaus" as I whisper his name in toilet. Cleaning my hands. "What's up Marco?" he said as he looks at me via the mirror. "I know you're from up." I reluctantly answered him the same way as he did, looking at him via the mirror. He scratches his eyebrow, his smug face tells it all. "You're from down?" Should I answer it? Definitely not. "What do you think of Melinda?" my replied to him, diverting the topic. "Full of evil. Why?" Still the same smug face. "Nothing." I answered as I went outside the toilet. "Marco, we can help each other." He said surprising me. "Seems like I'm going to see you when I take a vacation in my hometown." I jokingly said to him. "Yeah right I will go there. So any plans?" "Tonight, maybe some little fun. I know where she lives and her daily route." "Calm down stalker." "That's my side line. Meet me at roof deck. 8pm sharp."

[WP] You're a lesser demon from actual hell who has taken a part-time job because the supernatural world has been cutting salaries. You suspect your coworker is secretly an angel in the same position. You're both appalled at the brazen evil of your human employers.

"Dave, I have my entire shift to work on your papers. What do you mean you want them 'in an hour'?!" Mister Michael Miller rolled his eyes and clicked his tongue. "It means I want them done *in an hour.* How hard is that to understand?" He spoke before I even had the chance to retaliate. "Listen, Lily, dear. I don't have time for small chit-chat right now. The rest of the board's about to go out for an early lunch in the newly opened Chinese restaurant just around the corner. All you have to do is finish these reports in an hour, mkay? Is that too much to ask from you?" Yes, it is. "N-No, sorry." "Good. I don't want any incapable employees in this establishment." The smile that he gave me was so sickeningly sweet. "Well, I'm off to lunch! I'll be back in an hour, Lily, and I want to see those papers on my desk by then!" He turned and strutted away from my cubicle with a spring in his step. That little fucker. Ooh, if I only had the permission to use my powers in the mortal world; his ass would be a pile of smoking dust in less than a second. Grumbling, I turned to my computer and started a new report, muttering words like "Hell" and "payment" and "insufficient" all the while. It's almost like I never left home in the first place. I heard faint footsteps coming my way, and I attempted to look calm and collected. It was Henry, the guy in the cubicle beside me. I was 90% sure that the dude was an angel; he always got promotions, the least work, the most privileges, and he was almost always Employee of the Month. You could practically see his halo hovering inches above his head. "Hey," he called out to me, his voice as soft as a mother's touch. Not that I know much about one. "Heard old Mikey's been giving you a rough time, huh." "Yeah," I groaned, not taking my eyes off of my computer. "I have all eight hours of my shift and he expects me to finish this long-ass report in *one."* "Jesus," Henry said sadly, then gave me an apologetic look as I instinctively gave him an angry glare. "Look, I can help you through it, if you want; I don't have much to do for the first few hours of my shift." "Of course you don't," I roll my eyes. "You're such a fucking angel, aren't you?" He raised an eyebrow at me. "How long have you known?" I laughed. "Your halo is showing." "Oh." He flushed red with embarrassment. "Well, I could almost see your horns in that hair of yours. I'd suggest wearing a cap or something on your head. Maybe I should do that as well." I nodded. "Noted." Henry was actually a very nice fellow to be with, y'know, despite the whole "angels versus demons" thing. He always emitted a positive aura from him (which is expected from angels, of course) and he always seemed to genuinely like me in all our encounters, which were rather often. "So, I take it you accept my offer?" Henry gave me a genuine smile, one unlike the one Miller gave me a few moments ago. "I'll bring my own chair if you need me to." I mulled over the word the angel said in my head for a while before responding with a smile. "That sounds fine." Needless to say, we did not finish it in time. And old Mikey Miller was surprised to see his best employee laughing over a stupid joke about Eve and his sons in the same cubicle as his human punching bag.

"You have until the end of the day to finish this." She's at it again. This woman isn't even my superior. Why the heck is she acting all bossy? I sat back down at my desk, going through the papers she handed me over. I stopped counting the errors that I caught a glimpse of. How can she act like this while being completely incompetent?! Ugh I shouldn't have left hell for this crap! "Having trouble again?" Usually I would have started a petty argument whenever I heard his voice, but I kind of wasn't in the mood for that today. It was no secret that I despised Mike which my entire being. He had the same position as I, the same background, but even so, he was far more popular and competent than me. Everyone loved him. Well, everyone except me. "I don't have time for your little games. *She* is being a little B, again." Mike was well aware of my situation with her. He himself knows how troublesome she could be, but this little Angel would never dare say anything against her. At least I believed that. "What would you say if we got rid of her?" His usual friendly smile turned dark. He never striked me as the revengeful kind of person, so I was really taken aback. But I would lie if I said I wasn't intruiged... "I'm all ears." After all, the enemy of my enemy is my friend.

[WP] You're a lesser demon from actual hell who has taken a part-time job because the supernatural world has been cutting salaries. You suspect your coworker is secretly an angel in the same position. You're both appalled at the brazen evil of your human employers.

“Balthazar! Get your ass over here”, Sean grumbled. “Look at this slide right here! You see how it doesn’t line up? How many times have I told you Balathazar. You need to ZOOM. ZOOM! You have to make sure that this box is right here - see how this is lined up at height 500 pixels?” “Yes. sir”, I sighed. “Now look at the other box. Move your mouse over there. What do you see?”, Sean asked with an agitated voice. I proceeded to move my mouse. “NO YOU DOLT! Right! Right! How many f\*\*\*king times have I told you this?!” So I corrected my mouse and started moving it right. I could see Sean’s eyes burning a hole over the back of my head. Man. As my fingers hovered over this fake ass mouse, I began to reminiscence about my old gig. A few months ago, I could hold a *real* mouse. I began to imagine the fur of a live mouse over my hand. Scratch that. *Mice*. Cup as many mice I can hold in my bare hands. Drop them all over my customers. My delicious customers! OOOO!!! *Ahhhh,* sight to live for. *Drool.* .... “Finally. Put your mouse over the other box. See that pop-up? What does it say?” “498 pixels” “YES! YES! YEEEEESSSSSSS!” “Sean, with all due respect, 2 pixels are not - “ Before I could finish, Sean put his finger over my lips. “Balthazar - you may not know this since you’re new around here, but at Goatman Tech, we take great pride in the professional quality of our work. Our uncompromising determination to achieve excellence in everything we undertake. Off by two pixels is not acceptable at *our firm.* You being part-time is no excuse. I want this in my inbox before you leave.” “Sure Sean. Consider it do - ” “Oh - before I forget Balthazar - lay low on the red, will ya? You have this gigantic boner for red for some reason. Tone it down OK?”, Sean grumbled. “Okay…”, I sighed. I was seriously beginning to regret taking this job. I thought it was cake. A part time graphic designer with 5+ years in experience in deck building? Perfect. I was a veteran who built graphic things for Satan knows how many years.... I took a sip out of my cup. *Coffee*. Yuck. On top of being stuck in a confined prison called a cubicle all day, I had to deal with this awful drink these humans all loved so much. *Let’s go for coffee.* *Coffee break?* *Time for more coffee.* It did nothing to help me relax, and this crap would make me stay up. All. Night. Long. It was like I was always tingly and giggly. *Tap. Tap.* I turn around to be greeted by a friendly fist bump. Reluctantly, I bumped back. “Hey Balthy! Yo How’s it going man?”, Gabe asked. “Stressed out as hell. I just got hounded.” “Hell? Balthy - brotha, but hell isn’t something to take lightly. It’s a place of eternal damnation where filthy minions of Lucifier torture our miserable mortals. Do you know what hell feels like? Hell is a place of eternal damnation - “ ANNND Gabe launched into his monologue. There was something off about that guy. The dude always wore a clean white shirt, and there was not even a single strand of stain on him. Perfectly shaven. Not a single blemish. He was perfect. Too perfect. I was beginning to suspect he was a sworn enemy, but it didn’t make any sense. They were doing well up there right? Gabe sat down on this desk. Gabe was a recently hired Senior Software Engineer. I only met him a week ago, but this dude was just as incompetent as me. Could not write any lines on the screen that humans called code. What was that phrase? Can't code themselves out of a box? That was him. Everything seemed to point towards one thing. I proceeded to confirm my suspicions… “Hey Gabe, how did you end up at Goatman?” “Ah! Funny how you ask me that! I was going to ask you the same thing! Brotha, we are on the same page today.” Gabe took a deep breath. “I got laid off… ” “Laid off? Bad economy, huh?” “You know, our company faced a lot of end-user problems which led to the massive lay-off. Brotha, our end-user lifetime metric was around 40, but it rapidly crept up to 75. This meant that our end-user turn around became way too long. Not enough coming in through the funnel... a huge problem. So the higher ups decided to launch a new initiative to stimulate our user volume. But that plan was a world disaster. Sure, our end-user volume went up, but the quality of our users have significantly decreased. It also introduced another problem. Our potential users stopped reaching out to us. No orders, No PRs. Nothing.”, Gabe let out another huge sigh. “I used to work on designing softwear for our customers, but my boss says we don’t need to design as many exotic softwear cause all our customers don’t deserve it. No more VIPs :(” “Gabe, are you a - “ *Doo-do-doo-do.* A noise rang from my computer. An email! ​ To: Balthazar Bonefire. Title: Employ Pay Stubb - 8/31/20 I looked over the numbers. It made no sense. My paycheck was missing 30% of the total. Federal withholding? 401k? What kind of scam was this? I knew everything about this place was off. These high walls, trapped in a desk all day with three walls - and now they were docking my pay. Enough was enough. I took a quick glance at Gabe. “Hey Gabe, did you see your paycheck? ...Does it make sense?” “Brotha, this place has been pulling wool over our eyes... 30% Withholding? What kind of bonkers is this?” At this moment, we heard Sean’s booming voice. “GUYS! What’s this chatter I keep hearing? Get back to work!” I stretched out my left hand. A simmering red light began to hover over my fingers as I conjured up my weapon. It felt good to grasp my trusty FK-69 once again. I turned my head towards Gabe, and to no surprise, a rusty HVNYSPR-33 was squared up against his shoulders. I squinted at Gabe. He squinted right back. We both then turned our heads and headed towards Sean….

"You have until the end of the day to finish this." She's at it again. This woman isn't even my superior. Why the heck is she acting all bossy? I sat back down at my desk, going through the papers she handed me over. I stopped counting the errors that I caught a glimpse of. How can she act like this while being completely incompetent?! Ugh I shouldn't have left hell for this crap! "Having trouble again?" Usually I would have started a petty argument whenever I heard his voice, but I kind of wasn't in the mood for that today. It was no secret that I despised Mike which my entire being. He had the same position as I, the same background, but even so, he was far more popular and competent than me. Everyone loved him. Well, everyone except me. "I don't have time for your little games. *She* is being a little B, again." Mike was well aware of my situation with her. He himself knows how troublesome she could be, but this little Angel would never dare say anything against her. At least I believed that. "What would you say if we got rid of her?" His usual friendly smile turned dark. He never striked me as the revengeful kind of person, so I was really taken aback. But I would lie if I said I wasn't intruiged... "I'm all ears." After all, the enemy of my enemy is my friend.

[WP] You're a lesser demon from actual hell who has taken a part-time job because the supernatural world has been cutting salaries. You suspect your coworker is secretly an angel in the same position. You're both appalled at the brazen evil of your human employers.

“Balthazar! Get your ass over here”, Sean grumbled. “Look at this slide right here! You see how it doesn’t line up? How many times have I told you Balathazar. You need to ZOOM. ZOOM! You have to make sure that this box is right here - see how this is lined up at height 500 pixels?” “Yes. sir”, I sighed. “Now look at the other box. Move your mouse over there. What do you see?”, Sean asked with an agitated voice. I proceeded to move my mouse. “NO YOU DOLT! Right! Right! How many f\*\*\*king times have I told you this?!” So I corrected my mouse and started moving it right. I could see Sean’s eyes burning a hole over the back of my head. Man. As my fingers hovered over this fake ass mouse, I began to reminiscence about my old gig. A few months ago, I could hold a *real* mouse. I began to imagine the fur of a live mouse over my hand. Scratch that. *Mice*. Cup as many mice I can hold in my bare hands. Drop them all over my customers. My delicious customers! OOOO!!! *Ahhhh,* sight to live for. *Drool.* .... “Finally. Put your mouse over the other box. See that pop-up? What does it say?” “498 pixels” “YES! YES! YEEEEESSSSSSS!” “Sean, with all due respect, 2 pixels are not - “ Before I could finish, Sean put his finger over my lips. “Balthazar - you may not know this since you’re new around here, but at Goatman Tech, we take great pride in the professional quality of our work. Our uncompromising determination to achieve excellence in everything we undertake. Off by two pixels is not acceptable at *our firm.* You being part-time is no excuse. I want this in my inbox before you leave.” “Sure Sean. Consider it do - ” “Oh - before I forget Balthazar - lay low on the red, will ya? You have this gigantic boner for red for some reason. Tone it down OK?”, Sean grumbled. “Okay…”, I sighed. I was seriously beginning to regret taking this job. I thought it was cake. A part time graphic designer with 5+ years in experience in deck building? Perfect. I was a veteran who built graphic things for Satan knows how many years.... I took a sip out of my cup. *Coffee*. Yuck. On top of being stuck in a confined prison called a cubicle all day, I had to deal with this awful drink these humans all loved so much. *Let’s go for coffee.* *Coffee break?* *Time for more coffee.* It did nothing to help me relax, and this crap would make me stay up. All. Night. Long. It was like I was always tingly and giggly. *Tap. Tap.* I turn around to be greeted by a friendly fist bump. Reluctantly, I bumped back. “Hey Balthy! Yo How’s it going man?”, Gabe asked. “Stressed out as hell. I just got hounded.” “Hell? Balthy - brotha, but hell isn’t something to take lightly. It’s a place of eternal damnation where filthy minions of Lucifier torture our miserable mortals. Do you know what hell feels like? Hell is a place of eternal damnation - “ ANNND Gabe launched into his monologue. There was something off about that guy. The dude always wore a clean white shirt, and there was not even a single strand of stain on him. Perfectly shaven. Not a single blemish. He was perfect. Too perfect. I was beginning to suspect he was a sworn enemy, but it didn’t make any sense. They were doing well up there right? Gabe sat down on this desk. Gabe was a recently hired Senior Software Engineer. I only met him a week ago, but this dude was just as incompetent as me. Could not write any lines on the screen that humans called code. What was that phrase? Can't code themselves out of a box? That was him. Everything seemed to point towards one thing. I proceeded to confirm my suspicions… “Hey Gabe, how did you end up at Goatman?” “Ah! Funny how you ask me that! I was going to ask you the same thing! Brotha, we are on the same page today.” Gabe took a deep breath. “I got laid off… ” “Laid off? Bad economy, huh?” “You know, our company faced a lot of end-user problems which led to the massive lay-off. Brotha, our end-user lifetime metric was around 40, but it rapidly crept up to 75. This meant that our end-user turn around became way too long. Not enough coming in through the funnel... a huge problem. So the higher ups decided to launch a new initiative to stimulate our user volume. But that plan was a world disaster. Sure, our end-user volume went up, but the quality of our users have significantly decreased. It also introduced another problem. Our potential users stopped reaching out to us. No orders, No PRs. Nothing.”, Gabe let out another huge sigh. “I used to work on designing softwear for our customers, but my boss says we don’t need to design as many exotic softwear cause all our customers don’t deserve it. No more VIPs :(” “Gabe, are you a - “ *Doo-do-doo-do.* A noise rang from my computer. An email! ​ To: Balthazar Bonefire. Title: Employ Pay Stubb - 8/31/20 I looked over the numbers. It made no sense. My paycheck was missing 30% of the total. Federal withholding? 401k? What kind of scam was this? I knew everything about this place was off. These high walls, trapped in a desk all day with three walls - and now they were docking my pay. Enough was enough. I took a quick glance at Gabe. “Hey Gabe, did you see your paycheck? ...Does it make sense?” “Brotha, this place has been pulling wool over our eyes... 30% Withholding? What kind of bonkers is this?” At this moment, we heard Sean’s booming voice. “GUYS! What’s this chatter I keep hearing? Get back to work!” I stretched out my left hand. A simmering red light began to hover over my fingers as I conjured up my weapon. It felt good to grasp my trusty FK-69 once again. I turned my head towards Gabe, and to no surprise, a rusty HVNYSPR-33 was squared up against his shoulders. I squinted at Gabe. He squinted right back. We both then turned our heads and headed towards Sean….

"Dave, I have my entire shift to work on your papers. What do you mean you want them 'in an hour'?!" Mister Michael Miller rolled his eyes and clicked his tongue. "It means I want them done *in an hour.* How hard is that to understand?" He spoke before I even had the chance to retaliate. "Listen, Lily, dear. I don't have time for small chit-chat right now. The rest of the board's about to go out for an early lunch in the newly opened Chinese restaurant just around the corner. All you have to do is finish these reports in an hour, mkay? Is that too much to ask from you?" Yes, it is. "N-No, sorry." "Good. I don't want any incapable employees in this establishment." The smile that he gave me was so sickeningly sweet. "Well, I'm off to lunch! I'll be back in an hour, Lily, and I want to see those papers on my desk by then!" He turned and strutted away from my cubicle with a spring in his step. That little fucker. Ooh, if I only had the permission to use my powers in the mortal world; his ass would be a pile of smoking dust in less than a second. Grumbling, I turned to my computer and started a new report, muttering words like "Hell" and "payment" and "insufficient" all the while. It's almost like I never left home in the first place. I heard faint footsteps coming my way, and I attempted to look calm and collected. It was Henry, the guy in the cubicle beside me. I was 90% sure that the dude was an angel; he always got promotions, the least work, the most privileges, and he was almost always Employee of the Month. You could practically see his halo hovering inches above his head. "Hey," he called out to me, his voice as soft as a mother's touch. Not that I know much about one. "Heard old Mikey's been giving you a rough time, huh." "Yeah," I groaned, not taking my eyes off of my computer. "I have all eight hours of my shift and he expects me to finish this long-ass report in *one."* "Jesus," Henry said sadly, then gave me an apologetic look as I instinctively gave him an angry glare. "Look, I can help you through it, if you want; I don't have much to do for the first few hours of my shift." "Of course you don't," I roll my eyes. "You're such a fucking angel, aren't you?" He raised an eyebrow at me. "How long have you known?" I laughed. "Your halo is showing." "Oh." He flushed red with embarrassment. "Well, I could almost see your horns in that hair of yours. I'd suggest wearing a cap or something on your head. Maybe I should do that as well." I nodded. "Noted." Henry was actually a very nice fellow to be with, y'know, despite the whole "angels versus demons" thing. He always emitted a positive aura from him (which is expected from angels, of course) and he always seemed to genuinely like me in all our encounters, which were rather often. "So, I take it you accept my offer?" Henry gave me a genuine smile, one unlike the one Miller gave me a few moments ago. "I'll bring my own chair if you need me to." I mulled over the word the angel said in my head for a while before responding with a smile. "That sounds fine." Needless to say, we did not finish it in time. And old Mikey Miller was surprised to see his best employee laughing over a stupid joke about Eve and his sons in the same cubicle as his human punching bag.

[WP] Hadron Vacations, Inc., allows travelers to visit the timelines in which they are living their "best lives." Sometimes, however, the timeline tourists do not want to return, threatening the balance of the multiverse. Your team is tasked with retrieving them.

*Ring, ring...* 'Roderick Tumble?' 'Yeah?' 'This is Pete Madison from the Timeline police, with an official warning. You have to go back to the normal timeline, otherwise we will be forced to arrest you.' '...' 'Mr. Tumble?' '... fuck you. Fuck all you guys with your fucking fucklines!' 'We understand you may not want to go back, but believe us, it is for your own good.' 'My own good, my ass! You guys are all assholes, you know that?' 'Insulting us will not solve anything, Tumble. This is your final warning. Go back to Hadron Station and take the train to the normal timeline. We give you an hour.' 'You f... I mean... alright. I'll do it.' 'Great. Remember, if you are not back before 15:48, we will...' 'Yeah, yeah, I get it. You'll arrest me. I'm not a fucking moron.' *Click...* \-------------------------------- 'Alright, guys, so this is the plan.' Pete pointed at the blue square on the virtual map. 'Our outpost is normally here. Tumble will probably go to the Miami Beach or the Hotel Of Dreams And Stars - I don't think he's the kind of guy who listens to warnings.' He looked at both of us with the excitement of a thirteen-year-old boy who just discovered porn. 'Now, normally... 'Here we go again,' Steve whispered in my ear. Pete ignored him. '... normally, I would ask you two to split up and arrest him, but today I want to try something different.' 'Called it,' Steve said, this time not even trying to be subtle. 'This time,' continued Pete, not even slightly annoyed, 'this time, I don't want to sent you guys out there. I want this entire outpost to be *in the same place as him*.' Steve snorted and I raised an eyebrow, both of which made Pete even happier. 'I'll explain it. One of you guys has to call the 2015 version of architect Blum. I've researched it, and apparently he has seriously thought about putting our good ol' place right... *here*.' Pete's finger marked a red spot on the pixelated area. 'Now, if we retrace the steps from both the Hotel and the Beach as the final destination, we'll find *this*.' Pete's smile grew bigger and bigger as the two green lines on the map went from the Hotel and the Beach right through the red spot. Steve snorted again, this time slightly louder. 'So you want us to call Blum to get the thing there, and we don't have to lift a finger?' 'Exactly!' Pete almost exploded with excitement. 'I mean, it doesn't have any consequences for the other timelines, so why the hell wouldn't we do it?' I let the critic side of me wonder for a moment, but Pete's idea did honestly sound like a fun experiment. Even Steve, who always had something to say about everything, didn't seem to be able to come up with a reason not to do this. 'You know what?' I said, slightly astonished with myself. 'Let's do it.' \----------------------------------- I grabbed Tumble's wrist and put an Energetic Handcuff around it. The surprise on his face was already worth the effort of calling Blum. 'How... the fuck...' he muttered, his eyes wide open. 'Didn't expect that, did you?' Steve smiled, while Pete lectured Tumble on his rights and the reason he had been arrested. 'Shut the FUCK up!' Tumble shouted, his face almost entirely white hot anger. 'How. The fuck. Did you guys. Do that!' 'You wanna know, huh? Huh? Ain't gonna tell you.' Steve was taunting the arrested man, like he always did, and for once, I didn't mind. After all, we had just found the most original way to arrest a timeline addict (that's what we called people like Tumble). Nothing could ruin that. 'Roderick Tumble, you are a criminal,' Pete said. 'Do you know why we are doing this?' 'To ruin people's fucking lives!' Tumble hissed. He tried to struggle, but Pete and I didn't allow an inch of free space. 'I was *happy*, fucking god! My girl was still with me and I had my job! I had literally nothing in that other damn timeline!' 'That may be, but contrary to popular belief, we're not here just to ruin your life,' Pete said. 'You see, when you create a new timeline, all the...' 'Why the explanation?' Steve interrupted. 'Don't think it matters to him.' 'I just want to explain it, okay?' Pete continued his story. 'When you create a new timeline, the old one starts to fade. It is a very slow process, and as soon as the new timeline is erased, it immediately stops, but when people stay in other timelines too long... the original may stop existing completely. And with that, the other timelines will be destroyed, too.' 'Can you tell your friend to shut the fuck up?' Tumble asked, looking both me and Steve directly in the eye. Pete resumed the explanation, talking louder and louder to be heard by the protesting Tumble. 'IMAGINE PUTTING ON MAKE-UP, AND THEN ERASE YOUR OWN FACE. YOU CAN'T HAVE MAKE-UP WITHOUT A FACE, SO FOR THE OTHER TIMELINE TO EXIST, YOU MUST RETURN TO THE ORIGINAL TIMELINE. IT'S ALL FOR YOUR OWN GOOD, TUMBLE!' 'LALALALALALA!' Tumble shouted. 'DON'T HEAR YOU!' I could see Pete was actually insulted by Tumble's ignorance, so I put my hand on his shoulder. 'It's okay, buddy,' I said. 'Not everyone realizes their own joy sometimes harms others. It's not your fault.' Pete smiled at me, thankful for my words. And with that, we headed towards Hadron Station, dragging the struggling Tumble with us.

It was a pretty simple job. You find the person who doesn't belong in the particular universe, which we could easily do by using the tracking chip that is placed in every timeline traveler, to then force them back to their own timeline. Most of the time people followed without much resistance. Because why would you not obey a team of trained assassins with fully loaded (stun)weapons. Of course these people don't know the weapons only stun. Why do they only stun you ask? Well we have to bring them back to a timeline they are still alive. Because if they come back dead, they actually come back to a different timeline, the timeline where they are already dead. When you were lucky you got a job where someone traveled to a timeline where they were the sole-ruler of the earth, or sometimes even the universe. This were the moments you truly got to shine. The true challenges since you had to retrieve the tourist without changing the timeline (no overthrowing whole regimes). Sometimes these people were already in jail for pretending to be the supreme leader, sometimes they had convinced the guards that they were in fact the supreme leader, and the other was the fake. But today we had a special case. No supreme leaders, not a harem of beautiful woman, hack not even a nice tasty meal. No this person had traveled to his ideal timeline. The time where he would already be dead. And there are a lot of times where guns or amazing combat skills can help you overtake an opponent, but when the opponent is "dead" they suddenly become useless. I was send on this job with two colleague's for a reconnaissance job. Find out where the target is, why they are still there and how many man are probably needed to retrieve the target. Today I got too work with my good friend John, who was a trained soldier like me, and the scumbag of a psychiatrist Oliver, whose job it was to make sure the mental state of the target would remain safe. Every mission had a psychiatrist who made sure we never shoot targets, when there is a big risk of trauma from it. Oliver however was very anti-violence, which meant we pretty much could never use our guns on missions with Oliver. So on arrival it seemed like an easy job. The target was in his hometown, so finding him wouldn't be that hard. He didn't seem to have any power in the world. The only thing we would need to do is locate where he was and politely ask him to come with us. But when the tracking device started beeping we weren't able to actually spot a person. It wasn't like there was anywhere he could go. It was a dead-end alleyway. Maybe he is hiding inside the wall? John suggested. After which he happily took out his portable axe and started swinging. Instantly the most foul smell we had ever encountered appeared. "Well someone has to go in and check if he is there" Oliver said. After which John and I quickly pushed Oliver into the hole. It stayed quit for a while. "So? Is there anyone in there?" I asked annoyed. ... ... ... No answer. ... ... ... After five minutes a creature came out of the hole, which I could only describe as nothing, yet everything at the same time, it's body constantly shifting in shape and color, like even its substance was changing every second. It was holding something in which i guess was it's hand. It was Oliver's head, which a second later would be absorbed into the body of the monster. After absorbing Oliver's head the monster just kind of stood there for what seemed hours. When suddenly it started speaking in what seemed a thousand voices. "You do not belong here human, this is not your timeline, therefore you will have to be erased!" John quickly reacted, almost crying: "No, no, please. We only came here to take back someone from our own timeline. When we have him we will leave I promise." The monster sighed. "It seems your actions are no longer required. You came for a man called Thomas, who does not exist in this timeline. Therefore I came to this world to destroy him. Now you shall join him". ​ // Feedback would be greatly appreciated. I know the ending is quite sudden and out of the context of the story, but this is the first time for me writing from a prompt, so I just tried to see where I could go.//

[WP] Hadron Vacations, Inc., allows travelers to visit the timelines in which they are living their "best lives." Sometimes, however, the timeline tourists do not want to return, threatening the balance of the multiverse. Your team is tasked with retrieving them.

*Gold Team we have a B-56 in Universe 2345* the chief sounded tired, but professional. *A B-56 again? That's the sixth time this week!* Rogers cackled while jumping up from the couch and slipping into his work boots. *Poor smuts don't know how good they have it!* I looked after him and shuck my head Rogers distaste for Timeline breakers was understandable, but he was a bit too eager to beat them up and drag them back to their home dimension. But I guess it was his way of coping with the reality that this was the only universe where he wasn't dead or never born and I knew how much he hated people who were, in his mind, ungrateful for the life they had. I gave the chief confirmation of receiving the orders and left myself. A half hour later our team landed safely in Universe 2345 on the outskirts of a large estate, it was massive with marble pillars and large oval windows. *So team, here is our client.* I opened my holodisplay *His Name is Thomas Jones, Universe 2089, Accountant, married to Mrs. Haley Jones-Norris, two children Tom Jr. and Leah. Currently switched with Thomas Keeler Jones, Universe 2345, Chief Executive Officer of Jones Hotels and Casinos, rest is identical.* *Wow a Twinner!* shouted Rogers and Mckeal in a duet. *Twinners* are two alternative versions of a person who have the exact same family and friends despite having vastly different lifes, these are rare and also make the most Trouble, since the desire of a client to return to their boring life is slimmer when they don't have miss their spouses or children. *Ok, we have to be quiet* I said. *Mr. Jones is going to try to defend himself from us, ok?* *I'm teaching him a lesson of gratitude* Rogers laughed and cracked his knuckles. *Not you won't! We try my way first and only bash in his head if he escalates capiche?!* My crew mates look at me and nodded in approval. *Okay let's go!* The way trough the compound was surprisingly easy, no guards or anything, I had the vain hope that central operation had just made a misjudgment, but then we entered Jones's office. Twenty armed men pointed their machine guns at us, Jones hiding behind his massive (and rather tacky) mahogany desk. *Please Mr. Jones don't do something you are going to regret* I said calmly and raised my hands, gesturing my crew to do the same. *I'm not going back!* he shouted nervously *I have everything I ever wanted: Money, my dream mansion, even my wife and kids are here, but better!* *Mr. Jones does people aren't your family they are your counterparts family* I try to walk to him, but was stopped by one of the guards. *I know they are better! My son is Captain of the Harvard Football Team and my daughter is an influencer and she's Twelve! Not to speak of my wife the oscar winning actress!* *But they aren't your children or your wife! They don't share the same experiences like them, you won't feel like you belong here, trust me!* I hoped to break his delusions and make him leave on his own. *That's not true!* he became angry. *Yes it is! Call your Wife and ask her about your first vacation together.* He looked at me perplexed, but called his wife with his phone regardless. The face of a beautiful woman appear on his holoscreen. *Hey Honey, why are you calling?* she asked, the voice of a distant film crew hearable. *I was reminiscing about our first vacation together, y'know the ski trip to Wisconsin?!* *We never went to Wisconsin, you probably mean the one to Aspen where we met Prince Harry, babe!* she sounded amused and was blissfully unaware of her "husbands" pale face. *Of course* he mumbled *sorry for bothering you.* he cancelled the call before she could say goodbye and ordered his guards to stay down. I came forward to his desk and he placed his hands in front of me. *This won't be necessary I think Sir!* He looked me in the eyes and almost defeated said *Please take my to my wife, my real wife!* *With pleasure Sir, with pleasure!*

It was a pretty simple job. You find the person who doesn't belong in the particular universe, which we could easily do by using the tracking chip that is placed in every timeline traveler, to then force them back to their own timeline. Most of the time people followed without much resistance. Because why would you not obey a team of trained assassins with fully loaded (stun)weapons. Of course these people don't know the weapons only stun. Why do they only stun you ask? Well we have to bring them back to a timeline they are still alive. Because if they come back dead, they actually come back to a different timeline, the timeline where they are already dead. When you were lucky you got a job where someone traveled to a timeline where they were the sole-ruler of the earth, or sometimes even the universe. This were the moments you truly got to shine. The true challenges since you had to retrieve the tourist without changing the timeline (no overthrowing whole regimes). Sometimes these people were already in jail for pretending to be the supreme leader, sometimes they had convinced the guards that they were in fact the supreme leader, and the other was the fake. But today we had a special case. No supreme leaders, not a harem of beautiful woman, hack not even a nice tasty meal. No this person had traveled to his ideal timeline. The time where he would already be dead. And there are a lot of times where guns or amazing combat skills can help you overtake an opponent, but when the opponent is "dead" they suddenly become useless. I was send on this job with two colleague's for a reconnaissance job. Find out where the target is, why they are still there and how many man are probably needed to retrieve the target. Today I got too work with my good friend John, who was a trained soldier like me, and the scumbag of a psychiatrist Oliver, whose job it was to make sure the mental state of the target would remain safe. Every mission had a psychiatrist who made sure we never shoot targets, when there is a big risk of trauma from it. Oliver however was very anti-violence, which meant we pretty much could never use our guns on missions with Oliver. So on arrival it seemed like an easy job. The target was in his hometown, so finding him wouldn't be that hard. He didn't seem to have any power in the world. The only thing we would need to do is locate where he was and politely ask him to come with us. But when the tracking device started beeping we weren't able to actually spot a person. It wasn't like there was anywhere he could go. It was a dead-end alleyway. Maybe he is hiding inside the wall? John suggested. After which he happily took out his portable axe and started swinging. Instantly the most foul smell we had ever encountered appeared. "Well someone has to go in and check if he is there" Oliver said. After which John and I quickly pushed Oliver into the hole. It stayed quit for a while. "So? Is there anyone in there?" I asked annoyed. ... ... ... No answer. ... ... ... After five minutes a creature came out of the hole, which I could only describe as nothing, yet everything at the same time, it's body constantly shifting in shape and color, like even its substance was changing every second. It was holding something in which i guess was it's hand. It was Oliver's head, which a second later would be absorbed into the body of the monster. After absorbing Oliver's head the monster just kind of stood there for what seemed hours. When suddenly it started speaking in what seemed a thousand voices. "You do not belong here human, this is not your timeline, therefore you will have to be erased!" John quickly reacted, almost crying: "No, no, please. We only came here to take back someone from our own timeline. When we have him we will leave I promise." The monster sighed. "It seems your actions are no longer required. You came for a man called Thomas, who does not exist in this timeline. Therefore I came to this world to destroy him. Now you shall join him". ​ // Feedback would be greatly appreciated. I know the ending is quite sudden and out of the context of the story, but this is the first time for me writing from a prompt, so I just tried to see where I could go.//

[WP] The psionics in your battalion are mocked for sitting in chairs meditating all day while the real soldiers do the fighting, until an un-repulsed enemy psychic attack shows them that psionic battles are every bit as real as anyone’s.

"Did you let them through?" He asked, familiar voice coming from an unfamiliar place. I suppose I was in the unfamiliar place, but which was which didn't matter so much as that there was a difference at all. "Did you let them through?" He repeated, slower this time. I tugged on the handcuffs, a weak hurdle backed by the larger, stronger hurdle of armed guards. I knew those faces. I knew that they would not miss me. There was a sigh, a battle of wills against a Psionic lost as inevitably as glacial creep. "Did you know they were there?" He tried. I sat forward on the aluminium stool and leaned on the table. "I saw them coming. Their own Psionics people weren't as good as we are." I replied. "Did you attempt to repel them?" He asked. I put my head on the table and listened to the furious curses swirling in his head. He put on a cool face for such heat. A short fuse and one hell of a blast shield. If only he had directed that energy into controlling his men. "Could you have repelled them?" He asked. Glacial creep, and sure enough the harder stone directed the flow. I didn't move except to turn my head to bare my mouth. "Maybe. They were strong, merely untrained. Small group. All that pressure in one spot? They might have gotten through no matter who was on the clock." I offered. "What were the odds?" He asked, finally an interesting question. I sat up again and thought about it. Scratched the table to keep track. It left no marks, no fleshy material would, but as physical chains held the mind, physical motion held the memory. With a shrug I answered. "I give it 20% they made it through." "They did." He snapped. "We rolled our dice and came up with a one. Not my fault. Just chance. A natural error. Perhaps if the physical combatants had been prepared as they ought, the losses would not be so high." I jabbed. This made him angry, match in a kerosene puddle. I felt the heat from here, through the one-way glass and depressants. I closed my eyes and let the metal tell me his footstep patterns, extending my mind to encompass the room, one with all the universe I could reach in these shackles. He had slammed the door of the dark room and strode the hall three long, heavy steps before the door to my left was ripped open. I did not open my eyes, not when he slammed the table nor when he leaned in close. "You let the enemy walk up to us. You opened the gate." He accused. I did but I would never have admitted it. "They cut a hole in the gate. To them it was only a fence, and they came with cutters. You accuse me of treachery?" I asked. He stood up again, ran his hand through thinning hair. Grey. For all his fine dinners and comfortable beds, he held a lot of stress. "Did you even warn them?" He asked. "According to protocol I sent the commanding officer a notification when they were first spotted, when I ascertained their capability, and when they breached the field. You have recording of my alerts made to my commanding officer at that time." I answered. I opened my eyes to meet his, grey rings like the barrels of rifles aimed my way. "I did what I could. I passed the baton. They are the ones who fumbled." I insisted. He turned away, scowling for only a moment. "Your arguments with the regular units are also well documented." He suggested. "They get into arguments with themselves." I countered. "I recall a particularly nasty bar fight ended in a medical discharge and two dishonorable discharges." "And in both cases," he began, pausing to lock eyes again. "The suspects were tried before a court and a jury composed of your average joe." "I am aware." I grunted. I knew what threat he made. I was aware, both of the trial and of the public's opinion of people like me. "And lying to the court will only make it worse." He added. "Then I have no need to fear." I agreed. "You will have to answer the question directly at some point." He pointed out. "And I will tell them the same as I have told you." I dismissed. "You haven't." He refused to drop it. I refused to pick it back up. We dragged our staring contest out for another moment. The silence was such that I heard the guardsmen outside the interrogation room open a pouch and crunch on a hidden snack. Business as usual for them I supposed. It was only a brainer's life on the line. "One last time. Did you let them through?" He asked. "No. Your incompetent son and his lazy brutes did." I hissed. Stars erupted, and my elbows landed first. Then my head, and finally I could see again, wall and man looming over me while the ringing in my ears muffled the door opening. He was lead out of the room by an aide while a guardsman flashed a light in my eyes to assure I wasn't hurt too seriously. Satisfied, I was righted and left alone, blood running out of my broken nose onto my uniform. Maybe one day they would treat me right.

It’s common knowledge that the mind plays tricks on us, inventing monsters in the shadows or hearing whispers as we fall asleep. These events are normal, and often unavoidable. What isn’t natural is when we play tricks on the minds of others. Psionics emerged in the late 22nd century, and have often been the subject of harsh regulation and prejudice. Their abilities are phenomenal, but often control them more than they their powers. An untrained Psionic can raise accidental havoc across multiple city blocks. A trained Psionic can can do so on purpose, from miles away. It didn’t take long at all to adopt them into the military, and once they did it became mandatory that everyone have a Psionic in their battalion. It seemed strange, that it be mandatory. After all what’s one man again against an entire battalion, surely we could handle ourselves. Of course, we couldn’t. It was at dawn, on a cool Saturday. I was guarding the munitions dump, when everything went to shit. I heard screaming and crying. The fire of our rifles could be heard around me, as well as the terror on our commander’s voice. He was shouting something. Something about losing his men, and the dirty terrorists who took them. And he started shooting. And then like a switch was flicked, everything went back to normal. Well, normal with a hefty side of friendly fire. There was no enemy. We weren’t being attacked, not physically. It was psionic. And the way it stopped? Our own Psionic. A woman we tormented relentlessly. We called her weak, interrupted her training and meditation. Hurled insults like they were going out of style. She stopped it. By herself. So I get it. I get why we need her. They’re stronger than us, in ways we can’t imagine.

[WP] The psionics in your battalion are mocked for sitting in chairs meditating all day while the real soldiers do the fighting, until an un-repulsed enemy psychic attack shows them that psionic battles are every bit as real as anyone’s.

Zero-Nineteen sat in his mini spa capsule. A very fancy sensory deprivation chamber. Oil infused water, scentless. A cool mist spray, scented with AI driven algorithm. The world moved forward, but for 19, it was still for now. Despite the undying battlefield, he was still alive. The world gently shifted. His body rotated. It was to wake him. The surrounding water drained away. For the first time, sound entered the chamber. Trickles of water sprayed out. Rhythmic pulses of water ticked his back. The water intensified. They became hard, bone-breaking streams that smashed into his body. A regular man would have died. 19 relaxed as the hydro massage kneaded him from head to toe. Then the world returned. The water drizzled away. Gravity reclaimed his body. 19 opened his eyes. The dark chamber now filled with soft lights. A hiss filled the room as the spherical capsule opened. He walked out. Dozens of such capsules were here. The heated flooring was nice as he walked across the ramps to the locker rooms. He needed to dress. Rest time was over. Today was another day on the undying lands. — Second Lieutenant Dan snickered as he saw the scrawnies eat. Though many of them were not in fact thing, they were definitely pudgy. There was a whole extra section in the mess hall for them. Tons of fatty, buttery food. Deep fried everything. You wanted veggies, soaked in butter, and then had a crunchy breading? Veggie section. Double deep fried chicken? Meat section. Butter dipped, double deep fried oreo? Desert section. What made him the most irritated was they couldn’t get any. They got the regulation food-stuff while they ate what looked amazing. The hundreds of soldiers sat around, the air a cacophony of talk, laughter, and jeers. The scrawnies sat in a separate glass room. With air conditioning, music, and a fucking arcade system. “Dan, you’re staring again.” Dan blinked and looked over to see his best friend. Malissa smiled at him and he grunted back. “You know, they got some in upgrades for the machines. I hear they got the whole new set of survival games. You know, chop down trees, make tools, fight unholy demons,” Malissa said with a soft yearning. She hadn’t played a proper game in some months now. “I just want access to the arcade and theater,” Dan whined as he sat his tray down. Meatloaf and mashed potatoes. Nothing but the best for the Unified Military Arm. “Mini-Theater,” Malissa said and chuckled as his flat stare in return. “Fine, ‘Mini-Theater’,” Dan quoted as he shoveled a spoonful of mash into his mouth. “Well, you know we just arrived. A few days in and we already got a transfer tomorrow. Have your men ready by sunrise,” Malissa said around a mouthful of meatloaf. Dan nodded. His gaze tracking a random scrawnie. The mother fucker had a plate of pancakes in one hand, and what looked like a steak in the other. Fucking hell. — The transfer was simple enough. The thousands of vehicles moving through the well protected northern front. It had the least amount of conflicts, as they had a massive fortress built into the side of two mountains. The thing had enough artillery to withstand a siege from several armies. They were all well documented. Whatever the TuRT forces did, they never succeeded. The airforce, however, was a newer part of this. Dan looked up from his place on the APC. From the snippets he heard, UMA was moving whole armies up to the northern fortress, Fort Hua. This wasn’t some simple transfer, though. He felt goose bumps. They had been fighting on the southern continent of Reluse. There it was, simple military to military operations. Here in on the central Continent of Raleigh? It included the psychic nonsense. As if it was that important. A platoon could kill anyone with psychic powers. “We have a spike psycho-nits. All units, prepare for a scuffle,” the cool and collected voice spoke across the command channels. Captain Youtiao was a veteran soldier. He was no recruit on these battlefields. Dan watched as the horizon shimmered. Then came the artillery. The explosions rocked the formations. Massive volley of modern shatter shells struck them. Things blew up. Metal, men, and earth flew into the air. Dan winced as a drill-bit shrapnel piece broke on his shoulder plate. Thank the lords he had command armor. Dan stepped down and closed the top hatch. “Status?” Dan asked as he held onto the ceiling’s support bars. “We lost Wuffle and Waffles. Nothing else major,” Apone replied. “All mechanized soldiers a deploying as we speak.” Dan grit his teeth. Two of his APCs were already down. Hopefully, there would be survivors. 20 soldiers down. Just like that. Though these losses would count as nothing compared to this encounter. The booms and shrieks of return fire followed. Tiny pips of smaller guns followed suit. The power armor infantry jogging at a 150km/h were already moving with the much faster tanks. The two lines would meet in some 30 seconds. “We got fresh problems!” Apone yelled out. The Master Sargent sent an invitation to Dan to see what he was seeing. Dan linked in. The new enemies had taken no damage as a bubble formed over the invading forces. A massive, translucent titan was gliding in front of the enemies. “Is that a psychic?” he asked as the system zoomed into the center of the titan. There an old man floated. He had an emaciated body. Only skin and bones. Though the blood-red eyes were glowing. “News to me. I mean, I heard the rumors, and seen the vids… this is fucked up,” Apone artfully replied as the Titan strode forward. The translucent form seemed immune from all weapons. “Launch the emergency missile,” Captain Youtiao’s voice said. It was an odd broadcast… but it was probably on purpose. Either a feint, or the man had already launched said missile. A seismic boom rocked the APC as the non-nuclear missile ignited the giant. The enemy forces finally took damage. The battlefield lost its images as the EMP static overtook all systems. Dan made his way up to the side of the hatch. He popped the mini para-scope and looked out. A blood-red streak passed his vision. What the hell was that? His para-scope showed the vehicles to his left. A APC smashed into their tail as it slipped out of control. The brigade’s left side was all affected. They had suddenly all lost control. All the vehicles on the left were running out of control. The APC systems quickly calculated some 800 vehicles affected. All around them was a new explosion as the air force’s finest dropped from the skies. The combined losses were probably an entire platoon. Two hits and they were a fifth down. The static interfered with proper life scanning, but Dan felt his stomach drop. They fucked up. They didn’t heed the proper notices and left without a psychic escort. He climbed the hatch and popped it open again. The left side was clear of allied forces and he bit his lip hard enough to break skin. The Titan was now closer. Its massive scythe in hand. It was swinging again. “Turn this APC right, right now!” Dan screamed. It was probably too late, but never let it be said that he, Dan Tiger, froze when the chips were down. The APC moved, but it was too slow. The scythe’s blade must have been a kilometer tall. Hell, the Red Titan was tens of kilometers tall. Dan closed his eyes, muttered a prayer, and opened them. He would face this with grim determination. The scythe hit. The world changed to a static purple and red. Streaks of lightning popped across what was a massive dome. A dome that moved with them. Dan saw it then. Another Titan. A purple tinged monster that stood before them. This titan took two steps forward and punched the other one in the face. Space seemed to shatter as Dan watched the old man slam into the ground. Purple Titan raised its left hand. Black sticks formed. Wait. No. Spears? Dan watched as a hundred black, ragged spears of energy slammed into the old man. There was an unholy, inhuman scream and the red titan faded. The Purple raised his right hand. In it was a tiny, tiny human. The old man. The Purple rubbed his fingers and looked down. All around it were TuRT forces. Most were turning to flee. The Purple lifted his left hand. All enemy vehicles and their infantry lifted. The Purple clenched his left hand into a fist. It compacted everything into a tiny, kilometer wide ball. The Purple dropped it and faded. Dan felt his stomach turn at the effortless show of power. The simple, life reaping powers of psychics. The boom that ball made was loud. A sound that rocked his soldier’s mentality. The taps of feet on metal caught Dan’s attention. He looked up into the purple eyes of a chubby young man. A man he had sneered at during lunch. “Who is your commanding officer?” A voice rang into his mind. “Captain Youtiao,” Dan replied. What was he going to do? Not answer the military super weapon? “Get him, or the next officer up here. I want to know why you didn’t have psychic support for this,” the young man ordered as he waved towards their military convoy. Dan nodded and began talking into his speaker. Two pops and four extra feet appeared on the APC. The now 200km/h moving vehicle. The twins were young, and Dan definitely had to swallow his bile. They reminded him of his eldest daughter, Sarah. Dan’s focus shifted as he got a reply. Captain Youtiao was in the massive psychic reaping. Malissa, first lieutenant, was now the highest ranking officer here. She was also now moving her APC over to talk to the psychic man.

It’s common knowledge that the mind plays tricks on us, inventing monsters in the shadows or hearing whispers as we fall asleep. These events are normal, and often unavoidable. What isn’t natural is when we play tricks on the minds of others. Psionics emerged in the late 22nd century, and have often been the subject of harsh regulation and prejudice. Their abilities are phenomenal, but often control them more than they their powers. An untrained Psionic can raise accidental havoc across multiple city blocks. A trained Psionic can can do so on purpose, from miles away. It didn’t take long at all to adopt them into the military, and once they did it became mandatory that everyone have a Psionic in their battalion. It seemed strange, that it be mandatory. After all what’s one man again against an entire battalion, surely we could handle ourselves. Of course, we couldn’t. It was at dawn, on a cool Saturday. I was guarding the munitions dump, when everything went to shit. I heard screaming and crying. The fire of our rifles could be heard around me, as well as the terror on our commander’s voice. He was shouting something. Something about losing his men, and the dirty terrorists who took them. And he started shooting. And then like a switch was flicked, everything went back to normal. Well, normal with a hefty side of friendly fire. There was no enemy. We weren’t being attacked, not physically. It was psionic. And the way it stopped? Our own Psionic. A woman we tormented relentlessly. We called her weak, interrupted her training and meditation. Hurled insults like they were going out of style. She stopped it. By herself. So I get it. I get why we need her. They’re stronger than us, in ways we can’t imagine.

[WP] The psionics in your battalion are mocked for sitting in chairs meditating all day while the real soldiers do the fighting, until an un-repulsed enemy psychic attack shows them that psionic battles are every bit as real as anyone’s.

Zero-Nineteen sat in his mini spa capsule. A very fancy sensory deprivation chamber. Oil infused water, scentless. A cool mist spray, scented with AI driven algorithm. The world moved forward, but for 19, it was still for now. Despite the undying battlefield, he was still alive. The world gently shifted. His body rotated. It was to wake him. The surrounding water drained away. For the first time, sound entered the chamber. Trickles of water sprayed out. Rhythmic pulses of water ticked his back. The water intensified. They became hard, bone-breaking streams that smashed into his body. A regular man would have died. 19 relaxed as the hydro massage kneaded him from head to toe. Then the world returned. The water drizzled away. Gravity reclaimed his body. 19 opened his eyes. The dark chamber now filled with soft lights. A hiss filled the room as the spherical capsule opened. He walked out. Dozens of such capsules were here. The heated flooring was nice as he walked across the ramps to the locker rooms. He needed to dress. Rest time was over. Today was another day on the undying lands. — Second Lieutenant Dan snickered as he saw the scrawnies eat. Though many of them were not in fact thing, they were definitely pudgy. There was a whole extra section in the mess hall for them. Tons of fatty, buttery food. Deep fried everything. You wanted veggies, soaked in butter, and then had a crunchy breading? Veggie section. Double deep fried chicken? Meat section. Butter dipped, double deep fried oreo? Desert section. What made him the most irritated was they couldn’t get any. They got the regulation food-stuff while they ate what looked amazing. The hundreds of soldiers sat around, the air a cacophony of talk, laughter, and jeers. The scrawnies sat in a separate glass room. With air conditioning, music, and a fucking arcade system. “Dan, you’re staring again.” Dan blinked and looked over to see his best friend. Malissa smiled at him and he grunted back. “You know, they got some in upgrades for the machines. I hear they got the whole new set of survival games. You know, chop down trees, make tools, fight unholy demons,” Malissa said with a soft yearning. She hadn’t played a proper game in some months now. “I just want access to the arcade and theater,” Dan whined as he sat his tray down. Meatloaf and mashed potatoes. Nothing but the best for the Unified Military Arm. “Mini-Theater,” Malissa said and chuckled as his flat stare in return. “Fine, ‘Mini-Theater’,” Dan quoted as he shoveled a spoonful of mash into his mouth. “Well, you know we just arrived. A few days in and we already got a transfer tomorrow. Have your men ready by sunrise,” Malissa said around a mouthful of meatloaf. Dan nodded. His gaze tracking a random scrawnie. The mother fucker had a plate of pancakes in one hand, and what looked like a steak in the other. Fucking hell. — The transfer was simple enough. The thousands of vehicles moving through the well protected northern front. It had the least amount of conflicts, as they had a massive fortress built into the side of two mountains. The thing had enough artillery to withstand a siege from several armies. They were all well documented. Whatever the TuRT forces did, they never succeeded. The airforce, however, was a newer part of this. Dan looked up from his place on the APC. From the snippets he heard, UMA was moving whole armies up to the northern fortress, Fort Hua. This wasn’t some simple transfer, though. He felt goose bumps. They had been fighting on the southern continent of Reluse. There it was, simple military to military operations. Here in on the central Continent of Raleigh? It included the psychic nonsense. As if it was that important. A platoon could kill anyone with psychic powers. “We have a spike psycho-nits. All units, prepare for a scuffle,” the cool and collected voice spoke across the command channels. Captain Youtiao was a veteran soldier. He was no recruit on these battlefields. Dan watched as the horizon shimmered. Then came the artillery. The explosions rocked the formations. Massive volley of modern shatter shells struck them. Things blew up. Metal, men, and earth flew into the air. Dan winced as a drill-bit shrapnel piece broke on his shoulder plate. Thank the lords he had command armor. Dan stepped down and closed the top hatch. “Status?” Dan asked as he held onto the ceiling’s support bars. “We lost Wuffle and Waffles. Nothing else major,” Apone replied. “All mechanized soldiers a deploying as we speak.” Dan grit his teeth. Two of his APCs were already down. Hopefully, there would be survivors. 20 soldiers down. Just like that. Though these losses would count as nothing compared to this encounter. The booms and shrieks of return fire followed. Tiny pips of smaller guns followed suit. The power armor infantry jogging at a 150km/h were already moving with the much faster tanks. The two lines would meet in some 30 seconds. “We got fresh problems!” Apone yelled out. The Master Sargent sent an invitation to Dan to see what he was seeing. Dan linked in. The new enemies had taken no damage as a bubble formed over the invading forces. A massive, translucent titan was gliding in front of the enemies. “Is that a psychic?” he asked as the system zoomed into the center of the titan. There an old man floated. He had an emaciated body. Only skin and bones. Though the blood-red eyes were glowing. “News to me. I mean, I heard the rumors, and seen the vids… this is fucked up,” Apone artfully replied as the Titan strode forward. The translucent form seemed immune from all weapons. “Launch the emergency missile,” Captain Youtiao’s voice said. It was an odd broadcast… but it was probably on purpose. Either a feint, or the man had already launched said missile. A seismic boom rocked the APC as the non-nuclear missile ignited the giant. The enemy forces finally took damage. The battlefield lost its images as the EMP static overtook all systems. Dan made his way up to the side of the hatch. He popped the mini para-scope and looked out. A blood-red streak passed his vision. What the hell was that? His para-scope showed the vehicles to his left. A APC smashed into their tail as it slipped out of control. The brigade’s left side was all affected. They had suddenly all lost control. All the vehicles on the left were running out of control. The APC systems quickly calculated some 800 vehicles affected. All around them was a new explosion as the air force’s finest dropped from the skies. The combined losses were probably an entire platoon. Two hits and they were a fifth down. The static interfered with proper life scanning, but Dan felt his stomach drop. They fucked up. They didn’t heed the proper notices and left without a psychic escort. He climbed the hatch and popped it open again. The left side was clear of allied forces and he bit his lip hard enough to break skin. The Titan was now closer. Its massive scythe in hand. It was swinging again. “Turn this APC right, right now!” Dan screamed. It was probably too late, but never let it be said that he, Dan Tiger, froze when the chips were down. The APC moved, but it was too slow. The scythe’s blade must have been a kilometer tall. Hell, the Red Titan was tens of kilometers tall. Dan closed his eyes, muttered a prayer, and opened them. He would face this with grim determination. The scythe hit. The world changed to a static purple and red. Streaks of lightning popped across what was a massive dome. A dome that moved with them. Dan saw it then. Another Titan. A purple tinged monster that stood before them. This titan took two steps forward and punched the other one in the face. Space seemed to shatter as Dan watched the old man slam into the ground. Purple Titan raised its left hand. Black sticks formed. Wait. No. Spears? Dan watched as a hundred black, ragged spears of energy slammed into the old man. There was an unholy, inhuman scream and the red titan faded. The Purple raised his right hand. In it was a tiny, tiny human. The old man. The Purple rubbed his fingers and looked down. All around it were TuRT forces. Most were turning to flee. The Purple lifted his left hand. All enemy vehicles and their infantry lifted. The Purple clenched his left hand into a fist. It compacted everything into a tiny, kilometer wide ball. The Purple dropped it and faded. Dan felt his stomach turn at the effortless show of power. The simple, life reaping powers of psychics. The boom that ball made was loud. A sound that rocked his soldier’s mentality. The taps of feet on metal caught Dan’s attention. He looked up into the purple eyes of a chubby young man. A man he had sneered at during lunch. “Who is your commanding officer?” A voice rang into his mind. “Captain Youtiao,” Dan replied. What was he going to do? Not answer the military super weapon? “Get him, or the next officer up here. I want to know why you didn’t have psychic support for this,” the young man ordered as he waved towards their military convoy. Dan nodded and began talking into his speaker. Two pops and four extra feet appeared on the APC. The now 200km/h moving vehicle. The twins were young, and Dan definitely had to swallow his bile. They reminded him of his eldest daughter, Sarah. Dan’s focus shifted as he got a reply. Captain Youtiao was in the massive psychic reaping. Malissa, first lieutenant, was now the highest ranking officer here. She was also now moving her APC over to talk to the psychic man.

"Did you let them through?" He asked, familiar voice coming from an unfamiliar place. I suppose I was in the unfamiliar place, but which was which didn't matter so much as that there was a difference at all. "Did you let them through?" He repeated, slower this time. I tugged on the handcuffs, a weak hurdle backed by the larger, stronger hurdle of armed guards. I knew those faces. I knew that they would not miss me. There was a sigh, a battle of wills against a Psionic lost as inevitably as glacial creep. "Did you know they were there?" He tried. I sat forward on the aluminium stool and leaned on the table. "I saw them coming. Their own Psionics people weren't as good as we are." I replied. "Did you attempt to repel them?" He asked. I put my head on the table and listened to the furious curses swirling in his head. He put on a cool face for such heat. A short fuse and one hell of a blast shield. If only he had directed that energy into controlling his men. "Could you have repelled them?" He asked. Glacial creep, and sure enough the harder stone directed the flow. I didn't move except to turn my head to bare my mouth. "Maybe. They were strong, merely untrained. Small group. All that pressure in one spot? They might have gotten through no matter who was on the clock." I offered. "What were the odds?" He asked, finally an interesting question. I sat up again and thought about it. Scratched the table to keep track. It left no marks, no fleshy material would, but as physical chains held the mind, physical motion held the memory. With a shrug I answered. "I give it 20% they made it through." "They did." He snapped. "We rolled our dice and came up with a one. Not my fault. Just chance. A natural error. Perhaps if the physical combatants had been prepared as they ought, the losses would not be so high." I jabbed. This made him angry, match in a kerosene puddle. I felt the heat from here, through the one-way glass and depressants. I closed my eyes and let the metal tell me his footstep patterns, extending my mind to encompass the room, one with all the universe I could reach in these shackles. He had slammed the door of the dark room and strode the hall three long, heavy steps before the door to my left was ripped open. I did not open my eyes, not when he slammed the table nor when he leaned in close. "You let the enemy walk up to us. You opened the gate." He accused. I did but I would never have admitted it. "They cut a hole in the gate. To them it was only a fence, and they came with cutters. You accuse me of treachery?" I asked. He stood up again, ran his hand through thinning hair. Grey. For all his fine dinners and comfortable beds, he held a lot of stress. "Did you even warn them?" He asked. "According to protocol I sent the commanding officer a notification when they were first spotted, when I ascertained their capability, and when they breached the field. You have recording of my alerts made to my commanding officer at that time." I answered. I opened my eyes to meet his, grey rings like the barrels of rifles aimed my way. "I did what I could. I passed the baton. They are the ones who fumbled." I insisted. He turned away, scowling for only a moment. "Your arguments with the regular units are also well documented." He suggested. "They get into arguments with themselves." I countered. "I recall a particularly nasty bar fight ended in a medical discharge and two dishonorable discharges." "And in both cases," he began, pausing to lock eyes again. "The suspects were tried before a court and a jury composed of your average joe." "I am aware." I grunted. I knew what threat he made. I was aware, both of the trial and of the public's opinion of people like me. "And lying to the court will only make it worse." He added. "Then I have no need to fear." I agreed. "You will have to answer the question directly at some point." He pointed out. "And I will tell them the same as I have told you." I dismissed. "You haven't." He refused to drop it. I refused to pick it back up. We dragged our staring contest out for another moment. The silence was such that I heard the guardsmen outside the interrogation room open a pouch and crunch on a hidden snack. Business as usual for them I supposed. It was only a brainer's life on the line. "One last time. Did you let them through?" He asked. "No. Your incompetent son and his lazy brutes did." I hissed. Stars erupted, and my elbows landed first. Then my head, and finally I could see again, wall and man looming over me while the ringing in my ears muffled the door opening. He was lead out of the room by an aide while a guardsman flashed a light in my eyes to assure I wasn't hurt too seriously. Satisfied, I was righted and left alone, blood running out of my broken nose onto my uniform. Maybe one day they would treat me right.

[WP] Your friend’s dying wish was to have their ashes returned to the forest. To the tree you both engraved your names in. Upon arrival of your destination, you see a sign upon a barbed link fence. “Caution, construction in progress”.

Somewhere on the coast of Labrador there stands a single ancient cedar tree. It should not have been able to grow that far north, but there it stood, on the apex of a craggy ridge over the sea, gnarled roots forcing their way deep into the jagged basalt. A lifetime ago in half-forgotten better days Joshua Byron had found that lonely cedar tree with Livia Randall at his side. They had climbed into the branches and sat listening to the howling north wind and the gnawing symphony of the sea. From that moment on, the overriding logic of Joshua's life became dreadfully clear: for Livia, anything. In his eyes, she put angels to shame. She died too soon, of bad luck more than anything else. They had never planned for cancer. Who does? Before she went, Livia made her wishes clear. For Joshua, there was never any question about going. If he had to walk to Labrador, he would get it done. For Livia, anything. "Bring me to the tree. You know the one." She'd said, dying. All her beautiful red hair had fallen out, her skin had a grey pallor, and she was perilously thin. Still, she put the angels to shame. Joshua: jaw clenched like a steel trap, eyes swimming, hands clenched. A tiny nod. *I know the one*, that nod said. "I'll get you there, Wildflower," he'd said, with a dagger in his throat. "I promise." The smell of anti-septic. Machines, beeping, beeping, always beeping. Wires, tubes, buttons. The not completely covered stench of shit and sweat and death. She smiled, dying. "See you in another life, alright?" Joshua broke. Death. A funeral on a sunny day. Paperwork. Lawyers. Family. Too many people saying sorry who didn't give a damn. Joshua did not eat. He did not sleep. His hair went grey. He got cold. Mean, even. Sometimes, he disappeared for days. He didn't talk to anybody or do anything. His friends tried to help him. His family tried to help him. There was nothing to be done. For Livia, anything. But Livia was gone. A plane. A ferry. A truck. A bush plane. Another truck. Then a long, long walk. The miles were nothing, because for Livia, anything. The second morning. The third. The fourth. Rain. Walking. Summer in Labrador. The sea, singing him to sleep. The fifth morning. Almost there. The sixth morning. A fence that should not have been there. A sign. Construction in progress. Ten foot fence, topped with barbed wire. Joshua, jumping the fence. Walking. Mid-day. Signs of activity. New structures. A work barge. An excavator. A worker, challenging him. "Hey man, no hikers allowed through here." Joshua, a statue. "I'm not here to hike." He sounded tired, even to his own ears. The kind of tired no rest can cure. The worker. Tall. Brown-haired. Nose, twice broken, crooked. He looked at Joshua for a long time. "What are you here for?" Joshua took a leather pouch from his belt, and held it up. It was the kind of pouch that cannot be mistaken. "Got a promise to keep." Again, the two men looked at eachother for a long time. Understanding. Not complete, but enough. "Well, go on then," the worker said, stepping aside. Walking. The worker, saying a prayer for the haggard, grief-stricken hiker with a promise to keep. A short conversation on a radio. Machines, falling silent. Men, standing from their lunch. Men, melting from the wood, hats over their hearts. Silence, except for the music of Labrador in summer. The sea, weeping in rhythm. A cedar tree, still standing. A man, digging. Scrabbling first with a shovel, then with his hands. A leather pouch, pressed to his forehead. A leather pouch, given to the tree. A hole, filled in, covered with a great piece of slate. A promise, kept. For Livia, anything. A long walk home. Years later. Summer in Labrador. A tidal electric generator complex. Buildings, piers, barracks. A small town in nowhere. On a ridge, an administrative structure. A courtyard, overlooking the sea. A cedar tree. A plaque. *Livia Randall 1997-2020* *She Put The Angels To Shame*

Fuck. Fuck fuck fuck. I'm sorry Barret. I fucking tried. Did I? Did I really? No. Not really. Fuck this. Okay. It's a fence. Chain link. Barbed wire. Barbed wire? Fuck. I can see the goddamn tree from here. It's right there. I mean *right there.* I just need to get through this stupid fucking fence. Big breath. There's no one else around, right? I mean, it's Saturday. Who the fuck works on a Saturday? Fucking no one, that's who. "HELLO?!?" Nothing. That's good. That's very good. Okay, what's around. "IS THERE ANYTHING AROUND I COULD USE TO CUT THIS STUPID FUCKING FENCE WITH?" Fucking lol. That was for you, buddy. Alright, so I don't have shit that's useful. Maybe if I walk down a ways, there will be a gate, or a hole, or something. Don't worry, buddy. I'm gonna get you home. Or, you know, to that tree you like. You're a weird fucking dude, you know that? Like that time we went to Vegas and you spend the entire goddamn drive telling me how awesome it was gonna be, and we were telling jokes - oh shit man - the raunchiest jokes - and then we got there and you passed out by the pool within fifteen minutes. What the fuck, dude? I thought we were gonna be chillin' together. Asshole. Okay, here's something. It's a... guard house? Post? Hovel? I don't fucking know what it's supposed to be. But there's so no where here, so that's good news. Hey, look, they've got one of those CC TVs inside there. I wonder what the cameras see... That's weird. It's just our tree. On the camera, I mean. Like, the only fucking thing being monitored in this entire construction site is that tree. This is weird, right? Whatever. There's no one here, and I made you a promise. It looks like the camera is only on the South side, so if I come in close to the fence I should be fine. Okay, I don't really know if that's South or not, but the fence plan should be fine. They'll see the ashes of course, but not me. It's not like they can arrest someone based on a little plume of smoke, right? Fucking right. It is totally weird that there's no one here but the gate is open and the little TV monitor thing is on. The fuck have you gotten me in to? Remember that time we were in Mexico and you convinced those girls that I was actually Jonathan Taylor Thomas in disguise and they were totally down to have a threesome with me because they thought sucking a famous dude off would somehow equate second-hand fame to them? You were a legend, man. I miss you. Right. Here's the tree. And I see the camera over there. No way it can see me from here. Easy peasy. I just have to open the urn and toss you out. Just open the urn. And toss you out. Open the urn. Open. Toss. It's that easy. Fuck. Fuck man. Why'd you have to go and fucking die on me? What the fuck were you thinking? Why did you decide that now, *now* of all times was the best time to have a heart attack or bone AIDS or whatever the fuck weird ass bullshit it was that put you in the ground? Or, in this urn. You know what I fucking mean, asshole. WHY??? Shit. And this tree? Now? Why me? Why not your sister? Or your mom? Why didn't you want to be buried next to your dad? WHAT THE FUCK, MAN??? What the fuck, man? Fuck. Okay. Okay okay okay. I'm just going to open... There. And here you go. Into the world. Be free, my brother. Be happy. Bang some big titty hoes in heaven or wherever the fuck you ended up for me, okay? I fucking miss you, man. You were the best. Asshole. Oh shit. Someone's coming. Who the fuck works on a Saturday? Why didn't they just lock the gate and make this shit impossible to get into? How the fuck do they know I'm here??? Wait... There's no way they know I'm here, right? I'm not on the camera, I made sure of that. And they wouldn't be looking for a cloud of ash, right? Okay. Calm down. Breathe. There's no way they know I'm here. I just... hide... somewhere. Fuck, I can hear the guy getting closer. It's gotta be the security guard - I can hear the walkie rattling away. But where can I hide? All I have is the corner of this fence and this stupid fucking tree you liked so much. Wait. Wait a goddamn second. I could climb the tree! Okay, if I stand right here, when I run in towards the tree, the camera won't see my face. And I can climb it there, and my entire body will be on the opposite side from the camera. Two branches up and I can just jump over the fence. No big deal. We climbed plenty higher when we were little, right bud? Right. Just toss the empty urn over the fence and here... we... go! \---- Dear Diary, I swear I saw Josh again tonight out by the old oak tree. He was earlier than last time, but it was definitely him. Sometimes I think I'm going crazy. But this time I caught him on the surveillance footage. I don't know if I'm glad I turned the camera to watch the tree instead of the foreman's trailer or not, but I definitely caught something on it. There's a puff of smoke or mist or... something... and then Josh - well, in the video you can't really tell what it is, but I know it was him - Josh runs right into the tree, and then he disappears. I don't know how to feel. All this time I thought I was nuts, but now I have proof. Proof I'm not crazy. Proof he's out there. Proof that this tree matters. Not that anyone will listen to me. It's a miracle I've kept my job, honestly, after all of the weird things I reported when I first started doing the rounds. But I guess Josh's dad feels bad for me. We were friends, you know? And I'd have done anything for him. I like to think he'd have done the same for me. \-B.

[WP] Your friend’s dying wish was to have their ashes returned to the forest. To the tree you both engraved your names in. Upon arrival of your destination, you see a sign upon a barbed link fence. “Caution, construction in progress”.

Somewhere on the coast of Labrador there stands a single ancient cedar tree. It should not have been able to grow that far north, but there it stood, on the apex of a craggy ridge over the sea, gnarled roots forcing their way deep into the jagged basalt. A lifetime ago in half-forgotten better days Joshua Byron had found that lonely cedar tree with Livia Randall at his side. They had climbed into the branches and sat listening to the howling north wind and the gnawing symphony of the sea. From that moment on, the overriding logic of Joshua's life became dreadfully clear: for Livia, anything. In his eyes, she put angels to shame. She died too soon, of bad luck more than anything else. They had never planned for cancer. Who does? Before she went, Livia made her wishes clear. For Joshua, there was never any question about going. If he had to walk to Labrador, he would get it done. For Livia, anything. "Bring me to the tree. You know the one." She'd said, dying. All her beautiful red hair had fallen out, her skin had a grey pallor, and she was perilously thin. Still, she put the angels to shame. Joshua: jaw clenched like a steel trap, eyes swimming, hands clenched. A tiny nod. *I know the one*, that nod said. "I'll get you there, Wildflower," he'd said, with a dagger in his throat. "I promise." The smell of anti-septic. Machines, beeping, beeping, always beeping. Wires, tubes, buttons. The not completely covered stench of shit and sweat and death. She smiled, dying. "See you in another life, alright?" Joshua broke. Death. A funeral on a sunny day. Paperwork. Lawyers. Family. Too many people saying sorry who didn't give a damn. Joshua did not eat. He did not sleep. His hair went grey. He got cold. Mean, even. Sometimes, he disappeared for days. He didn't talk to anybody or do anything. His friends tried to help him. His family tried to help him. There was nothing to be done. For Livia, anything. But Livia was gone. A plane. A ferry. A truck. A bush plane. Another truck. Then a long, long walk. The miles were nothing, because for Livia, anything. The second morning. The third. The fourth. Rain. Walking. Summer in Labrador. The sea, singing him to sleep. The fifth morning. Almost there. The sixth morning. A fence that should not have been there. A sign. Construction in progress. Ten foot fence, topped with barbed wire. Joshua, jumping the fence. Walking. Mid-day. Signs of activity. New structures. A work barge. An excavator. A worker, challenging him. "Hey man, no hikers allowed through here." Joshua, a statue. "I'm not here to hike." He sounded tired, even to his own ears. The kind of tired no rest can cure. The worker. Tall. Brown-haired. Nose, twice broken, crooked. He looked at Joshua for a long time. "What are you here for?" Joshua took a leather pouch from his belt, and held it up. It was the kind of pouch that cannot be mistaken. "Got a promise to keep." Again, the two men looked at eachother for a long time. Understanding. Not complete, but enough. "Well, go on then," the worker said, stepping aside. Walking. The worker, saying a prayer for the haggard, grief-stricken hiker with a promise to keep. A short conversation on a radio. Machines, falling silent. Men, standing from their lunch. Men, melting from the wood, hats over their hearts. Silence, except for the music of Labrador in summer. The sea, weeping in rhythm. A cedar tree, still standing. A man, digging. Scrabbling first with a shovel, then with his hands. A leather pouch, pressed to his forehead. A leather pouch, given to the tree. A hole, filled in, covered with a great piece of slate. A promise, kept. For Livia, anything. A long walk home. Years later. Summer in Labrador. A tidal electric generator complex. Buildings, piers, barracks. A small town in nowhere. On a ridge, an administrative structure. A courtyard, overlooking the sea. A cedar tree. A plaque. *Livia Randall 1997-2020* *She Put The Angels To Shame*

Your last wish is to be scattered among the forest you used to explore, at the base of the tree at the center of it all. I’ll make sure that request is filled. The hike to the forest was easy, I remember the way even after so long away. When I was small, the trees seemed so large, I was frightened by them. Then you showed me their beauty. You guided me away from the thorns and poisonous leaves, towards towering trees filled with the sound of birds and squirrels simply living. We came so often, we had our own little trail all the way to the tree. But now, halfway there, a thin chainlink fence capped in barbed wire halts my progress. A team of workers stands between the trees. “Excuse me!” I call out to them. One of them turns to me, and approaches the fence. “What’s the problem kid?” They ask, blasé. “I was wondering if I might be allowed in? I wont be long. A friend of mine has passed just recently, and I wanted to fulfill his last wish.” I plead. “What’s his wish?” “To be scattered in the forest, at the base of our tree.” I gesture to the urn in my backpack. “Guess it can’t hurt, but you aught’ know that this land is being turned into a park. Like, with a playground and stuff.” They said. “That’s alright, I think he would like that. He was a very kind soul.” I smile. “Alright, follow me this way and I’ll let you in.” So I followed, and true to their word they ushered me inside. “Be back in an hour at the latest.” “Yes, I’ll make sure of it.” I replied. Finally my journey could continue. I found the start of our trail, and began again my trek towards the tree. You would think seeing this land developed would dishearten me, but frankly I think you would have liked it. You ways brought a smile to my face, and now the spot we enjoyed so much will do so for children again. I’ll miss the tree, should it happen to be cut down. But that’s just the way of the world, all things change. You couldn’t be with me forever, and that tree is the same. If not now, someday it will wither and fall. I know the love we had for eachother will stand the test of time, wether we’re both here under the tree or not. It seems all too soon my feet find the familiar terrain of the tree’s roots. It’s large, and majestic. At the base, below my height now, is our names. James and Jack. Suddenly, as if a shifting of the wind, my stomach is of lead and my chest aches. It finally set in, that you’re gone. That no matter my choices none will bring you back. No matter the road, none will lead to home. Not with you there waiting for me. Jack, you silly dog. You gave me sixteen years of happiness. Now I stand with you in my arms one last time, ready to set you free within the forest you loved. Slowly, I slip off my bag and reach for the urn. I can’t stop the tears now, falling from my cheeks like a steady drizzle in the sun. I don’t know where you’ve gone, or when we’ll see eachother again. But I know that should I pass, you’ll be awaiting me. You the same shepherd that greeted me when I was five, and I the same child that hugged you to sleep the first night away from your litter. I love you Jack, you were more than a pet. You were a friend. Rest now. I open the urn begin to spread the ashes amongst the trees. The wind, in all its gusty glory, passes over twigs and branches. A trick of the brain, I know, but in that moment I can hear your howl. At last we’ve said our peace. Goodbye.

[WP] The story of a werewolf who goes around biting other cryptids to see what happens.

This journal is my record. I am a man of science, though science herself has forsaken me. I am cursed, you see. It should be impossible, yet, it is undeniably real. I was bitten, not in some dank alley or foggy moor, but in my laboratory. I was examining a specimen, a very fine jawbone from some canid, species to be determined. Though now, with more information to hand, I would say the species is most certainly Homo Lupus. A moments carelessness, and my thumb was pierced by the lower left canine. It was a shallow wound and barely shed a whole drop of blood. Nonetheless, the next full moon brought me much consternation. When I woke that first morning, unclothed and spitting scraps of rabbit fur, I could not imagine what had happened. I limped home, skulking through gardens and behind hedges. I am not ashamed to admit that I made directly for the brandy. I awoke a second time that day, well into the afternoon. I was in my own bed, and suffering the lash of intemperance. I dismissed it all as a bottled nightmare, even my filthy and stone bruised feet. I must have gone into the garden, I told myself. The following month it happened again. This time I was less able to ignore the evidence. There was half of a Roebuck in my parlour. The rear half, as it happened. Also, I had not replenished my supply of brandy. I began to investigate this phenomenon which had befallen me. Within a mere six months, I had learned very much indeed. The subject was astonishingly well documented for something outside the realm of science. Further, as I became accustomed to the lunatic transformation, I found that I did not subsume into a mindless beast. So long as I made sure there was meat on hand to slake the hunger, it was quite trivial to remember who I was every other night of the month. At first I experimented on myself. I had some hopes of devising a cure, or at least adding to the literature. Which I have, insomuch as it is only a treatise on things that do not cure a werewolf. Then it occurred to me that if I were real, perhaps others were as well. Did the dead walk, and seduce nubile young ladies? Were there filthy things tunnelling beneath the graveyard? Could a soul be trapped in a castle or cottage, forced to wait out eternity in a draughty corridor? I can say unreservedly that the answer to the above is yes. Also, that they too are well documented. I must admit, at this juncture I was disheartened. A new field had opened before me. I had plunged in, only to find it well trodden and combed over. Did I suffer this curse for nought? I spent some weeks in a blue study, trying to resume interest in my old specimens. Or, betimes, chasing an India rubber ball about the garden. It was that very jawbone that gave me the idea. At first I dared not believe that I'd finally struck upon an original line of research. But several days amongst the tomes convinced me. No one knows what happens when a werewolf bites a vampyre. Or for that matter, a goul, a zombi, a yeti, or a phooka. Can fangs even touch the spectral flesh of a haunt, a poltergeist, or a collywobble? I am uniquely equipped for this research, both by training and by once monthly temperament. I shall undertake a tour, and I will faithfully record here the results and my observations. The first stop on my journey shall be a castle in the wilds of Transylvania.

Vladimir Dracula was having an off evening. He found out his toothbrush was stolen during the day. Usually, he'd inform the human police force to help find the culprit. But there was no need seeing as they hadn't even tried to hide the signs of their intrusion. The bathroom reeked of their blood. Following his nose, he traced the scent to it's origin. The search led him right behind his toilet. A tiny droplet of green blood. He snorted, "Cursed Chupacabras. I told them I want no part of their territorial feud." He quickly wiped it off and prepared for work. He was a speaker at the Blood Party held by his office. This opportunity comes once in a blue moon. He didn't want to be late just because of his troublesome neighbors. **AT THE PARTY** Vlad was in the venue. He was calming his nerves down before his speech with a glass of pixie ichor when John Beast, the infamous mad scientist and nephew of Lucifer, walked in. *Oh boy. This can't be good.* "Morning, Professor. I hope your night has been good so far," Beast looked at the ceiling and stroked his shaved chin in mock contemplation, trying to fight the small tug at the corner of his mouth. "Y'know, there's this thing I've been wanting to try out." "Go away," was what Vlad wanted to say but he valued his second life way too much to possibly offend the scion of one of the most ruthless families in the Underrealm. He was forced to swallow his pride, "It has been. May I help you?" *Please say no.* "Actually, you can." This is a weird thing to say, since most of Vlad's bodily functions stopped working centuries ago. But for a second, he was sure his heart dropped into his stomach. "Follow me." And so Vlad obediently did. It's a well known fact that if someone of a much higher status than you tells you to do their bidding, you do or die without question. In Vlad's case, it would technically be his second time dying, but it scared him nonetheless. Beast lead him to his limo (which Vlad noted to be worth at least a thousand souls more than he earns a year), "Hop in. No promises, but I'll try to get you back before midnight so you can deliver your speech." The whole car ride felt like fever dream to Vlad. He vaguely recalls Beast passionately talking about bloodsuckers and hybrids, but he was more focused on trying to find an escape than listening to his kidnapper's sermon. Unfortunately, he found none. "We're here," Beast smiled as he opened Vlad's door and looked him in the eye. His smile looked like it was meant to be friendly but his eyes said another story. They were the eyes of a predator knowing it has caught it's prey. "Make sure you you follow me because the corridors all look the same." **AT BEAST'S LAB** "So now what?" Vlad asked in the most amicable voice he could muster as he looked in awe and envy at all of Beast's expensive equipment. He was about to turn to face Beast when he suddenly felt a sharp pain on his shoulder. Saliva soaked his suit and his vision went dark. "Haha! Good job, *master!*" Two figures emerged. The Chupacabra sisters. They were watching what happened through cameras in another room. "We knew it was the right thing to come to you!" "You dare failed to capture him and stole his belongings instead, beg for forgiveness, and then pretend you had it all under control after I fixed your mess?" His snarl made his fangs visible for just a second before they returned back to their normal position. "But we-" "No excuses. Help me carry our dear guest to the chamber. He'll wake up soon. When we're done, report to my father."

[WP] As a doctor, you’ve never seen a patient with such an irregular heartbeat. Then you realize it's saying "help me" in morse code.

I leaned forward, my stethoscope pressed up against the patient’s side. As part of a routine physical, I needed to make sure that there weren’t any irregularities, but as the patient was a fit man in his middle 30’s, I doubted there would be many. As I slid the cold, metal drum into place on his bare chest, I gave the instruction: “Okay, Mr. Barbas, take a deep breath in for me, and hold it.” He complied, his lungs filling with air. I found the best place to listen. The first few beats echoed in my ears, normal and healthy. Then a pause. “That’s odd,” I thought to myself. Then another single beat, followed by another pause. I continued to listen, trying to make sure I hadn’t just missed it somehow. Another beat. Another, but this one was somehow longer, followed by two more, and then another pause. One short, two long, and another short. Another pause. My first thought was a benign murmur, as the patient had not complained of anything, but this was too irregular. Realizing that I was still in the middle of an examination, I quickly told him to release his breath. The patient exhaled, the air hissing as it pushed past his lips. Intrigued, I moved my stethoscope to the opposite side of his chest and began to listen. After a number of irregular beats, the pattern I recognized from earlier began again. This time, I continue to listen. A long pause, followed by two long beats, a pause, and one more short beat. After a long pause, it started over. Shakily, I told the patient “go ahead and release that breath”. He gave me a strange look, but then did as I asked. I took his heartbeat several more times at different points across his torso, with the same result every time. At this point, I had memorized the pattern. Short beats, long pauses, It sounded almost like... like Morse code. “Give me a second, I’ll be right back,” I said, stepping from the room. Closing the door behind me, I walked briskly to my office and locked the door behind me. I picked up a pen and dragged a scrap of paper in front of me, quickly scribbling down the pattern. On my computer, I looked up a morse code key. I filled in the pattern, one by one, writing the letters under each collection of dots and dashes. With each letter I wrote, my spirit sank, knowing what was to come.As I wrote down the last letter, a violent chill ran up and down my spine. In my messy scrawl before me, were the two words; *help me*. Immediately, I felt a presence behind me. I whipped around. There before me stood the patient, fully clothed. “Listen to me,” he said strongly. “Forget what you have heard, and seen, sign off on the physical and I’ll be on my way.” I hadn’t heard the door open, in fact, I could see that it was still locked. He couldn’t have gotten in without my key, which sat in my pocket. “What are you,” I whimpered hoarsely. “That is none of your concern. Now sign this paper!” He held out my clipboard, his physical on it. I turned to my to my desk, where the clipboard had been only a moment before, and looked back to him. I opened my mouth to scream, to call for help, but immediately felt a hand grasp firmly around my throat. My scream came out as a broken whisper. “That’s a shame,” he said, his voice sounding genuinely full of regret. “Somebody will miss you” All went black. I awoke, and immediately, the stench of death hit my nose. I bolted upright, hurriedly examining my environment. I was surrounded by walls of red flesh, pulsing with that familiar pattern. I could feel is beneath me, my back bare. I quickly realized that I was not alone. Across the room from me, a skeletal man hammered on the walls, drumming out in Morse code the pattern that had doomed me. Completely nude, I could see his ribs, recognize that one of them was slightly out of shape, likely an old injury. I could count his vertebrae, see his hips. His hair had been reduced to a number of stubborn clumps clinging to his scalp. Littering the floor were bones, many of them. I counted at least twelve skulls, and an assortment of other bones, all sinking into the flesh floor slowly. Without looking behind him, or even pausing his solemn rhythm, he voiced a greeting. “So you got the message, but you got caught anyways. That’s unfortunate.” “What is this place?” I asked tentatively, getting to my feet unsteadily. “Isn’t it obvious?” He asked. “The heart. He took us, devoured our souls, but he doesn’t eat us normally, no, we power him in a different way. “What is he?” I cried, despair filling my voice. “Whatever he is, he isn’t human.” He finally tuned his head, glancing to a pile of bones less submerged that the others. “The one before me said that it was some kind of monster, but he couldn’t remember what the one before him had called it. He’s trying to blend in.” He winced, lowering his hands. The pulsing in the wall returned to a normal heartbeat. “I’m done.” He picked a bone from off the floor, brushed it off, handed it to me, and promptly disintegrated. His bones fell to the floor, clattering against each other, and his skull landed with a wet thunk. Immediately, I felt a pressure on me, like my very soul was being eaten away. I glanced towards the bone that I had been handed and saw that scratched into it was the Morse code pattern. I stared at it, pondering upon the strange gift I had been given, and dropped it onto the floor. There *had* to be a way. I wandered towards the wall, prodding it, trying to find a way out. I clawed at it, trying to dig my way out, I used one of the discarded ribs as a knife, but it was useless. The flesh wall would yield back, flexing to a point, but nothing would pierce it. I collapsed to the floor and screamed, the hopelessness of it all flooding my senses. Then, I stood. I found the bone, which I recognized as a humerus, and examined the pattern. I stared at it, scanning over it again and again, every dot and line, and committed it to memory. Then, I discarded it. I wandered over to the wall, sizing it up again. There was nothing better I could do, so I raised my arms, and began. Sorry for the format, I’m on mobile.

I was getting worried, I had never seen such a irregular heartbeat.The entire reason I became a doctor was so I could save/help lives.But then, I felt like a recognised something, I had to think someone’s life may be on the line. You see, one of my irrational fears was always that someone may be trying to send me a secret message for help.I learned morse code, well only really enough to understand the words help me as they are the most used words for well help. It must be a coincidence I thought. How could someone manipulate their heartbeat, let alone enough to send a message.Thats when she started shaking almost like her skin was hatching.

[WP] "I'm home!" You shout, walking into your palace after a year of war on the Greek mainland. You are greeted by your sobbing wife, who holds a newborn boy in her hands. You understand instantly. You kiss your wife, coddle the child, and then pick your sword up. Zeus was going to die.

We'd never been all that fond of the gods in our household. Eighty years ago, Zeus had apparently turned into a monster and raped my great-grandmother(And a few other local girls who unfortunately passed on). It was frankly surprising she survived, and not at all surprising that all of her descendants had been special in one way or another. My grandmother, one of a set of twins, had turned out to be the greatest seamstress ever born; better than even the gods; and after winning a contest with Athena, been cursed to be turned into a spider. Fortunately, my dad had already been born at that point, or I'd have never come to be. ​ ​ My dad's was the only generation that the god's didn't directly screw over somehow; which was frankly surprising, as he turned out to be the most skilled blacksmith in all of greece, able to craft items to rival the skill even of Hephaestus; the fact that he prayed to Hephaestus instead of Zeus should've landed him in hot water, but according to dad, that intricately carved metal pole on the roof somehow protected him from the old bastard. Despite grandmother's curse, my father's talents had landed us work at the palace; he hand-crafted the weapons of the king and his mightiest warriors. And his son, of course. ​ ​ For me? Like everyone in my family, I was stronger and tougher than the common man; but I never missed a shot. I could throw a javelin through a blade of grass at a hundred paces, and skewer a fly with an arrow at a thousand. When war came calling, invaders from Greece washing ashore to raid the villages, against my father's wishes I crossed the sea to join my countrymen in a counter-attack. The first battle of a long war that would keep me away from my family for over a year. I was a great hero; I'd personally slain dozens of men and even some sort of strange three-headed armored giant which had to have all three of its heads slain before it fell. ​ ​ Coming home should have been a relief. My bride was one of the most beautiful maidens to grace our shores; and more importantly was willing to tolerate my family's general disdain for all the temples but our chosen god, Hephaestus. I was due great rewards; dozens of former greeks had been dragged home to be my slaves, each carrying a sack of gold and valuables on his back, and the Prince had decreed I would be gifted a home in the royal lands for my service. I had felt our family's endless troubles were over. ​ Seeing my wife's face was a shock. I'd thought it possible she was pregnant when I left; but the babe was too young. When I first looked at her I was angry at her infidelity. I might have said something I regretted. But then I saw the babe. Spitting image of my grandfather, son of Zeus. He looked somewhat like myself, in fact, as I had a touch of the resemblance. I might have thought he was my own. My wife had apparently been stricken mute by whatever had been done to her; but nodding was enough; I asked if it had been Zeus. And if it had been rape. The answers were obvious. I kissed her, took her and the child to stay with my mother; perhaps he wasn't mine, but he was related to my, and of course my beloved, so I would care for him as if he were; and asked my father for his help. ​ Three days later, I set sail once more for greece. I sold half the treasures I'd won to pay a group of mercenaries to follow me; and even then they'd have refused if not for the gifts of my father; Maned Helms of Hephaestus, crafted to ward off any ranged attack, be it the lightning of Zeus or the arrows of mortals. He'd spent much of his life crafting the tools to hopefully unseat our family's tormentors; and while he didn't want me to go to my likely death, he knew I was the only hope of ending this divine plague upon all of humanity. ​ I sailed the calm waters of the Aegean sea; Poseiden, it seemed, had no issues with my quest; and landed on the borders of Thessaly. The Centaurs didn't seem to know my purpose, but still remained loyal to our mutual ancestor; their arrows and spears hailed upon my party for days as we trod through their country; using spear and bow to slay those that made the mistake of drawing too close, the bulk of them knew better. Here, in the lands where the vile deities had overthrown the Titans and begun their reign of terror on this earth, lay what I sought. ​ In the darkness deep beneath the mountains, in caves no mortal had ever trod, my companions split away; to remain on the surface. They had no idea why I was here, or what I sought. But as I entered a cave, what felt like miles below the surface, I found him. An enormous serpentine head, connected to a body leading down somewhere into the depths. I could feel its heartbeat. Slow. The paths of ancient, dried blood dotted its flesh. He'd been injured; badly; thousands of years ago. And never recovered. I poured a bottle of some medicine my mother had blended between the enormous lips. The heartbeat sped up. A single, enormous eye opened. ​ "Typhon. The strongest of all the Titan's children. I aim to kill Zeus. Will you help me?" A low, steady rumble. The earth shook. A soft, sibilant voice, seeming to come from every direction. "I would. But as mighty as I am, the thunderbolt can bring me low." "Hephestus has blessed my family with the secret of protection from Zeus's power. Take me to Olympus. Break down the gates. And I will end him for both of us." ​ The mighty beast studied me closely. Perhaps it was assessing my honesty. Testing my scent; surely he could tell I was a descendant of his most hated enemy. And when he lashed out, I feared the worst. Enclosed in the serpent's mouth, I closed my eyes, damning myself for this foolish idea. ​ And then... after a long, terrible rumble. The mouth opened. I could see it; an enormous body, made up of the tails of serpents all blended to one; and dozens of heads, each as great as the one on whose jaw I stood. I could see, hundreds of feet below, my men staring up, cowering in terror, as the heads moved in, all but the one I rode upon staring at me. "I will take you, spawn of Zeus. We shall crush the usurper, or we shall die on the mountaintop."

They say you can’t kill a God. Maybe you can’t, but the least I can do is try. He has hurt my family, my wife will never be the same again, but I won’t let him get away with it. I’ve heard rumors of him doing it, but I thought that was just what they were, rumors. I thought that he wouldn’t, or couldn’t, do such a thing. Most men have a lighter heart than him on Anubis’ scale. I am going to Mount Olympus, and I will kill this god. But don’t think I’m stupid, I have a plan. Killing a god alone would be stupid but I’m retrieving help from a jealous wife.

[WP] You're the monster that goes bump in the night. The creature in the shadows. The embodiment of evil. Here comes your next victim

I am everywhere. I was created alongside life, a beast to haunt it from the shadows, to hunt down those who fell behind. I am a monster unlike any before. And I will be here long after humanity snuffs itself out. I see her, walking through the night. An unwitting victim in my never-ending hunt. She doesn't see me. I like it that way. Stalking them, making them paranoid, as a primal part of their brain screams in terror. I choose my targets carefully, taking out ones who feed me more. For I am the embodiment of evil, and there is only 1 thing which satisfies me. She walks, starting to glance around. She knows something hunts her, but feeble human senses do not find me. Her footsteps quicken, and I grin. I can smell her fear rising already. It had been barely a day since my last feast, and I was hungry. She gets to a darkened building, letting herself in through a side entrance. I silently slip in, letting the scents of fear, pain and sorrow wash over me. It is a vile place here, one I feel at home in. She walks to the back, past burly men who nod as she passes. At last, she arrives at an office, where she sits at a desk, sorting through papers. A list of orders, and a list of supplies. She looks them over, before calling in an assistant. They talk, but I don't understand their language. I had never been interested in that. The assistant leaves, and she is alone, and getting twitchy. The assistant comes in, dragging behind him a young girl, who's eyes are puffy. The lady looks her over, and nods, saying something to the assistant. He grins, and drags the girl from the room. Her fear is thick, and a scream follows. The lady looks back at the list. Now, I move to her. I let my breath flow over her, and she shivers. Her heart beats fast, and I'm she knows something is wrong. She opens her mouth to call someone, and I seize the opportunity. My mouth covers hers, and I bite down, splintering bone and teeth. I bite again and again, ripping through her body. The room is covered in her splatter, and I gore myself. A guard walks in, to see her torn open remains. He fails to see me hunched over, savouring the last shreds of her heart. Then I slither away, back into the night. My belly was full of the sins she had committed. The only thing that could satisfy me.

The footsteps echoed through the ally way. That frantic beat of shoe on concrete was better than even the most amazing orchestra in the world. Tonight's performer ran like his life depended on it. Well it did but that was sort of the point. Sliding between the shadows of the city was simple. Many would assume that a city that never sleeps would make what I do difficult. The exact opposite was true. Many light sources cast many shadows. That gives me variety which as they say is the spice of life...or in my case after life. The man turned a corner, blindly. Good. He was desperate, panicking. Someone level headed could find their way to safety. A scared man would just run, like a lemming over a cliff. He collided with the brick wall at the end of the alley. No where to go little mouse. It's time for the curtain to close on tonight's performance. The man turned around, desperately searching for what had been following him. The creature. The shadow. The thing that he had been seeing. It was always in the corner of his vision. Behind every locked door and un ever shadowy corner it lurked. Any true hunter knows how to pursue prey. You can't just walk up to a deer and shoot it in the face with a shotgun. No. You tracked it, pursued it, led towards traps and into the ideal circumstances for that final killing blow. I had tracked this deer for a long time. From the shadows behind the man I emerged. Hearing the subtle sounds of my entrance he turned but he wasn't fast enough to get a way. With one shadowy claw I grabbed him by the throat. Strangulation, when done properly, was something of an art. If you didnt have enough force behind it your target could fight back. Too much and you risked then going unconscious or even worse snapping their neck. Theres no fun in that. Not even a little. The man gasped desperate for breath. My claws tightened around his wind pipe. I could feel his heart beat, a grand crescendo to tonight's finale. The man reached for the inside pocket of his long dirty jacket. He never reached it, as another claw slammed into his chest. Each long talon the size of daggers, I knew exactly where to strike to miss the vital organs. I had put a lot of work into this hunt. I was going to enjoy. I loosened my grip just a little. I needed him to speak after all. "You know what you are?" I said, the sounds hissing through the night, "You know you deserve this, dont you?" "Why...me...", the man gasped, each word only barely getting enough oxyegen. "Come now Mr. Parker, " I said, "when a man meets God he should be aware of his sins. And my my dont you have a lot of those." "I'm...sorry..." said the man, feebly. I was running out of time. He'd fall unconscious soon. Time for the final movement. "Oh I'm not the one who needs to hear that," I said, "but I suppose I'm better than nobody." With a sound like nails on a chalkboard I brought my talons together. Blood vushed like a river from his now mince meat chest. I dropped the body. It served no purpose now. A small item fell from inside the man's jacket. A wallet. I must have sliced the pocket with my talons. It had fallen open revealing a photo of a young girl, no older than 9. The man's daughter. "Finally...she's safe..." I said to the night. I turned stepping seamlessly ino the shadows I may be a beast but even a beast can serve a purpose.

[WP] As far back as you can remember, when you do something new, you will get an achievement that pops up in front of you that only you can see. Today, you were minding your own business when an achievement popped up. “Nice try: avoid a murder attempt.”

“Would you like a coffee?” asked the most inept of waitresses this coffee shop has seen so far. I had just started typing again, I already have a coffee and according to a warning in the top right of my peripheral vision if I drank any more I would reach the “Caffeine: Very High” state and all the symptoms that came with it. If I wanted a coffee I would be drinking the damn thing not ordering a second. I flex my jaw and look up to break in the new rookie, wanting to avoid a repeat of this poor performance when I notice she isn’t even wearing the uniform… must be her first day. I am about to give her the rundown of what constitutes the appropriate times to offer someone a coffee when an old friend appears obscuring my vision. “*Bottoms up!: Offered a beverage as part of courtship*” In fine print across the bottom read the familiar. “*87.2% of players. Earned 7 years after the mean.*” I learned long ago to not talk about the strange user interface that had worked its way from my mind to inhabit the world of technology. Instead I selfishly claimed credit for it. “Where did you get the idea to put timers on debuffs?” asked a colleague. “Oh… it just came to me.” I would reply. I dismissed the notification to see the woman’s face looking down at me. “Would you like a coffee?” she repeated motioning to the chair opposite. “Oh… yes of course.” I managed to answer to her implied question and moved my laptop to make room. She makes herself immediately at home, placing her bag on the table and a cup in front of me, the label reads “grizzleguts” in a quick black scrawl. “You must frequent here often, I asked for a ‘flat white for the cutie with a laptop’ and after having to point you out she offered to make your regular instead. I’ve always wanted to live somewhere long enough that shopkeepers recognise me but unfortunately I’m not a creature of habit.” “*Play it cool!: Receive a flirtatious remark.”* I avoided the fine print, not wanting to be told how far behind I was in this particular regard. “I wouldn’t romanticise it, staff cycle through so you only have the experience for a few months at a time.” “You’re a glowing ray of sunshine. Did you want the coffee?” she asked, pushing it toward me. “I'm flattered but I have one already.” I responded once again being interrupted by the message. “Nice Try!: Avoid a murder attempt!” “0% of players. Earned 0 seconds null the mean.” The notification vanished revealing a clear view of the coffee, I looked up to the woman's face to see her eyes glazed over for a fraction of a second before they focused sharply back onto mine, a smirk curling the corner of her lip. “Huh… I guess that’s a first.” she said.

I never put too much thought into them. They were nice little surprises. From what I gathered over the years, they would pop up now and then, usually when I would try something new. Just like any old game, they would appear for a brief amount of somewhere in my field of vision. Some were comical, while others, they could up for interpretation. Days were all the same as of late. Wake up, go to work, lounge on the couch playing some other video game, and maybe head out with some friends on the weekends. My routine had hardly changed a bit, so it was quite a field day for me when that little achievement box popped up that fateful day. When it all happened, I had headed out to catch some fresh air. It had been some time since I’d been at the main city park. Choosing a bench by the river, I took some moments to enjoy the ambiance. Sure, cars and honking trucks aren’t necessarily ambiance, but they were far enough to sound like faint sounds in the wind. I wasn’t the only one there. Nearby, he sat there. Dressed as average as you could imagine, he sat there. The older man was feeding the ducks. Part of me wanted to tell him off since feeding wildlife is strictly prohibited around here, but why ruin the atmosphere? The little achievement box that popped up disturbed the serenity of the moment. *Nice try! - Avoid a murder attempt!* Curiosity turned to confusion when my brain attempted to wrap itself around the meaning of the achievement. Nice try? Does that mean to stay away? Or was I doomed? The words ‘try again’ in a video game context isn’t the most peachy. While I wished I could’ve brushed it off, who could with such a jarring note? Thoroughly fed up with the situation, it was a good time for me to head out. It must’ve been a glitch, right? I mean all games have their occasional bug or two that needs to be patched. Glances over my shoulder failed to dispel the mounting anxiety and subsequent knots being formed in my stomach. That kind gentleman, smiling so eagerly as he fed the ducks, surely he can’t be. But, chances couldn’t be taken. It didn’t take too long for me to end up in a pub. Numerous drinks later and my mind was still running high from that achievement. Was it saying my end is today or later? It was better to head home and sleep it off. Preoccupied with my thoughts, I wandered about, trying to remember where my car was parked. Maybe I shouldn’t have had all that alcohol. It gave that man the perfect opportunity. I couldn’t tell you where he came from. He was just on top of me. He pounced. With my lack of physical activity, my reaction time had been dampened. Screams that sounded more like weak yelps left my throat. His twisted arms locked around me. Stumbling about, my best tries at throwing him off, sent me to crash down upon the pavement. That pathetic thing still had the high ground. Pain rechocited all around me. Vision blurred, hope was still there as I noted my car just a little up ahead. Almost there, almost there- my neck constricted. A stranger’s hands were now repositioned around my neck. He had me in his grasp. Shifting my focus to my legs, bold kicks turned floppy with my lessening air supply. Heart aflame, and pounding headache, I kept up with my useless attempts at trying to wrangle myself free from my assailant. However, my energy had been drained out. Shutting my eyes, I welcomed whatever was to come next. No new path greeted me. Energy to open my eyes came back. The surroundings were still the same from when he attacked. Yet, he didn’t stir. Two large words were plastered over my field of vision. *Try again?* ​ r/CasualScribblings

[WP] "For the last time, the Forest witch is my WIFE, and the boy she keeps on "kidnapping" is our SON."

"Fear not Timothy! I have come to save thy son from the evil witch Metherida!" The knight's golden locks flowed in the breeze, the sun glistening off his armor as he grinned with that perfect chiseled jaw of his. "Listen John," I sighed, "I don't know why you keep following me home from the store, but seriously, we're okay. Like I've told you everyday for the past three years, Metherida is my wife and she only keeps 'kidnapping' Kaiden because you keep dragging him to my grandmother's house, whom she hates. A mother-in-law not liking her daughter-in-law is hardly a reason to-" "Hush, dear Timothy!" John raised his sword, "The witch has put a spell on you! Don't worry I shall save you and your son! Come out witch, and bring the child, alive and unharmed, lest you meet the wrath of my blade!" "Dear God, not again." I sighed, straining a smile as my son peaked his head out the door. "Mom! It's that weird knight again!" He ran back into our little hut. "AGAIN?!" My wife roared, the crashing of pans coming from our kitchen. "Great, dinner's ruined too." I grumbled. My wife blowing the door off, her hair whipped around madly, ladle still in hand. "Gonna have to fix the door too I guess." I sighed. "I hate you so much John." "So you finally reveal yourself, foul witch! It's been a hard journey, but I've at last found your lair! Release the child, and you'll have a swift death!" John bellowed, his sword glowing with a considerable amount of light magic. "We're only a 15 minute walk from town, John. But hey, that sword looks new, nice trick." I blinked, turning to my wife I smiled weakly. "Sorry about this dear, it happened again. He's just so persistent." I started to step forward, John lowering his arm to block me. "Keep back, Timothy. We may be friends, but should the witch corrupt you any further, I might have to cut you down." Oh no, not again... "How dare you!" My wife pointed her ladle to John, flicks of green and black magic sparkling around the well used cooking utensil. "You come to MY house, attempt to take MY child, and threaten MY husband!" The magic swelled at the end of the ladle. "Oh shit!" I ducked down, careful not to spill the goods I'd just bought from the market. No need to make her even madder. "Die witch!" John charged, glowing sword raised, battle cry echoing through the air. Before he even got halfway to her, the magic shot out of her ladle, launching John backwards, his metal covered body hitting the ground hard. "Wow mom, that's the farthest he's flown back yet." Kaiden whistled. "Hmph," She smirked "Well, we might have to start marking how far he flies then." "I'm sorry about this honey." I brushed the dirt off myself as Kaiden ran up to me. "Good job warning your mother." I whispered, rustling his hair, "He's loud enough to wake the dead, but we don't need another incident." Kaiden nodded knowingly, his mother's smirk on his face. Seriously, he looks just like her, how can people not recognize him as her son? "It's fine." Metherida sighed, "Seriously though Tim, how many times does this make? I know he's your friend from the academy, but I'm getting tired of him constantly interrupting our dinner!" "I'm sorry dear," I kissed her cheek, giving her a small hug "I'll help to clean up, I promise. He just keeps figuring out where we live. No matter how many times you wipe his memory, my mother just hires him again to come bother us." "Yeah, that whole memory wipe thing can't be good for him, definitely going to affect him negatively in the long run." Kaiden bent over John's unconscious body, poking his cheek. "Should we teleport him back to town?" "Not you!" I warned Kaiden "Last time you sent him to the pig troughs, naked, and covered in gravy. Not again." I shook my head. "He's just an idiot, he doesn't deserve that." The smile falling from his face, Kaiden grumbled, dispelling the magic in his hand. "Well then," My wife raised her ladle to the unconscious knight, "How about we send him to Sonia, devourer of men?" She grinned wickedly "He won't come back from that." "I love you dear, but that's too cruel." I touched her shoulder, "How about sending him to Sonia's twin, Synthia, was it? He's her type, no?" "Hm, not a bad idea, she'll keep him for at least three weeks and torture him with aggressive affection." she nodded. " Metherida..." "Don't worry, he'll be fine! She just plays with men for a bit and lets them go once she gets bored of them. He'll be okay." She wrapped her arms around me, "I'm just hoping for a little bit of peace." she kissed my cheek "That idiot is lucky he's your friend, otherwise I'd have turned him into a toad by now." "Well, isn't he lucky, I've got such a merciful wife." I smiled, pressing my lips to hers. "Yuk!" Kaiden rolled his eyes. "Hehe," I chuckled, my wife whispering "later" as our lips parted, her attention returning to John. Flicking her wrist, a purple magic shot out towards John, spinning as it encased his body. "Goodbye weirdo." Kaiden waved, the purple magic becoming translucent, transporting John away for the fifth time this month. "Do you really think he'll be gone for a whole three weeks?" I asked my wife. "As long as he doesn't meet your mother, she was close with Synthia and Sonia's mother if I recall." "Right" I sighed "Do you think he'll ever realize he's living in a witch run town?" "That man has been stationed in this town for over 12 years. If he hasn't figured it out by now, I don't think he ever will." ...three weeks later... "Timothy, my dear friend. I hear you live near the witch's abode! Have you heard of that kidnapping of a young boy?! As knights, we have a duty, we must go to rescue him!" "Damn it John, not again!"

I should have realized my day had taken a turn for the infuriating when the call from the school came through in the middle of a meeting. Followed by a call from the police. Hurriedly I escaped the room got into the presently vacant office of some manager fearing the worst had come to pass. I give my information in a panic and discover that my son has apparently been kidnapped from school. Again. Frankly I stopped counting at some point. Predictably some "unusual witchy woman" had walked onto school property and then out with my son. No one stopped her. Multiple people had passed her in the hallway and no one turned her way or tried to escort her out. My son approached and they left together. It was all on camera but no one seemed to care what had happened until he missed the rest of his classes. The footage was checked when he wasn't on the bus. I sighed. "For the last time officer, the Forest Witch is my WIFE, and the boy she keeps "kidnapping" is our son!" Time and time again this had happened and it made my blood absolutely boil every. Single. Time. I can't imagine how it is that my wife tolerates the constant shenanigans surrounding her picking up our child for a doctor's appointments. We had talked to everyone in endless rounds. Teachers, principals, officers, sheriffs, FBI, CIA, and even Section 13 twice. Admittedly those last few had ended up being a bit exciting and very informative. Too bad all the attention seemingly could not stop this from happening for whatever reason. I was put on hold. I hang my head. It's going to be a long day. (Sorry for formatting, I'm on mobile)

[WP] You just learned that the words 'elvish' and 'eldritch' have the same root word. Suddenly your grandma's creepy stories about her childhood playtime in the woods make a lot more sense.

Once upon a time, there was a jungle where the trees spoke. They had pointy noses and eyes dark -- like the pits of hell. And they chattered away in low, hush tones when the world wasn't watching. They spoke in exotic tongues and giggled when one touched their barks. The pointy-eared hounds of the night, who delighted in their own sinister howling, gave the trees good company. In such woods did my Grandma play, or so she said. The eldritch horrors were, in fact, supposed to be her pets. My great-grandfather had brought them from lands out west, she'd tell me. And when I'd point to the fact that no such creatures ever existed, she would, in her soft matronly tones, say, "Oh, yes they did. Out in the west, they did." "Then what did they sound like?" She'd click her tongue in different patterns, making me laugh. She would say, "Old women shouldn't play children's games." And laugh with me. One day she produced a picture from her ancient trunk and told me that it was a picture of my great-grandfather. It was in color, and it wasn't done in oil. "Did they have cameras back then?" "In the west, they did." The profile of that long-nosed, pointy-eared man haunted me for years. I inherited those features from him. And was bullied for it. Elfie, they called me. My name, Alfie, didn't help my cause. All those stories and incidents held no particular meaning to me. Not until today, when looking for synonyms for the word eldritch, I came across the word 'elfish.' Apparently, they share the same roots, and so do I.

Grandma doesn't move. She is as still as the lamp on the table next to her and the chair under her one-hundred and twenty-five-year-old rump. She could even be furniture herself, dust-covered and ancient, better deserved to be seen in a museum than expected to function under normal wear and tear. So the boy says again, "I have your tea," and he does and it's burning his fingers because, in his hurry to bring it to her, he forgot the saucer. It sloshes as he hurries and places it on the table beside her on top of her old worn brown leather bible. The tea is black walnut and splashes over the side. The wetness touches his hand and at the moment he is more concerned with being burned than the fact now grandma is looking at him She isn't lifeless, she is annoyed. Her mouth opens and he thinks he can hear it creaking as if on rusting hinges, "Careful with the word of our Lord," she says the bavarian of her youth still strong on her words, "it's all that keeps the eldrich away." but she doesn't say eldritch she says elven, in the old tongue. The word means The White One and the eyes come back to him like he was still sleeping. The eyes that he knows belong to the voice, "*go to the shield. And kill it. destroy the barrier that prevents my coming*." The boy looks into his grandmother's milk-white eyes, eyes that only hold still a hint of the vivid blue they were at birth. Was that really 12 decades ago? How is that possible? *The shield must be destroyed,* his eldritch lord commands, and he agrees, soon and only because he has thought of little else since Sheboygan.

[WP] You just learned that the words 'elvish' and 'eldritch' have the same root word. Suddenly your grandma's creepy stories about her childhood playtime in the woods make a lot more sense.

Once upon a time, there was a jungle where the trees spoke. They had pointy noses and eyes dark -- like the pits of hell. And they chattered away in low, hush tones when the world wasn't watching. They spoke in exotic tongues and giggled when one touched their barks. The pointy-eared hounds of the night, who delighted in their own sinister howling, gave the trees good company. In such woods did my Grandma play, or so she said. The eldritch horrors were, in fact, supposed to be her pets. My great-grandfather had brought them from lands out west, she'd tell me. And when I'd point to the fact that no such creatures ever existed, she would, in her soft matronly tones, say, "Oh, yes they did. Out in the west, they did." "Then what did they sound like?" She'd click her tongue in different patterns, making me laugh. She would say, "Old women shouldn't play children's games." And laugh with me. One day she produced a picture from her ancient trunk and told me that it was a picture of my great-grandfather. It was in color, and it wasn't done in oil. "Did they have cameras back then?" "In the west, they did." The profile of that long-nosed, pointy-eared man haunted me for years. I inherited those features from him. And was bullied for it. Elfie, they called me. My name, Alfie, didn't help my cause. All those stories and incidents held no particular meaning to me. Not until today, when looking for synonyms for the word eldritch, I came across the word 'elfish.' Apparently, they share the same roots, and so do I.

Looking up at my grandmother’s childhood home, it seemed smaller than I remembered it. That’s how it goes when it’s been decades since you’ve seen a place, when you saw it through the eyes of a child. Even in the darkness of night, to me the house appeared bright with wonderful memories, from grandma’s cooking, especially her trifle, to helping in her garden, to playing checkers. All the little things that added up to a visit that was always special. *As I surveyed the scene of destruction before me, chilly fingers crept up my spine. There was a residue of something left behind, heavy and toxic in the air, an atmosphere that was foreign and wrong. This was the third time I’d felt it now, and it was no different. There was no acclimating to it, it didn’t fade to the back of your mind after a while like a rotten scent nearby. It persisted. But I tried my best to ignore it and shut the door to my truck, forcing myself to walk to the command center a dozen yards off.* One thing grandma always cautioned me about, though, was to the west, where her yard backed up into the woods. If I wanted to go deep into the woods at night, I would need to have her escort me. Because, she explained, there was a monster there. An elf, from a land of elves, she called it. As a young girl, she spoke to it without words, for this creature had no mouth. Instead, it spoke with its minds, and seemed fascinated with her comprehension of its messages. She ascribed it to her young age, her mind malleable and naturally fearless in the way only a child can be. *“What’s the count?” I asked, walking inside.* *“We’re assuming no survivors, so from census info, we’re looking at 1,294,” answered the woman to my left.* *General Warnick had been assigned to the incidents in Virginia, one of six states so far that had been attacked. They’d begun dividing up the work, assigning each general a lieutenant general who would go through the detailed reports with those from other states and look for any pattern. Any hint of information that could give us a weakness of these creatures, or a predictability to their selection of targets, or even just more information on what they looked like. These attacks happened quick and there were never survivors, leaving us feeling like we were chasing ghosts.* The house belonged to someone else now, of course, so I went straight toward the backyard. I was thirty-eight now, far from a child, and in the years when I was older, I’d dismissed my grandma’s stories as just that. But then we found the first footage of the creatures, caught by security cameras. And they were hauntingly familiar in the worst way. The strangest thing was that I remembered the fear of my grandmother’s stories, but nothing like I would have thought. The way she spoke of these creatures was with reverence. She had gazed through a door that she’d found and something had gazed back, she said. It emerged and stood tall, indescribable in its hideousness and yet somehow beautiful, in the way a thunderstorm was beautiful. That was how it felt standing in its presence, she said, like standing amidst the weighty presence of a thunderstorm, unable to tear your eyes away. *Pushing back the fear, I looked at the footage of the latest invaders.* *The monsters were darkness and ink, asymmetrical and alien, an amalgamation of eyes and limbs and mouths. They moved like shadows and with a speed that defied logic and through solid objects like they thought nothing of defying physics at will. One image of the two we’d caught on film here showed the open maw of a creature that seemed half-mouth, teeth in a dozen rows back. Another called to mind a disfigured and corpse-like gorilla, immense, towering over its victims. Victims who were struck immobile when any of the monsters set their eyes on them, only able to twitch or clutch their heads or stare wide-eyed, as if terror was striking them in the pit of their soul.* The leaves crunched underfoot as I entered the forest. I had a flashlight with me but preferred to let my eyes adjust to the trees lit only by the moon and faint starlight. I had no idea where I was going, just trying to listen to my instincts, let them guide me, and didn’t know if I was succeeding or if I would simply end up getting lost, left to follow a path back to my car with my phone’s GPS. But I kept going. Because what my grandmother told me of this creature was that it grew fond of their visits. It thought of her as a butterfly, pretty and delicate, curious and harmless, just as she thought of it as a butterfly would think of a human. Immense and strange, able to crush her at will but instead staring and taking a small pleasure from its presence. I continued my steps through the woods, the trees still in the absence of wind, silent as a graveyard, the loudest sound my footsteps crunching brush and twigs under my boots. And my mind went back to her cautions, that I was not to venture into the woods after dark without her, lest the creature see me not as the butterfly it saw her, but as a cockroach. I hadn’t known it back then, but the way she described them was not as elves, but as eldritch. It must have been minutes before I realized I was being drawn. Like someone calling my name, but instead they were calling my soul. I tried to take in my surroundings, but the woods seemed to darken even further. And finally, I felt it, the essence of a creature, the residue, the stain of its presence in our world. My vision swam as I laid my eyes on the door. I knew that’s what it was, not just from my grandma’s descriptions but from what it emitted, what it felt like. An unnatural tear in my world, something that set every hair on my body up on end with a shudder of goosebumps. My heartbeat quickened as I approached the void and the sounds of my footsteps, of distant cars, of everything in the world, it all subsided as irrelevant. When I stood a few yards from it, my knees gave out, terror coursing through my veins. But I slowly regulated my breathing, straining desperately to remain calm. And I thought back to those stories. The fondness with which my grandma spoke of this creature. Not all of them, just this one. As it emerged from the doorway, gigantic and dark and weighty with tentacles that spanned half its body, I clung to my memories. I spoke to it in the only way I could, with my mind and my emotions and my love for the young one it had known so long ago, the one who was now gone, in whose place I had come. And I then showed it my fear. And I asked for its help. ​ /r/storiesbykaren

[WP] You just learned that the words 'elvish' and 'eldritch' have the same root word. Suddenly your grandma's creepy stories about her childhood playtime in the woods make a lot more sense.

The dense, unnatural fog bank was split in two as the tight arrowhead of bikers drove into town. Evan had heard them coming from a long way off, everyone had, and on a day like today when all the rules seemed to have changed the sound had inspired hope and fear in equal measure. The surviving residents of Greenwich Junction gathered at the windows of the diner in shock. “Who are they?” Cynthia asked. She was trembling with fear, Evan saw. He reached out and took her hand. He hoped that was enough. “All that matters is that they aren’t the military. Those people aren’t here to help us.” “Shut it Griffith,” Evan said angrily. “How do you know they aren’t?” “Are you stupid or something? Unless the Marines started riding Harleys we’re screwed, look at those guys!” As much as Evan wanted to hit him, Griffith had a point. The riders pulled up outside the dinner, dismounting in unison. Evan could hear their banter, they threw strange words around, their tongues twisting around a language that didn’t sound quite human. The man at the front of the arrowhead laughed loudly, clapping his companion on the back and then removed his helmet, swinging his head to settle his long fair hair down his back. Evan heard gasps around him, the man was shockingly, unnaturally beautiful. The lines of his face seemed to have knife edges, and even from here he could see that his eyes had red centers. “We’re screwed,” Griffith said again, “totally screwed.” “Enough of that, young man.” The words were spoken quietly but everyone turned. His grandmother was the kind of woman who dominated a room. “Evan sweetie, would you fetch me my walker? I have a friend to greet.” “Grandma, what? Do you know these people?” “I did once, after a fashion. I didn’t think they’d come.” Evan let go of Cynthia’s hand, going to grab his grandmother’s walker from behind the counter. Outside all of the bikers had dismounted, they stood in the same arrowhead formation they’d rode into town in, waiting on something. They seemed oblivious to the fog and the danger. “Thank you dear,” his grandmother said, taking the walker from him. “Walk with me Evan. Bring Cynthia too, she’s nearly family.” A moment later the three of them were outside, Evan and Cynthia gripping baseball bats and glancing about themselves in terror. “You came!” Evan’s grandmother said. “Of course we did.” She spoke to the big man in the front. His eyes sparkled as he looked at her, he smiled broadly. This close up Evan noticed the sharp point of his ears. “We’d do anything for Wild Wilma!” someone called from the back of the formation. His fellows laughed, elbowing him. “Wild Wilma?” Evan asked, startled. “Who’s the whelp?” the leader said. “My grandson. He’s a good boy, but I’m afraid I only hinted at our stories.” “I can’t blame you. Your people are somewhat more inhibited than mine.” Suddenly the leader shook his head, and in three massive strides he was upon them, enfolding Evan’s grandmother in a gentle hug. She kissed him then, Evan was shocked to see it. Squarely on the mouth, no compunctions at all, as if the rest of them weren’t there. He glanced over at Cynthia, she seemed ill and confused. “Ahh Wilma, its been far too long,” the strange man said. “Such a shame to have only met like this. In a different time, a different place…” “In a different time you’d have called me a groupie and forgotten me, you only remember because me because I got in early.” A groupie? Evan stared at his grandmother in shock, she was still wrapped up in a stranger’s arms. “We’d never have forgotten Wild Wilma, no matter what the time was.” The man looked up at Evan, “boy, in her heyday your grandmother was a sight!” Evan wanted the fog to reach out and take him. Some conversations shouldn’t be had. “Oh enough of that,” his grandmother said. “I called you for a reason, can your people get us out of here?” The man sketched a bow, his long hair trailing low across the ground. “Of course! An Elf always remembers his debts. We’ve brought several sidecars, the Riders of R’lyeh are at your service!” Elf? What? “And I apologize most sincerely for what our God has done to your world. It is a pity.” “I should’ve known it was him with all the tentacles in the fog.” His grandmother shook her head. “Kiss me again then you big oaf, and make it a good one. Oh, and Evan dear? Gather our things, we’ll be leaving. You can bring Cynthia if you’d like.” \-------------- r/TurningtoWords

“I’ve… never seen anything like this,” Markos said grimly to his partner Naesala as they rode into the ravaged town on their horses, “This might be too much for us to handle.” Naesala just stared at the carnage with wide, unbelieving eyes. The High-Chief had called Markos in while the wreckage was still fresh. The houses looked as if they had been wrecked in many different ways: some looked trampled or kicked-in by some giant beast, some looked intact but with their windows broken and door askew… many even looked overgrown with trees sprouting directly inside of the house and bursting through their roofs and branches snaking through the windows. The villagers just stared up at him as they passed, their eyes dead. Markos noticed many of them looked wounded and imagined that the village clinic must be overflowing at the moment. It was eerily quiet except for a hysterical wailing somewhere in the distance. Markos scowled and shook his head sadly. He could only imagine what that night must have been like for these people. Markos signaled for Naesala to stop her horse. In front of them, an old man was nodding patiently as a tearful woman animatedly gestured and shouted. The man pointed off to the right and she thanked him and hurried off. The old man turned and looked at the two of them, “Ah, I see you’ve arrived, Monster Hunter. Unfortunately, we couldn’t offer you our village’s normal hospitality given how things are.” Markos and Naelsala dismounted from their horses, “Of course. High-Chief Kent, I see your situation is far worse in person than as you described it in your letter. Your case is like nothing I’ve seen before, so we’re going to need a lot more details to understand the nature of what attacked.” The mayor waved to two men standing by and they took the reins of the two horses and led them away to a nearby stable. “Of course,” the High-Chief said, “Follow me.” He led them to a relatively undamaged, temple-like building built of stone where people bustled in and out, which probably served as their temporary main headquarters. The man brought them to a simple room with a round table and wooden chairs and they sat. The man opened his mouth but Markos held up a hand, stopping him until he got his scroll and quill ready, then gestured for him to begin. The High-Chief rubbed his temples, “I don’t even know where to begin.” He sighed shakily, “It happened three nights ago. They… came from the forest. Enormous creatures of flesh and wood… unnatural, horrible creatures that fill you up with dread just looking at them. They never spoke or made any sound. At first, the only thing you could hear was the crushing of houses, the screaming of wounded.” Markos scratched notes onto his scroll. “About how many?” “I didn’t have the presence of mind to count but if I think about it… there were at least twenty of them.” *Sounds incredibly dangerous*, Markos thought, glancing at Naesala to gauge her thoughts. Her eyes stared forward, filled with horror. She trembled slightly. “Naesala,” I whispered, “What’s wrong?” “There’s more,” The old man said, quietly, “There were no bodies. Whenever those creatures touched someone they would *change*. People changed into beasts, into trees... then they started attacking us. From there, it was blood, death, pure chaos... ” He trailed off as he saw the expression on Naesala’s face. “Are you okay?” I asked her, “What is it?” She took a deep, shaky breath, “If I don’t say this now… I don’t think I’ll ever be able to.” She met Markos’s eyes, “I’m an elf.” Markos scratched his head, “I’ve suspected so for a while now, but what does this have to do with the attack?” She shook her head, “No… no this has everything to do with the attack.” She met the concerned eyes of Markos, then the wary eyes of the High-Chief, then she looked down at the floor, squeezing her eyes shut and gritting her teeth. “It’s time I told you the truth… about the elves. Our real history is dark, wild, and full of blood.” ___ [Eaters of the Human-Fruit, Part 2](https://www.reddit.com/r/WanderWilder/comments/m22eg8/eaters_of_the_humanfruit_part_2/) Also, for my best prompt answers, stories, and more check out r/WanderWilder. Thanks for reading!

[WP] You just learned that the words 'elvish' and 'eldritch' have the same root word. Suddenly your grandma's creepy stories about her childhood playtime in the woods make a lot more sense.

When I was a small child, my grandmother used to tell me stories about the elves that she claimed lived in the woods near her house. Strange otherworldly creatures with long pointy ears, skin as pale as porcelain, eyes like a snake and teeth as long and sharp as needles. She told me that only children could see the elves and that if you ever wanted to summon one, you needed to bring them a animal sacrifice in the middle of the night, although it didn't need to be dead as the elves preferred their food as fresh and raw as possible. In exchange, the elves would present gifts of food and trinkets to you and if they judged your soul to be worthy enough, they might even invite you to the Land of the Fae. However, my grandmother warned me never to accept the offer as no human had ever returned from the Land of the Fae, not while still a human anyway. Even back then though, I didn't believe my grandma, although I still found her stories entertaining. It was hard for me to imagine elves as the dangerous creatures she depicted them as, especially when all of the movies I watched presented them as kind and benevolent. At the exact same time though, I was never brave enough to prove her wrong. The woods might not contain elves, but that didn't mean that they were safe either. Years passed by. My grandmother grew sick and eventually passed away when I was fifteen. After the funeral, I began thinking again about those stories that she had told me so long ago. And then about a week later, I stumbled upon something interesting online. Apparently, the words elvish and eldritch had the same root word. Slowly, over the next few days, that little fact kept nagging at the back of my head . It was probably all just a imaginary story ... but if it wasn't? I was still technically a child by legal standards, so theoretically if I wanted to, I should still be able to summon a elf in the woods if I went there. The notion was ludicrous, absolutely ridiculous, and yet, for some reason that I couldn't fully explain, I felt I had to try it and see it for myself. And so, one Friday night, I snuck out of my home and traveled to the woods near my grandmother's house by myself. I brought a flashlight, a knife for self defense, my cell phone to call for help if I needed it and the body of a roast duck that I had bought from a supermarket. As I walked further into the woods, I started shivering, although I couldn't tell if it was from the cold or from fear. Once I made a way into a clearing, I slowly put the duck on the ground and called out into the darkness, "I offer up this sacrifice to the Fae!" A minute passed by with nothing happening while I wildly shone the flashlight in every direction around me. "If you're really out there, prove to me that you exist!" I called out in a voice that I hoped was not as fearful as I imagined. Then, another minute passed and before I even realized it, I let out a sigh of relief. It was all just a fake story. I shook my head in disbelief at my own stupidity. Of course none of it was real; magic didn't exist in this world. I took a deep breath to steady my nerves and reached down to grab the roast duck. Then, my blood ran cold. The duck had vanished, leaving nothing but small tiny bones that had been rearranged into words in front of me: "Do you believe now?"

“I’ve… never seen anything like this,” Markos said grimly to his partner Naesala as they rode into the ravaged town on their horses, “This might be too much for us to handle.” Naesala just stared at the carnage with wide, unbelieving eyes. The High-Chief had called Markos in while the wreckage was still fresh. The houses looked as if they had been wrecked in many different ways: some looked trampled or kicked-in by some giant beast, some looked intact but with their windows broken and door askew… many even looked overgrown with trees sprouting directly inside of the house and bursting through their roofs and branches snaking through the windows. The villagers just stared up at him as they passed, their eyes dead. Markos noticed many of them looked wounded and imagined that the village clinic must be overflowing at the moment. It was eerily quiet except for a hysterical wailing somewhere in the distance. Markos scowled and shook his head sadly. He could only imagine what that night must have been like for these people. Markos signaled for Naesala to stop her horse. In front of them, an old man was nodding patiently as a tearful woman animatedly gestured and shouted. The man pointed off to the right and she thanked him and hurried off. The old man turned and looked at the two of them, “Ah, I see you’ve arrived, Monster Hunter. Unfortunately, we couldn’t offer you our village’s normal hospitality given how things are.” Markos and Naelsala dismounted from their horses, “Of course. High-Chief Kent, I see your situation is far worse in person than as you described it in your letter. Your case is like nothing I’ve seen before, so we’re going to need a lot more details to understand the nature of what attacked.” The mayor waved to two men standing by and they took the reins of the two horses and led them away to a nearby stable. “Of course,” the High-Chief said, “Follow me.” He led them to a relatively undamaged, temple-like building built of stone where people bustled in and out, which probably served as their temporary main headquarters. The man brought them to a simple room with a round table and wooden chairs and they sat. The man opened his mouth but Markos held up a hand, stopping him until he got his scroll and quill ready, then gestured for him to begin. The High-Chief rubbed his temples, “I don’t even know where to begin.” He sighed shakily, “It happened three nights ago. They… came from the forest. Enormous creatures of flesh and wood… unnatural, horrible creatures that fill you up with dread just looking at them. They never spoke or made any sound. At first, the only thing you could hear was the crushing of houses, the screaming of wounded.” Markos scratched notes onto his scroll. “About how many?” “I didn’t have the presence of mind to count but if I think about it… there were at least twenty of them.” *Sounds incredibly dangerous*, Markos thought, glancing at Naesala to gauge her thoughts. Her eyes stared forward, filled with horror. She trembled slightly. “Naesala,” I whispered, “What’s wrong?” “There’s more,” The old man said, quietly, “There were no bodies. Whenever those creatures touched someone they would *change*. People changed into beasts, into trees... then they started attacking us. From there, it was blood, death, pure chaos... ” He trailed off as he saw the expression on Naesala’s face. “Are you okay?” I asked her, “What is it?” She took a deep, shaky breath, “If I don’t say this now… I don’t think I’ll ever be able to.” She met Markos’s eyes, “I’m an elf.” Markos scratched his head, “I’ve suspected so for a while now, but what does this have to do with the attack?” She shook her head, “No… no this has everything to do with the attack.” She met the concerned eyes of Markos, then the wary eyes of the High-Chief, then she looked down at the floor, squeezing her eyes shut and gritting her teeth. “It’s time I told you the truth… about the elves. Our real history is dark, wild, and full of blood.” ___ [Eaters of the Human-Fruit, Part 2](https://www.reddit.com/r/WanderWilder/comments/m22eg8/eaters_of_the_humanfruit_part_2/) Also, for my best prompt answers, stories, and more check out r/WanderWilder. Thanks for reading!

[WP] You just learned that the words 'elvish' and 'eldritch' have the same root word. Suddenly your grandma's creepy stories about her childhood playtime in the woods make a lot more sense.

When I was a small child, my grandmother used to tell me stories about the elves that she claimed lived in the woods near her house. Strange otherworldly creatures with long pointy ears, skin as pale as porcelain, eyes like a snake and teeth as long and sharp as needles. She told me that only children could see the elves and that if you ever wanted to summon one, you needed to bring them a animal sacrifice in the middle of the night, although it didn't need to be dead as the elves preferred their food as fresh and raw as possible. In exchange, the elves would present gifts of food and trinkets to you and if they judged your soul to be worthy enough, they might even invite you to the Land of the Fae. However, my grandmother warned me never to accept the offer as no human had ever returned from the Land of the Fae, not while still a human anyway. Even back then though, I didn't believe my grandma, although I still found her stories entertaining. It was hard for me to imagine elves as the dangerous creatures she depicted them as, especially when all of the movies I watched presented them as kind and benevolent. At the exact same time though, I was never brave enough to prove her wrong. The woods might not contain elves, but that didn't mean that they were safe either. Years passed by. My grandmother grew sick and eventually passed away when I was fifteen. After the funeral, I began thinking again about those stories that she had told me so long ago. And then about a week later, I stumbled upon something interesting online. Apparently, the words elvish and eldritch had the same root word. Slowly, over the next few days, that little fact kept nagging at the back of my head . It was probably all just a imaginary story ... but if it wasn't? I was still technically a child by legal standards, so theoretically if I wanted to, I should still be able to summon a elf in the woods if I went there. The notion was ludicrous, absolutely ridiculous, and yet, for some reason that I couldn't fully explain, I felt I had to try it and see it for myself. And so, one Friday night, I snuck out of my home and traveled to the woods near my grandmother's house by myself. I brought a flashlight, a knife for self defense, my cell phone to call for help if I needed it and the body of a roast duck that I had bought from a supermarket. As I walked further into the woods, I started shivering, although I couldn't tell if it was from the cold or from fear. Once I made a way into a clearing, I slowly put the duck on the ground and called out into the darkness, "I offer up this sacrifice to the Fae!" A minute passed by with nothing happening while I wildly shone the flashlight in every direction around me. "If you're really out there, prove to me that you exist!" I called out in a voice that I hoped was not as fearful as I imagined. Then, another minute passed and before I even realized it, I let out a sigh of relief. It was all just a fake story. I shook my head in disbelief at my own stupidity. Of course none of it was real; magic didn't exist in this world. I took a deep breath to steady my nerves and reached down to grab the roast duck. Then, my blood ran cold. The duck had vanished, leaving nothing but small tiny bones that had been rearranged into words in front of me: "Do you believe now?"

The dense, unnatural fog bank was split in two as the tight arrowhead of bikers drove into town. Evan had heard them coming from a long way off, everyone had, and on a day like today when all the rules seemed to have changed the sound had inspired hope and fear in equal measure. The surviving residents of Greenwich Junction gathered at the windows of the diner in shock. “Who are they?” Cynthia asked. She was trembling with fear, Evan saw. He reached out and took her hand. He hoped that was enough. “All that matters is that they aren’t the military. Those people aren’t here to help us.” “Shut it Griffith,” Evan said angrily. “How do you know they aren’t?” “Are you stupid or something? Unless the Marines started riding Harleys we’re screwed, look at those guys!” As much as Evan wanted to hit him, Griffith had a point. The riders pulled up outside the dinner, dismounting in unison. Evan could hear their banter, they threw strange words around, their tongues twisting around a language that didn’t sound quite human. The man at the front of the arrowhead laughed loudly, clapping his companion on the back and then removed his helmet, swinging his head to settle his long fair hair down his back. Evan heard gasps around him, the man was shockingly, unnaturally beautiful. The lines of his face seemed to have knife edges, and even from here he could see that his eyes had red centers. “We’re screwed,” Griffith said again, “totally screwed.” “Enough of that, young man.” The words were spoken quietly but everyone turned. His grandmother was the kind of woman who dominated a room. “Evan sweetie, would you fetch me my walker? I have a friend to greet.” “Grandma, what? Do you know these people?” “I did once, after a fashion. I didn’t think they’d come.” Evan let go of Cynthia’s hand, going to grab his grandmother’s walker from behind the counter. Outside all of the bikers had dismounted, they stood in the same arrowhead formation they’d rode into town in, waiting on something. They seemed oblivious to the fog and the danger. “Thank you dear,” his grandmother said, taking the walker from him. “Walk with me Evan. Bring Cynthia too, she’s nearly family.” A moment later the three of them were outside, Evan and Cynthia gripping baseball bats and glancing about themselves in terror. “You came!” Evan’s grandmother said. “Of course we did.” She spoke to the big man in the front. His eyes sparkled as he looked at her, he smiled broadly. This close up Evan noticed the sharp point of his ears. “We’d do anything for Wild Wilma!” someone called from the back of the formation. His fellows laughed, elbowing him. “Wild Wilma?” Evan asked, startled. “Who’s the whelp?” the leader said. “My grandson. He’s a good boy, but I’m afraid I only hinted at our stories.” “I can’t blame you. Your people are somewhat more inhibited than mine.” Suddenly the leader shook his head, and in three massive strides he was upon them, enfolding Evan’s grandmother in a gentle hug. She kissed him then, Evan was shocked to see it. Squarely on the mouth, no compunctions at all, as if the rest of them weren’t there. He glanced over at Cynthia, she seemed ill and confused. “Ahh Wilma, its been far too long,” the strange man said. “Such a shame to have only met like this. In a different time, a different place…” “In a different time you’d have called me a groupie and forgotten me, you only remember because me because I got in early.” A groupie? Evan stared at his grandmother in shock, she was still wrapped up in a stranger’s arms. “We’d never have forgotten Wild Wilma, no matter what the time was.” The man looked up at Evan, “boy, in her heyday your grandmother was a sight!” Evan wanted the fog to reach out and take him. Some conversations shouldn’t be had. “Oh enough of that,” his grandmother said. “I called you for a reason, can your people get us out of here?” The man sketched a bow, his long hair trailing low across the ground. “Of course! An Elf always remembers his debts. We’ve brought several sidecars, the Riders of R’lyeh are at your service!” Elf? What? “And I apologize most sincerely for what our God has done to your world. It is a pity.” “I should’ve known it was him with all the tentacles in the fog.” His grandmother shook her head. “Kiss me again then you big oaf, and make it a good one. Oh, and Evan dear? Gather our things, we’ll be leaving. You can bring Cynthia if you’d like.” \-------------- r/TurningtoWords

[WP] You’re a cryptid hunter in a magical world and you’re sure this one is real. You spend countless hours researching and poking around the area it was spotted in, only to find out it was actually a drunk shapeshifter. Again.

I ran pell-mell through the dense jungle of the Congo basin. The shores of Lake Tele were only a few hundred feet away to my right, and ahead of me, crashing through the jungle, was the creature I had chased for nearly a year. Mokele-Mbembe gave a loud, trumpeting roar as it bowled over trees centuries old. Its head was level with the jungle canopy and it swung about wildly on an incredibly long neck. Its tail was stumpier than I had imagined, and along its back was a thin ridge of spines. None of the stories had included those. “Stop goddamn you!” I shouted ineffectually at the creature’s retreating back. Aside from some brave souls among the local pygmy tribes no human had ever been so close to one of these creatures and lived. It felt like I’d stepped millions of years into the past, into a land where the love child of a brontosaurus and a hippo could rule an entire ecosystem. And it was getting away. “I swear to God I’ll shoot!” I shouted. Please don’t make me shoot. No answer. Mokele-Mbembe bellowed again and veered sharply to the right, towards the lake. If it went underwater I’d lose it, that was one of the unassailable tenets of cryptid hunting, at least with a budget like mine. I couldn’t afford any boat more advanced than a canoe and those didn’t come with sonar packages. More trees were battered down ahead of the great creature with every step. At this rate it was a wonder there was a single tree left in all of the Congo, the path of our chase looked like a horror movie sponsored by chlorophyll. Richer hunters than I would be sighting our deforestation as evidence of Mokele-Mbembe’s existence for the next decade at least. “Please stop! I really, really don’t want to shoot!” I shouted pitifully, loading the gun anyway. The gun looked like it had already been old when the country was young. In Brazzaville they’d told me it could kill an elephant. Somehow that didn’t seem like enough. The creature was at the shore now, its mad dash was slowing. It stuck one foot tentatively into the water as if testing the temperature. I leveled my rifle, pointing it at where I assumed the creature’s heart to be. It took one step in. Then two. By the third step it was already wading into knee high water. I cursed loudly, my finger still on the trigger. This might be the only chance I ever got to make my mark. I’d never killed anything in my life. Mokele-Mbembe twisted its long, sinuous neck back towards me, looking over its shoulder and straight into my eyes. I cursed again, even more loudly, and hurled the gun into the bushes in fury. I’d have known those eyes in any shape and any form, anywhere in the whole world. Mokele-Mbembe’s body began to shift in front of me, its rough gray skin shuddering and then beginning to peel back on itself, exposing the muscle and sinew beneath. The skin rolled up towards the spine like a long rolled scrolled springing back into its memorized shape, and then the flesh began to peel away too. All along the length of the creature’s back, from the tip of its tale to the base of its neck, it shivered violently, groaning in a high, ululating note that I knew to be intense pleasure. When the skin and flesh receded back to the tail it all began to roll up the neck in one line and finally the pleasure turned to pain and even the groan was silenced as any connection of lungs and vocal chords was torn away. All that was left was the still fleshed out head and the vast, cavernous skeleton of what I thought had been my greatest achievement. Then that skeleton shattered, dissolving in the air, and a woman fell from the creature’s head, tumbling gracelessly through the air until she crashed into the water, reemerging with a giggle only a moment later. “Goddamnit Magda, no!” I said, running towards the water and the frolicking girl there. “Not again, not now! I was this close, how could you? After all your noise the real Mokele-Mbembe will be miles away or in hiding, I’ll never find it now!” “Hi Charlie!!!” she shouted loudly, slurring my name. “And you’re drunk again!” I threw my hands up, contemplating going back for the gun. Magda Reynolds, age 23, give or take a few hundred years, was a terror. She was brilliant and brave, impulsive in the extreme. A beautiful, alcoholic train wreck of a girl, or perhaps a carriage accident since she predated the engine. She was also my best friend. It was complicated. “Charlie, come on in, the water’s great!” she said, gesticulating wildly at me. I sat down on the shoreline and buried my head in my hands. Perhaps if I stayed long enough it was one of the local crocodiles would find me. It would be easier than going home empty handed again, I’d sold my car to pay for this trip. “Magda, can we please just be serious for five minutes? Why did you do this to me again? I can’t handle this.” Her splashing went silent for a long moment. I was not going to look up at her no matter what the hell she said. Soon enough I heard her swimming up to me, then felt the ripples of her approach. “I missed you,” she said. I could picture her face perfectly, those puppy dog eyes and soft features. I was not going to look up at her. This time she’d gone too far. “You left me behind in Greensboro,” she said. “For a whole year too! You know how much I hate being alone.” “So go somewhere, make friends, live your life! Maybe even get a job!” She snorted, “A job? You’re one to talk.” “This would’ve been a job if you hadn’t shown up and blown it. I was so close Magda, you don’t even know. I cast a footprint that was three feet wide last month. Mokele-Mbembe is here, I can feel it!” “Last month?” I nodded. “Huh, I only got here a couple days ago.” Magda sat down next to me, her outstretched leg touching mine. Her bare skin was like a fire after she had transformed. If I looked at her I knew there would be steam rising from her body. “See?” I said. “There’s something here. There has been every time, I always get so, so close.” “And then I mess it up.” Her voice was small and sad, her words were still slurring. I would not look up. “Hey, Charlie,” she said. “Please look at me, I haven’t seen you in a year.” I would not look up. I heard her turn, felt the forge like heat of her body only inches away. “Hey,” she said again, “I really missed you.” I looked up, straight into her eyes. Magda’s eyes were green, but in a way that could only be seen, not described; they made emeralds look like their poorer cousin. They were the same in every form she had, whether she was a raven haired human, a towering semi-dinosaur, a hundred foot anaconda, or the hairiest bigfoot to walk the Earth. They were always her tell and the jig was up as soon as she let me see them. “Hi,” I said. “Honestly, I missed you too.” “You didn’t act like it.” “You deserved it. I’m still pissed.” She pressed her forehead to mine, her skin was starting to cool. “I’m sorry about that, sometimes I can’t help myself.” “I know,” I said, sighing. “I’m not leaving this Lake until I find it though. I don’t have anything to go back to, I pawned it all to get here.” “Me too!” Magda said giggling. I laughed against my better judgment and let the tension drain out of me, laying back in the grass. Magda followed me a moment later. “You really think it’s out there?” she asked. “I do. This stuff can’t all be a myth, after all, you exist.” “Yeah, I do. And you found me so you’re basically an expert on Cryptids.” “I didn’t find you, you fell on me,” I said testily. “Please, you enjoyed it. Besides, I couldn’t keep up the Thunder Bird routine any longer. It was so boring flying around like that.” Somewhere in the distance a creature roared. “What the hell was that?” Magda shouted. I sprang into action, running back into the bushes to find my gun. “That’s it!” I said excitedly, “Mokele-Mbembe, and it sounds way more legit than your roar every did.” “Oh please, I had you eating out of my hands.” I didn’t respond. I’d already found the gun and slung it over my shoulder, beginning the long, hard run in the direction of the roar. “Hey, I’m coming too!” Magda called from behind me. As I ran I heard her groan from behind me, she was transforming again. A few seconds later a pure white horse appeared beside me, its mane flowing majestically as it ran. Magda the horse looked over and winked one impossibly green eye at me. I grabbed onto her mane and swung myself onto her back without breaking stride. \--------- If you enjoyed that I've got tons more at r/TurningtoWords. Come check it out, I'd love to have you!

My breath was toxic, smelling of cheap takeout and large amounts of caffeine, unable to avoid smelling it as I let out a sigh, pushing aside the messy pile of books on my desk. “Another mystery.” I said, throwing my hands up with false excitement, long past the point of feigning pleasure over this job. Every time I got excited, it was that blasted shifter. I would find him passed out on the side of the road imitating some cryptid beast. It was horrible for my ego and even worse for my office, the peeling walls and cracked furniture a constant reminder of my failure. Although this one just felt different. I read over the letter I had received, investigating its details. ‘This creature is like a horse but has several strange abnormalities. For one, the hooves are a strange circular shape, not having any indents or other features that would define a horse’s print. It also groans, appearing in the forest at random intervals in the night, groaning as it trots along the outskirts of our farm. While this other information may not be accurate, my son says he spotted the beast, and my son is never usually one to lie. Based on his description, the horse had sharp teeth and golden eyelashes. It also appeared to have a black and blue pattern along its body, one not fitting anything I have ever heard of. Will you please investigate? Our family is ever so frightened.’ Signed, Dominus Reedy. I tried to downplay my excitement, but I could already feel my leg bouncing beneath the table, anxiously waiting to investigate. A job at night? When the drunkard shapeshifter should be drinking? There’s no way it’s him. I flipped over the letter, reading the address on the back before getting up to leave for the job, only to stop when I smelt my breath. “Oof, might need to brush my teeth.” Reaching for one of my drawers, I retrieved a bottle of rum, taking a shot of the mixture, swirling it in my mouth before gulping it down, not about to spit out an expensive rum. Snatching a jacket from a hook by the door before leaving. The trip to Reedy’s farm wasn’t a long one. The weather the only thing that made the venture unpleasant. Cool air smacking against the thick layers of my jacket, earning the odd shiver from my body. How I detested the winter months, I wouldn’t even be out here if I didn’t need the money. As I wandered the streets, I kept an eye out for the shifter, poking my head in passing taverns, praying to any gods that would listen that he would be there. As usual, the gods didn’t appear to be listening, until I pushed open the door of the Crusty Boot, seeing the shifter singing merrily at the bar earning me a sigh of relief. It actually wasn’t him; I would finally find a cryptid. My slow pace had changed to a sprint, rushing towards the farm. By the time I arrived I was hunched over, gagging as I felt the previous rum shot creeping up my throat, having to smack my chest until it settled again. “Made it.” I said between breaths, waiting to get the air back. When I recovered, I was straight onto the scene, crouching beside a set of hooves that matched the description given by the farmer. “Odd. The walking pattern of the creature is bizarre, the tracks come and go at random intervals as if the creature kept adjusting its pattern. Either the creature is bigger than I thought or something else is going on here.” I placed my foot on the first set of hooves, measuring the distance between them with my feet. “There is a possibility that some tracks have deteriorated with time. Despite the letter being recent, I can’t say for certain that this creature hasn’t been walking these tracks long before someone noticed.” I reached into the pocket of my jacket, pulling out a notepad and pencil, documenting that sight before me. “Now how do I go about finding this creature? If the tracks are inconsistent, then there is little point following them. Perhaps I should just wander the perimeter of the farm? See if the creature appears tonight?” An old-fashioned stake out. How long had it been since I could do such a thing? Striding over to the dense forest surrounding the farm, I crouched in a set of bushes, awaiting the beast. At first nothing happened and soon I could feel my eyelids dropping, falling into small micro-sleeps, struggling to stay awake. “Gwaaaa Gwaaah Grawl.” A groaning sound shook me out of my trance, getting myself into position. I watched as heavy hooves disturbed the grass, disrupting the soil as it wandered through the property. It was real. This was incredible. I could pay for three new offices with a discovery like this. “Halt creature. I wish to bring you in for evidence.” I shouted, causing the beast to look my way. It was majestic. The gold dripping from its lashes, the unique color of its body and the dangerous-looking teeth. It was my ticket out of the slums. That’s why it hurt so much when the horse shrank, returning to a more humanoid shape befitting of the shifter. His cheeks a bright pink and his eyes glazed over. “Tommy boy, you found me! You are such a good little detective.” The shifter chuckled. I felt my gut twist, a mix of embarrassment and anger swirling inside. “You again? Why the hell do you keep doing this, can’t you leave me to work? I’m a cryptid hunter, not a detective, you know that.” I gave the shifter a jab across his jaw, watching the drunkard fall onto his rear, grimacing at the contact. “Right, the hunter of things that don’t exist. Who else did you expect? A cryptid wouldn’t make themselves so obvious. Look, I’m sorry, but the bartender said if I was sick in his tavern again, he would ban me. I needed somewhere private where he wouldn’t see me.” The shifter stated, pulling themselves off the ground. “Then why the hell would you disguise yourself as a cryptid? Was that just to mock me?” “No, of course not. Come on, man, even I’m not that cruel. I had to make sure no one would see me. I didn’t expect anyone to find me out here. It’s not my fault that brat was sneaking off into town at night, I just assumed anyone that saw me from a distance would think I was a horse, but of course he got too close.” “Why not just be a horse, then? That would have saved us both some time?” Trying to reason with the shifter was painful. His thought process rather varied compared to mine. “Horses are weird. I just don’t like them. I didn’t feel comfortable walking around as one. Hooves are really painful to walk on as well. Why do you think I changed mine? Look, I’m sorry, hey are you ok?” I rubbed my eyes, trying to hide the tears. The frustration getting far too much for me. “I’m a failure just like my grandfather. Dad was right, I was a fool for believing those old tales of cryptids.” “Hey, no, come on. Aren’t I special enough? Shit, now I feel like a jerk.” The shifter awkwardly stared at me before shifting his face, returning it to that of the horse. He struggled to maintain his balance with the enormous head now replacing his own, having to move his feet to keep upright. As he moved, a hand reach to his eyelashes, plucking them free before returning to his previous state. “Here, eyelashes from whatever you want to call me.” I looked at the eyelashes in disgust; the shifter grabbing my hand, turning it upright and dropping the lashes into my palm. “Why, would I want these?” “So, you aren’t a failure. You found a cryptid, that’s your evidence. Consider that my apology for interrupting your work.” “I can’t accept this. I would be lying to everyone. If they found out, they would chase me out of town or worse.” I said, still clutching the eyelashes regardless, unable to release them from my grip. “They won’t find out. It’s just to give you some money until you can find a real one. You know I could probably help you find one.” The shifter said before patting his stomach. “Anyway, I can probably drink again so I should get going, if you want my help, you know where to find me.” I stared at the eyelashes before watching the shifter leave. He could help me? Perhaps I would take him up on that.       (If you enjoyed this feel free to check out my subreddit /r/Sadnesslaughs where I'll be posting more of my writing.)

[WP] The League is, for the first time, scared. This new villain is intelligent, but not a maniac. They are calm, patient. Calculated. They respect The League's strength, and fight accordingly. But what scares The League most is that this villain doesn't care for a Name.

Pt 1 of 3: Everyone and everything needs a name. It’s a deep-seated compulsion of humans, back to Adam naming the animals, back to naming the Roman gods, the Greek gods, further. For a villain to not have a name, to not announce his arrival, was uncomfortable when we first realized it for reasons we couldn’t put into words that early on. So much so that we heroes felt obligated to give him one, but of course, there needed to be meaning behind it. He became Nameless. The press loved it. But as time went by, we grew to hate the nickname, each time we used it, feeling as if he was mocking us. The first attack was not subtle, it was not forewarned, it was not foreshadowed. Somehow, he managed to plant explosives at the headquarters of the League, not near residences or the War Room, but simply in strategic places that collapsed the entirety of the structure. Most of us were able to survive, through our abilities, but we lost three of us that day. Three heroes dead in one strike. The lack of ego was what struck us in the wake of this attack. There was no pronouncement of victory, no bragging of his achievement, no declaration of war. That’s what it seemed to be after all, a war, fought against this invisible entity. The opening strike was devastating, but the League told the public decisively that they would take down the villain behind it, without a doubt. At the beginning, I remember feeling such confidence in that fact. Someone who attacked brutally like this, surely they were reckless, under all that planning. To declare war on the League itself was suicide, and they must know that, so remaining in the shadows for as long as possible would just give him a chance to win as many battles as possible. It was just up to us to defeat him in the end. In the wake of the attack, however, we were spread thin. Every villain in the country felt invigorated by the attack, as though they themselves had been part of it. Claiming a piece of that victory for themselves, some of their attacks became bolder, stronger, more decisive. With every one that we jailed, more took their place, but we were somehow able to keep the balance, to catch at least most of those that participated in the ensuing crime sprees. Some built on it, however, and kingpins established themselves almost overnight. There were some severe fights that cost several hero lives, but again, we were able to hold the line. This was what we were built for, after all, and what we’d trained for. And the bottom line was, there were more heroes than villains, more good people than evil people. In the times where I struggled to survive in this world, to understand it, I clung to that fact. I truly believed it. Nameless started other attacks then, always from the shadows, rarely making an appearance unless it was an integral part of a plan that he would depend on no one else to execute. Always in a black suit with a black silk ski mask, unidentifiable. Banks across the country were hit, rapid fire, always League banks, owned, operated, and protected by us, financing the heroes and our tech. Some robberies failed, but a staggering amount succeeded. He was impossible to predict, a perfect balance of creative and cold and, in the end, that lack of ego let him move forward day after day. The motive for the bank heists was made clear soon after. He set bounties on each hero’s head, each for astonishing amounts of money, even in the wake of the wealth he’d accumulated. Of course, he started at the top, the big names, the well-known faces. Not all of them were heroes I admired, exactly, some of their tactics were over the top to say the least, sometimes they pressed a little too hard, but they always got the villain they were after. That seemed to check a box for Nameless that put them on his hit list. Those at the top didn’t get there by chance, though, and would not fall easily. But that didn’t stop the attackers who were after that bounty money, not when the numbers were so high. The best of the best in assassins came out of the woodwork for that, and every time I heard of another name, another head shot on the television screen of a hero we’d lost, it hit me in the chest. We were vulnerable in a way that I’d never envisioned possible. For some reason, the bounties were withdrawn after a certain point, and we chased after the money, knowing that would lead to his next scheme. Our techs did their best, but it was astounding how adept he was at keeping himself hidden and keeping his money squirreled away just as deeply. If we couldn’t get to his money, though, we had to get to him. So, we planned. Sitting at home tonight, staring out the large window to my right, over my city from my old, comfy desk chair, I tried to feel optimistic, to grab hold of that confidence I’d held after Nameless’s first attack. That certainty that justice always prevailed in the end, despite the horrors the villains might inflict before we could stop them. Nameless wasn’t falling, he wasn’t stopping, he barely ever even failed. Sitting with a glass of scotch that I hadn’t touched since pouring it half an hour ago, I just stared out my window and wondered at the future of my city. My PC, which had just my desktop background and icons visible, suddenly flickered, catching my attention, and I narrowed my eyes in confusion as the screen went white. Then, black text. \>> White Iris. I am the one you seek. I wish to speak with you. \>> “What in the…” I straightened, putting my glass aside. A cursor blinked after the second line’s two arrows. I hesitated, then brought my fingers to my keyboard. \>>Who is this? \>>The one you call Nameless. \>> Staring wide-eyed at the screen, I swallowed hard. Suddenly I felt uncomfortable in my own skin, worried there was a far-off rifle sighted on me through my window, or a bomb under my chair. Likely the rifle wouldn’t kill me, but knowing Nameless’s skills, I worried about the bomb idea. Taking a long breath and letting it out, clenching my hands to stop them from shaking, I put my fingers on the keyboard with a forced calm. \>>What do you want? \>>As I said. I wish to speak with you. \>>Where would you like to meet? There wasn’t anything else I wanted to do but meet this bastard face to face. I hadn’t a clue why he chose me, but at this point, I was up for it. Of course, there was a possibility that this was a bluff, just a villain hoping to take me out. Or another scheme and Nameless was currently reaching out to hundreds of heroes with the same request, planning to off us all. I didn’t care. I put on my outfit. I went. It was an empty office building, the front door open. Only two stories, there was classical music coming from a room that followed. The blinds were drawn and the only furniture in the room was a desk with a desktop computer and a rolling office chair, the music ceasing at my entrance. In the chair, I could see the outline of someone in a black suit, the edges of their sleeves visible on either side, their black mask visible a bit above the headrest. The scene was stark and disorienting, grey carpet and fluorescent lighting not at all the kind of setting I would have predicted. Or maybe that’s exactly why I should have? I knew who this was, after all. “Well?” I spoke. The person in the chair spun around so they could stand up and, to my utter shock, removed the mask. “Hello, White Iris.” I pursed my lips. “You’re not Nameless. I’ve heard his voice, I know he’s male.” She shook her head. “None of them are Nameless. None of us have ever been.” Narrowing my eyes, I tensed. “He’s *never* been at a crime scene?” “On the contrary, Nameless has been at every one, the eye in the sky,” she replied. “You’re saying a hacker is the leader of some sort of…empire?” Her smile grew the slightest bit condescending. “No. Nameless is not a person. Nameless is a creation. Mine.” My limbs suddenly felt stiff and my head felt light. “You’re…saying Nameless…is an AI? You created an *evil AI*?” \*\*\* Pt 2 below

**Report: Contact with the villain with no name** **Incident happened: Abandoned warehouse location unknown** **Time: 4/28/5087 1707 hours** The villain that is the most feared out of any other villain has no name. Some have tried to come up with names to call him but, they never stick. The league has never seen a villain like this before. He doesn’t monologue his plans to us when he has us captured. I was sitting trapped I was waiting for his monologue. Him to tell us why he’s doing this, his tragic past, his plan, at least some evil laughter. Instead, I only heard silence. He didn't even bother to torture me or yell at me he just drew some blood from my arm smiling a twisted smile. I didn’t even have the chance to ask him why he wasn’t talking as another villain suddenly shot through the roof. “I Reaper, am here to challenge the villain with no name to fight I will be the top villain after I win” this random nobody said. No name wasn’t even alarmed. He didn’t even bat an eye at this villain challenging him. No name turned to Reaper and gave a dismissive wave to him. “You see my plan is too-” Reaper said before he was cut off. “Amateur you never tell a person your plan” No name said. His henchmen dragged Reaper off and I managed to escape due to his distraction. Before I left heard no name say “Interrogate this one at headquarters, no one could be stupid enough to charge head first to challenge me and the whole time he had his eyes on my captive not on me. Seems I got too confident no one would find this place; I’ll have to plan more.” I’m unsure what to think I’ve never seen a villain react this way. Headquarters did you send me reinforcements? I’m not sure what that hero must be going through torture perhaps. **Request:** No names plans are getting more and more complex. I doubt we know what he’s fully capable off. We barely have any information on him. I humbly request more heroes to put on the team. The league is the best group of heroes around if we aren’t able to handle this villain, I fear no one can. This new villain or hero you've contracted to save me blew through the roof he is a formidable person as well if No name manages to turn him to his side as he's done to many heroes we might not be able to win. I'm still in training, after all. \---- May do a Part 2 later

[deleted]

[WP] All gods of every religion are suddenly summoned to a single place, where they are told to fight to the death, to receive the honour of being named ‘The One True God.’ Those who follow each religion are also summoned as spectators, cheering for their own god(s) as if they were a sports team.

The gods circled up facing outward toward the crowds of adherents. Buddha, Krishna, and Jesus stepped out of the circle, "We're out!" Buddha said. "Peace!" Krishna shot the peace sign at the crowd. Buddha just shook his head, "We're going for beer, follow us," Jesus invited. This thinned the crowd by nearly half as about half the adherents of each religion recognized the disconnect and left. Apep, the Egyptian deity the embodies the world's evil stepped forward like a WWE wrestler and started yelling, "I challenge you all! Bring it on! Moros was decked out in a black cape and added little black smoke and threw in some Ramstein for walk-in music, ascended from underground growling, "DOOM, DOOM, DOOM" The crowd went wild! The two entered into a cage match for the ages with Apep emerging victor after slamming Moros all the way down to the Earth's mantle. Before Apep had a chance to catch a breath, Loki came in riding the Jormungandr with Thor on Fenris ready to double team Apep. "Make way for Ammit, Devourer of the Dead!" the voice preceded the the creature, part lion, part crocodile, part hippopotamus, which crept up to join Apep. "Hate to tell you guys but only one of you gets to be the one god," Quetzacoatl stepped into the ring. He was casual, puffing on a pipe and appeared slightly high. "I probably should have left with the peace and beer gods, but that last fight was pretty entertaining. I've been sitting over there contemplating this whole thing here. I'm just wondering who summoned all of us. And since we're all gods, who gets to summon all of us. And if we're such powerful gods, why we came." He faced the crowd, "Who planned this event." There was a lot of shrugging. Nobody knew the answer. Not the gods, Not the humans in the crowd. "That is the question and I want an answer!" Pele looked like he was ready to blow is top, which nobody wanted to happen. "Chill, my brother," Quetzacoatl offered him his pipe but, telling someone with anger issues to chill is generally a mistake and the lava rose to the surface of Pele's skin and Poseidon had to splash him with a large wave, which knocked over a good number of the crowd. Frigg, Saraswati, Brigid and Sophia stepped up together, "I suggest that we investigate the origin of this invitation," Sophia spoke. "I concur," Brigid nodded, "and let's get some clarity on who gets to declare a "one true god." Quetzacoatl, the wisdom goddesses offer you our admiration. Good thinking! We'd love for you to join us for our Wine and Wisdom weekend. Frigg spoke up, "You won't be the only guy, "Jesus, Buddha, and Enki usually show up. Last time Jesus brought some excellent Roncal - sheep cheese, you know." Loki started laughing, "This is rich! I wish I'd thought of it." "Trickster!" Saraswati and Thor spoke in unison. "Had to be," Loki said proudly. "But which one?" "Not me," Anansi slid down into the midst of the gods on a thread. The big spider was grinning, "I can't wait to tell this story, though." The Coyote made his way up from the back of the crowd. Known for his secretive nature and low-key but deadly tricks. "It wasn't me, but, could we still have the smackdown between the Egyptians and the Norse? It looked to be epic." "No pay, no play," Fenris growled. "I suspect Tengu," Brigid said. He likes tricking the prideful and gods are about the most prideful creatures around. "And he's not here," added Anansi. "Well, I'm game for a rumble in Japan," Ammit spoke loudly. "The Tangle in Tokyo!" yelled Thor. The crowd was already pulling out their smartphones to book tickets. There may not be a way to settle who is the one true god but it looked like there was going to be a hell of a smackdown tour"

Aside from "only sith deal in absolutes", which is popular in today's Hollywood conditioned culture, my experience thought me that whenever one operates with "absolutes" (Which "The God" ultimately should "be") one inevitably stumbles on paradoxes which are impossible to resolve in the framework it was formulated. Btw, it's strangely associative with Gödel's incompleteness theorem, but that's the story for another day. That said, I and many others, imagine "the God" with 3 "Os": **omnipoten**t (all-powerful), **omnipresen**t (all-present), and **omniscien**t (all-knowing). If so, all plethora of various gods throughout human history will be and must be, reduced, inevitably and instantaneously, to only one god. To clarify, the term "the lesser gods" obviously doesn't have a meaning in this context. Those... entities, could be spirits, demons, archangels, or whatever, but not the God(s) in 3 "Os" framework. If, on the other hand, one allows those entities to be Gods, one opens even more paradoxes and contradictions. As for various followers and what they think, well technically, and I will be gentle, their existence, deeds, and thoughts are not... of much importance.

[WP] "If I would kill you, then I wouldnt be any better than y...." "Are you serious? You just broke into my hideout and slaughtered 90% of my henchmen! At this point you caused more deaths than I have!"

Exceller tilted his head to the side. "I'm not sure I follow your logic." Cameron Vilks, the billionaire and secret head of the Disastrous Organization, sneered. "Of course you don't. To you, the world is so simple. You will punch some poor schizophrenic inventor or a man trying to pull himself out of poverty, and consider it justified because the media labels them a villain. And now you've gotten careless, so certain of your moral superiority that you've decided to play executioner. Your hands are dripping with-" Exceller held up a hand. "I am well aware of the high school philosophy student explanations you use to try and justify your villainy. I'm just confused at where you think that I've caused more deaths here than you have." Vilks waved his arm, camera footage showing a blue-suited blur ripping through the base, tearing through several henchmen in flashes of gore. "You think you can deny it? This footage is live, Excel-cutioner! Everyone will see-" "54 men who died as I was stopping the nuclear powered laser that you were trying to shoot the moon with. Which would have unleashed a radioactive cloud which would have engulfed most of the state upon firing. Of those men, 51 had killed someone while in your employ. True, most of the deaths they caused were 'accidents', but I doubt that Andrew George, age 6, cares that his death via drowning was due to your henchmen accidentally forcing his family's car off a bridge while trying to make a getaway." "I-" "And I also doubt that the 9,612 people who have died from cancers caused by stray radiation from your many death machines will care that their deaths were 'incidental'. No doubt, you have a chain of logic that would tell me exactly why your hands are clean of their deaths, why the fact that you didn't pull the trigger personally matters, and why their deaths lay at the feet of me and my fellow heroes." Vilks snarled. "You can't-" "But truthfully, I'm not here as a hero. If you had let me finish earlier, 'if I would kill you, I wouldn't be any better than you' might be what you expect me to say. But I'm not here as Exceller, the hero who must prove himself to be a paragon of humanity." "I'm here as Trevor Vicente. Father of Alicia, who died this morning from an inoperable tumor, caused by your scheme last month, where yet another of your radioactive devices bathed a local elementary school with lethal doses of radiation." "So, please, don't bother stopping the Livestream. Because I want the world to see exactly what needs to happen to 'clean-handed villains' who cross the line."

Laughter. Unexpected and crude, cut through the air. He was laughing at the statement. Smiling even, the grin lit in a haunting array by the flames from the manor. Blood dripped off his chin in the cold air, giving him an almost inhuman look. "I'm sorry." He recovered, snorting slightly. "It's just. I always wanted to say that to you." Perhaps he'd hit a nerve with this guy. Oliver had always enjoyed dealing with these heroic types. This one however, as the last 45 minutes taught him, was anything but. He racked his mind to remember where he knew his face from. If he even knew him in the first place. It didn't help the guy was circling him casually. He knew the style. Making sure he was in fact unarmed. His wounds definitely confirmed he was in a roundabout way. Oliver was doing his best to keep it together as everything he worked for went up in smoke. "I don't remember you." Oliver spat. He crouched now. Closing the gap on him to give him a better look. But still nothing rang. "No?" He clapped. "That's too bad." He dragged him through the snow now. The cold biting his last moments at every turn. The trees cleared above. The fire seemed like a scenic glow now. A shining city on the hill. The irony wasn't wasted on his attacker. He'd stopped to admire his work at least twice. "Tell me what you want." Oliver asked again. "I want you to know who I am." The sound jarred his senses once more. Chains on his ankles, the feeling of a padlock snapping shut over a broken leg. He recognized the place now. He'd built this landing for his boats on the lake. The snow had silenced much now, the ice still and grey. He shackled the other end of the chain to something next to him and sat down to look at what he'd created. "My stepbrother was an attorney. I know I know. Lawyer jokes, feel free to say them now." Oliver didn't. That was good. "And well, he wasn't like me. He had a family. Good job. Kept me out of more trouble than I usually was in... going somewhere?" Despite the chains, he'd tried to crawl away. He been rolled back, and shown a picture on a phone of who he'd forgotten. In the very background of the photo, he spotted the same person looking at him now. "What about all those people?" He breathed. "My coworkers? Why them? They didn't deserve to die." "...Well like you said earlier. I guess we're even." "I'm sorry." " I'm proud of you. I'm not." Oliver never even got his name. He simply slipped the 4x4 out of gear and began pushing it towards the water. Oliver's last images of the world he'd built for himself were of water and encroaching darkness. When the spring thaw came, only those still looking for their greatest adversary bothered to to do so.