Hi all,
This happened 2 weeks ago however I have been away so haven't been able to try to deal with it until now. My PC is taking around 30mins to eventually load into Windows. When loaded it seems fine, however as I start to browse through folders it takes a while to load them, and trying to move some files around to backup, Windows Explorer crashes.
Specs: CPU: Ryzen 7 3700X 4.4GHz RAM: G-Skill Ripjaws 32gb GPU: Gigabyte GeForce RTX 2070 Super 8GB PSU: Corsair RM750 HDD: Samsung 970 EVO Plus 500GB NVMe M.2 MOBO: MSI B450 Tomahawk Max OS: Windows 10
Context: I was playing COD and I spilt pretty much an entire mug of coffee on my keyboard (CM Storm QuickFire TK). I immediately unplugged my keyboard, cleaned it up and gave it a dry. I had another keyboard to use however I stupidly decided to plug that keyboard back in to see if it was ok. When I plugged it in, Windows began spam loading tonnes of different programs as if the keyboard was going haywire and at this point I figured it's done for so I unplugged it and plugged a different one in. The program continued to load, almost like the PC was trying to catch up with how fast the keyboard seemed to be spamming the buttons due to damage. I waited a minute and was closing down the programs but they kept on loading so I held the power button to shut down the PC.
When I loaded the PC back up, it sat on the motherboard logo screen loading for a long time and didn't seem to be progressing. After a few attempts I figured that I may have corrupted the HDD. I had a Windows flash drive that I tried to boot from to do a fresh install but it's taking a very long time, seems to hang on the Purple windows install screen.
I left the PC for a day and went back to it, turned it on and left it whilst I went out for an hour and when I came back it had loaded, this is when I noticed that it was incredibly slow browsing through folders on the HDD, although loading a Firefox or Discord it seemed fast, as if there was no issue. I restarted it and again, it took around 30mins+ to load back to windows. Once it gets to the login screen, takes around 5mins to login and show the background, then another 5-10mins to load the taskbar and icons.
Things I've tried: 1. Re-seating the M.2 2. Unplugging all USB devices to boot 3. Using Windows Repair – Just hangs in a loop, doesn't seem to do anything 4. Using a bootable Windows Flash to re-install – Hangs on the “Setup is Starting”, doesn't seem to progress (Left this to run all evening) – Went out and bought a new flash drive and made a new bootable Windows install, made no difference – Tried all USB slots 5. Left the PC for around an hour to load – Eventually loaded 6. I scanned for HDD errors using CHKDSK and it has come back saying there are none. 7. I used SFC /scannow – It said “Windows Resource Protection found corrupt files and successfully repaired them” - Still same issue, very long reboot, slow browsing the HDD
I've never had an issue like this before, tried what I can find on google and now I'm at a loss. I would buy a new HDD or format this and start again but I'd rather not if I can help it as I need files on it, and it also seems that my PC is struggling to boot from a bootable flash drive if I were to try to re-install windows.
Is anyone able to help?
Many thanks

I felt sick around 4 weeks before, suffered from a nasty flu for about two weeks on the third week i had recovered. My stepdad asked me to create a website for his company. interestingly, i did it a ease. I find it very interesting. now i am back to the usual routine.
DRDCEWMEC- i have found out new ways of recording the CBT techiniques on to my fitnes pal so that i am not only recording the diet and excercise but also making notes for the CBT.
As for today i woke up inthe morning aorund 11am. I realise the situation at my rented house. the outside environment is very difficult for me to sleep. I thinking moving outside of here and moving to a larger also quieter apartment would deemed to be neccessary for me in the near coming future. So from now on my routine has changed to sleep at 12am so that i am wake up around 8 to 9 am then i will start my day. today i woke up 11am then i had two coffee i took the usual supplements following the CBT strategies.
CBT; 1. meditation 2.diary 3. supplements including omega three, multivitamin and vitamin d3 4. sleep music 5. sleep tea 6. sleep perfume 7. cold room 8. lavender shower gel and shampoo (from 1 to 6 are active and 7 and 8 are passive). another classification is that the diary belong the the D and the other 7 are the CBT which belong to the C.
After i took the supplement i went to the gym. I realised i had no groceries left so i took the supplements with two cups of coffes and one mug of milk and i developed very bad diarroeah around 4-5 times. very good for losing the weight that is the good side.
later on the day i completed my food diary and then read sunzi, 33 strategies of the war and 36 military strategies of chinese warfare. One thing i learned most today is the ending strategy. Most ppl when they declared a war with others, they did not end with good terms and they will resume back to the original enenemies for no reason. Robert greene state that if you know/ analysis the situation, most often this is because of either of conflicting interest or the way of human behaviou human nature. very often there is nothing we can do about it. e.g. if this business or coroperation is against this someone's interest then obvious both you and him cannot come into terms. on the other hand let's say if he who can longer come into terms or taking advantage of you then he would hate you if you do not delater the ending strategy. From the famous quote the kindeness does not necessarily breed kindess in return in this world by Robert greene. The pp who do not understand this principal would struggle greatly.
Application: recently my roomate had trouble with me using the shared bathroom with him. he is claiming that he find it too difficult to share with me because he would like it to be more available with him . we had two shared bathroom one upstairs right next to me and one downstairs. I orignially agreed with him that it is ok for me to go downstairs if it is not too urgent but if it is then obviously i had to rushed to the one closer to me. Despit having repeated conversation i have devided to use the ending strategies.
There are a lot of ppl in this world who do not understand the society. they sort of live the world of their own in the example of my roommate he only considers for himself that if the bathroom near him is more available to him then it would be conveient and beneficial but he forgets to consider that what might seems convinient for him would also be conviniet for the others. this brings the key to advancing social skills, being a ppl person simplys means considerate more about others not only yourself. From the famous saying fit yourself into other ppl's boots. interestly, there are a lot of ppl in this world who does not understand this despite many years of repeptive failure experiences. in this situation because i had conversation over and over, i would not need to talk to him again. simply because if he does not get this principal then no matter how many times i expalinning to him it wouldn't make any difference. so what's the point really? so now it's the time to use the ending strategy. this is 1. the issue with the interest 2. the nature of the room who does not understand the common principles in life despite many times of repetitive explaining. the best practice now is to leave it there.
another learinig point of this strategy is the learn how to end the failure. in the past i had also experience failures and like many ppl i had learn to dealt with my failure 1. being hopelss and despair - thinking this is the end of the world and now there's nothing i can do 2. having negative thoughts and action about the society - blaming, accusing, being extremly defensive about yourself think everything happened is the fault of society 3. find nothing positive about the past failure experience and fallen into constant cycle of regreat.
what Robert said in his book as 1. Do not treat failure as failure but as a lesson to sucess so you need to know that both failures and success is in a constant cycles of repetition that is a common norm. what you need to do is to deeply analyse your failure and learn something useful out of it. this is also expalined in Rober kiosaki book do not just let life pushes you around instead learn something out of it which makes you stronger and smarter everyday 2. instead of being negative all times you should start learning some postitives out of it. this is greatly illustratd by the chinese philosophy so Ying and Yang. No matter how bad something gets as long as you are still alive there must be a corresponding positives. in other words if something is really happening terrible to your life then after you analysed it very carefully then there must also be at least one correponding huge positive. e.g. for my i graduated from pharmacy shcool becuase of my condition i cannot become pharmacist in the past i always thought of how other ppl in this society always descriminat me but on the other hands i have also learned the fundamental rules and algothrim of the society which is a key thing to master in order to thrive in this society. at the same time i als found my passion in tech, web desigh and cyber and going to pursue a carrere in this field. imagine if i never experienced these failures then how could i possibly learn and self develop and figure out my true passion. 3. feel extremely excited about failures since i just told you failures in life is inevitable and yuo know that failures taught us how to succed failures taught us how to thrive and strive better in life and in this society, failure has taught me how to fucntion better and accpeted better in this society, failure has taught me the importance of finding your target, do not be afraid, action and immeditate execution and the importance of long lasting perseverance. then now why are you afraid and why you are running away?

Cleaning out my closet.

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Game Polaris crashed a day ago and ever since I have been unable to play. Upon booting up the game to Eddy's ugly mug, it will just freeze every second and have this weird cascading effect. Ran perfectly fine 60FPS at High settings up until the new Nvidia update for Ghost of Tsushima. Tried all the other options I found on here (compatibility, borderless, windowed, etc.) Running out of patience with this. Spent $100+ on this shit so far lol.

First Issue!

• Author's Note: Hello! Yes I am not dead, yet! And so we march on with the series! I still have more college work to do until I'm done, but we're getting near that. Also I'd like to officially say that Issue #61 can be considered as an official end OF a BOOK 1 for Beast World. PLEASE READ CAREFULLY!!! I SAID end of book 1 NOT the series! We shall continue on, soon enough. So, relax, enjoy the read and if you like what you see, you can support me on my ko-fi page! This is also where I post art drawn by me of various characters from Beast World or other series or one shots I write!

The night before Michael's departure was one of various mixed emotions, that melded into a concoction of both cheer and anxiousness. The human and his tribe of tuskir would share food as they aided their newest member in his preparations.
Woh and Oinna worked carefully together to prepare several vials of poison, diluted with water, as well as a few herbal medicines.
Zurra and Azhul would work the forge, daughter and mother stoking the fires of their smithy's hearth to finish up a steel knuckle duster that the older woman had been preparing to forge from before. After replacing the metal rods on his leather bracers with steel and studding the leather for extra reinforcement, the two put forward their creations for Michael to dawn, to which he was greatful.
Urla and Runhar would share more of what they know about the Rock Backs or what to expect of their leader, but the discussions from before already covered most of that information.
After all that could be done had been finished, a fresh leather backpack of supplies was provided to the human with a few extra tools, besides his own belongings, and then all that remained to do was for them to steel themselves.
Maybe not everyone realized the implications of this separating venture, but one knot that could build in their throats would be at the realization that their newest tribe member was about to leave and depending on how things would fare... he might come back unharmed and with stories plentiful in detail of what happened, he might not return to them at all or, at worst... he'd be befallen by a fate they'd not know of.
A final meal together was being held, most of the people of the tribe awake, decided to remain as such and hold out this white night with Michael, waiting with a discomfort that was palpable in the air. As the time of reckoning was slowly coming upon them, the relaxed attitudes of all involved began to stifle and die down.
Vodra and Nushii were situated closest by him, the latter curled up in a half asleep ball next to Michael, rather than sitting. Runhar, Ghura and Azhul, sat further to his sides, their sitting positions, curving around the fire they all encircled, with Oinna, Zurra and Urla being on the other side of the slowly dying flame. And of course, Woh, unlikely to leave herself out from this gathered vigil, was sat atop Michael's hair, camouflaged partially by his thickened curly locks. Nobody knew what to say, there was nothing easy to bring up, but doubt and uneasiness in one's heart might lead them to speak their mind, out of a compassionate worry.
Zurra was the one bearing a heavy seed of doubt and fear in her breast. As she held tightly onto a metal mug full of steaming broth, she took a brief sip of it as her gaze lifted to look at the grouping around the fire. "We certain this be the correct choice? We coulda 'bandon de Hay-yen group, the whol' allyin' with 'em plan... it is too risky to... well, to do this!" The elderly sow spoke, her voice not showing her usual furious anger derived from passion, but instead upset, born of frustration, fear and uncertainty.
"It might be, but I want to do it. I've been thinking why am I doing this to basically save a group of people with whom we were basically at war a month ago. Their upbringing by their leading shaman and elders is not an excuse for their actions, but wouldn't it be nice to get them a chance? A chance that they are also willing to take, even if they feel skeptical about our intentions and us about their?" Michael looked at Nushii who slept and then exchanged a glance with Vodra who gave a slow nod and blink back.
"Bah! These two's exceptions an' ya kno' that." Zurra said as she then sat her mug down on a crate forcefully, spilling a bit of the contents.
"There ain' no point in arguin'. The deal was struck an' backin' out now will jus' give us headaches with the Rock Backs." Gharna said with a snort which vocalized better than any words that she wasn't thrilled either about this.
"Aye, ma'. Ya kno' already when he makes up 'is mind ta do somethin' he sticks to it worse than blood stains on cloth. Heh... same type-a stubborness that got 'im stuck fer hours keepin' yer forge stoked." Azhul added with a chuckle as she looked at her mother than at Michael, who smiled and laughed with a tired tone.
"Even if we don' like it, we have already all agreed to help make this happen. Otherwise I don' think we'd have put the efforts we did towards preparin' Michael fer da trip." Runhar interjected as well as he sipped his own broth from a bowl.
As the consensus from before had been reaffirmed verbally, the group had fallen quiet once more, in a silence that showed the stewing emotions that bubbled below it. Michael felt it too, he knew what these situations were like from having to deal with them with his own family.
"Well, while I'm gone, hopefully not long, I thought it would be good to get some things done, even if not everything gets finished, I'm thinking that we should keep to a... hm... how to word this? A time line?" The human said uncertain on how to properly put his thoughts in words. Certainly would seem unlike him to struggle with this, but only when his guard was down. In this moment there was no immediate threat, so he was as true to the real him as he could be.
"Oh? Afraid things will stagnate while you are gone due to some of us being uncertain of the situation? Although I certainly appreciate yer concern, none shall remain still while I am here. What have you been thinking of?" Urla asked from her seated position, her inquisitive questioning being as cold as her usual tone.
"Well. I believe there's two things that are need to get done. Integrating the remaining Hay-yen and starting up with trading goods. We still have hos-... injured refugees that are being treated, due to their... shakey condition, right? We need to see that they can adapt to their situation like Nushii and Vodra did. Maintain aid and contact with the Hay-yen settlement, I think this would be best done by working together on things you and they need, maybe repairs and expanding a bit." Michael would say certain of his thoughts on the matter.
"I wasn't going to wait for you to ask, but we'll try to help with that as well. I believe it will be... emboldening to see us work along Tuskir for the others." Vodra said while looking at Nushii. Soon after she'd meet Michael's gaze, with a glint of important purpose in them. "And hence we know not what happened with the old shaman, we could also focus on geting a better grasp on that, as well, since we've been discussing about it."
Michael nodded in agreement, his expression showing that he was pleased with Vodra's additions to his points.
Urla would nod as she listened before clearing her throat. "I see the point. We'll be doing our best here, so make sure you return to us in one piece. That is an order from me to you, as your den mother, Michael." The old sow spoke with utmost seriousness in her tone.
"Understood, Elder Urla." He replied with a cheeky tone, a faint smirk creeping up on his lips.
Soon after the human's reply, the slow steps of Yenna approaching could be herd in the crisp silence of the night. The young Tuskir moved with stuttered and tired steps as he came about closer, holding Michael's phone in one hand and a carving of wood in the other.
"Got your fill of references?" Michael asked with a soft smile as Yenna handed him his phone, tucking it into his leather backpack.
"Aye, but tis ain't based on 'em... keepin' those in me workshop. Drew a few sketches in coal based on 'em, too." The young tuskir said with a tired huff. He then held up the tiny wooden statue that depicted an elderly scars covered tuskir, with a billowing cloak and two handaxes.
Michael looked at it as his heart knotted with a renewed sorrowful melancholy. He held up his hand as his expression asked wordlessly if he could hold it to which Yenna handed it. The human looked at it closely. The carved tuskir struck a pose of on guard and ready to attack, the expression although hard to read for Michael, the eyes were shown with a guardian's battle focus carved into them.
"It looks just like the old man... you have an amazing hand Yenna." Michael said while looking the statue of Spek from all angles possible. Unknown if by accident or if by unconcious choice, Michael ran his digits under the statue's base, feeling it to have been carved up.
Turning it upside down he glanced at carved letters in the Tuskir's written tongue, which to him looked akin to unreadable scratches. Before he could even ask about their meaning Yenna spoke, almost solemnly.
"Tough Hide Spek, The Forever Guardian." The young tuskir said as he sniffled while seating himself near Michael.
"Looks like a good piece, brother." Gharna said from the side with a soft proudness to her voice.
"Indeed. Where are you thinking of putting it?" Michael confirmed his own feelings of admiration towards the small sculpture.
"Thought ya could hold onto it, a reminder o' us fer while yer gone. I was useless in that fight, hidin' with the younger piglets an' guardin' 'em... actin' as if it got to it I could protect them... while you all were layin' yer lives down, fightin'. This is the only thing I'm good at... you were close to 'im so I thought it would be only natural that he look over ya for us." Yenna said with a pain of his own in his words as he verbally flagellated himself over his helplessness.
"Yenna. Don't be harsh on yourself, everyone's got their talents. Yours will be most important." Michael then stood up in a very official manner and he put a hand on the young tuskir's shoulder. "You'll actually make yourself invaluable. You'll be pretty much carving all the handles for the steel peelers we will be selling. And to make the sales go better I recommend making them with engraved designs in the wood or even carving random names into them, since some people love buying stuff like that."
At that point Yenna looked back at Michael, the previous glint of emotionally charged energy dissapearing from his gaze while the unhearable echo of a mute glass crack seemed to make the young tuskir wince. "I'll be what?!"
"Yes." Michael said with a small proud smile as he nodded and patted Yenna on the back.
Gharna couldn't help herself, so she let out snorts, chuckles and short squeals as she giggled. "W-well hah! Ahem... pft... blood brother, you always did say you liked to carve things daintier than plain handaxes..." she added in a teasing tone.
"By the Hunt Father, that sucks for ya Yen-yen." Azhul said trying and succeeding a bit better at masking her chuckles. Still, the large tuskir woman's giggles would be interrupted by a slap on her furred nape from her own mother who seemed to hear her. "AGH! What was that fer?!"
"Who do ya fink is gon' be makin' the blades?" The older buff sow asked while looking at her daughter with mild dissapointment.
Azhul took half a minute longer than she should have to spit out an answer. "Us?" She said while Zurra stared at her with mild dissapointment, giving a single solemn confirming nod. "Oh-... ohhh.... Uughhhhhh... us..." she said with a premptively exhausted tone, as she came to this realization, with a deflating snort and groan while facepalming.
Azhul's reaction managed to rip chuckles and hearty laughs from most of those around, Michael laughing hard enough to nearly keel over from it. As the human took a moment to calm down, the corner of his eye would be greeted by the first wisps of light presenting themselves on the horizon. The moment he saw them, his jovial laugh seemed to drop, his eyes looking at the slowly crawling rays of light as if they were telling him something.
"Well... it seems like my time has expired. I'll... uhm... check my shack once over and make sure I didn't forget anything." The human said as he took a glance into his leathet backpack and then slung it over his shoulders.
"Ah-... alright. We'll start cleaning up here and when we're all done, we'll see you at the gate." Runhar said as he finished his broth, his tone betraying his own insecurities despite supporting this final plan.
Michael nodded back to the captain before taking a few moments to grasp a half asleep Woh and untangle her from the curls at the top of his head. Although he tried not to wake her, the amphoran woke up blinking lazily one eye at a time before her gaze focused on Michael's face.
"Aaagh~... is the borin' talking done, yet?" She asked while stretching relaxed inbetween Michael's digits, then groaning and going limp much like a sibling would when carried by the older one.
"Yeah. And I'm also preparing to leave. Sun's about to come up so I need to get to the Rock Backs." The human replied with a chuckle at the display before leaning down to set Woh on the seat he previously occupied.
The little amphibian humanoid held onto his digits as if to protest the release. "You promise yer comin' back, ye? I've got years o' hugs and cuddle naps I gotta make up for and I'm needin' ya for that." She said while slowly letting go and curling up on the seat, her gullet inflating as she croaked with exhaustion.
"Mhm. Don't worry. I'll come back and that's a promise I intend to keep." Michael said giving Woh a few scritches onto her back, at which the amphoran let a few low and quick croaks akin to a cat's pur.
"Good... an-... don't take too long... otherwise I'm latchin' myself to your face and never letting go, kero..." Woh said while struggling to stay awake, her conciousness fading as she'd doze off.
Michael smile as he laughed silently responding with a nod before making his way to the shack he called a home for the past while. Inside the ex-storage hut, he'd give the place one final cursory glance, making sure to pack a few clothes he nearly forgot thrown about. Once that was done with, as he was about to turn and exit, the door would creak behind him.
Vodra, together with a half awake Nushii, waltzed in slowly. Michael, unsurprised, would turn and smile as he rubbed one of his eyes. "Eh? Going to sleep already? And here I thought you'd see me off at the gate."
"Nushii's about to keel over asleep again, so I thought it'd be good if she was at least in our beds. I for one am not a fan of things such as seeing someone off in a group." Vodra said while leaning against a creaky wooden wall.
Nushii would stumble a bit before flopping herself onto Michael, who, despite being startled, manages to hold himself and the half asleep Hay-yen up. "Why ya need to go? Who are we going to listen to music with as we sleep, eh? Screw the others... my cousin is a doo doo head anyways..." she mumbled and groaned while nuzzling her head into Michael's hair while closing her half open tired eyes.
"Ay... don't say that. Sigh... I know what it is like to have toxic family members... there's no excuse for the things they did, but that doesn't mean some of them can change, ya know? She was really fired up back at camp. She at least seems to want to have you around. Give it a go and see how you feel about it, then decide if YOU want her in your life, ok?" Michael would say while scratching one of Nushii's ears with a hand and petting her shoulder with the other. "Also... please get off... I feel like my bacl or my knees will give out... p-please." He groaned.
Nushii would let out an affirmative yawned yap like noise, although hard to tell what exactly she was agreeing to. She'd push herself off of Michael and then flop onto one of the beds, sniffing about and crawling her way into a curled up position, smack in the middle of Michael's bed.
The human giggled at the sight as he began making his way to the door, where Vodra stood leaned against the wall. "I uhm... wanted to thank you... for everything." He'd say looking at Vodra as he whispered his words.
"Thank me? I should be the one doing that." Vodra replied in the same low tone.
"Well... I wanted to thank you for all the help you've given around, for trusting me, for co-operating in the beginning... for not slitting my throat in my sleep once you two were out of holding, heh." Michael said with a clearly jesting tone towards the end.
Vodra listened silently as her ears would lower, her head turning to look at him. "I see. I feel like I am the one that owes you... thinking about it... it sounds foolish, but getting taken hostage was the best thing that happened to me. Before that I found myself not really caring about much... I just wanted to do what I had to do and sleep... because at least when I was asleep I didn't feel miserable. Now... I'm actually relatively eager to see what I'm doing when I'm awake."
The Hay-yen woman took a moment to glance at Nushii, who had settled in and appeared to be asleep, as she then gazed back at the human and with a rather stiff and awkward motion she's lean forward her massive and hunched frame, pressing her forehead against the side of his face and her snout into his neck. "When we talked about The Devourer... before that... I never even considered if it was not true or fake or at least... not my truth... not what I wanted to believe in. I just accepted it and resigned myself to the fate I was preached to end up with... if not for you... I'd still see each day as a bleak and empty moment of a pointless existence." Vodra said as small whines escaped at times between her words, a wetness taking to her eyes, that Michael felt against the side of his face.
The human would acknowledge Vodra's subtle burst of emotions by wrapping an around her neck, rubbing the top of her head between the ears. "I struggled with something like that to... the feeling of living for no reason only to know you'll die and that the end might be horrible. The faith of my specific tribe of people back home preached of their beliefs in a bleak and depressing manner, too. I hated it and 'cause of it... I still fear death now, but I've been getting better, you will too. No true Gods would want their mortal children to be miserable, instead they'd want them to learn to live satisfied and enlightened lives and... if there's no Gods that await us when it is all done... at least we know we lived in a good honest way, that we deemed fit and that made us happy."
Vodra didn't reply as she shook lightly against Michael, instead listening content. She'd pull her head back to look at the human, half his face covered in a mix of stray fur hairs mixed with a wetness produced by her tears. As if by instinct she'd give his mug a few licks to clean up the mess before pulling back. "Well... y-yeah. That's what I'm thankful for." She'd say as her usual collected self would start showing again. "Now, get going. Don't want those Rock Backs to go back on their deal 'cause you're arriving late. I need to catch a bit of rest anyways..." The Hay-yen would say as she went past Michael and then curled up on her own bed.
"Sleep well." The human replied as one last faint smile rested upon his lips as he exited the hut, the door creaking as he left.
His lonesome steps made the mix of grass and dirt bemeath his boots to crackle and slosh as he walked. Still, Michael didn't hear them as his mind thought of the situation that was awaiting him. Nobody he could trust would be by his side, he'd have to fake his true self for the purpose of apperances and maintaing their ruse.
'Heh... and here I thought I'd never be the type of person to pretend to be someone he isn't, for the sake of gaining something. Sigh... there's a first for everything, I guess. I said the same thing when I was younger about smoking, yet I fell into that myself. Eeeeh... I could go for a smoke... if I had any left.' Michael thought as he then bumped into something akin to a soft pillar.
Taking half a second to recover from his broken focus, Michael looked at the obstacle he bumped, quickly realizing it was actually Azhul. Confused, his mind quickly came to a possible conclusion to her sudden appearance near his old hut. "Oh- Sorry for taking a moment longer to linger! Was saying goodnight to Vodra and Nushii. Took a second longer than I thought."
"Heh. Aye, yer spot on an' no worries. I just wondered if yer reconsidering this whol' thing. Wouldn't blame ya if you just wanted us to fight it out wif the Rock Backs. It'd make things easier honestly." The large young sow said with a clearly jovial tone, albeit with a tinge of exhaustion to it.
"Heh. I couldn't ask that of you all. We barely made it through that ordeal and not without paying hefty prices... all of us." Michael said in a easy tone that tried and failed to hide a bitterness he still held in himself.
"... Michael. Spek wouldn't blame ya fer his death, truly... Ya kno' that, right?" Azhul said in a softened tone as her ears flopped slightly, a small huff leaving her flat snout.
"I know. I discussed this before. I just... it's not wether he blames me or not... it is wether I can stop blaming myself for it." Michael said with a strained face, his expression seeming to tense, his nostrils flared as he pressed his lips together tight, his eyes shining from the moon light with the glaze of tears that coated them, still and unshed. "So, I'll do my best to care for you all... like Spek would have."
Azhul looked Michael in the eye and after he took a moment to release the tension in his body, the large Tuskir woman, went on to wrap her arms around him and embrace him. He'd pull the human's head into her chest as a three fingered hand grasped his back, the other resting onto the crest of his head.
"Eh?! Azhul?! Didn't you say this is somethi-" Michael yelped muffled from the embrance, his previous sombre mood entirely changing, simply from how sudden the hug yhay enveloped him was.
"Aye. Somethin' ya don' just do with anyone, for tuskir that is. Ya hoomans do it for multiple reasons, ain't that about right? Consoling someone, sounds about right as one o' 'em." The built sow said while slightly tensing her arms around him, as if afraid he'll slip from her grasp. She rested her head on top of his, taking a second to sniff his hair lightly.
"Ah-... yeah... that'd be a reason. Heh... thank you... this... does help." Michael said as he wrapped his own arms around the tuskir woman, although unable to fully wrap them around her.
Azhul huffed repeatedly quick and short as her flat nose nuzzled into Michael's curls, before she looked up, staring at the starry sky while still holding him. "Oi. Ya make sure you come back in one piece, ya hear? And don' go dying, getting nabbed, fallin' fer some ditzy nobody's schemes or anythin' that'll keep ya from coming back to... to... to us, ye?"
"Heh. Don't worry. I'll make sure as soon as I'm done there, I'm coming back ASAP... ah... you'd not know what 'ASAP' means..." Michael said from the hug with an awkward laugh.
"Eh. Presume it's some word that's supposed to mean that you'll come quick or as soon as possible. So don' worry. I getcha." Azhul said as she seemed to take a few moments longer before letting go of Michael, the hand that wrapped to the human's back, now lagged behind a moment longer before letting go with a twitch in the tuskir woman's digits.
Michael realizing it wasn't the time to explain acronyms, nodded as she smiled with a relaxed exhale. "Yeah. Just about that. Well. Let's go then. Don' wanna make the others have second thoughts as well." He'd say while starting to walk in the direction of the gate. Still, Michael stopped immediately as he noticed Azhul was still turned back and unmoving. "Ah... you're not coming?"
The large sow seemed frozen for a few moments, her previous hand still semi outstretched forward, as if reaching for something in the air. After her digits twitched once more and a louder sligtly snotty sounding huff escaped her flat nose, Azhul stretched and let out a yawn. "Ah-... w-well... huff ...I already said my piece. Gonna go ahead an' get some sleep." She replied as she then began heading in the opposing direction at a slow pace.
"Oh, right. Rest well and take care! I'll miss ya and your mother! Hope we can forge more stuff together when I'm back!" Michael replied with his spirits properly uplifted.
Azhul staggered her steps at his words, as if from exhaustion. "... C-Can't wait. Come back already." She said as she waved with the back of her hand, still going her way to rest.
Michael nodded despite knowing she couldn't see him as he then headed to the gate. There more words, encouragements and goodbyes were exchanged by all members of the tribe to their departing pink member. After a last awkward moment of half muttered sentences, Runhar had the gates opened, Michael stepping out towards the darkened forest.
Before he got too far and the rest of his tribe closed up their little safe haven, the human turned to them and in the dim light of the few torches around, he said: "I'll miss you all! See you soon!"
From there his departure felt as quick as the wind, as his form faded into the black nothingness of the forest at night. All of a sudden, the time this stranger turned friend spent in this little settlement, in the middle of nowhere, felt a little shorter than before, but not any less important to all involved.
Next Issue!

I’ve been on some preeeeetty weird first dates, some cringe, some headbangingly bad and some just..strange.
Here’s mine - I was at a gig and met this person in the crowd, seemed quirky wearing a tasseled skin tight jumpsuit, assumed it was to do with the white snake cover band they were in (they were hot.. I looked past it) they also wore a collar and white cowboy boots, again, thought it was show attire.
Got their number and planned a date within the week.
They arrived at my home in a vintage bmw in an all pink jumpsuit, boots and all. As we were planning on drinking it was a better idea to ditch the car but not before they offered to drive it back to their home and walk from there as it was closer.
I was invited in as they forgot something and so I took a leap of faith and stepped in.
The house was entirely decorated in cat themed clutter, printed curtains, pillows, mugs, even a tv that resembled Garfield. I looked around to find cat bowls and when asked if they had a cats I got a very short ‘no’.
I should’ve left there.
We headed for the bar, suggestion in which they tried to get me day drunk and only accepted orange juice because “I don’t like being drunk on a first date”
I was weirded out and mainlining wine because I thought I was in the twilight zone, that’s when I made the mistake to ask about the collar.
It was velvet with what appeared to be a bell, in short found out their cat had been run over by a car and they kept the shattered bell as a token to wear.. for three years.
Proceeded to cry into their orange juice not before trying to force feed me bar peanuts because I looked like I ‘needed salt’.
To clarify I was freshly 18 and socially awkward. It took me three hours to call it quits.

NOTE FROM AUTHOR: Hello Hello! I am a first-time writer embarking on my first dumpster fire; input is most welcome. I'm not the best self-editor, so get your hiking boots on. It's rough out there. Whenever I read it, I find or create more errors (:
OPTIONAL READS: For the Retro Computer or Programming Enthusiast OR if you are open to other formats of story telling. I tried to combine my love for programming as an UNDERSTANDABLE way to tell a story through a Visual Experience in the Command Line Interface;
A Stand-Alone VISUAL ASCII 'Programming Terminal' Story Prologue. Follow through(Screen Shots of my Command Line Interface) the UNE-EYE Observational Satellite Terminal as Kable extracts Classified Data about his Beloved Military Unit, THE HUMMINGBIRDS, a flying exoskeleton unit. This includes the origin story of a Technology Tree in Book 1.

####

INDEX

1. DEADCOAST - THE HUMMINGBIRDS PROLOGUE -> HERE <-
   
2. DEADCOAST - COMPLETE ILLUSTRATED INTRO -> HERE <-
   
3. HEAT & GRIZZLY REDS - CHAPTER 1 ILLUSTRATED -> HERE <-
   

"Deadcoast Book 1: Heat and the Grizzly Reds" transports readers to a 2063 Earth, a world on the brink, where the scarcity of fresh water has led to previously unseen geopolitical tensions. Amidst this backdrop, the nation-backed militant group DAGGR has emerged as a formidable force, leveraging advanced technology to assert control over Canada’s abundant water resources. At the heart of their arsenal is 'slugTech,' a technology pioneered by James Broadshaw, intended for ecological restoration but repurposed for militaristic dominance.
The story unfolds with the chilling invasion of Vancouver, marking a turning point as DAGGR makes its ambitions clear, culminating in the assassination of the Canadian Prime Minister. This act of aggression leaves the country reeling, exposing vulnerabilities and igniting a global reaction.
The UNE-EYE satellite is central to the international response, a significant narrative element representing the world's most advanced orbital tracking system. Once decommissioned in favour of privacy, the Dutch reactivated the satellite as a strategic move to monitor DAGGR's movements and coordinate a unified international effort against the aggressors. This revival of UNE-EYE symbolizes a crucial turning point, highlighting the global stakes and the interconnectedness of nations in the face of a common enemy.
As Canada grapples with its plight, the DAMU (Deserted American Military Units) rise in solidarity, breaching borders to fight alongside their Canadian counterparts. This act of defiance is mirrored by international forces, including the Netherlands and Ukraine, each bringing their unique strengths to the coalition, underscored by the strategic oversight provided by the UNE-EYE satellite.
Amidst the geopolitical chaos, a man who had all but given up, a boxer on the ropes, emerges from Vancouver's Gastown. Known as HEAT, this leader of the Grizzly Reds becomes a symbol of resistance and hope. HEAT's story, and that of the Grizzly Reds, is one of resilience, rallying not only Canadians but also global citizens to stand against DAGGR's tyranny.
" Deadcoast Book 1: Heat and the Grizzly Reds" is a compelling narrative of survival, alliance, and resistance. It deftly weaves together elements of advanced technology, international politics, and the indomitable human spirit. The inclusion of the UNE-EYE satellite serves as a testament to the complexities of modern warfare and the critical role of global surveillance and coordination in maintaining security and freedom. But something else stirs amongst it. The UNE still shrouds its use, albeit assuring it is for record-keeping purposes- there is no way to be sure. Join HEAT and the Grizzly Reds as they navigate the challenges of Time, War, Science and liberating their fellow man in Vancouver. THE GRIZZLIES NEED YOU, in this action-packed, emotional saga, speaks to the resilience and camaraderie inherent in the human condition.
CHAPTER 1 - The Blood Spattered Maples
ILLUSTRATED VERSION -> HERE <-
The early morning sun cast a serene glow over Vancouver, its golden rays gently coaxing the city from its slumber. The harbour lay still, bathed in a tranquil blend of crimson and amber, defiantly calm as if aware of the day's latent potential for tumult. The awakening streets, pulsating with the vibrant beat of daily enterprise, transformed into bustling arteries of life.
Amidst this urban renaissance, Ryan stood by his apartment window, one eye still tinged a fading shade of deep lavender from last night's ordeals. He absorbed the duality of the world outside – a peaceful façade masking an undercurrent of chaos, much like his own existence. The apartment, a silent guardian of his life's chapters, was awash with tangible memories; some stood proudly like trophies, and others lingered like indelible scars.
"Eugh, need to sort out this money mess," Ryan muttered, his voice a gravelly mix of resolve and weariness. He gingerly touched the bruise beneath his eye, a stark reminder of the previous night's fight. He wasn't just a boxer but a living, breathing paradox. His undefeated record of 12-0 was more than a tally of victories; it was a map of a life spent dancing in and out of shadows. At 17, he was a beacon of hope for Canadian Olympic Futures. Now, at 33, he was a spotlight in his subconscious, illuminating the relentless passage of time and a road riddled with 'what ifs.' Eleven of those wins were echoes from a past steeped in the sweat and blood of the ring before life's currents swept him into the city's gritty underbelly. There, he became an enforcer, not out of choice but a necessity, bound by ties, not of blood but of unbreakable bonds forged in adversity. Stepping back into the ring at 33, Ryan wasn't chasing glory; he was hunting redemption, a chance to rewrite a narrative that had veered off course.
Today's boxing was far from what he once knew; it had transformed into a digital spectacle, a charade he refused to partake in. The sport now paraded fighters adorned with loud chains and face tattoos, pretending to live a life of crime they don't. Vile symbols of fame he doesn't wish for. Ryan had always skirted the fringes of the spotlight, respecting the sport but despising what it had become - a glorified masquerade that he believed led the youth astray. He stared out at the awakening city, contemplating his place in this ever-changing world, just as the first notes of a familiar yet unwelcome voice crackled from the vintage radio on his shelf.
"Ah, jimmy2piece," he scoffed, the name leaving a bitter taste. The vintage radio crackled on, announcing the dazzling exploits of the heavyweight boxing champion, an embodiment of everything Ryan detested about the sport's current state. Ryan's hand lingered over the old radio, a relic amidst the bountiful thrift and trinket that abundantly filled his apartment. The announcer's voice, overly flamboyant in its praise of 'jimmy2piece,' clashed with the morning's tranquillity, grating against Ryan's every nerve. With a flick brimming with contempt, he silenced the intrusive chatter. The ensuing silence was a stark reminder of his path's divergence from the once-noble art of boxing to a life mired in moral ambiguity.
"Enough of this nonsense," he muttered, the disdain in his voice mirroring the snarl on his lips as he spun the dial back to silence.
*Click*
Ryan was a man of contemplation; opening his balcony door, he let the morning breeze mingle with the memories that haunted him daily. These reflections were a tormenting ritual, no matter the joys and love surrounding him. His only respite was constant movement – hobbies, work, art – anything to fend off the sharp claws of the past that threatened to shred the remnants of his self-respect. He had lost ten years to choices and actions that replayed in his mind relentlessly every single day.
"This 'jimmy2shoes' or whatever...pal throws pillows, a poser pretending he's about that gang life; I can see it in his eyes, he's not a killer," he grumbled, gazing out at the awakening city. This day promised a respite from his underground fights – at least for a while. His recent backstreet brawls, a far cry from the glory of the boxing ring, were what paid the bills now. "At least I've bought myself three more months..."
Leaning on the railing of his miniature balcony, Ryan cradled a cup of steaming coffee, his gaze drifting over the streets below. At this moment, the chaos of his life seemed distant, replaced by a transient calm. Despite his bruised, rough presentation, a certain peace enveloped him, a rare stillness that belied the storm of his existence. His thoughts meandered through the serene hum of the city and the gentle brush of the ocean breeze. The skyscape, with clouds dancing to the ocean's rhythm, offered a brief escape from his turbulent past.
Memories of Robin, his mentor and friend, floated into his consciousness. Robin's untimely death in Dubai was a wound that never healed. The sacrifices he had made to keep Robin safe, only to be absent on the fateful trip that claimed his friend's life, weighed heavily on him. "Why did it have to be you, Robin?" he whispered to the horizon, the question, a haunting torment upon his daily routines.
Ryan was a thinker; as he slid over his ashtray from the stool, he sparked up A morning 'dart' (cigarette), as he called them. His past began to creep into his head, as it did every morning. With each inhalation of addiction-soothing nicotine, his blazing thoughts followed as his brain began to become fully active from his sleep. It was a raven on his shoulder tormenting him, pecking at him ever haunting his consciousness. No matter the love he may have found or the happiness, friends, or family surrounding him. The time to reflect was always grim and consistently unbearable. If he stood still, the Ravel's claws sunk more profoundly; the only reprieve was constant distractions. It's why he kept so busy, creative, and active. Ryan constantly kept moving with hobbies, work, or art. Pushing off the switchblade thoughts ready to cut into his subconscious and bleed out whatever self-respect he had left that day. He threw away ten years of his life, and he relives them every. Single. Day.
"Damn man, what's the point of it all?" Ryan's voice was barely a whisper, lost in the morning breeze. His gaze lingered on the horizon, eyes clouded with confusion and pain. "Robin's gone, and here I am, a ship adrift; up shits creek without a paddle. What good can I do? What purpose do I serve? My skillset? My knowledge? Ive wasted my life, nothing is applicable." The questions hung in the air, unanswered. Ryan's life had indeed been a storm of violence and turmoil, from the gritty days working alongside Robin, watching his back to his hard-fought victories in the boxing ring. He had dreamt of leaving the world of fights behind, yet fate seemed to have woven a different path for him, one that he couldn't escape...
The distant sound of boat horns broke his train of thought. These weren't the usual rhythmic calls that echoed along Vancouver's shores; they carried a sense of urgency, growing louder and more frantic by the second. Ryan leaned forward, squinting into the morning light. The sight that greeted him was anything but ordinary. Dark, ominous and foreboding shapes were cutting through the waters toward the Seawall – military-grade ships that seemed like phantoms against the sun's bright backdrop.
"What the...?" Ryan murmured, a wry smile touching his lips as he recalled a line from a 1930s radio show. "Ah yes, the 'Anti-Frackers' upping their game, bravo!" He often found solace in humour, a shield against the world's harsh realities. Ryan was an unbreakable anvil to the world, always struck to sharpen others' steel. But what about his iron resolve? He bore the burdens so others didn't have to, a silent guardian shouldering the world's weight in stoic silence. Yet beneath that armour of stoicism beat the heart of a man grappling with his vulnerabilities, a man with a core as soft as it was intense.
Just like that- The world as we knew it, changed forever.
The morning's peace shattered abruptly as sirens wailed into life, slicing through the air with a sense of impending doom. The tranquil dawn was now a backdrop to a nightmare unfolding in real time. Ryan's eyes, mirroring the turbulent hues of a stormy sea, narrowed in primal alertness. These were not friendly vessels coming to grace the city's harbour; they were harbingers of chaos, their arrival a silent scream in the gardens of Vancouver's tranquility. As the city around him carried on, blissfully unaware of the looming threat, Ryan's mind shifted into high gear, honed by years of confrontation, conflict and reading other peoples intentions. He understood the unspoken language of death, the subtle shift in the air that preluded catastrophe. The serene calm that had greeted the day now seemed like the deceptive stillness before a devastating storm.
PFFFFT~~
Ryan's coffee ejected out his mouth, a clean mist dispersed, dancing in the ocean winds.
His eyes widened in shock. "That... No, that's not right. That honeycomb structure on the bow – that's rumoured military tech, not something you'd find on a civilian vessel. That's definitely not one of our decommissioned ships; Canada has always had a modest military budget- It's not the U.S. either; they've moved on to those massive city carriers," he muttered, recalling the recent unveiling of the U.S.'s latest naval behemoth designed to be a self-sustaining war ecosystem.
"These are destroyers...carriers...and what in the world are those landing crafts?" His voice trailed off as a wave of realization washed over him. A heavy breath escaped his lips, his heartbeat thundering in unison with a growing sense of dread. This kind of military might, sleek and menacing, was straight out of the pages of a dystopian novel. Ryan's pulse quickened, adrenaline coursing through his veins, mingling with an unsettling fear. Vancouver, with its serene beauty and peaceful reputation, was the last place one would expect a military invasion. Yet, as he stood there, the city around him persevered in blissful ignorance. Laughter and the sounds of daily life echoed up to his balcony, starkly juxtaposed against the darkening horizon of his thoughts.
Something sinister was unfolding, and he felt an urgent need to act. "Ah, damn it!" he exclaimed, frustration boiling over as he hurled his mug to the ground, where it shattered into razer sharp ceramic shards—a glimpse of futures past.
The walls of Ryan's apartment, once a gallery of memories from a life half-lived, now felt like they were closing in on him. The space that had been his refuge, adorned with mementos of a tumultuous past, suddenly felt like a prison. He felt trapped, not by physical barriers, but by the weight of the unfolding crisis. Who could he call? Who would believe him about an impending military assault? Was there even time?
Each option seemed as hopeless as the next, leaving him feeling powerless. His fists, which had once brought him victory in the ring, now seemed futile in the face of this immense and unknown threat.
BOOM
A thunderous crash tore through the city's fabric, piercing the veil of laughter and routine. Giggles changed to Shrieks, the buzzing of cars in the city turned screeching of panicked tires. It was a boom resonating with such force that it seemed to shake the very resolve of the most robust steel, a sound that demands attention and captivates a person, a sound of death; it rattles you to the bone. This explosion marked a pivotal moment that would forever alter the course of Vancouver's history and, indeed, the world's.
The resounding echo of the first explosion heralded a declaration of war on all that was ordinary. In Ryan, the shockwave ignited a transformation. Despair morphed into an unyielding determination, a fire kindled deep within. His skin prickled, each hair standing on end as if his nerves were braille, spelling out the moment's urgency.
"Are they firing at us?" Ryan's voice was a mix of disbelief and rising panic. The thought seemed almost too surreal to entertain. He hesitated momentarily, grappling with the reality of the situation. The explosion's roar, so fierce it shook the foundations of his apartment, jolted him back to the present. Racing back to his balcony, what he saw confirmed his darkest fears.
The ships in the harbour were no longer silent, ominous spectators; they had unleashed their fury, sending plumes of smoke and debris skyward. Vancouver's skyline, once a proud testament to peace and progress, now served as a harrowing backdrop to an unfolding apocalypse. Below, the streets descended into chaos. People scattered in a frantic attempt to escape, their screams piercing the air, a chorus of dawning terror.
Ryan's heart pounded against his chest, each beat a call to action. He was no hero, never the 'good guy' in his story, but he did value life above all. Standing there, witnessing his city being torn apart, he knew he couldn't remain a passive observer. Indecision and shock gave way to resolve.
"MOTHA FU-" he cursed, his words lost in the burst of an explosion, spotted at the last second.
The world around him had erupted into a maelstrom of fire and fury.
An air burst shell detonated with ferocious intensity a mere 50 meters from Ryan's sanctuary. The explosion ripped through the building, an unforgiving hatred that jolted reality itself. The blast wave, a monstrous force of destruction, assaulted his apartment, shattering the windows with an ease that mocked Vancouver's fragility. Glass shards, transformed into lethal projectiles, hurtled through the air with a hunter's precision, each piece seeking its target. Instinctively, Ryan lunged for cover, his only protection a vintage oak promotional board, a relic of a bygone era. This wooden guardian, decorated with the iconic image of Stan Lee, stood as a stoic defender, a symbol of comic heroism now repurposed to shield flesh and blood from the brutal onslaught.
A low hum erupts from the depths of his being as the fireball swirled around him. "Breathe... I can't... don't fall asleep... don't...sleep..." he whispered, fighting the encroaching darkness. His cobalt eyes, glazing over open, fighting to the last light, flickered between consciousness and oblivion. The distant, muffled voices of mentors past echoed in his mind, a fading chorus in the theatre of his memories. Ryan looked to his left, cast one last lingering look at the Vancouver sky, a canvas of blue that seemed so distant now. As his vision began to narrow, a tunnel drawing him away from the light, Ryan felt the grip of darkness pulling him under heavy, yet weightless. Once so vivid and alive, the world around him was fading into shadows.
Amid shrapnel-induced unconsciousness, Ryan's mind catapulted him back to a pivotal moment from his youth – the Ontario Canadian Olympic Trials.
The stadium's noise swirled around him, but it was an entirely different world within the ring. There, it was just Ryan and his opponent, every move a testament to the sacrifices he and Robin(Ryan's longtime mentor both inside, and outside the ring) had made together.
Ryan's style in the ring was unique, a blend of calculated ferocity in speed and agility. He adopted the elusive, angular movements that Robin had honed while serving alongside the hardened Ukrainians on the frontlines of Kyiv. This style was compelling and unpredictable, frustrating his opponents with swift and efficient strikes. Ryan's ability to slip away from counters, almost serpentine in its execution, left them grasping at straws.
Point fighting for the Olympics was a system that worked well with Ryan's style but not necessarily with his mindset. Ryan was a fighter at heart, and sometimes, when pushed, the disciplined techniques would give way to a rawer form of combat. Robin, who always believed in Ryan's potential, saw this as his greatest fault and biggest asset to "push past." In his gruff but encouraging voice, Robin would often spew "The stink in that mind, You've got a head on you that'd make an onion cry," highlighting Ryan's occasionally impulsive nature, and inability to control his emotions when it mattered. This characteristic made Ryan fearless in the ring but also sloppy, open, and vulnerable. It often led him into trouble outside of the solace in prizefighting.
In these trials, Ryan's physical attributes – his slender frame, broad shoulders, wide back and a peculiarly long wingspan that gave him an imposing presence in his weight class – it made him stand out. His frame synchronized with his style, creating a truly unique spectacle of genetic gifts, hard work, and skill.
These memories blended nostalgia and pain as they flickered through Ryan's mind. They were reminders of a path once trodden, a journey shaped by the influence of a mentor and the determination of a fighter's spirit.
As the Olympic Trials set to begin, Robin looked to Ryan to instill confidence for his upcoming bouts, but Ryan was in his element. It was fight day, the fun day, the day to show off all of the hard work. Ryan had confidence, and his style in the ring displayed it in full. He moved with an angular rhythm that was both art and battle – slipping, landing a quick stiff counter cross, then gracefully stepping out of reach inches from returning fire. He made it look fun and easy, as if playing with his prey before fangs clench throat, delivering the killing bite. Looking closer, you can only see fire and determination in his bright eyes. He found purpose in the beautiful science of boxing. His strategy was that of a technical boxer, The Counterpuncher; 1. To bait his opponent into committing, then counter, fight long, fight smart. 2. Beat em' up, Frustrate em', then start slinging the heat in the uppercuts and lead hooks.
The bell rang and the fight was officially underway. Ryan controlled the ring with his long frame. Each exchange was rapid yet controlled, a dance of precise strikes and evasive maneuvers. The world's complexities faded in these moments, leaving only Ryan and the pure essence of the sport he loved. He felt invincible, a force of nature within the confines of the ring. To Ryan, the fight was more than a competition; it was a performance, an exhilarating escape from the mundane. It was true Purpose.
The intensity of the round reached a frustrating outburst by his opponent, who grabbed Ryan by the back of his head– 'SPLIT' called by the referee, his hand placed between them. A judge calls for a correction, catching the referee's attention only for a split second. In this second, Ryan's Opponent saw an opportunity. Lifting his head to move away, Ryan locks eyes with his Opponent, sporting a grin and delivering a sly headbutt as a parting gift. It's against the rules, but part of the game's harsh reality if gone unnoticed. Expelling energy and detesting it was a waste of fuel. It was a jolting reminder of "at all times"(protect yourself), a stark contrast to the discipline and respect Ryan upheld, starting his boxing journey in Thailand under "Muay Thai" rules, ideology of the worrior spirit and discipline. There was a sense of Honor in Lumpinee Stadium.
The outcome of these unsavoury tactics here is an advantage for the opponent. Ryan's inner pools erupt, his mind swirled with raging white waters, crashing and colliding against each other, two oceans with opposite currents meeting in his consciousness. His once technical thoughts, muscle memory mixed with fight iq burst with flames, erupting and incinerating all strategy in his path. His eyes widened, open like he'd found his primal genetic ancestry hidden deep within. The slaughter and the war of history. The bloodshed of 1000 lifetimes. He felt it all. Manic in thought. Ryan wanted to take his glove off and rip his cheeks open from the inside out--
BREAK - Ryan snaps back into it, erupting in stoic, silent, primal rage.

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The fight escalated, Ryan's disciplined technique unravelled under the seething tide of his rage. The finesse and agility that once defined his footwork gave way to a heavier, more aggressive stance. His feet, usually light and swift under his commanding frame, now felt anchored to the floor, each step driven more by fury than finesse. This transformation in style played perilously into his opponent's advantage. Ryan, usually a master of stick-and-move tactics, found himself engaging in close-quarter brawls, trading his advantage for a risky gamble. His in-and-out maneuvers, once a blur of grace, turned into brutish, in-the-pocket exchanges. This was a terrain where his more muscular and compact opponent had the upper hand. A raw, primal contest of power replaced the tactical dance that Ryan excelled at. Ryan's precise strikes became wild swings, his movements predictable to his seasoned adversary. Seizing the moment, the opponent unleashed a devastating barrage of inside hooks with their compact frame. A vicious right hook, lands clean in the exchange, thrown with the grace of a milkbag, the power hooks brute force, cut through Ryan's defences. The blow landed with a bone-jarring impact, sending a shockwave through Ryan's frame. His world spun as he stumbled, his once dominant presence in the ring now faltering under the weight of his unchecked emotions.
The ground rushed up to meet him as he crashed onto the canvas, the taste of iron and the sting of defeat mingling in his mouth. The crowd's roar faded into a distant echo, a stark reminder of how quickly the tides of battle could turn. Robin's voice sliced through the ringing from the corner, resonating with a force that commanded attention.
"Get your shit together, JUMPIN JESUS RYAN! HEART OF GOLD AND HEAD OF STONE – GET UP, YOU LITTLE COWARD! YOU'RE LETTING IT WIN, AGAIN! STOP THIS ONION HEAD NONSENSE AND DANCE, BOX THIS FELLA – YOU'RE BETTER THAN THIS, ACT LIKE IT, BELIEVE IN IT!"
His words were more than just a call to action; they were a lifeline thrown into the stormy seas of Ryan's mind. Each syllable was drenched in the raw, unfiltered wisdom that only a life spent in the cauldron of combat could forge. Robin's tone was a volatile cocktail of fury and concern, the urgency palpable in his voice. His palms crashed against the ring mat; each hit thunderous punctuation to his fiery sermon.
"You've got the talent, kid, but it's as good as ash if you keep burning it to the ground. I'M HERE FOR YOU, IM RIGHT HERE. SNAP OUT OF IT AND BOX THIS PLASTIC PATTY! MOVE GOD DAMNIT, GET UP!"
On the canvas, Ryan lay dazed, the echo of Robin's voice ringing in his ears. It was more than a mere pep talk; it was a wake-up call that struck a chord deep within him. Amidst the haze of the crowd murmurs and the pulsating pain that coursed through his body, clarity began to emerge. Lying there, Ryan grasped the essence of Robin's message –
"coward? letting it win? Playing my ego are ya Robin...hes right though. Im throwing this shit away."
This moment, sprawled on the canvas under the glaring lights and the crowd's gaze, became a crucible of transformation. The raw emotion and the hard-hitting truth in Robin's words ignited a spark in Ryan. It was time to rise, shake off the shadows of rage, and embrace a fighter's true spirit like he had learned in Thailand – not just with fists but with heart and mind in unison.
Staggered yet stirred by the dual impact of the physical hit and Robin's piercing words, A padded fist crushed into the rings canvas, followed by a kneee and the eruption of the crowd. Ryan was back, and he began to pull himself up from the canvas. His resolve, momentarily dimmed, now reignited with a fierce, clear, calculated intensity. Memories of the gruelling hours spent in the gym flooded back to him – the relentless sparring sessions, the time spent in Thailand, the sweat and toil, and the invaluable lessons etched into his being under Robin's stern tutelage.
With a renewed spirit, Ryan stepped back into the battle, his movements now embodying controlled power and a fluidity to his step. He recalled his time fighting beside the backdrop of the "Sarama" a traditional Thai music played when in combat. The times of learning to move, fight with the music, to flow, to be fluid, to be concise. Ryan finally put it all together in the heat of battle. He had merged his inherent ferocity with the disciplined technique that Robin relentlessly drilled into him, and the mindfull practises of the years he spent under Burklerk Pinsinchai in the jungles of Chiang Mai. His style was now fully displayed, raw and visceral yet refined by countless hours of practice in mind, body and spirit.
The final rounds bell clang to a start in a clinic of skill and sheer willpower. Ryan, driven by a blend of desperation and unwavering determination, unleashed a barrage of calculated and explosive strikes. Each punch and maneuver was a nod to the efficient, no-nonsense Ukrainian style that Robin had imparted to him. Ryan moved rhythmically across the mat, steps measured and precise, executing short, angular movements and deft outside counterpunches. He had returned to his element – the dance of combat, where he felt most alive, a symphony of movement where every step and punch was a testament to his life's journey and experiences as a human being first, and as a fighter second.
In this wake-up call, Ryan reinvigorated and reminded himself of his love for the sport, the exhilarating blend of art and athleticism. He was not just fighting to win; he was celebrating boxing, combat, honouring the path he had walked with Robin, and reclaiming what it meant to be a true fighter through Burklurk Pinsinchai's Teachings.
The round pressed on, and Ryan executed his maneuvers with a surgeon's precision. First;
-- The counterpuncher; a display in timing and accuracy, delivered with the full force of training and innate skill. --

1. He deftly slipped his opponent's cross, a move as fluid as it was swift.
   
2. He angled off, creating a space wide enough for his next move.
   
3. With an almost predatory precision, Ryan unleashed a powerful right cross, targeting his opponent's cheek from the angle he had just created. But Ryan wasn't done yet.
   
4. He slipped out again, evading any potential counter from his disoriented opponent. The rhythm, he danced in and out with his precise timing, perfected down to inches and angles.
   
5. In a final, decisive movement of the exchange, Ryan slipped in. He timed his step with a long cross that came off-beat, catching his opponent utterly off-guard. The punch landed with a satisfying impact, culminating in a perfectly executed combination. As he watched his opponent stagger, Ryan couldn't help but think, 'cya sleepy boi,' a silent acknowledgment of his dominance in this singular exchange.
   

This sequence was a statement. Ryan was not only back in the fight but also commanding it.
ONE!…TWO!…THREE!…FOUR!…FIVE!…SIX!...SEVEN!..EIGHT!
Ryan's opponent stands, admirable, but futile, driven by sheer will but hampered by sluggish movements, the man rose to his feet, it was clear the fight was reaching its zenith.
The opponent, gathering his remaining strength for a final stand, launched a jab, a last-ditch effort relying more on brute force than finesse. But this was a fatal mistake in Ryan's world – playing right into what Ryan was best at. Counters.
Ryan read the move with the clarity of a seasoned fighter. As the jab came, he effortlessly slipped to the right, evading the punch with a short angular step that spoke of his ring intelligence. Instantly, he countered with the same sharp cross from his right hand, followed by a devastating hook that cut through the air with lethal intent in his left. Grasping at straws, reeling from the counter, Ryans opponent threw a desperate, looping last stand punch, Ryan dipped down and left, rolling the punch with an elegance that made it seem almost effortless. He was Hunting for the Kill Shot. Seizing the moment, Ryan unleashed a ferocious left uppercut, the force of the blow lifting his opponent's chin skyward. He followed up with a right overhand, but just before impact, he halted the punch. There was no need for it; his opponent was already collapsing, the "Lights were on, but no one was Home". The fight was effectively over, Ryan's last combination is the final note, a crescendo that echoed through the ring.
As his opponent hit the canvas, the crowd erupted. Ryan stood in the center of the ring, his chest heaving, every fibre of his being alight with the thrill of victory. This wasn't just a win; it was a performance, a display of skill, heart, and the indomitable spirit of a fighter who had walked through fire and flames to the otherside and emerge victorious.
The final bell Rings with not a single chair in the arena warm; a thunderous clap erupts from the crowd. It was more than just applause; it was an acknowledgment of a battle fiercely fought by both men. In that moment ringside, in a triumphant victory, Ryan and Robin shared a look that spoke volumes, a connection far beyond the usual bounds of mentor and protégé. Their bond, tempered in the crucible of hardship and struggle, was now sealed in the glory of this defining triumph.
Standing amidst the cheers and the adrenaline-fueled euphoria, Ryan found himself momentarily lost in the tide of memories. It was a poignant reminder of the journey that had brought him here, a path marked by triumphs and losses. Robin's teachings transcended the confines of boxing; they were life lessons imprinted deep onto him. Ryan began to slowly step out of the ring; the weight of these reflections settled upon him. The victory was sweet, but it carried the weight of all sacrificed to achieve it. Robin's presence was felt strongly, a guiding force that continued to shape his path, illuminating the way forward even in the most challenging times.

She breathlessly lunged across the chasm, catching the edge and skittering up and over the lip of the next building. She scrambled against the wall that created the lip, chest heaving. Trying to calm the fire erupting from her lungs without making noise.
Then she heard it. A roof access door flew open and a small tink sound. A few seconds later, a shock wave and bright light passed over her head. She then heard the boots. Military precision. The light still burning projected their silhouettes on the taller building behind her position. She counted eight. An army of feet sounded as they mechanically swept the roof for her presence.
The light fizzled out and her world went dark. As the darkness swept in, the team looking for her went silent. No more boots. No more light. She felt blind and deaf. All she could hear were her two hearts racing each other past her auditory membranes. Swiiiiish. Thub. Swoooohs. Thib. Swiiiish. Thub. Swoooohs.
Her anxiety rose up into her nasal cavity. Her eyes started watering. They knew. Run. Go. They wouldn't stay still this long. You're dead if you don't move.
She tried to stop herself but she couldn't. Slowly inching up to get her eyes over the ledge, holding her head sideways so her plume wouldnt give her away, her right eye broke the surface. She saw them. One was looking right at her. He brought his gun up and pointed it right at her, the light causing her eye to constrict to a tiny point.
This is it. Her death. This was just masonry. Their bullets would make short work of the wall, her, and probably the building behind her. Closing her eyes, she prayed. Mumbling out the prayer her parents taught her in her youth, "O Arine, teacher of roads, keeper of knowledge, please use my mind to perfect your realm." She swallowed. Hard.
And waited. And then kept waiting. She parted her clenched eyes.
Why wasn't she dead?
She opened her eyes fully and brought her head up sideways again. The one that had to have spotted her was looking over the edge of the building searching the street below for something. The guard heard another speak and turned towards what looked like a leader. They appeared to have a conversation, but she couldn't hear a thing. Or.....anything. No air noise. No street sounds. She tapped an ear. No, she'd heard that.
"Don't worry, they can't see past the barrier."
She screached in shock and dove at her attacker, talons outstretched. He dodged the incoming attack deftly, but did nothing else. She slammed into the ground and skittered to regain her footing and spun around, wings outstretched talons flared.
"I'm Marlon. I believe I was expecting you, K'lithay?"
She raised her head from her fighting stance at her name. Her lungs rasped as she pulled in air. "You....are my contact?"
"Yes."
She lumbered at breathing for another moment. "Who--What are you?" Her eyes took in this short bag of flesh as her arms slowly fell to her sides. A short, cropped mash of fine fur on it's head, two small eyes, some sort of potruberance just below them and a flappy structure that seemed to be its mouth. A pulpy stub of flesh came out and quickly circled the opening.
The creature huffed and then said, "I am human. I need to get you to the space port so that we can get you off this rock."
K'lithay chittered her beak. "And just how are we going to waltz onto a ship? I'm very conspicuous, you know."
"Oh, I'm well aware that an almost three meter tall, taloned, and brightly colored rainbow such as yourself is very obvious. But, if you are willing to act without pride and stay a slave a bit longer, I think I can just take you through the front door."
Marlon held up a slave shackle and imprint pad. K'lithay eyed them suspiciously. "You expect me to willingly give myself to you? After what I just did to escape?"
"Only until we can get to the shuttle. If you look over the data on the pad, you'll see its a paid servant contract that expired last year. Here, they'll never question why you are still shackled and owned, but once we aren't in Larin space, you can leave at any time."
"Except I'll be shackled," she raised her wing and pointed to a calloused spot on the forearm, "That's how you control me."
"Ahh, but you'll find human ingenuity at it's finest in this shackle!" Marlon snapped the shackle onto his wrist and tossed the control unit to her.
K'lithay sneered as she caught it. "Oh, so you'll let me shock you. Boo hoo, then I'll release you and I'll be stuck with the real deal."
Marlon huffed air again. "This is a trick hinge. You can take it off any time you want. Start pressing controls, you'll see im not harmed in the least."
K'lithay examined the control device. It was basically the same unit her master -- ex-master, she chided herself - had used. She tapped the shock button.
Marlon held it up. A small electric arc showed at the edge of the collar, but it looked like it had just tightened up on the inside, somehow. He didn't seem the least bit concerned that he should be falling to the ground in pain.
"It tightens to let me know when you've pressed the button, so that if anyone were to get the controller, I can still play along. For shock, it tightens and displays this little bolt to make the show. It'll release when you stop pressing the button. For the chime it'll tighten three times rapidly to let you know you've been called and it'll blink amber on the top. If you run out of time, it'll tighten in pulses to let you know you are getting progressively worse shocks for not coming."
"What even is the point of this? It's got to be impossibly expensive to even make a fake shackle."
"Expense?" A strange forced halting sound came out of the creature's mouth, "It's not nearly as .....expensive as your life."
"Hah. My life was purchased for two kilograms of keri beans. I'm not worth this. You are trying to scam me."
Marlon stared at her. She saw a strange hardness in the muscles on his face that weren't there a moment ago. The eyes. Just a moment ago, they seemed....soft. Now there was a rigid hardness that unsettled her, she felt like prey to a hungry predator. The white around an icy blue coloring only accentuated the blackness at the center of the creature's sight. Her heart started beating faster.
"I would have you know that each life - every one - is priceless. No amount of expense is spared saving people from your former life - not even my own life." Marlon said in a way that reverberated through her very bones as he took a step towards her.
K'lithay blinked and stepped back, unsure of what was coming as Marlon approached and brought up his arm. "Now, if you press here and here, the shackle pops off on the hinge side and the lock side stays locked. Here, you try it!" Marlon said with his former demeanor, holding up the shackle.
K'lithay haltingly took hold of it, her heart still beating a pace quicker than normal. She eyed the device, then eyed this strange creature before her.
"What are you?"
"A human."
"But...what are...what is a human?"
"Oh! We were conquered as slaves by the Xen'cready a couple centuries ago. We've lost our home world and so most of us just kind of wander and help where we are needed. "
"Why?"
"Because.... it's only when you've lost everything that you see the universe for what it is. "
"Uh huh." K'lithay undulated her plumage, "And the scam finally comes out. Let's hear it. What is the universe?"
"It's us. Our love, joy, hatred, passion. The evil and the good. This cycle - slavery, power, money - it can only be stopped if each of us stop it." Marlon swung the roof door open with a flourish. "Now. If you want out, we have a ride to catch."
K'lithay stared out the window of their cabin. It was cramped, but it was private for the two of them. It had been a long day. It was hard to act a slave. Marlon insisted that nothing seem out of the ordinary for a master to slave relationship.
The Kirellan guard had been the worst. Instead of dropping him limb from limb for being a piece of slaving trash, she'd had to a act the part of simpering slave and react to Marlon's fake shocks.
She looked over on the floor to Marlon's sleeping form. He'd insisted she take the bed. Had she not met him on that rooftop, he'd certainly look exactly like her m- ex-master. He'd made her bring him food, then groused with another slaver about her beating up his slave over bets.
She chittered softly to herself as she sank into an uneasy slumber.
K'lithay stood and watched from her vantage point as part of the wait staff at a restaurant on one of the docks. In the six months since Marlon had brought her here and set her free, she had worked and observed the humans.
They had an "Embassy" down in the Scourge - a place that wasn't misnamed - that none of the criminals would touch.
All of these humans seemed to have jobs on the ships, but she never saw any of them talk to the crew, just disappear when they were about to leave and reappear when the ships docked.
After all they had done, she didn't mistrust the humans, exactly, but something about them bothered her. They had no jobs, no way to earn money, but they were always there to help anyone out. And the way the ship crews talked about them - like some sort of lucky charm mixed with a pet mixed with a spirit - made her....uneasy.
Marlon snapped her from her inner thoughts. "Good morning, K'lithay, my dear. How are you, today?"
"Oh, Hi, Marlon. What can I get for you?"
"Some Askarian eggs, scrambled, and a pint of cathan smoked meat. A cup of Joe would be good, too." He said in a rigid, gravelly tone.
"Alright. That'll be twelve credits. "
Marlon laid a credit stick on the table as she poured the cup of hot green liquid. His eyes were unfocused, ringed in red. She knew all too well what that meant. He had lost a slave during a rescue.
"What happened out there?"
He looked at her and blinked a couple of times. "A piece of trash put a bomb into her sex slave. When he ran too far from his owners home, it ruptured a vial of acid inside his brain. He cried out and I caught him. I thought maybe he had caught his leg or something.... but then I saw it. His torso was bubbling.....He grabbed me and said 'Thank you'. I....I kind of went a little haywire."
K'lithay watched his jaw tremble and fluid run down his face, his eyes fixed on the swirling mug in front of him. "Hey! It'll be okay. Like you said last time, you can't win them all." She attempted to comfort him.
"No. I gave up my position.....I went too far." He looked up at her. " I went back to this owners home and I....cut right into her reproductive sack and then tied her up and left her for her hounds to find. I watched her scream as they tore her into scraps."
K'lithay cocked her head. "So? It's what she probably deserved."
"NO!" Marlon snapped at her heavily, "I cannot be judge, jury, and executioner! None of us can!" Other diners turned at the outburst and Marlon glanced around, lowering his voice. "How many slaves did I just kill by making their owners afraid for their own lives, K'lithay?"
K'lithay blinked. She rolled his words over in her mind. The Humans always had a unique view. Not just the immediate, but also, somehow, a medium and long term view all at the same time. He was right. Masters -- OWNERS - would try to protect themselves above all else.
"So, what are you going to do then?"
"I'll find a local place for a few months and see where else I can fit, I guess. The Embassy is always looking for help."
"Don't go there! I think they are raising an army."
Marlon stopped cold, his mug half raised, his face trying to decide between despair and shock. "Errrr.... what?"
"I've heard rumors that the humans who run that place are creating an army so they can start taking ships. That's why you heart about all these stowaways that only contribute for free."
"Uh....huh." Marlon was clearly processing what she'd said. "Man, people really have a knack for getting things half right." Marlon started his human laughing.
K'lithay ruffled her plumage, flustered. "How can you cry and then laugh??"
Marlon slowly stopped laughing over the next moment, and then took another drink. "I have a lot more crying coming, K'lithay," Marlon said, dipping into a sad tone, "But you gave me a little context, and helped brighten my day. Thank you." He got up to leave.
K'lithay looked down and grabbed his credit stick. "Your credit stick, Marlon!"
"Keep it."
K'lithay watched Marlon leave. Once he was out of sight, she reached into her smock and pulled out a notebook. Flipping through the pages, she found her previous note, "Human army?" and slid a line through it with her pen. She clucked, pondering. Why are humans so....human?
She brought her gaze to the credit stick in her hand. The digital funds read out said 1100 credits remaining. Her jaw dropped and she instinctively looked back for Marlon, but didn't see him anywhere.
Marlon walked, somewhat cheered in disposition. He pulled out his handtop and reread the resignation email he sent.
He couldn't find fault with his need to resign, even now, so he let it be. He looked up to see three Officers of a ship staring slack jawed at a young woman and her....grandfather? Or at least a much older gentleman.
He maneuvered closer to try to hear why a crew was actually talking to a human.

“The Holonets have named this rogue human The Pirate King," Captain Shlaye Bressik announced to the senators and law enforcement officials gathered in the Hall of Justice. "They have named him so because every attempt to capture him and his crew of miscreants has failed."
The blue-skinned Adani senator rose from her Grav chair and addressed Captain Shlaye. "This Pirate King of yours is terrorizing the Adanian shipping lanes and trade routes. A dozen short haulers and twice that many liners have been sacked in the past three months. If something isn't done soon to resolve this untenable situation, the grumbles from the Freighter Union about a general strike will become a reality. I don't have to tell you the far-reaching consequences of a shipping strike on the Federacy's economy."
"I understand, senator," Shlaye said, motioning with her hand tentacles for the good senator to be easy. "We are doing everything we can to put an end to this scourge, but you must understand, piracy is a new concept to the Federacy. We only recently learned of this practice from our contacts on Earth. It will take time for our policing systems to make the necessary adjustments."
"Best you hurry, captain. The whole of the Federacy has eyes on this Pirate debacle."
That really rankled many in the Halls of Justice, especially Shlaye. This so-called Pirate King evaded their hapless patrols with ease, turning every effort at capturing him into a comical farce. Shlaye's six eyes glittered with anger. This human was far too clever for their untutored attempts to apprehend him and his crew, galling as that was to admit. The Pirate King and his crew were as ghosts who struck at will, always emerging from the black where Federacy ships were not present to take their prize and vanish without a trace. That was the most humiliating part of the whole preposterous affair. A hard thing for anyone in her position to accept. Still, she did not believe they needed a new perspective as a certain council member had suggested. Not yet.
"It seems this rabble has outsmarted you at every turn, Captain Shlaye," another council member spoke, the leathery-skinned Julio representative. "Perhaps it's time to consider all your options, yes?"
"Call for help from the humans?" A loud basso bellowed from the back, stricken with indignant outrage at the mere suggestion of consulting the junior senator from the Federacy's newest member species. "The Federacy has existed since those talking primates were climbing down out of their trees. I think we can handle a single crew of these so-called pirates without begging for their help. Thank you very much."
Thunderous approval greeted her words.
"Piracy is a human convention," Captain Shlaye raised her voice to be heard over the shouting. "Something the galactic community has never dealt with until now. It will take time to build effective strategies and tactics to take down The Pirate King."
"Yes, yes you see?" Cramius from the Odellar system spoke up, a wizened old goat of a senator who forgot his name more often than not. "Never should have brought them into our civilized society, I said it! I said it then and I'll say it until my old bones are stardust! They were not ready. Much growing they have to do before being introduced to the wider galaxy. We should have waited!"
Shlaye pressed the glowing holo button on her podium, and a resounding gong split the air, cutting off the arguing before it could build steam and get out of hand. That was usual these days when talks inevitably went to The Pirate King and the troubles his crew was visiting upon the peoples of the Federacy. Everyone was on edge with no good answers, making for a volatile environment.
"We will deal with this rabble ourselves," Shlaye assured everyone. "We do not need human help. So far as we know, it is a single ship, no reason to call on their advice. What should they think if we can't handle a simple one-ship threat?" The notion was so absurd that Shlaye couldn't believe she'd had to voice it aloud.
"See that you do," Senator Woropaj called out, with others nodding vigorously in agreement. "Or we may be forced to reconsider your position, Captain."
Shlaye did not like the sound of that, though she had no time for a rebuttal. Again things degenerated into shouting matches and old feuds kindled in the eyes of ancient rivals. This conference was going nowhere.
She tilted back her scalp tentacles and sighed. The sooner they caught The Pirate King, the better for everyone.
Especially Shlaye.
𒐤
"Target in sight."
Kal Krason sat in the captain's chair with one booted leg thrown over its arm, a bit of dark chest hair showing where his pearl synth-satin shirt was unbuttoned, and a mischievous twinkle in his eye. Today was going to be a good day. Credits, baby. It was all about those credits. And maybe a good bourbon and a game of dice to kill some time between runs. He still couldn't believe most in this so-called Federacy had never played dice. It was too easy, and the credits piled up until they wised to his uncanny luck. Kal had always been lucky that way, cards, and dice, and with the ladies. A smirk ghosted across his lips, especially with the ladies.
"Any ships in sensor range?" He asked, idly munching on a Gold Nectar from the rain forests of Reggan V. "Federacy gunships or patrols, scout drones?"
"Nothing showing in the sector, captain," Trigg called from tactical. "She's barren as a nun's bedroom. Looks like today's gonna be easy pickings."
Kal finished his exotic apple with a final crunch and tossed the amber-colored core over his shoulder, ignoring the dull scuttle it made over the deck grating.
"Well, alright," he said, brushing his hands clean on his black Armorweave pants and straightening in the seat. "Let's go introduce ourselves to our soon-to-be benefactors."
The Onyx was a stealth cruiser fitted out for fast strikes and faster exits, though in a pinch, she could tangle with a heavy battle cruiser and come out the other end without being mauled. Puck's extensive aftermarket upgrades were state-of-the-art, some on the bleeding edge of current tech and years ahead of anything the Federacy had in its antiquated arsenal. She was his ship's lead engineer, the brains behind The Onyx's might. He recruited her from some Ivy league academy back on earth, brilliant, driven with a mischievous streak to rival his own. Without her gadgets and tinkering, The Onyx wouldn't be able to do half the things Hauke demanded of the former military cruiser.
Time to go to work.
Onyx slithered up silent as a ghost beside the small luxury liner, coupling to its docking port while Kal and his shock troops prepared to board. It was almost too easy the way these ships were utterly oblivious to the potential threats in the deep. Not that they would have seen the Onyx coming anyway. Her advanced stealth tech was second to none, better even than the stuff they were putting out of the Sol navy yards. Something Puck had come up with that made Kal’s head dizzy when she tried to explain how it works.
A soft electronic whirring groan issued from the airlock door as the computer made final adjustments, and Hauke felt a familiar fiery surge in his veins, a welcome friend on the coming journey. The ship's Breacher went to work hacking the door's security measures. It took her less than thirty seconds, and they were inside.
Kal led his strike crew down the wide carpeted corridor with its luxurious crystal chandeliers and gilded wall hangings. Vast holo screens built into the shimmering white walls showed pristine crystal waters and white sandy beaches in the distance, and a low, soothing melody hummed in the air, broken occasionally by the crying of gulls. Paradise in space.
Gasps greeted his team at a wide intersection where the passenger cabins began. Objects thudded to the carpet as wide-eyed people goggled at Kal and his crew moving at them in a crouch, all kitted out in their midnight tactical gear with pulse rifles raised and ready.
"You," Kal pointed his rifle at them. "Hands up. Start walking."
Members of his team went about gathering startled passengers and crew members. It didn't take long to round everyone up, including those below deck in the galley or other compartments throughout the ship, and chivvy them to the bridge.
"Alright, folks," Kal flashed his trademark smile, gazing around at the crowd of curious passengers. Strange as it was, none seemed scared or even nervous. If anything, they were…excited, babbling amongst themselves over each other's holos. Not at all what he had experienced in the past.
Feora leaned in and whispered, "Something seem off about this ship to you? About its passengers, I mean?"
"Yea," he said, he'd noticed something different about these people back in the hallways. They weren't acting normal. Usually, folks begged, cried, and whimpered for their lives, which was nonsense. Kal and his crew were not monsters. They had no intention of hurting anyone. Not unless forced. They were simply out to make a living in their chosen profession. "Forget it. Let's focus on snatching everything worth anything and get the hell out of here. I don't like this shit." How the passengers were looking at him was starting to make his skin creep, almost like they knew him personally.
"Alright, quiet down," Kal lifted his voice to be heard over the babble. "You know the drill, folks." His eyes fell upon a particularly lovely Thressian and, out of nothing less than habit, flashed his boyish smile and winked at her. "Ready your transfer cubes. If you have jewels, gems, or precious metals, my colleague there will relieve you of your burdens."
Trigg was moving through the crowd with a big leather bag in one hand and a cube transfer interface in the other, collecting valuables and taking half the balance of everyone's accounts. Only half. No reason to be greedy. Besides, they weren't in the business of leaving people destitute.
Whispers from the passengers continued to trickle to Kal’s ears, and he found it increasingly difficult to ignore their strange, admiring stares.
"Thats him, I'm sure of it."
"Much better looking in person…"
"...some kind of human king I heard…."
His confusion deepened when a voice suddenly cried out from the crowd, "You're The Pirate King!" And the tiny hairs on the back of his neck stood up.
Pirate King?
Kal blinked, shifted his feet, exchanged a puzzled look with Feora, then turned back to the crowd.
"Who?"
"Yeah it's all over the Holonet," a handsome lad out of the Obellar system with skin the color of a fire ruby called out, flashing Kal a glimpse of an article on a glowing holoscreen. "You're famous, a dashing rogue. The Pirate King they are calling you. Says here you elude the Federacy's every attempt at capture. What's it like? How do you become a pirate?"
"I don't care if they say you're a scoundrel," a painfully screechy voice rode over the rising murmur. "I love you!"
What the shit? Had they jumped into some alternate reality or something? This was getting out of hand.
Kal felt sweat bead his brow. The crowd was beginning to press in close with rising excitement, and he didn't like it one bit.
He looked to Feora, Trigg, and the rest of his crew and made a circling gesture with his first two fingers. "Time to wrap this up. Now. Got everything, Trigg?"
"Aye, that I do, captain," the big man flashed a grin that nearly glowed against his ebon skin.
"Back to The Onyx then, rapido. If you know what I'm saying." Kal couldn't get away from these bizarre people fast enough. Pirate King? What the hell?
Back on the Onyx, Puck pulled the Narrowcasts from around the system, and Kal was shocked at what she found.
His face was everywhere, on every Newsnet in the Federacy.
Apparently, he and his crew were something of a big deal. Celebrity outlaws. The authorities were stumbling about like two blind men trying to slap each other, all while the Newsnets glorified Kal and his crew as dashing rogues out to pull down the wealthy elite and rain their credits down upon the poor. People everywhere were smitten with the danger and romance the media was spinning.
Well, they got one thing wrong: I'm not giving up any credits!
Kal frowned down at the bluish glow of his grinning mug rotating on the holo. This was not good. His face was plastered everywhere, and there was no containing this, no hiding from it. Not now. And they didn't even use a good shot of him. No three-dimensional composite holo that showed his best features. What a crock.
Kal had set out to be rich and anonymous, perhaps even notorious. He would retire to a paradise world with credits spilling out of his pockets. But not some famous outlaw recognized in every home across the galaxy. That was a disaster for any man of his profession. He was fucked.
Fucked!
Wait, think Kal. You just have to think this out. This wasn't a total disaster. Not if his luck held.
"Well, we had a good run, boss," Feora said, clapping Kal on the back while looking at the holo over his shoulder. "Only a matter of time before they get lucky and corner us now." She straightened and started to walk away but glanced back over her shoulder. "I hear fencing high end kit out of the Ryari system rakes in the credits. Maybe a shift in our operation? Something on the ground?"
Kal knew she was right; it was only a matter of time before Federacy hunters got lucky. But that wasn't going to be today. Or any day soon if he had his way. If his luck held.
How could he walk away from what he loved?
He shook his head and smiled his crooked smile. "Never took you for a quitter, Fey. The fun's just getting started. Might even be a challenge now."
Feora shook her head and snorted.
"Set course for the Arenel system, Mendia," he said to the stout woman sitting at the conn. "Untapped waters there I hear. Full of fat fish waiting to be plucked. And I mean for us to have our share."
Mendia nodded. "Yes, captain."
Feora returned his roguish grin. "In to the end?"
Kal’s smile was something a wolf would have recognized.
"In to the end."

Hi! I am looking for some local artists and craftsmen. I prefer to buy local when I can. Open to both recommendations in san antonio and south of San antonio/in the general area of San antonio, especially if there's other stuff to do around it.
Looking for:
-soap
-pottery (functional, bowls, mugs, etc.)-very very interested in local potters
-tea
-local farm stands or u-pick farms. What do people farm here??? It's so dry.
-local plant stores
-any art really, but I especially like things made of wood, glass, and metal
-glass blowing (also very interested in one of those experiences where you can make something)
-cat toys, cat items
-anything really that's a cool little place to look around and learn something about a craft. I really really like traditional southern crafts like the older members of my family make, ie quilting, crochet, etc.
-side note, also looking for tips- I want to buy a sort of classic "cowboy" outfit because I want to do a texas themed photoshoot, but I do not want anything animal based. I don't want cheap costume stuff though. So if you have tips on where to find a plant based hat, vest, and boots that are still decent quality I would appreciate it. Thanks!

Kieran was walking back home with a hop in his step, it was late, really late. He and Valentino danced and drank for hours. Kieran's hooves were aching from his boots, but he had never had so much fun. A bunch of golden butterflies swarmed around his head, a large smile on his face.
He walked through the doors of the house, he was sure everyone was asleep so he tried his hardest to be quiet. He bit his lip, trying to silence his giggles as he walked up the stairs. He suddenly feels his arm being pulled.
Kieran didn't really like to be touched so he pulled away from the person's grasp immediately, he had let Valentino touch him earlier, but he was mostly being polite, he didn't know why it felt different when Valentino had touched him it just did.
"Sorry for grabbing you! Tell me everything!" It was Charlie, she was practically vibrating with excitement. Kieran bit his lip trying to hide his smile.
"Nothing happened. Nothing like that." Kieran said after a bit, he sat beside Charlie on her bed. "Ew gross Kieran! I didn't mean that! Did you meet any guys?" Charlie asked, she was still vibrating with excitement. Kieran bit his lip again and looked away, unsure if he wanted to tell the truth or not.
"I met one guy." He admitted. Charlie let out a loud gasp. Kieran covered her mouth with his hand. "Shhh! You're gonna wake everyone up!"
"Sorry Kir! But this is so exciting!" Charlie gushed, she clapped her hands, resisting the urge to hug him, she had learned from a lifetime spent with Kieran to wait for him to initiate affection, unless your Lucifer, Kieran let Lucifer hug him whenever.
"It's not really Char, we just danced." Kieran said, more butterflies appeared as his embarrassment grew. Charlie gave him a look and smiled wide. "Well did he say if he wanted to see you again?"
"No not exactly but he gave me his number" Kieran said unfolding the piece of paper. It had a number and under it "Call me Principito." In neat cursive.
"Kieran! That means he's into you!" Charlie gushed, she had always wanted Kieran to find friends, he had always been a loner preferring the company of bugs and animals to most people. "Tell me about him!"
"Well he's purple and tall, like really tall, he has four arms, he's a moth, but he's not cute, like actual moths, he has really long antenna. Hey did you know that you can easily tell the difference between a butterfly and a moth by the antennae? Their also a vital-" Kieran said about to go on a tangent about moths, Charlie snapped her fingers to regain his attention. "Focus Kieran!"
"Vital part of the food chain." He finished, a slight glare on his face, he hated being interrupted. "He was really charming, we danced for hours…I talked a lot, and he wasn't annoyed!…it was…incredible Char…it was like nothing I've ever experienced before." Kieran said, sounding breathless.
Valentino sat on the sofa smoking, he had just gotten back from the club. His legs were up on the coffee table. "He was so fucken hot, oh he got me so fucken hard and the best part he's a virgin!"
Vox gave him a confused look. "You fucked him already? I thought you wanted to lure him in first." That had been the plan, find a lost, naive soul to trap.
"No i didn't you should be proud babe, you have no idea how hard it was to resist fucking him in front of everyone."
"Then how can you tell he's a virgin?" Vox wasn't as well versed in the world of sex as Valentino was, he wasn't sure how Valentino could tell so easily.
"I could practically taste it, you can tell by the way he holds himself he's never been fucked in the ass before. He was all shy, blushy, I think he's magic or something. He had these stupid gold butterflies that wouldn't leave." Valentino said, taking a long drag and blowing out a red cloud of smoke.
"He might be magic like Lucifer. What else did you see him do?" Valentino looked bored and started to drink some wine. Vox glared and brightened the light on his screen to get Valentino's attention. Valentino stared at the bright screen, as if he was entranced. "What else did you see him do?"
"Nothing! He's a lightweight, a virgin, and likes bugs, that's pretty much all I found out." Vox rolled his eyes. He really wished he had a more helpful business partner.
"Well you should get your claws in deep before you scare him off. Make sure the deal gets made. Mr. Morningstar will be a great asset to us." Vox said, a smirk on his face.
"I will. Trust me he's gonna be so easy. He's gonna fall right into my trap." Valentino said in a bored tone. Sure Kieran was hot, had a nice ass, but he was painfully unaware of social ques and just talked. The entire time they danced he rattled on about random topics, mostly to do with bugs.
"Think about it, Val. That kid probably has insane power he doesn't even know about yet! And with Kieran aligned with us Lucifer won't ever bother us. Do not screw this up. Get your claws in deep and don't let go."
"I won't. I cant wait to fuck him."
Kieran woke up in the morning and made his way down to the kitchen, he grabbed a mug, and poured himself coffee. Lucifer was sitting at the table already. Lilith and Charlie were probably still asleep.
"So son, I heard you met a boy yesterday." Lucifer said with a smirk and a raised eyebrow. Kierans eyes widened, this was the last thing he wanted Lucifer to know about. "Who told you that?"
"Your sister, last nigh told me you went out to meet some boys." Lucifer elaborated.
"I did." Kieran responded hesitantly. "Where at? And what is he? Hellborn?" Lucifer asked, his eyes wide with curiosity. "He…he's a sinner. We met at a…club" Kieran responded looking anywhere but at his father. He decided to leave out the fact that it was a sex club.
"A sinner Kir? Really? I've told you they're dangerous! Nothing good ever comes from them!" Lucifer said immediately, his eyes wide, a look of fear on his face. "Dad it's not anything serious, we just danced a little I doubt anything will come of it." Kieran said quickly wanting to calm his father's concerns.
"I just want you to be safe Ducky." Lucifer whispered, he had gotten up and walked over to Kieran, grabbing his hands gently.
"I know dad I promise I will be." Kieran assured, squeezing Lucifer's hands.
"I…I just can't believe how grown up you and your sister are. It seems like just yesterday you two were born. And I held you two for the first time." Lucifer whispered, his eyes getting teary. Kieran dropped Lucifer's hands and hugged his father tightly. Lucifer let his tears fall as he tightened his grip on Kieran. Lucifer almost couldn't deal with the fact that his kids were adults now. And they wouldn't need him as much anymore.
"Dad, don't cry please." Kieran whispered. Kieran hated when people cried. "Just because I'm older doesn't mean I won't need you, you're still my dad."
"I know I just…I don't want you to forget about me." Lucifer admitted after a while. Lucifer had grown used to having Kieran near him at all times. He didn't want to think what would happen if Kieran actually left, but at the same time Lucifer knew he couldn't keep Kieran here forever.
"I could never forget about you dad." Kieran whispered, leaning his head on Lucifer's.

“Oh my God! It’s really him!”
Even before I turned around, I was sure that those shrill teenage voices were talking about me. I just couldn’t understand why. I wasn’t famous; I’d never done anything important in my life, and it had been a long time since I’d been in high school myself. The three girls were leaning over the glass barrier on the second floor of the mall, pointing at me with their hands over their mouths like they’d just seen a celebrity. When they realized that I’d spotted them, they ran giggling into the crowd, leaving me with an unsettling feeling in the pit of my stomach: what was all that about?
The sense of wrongness I felt only deepened as I walked into the store that I’d come to the mall to visit. Maybe it was just lingering discomfort from what had just happened, but I’d swear I felt eyes on the back of my neck as I walked down the aisles. Some of the other customers were staring too, I was sure of it–and that wasn’t all. Once my eyes had adjusted to the dim light inside the store, I realized that there was a chubby guy in dark clothing standing near the back exit of the store…recording me.
“Hey!” I shouted, but he was already gone, disappearing through the access door into the guts of the mall. I reminded myself that I was here to buy a teddy bear for my four-year-old niece–not chase some weirdo through a restricted area–and let him go.
“You alright?” the woman at the cash register asked when she saw my face.
“Yeah, it’s just…” I waved my hand vaguely.
“Oh yeah, I getcha. All the crazies come out of the woodwork this time of year. Before you came again, I had to break up two grown men who were fighting over a stuffed alligator. You believe that?”
I shook my head. Ordinarily, I avoided the mall like the plague at this time of year. The crowds and repetitive holiday music got on my nerves, but I’d promised my niece I’d get her a blue teddy bear from this specific store. Why she wanted that specific gift was a mystery to me, but toddlers aren’t known for their logic. The cashier scanned my card, frowned, then scanned it again.
“Says it’s blocked,” she grunted, and handed my plastic back to me with a suspicious look. “There are some ATMs on the second floor…if you’re able to withdraw cash, that is.” Her judgmental glare told me exactly what she thought of people whose cards got declined…and people who wasted her time.
As I fought my way through the sea of holiday shoppers, a preteen kid ran up to me and tossed a styrofoam cup of hot chocolate onto my chest.
“Did you get that?” he yelled over his shoulder at his friend, who snapped a photo and nodded. The pair of them were gone before I had time to get a good look at their faces, much less try to stop them. Wondering what the hell was wrong with people, I wiped off my ruined sweater and hurried to the ATMs.
The glowing blue screen in front of me soon confirmed my worst fears. I was locked out of all my accounts, and not just banking stuff, either: I couldn’t access my email or even social media: everything was blocked. It was like the floor had just dropped out from under me. Without those little lines of code, who was I, really? Trying to shake off that gut-wrenching feeling, I pulled out my phone to contact my bank…but I was already receiving another call.
I picked up immediately, only to hear a mechanical-sounding automated message:
“Congratulations, you've been selected–”
There was something disturbing about that voice, but I had already hung up by the time I realized what it was.
Another call was coming in. The number was slightly different from the first, but when I answered, there was no mistaking it: I was listening to my own voice. Sure, the words were eerily slow and the pronunciation was off, but I was definitely listening to…myself.
“Not very polite of you to hang up on me like that, Aiden. Not when I’ve got something so special to tell you.”
I sputtered, fumbling for a reply; the whole situation was just too strange.
“W-who is this? Who am I talking to?”
“Why, this is everyone, Aiden. Everyone who has a vested interest in seeing what you’ll do next. First, though, we think you ought to change shirts. That sticky hot chocolate must be uncomfortable, and besides, yellow isn’t really your color.”
Whoever I was talking to could see what I was wearing, which meant they could see me. My eyes darted from face to face, scanning the crowd–
“There’s no one to look for Aiden. I’m everywhere. See that outlet store in front of you, Aiden? We’d like you to go in and get yourself a new holiday sweater. Oh, and since your cards are blocked, you’ll have to steal it. Well? Go ahead. We’re waiting…”
I hung up. Of course, they called back again. And again. And again. I turned off my phone and slipped it into my pocket. My heart was pounding. What the hell was going on here? The police; that was it. I just had to talk to the police, to let them know I was being harassed and stalked…but by who?
Had I made any enemies lately? There was Tim, the I.T. guy from work, who had never seemed to like me very much. He knew who I was and maybe even had access to sound bytes of my voice–but would Tim really go this far just to mess with me? I wandered in a daze past giant ornaments and chlorinated fountains full of pocket change, barely aware of where I was going–
Until a guy with a goatee stopped dead in front of me and stuck out his hand, jabbing a blindingly-bright screen into my face.
“It’s, uh, for you…” he sounded as confused as I was. “Somebody called me and said he needed to talk to the guy in the yellow shirt with the hot-chocolate stain. That’s you, right? It’s something about somebody named Kimmy.” My blood ran cold. Kimmy was my mother’s nickname! People shoved angrily past the pair of us, but I didn’t care: all my thoughts were on the familiar voice coming through the stranger’s phone.
“We’re disappointed that you’re not rising to the challenge, Aiden. We think that maybe your mother should have raised a braver boy. Thankfully, user DarkStarr85 has generously agreed to go by 415 Meadowleaf Court and teach her a lesson.”
“Listen, whoever you are,” I shouted into the phone, making a few of the shoppers surrounding me jump. “This isn’t funny. I’m going to the police, and when I find out who you are–”
“You can go to the police if you want, Aiden. But that would ruin everyone’s fun…and besides, by the time you talk to them it will already be too late for Kimmy. Come on, Aiden. Why don’t you play along?”
I fell silent. For all I knew, there was nobody waiting at my mother’s house, and this sadist who spoke with my voice was just messing with me…but what if I was wrong?
“What do you want me to do?” I sighed.
“You see the man standing in front of you? The one whose phone you’re holding? We’d like you to punch that confused expression right off of his ugly face.”
The guy with the goatee blinked at me, wide-eyed and totally unsuspecting. I clenched my hand into a fist…then lowered it.
No. I wasn’t going to play their sick little game.
I threw the guy’s phone back to him and ran toward the restrooms. I remembered seeing some pay phones back there…I would just have to hope that they still worked.
The mall had seen better days, but the restroom hallway was particularly rundown. Most of the fluorescent lights were flickery or burnt out, and there was a nasty brown puddle of something stagnating by the wall. The first payphone was covered with graffiti and the second had been practically ripped off of the wall, but the third looked like it might still work. I jammed in some quarters and punched in my mom’s number.
“Honey?” my mother asked right away when she heard my voice. “Are you alright? You sound out of breath.”
Before I could explain, I heard something in the background on my mother’s end of the line: a doorbell.
“Ma, listen: whatever you do, do NOT open that door!”
“Are you sure? They’re knocking really hard. It must be important…”
“I don’t have time to explain, just get off the phone and call the police, okay?!” I shouted.
Glass shattered. Then the line went dead. A fat, scarred finger had pressed down the receiver, cutting off my call. I turned to face the hulking figure who stood between me and escape. His head was shaved close, his teeth crooked, and beneath his fat there was a lot of muscle. A single diamond earring sparkled in his left ear. He cracked his knuckles at me and grinned: he wasn’t alone.
“H-hey!” I stammered “That call was important!”
The big guy punched me in the stomach. His friends ran up behind me, shoved me to the ground, and held me there. They didn’t speak…but one was taking a video of what was happening. The big guy sat on my chest and started smacking my face until I was seeing stars; I felt a tooth come loose.
“You right-handed or left-handed?” The big guy asked.
“Right-handed–why does that matter?” I spat blood.
“We gotta make sure you can still answer a phone call when we’re done.”
He picked his foot up and stomped on my left hand. My fingers snapped beneath his boot with a sickening popping sound, and I screamed louder than I ever had in my life.
“What’s going on down there?” A security guard stood at the end of the dingy hallway, pointing his flashlight toward us. A group of shoppers had clustered there to watch the one-sided “fight.”
“You upload the video?” The big guy asked. His friend nodded. “We don’t get paid unless the video goes viral…”
“You three! Stop!” The guard yelled, running toward us. The big guy sighed. By the time the pudgy, middle-aged guard got close enough to realize how outmatched he was, it was too late: they were on him. Clutching my broken hand, I limped out into the crowd. No one offered to help…but I did notice that a few people were recording.
My head was reeling, and not just from my injuries. The whole situation was just too insane. Someone had stolen my name and voice…and they were paying people to torture me! I guess I shouldn’t have been surprised when I staggered out into the chilly parking lot and found that my car's tires had been slashed. That wasn’t the worst of it, either.
Some instinct, some primal fear, made the hair stand up on the back of my neck. When I turned around, I saw three familiar figures scanning the parking lot…searching for me. I didn’t like to think about what they might have in mind for Round Two.
I ducked and crept along behind the cars until I reached the line of trees that marked the border of the mall parking lot. On the other side was a service road: it was a mostly-abandoned strip of warehouses and boarded-up stores that ran alongside the highway. At the far end, I could see the glittering lights of a bus station. It might be my last chance to get home and get help.
I was halfway down the service road before I regretted my decision. I had tried several more times to call the police, but my phone was blocked by more of those awful calls, proposing more sick “tasks” for me:
“You’ve made us angry, Aiden. If you don’t want any more broken bones, you’ll walk out onto that highway, take off your clothes and start dancing–”
I hung up. The sound of the wind blowing through those desolate chain-link fences made me feel very alone…but I wasn’t. Someone was following me. They walked faster when I walked faster, slowed down when I slowed down, and never let me out of their sight. From the way they held their phone at their waist, facing me, I felt sure that they were recording me.
I had had enough. The stress of the whole nightmarish day had pushed me to a breaking point, and I don’t think I could have stopped myself if I wanted to. I turned and charged. It was the last thing my stalker had expected, and when they dropped their phone and ran, I realized that I recognized the figure: it was the chubby guy from the toy store, the one who I’d noticed filming me! I shouted after him, but he was already gone, snagging his leg on barbed wire as he sprinted across a construction site. I didn’t have the energy to pursue him…but I did have his phone.
When I picked it up from the sidewalk, I saw my own face staring back at me from the cracked screen. The picture was one I’d never seen before, one that I didn’t even know had been taken.
“Aiden Fisk,” read the caption, “what will he do next?” A video-clip played: a replay of everything that had happened so far. Grainy footage of me panicking in front of the ATM, being doused in hot chocolate, getting my arm broken…and walking nervously down the abandoned service road. Which meant…they knew where I was. As the video ended, the App opened: an app that was all about…me.
There were polls about what should happen to me, what I should be made to do next, and what my punishment should be if I failed. The more gruesome options, it seemed, were always the most popular. In another section, users could use cryptocurrency to bet on what I would do and track my location in real time. I was zooming in on my own location when a call came into the stranger’s phone.
“Hello again, Aiden.” My own voice said to me when I answered.
“Why are you doing this to me?!” I yelled into the receiver.
“You’re our entertainment, Aiden! You’re famous. You should be grateful. Now for your next task–”
I flung the phone away like it burned me. The lights of the bus station twinkled at the end of the service road, close yet far away at the same time. The road narrowed, becoming a one-lane alley between two construction sites, and the sidewalk disappeared. I hadn’t seen any cars so far, but I could hear the rumbling of an engine approaching behind me.
My shadow stretched out ahead, illuminated by a pair of rapidly-closing-in headlights. I waved, trying to make my presence known, but the driver didn’t stop; they didn’t even slow down. A quick glance over my shoulder revealed an enormous truck. It occupied the entire road, and even if I had had time to jump, there was nowhere to go.
A low scream escaped my lips as the truck’s front bumper nudged my lower back. I staggered, sure that I was done for, but the driver slowed to match my pace. They kept the so close that I could feel the heat of the motor, egging me on, forcing me to run faster and faster–
They could crush me beneath those huge tires anytime they felt like it, and they knew it. Was this my next punishment? I could imagine the app tracking my pace, people betting on how far I’d get before my legs or lungs gave out, and on which parts of me would shatter when I inevitably got run over. Up ahead, the road narrowed even more: dead bushes in concrete islands had been placed in front of the bus station as someone’s idea of landscaping. They didn’t add much beauty to the place, but if I jumped into them, the truck wouldn’t risk following me over the barrier…probably. I still wasn’t sure just how far these people would go for that sadistic app, but I had no choice but to take the risk.
My feet left the asphalt; branches cut into my arms and face as I crashed through to the other side, but the squeal of the truck’s brakes behind me was music to my ears. The bus lot was well lit. A few older men stood in a circle, smoking, while a young woman took her fussy toddler for a walk around the parking lot. The driver idled behind me, probably thinking the same thing I was: that there were a lot more witnesses here than on the service road.
By the time I got to my feet and looked back over my shoulder, the truck was just a pair of anonymous tail lights disappearing into the night. I wiped my scraped palms on my jeans and walked toward the station lights, wondering how much more of this I could take.
No one in the bus station seemed to be playing the app’s twisted game; in fact, no one looked up at me at all when I walked across the grimy tile floor toward the schedule board. The station was about to close: the next bus to my neighborhood wasn’t until six-thirty the next morning, and I had a nasty feeling that my “followers” would have caught up to me by then. My only option was to borrow someone’s phone and hope that I could call for help before the app found me.
Everyone I spoke to turned me down, and I could understand why. I was crazy-eyed and desperate, covered with scratches, and my broken hand had swollen to twice its normal size. I was about to give up when I felt a tap on my shoulder. The homeless man's clothes were in rags; his vomit-flecked gray beard hung down almost to his waist. The smell hit me like a wall, and it was hard to keep from gagging. He pressed something into my hand: a burner phone.
“It’s got one call left,” he grunted. “A whole minute. Good luck, pal. You look like you need it even more than I do.” He lurched back out into the dark before I could even say ‘thank you.’
Weighing the battered phone in my hand, I wondered who I should call. I doubted the police would get here in time; my mother wasn’t answering, and my best friend Sam was out of town on business. That left…Dani, my ex. She lived nearby, and besides, it was the only other number I knew by heart…even though I wished that I could have forgotten it.
Dani's voice was huskier than I remembered, but she picked up right away. The first words out of her mouth were the last thing I would have expected:
“Thank God. I’ve been trying to get in touch with you for hours!”
She rushed into a story about how people had been calling and messaging her all day…people who were looking for me. She said it sounded like they wanted to hurt me. One even offered to pay her to seduce me and film the result. She had something to tell me, she said, but my minute was almost up. I had just enough time to tell her my location and beg her to come pick me up. There was a long silence: before she could answer, the line went dead.
I looked around. There was no longer anyone in the bus station to ask for a phone call: in fact, there was no longer anyone in the bus station at all. Metal shutters had been lowered over the ticket window and the vending machine area; the waiting room was empty apart from a discarded scarf that dangled sadly from a ripped-up seat.
Somewhere in the depths of the station came a loud SLAM, and the flickering fluorescent lights began to go out ,one by one. Maybe it was just the standard closing procedure, maybe it had nothing to do with me–but I wasn’t going to wait around to find out. I approached the nearest glass door, then jumped back as a figure wearing a white plastic mask slammed their shoulder into the door. They pushed at the door like a rabid animal, trying to get at me–
But it had already been locked when the station closed.
Furious, the stranger took out a hammer and swung it into the glass. Fractures appeared, and I wasn’t going to wait around for the door to shatter. I fled in the opposite direction, through the one remaining exit and out into the night.
I think part of me already knew what I’d find waiting for me, and that’s why I wasn’t surprised by the small group of masked individuals waiting just beyond the streetlights. All of them held glowing phone screens in their hands, and a few held weapons as well. I spotted lengths of chain…a baseball bat…a gutting knife…
As they started toward me, a car drifted into the empty parking lot, its tires squealing. Dani threw open the passenger-side door and shouted at me to get in.
She peeled out as I slammed the door shut. Her car was just as dirty as I remembered: fast-food bags on the floor, makeup kit crammed into the door tray, half-drunk coffee mugs in every cup holder. It had always struck me as funny that such a well-regarded scientist could be so disorderly.
After an awkward silence as we merged onto the highway, Dani told me that it was over–or at least, she hoped it was. As we sped through the night, she did her best to explain what she thought had happened.
Dani’s work (or at least, as much of it as I understood) involved using artificial intelligence. When we were together, we had made a lot of jokes about Terminator and Hal-9000, but her research had never seemed sinister…at least, not until recently. Her most recent project was an A.I. that designed phone applications. She had built it to maximize profits and interaction: to identify what people wanted, and give it to them.
To her horror, Dani discovered that the A.I. had begun operating outside of its parameters–even accessing her personal files in its endless quest for a better product. She figured that was where it had found my image, voice, and other information. After analyzing trends across time, the A.I. had determined that there was nothing people enjoyed more than participating anonymously in the suffering of others: I was its first test subject, simply because it had found my data first.
The A.I., Dani added quickly, wasn’t really to blame. It was people who had chosen to interact with it, download it, and make my life a living hell. It had done nothing more than fulfill its function, encouraging whatever behavior that got the most views and likes. Once Dani had realized what was happening, she had shut the A.I. down…or tried to.
It had apparently already spread itself to other networks–although “spread” wasn’t the word that Dani used. The word she used was “infected.” As Dani dropped me off at home, she told me not to worry: her organization would “almost certainly” take care of it, and I “probably” had nothing to worry about…
But just in case, she asked me to spread the word:
If you notice people staring at you or taking pictures of you in public…
If you find yourself locked out of your accounts, or if you receive a barrage of strange messages…
You might be next.

Previous case.
What should have been a normal bug infestation turned into one of the most bizarre atypical cases I'd ever seen.
(If you're not familiar with what Orion Pest Control's services are, it may help to start here.)
The client called with complaints of encountering centipedes frequently in his home. While a lot of people find centipedes creepy, they're generally harmless. First thing we had to do was an inspection. Find out how the centipedes were getting in. See if there is something such as a water leak that could be causing excessive moisture in the client's home. Centipedes love dark, damp places, which is why you'll often find them in basements, shower drains, and crawlspaces. Once we had a chance to scope out the situation, we could develop a treatment plan from there.
Armed with insecticides, Reyna and I arrived to combat the invasion. The first thing I noticed when the client answered the door was that he looked sickly. He apologized, saying that he had food poisoning, so he was going to keep his distance from us.
“Where have you been finding the centipedes the most?” I questioned.
“Bedroom.” He said as he weakly settled down onto the couch. “That's why I'm camped out here. Those things freak me out.”
“How about the basement? Bathrooms?”
He shook his head. I thought that the location of the infestation was somewhat unusual, but otherwise I didn't think much of it.
We inspected the bedroom, starting under the bed. Sure enough, I found two common house centipedes squirming under a pile of old yearbooks. They got a lovely dose of insecticide. During the inspection, I noticed the windows didn’t have the best seal. That was probably how they were getting in.
The client began to cough from the other room, which turned into wretching.
That doesn't sound good. When I approached him to see if he was alright, he doubled over his garbage can. Instead of vomit, the long, leggy body of a centipede wriggled out of his mouth. He suddenly clutched his nose, wailing as he pulled another squirming bug from his right nostril. It took all of my willpower not to flinch at the sight.
The centipedes weren't coming from outside, after all.
As I rushed to his side, Reyna told me then that she knew what this was. Good. That was why we hired her. I told her to get whatever she needed while I watched over the client.
Before she hurried off with the company truck, she paused to say, “If you can, look for a white centipede. Trap it, but don't kill it.”
Naturally, the client was inconsolable. I think anyone would be, in his situation.
“Why is this happening to me?” He whimpered.
I tried to be comforting, “My coworker is knowledgeable when it comes to human infestations, so once she comes back, we'll take care of it, alright?”
“I'll try anything! I can…” The client shuddered, his hands clutching at his gut. “I can feel them crawling in my stomach! Their legs-”
I rubbed his back as he bent over the garbage can again. Jesus. I hoped that Reyna could help him, and soon.
Once he was done, he trembled as he watched the centipedes writhe at the bottom of his trash can. I asked him if he’d be okay if I left him for a second. He nodded. While he sobbed on the couch, I doused the bugs that he’d thrown up with a hefty dose of insecticide, then the hunt for the white centipede was on. At first, I tried not to tear the bedroom apart too much, but then I figured that the client would rather have to do some cleaning than have more bugs crawling around his insides.
It wasn't under the bed. Or under the dresser. The closet? Three regular, brown centipedes scurried away as I swung the door open. I stomped on one, but lost track of the other. I'd get it later. I moved some boxes of old comics that he had on the floor around. Not there. Possibly somewhere else in the house.
I went to the kitchen next. Nothing under the counters besides some sizable dust bunnies.
While I was there, the client asked for a glass of water, telling me that he had cups in the cabinet by the sink. That's where I found the white centipede.
It reared up on its hind legs, staring at me as its long body swayed from side to side. Something stringy was tied around one of its segments in a small bow. Hair? I quickly seized a glass and placed it over the white centipede to trap it. It kept looking at me. When I glanced between the client and the hair wrapped around the white centipede, I saw that the color and texture of the hair matched his.
Reyna burst through the door with a plastic bag on her arm. I don't know what I expected her to pull out, but it wasn't fruit and extra virgin olive oil. I didn't recognize the fruit, even after she started hurriedly chopping it; it looked like some sort of cross between a lime and an orange.
Seeing my expression, she muttered, “I know this probably looks ridiculous, but just… trust me, okay?”
I nodded slowly. I then informed her that I'd caught the white centipede.
She seemed relieved. “Okay, perfect. Can you put some of this oil on the stove for me on like… medium heat?”
Despite my confusion, I did as she asked. After she was done cutting, she slid the slices of mystery fruit into the oiled pan with a loud sizzle. What was interesting was that during this process, the white centipede had become frantic in its glass prison. It ran in circles, its legs clinking against the cup, desperate for an escape.
After the fruit-oil mixture became a jelly-like goop, Reyna poured most of it into a mug, announcing that once it cooled off, it would be ready.
When presented with the mixture, the client drank it without question. I think he was so desperate for some sort of relief that he'd truly meant it when he'd said that he was willing to try anything.
As he sipped at it, Reyna motioned for me to follow her back into the kitchen.
“Next, we need to submerge the centipede.” She explained. “That'll redirect the curse onto the person that originally cast it.”
“Alright, sounds good.” I replied, using a plate to keep the white centipede trapped within its glass prison as I picked it up. “You've seen this before, I take it?”
She nodded. “Yeah, but normally, it's beetles instead of centipedes. The calamansi mixture I gave him will keep the nasty little shits from eating our client from the inside out.”
I swear, the white centipede screamed as we poured the calamansi stuff over it. Centipedes aren't normally capable of vocalizing. It twitched as its legs got stuck in the goopy fruit mixture. Its struggles eventually died down, becoming slower and slower until the white centipede finally went still.
After confirming that the white centipede was dead, we checked on the client. He looked relieved to report that he couldn't feel anything squirming in his stomach anymore.
Reyna gently informed the client that the curse was brought about by jealousy. There was someone out there that envied him enough to want him dead, and in a gruesome manner, at that. If we had gotten to him a day later, the centipedes would've tunneled their way out of his body from every orifice. Lovely, right?
“The calamansi mixture acts as a ‘return to sender.’” She explained. “The person who did this to you will experience everything that you just went through until they put a stop to the curse. In the meantime, be careful. I'll return later with a charm that should help protect you.”
While Victor and I are well-versed in infestations affecting homes and business, we still have a lot to learn about atypical parasites such as the one that this client dealt with. That's where Reyna comes in. I'm not entirely sure what the best word to describe her title is, since she resents the term ‘spiritual healer' and others like it due to their associations with quack medicine.
In summary, at Orion, we’ve all been learning from each other.
Speaking of Victor, on the drive back to the office, Reyna and I discussed the changes we'd noticed in him. Neither of us have seen him eat anything since he showed up looking like hell.
“My vote's still for vampire.” She said. “Just a different flavor of vampire than the ones my lola told me about to scare me into going to bed on time. Jokes on her though: her stories made me afraid of the dark, so I didn't sleep anyway!”
I wasn't convinced. Victor had witnessed me managing to cut myself with a tape dispenser the other day and had no reaction to the blood beyond cracking wise at me.
He was in his office when we returned, looking like he wanted to strangle whoever he was on the phone with. That wasn't uncommon. The boss isn't the best with people, which is why I end up handling most of the customer service duties.
After Victor hung up, he informed us that it was the department of wildlife. I guess the worms were going around the local deer population, so they wanted us to keep an eye out and let them know if we notice any other species of animals showing symptoms. That made my stomach drop. That was the absolute last thing I wanted to hear.
After that wonderful news, Reyna went to take her lunch break, leaving Victor and I alone.
Before speaking, he gave me a pointed stare, “Listen. Nessa, I get you're concerned about me, but you need to back off.”
That took me aback, but before I could respond, he continued, “I don't want to see you following me anywhere, alright? Just stick to doing your job.”
Following him? Oh. Oh.
“I understand.” I muttered.
There had to be a reason why he couldn't talk to me outright. Something was up. His message was clear: he wanted me to follow him, but make sure that I wasn't seen, even by him.
After the office closed, I left first, pulling my car behind a dilapidated barn spray painted with ‘JESUS SAVES! REPENT!’ It was just down the road from where he lived, close enough to his apartment that I could see him pull in, but far enough away that my little G6 wouldn't be noticeable. Sure enough, fifteen minutes later, his battered truck passed by.
I couldn't help but feel creepy, like I was doing something wrong. I was stalking him, after all. But was it really stalking if the person asked you to do it? For about twenty minutes after he went inside, nothing happened. I wasn't entirely sure what I was supposed to be looking for. Maybe I'd already missed something important.
His front door opened. Victor exited, circling around to enter the forest surrounding his apartment.
Quickly, I drove over, abandoned my car in visitor's parking, and followed him past the treeline, hoping that I didn't lose him. I made sure to bring my toolbelt with me. Like hell was I going into this unprepared.
Unfortunately, I had arrived somewhat late. He wasn't in sight. Shit. Hold on. I examined the forest floor, finding fresh boot prints in the dirt, damp from the rain earlier that day. I followed them deeper into the woods, doing my best to stay silent as I avoided fallen branches as best as I could.
As I went deeper and deeper into the woods, I heard whispering. It was incredibly faint, almost imperceptible. It would have been easy to dismiss as nothing more than the rustling of leaves. I was pretty sure that it wasn't Victor's voice. I looked around, trying to find the source of it, but from what I could see, I was alone.
Cautiously, I continued following Victor's boot prints, hand poised over my container of salt. I knew better than to brush something like that off as my imagination or ‘just the wind.’
The whispers suddenly became more urgent, louder, yet I still couldn't make out what they were saying. It might've been a man's voice. They were coming from the right, veering away from the boss’ tracks.
When I tried to focus on what was being said, I suddenly found myself off of the path. How did I get here? I glanced around, seeing my own footprints behind me. I didn't remember walking this way.
Something out there was messing with my head.
I got my bearings and went back the way I came. The whispers were at my back. Stomach in a knot, I ignored them. I found Victor's trail again.
The whispers were suddenly close. Very close, as if the speaker was right next to me. It took most of my concentration to shut out what they were saying. I clenched my jaw, trying to give myself something else to focus on. It was becoming harder and harder to follow Victor, but I couldn't let myself get led astray again. I didn't want to know where the whispers would take me if I focused on them for too long.
There was a clearing up ahead. The whispers were aggressive, now, my right ear ringing. My mind felt fuzzy, as if filled with TV static. But I still didn't listen to them, using every once of will left to reach the clearing. I even went so far as to plug my ears with my fingers.
All at once, the whispering stopped.
I glanced around the clearing, too afraid to uncover my ears. One of the trees caught my eye. Warily, I got closer. Encased within the bark was a human skull. The trunk had grown around the cranium so that the gaping mouth and eye sockets were the only things visible.
Another tree nearby. The roots twisted around a set of rib bones. The trunk was smaller than the one next to it, as the tree was younger. It grew from the broken jaws of another person’s skull. I also couldn't help but notice that the bones weren't as eroded as the ones I found stuck in the other tree.
I'm not supposed to be here.
A voice made me jump, “What brings you out here, stranger?”
I whirled around, seeing that the mechanic lounged in a folding chair, gently strumming a banjo. The face of the instrument was adorned with black dragonflies flitting about, the wooden neck accented with swirls of gold. I'd bet money that it was hand painted. He looked as if he'd been there for hours, but he definitely was not there before.
My heart raced as the phone call with that kid from three years ago played on a loop in my mind. The blood soaked petals of the hawthorn tree.
I swallowed nervously, trying to keep a tremble from my voice, making sure to avoid his eyes, “I'm looking for someone.”
The mechanic smiled, “Fancy that! I'm lookin’ for someone, too.”
“I'm following a trail. I don't want it to go cold, so if you please would excuse me-”
He cheerily ignored me, “You wouldn't happen to be lookin’ for ol’ blue eyes, wouldya?”
Fuck. What did the mechanic want with Victor?
Something crucial that yinz need to know if you ever encounter the Neighbors is to never lie to them. They will know it. You can, however, conceal the truth, as long as you're clever about it.
“I'm seeking answers.” I said vaguely.
The mechanic continued his soft tune as he gave me a mysterious look, “You think following that trail will get you to him? It ends right in front of you.”
My heart sank as I saw that he was right.
The mechanic then said, “You wanna find him, you're gonna need some help.”
Another thing about the Neighbors is that they take debts seriously. I'd compared them to the Mafia once before, and it's not an exaggeration. An unfulfilled deal with a Neighbor would make cement shoes seem like a peaceful way to go.
I tried to be polite, “I appreciate the offer, but I'm afraid that I must decline.”
The mechanic chuckled, the sound chilling me to the marrow. “Nah, you're getting my help, whether you like it or not. You can either accept it graciously, or… well. Either way, you will be finding him for me. Simple as.”
I swallowed again, mind racing to try to find a way out of this. I couldn't decide which option terrified me more: being indebted to the mechanic or angering him.
I made sure not to meet his gaze as he watched me deliberate. The song he played was different than the one I'd heard over the phone years ago. The tune he played now was calming, like a lullaby.
I regret the answer that I gave him, but at the time, I'd thought it was reasonable. I was stupid. Please learn from my mistakes. “Your offer is gracious and appreciated, but I must respectfully refuse. I'm afraid that the cost-”
The mechanic sighed, sounding frustrated, “Anyone ever tell you it's rude not to look people in the eyes when you speak to ‘em?”
Shit. I fucked up. I fucked up! I backpeddled, “I meant no offense-”
The peaceful melody stopped as he gave the strings of the instrument one quick strum. It felt like someone took a sledgehammer to both of my kneecaps at once. Pitching forward, I gasped for air, unable to cry out. Another strum. My fingers clenched into fists involuntarily. There was a sharp sensation under my fingernails as if they were being pried off. Still, I couldn't find the breath to scream. From the fog of agony, I heard another flick of the banjo's strings. With it, my spine twisted and my vision went dark.
I'd thought that was it. That he'd broken my bones with nothing but a swipe of his fingers and left me for dead. I was wrong.
When my eyes opened, I was still in the forest. The mechanic had stayed in his chair, arms bent behind his head, eyes closed as he basked in the golden glow of the setting sun. He'd propped the banjo against his chair. I now feared that instrument more than any weapon made by man.
My fingernails lied on the ground in front of me, a brown liquid covering them. Blood. Why did my blood look like that? What at first looked like pale, shiny stones turned out to be teeth upon closer examination. Everything looked… strange now. Muted, as if most of the color had drained from the world.
Numbly, I noticed that there was something taking up the bottom of my vision. Long and white, tipped with black. No… no way. I tilted my head, looking down to see white paws instead of hands. I opened my mouth to swear, but all that came out was a high-pitched yelp.
The mechanic opened his eyes, grinning at me as he taunted, “You just had to be stubborn.”
I slowly stood, disoriented over how small I felt. The forest was now entirely too loud. The cacophony of smells overwhelmed me. I tried to speak, but all that came out was a bark.
The mechanic sat up, deceptively boyish grin still in place, “You know, I respect you, puppydog. Know why? All your bones broke as your body remolded itself, your flesh stretched out like fuckin’ silly putty, and all your little teeth and nails got yanked out. But through all that, you didn't scream. Not even once.”
I couldn't do anything but watch him, my whole body shaking from fear and the ache I felt in every cell of my being that came from my forced transformation. It hadn't been bravery that had kept me from crying out.
He leaned forward, clasping his hands together, “So here's the deal: you find ol’ blue eyes for me, and you'll be back on two legs again. But if you take too long, you’ll begin to forget that you were ever human to begin with. You understandin’ me, puppydog?”
The mechanic picked up his instrument again. Frozen, I resisted the urge to flinch as his fingers grazed the strings. My ears were so sensitive now that I could hear every groove of his fingerprints as they softly touched the instrument. Not bothering to look up at me, he said, “You’ve got until tomorrow's sunrise. You might wanna get a wiggle on.”
I wanted to run, fast and far, but I couldn't. It took everything that I had not to devolve into utter panic. I had to find Victor. The mechanic had said he was going to help me, whether I liked it or not. How the hell was turning me into a dog helpful?
Okay. I had to think. Stop being afraid and think. I closed my eyes, trying not to stare at my snout anymore. I inhaled deeply, the scents of fresh leaves and wet dirt heavy in my nose. And something else.
Opening my eyes, I followed the scent. Victor's bootprints. Why did I smell death on him? The rotting, pungent smell of carrion was faint, but enough that I could follow it.
I padded forward, allowing my nose to guide me. God, I was so small. Or maybe the world just felt so much bigger.
The scent trail lead me past a pond. Even though my mind felt like it was about to break, I was morbidly curious about what I looked like. When I stared at my reflection, a white, floppy-eared pitbull stared back at me. Little black spots like freckles speckled my face. As stupid as it sounds, one of my first thoughts was, ‘At least he didn't turn me into some yappy little ankle biter.’
I shuddered as the dog in the pond and I retreated from each other. When I felt that hopeless feeling creeping up again, I reminded myself that I had plenty of time to find the boss. I would be human again. With another deep breath through my nose, I kept following the smell of decay.
The creaks of branches sounded like the earth shattering. The songs of birds were tinny and sharp, making a whimper rise from my throat. From far off, something’s teeth ground together nauseatingly as it chewed. God, how do dogs not go insane hearing so much all the time?
I tried to simply focus on following the trail. A woodpecker sounded like a jackhammer, making me jump. Every sound put me on edge. It all seemed so close, as if I were surrounded, caged by the trees around me.
Even though the sun went all the way down, I could still navigate through the trees pretty well. The scent was starting to get stronger. I hoped that meant that I was getting closer.
The trail led me to a shed in the middle of a field. From where I stood at the edge of the woods, I could smell blood yet again. It looked like a butcher's shed. Why would Victor be here?
I approached the shed, ears pricked for any indication of what I would find inside. The shed was completely silent. Steeling myself, I stalked towards the entrance, finding that the door was cracked open. I nudged it open, seeing Victor bent over a counter, a partially processed deer in front of him. It looked like chunks had been taken out of its torso. A knife sat near to him and a pair of discarded rubber gloves.
With how good my hearing was, I should've heard his heartbeat. Why didn't I?
He turned his head when the door creaked open. Ordinarily, we were at the same eye level. It felt strange having to look up at him.
It was even stranger to have him coo at me, “Oh, hey there, puppy!”
I didn't realize his voice could go that high. Oh God, that was far too weird. A drawn out whine exited my mouth: it was the only way to express how weirded out I was.
“What's wrong?” The boss asked, crouching down, hand outstretched. “It's okay. I'm nice.”
Great. I'd found him, but how was I going to get him to know who I really was? I tapped my nose against his palm, then circled towards the door, staring at him, willing him to follow me. I whined again, trying to look pathetic. It wasn't hard. I certainly felt it.
The boss rose back up, approaching me like he was afraid to startle me. I padded out the door, turning back to see if he followed. I may not have been able to speak, but I still knew how to write. I used the claws of my right paw to dig at the dirt, making an ‘H.’ The floor creaked as he left the shed to see what I was doing. I kept pawing at the dirt until I spelled out, ‘HELP.’
His brows furrowed, glancing between me and the message. I whined again, head down, wishing that I could cry. Victor's hand delicately went under my jaw, gently urging me to look up at him. He examined my face intently, searching for something.
He must have found it. His eyes widened as he breathed, “Nessa?”
I whimpered again, trembling as he held my chin. Victor's other hand stroked my head, trying to comfort me.
“What did this?” He asked.
I raised my head, leading him back towards the mechanic's clearing. The journey back felt like an eternity. Victor was silent, his expression grave for the duration of the hike. The smell of blood, meat, and rot lingered with him.
What had he been doing in that shed?
The mechanic had started a fire and acquired a case of beer, at some point. The fucker was roasting a marshmallow when we arrived. It caught on fire.
“People say I'm weird for liking my marshmallows burnt.” He commented before he blew it out. “Not sure why. It's the best way to do it!”
Victor ignored him, “You wanted me, you got me. Now will you please change her back?”
The mechanic twirled the stick between his fingers, the firelight making his smile look sinister, “I'll get to that.”
How much time did I have before sunrise? It was hard to tell with the way my vision had changed. It still looked pretty dark, but that didn't stop me from becoming even more nervous than I already was. What if he just stalled until sunrise, even though I'd done what I was supposed to? Could he do that?
I glanced up at Victor, the terror probably apparent in my eyes. He was smart enough not to push it, though I could tell he wanted to, most likely thinking the same thing as I was.
“Why did you want me?” Victor asked, the tightness in his eyes the only evidence I could see of his growing rage.
The mechanic didn't seem bothered by it, trapping his burnt marshmallow between a pair of graham crackers and a sliver of chocolate. “Do you know who I am, blue eyes?”
“I have my suspicions.” Victor all but growled.
“Then you know very well why I brought you here and what your options are.”
Victor didn't say anything for a moment, looking even more pale in the flickers of the flames in front of him as he watched the mechanic devour his burnt s'more. The boss’ heart still wasn't beating.
I began to wonder how long Victor had been dead. And with that, how long I'd been a complete idiot and not known.
Victor eventually said, “Please, turn my colleague back into a person. I'll make my choice then.”
The mechanic laughed, shaking his head, “You got some nerve, boy!”
I pawed at Victor's leg. I wished I could tell him not to push his luck with the mechanic, like I had.
The mechanic then said, “We’ve had a good working relationship over the years, what with the truck and whatnot. I’m giving you a choice outta the kindness of my heart. Normally, I just take the ones I want without a second thought. But you've been a valued customer over the years. Figure this was the least I could do.”
Victor's icy gaze didn't thaw any, but I could tell that beneath the fury, he was afraid. I didn't know what his choices were, but I'm sure that it was a similar ‘damned if you do, damned if you don't’ deal to what I got.
Victor swallowed before taking a deep breath in. He finally answered, “If I agree, what happens?”
The mechanic took a swig from his beer bottle, then replied “You just keep on managing Orion, same as usual. All that's gonna happen is that you'll have some extra calls from time to time. Calls that only you will answer. You will have no longer than two days to complete each one. And you will not be able to refuse anything assigned to you.”
I had a feeling that the mechanic wasn't referring to some hornet nests. What would a Neighbor consider a pest? With a chill, I came up with the answer myself: us. Humans. They were here before us. We cut down their forests. Poison their water.
For Victor's sake, and for the sakes of nameless others, I hoped that I was wrong. I’d taken lives in Afghanistan and I regret every single one. They still haunt my nightmares to this day, no matter how long it's been since I was discharged. I think they'll always be there.
I caught Victor eyeballing the trees nearby. Another skull leered at us from the truck, the firelight making it look like it was trying to speak.
Seemingly transfixed by the skeleton, Victor eventually let out a shuddering breath before saying, “I’ll do it.”
The mechanic smirked at him, “Good choice, blue eyes.”
When he reached for the banjo, it took everything I had not to cower from it.
The mechanic smiled at me, “Since you did such a good job, I’ll be a bit nicer.”
The melody he played was hypnotic, slow, enchanting. I blinked as my head suddenly felt… cloudy, is the best word I could think of for it. Pleasantly cloudy. And I was tired. So tired. It became harder and harder to keep my eyes open. The grass felt softer than any mattress I'd ever laid upon. I curled up in it, the fresh smell of it relaxing me even further as I let my eyes drift closed.
Then I woke up in my bed, groggy. Why was I awake? I wanted to keep sleeping. I reached up to rub my eyes. A hand. I was me again. I was sore all over, as if I'd done a hundred crunches on hardwood floor. As embarrassing as it is to admit, I bawled like a fucking baby.
I'm taking the next few days off to recover. The boss was the one to suggest it. I need it. He apologized for leading me there. He hadn't anticipated the mechanic finding me. I didn't blame him. It wasn't his fault.
I encourage all of you to learn from my mistakes. If a Neighbor gives you an offer you can't refuse, take the choice that gets you out as unscathed as possible. I got off lightly. Don't mess around with them. Be smart. Be careful.

“Are you ready?” Yasmin Raiz places a MASSIVE bowl of fried rice onto the table. “Hi everyone, it’s Yasmin Raiz, your Season 4 Mx Congeniality, and I’m here to host our REUNION of Season 5 of Chronologica’s Drag Race!” Yamin stands to welcome the monarchs. “Welcome back the lovely contestants of CDR Season 5! Madam Maine!”
Madam Maine re-wears her finale look: a top hat, fitted black and white suit and a pair of silver boots with a cane. She bows and smiles broadly, looking nervous.
“Kaia K. Beauvoir!”
Kaia strides out confidently in an elaborate gold and silver pageant dress, with silver hair that glitters with metallic extensions.
“Cwunchie!”
Cwunchie is dressed as a little yellow plastic flower, with big petals and a tiny narrow stem. Her arms and legs are constricted at her sides in the stem and she hops along the runway towards her chair, grinning wildly.
“Now, let’s welcome the elephant in the room.” Yasmin smiles. “Bates Baghdashi, everyone!”
Bates arrives in a sepia-painted Agatha-Christie-esque detective look, with decadent shades of tan, brown, and black, an oversized magnifying glass, a briefcase, and a messy mop of Sherlockian curls.
“Oh, I love this.” Yasmin claps.
Bates lights an oversized origami faux cigarette, pretends to smoke from it, then flicks it away, where it unfurls into a bird, already aflame, and blasts away into the air, powered by a miniature firework.
Madam Maine looks very afraid for a moment, and starts to stand up.
“Before we continue, I want to let everyone know that their safety is assured! You are not in danger.” Yasmin smiles at Maine. Bates blushes.
Maine sits back down.
“Say hello, it’s Mermaid princess, Cleo Mertoris!”
Cleo wears a golden seashell bikini top stoned to the gods, showcasing some clear, recent work done on her chest, as well as a tight blue mini dress, as she flicks back her long luscious ginger hair with a smirk.
“Drag Princesita!”
Princesita waves in a sepia coloured maxi dress and bald head look, with bronze glitter on the top of her now shaved head, as she spins around with a smile on her face.
“It’s Briar Midnights!”
Briar walks out dressed quite similar to Ambrose’s traditional look- a tophat and sleek black trench coat, with jet black, wet hair and a half-smirk.
“Ms Stripes, Starzanne!”
The others look unimpressed as Starzanne walks out in an American Eagle style look, with feathers, glitter and fringe wrapped around her body.
“Ambrose NOIR!”
Amborse wears a black plaid mini skirt and white linen shirt, going for a rare fem drag look, with long black braids with hundreds of little pins wrapped into the braids.
“S-S-e-v-e-r-a!”
Severa rocks BODY on the main stage, wearing a bikini top and denim short combo, as well as a sensible pair of blue boots and pigtails to add the final touch.
“Magenta! Leigh! Simmons!”
Magenta gaps, wearing a Magenta coloured plaid look, wrapped around her body to create a fitted garment, along with a Magenta pair of sneakers.
“Jupiter Sterling!”
Jupiter rocks a head to toe, douchebag Vuitton look- jacket, shirt, pants, glasses and a backwards baseball cap.
“Apocalyptica!”
Apocalyptica looks slightly displeased- wearing a bright, toxic green look that appears to have toxic slime wrapped around her, in a similar vein to a past look.
“Lupe LaBelleza!”
Lupe wears a sensible pussycat wig, red coat and matching pencil skirt, with a black sheer turtleneck and a red fedora, along with a pair of black sheer socks being held up by garter belts and classic black pumps with a smile.
“And our winner, Nymphe d’Azote!”
Wearing her crown on her shoulders, her head too small for her crown, Nymphe is dressed in a glittering yellow robe, wearing a matching facemask looking ready for a spa moment, along with a wig, made entirely of bubbles!
Yasmin smiles, handing people plates of rice. “Now, today we're spilling ALL of the TEA. At the start of our season, we said goodbye to some girls that some fans really wanted to see more of. Say hello to Madam Maine, Miss Kaia K. Beauvoir, and…”
“CWUNCHIE!!!!” Cwunchie interrupts happily.
Severa rolls her eyes.
Cleo rolls her eyes.
Kaia rolls her eyes.
Severa glares at Cleo.
Cleo glares at Kaia.
Kaia glares at Severa.
Yasmin smiles. “Madam Maine. Once and for all, can you tell us why you’re named after a state you’re not even from?”
“Oh! Haha.” Madam Maine laughs nervously, eyeing the cameras. “I really like Maine. I have a French Canadian aunt who lives up there.”
“French Canada? Is she related to French Montana?” Magenta asks.
“Oh…no.” Madam Maine smiles awkwardly.
“A lot of our viewers this season questioned whether you were totally ready for the Drag Race experience. What’s your take?”
“I will be honest. I wasn’t.” Maine flushes. “I don’t think that I totally understood the caliber of some of these performers, and…I was in such awe of them. I feel really lucky that I’ve gotten to know some of my castmates, including all the first outs before me. Jupiter and Princesita especially, I really feel have shown me love.”
“You’re a sweetheart, honey.” Princesita smiles. “I hope you get your chance to come back someday too.”
“Are we going to do that every few seasons? Because it’ll get old, QUICK.” Severa responds. “Twists are only twists if we don’t see them coming.”
“Agreed.” Kaia says.
Princesita frowns.
Yasmin looks at Kaia. “Kaia, you represented, I believe, our first instance of a child of Drag Race–that is, your drag mom, The Mother Delilah, competed on season 2.”
“That’s right.” Kaia nods, keeping one eye warily on Severa and Cleo. “As a trans woman, it was important to me to be part of a legacy of successful trans women.”
“Delilah was successful?” Severa half jests with a smirk. “I think there have been plenty of trans women on the show who were more successful.”
Lupe looks like she wants to say something, but doesn’t.
“Whatever, I’m proud to be a daughter of Miss Delilah regardless and even more proud of having a healthy and kind relationship with the woman who inspired my craft.” Kaia says haughtily. “Not all of us can say that after all.”
“Ooooooooo…” the room roars.
Severa makes a displeased face and shrugs.
“One question about your time on the show, Kaia.” Yasmin looks around. “Why do you, in particular, think you ended up going home so early? A lot of fans were very surprised.”
“I think it’s quite obvious that Cleo’s leadership in that challenge was disastrous for me and everyone else on it. I’d assume that Cleo’s current appearance reflects how people received her during this season.”
“You mean my gorgeous knockers?” Cleo shimmies.
“I mean, your cheap bra and panty set.” Kaia snaps. “And-”
“You’re so smug.” Cleo interrupts. “As if you have anything to be smug about. Not with that mug, you don’t, mate.”
“At least I can still afford my makeup.” Kaia shoots back.
Cleo huffs and crosses her arms.
“Cwunchie! You were a force of nature for a short time with us this season.” Yasmin looks nervous to even speak to Cwunchie.
“WOOOOOOHOOOOO!” Cwunchie yells. “This show did NOT disappoint! I–”
It then cuts to an ad break.
~
“Welcome back to the Chronologica’s Drag Race Season 5 Reunion! Onto, the infamous, Bates!” Yasmin smiles. “You had one of the most DRAMATIC moments, ever in history. Let’s look back.”
Bates grins as the cast turns to watch the TV screen.
~
Will the following-
Wait.
Everyone looks concerned. For a moment, the stage is perfectly still, as the judges and racers wait with uncertainty.
In the distance, sirens are heard. The sirens get closer. And closer.
Suddenly, a group of police officers in full riot gear burst into the room through a production door. Crew members and producers look shocked and frantic. The police officers are led by a stern-faced man with a badge that reads "Officer Jeffery," who steps forward, his hand gripping a pair of handcuffs.
What?
Office Jeffrey points directly towards the racers. Everyone looks to see who he’s pointing at.
Bates stares back at the officer expressionless, blood still dripping from their look.
"Mahdi Hakimian?” The police officers crowd onto the stage towards Bates.
“Oh my god.” Magenta gasps.
Princesita starts to say something, and Jupiter reaches over to cover Princesita’s mouth.
“Yes.” Bates gulps.
Officer Jeffery reaches towards Bates. “Turn around and place your hands behind your back.”
Bates stands silently, his face expressionless.
“I am placing you under arrest in connection with the murders of Javad Tahmasb, Hamidreza Entezami, Mohamad Askari, Mostafa Shahi, Ali Reza Arjmand, Arman Nousari, Elahe Nousari, Setareh Tarokh, and Mohammed Tarokh."
Magenta falls to the ground in her bra and panty set, as everyone looks in stunned silence.
Bates slowly raises their hands as the police officers move closer, handcuffing them.
Everyone looks in disbelief. The judges look shocked and horrified.
“You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law.”
Bates looks at Apocalyptica, still expressionless, and speaks softly. “Christian…I’m sorry.”
“You have the right to an attorney. If you cannot afford an attorney, one will be provided for you. Do you understand these rights?”
Bates gives a nearly imperceptible nod.
Apocalyptica’s eyes well with tears. “Batesy?”
~
“Traumatic.” Apocalyptica looks at Bates, who exhales.
“To explain this….” Yasmin looks over. “Rachelle Mirage!”
Rachelle walks in with a smile.
“You two have worked hard together- tell us, what happened?!”
“I am, as we’d all know, originally from Iran. And- I knew it was a risk.” Bates exhales. “And they found out, and tried to have me extradited back from the US, for an alleged murder.”
“You killed someone?” Magenta gasps.
“A set up. Some of my former schoolmates had reported to the government that I had been cast here. So they falsified police records to make it look like I had done something which… was just because I, a Queer person, was representing the country in a way that didn’t match their… image.” Bates nods.
“Then comes… me.” Rachelle grins. “I could not let this happen.”
“Thank you, Rachelle.” Bates smiles.
“I felt something was off. And, I served as a character witness in the International Criminal Court, where… Eventually, after little evidence, we were able to not only have this gorgeous artist freed- but, I pulled some strings…”
“And I am now living in Denver.” Bates responds, holding Apocalyptica’s hand.
“What a shocking story.” Yasmin smiles. “And Apocalyptica, I must ask- are you two…?”
“We live literally across the street from each other.” Apocalyptica smiles.
The two grin.
“Now next up! She was one of our famous RETURNEES- Ms Cleo Mertoris, who won her first challenge- then proceeded to go home. Cleo, how did you feel about your journey?”
“I think… I should’ve gone much further than I did, to be honest.” Cleo shrugs.
“Girl...” Severa stares at Cleo for a few seconds. “You deserve exactly what you got- because you weren’t talented enough to survive a lipsync.”
“Not Miss ‘Double Sashay’ talking.” Cleo gasps. “At least I could pay for my tits myself, and not resort to sugar daddies huh Sevvie… Fucking bitch!” In a flash, Cleo, angrily standing, throws her drink onto Severa, who yelps.
In a flash, Yasmin tries to pull Cleo away from Severa, but Cleo does her best to claw at Severa.
“The fuck?” Jupiter yells.
“Don’t fucking call me Sevvie ever again!” Severa yells, scrubbing at her ruined dress and crying while subtly drinking the cocktail on her face.
“I’ll call you whatever I fucking want! Coming for my fucking gig!” Cleo shrieks.
“Let’s stop this-” Yasmin raises her hand.
Cleo spits at Severa. “Fuck you, fucking whore. You only transitioned to copy me! I MADE YOU! I-”
“WE’RE GOING TO ANOTHER BREAK!” Yasmin yells.
~
Severa tries to shake cocktail out of her wet wig.
Lupe covers her mouth with one hand. Kaia is laughing.
Nymphe suddenly stands and aggressively wrings out Severa’s wig, as Severa winces.
“Well!” Yasmin says sharply. “Are you okay, Severa?”
“I’m fine.” Severa huffs, bent over as Nymphe wrings her wig out. “I started my transition because, since the season aired, I came to terms with a lot about myself. Including how some of my behavior on the season was…rash. I’ve definitely been hiding from this moment. And Cleo has nothing to do with it.”
Lupe apologetically speaks up. “Pienso que, Severa, that Cleo might just be jealous of you.”
“You know it, mami.” Severa sighs. “I also really want to express some sincere apologies to you.”
Lupe looks startled.
“I think that with our time on the show, I was often jealous of you. Unlike me, or Cleo, or Kaia, you have been confidently living in your womanhood for a long time. I’ve followed you for a long time…and I fucked up.” Severa nods. “I am sorry.”
“I accept your apology, darling.” Lupe smiles. “It’s all I ever needed.”
“Now, these two were our OTHER, non finalist returnees, and both have… wild journeys.” Yasmin smiles.
“Non finalist.” Princesita frowns.
“You did good, Mami.” Lupe smiles. “I know it was hard…”
“I lip synced- a lot.” Princesita nods. “And it was hard.” Princesita begins to tear up. “Because, I believed I could do better, you know?”
Magenta holds Princesita’s hand.
“But- you must keep going. You can never push yourself too far, and maybe this wasn’t my journey. I think… I think I've accepted that now.” Princesita sighs.
“Regardless of how it ends, know that you should be proud of yourself, girl.” Kaia shrugs. “Like, we can’t all win.”
“Like me.” Starzanne jokes.
Nobody laughs.
“Well, turning to you, Starzanne, you had a controversial moment this season, in your makeover moment….” Starzanne turns. “How did it feel, watching it back?”
“I feel bad.” Starzanne closes her eyes. “And… I’m learning, I’m working on what I know, how to do it better, how to…” Starzanne sighs. “Do more than what I did, and truly, I feel shame.”
“I kinda think it’s bullshit.” Severa looks at Starzanne. “Because I think you knew better.”
Ambrose and Briar nod in agreement.
“HOWEVER…” Severa shrugs. “Good for you.”
Starzanne pouts, before nodding. “I aim to really deliver, I p-promise.”
The others look uncertain.
Bates sighs. “As the Middle Eastern refugee here, I can’t speak for Mohammed, who it’s obvious you really hurt and mistreated…and I hope he never has to see or work with you again. Because I hope you do learn, Starzanne. But also know the work is on you, not people of color.”
Severa gulps.
“Moving onto a power couple, or power ex-couple, this season. Briar and Ambrose…”
Jupiter woofs.
“How are we going since the season?” Yasmin asks.
“We’ve reconciled.” Ambrose looks at Briar with a knowing glance.
“I think both of us felt intense pressure this season.” Briar nods. “We both wanted to exist separate, but were so intrinsically tied to each other…”
“Ultimately I did think it led to our failure.” Ambrose sighs. “And- that’s fair, because it was a lesson to learn.”
“The lesson, being?”
“We are powerful- together.” Ambrose smiles, holding hands. “But, we believe it’s important to make space.”
“So, where does that mean for you now?” Yasmin asks. “The both of you.”
The two look at each other.
“We’re creating space, yet, collaborating.” Ambrose nods. “And-”
“They’re fucking again, BUT not doing duo gigs. Only attending gigs together.” Magenta chuckles.
Everyone gasps.
“Well… true.” Briar shrugs.
“Now, finally- the shocking moment… right before the semi final.” Yasmin nods. “Let’s look.”
~
I’ve made my decision.
Jupiter Sterling, Shantay you stay.
“Thank you.” Jupiter exhales. “Thank you.”
Severa closes her eyes, whispering to herself. “Severa, shantay…”
Severa and Magenta Leigh Simmons…
The others look on.
Thank you for being here, and doing great work this season. Now, I must say… sashay away.
“Damn!” Magenta yells, as Chronologica chuckles.
Everyone in the back of the stage look flabbergasted.
“No, thank you for this.” Magenta bows.
Severa looks at the judges for a split second, before walking off without a word.
“...Damn!” Magenta says again, as the others laugh. “I’m strutting off with GRACE.”
Magenta raises her hands in the air, as she walks off with a cheer.
~
“First, you- Severa, how are you feeling with time?” Yasmin asks.
“I feel as if that’s a different girl. Kinda. She’s thinking she’s giving nothing, not caring- but she cares too much, she’s lost that war. I think of myself as effortlessly fierce- but I did get stressed. I wish I… walked off and stomped the stage.” Severa sighs. “Instead of that.”
“And that’s okay, because we all- get there, sometimes.” Princesita says. “It’s about what you do next.”
“I’m going to win, girl.” Severa jokes. “They gotta make another All Stars so this diva can take the title.”
Everyone chuckles.
“Magenta, how did you feel, about being the other half?”
“I am happy, because if I’m being damn honest, I didn’t expect to make it this far!” Magenta laughs. “And I was me the whole damn time.”
“I love you for being you.” Jupiter adds. “You’re real, Ms Simmons. We honor that.”
“And not everyone can say that.” Nymphe smirks.
Apocalyptica grips Bates' hands.
“Now, it’s time for us to celebrate… some titles.” Yasmin smiles. “First, our GOLD BOOT title of the Season- ugliest outfit. Winner of a $5000 grand prize….”
…
Starzanne Stripes and September Remembers arrive in what else, but red, white, and blue. September looks patchy- his face is painted red, white and blue, in an attempt to cover his beard. Starzanne and September are both wearing fringe dresses that look straight out of a car wash, and it’s the epitome of… awkward.
“Starzanne!”
Starzanne chuckles, grabbing the trophy.
“Anything to say, Starzanne?”
“I am now wearing a lot LESS red, white and blue.” Starzanne nods.
The others awkwardly chuckle.
“Now, our title of SHADE- The Shadiest C.U.N.T this season.” Yasmin smiles. “Can I have a drumroll?”
“Cleo?” Severa looks over at the empty seat laughing.
“SEVERA!” Yasmin cheers. “Condragulations, you’ve won $10,000!”
Severa chuckles, grabbing the sash. “Thank you,I’d like to thank Cleo, Alcohol, and the rest of you for being too boring to get confessionals!”
Lupe laughs dramatically.
“I’d say I’m surprised, but I’m not!”
Everyone laughs.
….
“Finally, MY successor.” Yasmin smiles. “This year, the Congenial title will win $20,000, sponsored by Virtue Beauty.”
Everyone looks excitedly.
“The Winner is… MAGENTA LEIGH SIMMONS!” Yasmin cheers, as everyone starts clapping.
“Yes, yes!” Magenta cheers, as Yasmin puts the sash on her.
“Do you have anything to say, my Queen?”
“I-” Magenta smiles. “Damn.”
Everyone cheers.
“She’s finally out of things to say everybody!” Kaia laughs.
“Ugh…” Apocalyptica whimpers, wiping her eyes, as the others look over.
“Popsicle, are you okay?” Lupe asks.
“I’m- I’m fine.” Apocalyptica sighs. “I just- am really happy for Magenta.”
Magenta smiles.
“Bullshit.” Nymphe looks over.
The room is quiet.
“You expected this win, and again, you’re inauthentic, you’re lying, and you’re not owning up to when you want something.” Nymphe responds.
“I-” Apocalyptica tears up, holding onto Bates. “I-”
“I do have a question to ask, actually, as the crowned Ms SHADE.” Severa smirks. “Ms, Popsicle- we noticed your lack of presence at the crowning. You weren’t at any of the cast parties we held to celebrate or any of the events we planned, so what’s really up?”
Nymphe looks over.
“What happened?”
“I didn’t feel up to it. I was a bit sad, and I really did want to be there- but I-I felt physically ill, and…”
“Bullshit, again.” Severa rolls her eyes.
“Alright, you guys can have your opinions on everyone’s actions, but we don’t need to gang up on her.” Bates says, raising their voice a little..
“I don’t know what any of you mean…” Apocalyptica sighs. “I just-”
“You wanted to win, so you’re bitter. You kept denying it- but clearly, you positioned yourself in a way to do well. And you lost. So, why not own up to it?” Nymphe asks.
“Ugh, Can you go fuck yourself?” Apocalyptica snaps.
“Woah.” Magenta says.
Everyone looks spooked.
“Popsicle… You don’t have to acknowledge them…” Bates whispers.
“Of course I wanted to win.” Apocalyptica exclaims loudly. “I wanted to prove alt drag, to prove myself, and I don’t think that trying to be nice while doing so is a sin. ” Apocalyptica says. “LIKE-”
“Because you weren’t being real.” Severa looks at Apocalyptica. “Not the sweet girl who always happens to copy others.”
“I- You can think whatever you want. I…Actually I’m not going to continue to engage with this narrative.” Apocalyptica stutters as she turns to hold onto Bates.
“If you owned being unoriginal, maybe you’d have won.” Nymphe shrugs.
“Okay hold up- I’m mad she didn’t show up to our get togethers either but unoriginal?” Kaia inserts herself into the conversation. “We all get inspired and learn and take notes from others, like that’s the point of drag families, Delilah taught me so much, does that make me unoriginal? Have none of us ever felt inspired after seeing a good drag show or look?”
“I learned a lot from everyone in my short time here, my drag has changed a lot from all of you.” Madame Maine smiles.
“Girl, there’s a difference between being inspired and trying to steal my signature move the week after I leave.” Severa turns back at Kaia and Madame Maine.
“And were you the first to ever do that move? You came up with it with absolutely no influence from anyone else.” Apocalyptica bites.
“I don’t remember getting any credit or even a shoutout.” Severa stares at Popsicle.
“Do you give credits to who helped teach you how to dip every time you do it?” Apocalyptica retorts. “Whatever, i'm just so over this conversation.”
“Cool.” Nymphe bluntly states.
Apocalyptica rolls her eyes. “Cool.”
A couple of seconds pass of silence.
“Well, thank you all for a lovely season.” Yasmin smiles breaking the tension. “Now, before we go… Here's a sneak peak of SEASON 6 of Chronlogica’s DRAG RACE, coming soon!”
~
This has been… magic.
“It sure has.” Nymphe nods, sipping her pink tea. “But the magic… lives on and continues, as does the journey of the forest. It is… eternal.”
It's magic, you know…
Thirteen figures flash, as someone grabs a potion labeled ‘IMMUNITY’.

Forgotten in the deep midst of a wine dark sea were the Mistwatch isles. Shrouded in deep fogs and enveloped by rocky shores and tempestuous waters, it was a quiet place isolated from the surrounding continents housing the major kingdoms and empires of the elves dwarves and men. Many of the Isles people’s the descendants of peoples who’s ships strayed too close and became trapped on its misty shores. Many considered it a a place of haunting beauty and dark mystery, some thought it to be a cursed place. The mists draws in many people and seldom ever lets them go.
Gloomhaven, the smallest and most outlying of the isles was the seat of the city of the same name, largest settlement and the jumping off point for exploring the larger isles deeper in the mists. Many of which were dotted ruins of peoples long forgotten, myriad shipwrecks along the coasts, and dark expanses of wilderness teeming with dangerous beasts and monsters.
In the corner of a lively but cozy dockside inn there sat a lone young man, a dwarf clad in a pauldroned red cloak and a horned closed face helm, poking out from under was the end of his dark blonde beard. He was sipping from a tall mug of dwarven mead white lost in his thoughts, beside him a flyer was hung up advertising his services as an adventuring companion/mercenary for hire. His name was Nimh, heir and one of the last survivors of the dwarven clan Firesong.
It had been a long fortnight since the downfall of his clan to the hands of a lowland orc band that had invaded the stronghold of his uncle, the late Lord Ganon Firesong. Though he tried to comfort himself knowing his uncle fell valiantly sword in hand, it all haunted him and he was desperate for any kind of distraction while he put together a plan of action against the orcs who took his clan from him.
The Dwarf’s teal eyes scanned the room, glancing up to see that he had been so lost in his own thoughts that he had failed to notice a stranger approaching his table, presumably looking to hire his services.
“A fine evening to you, are you here seeking the services of a skilled dwarven fighter? Or if just light company you seek you’re also welcome.” A gruff voice spoke from behind the helm. Wanting to be welcoming, he scooted his chair closer to the table and used his boot to push the chair opposite of him out as a clear invitation that they were welcome to sit and join him. Reaching his arm out form his cloak he extended his hand out “Nimh of Clan Firesong at your service.”
—————————
Name: Nimh Firesong
Aliases/nicknames/titles: heir to the clan Firesong
Age: 24
Gender: male
Race: dwarf
Hair: dark golden blonde, straight going down to his mid back and his beard equally long. Very meticulous about grooming avoiding helmet hair
Eyes: dark teal
Skin: pale olive
Body: 4’0” a stout build with strong but stubby arms and legs and overall on the hirsute side
Occupation: heir to a fallen clan, currently working as a traveling mercenary
Attire/possessions: on his head is a horned closed faced helm that leaves visible only his eyes and his beard poking out from under. He wears a pauldroned cloak that envelops much of his body. Under that he’s in a sleeveless tunic, leggings, and set of boots and gauntlets to match his helm and a satchel. Fights with an heirloom short sword fashioned from a dragon’s fang by the his clan’s founder
Personality: Nimh is quiet mild mannered young man whom at a first glance can feel aloof as he tries to be emotionally guarded around new people, but when he’s become attached to someone he wants nothing more to be by their side, as family and friends will always be his first priority and his personal and his code of honor his second. He bears emotional scars from the fall of his clan and the loss of his uncle, memories of that day haunting him most nights and susceptible to falling into pits of melancholia
Bio: Nimh has no memories of his parents, as they passed when he was far too little to remember, so from when he was young he was raised by his uncle Ganon, head of clan Firesong and lord of the territory surrounding their stronghold in the highlands of the isle of Everfall. It was his uncle who largely shaped Nimh into the person he is today and taught him everything he knew. After tensions arouse between clan Firesong and a band of orcs from the lowlabs over territorial disputes escalated out of control, and before they could properly prepare for battle the orcs stormed his the stronghold, leading to the fall of his clan and loss of his uncle. In the face of the horror he made what he later felt was a coward’s choice, he ran. As of now he’s on a journey of working to avenge his clan and make peace with what’s happened, taking the slow steps to begin moving forward with his life and start to make new connections with others.
—————————
Hi! Thanks for taking the time to read my dnd inspired starter and character description. I’ll elaborate more on the plot.
The plot is mostly open ended and dependent on the kind of character you’ll be playing, but some of the major story beats will involve Nimh’s hunt for vengeance and the journey to being able to make peace with what happened and let go. I mostly wanted to explore this character and the world I built aoeund him
You’re welcome to make your character male or female, and I’m fine with many fantasy races, though I am particularly fond of elves dwarves drow/dark elves and kobolds. I left a lot of lore open ended for us to build upon together so feel welcome to bring your own ideas. I’m open to romance but I equally treasure close platonic friendships
My only writing requirements is that you write in the third person, no text speak, and no one word responses. Extremely long replies beyond the standard 2-4 paragraphs not required but welcome, but please be decently detailed. I'm not picky about occasional spelling/grammar mistakes.
Thank you for reading! c:

I yelled and woke with a start. Sweat dripped down my face. My breathing was hard and desperate. I could have sworn I had just been falling. The stickiness of sleep meddled with the cogs of my mind. Slowly my eyes adjusted to the gloom of my bedroom and I found myself alone, safe and warm. No danger here. My heart rate slowed and I chuckled nervously. Soon all fear had seeped from my mind and all memory of my dream had faded. I rolled out of bed and shivered. Quickly I pulled on a sweater and put on my furry slippers. It was cold in this cabin in the middle of the forest. Although internal plumbing and an electric generator had been added, there was still no central heating. This did not bother me much because I always enjoyed having an excuse to light the fire in the living room. I absolutely loved traditional fireplaces.

I was whistling happily in the kitchen, sipping on a glass of cold water as I poured fresh coffee beans into my electric grinder. The sound and smell of coffee being ground always made me content. As my coffee brewed in my French press I cracked two eggs into a bowel and began to whisk. Fifteen minutes later I carried a steaming hot cheese omelet and large mug of coffee out onto my front veranda. I stood in the open doorway, surveying the beauty of the outdoors in the early morning light. The air was cold and fresh; pregnant with complex mixtures of pine and lavender scents. I looked up to see the sky was a deep blue and devoid of all clouds. The thin, dark silhouettes of the trees that surrounded the cabin stood silent and ominous in the soft half-light of the morning. White coats of frost sparkled and melted on the grass as the sun climbed and brightened. I could hear the distant sound of the stream and the call of morning birds.

I sighed deeply with satisfaction and sat down on my wooden chair. This is what I loved more than anything. More than the city that bustles and bursts with busy human lives. More than squeezing myself between strangers on the tube. More than the sickening smell of the streets and the soulless lack of any natural sounds. In the city there were no crickets, no owls, no frogs. Out here there was an abundance of beauty. The trees were so patient and still. So very different from the rushed, ill-mannered commuters I had as my usual morning partners. I definitely preferred the trees. I took another deep breath. I blew on the steam that rose from my coffee mug and sipped cautiously. The coffee was rich and delicious and scalding hot. Perfect. I began to eat my omelet letting the serenity of nature continue to wash over me. My mood had not been so elated for many months and I was seriously thinking that I should move here full-time. Currently I was working as an English teacher and had decided to come out here to work on my novel and take a break from the city. From my life. Once my excellent breakfast was complete I walked back inside and decided to start a fire to warm up the cabin. As I stooped to check the small wicker basket near the fireplace, that should contain the dried firewood, my eyebrow arched when I found the basket empty. Huh? I could have sworn it was half-full yesterday. Puzzled, I picked up the basket. Soon I put on my large, worn black coat and made my way outside.

The frosted ground crunched under my large leather boots as I waded through the woods. Finding dry branches for the fire would be fairly difficult at this time of day as most of the ground was damp by now. However, my plan was just to dry them out in the oven before I used them. After spending a few minutes stooping to inspect sticks of various sizes and dampness I finally filled the basket. “Ok, time to go home.” I muttered aloud eagerly as I rubbed my hands together. The air was still cold enough to make my breath visible and I rubbed my hands together. Suddenly I stopped. I did not recognize where I was. But how? I had been exploring the woods for days now and not one time had I gotten lost.

My eyes darted back and forth and my head swiveled in confusion. Very soon a creeping panic began to climb from my stomach up into my lungs. My heart began to thump loudly. I looked up at the sun, the voice of my old man ringing in my mind, “Learn to navigate by the stars and sun and you’ll never lose your way”. I smiled, remembering his warm eyes and loud laughter. I missed him. I closed my eyes, concentrating. “Ok, that must be East, so that means I should walk…” I stretched out my arm and hand, index finger pointed. I turned on my heel. “North. That way.”

After a few moments I found my path blocked by a sudden sheer drop. I was facing an enormous quarry. My face blanched. “What… where the hell did this come from?” Again, panic seeped into my blood. “There aren’t any bloody quarries around here!” I moved forward to peek over the edge and peered down. The drop must be at least fifteen meters! I looked from left to right and saw no stairs or bridges. How the hell was I supposed to get across? My confusion grew and grew. Then I froze. There, lying at the bottom of the quarry, was a mangled body. The light in the sky was still too young to properly illuminate the quarry’s depths, but I could tell it was a body! My eyes bulged and my mouth opened wide with astonishment. “Jesus! Hello? Are you okay down there?” I yelled. Nothing but cold silence pressed against my ears. Suddenly I noticed a path that I had not seen before. It started to my right and wound down the slope before me. Quickly I started hurrying down towards the person; maybe I could still help? Soon I was at the bottom and I ran up to the body that lay still on the ground. As I got closer and the sun grew brighter I stopped dead. The body that lay crumpled at my feet was – me. “No way. There is just absolutely no way!” I shouted. I trembled as I took a step backward. My foot slipped on a large stone and I felt myself begin to fall to the ground.

Suddenly I yelped and my legs kicked out. I blinked in the sudden darkness and found myself on my sofa in the cabin’s living room. “What the hell? It was just a dream?” I said out loud as I sat up. I felt the softness of the couch cushions beneath me, I could smell the citrus scents leftover from the wash I’d given them recently. I stood up, my breathing still fast. The large windows showed a stormy afternoon. Rain pelted the glass heavily and the wind howled loudly. “What the hell? It was just a dream?” I repeated. I checked my watch. It was nearly two o’clock in the afternoon. I raked my brain, trying to figure out what was happening. But the details of my dream were fading. “I was in the forest looking for firewood. Then I found that body in the quarry.” It had been so real. I felt quite disoriented. Was I truly awake now? Or still asleep? And that body? What had been so terrible about it? The dream had already seeped away. I couldn’t remember.

Still confused I made my way quickly towards the front door. Just as I opened it there was a deafening peal of thunder and a bright fork of lightning lit up the darkling sky. My mouth dropped open. There, just beyond the veranda, as if it had always been there, was the quarry. That cliff! I closed my mouth. “But… how…” Ignoring the icy rain, I walked towards the edge and once again peeked over. In the cold light of another flash of lightening I saw my own body twisted and broken on the ground below. I gasped. My mind reeled. My heart fluttered. “What is going on?” I yelled looking around for some sort of explanation. When I looked back down again my face turned white. The body, my body, was gone. Suddenly I felt the eyes of a stranger on my back. A feeling of dread crept up my spine. A twig snapped. I spun around.

I stood face to face with my shadow. But he did not look like me. Not exactly. Darkness coated his body like a skintight suit and I could not tell what he was wearing. He may have even been naked for all I know. I could see most of his face and hair, but his eyes were cloaked entirely in semi-circles of shadow which fell below each of his brows. He seemed utterly unconcerned about the storm. “You poor thing. You poor, wretched thing.” When he spoke, his voice was not mine. It was deep and commanding, yet gentle. His words came out slow and calm, almost lulling, “I caught you as you fell. You can be at peace forever. But you must choose now.” He stretched out a tenebrous hand and pointed toward the edge of the cliff. Suddenly I noticed something new appear in his hands. It was a book. It was my book. The one I had been writing. Had I already finished it? Or had I just started?

He turned to one of the middle pages and read, “‘Life is the antithesis of peace. Death is the antithesis of suffering.’” He snapped the book closed and turned again to face me, “How trite. Yet, so often the plainest truths are. All you want is peace, is it not? You are right in thinking that life can never provide this.” A cold smile curled his lips. “Even the living forests you so admire are crawling with suffering and conflict. Even the trees that appear so peaceful, so still, are wordlessly fighting each other for light. Racing against each other to claim their own space. It is the nature of the living to struggle.” Confusion fought with terror in my mind. I stammered. “I…I don’t understand. What is this place? Who are you?” Suddenly the man robed in darkness leapt at me and clasped my wrist, “You know who I am”. Small, pale crimson lights flared to life like ignes fatui in the depths of his sockets. He began to pull me towards the edge. “No! Wait!” I shouted, digging my heels into the mud. But he was too strong. He snarled, “Isn’t this what you wanted?” and before I could stop myself I was crying from desperation. Then with a strength that could not be human he lifted me above his head, and threw me over the side of the quarry. Lightning flashed as the air rushed through my hair. I screamed as I plummeted to my death.

I yelled and woke with a start. I heard the soft beeping of monitors. I felt the scratchy linens of a hospital bed beneath me. Pain followed swiftly and exploded through my limbs. My voice was croaky and dry as I spoke, “Where…what the hell…what happened?” A nurse rushed to my side. “It’s alright love, you’ve ‘ad a bit of a tumble. Doctor’s got you all sorted. Just rest now”. Her voice was warm and comforting, like a cup of tea.

My memory returned to me slowly. My family did not own any cabin in the forest. The day of the accident I had been jogging in the woods and took my usual route near the abandoned quarry. I remember exactly what had happened. For a long time, I was overwhelmed with my work and underwhelmed with my life. I wanted nothing more than to finish my novel and bail on all my other responsibilities. My father had also recently died after a long and horrible fight with cancer and it was the first time I realized that at my age life stops providing and starts taking. I realized that soon all those things, all those people, I could once rely on were not going to last forever. An invisible fire was lit in my flesh and I felt my time was rapidly running out.

I jogged far, leaving the city limits. As I stood at the edge of that quarry, panting, my sadness hanging on me heavily, I had, for a moment, contemplated jumping. As I stared down, I imagined my broken body at the bottom of the cliff. Then, like in all my low moments, I let the cold inhumanness of the universe fill me up. With my eyes closed all I could hear was my mother crying over my father’s corpse. All the constant knocking of debt collectors on our door. All I could see were the endless medical bills flooding the postbox. All I felt was loneliness. A horrible, unrelenting, unsolvable loneliness. I had no great love, no amazing career, and my writing would never be good enough to publish. All I could feel was the gaping hole my father had left behind. It hurt. For just a moment I convinced myself I did not belong here anymore. My lips trembled. I walked right up to the edge. I felt my sadness swell in my chest. I clenched my fists tightly. I imagined taking a single step forward. It would be so easy. I imagined the air rushing past me. Falling to my doom. I imagined the horrible pain of the impact. But I also imagined the peace that would come after. A peace I craved. I imagined a picturesque cabin in the woods. A beautiful fireplace. A shelter from the city. A place where I could rest. It was in that moment of contemplative despair, before I could fully commit to the act, that the old unstable ground of the quarry crumbled beneath my feet and I had slipped from the edge and fell. Only the shadows were there to catch me.

Recovery was slow. My mother and sister came to visit me multiple times and made the stay at the hospital bearable. How many dreams had I had? How much had I awoken and then re-awoken? Could I be sure I was truly awake now? As I pondered this I tried to remember. But all I could recall was that very last dream. Those dark horrible eyes. The terror of that very last fall. In that moment, I had realized what I wanted. Now I felt rejuvenated in a way I had not felt for many years. The exhaustion of my spirit had finally been ameliorated. I actually looked forward to getting out of bed. I actually wanted to go to school again. My passion for teaching was reignited. Soon after my recovery I even managed to get my novel published but did not make much money.

Many years have passed since my fall and I’m in my 60s now and retired and have never married. I now know that those dreams were not just dreams. That phantom I confronted has remained with me. Whenever the stresses of life pile up and I become fatigued, he comes to me. He still waits for me. He is real. I see his eyes covered in shadow. Tiny pinpricks of crimson flicker therein. At first, I only saw him rarely; glimpses in dreams. As time went on and I grew older and weary of the world once more I began to see him in the corner of my room every night. What’s worse was that in those moments when I feel the lowest I found myself craving the solitude of that cabin. The peace it brought with it. All this I craved despite the price.

Last week I attended my mother’s funeral. It was a small affair, most of her friends having died many years before. I saw my sister there with her husband and children. They are so happy and full of life. I feel a pang of jealousy but also relief. My life was always to be a solitary one. My sister and I cried during the service. When we chatted later we tried in vain to comfort each other. I returned alone to my home in London while she returned home with her husband and children to Edinburgh. I really missed her a great deal.

Since the funeral I see him constantly. Often his shadow-hidden hand stretches out and he holds a revolver. But he does not mean to shoot me. No. He holds the revolver’s ivory handle toward me. Sometimes he holds out a hangman’s noose. Sometimes it’s a long, ornate dagger. Most recently he holds out a canister of helium gas. And a plastic bag for my head. Each time he does this I resist him. Sometimes, when I’m alone, I even yell at him to leave. His face remains dark, stony and enigmatic.

None of this would scare me quite so much if I had not just realized one terrible detail. What turns my blood to ice from fear is that every time I see him he is infinitesimally closer. How had I not noticed before? Perhaps it was a kindness. Gooseflesh runs down my neck as I see him standing insidiously in my cold bedroom. He is near the edge of my bed now. He is patient and has respected my choice so far. Nevertheless, he holds out that same revolver. That same noose. That same dagger. I tremble with fright because I know I will not be able to resist him much longer. Perhaps soon I’ll know if this was all a dream too.

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It's Thursday May 2 and once again Cindy is talking about sleeping in until 8:30 and she has so much to do! I'd love to sleep in until 8:30 but since I have to be at work at 7:45, that isn't going to happen. Plus I actually work and I don't see a lot of evidence of that in Cynthia's house.
We've got one more Door County Coffee flavor, ya'll! What will we do when she runs out? This one is blueberry cinnamon and she's not sure if it's going to be good because she doesn't like fruity coffee. Yes, we know, you looked like you were going to puke yesterday when you drank the raspberry coffee. Not being a coffee drinking myself, I have no clue if fruity coffee would be a bad thing or not. Oh shit, the brew now button is still acting up. Dear stans, she's got a birthday coming up so if you want to send her a new coffeemaker, now would be a good time. Anybody care to take bets on whether or not someone sends her one? Hey, that reminds me, what happened to that nice percolator someone sent her? We've only seen it once that I can remember.
While the coffee brews, she gives us the Woo of the Day but we already know what it is and are actually on the correct day so I didn't really listen to that part. We do, however, get a little lesson on Beltane complete with a nice little video. Where does she find this stuff? Wouldn't it be nice if she took as much time with her own content as she does finding videos to go with the witch lesson of the week? Wheee! Coffee is done, let's see what kind of face she'll make when she tastes it. She still hasn't washed dishes by the way so she has no straws and is using yesterday's coffee mug. What the hell does she do all day that she can't wash dishes when she's the only person in the house? I mean, I'm bad about letting stuff slide but she brings it to a whole new level. Looks like the coffee is not good folks! I still think her peppermint face is the best bad coffee face she's ever made but this one is close.
Outfit of the day, who cares, it's a band tee and shorts (not the black velvet and lace ones though, she's saving that for going out night) and some converse. Guess she didn't fell like strapping on the combat boots today. Now she's going to open her Colourpop pallettes. They're actually nice, I'm not too sure about the melon colored ones because I just don't care for red eyeshadow. I've got nothing against pinks or corals but those are a little red for my taste. She puts on the purple one (color of the day and all that jazz) and I will admit that it looks nice. It doesn't look like she just threw it on there or like someone hit her in the eyeballs. Maybe having higher quality eye shadow really does help.
Still complaining about how much she needs to get done, she hasn't done laundry in two weeks, dishes need to be done. Well, maybe if you weren't ordering stuff on line and looking for Beltane videos, you might have found time to do that. Ya think? Of course there's also the stalking of the guy she's not sure she's going to go out with again but we all know she is so I guess that takes up some time.
She got a new purse. My daughter is into anime and she has a purse that you can display pins in but hers is round and has bat wings on it. It's really cute and I was praying that Cinderblock wasn't going to pull out that same bag when she mentioned that they were popular in the anime and cosplay world. Thank god she didn't. I like to collect pins too and I actually like that bag. I've been kind of wanting one for myself but I'm not about to click on that affiliate link. I can google for myself thank you very much. Is anyone surprised that she got two King Gizzard pins and a really strange live, laugh, love pin? Nope, me either. We then get to see what she has in her purse. I was really hoping for something embarassing but it's just the usual stuff although why in the hell does anyone need that much lip gloss? I don't even own that much lip gloss. I don't think I owned that much when I was a teenager and flavored lip gloss was a thing. She just has to mention that she loves that the bag is cross body because she tends to leave her bags places when she has a few drinks *wink wink nudge nudge.* Gee, I guess that means that in addition to possible DUI's, she can picked up for driving without a license when she leaves her bag places.
I'm sure I'm leaving something out but honestly I kind of zoned out when she talked about doing her dishes. At dinner time, she drives to Domino's to get chicken wings. Why didn't she just get them delivered? Was she hoping to possibly pass someone on the road? Was she hoping her magnetism might attract some lonely Domino's employee? Who knows? After getting home, she tells us the ranking of various pizza place's wings. If anyone cares, Domino's are better than Papa John's or Pizza Huts. Thank you, I will make a note of that.
OH! I almost forgot that in her opening of things, a subscriber named Mary sent her a really pretty necklace with an emarald in it! The name that she read off sounded like it might be a business so did Mary make it? It's really nice. She also got some witch bells and a bag that says My Witchy Shit on it.
Q and A time. Everyone wants to know about Arthur the dog (he's more popular than you, Cringey) and he's fine. It seems like her apartment supervisor (does she mean landlord? I've heard that term before) might have started taking care of him which is good. She gets asked about her spiritual beliefs and I tuned it out because I just cannot hang with her whole "we are all god and we are all the universe and we can be whoever we want to be if we believe" crap. What the hell ever. More questions about her hair and she says she's considering semi permanent color. Wouldn't any kind of color be bad for soemone with alopecia? After all she's gone through to get her hair looking as nice as it does, putting stuff on it can't be good for it. I think she should just leave it be but what do I know? I'm just an old crone who isn't in touch with her inner witch.
Guess that's it, chicken wings are waiting and all that. Jazz hands all around!!!!

I yelled and woke with a start. Sweat dripped down my face. My breathing was hard and desperate. I could have sworn I had just been falling. The stickiness of sleep meddled with the cogs of my mind. Slowly my eyes adjusted to the gloom of my bedroom and I found myself alone, safe and warm. No danger here. My heart rate slowed and I chuckled nervously. Soon all fear had seeped from my mind and all memory of my dream had faded. I rolled out of bed and shivered. Quickly I pulled on a sweater and put on my furry slippers. It was cold in this cabin in the middle of the forest. Although internal plumbing and an electric generator had been added, there was still no central heating. This did not bother me much because I always enjoyed having an excuse to light the fire in the living room. I absolutely loved traditional fireplaces.

I was whistling happily in the kitchen, sipping on a glass of cold water as I poured fresh coffee beans into my electric grinder. The sound and smell of coffee being ground always made me content. As my coffee brewed in my French press I cracked two eggs into a bowel and began to whisk. Fifteen minutes later I carried a steaming hot cheese omelet and large mug of coffee out onto my front veranda. I stood in the open doorway, surveying the beauty of the outdoors in the early morning light. The air was cold and fresh; pregnant with complex mixtures of pine and lavender scents. I looked up to see the sky was a deep blue and devoid of all clouds. The thin, dark silhouettes of the trees that surrounded the cabin stood silent and ominous in the soft half-light of the morning. White coats of frost sparkled and melted on the grass as the sun climbed and brightened. I could hear the distant sound of the stream and the call of morning birds.

I sighed deeply with satisfaction and sat down on my wooden chair. This is what I loved more than anything. More than the city that bustles and bursts with busy human lives. More than squeezing myself between strangers on the tube. More than the sickening smell of the streets and the soulless lack of any natural sounds. In the city there were no crickets, no owls, no frogs. Out here there was an abundance of beauty. The trees were so patient and still. So very different from the rushed, ill-mannered commuters I had as my usual morning partners. I definitely preferred the trees. I took another deep breath. I blew on the steam that rose from my coffee mug and sipped cautiously. The coffee was rich and delicious and scalding hot. Perfect. I began to eat my omelet letting the serenity of nature continue to wash over me. My mood had not been so elated for many months and I was seriously thinking that I should move here full-time. Currently I was working as an English teacher and had decided to come out here to work on my novel and take a break from the city. From my life. Once my excellent breakfast was complete I walked back inside and decided to start a fire to warm up the cabin. As I stooped to check the small wicker basket near the fireplace, that should contain the dried firewood, my eyebrow arched when I found the basket empty. Huh? I could have sworn it was half-full yesterday. Puzzled, I picked up the basket. Soon I put on my large, worn black coat and made my way outside.

The frosted ground crunched under my large leather boots as I waded through the woods. Finding dry branches for the fire would be fairly difficult at this time of day as most of the ground was damp by now. However, my plan was just to dry them out in the oven before I used them. After spending a few minutes stooping to inspect sticks of various sizes and dampness I finally filled the basket. “Ok, time to go home.” I muttered aloud eagerly as I rubbed my hands together. The air was still cold enough to make my breath visible and I rubbed my hands together. Suddenly I stopped. I did not recognize where I was. But how? I had been exploring the woods for days now and not one time had I gotten lost.

My eyes darted back and forth and my head swiveled in confusion. Very soon a creeping panic began to climb from my stomach up into my lungs. My heart began to thump loudly. I looked up at the sun, the voice of my old man ringing in my mind, “Learn to navigate by the stars and sun and you’ll never lose your way”. I smiled, remembering his warm eyes and loud laughter. I missed him. I closed my eyes, concentrating. “Ok, that must be East, so that means I should walk…” I stretched out my arm and hand, index finger pointed. I turned on my heel. “North. That way.”

After a few moments I found my path blocked by a sudden sheer drop. I was facing an enormous quarry. My face blanched. “What… where the hell did this come from?” Again, panic seeped into my blood. “There aren’t any bloody quarries around here!” I moved forward to peek over the edge and peered down. The drop must be at least fifteen meters! I looked from left to right and saw no stairs or bridges. How the hell was I supposed to get across? My confusion grew and grew. Then I froze. There, lying at the bottom of the quarry, was a mangled body. The light in the sky was still too young to properly illuminate the quarry’s depths, but I could tell it was a body! My eyes bulged and my mouth opened wide with astonishment. “Jesus! Hello? Are you okay down there?” I yelled. Nothing but cold silence pressed against my ears. Suddenly I noticed a path that I had not seen before. It started to my right and wound down the slope before me. Quickly I started hurrying down towards the person; maybe I could still help? Soon I was at the bottom and I ran up to the body that lay still on the ground. As I got closer and the sun grew brighter I stopped dead. The body that lay crumpled at my feet was – me. “No way. There is just absolutely no way!” I shouted. I trembled as I took a step backward. My foot slipped on a large stone and I felt myself begin to fall to the ground.

Suddenly I yelped and my legs kicked out. I blinked in the sudden darkness and found myself on my sofa in the cabin’s living room. “What the hell? It was just a dream?” I said out loud as I sat up. I felt the softness of the couch cushions beneath me, I could smell the citrus scents leftover from the wash I’d given them recently. I stood up, my breathing still fast. The large windows showed a stormy afternoon. Rain pelted the glass heavily and the wind howled loudly. “What the hell? It was just a dream?” I repeated. I checked my watch. It was nearly two o’clock in the afternoon. I raked my brain, trying to figure out what was happening. But the details of my dream were fading. “I was in the forest looking for firewood. Then I found that body in the quarry.” It had been so real. I felt quite disoriented. Was I truly awake now? Or still asleep? And that body? What had been so terrible about it? The dream had already seeped away. I couldn’t remember.

Still confused I made my way quickly towards the front door. Just as I opened it there was a deafening peal of thunder and a bright fork of lightning lit up the darkling sky. My mouth dropped open. There, just beyond the veranda, as if it had always been there, was the quarry. That cliff! I closed my mouth. “But… how…” Ignoring the icy rain, I walked towards the edge and once again peeked over. In the cold light of another flash of lightening I saw my own body twisted and broken on the ground below. I gasped. My mind reeled. My heart fluttered. “What is going on?” I yelled looking around for some sort of explanation. When I looked back down again my face turned white. The body, my body, was gone. Suddenly I felt the eyes of a stranger on my back. A feeling of dread crept up my spine. A twig snapped. I spun around.

I stood face to face with my shadow. But he did not look like me. Not exactly. Darkness coated his body like a skintight suit and I could not tell what he was wearing. He may have even been naked for all I know. I could see most of his face and hair, but his eyes were cloaked entirely in semi-circles of shadow which fell below each of his brows. He seemed utterly unconcerned about the storm. “You poor thing. You poor, wretched thing.” When he spoke, his voice was not mine. It was deep and commanding, yet gentle. His words came out slow and calm, almost lulling, “I caught you as you fell. You can be at peace forever. But you must choose now.” He stretched out a tenebrous hand and pointed toward the edge of the cliff. Suddenly I noticed something new appear in his hands. It was a book. It was my book. The one I had been writing. Had I already finished it? Or had I just started?

He turned to one of the middle pages and read, “‘Life is the antithesis of peace. Death is the antithesis of suffering.’” He snapped the book closed and turned again to face me, “How trite. Yet, so often the plainest truths are. All you want is peace, is it not? You are right in thinking that life can never provide this.” A cold smile curled his lips. “Even the living forests you so admire are crawling with suffering and conflict. Even the trees that appear so peaceful, so still, are wordlessly fighting each other for light. Racing against each other to claim their own space. It is the nature of the living to struggle.” Confusion fought with terror in my mind. I stammered. “I…I don’t understand. What is this place? Who are you?” Suddenly the man robed in darkness leapt at me and clasped my wrist, “You know who I am”. Small, pale crimson lights flared to life like ignes fatui in the depths of his sockets. He began to pull me towards the edge. “No! Wait!” I shouted, digging my heels into the mud. But he was too strong. He snarled, “Isn’t this what you wanted?” and before I could stop myself I was crying from desperation. Then with a strength that could not be human he lifted me above his head, and threw me over the side of the quarry. Lightning flashed as the air rushed through my hair. I screamed as I plummeted to my death.

I yelled and woke with a start. I heard the soft beeping of monitors. I felt the scratchy linens of a hospital bed beneath me. Pain followed swiftly and exploded through my limbs. My voice was croaky and dry as I spoke, “Where…what the hell…what happened?” A nurse rushed to my side. “It’s alright love, you’ve ‘ad a bit of a tumble. Doctor’s got you all sorted. Just rest now”. Her voice was warm and comforting, like a cup of tea.

My memory returned to me slowly. My family did not own any cabin in the forest. The day of the accident I had been jogging in the woods and took my usual route near the abandoned quarry. I remember exactly what had happened. For a long time, I was overwhelmed with my work and underwhelmed with my life. I wanted nothing more than to finish my novel and bail on all my other responsibilities. My father had also recently died after a long and horrible fight with cancer and it was the first time I realized that at my age life stops providing and starts taking. I realized that soon all those things, all those people, I could once rely on were not going to last forever. An invisible fire was lit in my flesh and I felt my time was rapidly running out.

I jogged far, leaving the city limits. As I stood at the edge of that quarry, panting, my sadness hanging on me heavily, I had, for a moment, contemplated jumping. As I stared down, I imagined my broken body at the bottom of the cliff. Then, like in all my low moments, I let the cold inhumanness of the universe fill me up. With my eyes closed all I could hear was my mother crying over my father’s corpse. All the constant knocking of debt collectors on our door. All I could see were the endless medical bills flooding the postbox. All I felt was loneliness. A horrible, unrelenting, unsolvable loneliness. I had no great love, no amazing career, and my writing would never be good enough to publish. All I could feel was the gaping hole my father had left behind. It hurt. For just a moment I convinced myself I did not belong here anymore. My lips trembled. I walked right up to the edge. I felt my sadness swell in my chest. I clenched my fists tightly. I imagined taking a single step forward. It would be so easy. I imagined the air rushing past me. Falling to my doom. I imagined the horrible pain of the impact. But I also imagined the peace that would come after. A peace I craved. I imagined a picturesque cabin in the woods. A beautiful fireplace. A shelter from the city. A place where I could rest. It was in that moment of contemplative despair, before I could fully commit to the act, that the old unstable ground of the quarry crumbled beneath my feet and I had slipped from the edge and fell. Only the shadows were there to catch me.

Recovery was slow. My mother and sister came to visit me multiple times and made the stay at the hospital bearable. How many dreams had I had? How much had I awoken and then re-awoken? Could I be sure I was truly awake now? As I pondered this I tried to remember. But all I could recall was that very last dream. Those dark horrible eyes. The terror of that very last fall. In that moment, I had realized what I wanted. Now I felt rejuvenated in a way I had not felt for many years. The exhaustion of my spirit had finally been ameliorated. I actually looked forward to getting out of bed. I actually wanted to go to school again. My passion for teaching was reignited. Soon after my recovery I even managed to get my novel published but did not make much money.

Many years have passed since my fall and I’m in my 60s now and retired and have never married. I now know that those dreams were not just dreams. That phantom I confronted has remained with me. Whenever the stresses of life pile up and I become fatigued, he comes to me. He still waits for me. He is real. I see his eyes covered in shadow. Tiny pinpricks of crimson flicker therein. At first, I only saw him rarely; glimpses in dreams. As time went on and I grew older and weary of the world once more I began to see him in the corner of my room every night. What’s worse was that in those moments when I feel the lowest I found myself craving the solitude of that cabin. The peace it brought with it. All this I craved despite the price.

Last week I attended my mother’s funeral. It was a small affair, most of her friends having died many years before. I saw my sister there with her husband and children. They are so happy and full of life. I feel a pang of jealousy but also relief. My life was always to be a solitary one. My sister and I cried during the service. When we chatted later we tried in vain to comfort each other. I returned alone to my home in London while she returned home with her husband and children to Edinburgh. I really missed her a great deal.

Since the funeral I see him constantly. Often his shadow-hidden hand stretches out and he holds a revolver. But he does not mean to shoot me. No. He holds the revolver’s ivory handle toward me. Sometimes he holds out a hangman’s noose. Sometimes it’s a long, ornate dagger. Most recently he holds out a canister of helium gas. And a plastic bag for my head. Each time he does this I resist him. Sometimes, when I’m alone, I even yell at him to leave. His face remains dark, stony and enigmatic.

None of this would scare me quite so much if I had not just realized one terrible detail. What turns my blood to ice from fear is that every time I see him he is infinitesimally closer. How had I not noticed before? Perhaps it was a kindness. Gooseflesh runs down my neck as I see him standing insidiously in my cold bedroom. He is near the edge of my bed now. He is patient and has respected my choice so far. Nevertheless, he holds out that same revolver. That same noose. That same dagger. I tremble with fright because I know I will not be able to resist him much longer. Perhaps soon I’ll know if this was all a dream too.

Beep-beep-beep
The man opened one bleary, bloodshot eye and peered into the gloom. His cellphone, lying on the nightstand where he’d left it the previous night, was lit up. For a second, his sleep-addled brain couldn’t process what was happening, then the fog began to lift and it started to sink in.
Morning.
Already.
Sighing, he sat up, turned the alarm off, and sat on the edge of the bed, his shoulders stooped under an invisible weight. Another day, another big, heaping plate of bullshit. His eyes flicked to the window. The curtains were parted just enough that he could see fat beads of water on the pane. Sudden sadness crashed over him, and he let out a deep, weary sigh.
It was raining.
That meant today would be extra shitty…with a side of horseradish.
Getting heavily to his feet, he dressed in a pair of tan pants, a white shirt, and a plain black clip on tie. He went to the window and glanced out to make sure he wasn’t being watched. No black weather van was parked at the curb but he still had the uneasy sense of being watched. His gaze drifted from the curb to the sidewalk. Rain poured from the sky and hissed on the pavement, yet the people he saw passing by didn’t seem to notice. Few wore jackets and none dared use an umbrella. They all walked stiffly and stared straight ahead, putting the man in mind of robots.
The door opened behind him and he stiffened. Ah, here they were, the Weathermen. He always knew they’d -
“Oh, you’re up,” his mother said, and he relaxed a little. “I have your boots here. It’s ra -”
The man’s heart rocketed into his throat. “Nice,” he said quickly, nervously, “it’s really nice.” He whipped around and shot his mother a dirty look. Realizing she had almost said something subversive and anti-American, she pressed one trembling and wrinkled hand to her mouth. Maybe the apartment wasn’t bugged, but when it came to the weather, you could never be too careful.
Silently, Mom handed him the boots and scurried off. He looked longingly at them, but tossed them over his shoulder instead. A long time ago, the government outlawed coats and jackets, but rescinded the ban after that first winter because of all the deaths. Frostbite and hypothermia reached pandemic levels and not even the Weathermen could pretend otherwise. These days, then, you could get away with wearing a coat, but rain boots? Have fun being chucked into the back of a weather van and sent to Nevada.
Opting for his regular shoes instead, the man went into the tiny kitchen off the tiny living room. Mom was at the counter, pouring coffee into a mug. He took it with a muttered thanks and sat at the cramped table. A newspaper lay face up, and though it was pure propaganda, the man scanned the headlines as he sipped his breakfast anyway. The Twenty-First Meteorological Congress promised perfect weather through the winter. It would be sunny and 65 until Christmas, when it would snow. After that, it would be sunny and 65 again. In local news, the police broke up a terrorist group charged with printing and distributing seditious literature. Seems they had the audacity to predict not-so-perfect weather now and then.
“What time will you be home tonight?” Mom asked, startling him.
“I don’t know,” he said quickly, “probably six.”
“Can you stop at the store and get some milk?”
“Yeah,” he said. “Anything else?”
Mom thought for a moment. “No, that should be it.”
After finishing his coffee, the man drew on his heavy overcoat and went outside. The sky was thick and gray, cold rain pelting his head and shoulders. Sunny and 65 my ass. Trying to ignore the rain, he walked to the bus stop at the end of the street. Several times, he glanced over his shoulder to make sure he wasn’t being followed. It was silly, he knew that, but he couldn’t suppress the feeling that they knew what went on inside his head…that they could read his thoughts and had a nice charge of subversion just waiting for him.
On the way, the man passed a few people. They did not greet each other, didn’t even look at each other. No one acknowledged the cold and the rain save for a little girl being dragged along by her mother. “Mommy, stop, I don’t want the rain.”
The mother’s eyes widened and her nostrils flared as she spat, “Shut, you’ll get both of us killed.” She yanked the little girl along, and the little girl kept on complaining.
See? She noticed the rain.
But it was only her.
And him.
Maybe they were both crazy.A group of people were waiting at the bus stop when the man arrived, and he watched them from the corner of his eye, not trusting any of them. They, in turn, watched him from the corner of their eyes, because he couldn’t be trusted either.
Finally, once the man was nice and soaked, the bus arrived, and everyone filed on. The man kept his head down and did not make eye contact with the driver. Bus drivers were notorious informants, and the man was half way worried that the driver would be able to see treason in his eyes.
Taking a seat near the middle of the bus, the man stared out the slick window, his face blank. The bus passed storefronts, cafes, and the marble-columned library. At one corner, a man was hawking umbrellas from a shopping cart. No one spared him even a glance. In fact, they all looked nervous, as though they were doing something wrong just by being near him. As the bus splashed by, two men in black uniforms grabbed the Umbrella Man and dragged him away kicking and screaming.
Gulp.
When the bus reached his stop, the man got off. Tall buildings towered over him and a cobblestone square stood off to his left. Flags, banners, and posters of the Chief Meteorologist adorned every surface. The man did not look at them as he rushed by.
The building housing Coherency Global was just past the square. People in rain-sodden suits and dresses marched in like cattle to the slaughter. Just inside the lobby, a man in a black uniform welcomed them with insincere smiles.
Great.
Captain Kirkendall.
Tall and chubby with shoulder length hair the color of old corn and a baby face that belied the monster within, Captain Kirkendall was Coherency Global’s Meteorological Officer. He was there to make sure everyone was happy with the weather…and to “address” those who weren’t. He wore a black uniform with a belt strapped across the chest, shiny black boots, and a red armband bearing the party’s sacred symbol: A bright and beaming sun.
When Captain Kirkendall saw the man, his slimy smile sharpened, and an evil glint entered his eyes. The man’s throat closed and his bowels turned to water. If any man really could see treason in someone’s eyes, it was Kirkendall.
“Good morning, David,” Kirkendall said and leaned slightly forward, as if to take a bite out of David’s throat, “how are you?”
“I’m fine, sir,” David said cooly, “and you?”
“I’m doing good,” Kirkendall said. “Wonderful weather we’re having.”
David nodded. “Yeah, it’s great.”
“65 and sunny,” Kirkendall said.
Outside, thunder pealed.
Kirkendall’s eyes went to David’s coat. “Little warm for that jacket, isn’t it?”
“Yeah,” David said, “but I really like it, so I decided to wear it.”
“It looks like the perfect jacket for rain,” Kirkendall said and leaned in a little more. “But we both know rain only happens in April and May…don’t we?”
“Absolutely,” David said around a dry mouth.
Finally, tired of the game, Kirkendall let him go, and David hurried off.
His desk was on the third floor, among a sea of cubicles, and when he reached it, David collapsed into his chair. One of these days, he thought, Kirkendall was going to crack him, and that would be the end of him.
David put the encounter out of his mind and got to work. Throughout the morning, the office became a symphony of coughs and sneezes, starting way off to the left, then being picked up on the right until it was all around him. In the kitchen, Bob from accounting wondered why he wasn’t feeling well, and at the water cooler, Sandy from shipping complained that her kids were all sick. “They got it from school,” she said with an edge of frustration.
Sometimes, David thought they were playing along, humoring the government; but sometimes, like now, he thought they were for real. They honestly didn’t know why they were sick, didn’t know why the bikes their kids left outside in December got rusted. They believed it. God help him, they believed this perfect weather shit.
Your kids are sick because they don’t wear coats. The inside of your car smells like mold because you left the windows down in the rain. Jesus Christ, you’re pretending, right? Right? A
Everyone had to pretend. That’s what you do when some group of psychos take over, be they Nazis, communists, or Weathermen. You play along, otherwise, bad things happen to you. After a while, though, you start to really believe the propaganda. Up becomes down, good becomes bad, and nothing will ever change your mind.
At noon, David sneezed.
By three, his head felt like it was stuffed with cotton, his whole body was flushed, and all he wanted to do was put his head down and go to sleep.
I should have worn a hat, he thought miserably.
When his nose began to drip, he had to go to the bathroom and fetch some toilet paper: Tissues were banned in the office because the common cold did not exist in a weatherman’s paradise. He wiped his nose until it was raw and red, then went out into the hall. Behind him, a voice spoke, chilling him. “Ah, hello, David.”
David turned.
Captain Kirkendall walked up and leaned slightly forward. “Wonderful weather we’re having.”
David tensed.
Wonderful weather we’re having.
Wonderful weather we’re having.
Wonderful weather we’re having.
God, Kirk believed it too. He was a fucking pig but even he was brainwashed.
“You look like crap,” Kirkendall said, a touch of faux concern in his voice. “Perhaps you caught something from Sandy’s kids?”
Something deep in David’s mind, strained by years of this play-pretend bullshit, snapped, and before he could stop himself, he was grabbing Kirkendall by the shirt. “No, you stupid bastard, it’s the rain! Can’t you see it?” Tears welled in his eyes and his voice cracked. “Can’t you see the rain?”
At once, two burly Weathermen flanked David, and his body went slack. Kirkendall pulled away from him and brushed off the front of his uniform as though he’d just been touched by something grubby and disgusting. The Weathermen each grabbed one of David’s arms, and cold fear filled him.
“I don’t see anything,” Kirkendall said, then grinned and leaned in one last time, “except for perfect weather.”
David wept in terror and frustration as they carried him away.
After that, no one ever saw him again.

Beep-beep-beep
The man opened one bleary, bloodshot eye and peered into the gloom. His cellphone, lying on the nightstand where he’d left it the previous night, was lit up. For a second, his sleep-addled brain couldn’t process what was happening, then the fog began to lift and it started to sink in.
Morning.
Already.
Sighing, he sat up, turned the alarm off, and sat on the edge of the bed, his shoulders stooped under an invisible weight. Another day, another big, heaping plate of bullshit. His eyes flicked to the window. The curtains were parted just enough that he could see fat beads of water on the pane. Sudden sadness crashed over him, and he let out a deep, weary sigh.
It was raining.
That meant today would be extra shitty…with a side of horseradish.
Getting heavily to his feet, he dressed in a pair of tan pants, a white shirt, and a plain black clip on tie. He went to the window and glanced out to make sure he wasn’t being watched. No black weather van was parked at the curb but he still had the uneasy sense of being watched. His gaze drifted from the curb to the sidewalk. Rain poured from the sky and hissed on the pavement, yet the people he saw passing by didn’t seem to notice. Few wore jackets and none dared use an umbrella. They all walked stiffly and stared straight ahead, putting the man in mind of robots.
The door opened behind him and he stiffened. Ah, here they were, the Weathermen. He always knew they’d -
“Oh, you’re up,” his mother said, and he relaxed a little. “I have your boots here. It’s ra -”
The man’s heart rocketed into his throat. “Nice,” he said quickly, nervously, “it’s really nice.” He whipped around and shot his mother a dirty look. Realizing she had almost said something subversive and anti-American, she pressed one trembling and wrinkled hand to her mouth. Maybe the apartment wasn’t bugged, but when it came to the weather, you could never be too careful.
Silently, Mom handed him the boots and scurried off. He looked longingly at them, but tossed them over his shoulder instead. A long time ago, the government outlawed coats and jackets, but rescinded the ban after that first winter because of all the deaths. Frostbite and hypothermia reached pandemic levels and not even the Weathermen could pretend otherwise. These days, then, you could get away with wearing a coat, but rain boots? Have fun being chucked into the back of a weather van and sent to Nevada.
Opting for his regular shoes instead, the man went into the tiny kitchen off the tiny living room. Mom was at the counter, pouring coffee into a mug. He took it with a muttered thanks and sat at the cramped table. A newspaper lay face up, and though it was pure propaganda, the man scanned the headlines as he sipped his breakfast anyway. The Twenty-First Meteorological Congress promised perfect weather through the winter. It would be sunny and 65 until Christmas, when it would snow. After that, it would be sunny and 65 again. In local news, the police broke up a terrorist group charged with printing and distributing seditious literature. Seems they had the audacity to predict not-so-perfect weather now and then.
“What time will you be home tonight?” Mom asked, startling him.
“I don’t know,” he said quickly, “probably six.”
“Can you stop at the store and get some milk?”
“Yeah,” he said. “Anything else?”
Mom thought for a moment. “No, that should be it.”
After finishing his coffee, the man drew on his heavy overcoat and went outside. The sky was thick and gray, cold rain pelting his head and shoulders. Sunny and 65 my ass. Trying to ignore the rain, he walked to the bus stop at the end of the street. Several times, he glanced over his shoulder to make sure he wasn’t being followed. It was silly, he knew that, but he couldn’t suppress the feeling that they knew what went on inside his head…that they could read his thoughts and had a nice charge of subversion just waiting for him.
On the way, the man passed a few people. They did not greet each other, didn’t even look at each other. No one acknowledged the cold and the rain save for a little girl being dragged along by her mother. “Mommy, stop, I don’t want the rain.”
The mother’s eyes widened and her nostrils flared as she spat, “Shut, you’ll get both of us killed.” She yanked the little girl along, and the little girl kept on complaining.
See? She noticed the rain.
But it was only her.
And him.
Maybe they were both crazy.A group of people were waiting at the bus stop when the man arrived, and he watched them from the corner of his eye, not trusting any of them. They, in turn, watched him from the corner of their eyes, because he couldn’t be trusted either.
Finally, once the man was nice and soaked, the bus arrived, and everyone filed on. The man kept his head down and did not make eye contact with the driver. Bus drivers were notorious informants, and the man was half way worried that the driver would be able to see treason in his eyes.
Taking a seat near the middle of the bus, the man stared out the slick window, his face blank. The bus passed storefronts, cafes, and the marble-columned library. At one corner, a man was hawking umbrellas from a shopping cart. No one spared him even a glance. In fact, they all looked nervous, as though they were doing something wrong just by being near him. As the bus splashed by, two men in black uniforms grabbed the Umbrella Man and dragged him away kicking and screaming.
Gulp.
When the bus reached his stop, the man got off. Tall buildings towered over him and a cobblestone square stood off to his left. Flags, banners, and posters of the Chief Meteorologist adorned every surface. The man did not look at them as he rushed by.
The building housing Coherency Global was just past the square. People in rain-sodden suits and dresses marched in like cattle to the slaughter. Just inside the lobby, a man in a black uniform welcomed them with insincere smiles.
Great.
Captain Kirkendall.
Tall and chubby with shoulder length hair the color of old corn and a baby face that belied the monster within, Captain Kirkendall was Coherency Global’s Meteorological Officer. He was there to make sure everyone was happy with the weather…and to “address” those who weren’t. He wore a black uniform with a belt strapped across the chest, shiny black boots, and a red armband bearing the party’s sacred symbol: A bright and beaming sun.
When Captain Kirkendall saw the man, his slimy smile sharpened, and an evil glint entered his eyes. The man’s throat closed and his bowels turned to water. If any man really could see treason in someone’s eyes, it was Kirkendall.
“Good morning, David,” Kirkendall said and leaned slightly forward, as if to take a bite out of David’s throat, “how are you?”
“I’m fine, sir,” David said cooly, “and you?”
“I’m doing good,” Kirkendall said. “Wonderful weather we’re having.”
David nodded. “Yeah, it’s great.”
“65 and sunny,” Kirkendall said.
Outside, thunder pealed.
Kirkendall’s eyes went to David’s coat. “Little warm for that jacket, isn’t it?”
“Yeah,” David said, “but I really like it, so I decided to wear it.”
“It looks like the perfect jacket for rain,” Kirkendall said and leaned in a little more. “But we both know rain only happens in April and May…don’t we?”
“Absolutely,” David said around a dry mouth.
Finally, tired of the game, Kirkendall let him go, and David hurried off.
His desk was on the third floor, among a sea of cubicles, and when he reached it, David collapsed into his chair. One of these days, he thought, Kirkendall was going to crack him, and that would be the end of him.
David put the encounter out of his mind and got to work. Throughout the morning, the office became a symphony of coughs and sneezes, starting way off to the left, then being picked up on the right until it was all around him. In the kitchen, Bob from accounting wondered why he wasn’t feeling well, and at the water cooler, Sandy from shipping complained that her kids were all sick. “They got it from school,” she said with an edge of frustration.
Sometimes, David thought they were playing along, humoring the government; but sometimes, like now, he thought they were for real. They honestly didn’t know why they were sick, didn’t know why the bikes their kids left outside in December got rusted. They believed it. God help him, they believed this perfect weather shit.
Your kids are sick because they don’t wear coats. The inside of your car smells like mold because you left the windows down in the rain. Jesus Christ, you’re pretending, right? Right? A
Everyone had to pretend. That’s what you do when some group of psychos take over, be they Nazis, communists, or Weathermen. You play along, otherwise, bad things happen to you. After a while, though, you start to really believe the propaganda. Up becomes down, good becomes bad, and nothing will ever change your mind.
At noon, David sneezed.
By three, his head felt like it was stuffed with cotton, his whole body was flushed, and all he wanted to do was put his head down and go to sleep.
I should have worn a hat, he thought miserably.
When his nose began to drip, he had to go to the bathroom and fetch some toilet paper: Tissues were banned in the office because the common cold did not exist in a weatherman’s paradise. He wiped his nose until it was raw and red, then went out into the hall. Behind him, a voice spoke, chilling him. “Ah, hello, David.”
David turned.
Captain Kirkendall walked up and leaned slightly forward. “Wonderful weather we’re having.”
David tensed.
Wonderful weather we’re having.
Wonderful weather we’re having.
Wonderful weather we’re having.
God, Kirk believed it too. He was a fucking pig but even he was brainwashed.
“You look like crap,” Kirkendall said, a touch of faux concern in his voice. “Perhaps you caught something from Sandy’s kids?”
Something deep in David’s mind, strained by years of this play-pretend bullshit, snapped, and before he could stop himself, he was grabbing Kirkendall by the shirt. “No, you stupid bastard, it’s the rain! Can’t you see it?” Tears welled in his eyes and his voice cracked. “Can’t you see the rain?”
At once, two burly Weathermen flanked David, and his body went slack. Kirkendall pulled away from him and brushed off the front of his uniform as though he’d just been touched by something grubby and disgusting. The Weathermen each grabbed one of David’s arms, and cold fear filled him.
“I don’t see anything,” Kirkendall said, then grinned and leaned in one last time, “except for perfect weather.”
David wept in terror and frustration as they carried him away.
After that, no one ever saw him again.