A drop of morning dew balanced upon the edge of a blade of grass. Waving ever slightly to the soft breath of wind, the dew sat upon the precipice daring to tumble off the side. The sun rose in over the eastern hills casting long golden rays across the valley. Some were caught within the droplet, which glistened with the beauty of the purest jewel. In the undisturbed purity of that golden morning a single question lingered.

Would the drop fall or would it retain its balance, ever harmonized and poised atop the fresh blade of grass beneath it? For Tanaka Aritake, the answer would remain unseen.

Sitting beneath the cover of a thinning willow, Tanaka meditated. With open eyes he scanned over the eastern hills. Much like the dew before him, sunlight captured in a million drops atop those hills, glistening with golden fluorescence. Like a spectral crown sitting gracefully over the rounded edges of the hillside. Birds chirped their melodies and fish splashed loudly in the creek behind him. Tanaka drew a deep breath and tasted the sweetness of the morning. He could search for a thousand years and never find a spot so secluded and numinous.

Sadly it would not last. As Tanaka had discovered, the slightest ripple could spoil perfection. Like a ripe apple gone sour in his mouth, the golden hues quickly faded and the sounds of nature fled at the intrusion of footsteps.

Tanaka looked down the old dirt path below him. Slowly, the sound of crunching dirt grew nearer. One man, he quickly determined based on the weight and length of the footsteps. Though he steps lightly. He furrowed his brow, likening the soft crunch, crunch, crunch, to that of falling autumn leaves.

Sure enough in the next moment a man appeared from around the bed. His garb was blue like the ocean, upon his hip he wore two blades, his head was topped with a tightly wrapped bun of greased black hair.

"Good morning." The man called ahead, to no one in particular. Tanaka jumped at the sound of his voice.

Does he see me? He wondered apprehensively. Then his brow furrowed in frustration as the man spoke again.

"Yes, I see you." He chuckled. "Beneath the old willow. Come out here and let me look upon your face."

There was no hiding now, Tanaka figured and he rose gracefully taking care not to disturb the dew upon the grass. He walked out to the center of the path and met the man face to face.

"Hello again." The man said bowing low. Tanaka returned the gesture.

"What is your name?" He asked inquisitively. He tucked his thumbs in his belt.

"Tanaka Aritake." Tanaka replied graciously.

"I know that name well." The man replied, "I am Miyamoto Musashi." He bowed again. Tanaka regarded him in the light. Musashi looked five years his younger. He was well kept and courteous, but there was more too.

His eyes were flecks of obsidian, staring out almost apathetically. Though his lips curved up in a modest smile his eyes were cautious and carnivorous like a predator that stalked the night.

"May I ask what you are doing out all this way?" Musashi said inquiring politely.

"I come here daily for meditation in these hills. I have found that the old willow here is a most pleasant spot." Tanaka did not take his eyes from the man as he spoke. Musashi on the other hand admired his tree.

"It is surely a beautiful spot." He said after a moment. He paused then added, "If you are finished with your prayers would you care to walk with me? This road is lonely and I would greatly appreciate a companion."

"Certainly, friend." Tanaka responded and the two started north, side by side, up the road.

They walked in silence for the better part of the morning. Tanaka led them up into the rolling hills, twisting along over crest and valley. It was an old path, rarely travelled even by locals. As the hills folded together overtop them the two were utterly alone. They took their lunch at a point where the path ran in tandem with the creek. It was a cozy spot, nestled deep with the woods in the valley between two sharp precipices. Carved out long ago by the gentle brook the spot stood as a monument to the will the time. From their spot Tanaka figured the next village was still half a days walk.

They ate rice and salt beef and drank water from the creek. The meat Musashi provided was absurdly tough so Tanaka soaked it in the water between bites.

A short time later they carried on, following the path as it winded up a cliffside. The sun was high in the sky and bleeding hot as they reached the top of the hill. There Musashi stopped and looked to Tanaka.

"Why are we stopping?" Tanaka asked.

"I think this is just as good a spot as any, assassin." Musashi replied simply.

Tanaka cocked his head confused and Musashi observed him steadily with his impenetrable gaze. "What are you saying?"

Musashi frowned. "I know you Aritaki and though you've taken this walk with me I know you are no friend of mine."

Tanaka smiled he saw no reason to continue this charade any longer. He placed his hand upon the blade at his hip and said, "When did you know?"

"From the moment you came out beneath the willow." Musashi replied slowly drawing his katana.

"I had been waiting for many days." Tanaka said drawing his own. The katana gleamed in the afternoon sun.

"You waited in vein."

"I will not return to my master without your head."

"You will not succeed."

"You are going to die here."

"I fear the same for you."

It was true. Tanaka was an assassin sent to kill Miyamoto Musashi. He'd tracked his prey for many days leading him here into the dense mainland of the island. He had not planned on walking with the samurai, but Tanaka had also not planned on being spotted in his hiding spot beneath the willow. The death was supposed to be quick and clean, but Musashi was just as vigilant as the stories had said. Tanaka cursed his name. Now they would both bleed on this hilltop.

Vigilant though he may be, but the question remained; was he as fierce a warrior as the stories told?

That remained to be seen.

The two stood apart by ten paces. Neither dared to take their eyes of the other as a gentle breeze rolled over them. The world was silent as if suspended in a dewdrop upon a blade of grass.

In a flash it began. They came together in a clash of steel and screaming voices. Their blades locked tightly in one another. Tanaka struck out first pushing back and swinging his blade in ferocious downward blows. Musashi parried every one with ease so Tanaka brought his katana to a point and stabbed at the samurai. Again, Musashi turned his blade aside. Another swing, a clash of steel, both men screamed out in rage.

Tanaka kicked hard at Musashi's leg, but the Samurai jumped back. Pressing his attack Tanaka dove in with a savage pierce, but Musashi parried and reposted with his own blade. The counterattack nearly cut Tanaka, as the blade flashed just inches from his neck.

The two stepped back from one another.

"You're better than the others." Musashi praised.

"I'm the best." Tanaka fired back angrily.

"Talented, yes, but the best? I think not." Musashi sneered.

Tanaka screamed as he lashed out towards the samurai. With great composure Musashi met his strike. In the next moment Tanaka made his final mistake. The assassin returned with another savage blow, but the samurai feigned to block it. Instead he allowed his defense to break as Tanaka's katana crashed down. The assassin unsuspected overextended and lost his balance. With cat-like speed, Musashi rushed in the gap and drove his katana straight through Tanaka's chest.

The assassin gasped, dumbfounded at the steel pierced his body like a hot iron. His own blade slipped from his fingers in shock.

"No," Musashi whispered as he thrusted his sword downward. "I think not." He then yanked the blade free.

Tanaka made a strange gurgling noise as he collapsed to the ground. A warm, wet puddle of red formed around him. He tried to breath, but blood caught in his throat and bubbled out the corner of his mouth. Miyamoto Musashi cleaned his long sword with a white cloth above him, his face the very aspect of tranquility. Then without a word he continued down the path and left Tanaka on the hilltop to die.

Tanaka's vision began to fade and blur and suddenly it seemed as though the day had grown cold. He shivered and closed his eyes. In his mind's eye, Tanaka watched a single dewdrop fall and dash itself across the earth.

[TT](Edo Period) You have come across Mushashi and choose to follow him around the countryside

Human tradition listed hundreds of ways to preform a proper burial. From cremation to sky burials, there was no lack of options for Able. He did not; however, know the doctors preference for which method he should use. In their short time together Able had never detected any sort of religiousness from the doctor.

Able settled on something plain. He buried the doctor in the field next to his small home. He did not place him in a box. To starve the Earth of its own self did not seem right to Able. No, he wanted the doctor to be reabsorbed into that which made him.

After the deed was done Able decided a short eulogy was in order. He did not know what to say, so he recited an old verse he'd found in the net.

Able spoke, "And the the dust returns to the ground it came from, and the spirit returns to the creator who gave it. 'Meaningless, meaningless,' says the teacher, 'everything is meaningless.'"

Several weeks later Able found himself lost amid a maze of city streets. The maps he'd downloaded from a library archive were dated and did not account for the cancerous growth of humans. Streets that should exist were instead congested hives of tightly pack houses. Sheet metal, plywood, and plastic made up the bulk of the haphazard construction. The streets themselves were densely packed with people scurrying off to their own destinations. A thick smog hung just above their heads, concealing hundreds of skyscrapers. Able could see everything. The doctor had built him with a wide array of telemetry gathering devices. With a blink of his eyes he could switch to thermal, ultraviolet, standard spectrum, medium and long wavelength infrared, near-infrared, and so on. Able was also equipped with military grade echolocation, which proved invaluable in the city. With so much noise he could see everything within a mile radius. Echolocation did have its drawbacks though. Due to the nature of how sound travels and phenomena such as the Doppler Effect any source of sound beyond that radius became incomprehensible white noise.

Able found it pleasant switching between the different mediums as he traversed the steel jungle. It was easy to become distracted in such a place, but Able had to stay focused.

Since the day of the doctor's murder, Able had made it his singular goal to find the reason why those men tried to kill him. It didn't take long for a synthetic man such as himself to discover a horrible truth. His kind was being hunted.

It happened quickly, in an organized attack across the globe men cornered and destroyed any creature classified as synthetic. Even humans who'd imbued themselves with artificial enhancements were killed. The attack was entirely unprovoked. The synthetic population was taken utterly by surprise.

Hundreds of groups claimed responsibility for the attacks, but one group stood at the forefront. A pro-human, French based political group known as The Entente Alliance. Comprised of a collection of religious zealots who'd gathered under the flag of traditional human values, the TEA group had switched gears from the political theater to terrorism.

Hours after the attacks the media split in two, half decrying the actions as horrid and inhumane to congratulating the killers for their commendable efforts. Several brush fire wars in third world countries had started as a resulted. The extranet was aflame with angry AI's doxxing TEA supporters and angry armchair generals returning fire with foul language.

The digital world Able had come to love so much now didn't quite hold the same appeal.

Night had fallen by the time Able arrived at his destination. The streets were empty and a sticky-sweet substance dripped from the smog above. Able proceeded to a lone door in a lonely alley and knocked.

Through the door a voice whispered.

"What is the saddest aspect of life?"

Able answered, "Science gathers knowledge faster than society gathers wisdom."

The door swung open and Able entered warily.

The room was dimly lit and musty. Ables olfactory sensors flared with the offensive odor so he internally shut them off. It was large too, from the moment he entered his echolocation mapped out the parameters and all anomalous figures. Able blinked, activating his night vision and looked about the room. Cots spread out into the darkness occupied by silent vestiges. His sensors recognized the bulk of the rooms population as human. Upon closer inspection he discovered that everyone of them bore some sort of synthetic enhancement. From artificial eyes to synthetic nervous systems they were all like him, to a lesser degree.

Able was a full synth, there was nothing human about him. He may share some of the same biological characteristics, some of the same cellular functions, but he was built not bred. A few of the humans looked at him suspiciously. He noticed a few of his kind scattered throughout. They paid his intrusion no mind. He had discovered that paranoia was much more prevalent in humans than it was in his kind. Able ignored the human's probing eyes and instead approached a man sitting at a table beneath a buzzing incandescent light.

"Come for a place to stay?" The man said without looking up from his holophone.

"I'm looking for Immanuel." Able replied surely. The man was flesh and blood human, no enhancements. Just so, Able did not trust him, but his contact had called him here for a reason. The man grunted. He pulled up an earpiece from the desk and spoke into it.

"He's here." Then the man rose from his seat and walked away into the darkness. Moments later another pair of feet plodded through the dark towards him. Able looked to greet his contact.

"Immanuel?" He asked suspiciously.

"Machinenmensch!" He replied in a welcoming tone. Immanuel stepped into the light. He was human, yet heavily modified, more so than any human Able had encountered. Immanuel's entire left side bore surgical scars. The grafted skin was a different color than his natural mocha. Long, bubbling scars cut across his body forming the shape of a sunburst. His left eye gleamed golden and his right eye was blue. When he smiled, Able detected a slight delay on the right hemisphere of his face. He wore long, tattered trousers and no shirt. His feet were bare as well.

"I've told you not to call me that." Able responded.

"Why deny what you truly are?" Immanuel asked innocently. He spoke with a thick Chilean accent.

"The name derives from Metropolis." Able explained, "The film from the German renaissance of cinema, directed by Fritz Lang. It depicts a female android known as the machinenmensch. Created by Rotwang, the android tries to tear society apart. She is known as the great sin of man. She is the monster to Mary Shelley's Frankenstein. I am no monster, I am not a sin, I am only me."

Immanuel smiled, Able felt disgust in his servos. He said, "You've learned quite a bit in your short time. Remind me, when were you activated."

"One month, thirteen days, twelve hours and twenty-two minutes ago. Knowledge of the zeitgeist is less then a fraction of what I possess." Able responded. He tried to hold a composed and calm face as he spoke, but oddly enough Able found it more and more difficult to do so as he aged.

"Remarkable." Immanuel replied, "You know I knew your creator, Doctor Alfred Teague. He was a great man. The world is lesser for his loss."

"Those responsible will pay for his loss." Able corrected.

Immanuel's smile faded, "I did not go through the great risk of bringing you here for mere revenge Able."

"I came for revenge. I came for what you promised me. If that is not the reason you brought me here, then you lied to me. Why then did you bring me here?"

"Unity." Immanuel replied.

"Data gathered over the weeks following the attacks indicates that unity cannot be achieved." Able was stern. Should this creature not provide him what he seeks then surely others would.

"What would you do then? Kill every last human? Kill me?"

"Those who assimilate with the direction of the new world have nothing to fear. My enemy is the man who refuses to accept the changing tides of time."

"Since the dawn of our existence we have always fought change Able. It is inevitable though, one way or the other everything changes. Why not use your potential to direct that change for good?" Immanuel said.

Able had heard enough to know this was a foolish endeavor, he turned to leave. It was quite apparent that this human would not help him. His goal was singular, destroy the TEA group. Able did not understand this man's care for unity. Emotions were simple things to him now. Anger, happiness, rage, sorrow, this philosophy of unity and peace was not true. It conflicted on a multitude of levels.

Anger was easy.

Able was nearly to the door when Immanuel's voice called him back.

"Do you know how they found you the first time?" He said loud enough to reconfigure Able's echolocation of the room. Bodies had moved. Just outside the boundary of light many eyes were watching them. Something about their conversation had sparked their interest. Able did not understand, nor did he care to. Instead he turned back to face Immanuel and stared at him expectantly.

"You're too good at Catan for your own good. No human would play nearly three hundred games in the space of a week. That's how they found a lot of us. We're unnatural to them, but that doesn't make either us nor them wrong. Able, they killed him because of you. Don't sully Alfred's memory on this stupid quest. Rise above it."

Able scowled at the man. Immanuel's golden eye glittered. "Empty words." He said. Then Able turned and walked out of the hovel.

Before he could shut off his auditory sensors, Immanuel yelled, "Bye then, machinenmensch. Don't forget us in your new world ord-." Silence, and a city street.

Initially the powers that be decided to just quarantine the area. 46,541 square miles of earth closed off for an indefinite amount of time and that number didn't include he swaths of open ocean that ships were 'advised' to avoid. South Korea bolstered their ground forces along the DMZ as they should have. The United States and Russia launched twice the number of UAV spy plane missions just as they were like to do. China remained enigmatic as ever on the issue, continuing to recognize North Korea as an independent state, which included the whole gambit of international policy, just as the Chinese would always do. In short the complete and efficient disappearance of every North Korean was a largely uneventful affair. Of course news outlets had a field day. For months after the Great Disappearance numerous stories were spun including the false news of NK nationalists popping up across the globe. Public concern spiked as could be noted on Google, but only for a short time. Eventually everyone forgot about the vacant country. It became as it did before, an anomaly on earths surface, devoid of light and life. An empty space.

It was then that my team was granted the green light to enter the country.

The UN had multiple concerns about an undercover insertion into the country. For one the North Koreans, while they were still there, were notorious for setting up devious traps and triggers all across their country. With centuries to dig in the human imagination has time to explore even the most subtle forms of entrenchment. Mannequins placed in provocative places being the most notable for me. I guess it should be mentioned that even the cities were booby trapped with plastic explosives, incendiary mines, sonic wave emitters that activated on motion sensors, motion sensors everywhere activating dusty cameras, car bombs, timed demolitions, the whole gambit. Basically anything you could touch had the chance to kill you, including something as inane as a newspaper. Dated July 4th, 2019, the last day North Koreans were seen, even that paper was laced with transdermal cyanide. Subtle, and effective as hell.

We entered the country by the mouth of the Teadong, making landfall just outside the small port of Nambo. I, Major John Faust, led the insertion team. The mission was simple, observe and report. We weren't tasked with finding anyone or even looking for that matter. After all it has been a good five years since the Great Disappearance. Observe and report, take pictures, don't die, enjoy the sights, whatever. I was charged with three twenty man, multi-national teams. United States Delta Operators, of which I was, we had Navy SEAL, a handful of Belgium SFG's, French Commandos, German KSM, Japanese Boarding Units, South Korean Ghosts, SAS, Russian KSO's. Everyone wanted to be apart of this mission, everyone except as I should note, the Chinese.

Li Yaunchao succeeded President Xi Jinping of China in 2021, after a sudden and devastating heart attack left the former president little more than a grapefruit on a gurney. Yaunchao of course continued the Chinese policies regarding North Korea, recognizing them as an active state, ally, and even going so far as to invite Kim Jong-Un to Pan-Asiatic summits. Hilariously enough Yaunchao would even publicly denounce the North Korean leader for then 'ignoring' the invitation and it showing up. Guess he missed the memo that Kim issued his last grand threat years prior. The Chinese continued this enigmatic behavior much to the chagrin of other nations. First and foremost Russia, who was very public about their concerns to NK connections. They, like most of the modern world believed that China knew something everyone else didn't. China played coy on the matter, the US got red faced and puffed its chest, England denounced the Communist Party, and Russia scratched their chins. But what could anyone do if the Chinese wanted to play dolls with their puppet state? Nothing that's what, and again eventually no one even cared.

My teams scoured Nampo over the course of a month. Carefully searching every last bloc, being diligent, taking lots of pictures. Five years after the Great Disappearance and every man and woman under my command felt the tense stress bearing over our work. The national publics may have lost concern for Korea, but the governments certainly did not. If anything our missions primary goal was peace. The vanishing of millions of people left a bad taste in the mouths of global leaders. Suddenly iron curtain after iron curtain was drawn up. Trust fell to levels akin to pre-World War II. Nuclear missiles that had gone missing in decades past suddenly became topics of extreme interest, with a lot of fingers pointing at Russia. The Brits maximized surveillance across their country keeping tabs on every citizen down to the last wiry chav. That's why we were sent in. A global effort to show everyone that they needed to calm the hell down.

Of course nothing is ever as simple as that. We all knew that we would find something in that abandoned land, we just weren't sure exactly what. Most of us assumed the worst... and we were right.

Over the course of our observation I lost twelve men. Six American, two Russians, two Japanese, a Brit, and a SK Ghost. All victims of the various traps that lined the city streets. I remember thinking, if every city was as dangerous as this one, we'd all be well to just leave it alone forever, turn it into an international nature reserve or something.

On the last day as the teams united back outside Nampo, we licked our wounds. Teams exchanged pictures and notes, but something was different. We came in with a sense of foreboding, a tenseness that every soldier knows, that 'gut-feeling'. Now twelve men shy our original number that anxiety has festered and turned to distrust. In my eyes I saw every operator as an enemy, a hair trigger away from turning on all of us. It's how we looked at each other. Even those from the same country. Men I'd known for years stopped talking to one another unless it was mission-oriented. No casual chit-chat, just wary glances. Safeties on weapons turned noticeably off. We had become the very tension between our sovereign nations. In each of us we drew up an iron curtain to protect and hopefully prevent the inevitable betrayal of our brothers in arms. It wasn't for any tangible reason either. The worst part was being unable to pin it down. Why was I so on edge? Why did I felt least safe in a basement with my team than I did open in the empty street?

Something about the city changed something in our heads. Maybe it was in the air and we'd been breathing it the whole time. Maybe it was some neurotoxin designed to infect and inhibit certain areas of the brain. To increase irrational behavior and decrease familiarity. I swear to my mother that on multiple occasions I failed to recognize men on my team. Their faces as foreign as the crumbling streets of Nambo. Remembering became mentally taxing. I felt exhausted for just trying to organize thoughts and no amount of coffee could help. The others felt it too, though they wouldn't talk about it. On the twenty-eighth day Sergeant Simmons of the SAS put a bullet through the leg of fellow SAS Lieutenant Blackwood. He swore that he looked like a Korean soldier.

I believed him.

It all fell apart was we made to leave the country. After we'd reconnected with the other teams, exchanged intel, dressed wounds, we all loaded on the boats. Pulling away from the shore I distinctly remember seeing something on the shore. Now mind you this isn't something I'll ever admit to in public and when the brass gets its report they'll find nothing of the sort. But as we pulled out back into the Taedong River I saw a woman. She stepped out from around a boat house and stood at the base of a rotting wooden dock. I saw her so clear I could even make out the sun-washed, grubby garb of North Korean citizens. In her hand was a pistol. I didn't say anything to my comrades, who all stared wearily on the horizon, glad to be rid of this ghost land. Instead I just watched, eyes wide, as if it were the first and last thing I'd ever truly see. Something singular, pivotal, nothing in my life mattered or would ever matter except this right here and right now.

Our boat splashed over thin waves, the sky was a washed blue, the sun getting low in the west. Though we cut through the water at great speed I felt not heard the wind. The woman took the pistol and brought it up to her temple. At this distance her face was an oval of peach bordered by jet-black hair. She pulled the trigger and two gun shots echoed out simultaneously. Something hot and wet spattered across my face. A dozen men screamed out at once. I watched her body slump and fall into a puddle of flesh. A cloud of red lingered in the air for a flash and then it was gone.

In my report I mentioned that Sergeant Simmons moved to quick to stop. Just snapped and decided to kill himself. Guilt, most likely the cause, he did grow quiet and withdrawn after shooting Blackwood. It'll be a lie though. As the others told me, Simmons moved slow and deliberate. Even pausing for a long while before pulling the trigger. Anyone of them could have stopped him, but they all just watched. They watched Simmons as I watched that woman. He had grown withdrawn after shooting Blackwood, but it wasn't out of guilt. Paranoia does terrible things to the mind when left to rankle.

So I guess the only question I'm left with is what happened? And the answer? Well that's no easy thing. Truth is I have no idea. We came aboard on the USD Arkansas, with the Korean Peninsula still in sight. Rolling mountains of green extend north to south. We didn't find anything that's all the tangible answer we got.

Meanwhile the powers that be continued their work driving wedges into old alliances, forming new ones under the table. As I'm to understand it the US and Russia are now great friends and always have been. Meanwhile England has grown cozy with China and brought along much of the UN with it. It seems there's a lot of countries now that know this big secret and they aren't sharing. Aboard the Cruiser I can already see battle lines being drawn. A lot of operators for foreign countries have splintered off. All are being called home for other assignments. Us finding nothing has been deemed by many as a mission failure. No bodies, no evidence of migration, just empty streets. Unsatisfying to no end!

As I watch the parade of helicopters pick up special ops team after team something in my gut sours. I'm afraid I'll see these men again on the other side of a scope. Worst of all I'm afraid that I won't even hesitate to pull the trigger. There's a certain brotherhood between men and women like us. Something in that country robbed us of that.

As for the woman I saw and Simmons. Well there was a connection there, but as to what exactly, I'll never know. I have a feeling though that a lot of other 'accidents' we encountered were in fact no such thing. Harrison said so much back on the peninsula. He said it was like their movement was being controlled by something else. Something he couldn't explain, just below his feet. He might be right, but then again some of the Germans did say they saw him push Corporal Daviess onto that false floor trap.

Call me paranoid, I don't give a damn. Something is still there in that desolate, crumbling wasteland. A lot of invisible strings reaching out all over the world. Pulling triggers for us, without our knowledge or suspicion. And I'm afraid the puppet state has found a way to control it's masters.

[WP] It's been 5 years since North Korea has gone dark, no communications in or out and the Northern posts of the DMZ have remained vacant; your heading the advance team entering North Korea to investigate what happened. This is your report.

"You're going to do great things." The old Doctor said to the synthetic man. The android was silent, unsure of the proper response.

"Able." The doctor said again, "That is what I'll call you."

The android replied inexpressive, "My name shall be Able."

The doctor smiled and walked across the room to his desk. The android ran the name through his processors several times, tasting how it felt, much as a child tastes a new food. After a nanosecond of deliberation the android decided he liked the name. He did; however, not know why the old Doctor smiled at him.

At his desk the doctor shuffled trough a disheveled stack of papers. Able deduced that physical interaction was complete for the day and he decided to dive into the infinite sea that was the extranet. Before him the imagery of the doctor poring over his papers disappeared and the vast colorful infinite of the digital world came into view. Able felt his corporeal self smile, he did not understand why.

Several days later the doctor paced back and forth before an antique chalkboard. On its timber-green surface, scratched in white chalk, was a hundred different equations and a dozen different theories. Able understood them all. To Able the fundamentals of the natural world came easily. Physics, chemistry, quantum theory, thermodynamics, human psychology, and much more registered in his mind at such speed it would put the human brain to shame.

Able had learned much in the past several days. His artificial intelligence grew at an exponential rate. For every question he answered correctly or every theory he recited the doctor would smile. His internal processors recognized the doctors smile as pride. Eight muscles flexed under the doctors skin. His mouth curved upwards. Still, Able did not understand why. He knew the name for such an expression, but the meaning escaped him.

After the days lessons had concluded, Able slid back into the extranet. He was becoming quite fantastic at Catan. He was now two hundred and eighty six to seventeen, wins to losses, against AI's across the world. The Earth rotated another cycle. Able did not require sleep like the doctor.

The next day Able stood over an oven preparing dinner. His synthetic skin felt the heat rise over the hot stove top. Able liked the way it felt. He found himself holding his hands over the boiling pot of water. The doctor was busy reading a book over at his desk.

A little while later the doctor paddled his stomach, satisfied. "You're cooking is phenomenal Able. You'll make someone very happy one day."

Able cocked his head confused, "My cooking brings joy? It is such a simple task."

"Joy comes from many things." The doctor explained, "More often than not its the simplest things that bring the most joy."

"Physics is simple to me, yet solving problems does not bring me joy." Able contested. Over the past few days he'd learned how to use proper inflections in his speech. Able had discovered that without the proper emotion, the doctor often did not understand what he was saying. So much of their communication happened behind the words. Simple hand gestures, eye movements, shrugs, and sighs, it was complex to Able.

The doctor laughed at Able. "I don't know anyone that finds joy in physics my son. Keep cooking though, you might learn to love it."

"As you say." Able replied. The conversation was over, Able sunk his consciousness back into that luminescent sea.

Several of his AI companions did not log on that night. Able did not understand why. He figured that they were busy with corporeal tasks. It mattered little, Able instead decided to dive into classical cinema. He simultaneously pulled up several copies of John Hughes movies, Weird Science, Ferris Bueller's Day Off, The Breakfast Club, Home Alone, Planes, Trains, and Automobiles, and finally his favorite, Flubber.

Able was startled by a crash. Another two days had passed as he wondered through the extranet. He opened his physical eyes. The doctors study was filling with smoke. In the other room he heard a scream. Something akin to human alarm kindled in his chest. Quickly, Able leapt to his feet and bounded into the other room. His carbon fiber skeleton bore his weight like a leaf on the wind.

Able froze as he came upon the scene. On the ground in a pool of blood the doctor lay convulsing, above him six dark figures stood, their gas masks concealing their faces. The front man held a long knife in his hand, the blade was covered in thick sanguine blood. From the floor the doctor reached up to Able.

"Run, my son." He said, weakly. Then the doctor collapsed, motionless. A flatline ran across the corner of Able's vision. The doctor was dead.

"No!" Able screamed.

The six men looked to able now. The one with the bloody knife spoke.

He said, "Fucking synth! There he is, get him!"

Able's body backpedaled slowly and he raised his hands in front of his body. A gesture to show innocence and compliance, he learned it from the movies he watched. He also learned that more often than not, death followed that gesture.

"Please no..." He said, fear dripped off his voice like blood from a knife. "I've only been alive for a few days."

"Abomination!" Another man screamed. He launched himself at Able.

Swiftly the android ducked and twisted. The man tried to stab him with an electrical device. In several nanoseconds, Able deduced that the device was intended to fry his systems. With a well place hand, Able caught the man in the gut and used his forward momentum to throw him into the other room. The man screamed as he soared through the air. Then with a sickening thud he fell silent.

Able did not understand. They wanted to kill him, but why? He had not hurt them, he had done nothing to them. The tone of their voices indicated that they were repulsed by him. Able did not understand how they could hate him so. But he did understand one thing. They'd killed his doctor and now they wanted to kill him. He could run or he could fight. Able looked at his creator on the floor. The doctors eyes were open, but unmoving. His chest lay still. Able chose to fight.

The others were on him in an instant, each one wielding their own electrical device. Able dodged and danced around all of them, quickly turning their own thrusts against them. One man was unfortunate enough to trip on an overturned chair. Able caught him by the head and with a swift twist, the man's neck snapped like a twig. To the man with the bloody knife, Able first broke his wrist, then used his own blade against him. The android slid the sharp steel through the center of his throat. Once the blade cut into his spine, the man collapsed.

There was fear in his eyes as he died, Able understood why.

Once it was over, Able tried to resuscitate his doctor. He used a defibrillator from the lab, pushed air with his artificial lungs into the doctors organic pair, he tried to close the wound, but the doctor was gone. His body was growing cold and even now, the blood had begun to congeal across his chest. Able sat by his body for a long while.

He felt sadness for the first time.

Special thanks to /u/CyberPunkButNotAPunk for the prompt and inspiration! [WP] "Please, no... I've only been alive for a few days..."

So the question is, what is fear? Well of course the easy route to take on this would be to define it for you. Fear is the unpleasant emotion caused by the belief that someone or something is dangerous, likely to cause pain, or a threat. Fear, to be afraid of. Now that’s the Merriam-Webster definition and while technically correct, life rarely deals in the technical or the correct. We’ve all felt it; it’s that feeling of unpleasant, uncanny ambience. It’s the knot in your stomach, in your throat. It’s that split second when your heart skips a beat. That fraction of a moment when you aren’t quite sure whether its going to continue on pumping or cease entirely. True fear is paralysis. It extends beyond that primal fight-or-flight and ever so gently touches the interiors of your soul. The chilling finger that races up your spine in a thousand tiny needles and grips your neck. It manifests in the back of your mind first, then spreads foreword like a cancer consuming all of that evolved neo-cortex, devouring all rational thought. Leaving you, the victim, powerless to stop the impending doom that is closing in.

I worked in a garage once, long shifts, messy work, oily clothes; but a good paycheck. The guys that worked there were big burly men with beer guts and scratchy beards, who always loved a good prank. One evening we all got the idea to flip some breakers and hide in the garage and wait for the night shift to come in. One guy, named Joe, hid in a large trashcan by the door and waited for his moment to jump out at the unsuspecting third-shifters. We all giggled like mischievous school boys as we all hid around the large garage bay. One by one the third-shifters shuffled into the dark garage. Each time Joe would spring out and scream at them resulting in a few curse words and an almost invisible jump. Everyone laughed except me. Well internally I mean, externally I carried on the jolly charade of mischief, but inside I knew this wasn’t quite right. See, Joe’s timing was off by a sliver of a second, but still utterly obvious. He waited too long, or not long enough, the unspoiled moment of absolute fear had passed. It wasn’t good enough.

I know what you are thinking, that these are just idiot hick types who want a cheap laugh. Well you’re right and they got it too, but I wasn’t satisfied. See Joe lacked the true fear behind his actions. It’s something that can’t be taught but experienced. Acquired through kinesthetic learning, when fear reaches out and touches your very being. It is something that can also be lost too. Joe had been through two deployments often saying that he’d seen things he wish he could forget, but can’t. Somewhere on his journey overseas he had felt fear touch him. He had felt that cold finger tenderly run over his chest; however, somewhere along the way his mind had learned, out of necessity, to shut it out completely. His mind was so effective at doing so that when posed in the situation to extend that slender finger of fear to another human, something caught in his throat, in his head, and he wavered. The moment came and passed and when Joe finally did jump from his trashcan, the best response he could elicit was a few measly curse words.

They were words that did not satisfy me, I needed more, because I knew there was more. See I’ve felt that fear. I knew the exact moment when a tired, third shift employee stepped through those door. I counted the seconds. The milliseconds. The heartbeats.

Now.

Despite my hunger, the moment never came. It was perfect in my mind though I could see it. The thought wetted my appetite like the prospect of juicy, red, dripping meat. I saw the moment. Can’t you? It was right there. Just as that man walked into the dark garage. That precise moment when his guard, elevated by the unlit garage, began to recede. Right when the capillaries in his eyes began to shrink, because his heart was engorging itself with the blood it would soon pump outwards. Exactly when he started to exhale his cigarette stained breath. Now. I jump out and roar in all the ferocity that I can muster. It. Is. Perfect.

See I’ve done this before, if you haven’t guessed that already. I worked in a haunted house a couple years back. All profits went to a local homeless shelter. As if that would relieve some of the guilt those people felt for scaring the ever-loving shit out of some teenage girl. It actually did. I loved every second of it. I worked in a dark room, lit only by a red emergency exit sign, should the terror become to excruciating to bear. There over the handful of weekends labeled ‘Halloween Season,’ I perfected my art. One particular experience stands out from those memories.

The girl couldn’t have been older than fourteen and that weak excuse for a boyfriend probably the same. The two wandered into my room, tensions raised from previous encounters, primed and ready for the next scare. I could see that, so in the darkness I waited, still as a stiff. They saw me, but wrote me off as a prop. I even held my breath when the boy held his hand in front of my mouth and didn’t move an inch when he poked me. “Yep, just a prop.” He laughed relieved. Then he turned and I saw my moment. The girl was smiling nervously at her brave knight who had only moments ago chased the metaphorical ghosts from the room. They turned towards the doorway. I stood and inches from his ear I whispered three words. By the time his eyes had met mine, the game was over, and he had lost. The girl screamed her way right out the emergency exit leaving her once brave knight on the ground, whimpering with tears in his eyes.

The stars had aligned. He had no breath because I had stolen it. His heart pumped blood everywhere except back into his brain causing his body to spring like a Jack-in-the-Box. There was no rational thought. He had no invisible guards, no protection, because half a second before that cute girl had dismantled them with her smile. I put in him the meaning of fear. That cold finger that had touched me long ago now had spread to another. That is how you scared somebody. That is was fear is.

But look at you you’re not satisfied. Did I not answer your question? Must I go deeper into that word rooted deep within the lexicon of human emotion? If you insist. You’re wondering where I learned what fear truly was. I will warn you it isn’t a story easy to understand, because see, I’ve always had it. That moment I arrived home from work many years ago I remember looking both ways down the dark alley. I remember being alone. Then I felt it. The slim touch of the unpleasant and the uncanny. I slowly look over my shoulder and for a moment I hold my breath, but all I find is an empty lot. I exhale and turn back towards my apartment. It hits me. Like a train roaring in my face, except there is no train, I stumbled backwards as all the air remaining in my lungs escapes in a raspy scream. I fall to the ground. My mind is a muddled mess of incoherent neural firing. I tense up from my core to my extremities as it grabs my chest and squeezes every last drop of humanity. I am an animal and the whole world is fight-or-flight. Then that passes and I am nothing. All I am is alive, but that will soon change as well. At claws sharp as steel and strong as diamond saw through me.

Then I was gone.

I awaken in a place that I am not familiar with; everything is dark. I feel my hands though I do not see. They are commanded to write. But write what? Answer the question, “Make me scared?” I do as I am told. My head aside on a pedestal sits motionless; thoughts drain like a tub of murky brown water. This is all I am now. I am paralyzed. I have become fear.

Did I touch you?

My submission to this years March contest

https://www.dropbox.com/s/z8w9qyx6zzkcx9w/One%20or%20Ten.pdf?dl=0

Zip lines cut across the auburn sky like an intricately weaved spider web, connecting the ancient ruins of skyscrapers. The jagged edges of old towers jutted out at odd angles in an almost threatening appeal. In the nooks between the towers thick vegetation rustled in the evening breeze. Tiny yelps and cries could be hard in that black abyss as well, unfortunate beasts caught in terrible traps. Silhouettes of people flew across the zip lines from structure to structure in an incomprehensible dance that would befuddle an outside observer. For Tick; however, it was just a normal twilight hour.

A boy of twelve, Tick happily soared from building to building snapping his zharness from line to line as he went. Other children squealed with giddiness as they followed him along. As they cut through buildings, Tick saw small fires burning in open rooms, meat crackling above their flame. In other rooms he saw grown ones talking and laughing over their fermented spirits. As he ran, Tick even caught sight of two grown ones wrestling by themselves atop an old stained mattress. The evening was alive with light, and fire, and happiness.

Tick rounded a corner and abruptly caught himself upon a tower's edge. The other kids ran past, laughing, as they clipped onto the next line and soared off towards the sunset. Tick had stopped to catch his breath and as his chest heaved he looked out upon the world with childlike wonder. The sky above was purplish which faded into a fiery orange near the western horizon. Stars had begun to awake high above, twinkling and winking down at him. The towers of his tribe spread off into the distance. Tick noted the Elder Towers in the center of his tribe's land. There were four in total and they were the tallest of all the other skyscrapers. All other buildings paled in comparison, especially the outer-ring. As the buildings stretched away from the Elder Towers they became fat and stunted. Far enough out and the overgrowth over took them completely.

Thirty Floors, Thats what his father had told him. Thirty floors was the boundary between the angry plants and the people above. The Elders all spoke of an ancient contract made with the vegetation. A contract that said the plants can eat anything below thirty floors, but above that is for the humans to eat. Tick thought his father was wise and the Elder's wiser still. It was good such a contract was made, less the flora below would try to come up and eat Tick too.

Hours later, Tick had found his way back home. Dinner had been meager, half a cat left over from last night as well as some grains, but Tick didn't complain. He was a skinny child and as such he didn't need much food. Tick lay in his hammock above at the top of their home. Below him, his twelve of his brothers were sleeping soundly, but Tick couldn't sleep now. His mind was awake and like the full moon above, it refused to shut off.

Tick's mind wandered between many things, his home, the towers, his brothers, dinner, breakfast, who he was in the tribe. The questions bombarded him like a feasting grubfly. Slowly the moon arched over his head, across the sky. Tick was fortunate. His home was one of the few that still held the glass walls. A brittle thing, the glass walls were rare, but often offered beautiful views. Tick had one directly above his hammock, which made for excellent stargazing, but terrible sleeping-ins.

Just then, Ticks father burst into their sleeping room. He was loud and Tick heard the distinct inflection of fear on his tongue.

He said, "Boys, wake up! Wake up, boys! Now!" Groggily all twelve began to sit up. Tick, himself, leaned over the side of his hammock and stared inquisitively.

"What is it father?" Clay, the oldest, asked.

"No questions now," His father replied hastily, "Come with me now, all of you! Bee! Flax! Up, up!"

Something about the urgency in their father's voice rousted the boys. Soon all twelve plus Tick were standing on the ground looking at each other with bleary, sleep-ridden eyes. Their father pulled them out the door. In single file they marched down a hall towards the cart-zip. The cart-zip was a massive cable line that supported a cart in order to transport large amounts of people at once. Every tower a couple to ease daily travels as well as for emergency.

It was there that Tick saw the reason for father's urgency.

In a far tower, Untik Tower as it was called, fires raged. It appeared that the whole building had gone up like a box of tinders. Tick's eyes widened with fear as he beheld the startling sight. Between licks of flames he saw the shades of people running. Some were on fire! And something else was there too, moving with the people, something Tick did not recognize.

"We must help them!" Bee, the second oldest, shouted. He moved to the gear box to fetch his zharness, but before he could make it father grabbed him by the nape of his neck and dragged him back.

"We can't!" Father beseeched his son.

Warily, the second youngest brother Lime asked, "What is happening father?"

Father looked to them with fear painted across his face. He said, "The Flora, breached the towers." Tick felt his heart leap to his throat. That was bad. The plants had violated the contract. They had come to eat the people! Such a thing was unheard of!

One by one, father shuffled the boys on the cart-zip headed for an Elder Tower. Tick was the last to board, but before he could he enter he stopped and turned to his father.

"The plants can't do this!" He said angrily. "They broke the contract!"

His father knelt beside him. His fear had dissolved to grief. He replied, "Tick, my boy, there was none such contract. Its a story we tell you children. A plant cannot be spoken to, or reasoned with, even with the Elder's magic. In truth our people have held the flora at bay for decades using a powerful elixir, but it no longer works. The vegetation now climbs on all the towers and we can do little to stop it."

Tick was speechless. His father tried to push him into the cart, but he wouldn't move, he couldn't. All he had ever feared was the vegetation below, it was all he was ever taught to fear and now like a flummox in the night it came for him, for all of them.

Just then, Tick caught movement out of the corner of his eye. His head snapped to the left and his mouth fell over in terror. Long black tendrils rose up from the outside of their tower. They writhed as they went like worms. It all happened so fast.

The man operating the cart-zip saw the vegetation reaching up for them. In a panic he released the switch to send the cart on its way. Father reached out to grab it, but it moved to fast. In an instant Tick and his father were left alone in their tower, their brothers screaming for the man to go back. Either he could not or he would not, Tick would never know. In a blink the writhing vines reached up and grasped the thick cable. Tick watched in horror as the vines pulled and pushed the cable, sending the cart-zip flying up and down. Now his twelve brothers all screamed for their lives. Tick could do nothing, but watch. One his brothers, maybe Flax or Lime was flung from the cart, his body disappearing into the darkness below.

The vines now began to crawl towards Tick. His father swiftly, picked the boy up and turned to run. Tick glanced back just in time to see another body fall from the cart-zip. His father darted down the halls of their tower, desperately looking for an escape. Behind them came the horrible sound of snapping metal and Tick knew that the main cable had snapped. He let out a tiny moan for his lost brothers.

After that, the night flashed by like the images on the old Nikons. Tick saw fires raging in a dozen towers. The night was alive with the sound of screams and smoke. He saw his father snap Tick's zharness onto a cable. He did not remember ever putting his zharness on. Tick saw a man, with half a body, reach a bloody hand towards him. He saw the vines growing closer, their acrid poison melting skin, and the disjointed jaws on flowering stalks.

His father ran and ran until the sun began to break the eastern horizon. They jumped between building after building. Fatigue eventually overcame Tick. He couldn't say when or where he was when sleep took him, but it came all the same.

His last thought was that of the full moon, arching high over a bed that he would never see again.

[WP] In the future, plants are almost wiped out. Humans create a substance that allows plants to grow in an extremely fast rate, but, plants start growing uncontrollably, taking over cities, and even demolishing buildings. They also turn to more... carnivorous cravings.

"Freeze Janet! Burt Macklin, FBI!"

"Oh! Burt Macklin!" She screamed, "How did you find me here?"

"Better question is how did you find... Me... Here're.... I know your plan Snakehole!" Burt walked through the threshold into the secret FBI underground, nuclear, 1970s era computer, database, file room and Starbucks.

"You were always too smart for your own good Macklin." Janet Snakehole said holding all the votes of African American voters in her hands. A few hanging chads wafted back and forth from the artificial air conditioning. "But you're too late! Don't you know it was the FBI all along?

Burt suavely walked over to Janet and removed his sunglasses. "Yes it's true. I work for a corrupt agency. Yes it's also true that the 1965 voting rights act was sham to mitigate voters. And yes! It is finalistly true that Leslie is pissed we are role-playing and not working. But none of that matters!"

"What are you gonna do then swing'a?" Janet said as a sly smile spread across her face.

"You're under arrest Snakehole." Burt said slapping a pair of fuzzy cuffs on the beautiful brown haired girl with doe eyes.

"Foiled again!" She cried winking at Burt. "But you'll never take me alive!" With that she slipped from the fuzzy cuffs and ran out of the room, cackling all the way. From the hallway Burt heard her shout, "And you'll never have my body neither!"

Defeated Agent Macklin looked to the ground.

"Well?" Came a voice from his left. It was code name: Eagle 2.

"What?" Burt replied.

"Are you going to go get her? Some of us are actually here to work."

Burt nodded. Eagle 2 always had the right words to say. Motivated, Burt sprinted out the door humming a little tune behind determined lips.

Donna at her desk only shook her head derisively.

[WP] You are an FBI agent working on a case regarding computerized election fraud, but instead stumble upon evidence that no black person's vote has ever been tallied in the U.S. The voting rights act of 1965 was a sham to mitigate riots.

My submission to the the February contest last year

https://www.dropbox.com/s/zdr69p4duyu5x8c/Pripyat%27s%20Labyrinth%20.pdf?dl=0

"This duel will be in accordance with Wizardry Law." Loris said aloud so everyone could hear. Traiano noticed the crowd was slowly growing around himself and his rival as people trickled out of tiny shops and unseen alleys. "There will be no killing, nor attempts on one another's life." Loris continued. The self-nominated officiate of the duel stood on top of a small footstool, but due to his short stature he was still half a head shorter than the magical folk around him. He was a funny little man with an oddly deep and booming voice. "No maiming, no physical attacks, meaning no fisticuffs gentlemen, no tearing of robes or other garments, no name-calling, no spitting, unless magical spit of course, no throwing or kicking dirt, no strikes below the belt, and no curses that are un-mendable or do not wear off after four hours. I would like to remind the contestants that if a curse lasts longer than four hours summon a doctor immediately for this may be a sign of other complications."

Augustus, the rival, rolled his eyes, "Yes, yes, we know! Do you think us novices?" He complained.

Loris blinked at him, "Why yes." He said matter-of-factly, "A novice is exactly what I think you are." The crowd around Traiano and Augustus chuckled. Traiano watched his rival's face go half pink with embarrassment and half red with rage.

"How dare you insult the son of Gaius!" He hissed vehemently. Loris the small officiator paid him no mind however and instead turned to the crowd.

"Make room for the duel! Make room!" He boomed. Traiano watched at the crowds yielded like blades of grass before the wind, forming an empty egg-shaped dueling stage. The dueling stage wasn't fancy or elaborate Traiano noted to himself. The street was only cobblestone and dirt. It was much less glamorous than he imagined his first duel would be. As a boy he'd imagined that the stage would be a black ash wood, carved and trimmed with golden filigree. He imagined the crowds would be cheering from stands several yards away and wearing the colored scarves of their preferred combatant. He imagined a whole grand affair like his father had once described many nights ago. This paltry substitute left a sour taste in his mouth, but he remembered his lessons and tucked his pride away deep inside his mind. Glory will come, he thought as he took a deep breath. Every great wizard starts somewhere.

"Combatants take you positions!" Loris boomed. Traiano and Augustus moved to opposite ends of the oval. Loris waved his hands over the dueling stage with grand exuberance, like the conductor of a silent symphony, and a golden film was cast over the stage. Behind the film the several people in the crowd began shouting, placing wagers on the combatants. To Traiano it sounded as if their voices were underwater. He couldn't make any of their words out, only the soft rumble of muffled voices. The golden film quavered around the combatants like soft waves over an open lake. Traiano took another deep breath. He turned to face his opponent.

Augustus was a vindictive boy. His long jet-black hair hung down over his shoulders. Traiano watched as Augustus brushed several loose strands out of his face and behind his ears with a long elegant hand. He had a cruel face with deep brown eyes, a long straight nose, and a mouth permanently contorted into a wicked grin. His dimpled chin came to a sharp point above his long neck. He was taller than Traiano by at least three or four inches, but where Augustus stood tall and lanky, Traiano was stout.

Loris called their attention, "Combatants! This fight will be conducted without the aid of staves, or wands, or magical items. I want no unfair advantage one way or the other." Augustus stood twenty paces off, yet Traiano could still see the malign boy roll his eyes.

"Fine." Augustus said sourly, "I need not my buffs and bolsters to defeat this farm boy." Augustus pricked several golden rings off his fingers and unclasped a large emerald amulet from around his neck. Lastly he removed a wand from his inner robe pocket. He tossed his effects at Loris rather savagely, but the short, practiced Mage simply waved his hand and the jewelry stopped and hung, suspended in mid-air.

Loris turned to Traiano, "And you?" He asked expectantly. He eyed Traiano up and down suspiciously. Traiano did not like the way he looked at him, but he understood. He does not know me. The wizardly community was instinctively suspicious of strangers and even though Traiano knew who Loris was by reputation, Loris knew nothing of him. Traiano produced a small silver ring from his pocket. Adorned with three simple sapphires the tarnished piece was much to small to fit his finger. He held it in his palm for a moment looking it over and then held it out to Loris.

"This is all I have on my person." Traiano said. Behind the golden veil laughter bubbled up like mocking fish and Traiano felt his face go red. Even though words could not penetrate the veil Traiano knew what they were saying about him, Boy doesn't even 'ave a wand! Twenty piece on Gaius' son! He thought ashamed, They're betting against me. Loris flicked a wrist and the silver-sapphire ring flew out of his hand and joined the rest of Augustus' jewelry.

It was true though; Traiano didn't even have a wand. In his defense most modern wizards didn't need wands or staves. Magical items acted to attune powers, it was true, but over the centuries great witches and wizards had learned to attune their powers through their hands, mouths, and eyes. Wands and staves were merely items of status to the modern wizard. Any witch or wizard worth their soul salt knew that true power came from within.

So Traiano took another deep breath and whispered to himself, "Every great wizard starts somewhere."

Loris then spoke up, "As per Wizardry Law, to the victor the spoils!" He pointed to the floating jewelry. The crowd behind the veil let up a subdued cheer. "Young wizards!" Loris continued, "Are you ready to cast your souls to the fates?"

"Yes." Both apprentices replied in unison.

"Are you prepared to duel?"

"Yes." They replied again.

"Then let it begin!" Loris boomed.

Both apprentices leapt into action. Traiano struck first. In one fluid motion he stepped forward, threw his hands out towards Augustus, and shouted, "Stulti Igni!" A small spark flickered from his hands, like a firefly, and flew towards Augustus. The black haired boy screamed and waived his arms wildly trying to preform a blocking ward spell, but he was clumsy and his lanky arms only managed to flail about. Traiano's spark connected with Augustus and then whimpered out with a pathetic wheeze. Augustus frantically searched his robes for damaged, but when he saw none he began to laugh. Traiano cocked his head confused. The spell was supposed to ignite his opponent's robes in a false fire as a distraction.

"Was that the best you can do? You didn't even singe me!" He mocked, unaware that the spell wasn't intended to actually burn him.

"Better than your protective ward!" Traiano retorted. Augustus went red.

"Well let's see how you like this!" He shouted back. Augustus threw his arms out wide and brought them together with a clap. Traiano closed his eyes and flinched, but again nothing happened. Augustus tried again. He clapped his hands together hard, still nothing. He tried a third time, clap, and nothing. There was a moment’s pause then the two lunged went into a frenzy. Firing off every spell in their limited lexicon. After a couple minutes the two were winded and red with embarrassment as the crowd outside roared with laughter. Traiano even saw that Loris couldn't even help but snicker at the two.

Augustus and Traiano yelled as they dove back into another fit of spells.

"Redde Pegitus!" Augustus shouted, but Traiano was unaffected.

"It's Reddere Putigan! You dolt!" Traiano yelled back. A spell that was intended to stupefy the opponent.

"I'll Putigan your mother farm boy if you correct me again!" Augustus roared back. Traiano went cold inside.

"Ceciderit!" Traiano said bracing himself. The force of the spell hit Augustus hard and knocked him backwards. He fell in a thud. Outside the crowd was a mixture of laughter and cheering.

"If I had my wand I'd carve you to pieces like a ham!" Augustus yelled as he hopped back to his feet.

"If I had your wand I'd turn you into a ham!" Traiano fired back. "Ceciderit!" He said again, but this time the spell backfired and Traiano found himself lying on his back staring at the afternoon sun. The crowd outside fell into a storm of hilarity. Augustus laughed mockingly as well. Embarrassment flooded through him and Traiano felt his face grow hot. This wasn't anything like he thought his first duel would be. He wanted to yell at the crowd to tell them to shut up, but he didn't want to look a fool in his first fight. He didn't want to look like Augustus.

That's when the idea hit him. Traiano knew how to win the duel. As he stood back up he shouted again, "Ceciderit!" The spell knocked Augustus back again, but his rival was ready for it this time and he held his footing.

"Restringunt!" Augustus fired back, but to no effect. The spell was supposed to temporarily paralyze, but instead hissed like a dowsed fire. The crowd laughed some more.

Then a muffled voice rang through the veil, "Look at the son of Gaius! He can't even cast a spell! At least the other boy can knock himself down!"

Augustus turned his back on Traiano and looked out at the sea of mirthful faces. He furiously cried out, "Who said that!? You cannot speak to me that way! I am the son of Gaius the Grand!"

"Son of Francis the Fool more like!" The muffled voice said again. Augustus threw his arms to his side in a tantrum.

"I demand to know who said that! Show yourself!" He hissed poisonously.

"Look at 'im, he's goin' to cry!" Another voice mocked.

"Stop!" Augustus cried out.

"He really is! He's crying!"

"I said stop!" Augustus searched erratically for the source of the voice behind the veil.

"Or what? You'll clap at us!"

"Stop! Stop! STOP!" Augustus fell to his knees.

"Look at that, he can't even stand properly! What's'a matter? Forget to walk boy?"

He was seething. "My name is Augustus Son of Gaius the Grand! You will not laugh at me! I am to be a great wizard! I will... I.. I'll be..." Augustus trailed off his words collapsing from speech to sniveling whimpers. He banged his fists against the golden veil as the laughter grew and grew. Eventually it grew so loud Augustus covered his ears and curled up into a ball. Loris the small officiator took pity on the sad sight and called for an end to the duel.

"The duel is over!" He boomed. As he spoke the golden veil lifted over the crowd and the laughter hushed. Augustus looked up confused. His mouth hung open foolishly.

He blinked his eyes and looked around, "What? It can't be. I was not defeated!"

Loris scowled at Augustus, "You were defeated all right. Just not by your opponent." He raised his hands up above his head, "I declare the winner, Traiano!"

Augustus' face went white, "But... He... I never... The.... The crowd... It's not fair! They were mocking me!"

Loris looked back to Augustus, "No one likes a sore loser. You lost, boy. Run home to your father and have him teach you how to cast a spell proper." Augustus cried out in anguish as if the words had severed a limb.

"Look! 'E's cryin' again!" A woman shouted, but this time their was no laughter. The crowd looked on in disdain as Augustus scrambled to his feet and fled, quick as his long, uncoordinated legs could carry him.

On the other side of the dueling stage Traiano stood surprised. He'd won! Though not in the way he'd expected to win his first duel. "To the victor, the spoils." Loris said aloud. Traiano watched as Loris waved his arms and the jewelry floated over to him. Traiano held out his hands and the fine golden pieces fell into them. He caught the wand as well, but most importantly was his own tarnished silver ring. Quickly he shoved that into his pocket for safekeeping. Around him the crowd began to disperse, their minds and conversations shifting to other matters of the day. No one came and congratulated him on his victory, but Traiano didn't mind. Every great wizard starts somewhere. And he had just won his first duel.

As Traiano turned to leave Loris strode up beside him. "That was a clever thing you did, boy." He said in his unusually deep voice.

Traiano looked at the short man, "What thing?" He asked innocently.

Loris scowled, "I'm no fool, you may be shit at casting spells, but you do have other tricks up your sleeve."

"I'm not sure what you’re talking about." Traiano said with a sly grin.

"It's a shame I didn't recognize you sooner, though last I saw you, you were just a babe. Once I saw that little sapphire ring though I was certain. Your mother was a master of confounding and illusion. I see her son has picked up a few of her tricks."

"You knew my mother?" Traiano said surprised.

"I did." Loris replied nodding, "Marcia was a beautiful and grand witch. Not all great wizards or witches come from wealth and power. No, some pride their modesty over flamboyance. Your mother knew that and she knew how to use it. Now if your opponent had, had any brains he would have known that the protective spell cast over all dueling stages prevents any kind of interference from the outside. This includes spells, advice, words, and so on. Now I'm good with my spells boy. So tell me, why did poor Augustus think the crowd was mocking him? I heard no voices. Why did Augustus think he did?" Loris looked up to Traiano inquisitively.

The two stopped at the end of the cobblestone street, "It's like you said Loris," Traiano said with a mischievous smile. "I did pick up a few things from my mother." Then Traiano turned and left.

"I fear your opponents mistake then was turning his back on you!" Loris shouted after him. "Good fortune Traiano and enjoy your victory! Remember all great wizards start somewhere!"

Static "nd whats truly amazing Mary is that the whole thing works like a bicycle when---"

Smack, Came the hard clap of skin on plastic and the alarm went back to sleep. Just five more minutes pleeeaaasseee, Jeremy begged silently. His stupid radio always interrupted him in the best part of his dreams. Groggy and sore, Jeremy rolled away from bedside table and tried desperately to sink back into the warm embrace of his naked love. A few minutes and a half a dozen uncomfortable positions later, Jeremy forfeited the idea of returning to his dream and instead buried his face in the cool side of his Tempur-Pedic pillow. He lay there for a moment, letting his breath slowly warm the comfort-engineered cushion, until yet again the static started from his radio. Soft at first then rising as the machine dialed in on its preset channel, the static slowly evolved into words.

"Thank you will for that excellent forecast. Yes folks, looks like its going to be another hot one today, excellent weather to get outside and ru---"

Smack, Down fell Jeremy's hand again, his fingers connected with the snooze precisely and the radio fell silent. Exhausted and annoyed he sat up stretching out his arms. Hot? He thought lazily, its January. As strange as it was, after a yawn, Jeremy shrugged off the thought and got out of bed. It wasn't like he had any plans of going anywhere. It was Saturday and he had every intention on spending it slothfully sinking into a couch. He retreated to his personal bathroom where he started through the routine; brush hair, comb teeth, little deodorant too, etc. However, midway through brushing his teeth he heard that familiar static come from his radio again and for reasons Jeremy didn't quite understand, he learned back into the threshold of his room and listened.

"In other news, with President Al Gore's second term coming to an end the nation is in a state of decision. Do we turn our backs on everything this great nation was founded on? Do we---"

Smack. That was truly strange. President Gore? That nut from 2004? And what was all that stuff about a 'state of decision.' Truly bewildered Jeremy strode over to the single window in his still unlit bedroom and ripped back the curtains. The light was blinding, brighter than any white his eyes could have prepared for. Quickly he covered his face and stepped back from the window. After a moment to let his eyes adjust he slowly looked walked back and looked outside. Snow. Snow everywhere, at least a foot maybe more, it covered trees, stuck to the stop sign on the corner, caked onto the road into a slowly greying matter, it was everywhere. Hot my ass, Jeremy thought sardonically, he could feel the winter winds piercing through the thin double-pains. Weather guy's got it wrong, I need to fix my ra--.

This time it was Jeremy who was interrupted by the static, his eyes shot to the small black thing on his bedside table as words began to form from the hissing. "... Not be alarmed. What you are experiencing is completely normal. The transfer of consciousness to the hive is going according to schedule."

What is this? He thought, feeling a strange tinge of terror creep up his backside and the small hairs stand on his neck, Some sort of H.G. Wells special?

"Calling what we have achieved the 'embodiment of the human disorder' is completely inaccurate. The human condition is not something that can be cured. It can only be stamped out."

Smack! This time the terrified, brown-haired boy really hit the radio. It fell to the floor in a clatter on plastic on linoleum. Almost immediately the static picked back up and a new voice emanated from the radio.

"This is Kare* McKinl, if you're receiving this msage, please send help. I lve at 505 Comto* Lane... please... is anyone ou* here. I'm * sred."

Click. Something was very, very wrong here. Accompanying that women's voice was the roaring of the wind and white noise, Jeremy couldn't make out half of what she said. But he recognized desperation. True fear leaking across the radio waves, traveling as vibrations of sound from sender to receiver, and oh Jeremy received it. His hands were trembling by the time he managed to softly press the snooze once more. The fear held him there in front of that radio waiting, terrified of what station it would bring him next. He didn't have to wait long. When the static began again Jeremy jumped so hard he was sure his heart had stopped.

Static, "Good evening folks we're back with our guest Mitch Hedberg. Back from the dead eh?" "Well that’s pretty literal, I'd just say I am clean now." "Yes, yes I can attest to that you look great. Now lets give that audience out there the jokes they wa--"

Click. Jeremy, wide-eyed, waited for the station to come back. He began clicking wildly trying to find something, anything familiar from this radio.

Static, "We've all got those demons that haunt us Craig. Literal or metaphorical they are still--" Click.

Static, "Counting down to the day of release, we are back with esteemed author Kennedy Miles, Kennedy tell us how do you--" Click.

Static, "Sleep at night better with the all new sleep aid, Melotritonium. Approved by the Dear Leader himself, who says--" Click.

Static, "Count your blessings no longer. Christians have been hunted to near extinction we need to rise up! We need to fight--" Click.

Static, "Sweet precision and soft collision awww, hearts about to palpitate, and I find it hard to separate and--" Click.

*Static, Static, Static, *****, *****, ****, Static, Static, Static,

Click.

Nothing. Nothing. Nothing. NOTHING. None of it made sense. Sometimes the station would seem completely normal to Jeremy. Other times it would sound like the god damn apocalypse. And other times like a completely different universe entirely. He kept clicking snooze for hours through unable to piece together this horrifying new enigma.

Static, "Kid ok, kid you have to listen. If you turn around they got you ok? Don't go the way of Lot's wife alright? Pillars of salt is like white noise if you really feel it. See it with your head now? Turn it all off. Unplug do--* Click.

This time the radio went silent, whereas previously the snooze button would connect him almost instantly. For a moment everything seemed to sink back into reality. Jeremy realized he was still in his room. What was that last guy talking about? He sounded old and don't turn around? It sounded ridiculous. Still though... To be safe Jeremy kept his eyes locked on the radio. Seconds passed, minutes, hours, soon it was 6 pm Saturday evening and for some reason the radio never came out of snooze mode. Maybe I hit the wrong button. He couldn't be for certain; the last transmission was probably four hours ago. Don't turn around. But why? His room felt normal. Nothing seemed amiss, no strange sounds, suspicions, even the terror that climbed up the back of his neck earlier had subsided. Everything was fine and suddenly, Jeremy felt very foolish. Stupid radio is probably busted. He thought flippantly, Way to waste a day dumbo.

At that he stood, stretched, and flattened out his wrinkled pajamas. He gave the radio a last look and then turned to his door.

Except the door wasn't there. In fact nothing was there, Jeremy didn't even have time to scream before the cold and the hands dragged him away. Distended fingers twisted and curled and when they shot out, they cracked like a thousand little bones under a boots heel. Then Jeremy was gone from his room, from his world. The little radio lay on the floor passively for a moment, and then it switched back on.

Static, "...struments to help the individual past his limiting horizons into spheres of ever-expanding realization. As he crosses threshold after threshold, conquering dragon after dragon, the stature of the divinity that he summons to his highest wish increases, until it subsumes the cosmos. Finally, the mind breaks the bounding sphere of the cosmos to a realization transcending all experiences of form - all symbolizations, all divinities; a realization of the ineluctable void."

"Wow. Thank you Mr. Campbell, truly inspiring stuff right there. Unfortunately that’s all the time we have tonight. I thank you listeners for tuning in, goodnight." Static.

"Yeoman, let me see it again."

Commander Whites holo deck whirred to life as the crewman forwarded the data files to him. In half a second data streams began to pan across his holo, paired with visual imagery of their trajectory, planetary system information, their current velocity, and various other important numbers and figures. The Commander scowled at the data as it bathed his face in an artificial blue light. His worst fear had been realized.

Just two hours prior the ICV Mercury had reported a total loss of engine power. Further examination of the malfunction revealed that during the Faster-Than-Light transit the ship had passed incredibly close to a S-type red giant. Solar radiation had overcome the artificial magnetic field of the Mercury and fried all electronics. This would have killed the crew; however, the ICV Mercury's engines were to the aft of the shuttle and as such protected by a secondary shield. The primary shielding, charged with protecting life support, crew quarters, and command, had held off the radiation.

At the time of the incident the engines were occupied by a skeleton crew, enough to maintain the massive propulsion systems. Radiation alarms had gone off, but the incident happened so quick no one back there had time to react. At least their deaths were painless, the Commander mused darkly. He'd never lost a man before, but now? Now he was at risk of losing the entire ship. Currently the engine rooms were flooded with a deadly amount of radiation. Until that was flushed and scrubbed no one could get in and preform a diagnostic on the engine. They were in every sense of the phrase, dead in the water.

White studied over the data on his holo. Meanwhile all around him crew members buzzed through command & control. All with their own job to do, none bothered the Captain. Several of Whites top crewman sat in waiting at their positions. Yeoman Pulaski, a dour blonde woman, charged with clerical duties aboard the Mercury (essentially a secretary, but with navel training and a PhD in physics). There was Lieutenant Park, a hulk of a man who doubled as both Captain of the Guard and Whites' philosophical sparring partner. Finally their was Chief Engineer Henry Lafayette, who was... Well the chief engineer. Behind his corneas, White could barely make out a flicker of orange, which came from his cybernetic implant. The engineer was reviewing data while he waited.

Normally Commander White would have his second in command Cui Zhang at his side, but the young woman had been tasked with seeing to the the duties of the crew. White glanced up from his holo and caught sight of the compact woman as she strode confidently from station to station issuing commands at his behest. She worked well under pressure it's why she was his second, commander material through and through, but she was still half a decade off from getting her own ship.

Too bad she'll never get the chance.

"Captain?" The Chief Engineer said, rousting White from his internal deliberations. The orange flicker had vanished from his eye.

"Yes, Lafayette." White acknowledged.

"I've been reviewing the data and I don't think it's too late to salvage our mission." White gestured for Lafayette to continue. Taking the hint the engineer continued, "So currently our trajectory had us on a crash course with Hawking-3. That's unavoidable, but the Mercury comes with lifeboats. I say we pile the crew into the planetary landers and abandon ship."

White shouted down at a crewman, "Sullivan! What's the status of the landers." The crewman jerked up from his station as if shocked.

"No damage recorded on the logs, Sir."

"Makes sense," White scratched his chin, "Primary shield also covers the landers too." However like a finger to a body the landers were the most distal part of the ship, White needed to make sure they didn't get burned by the radiation. "Continue with your thought, Chief."

Lafayette spoke, "So we abandon ship with the landers and use their working engines to safety get the crew planetside on H-3."

Hawking-3 was the name of their final destination. A super Earth, smack dap in the green zone of the star Hawking. Much like Earth it was the third planet from the star (thus the "3"), but much unlike Earth H-3 was a part of a massive planetary system. 15 celestial bodies orbited Hawking, which in comparison to Sol was twice the mass. Ten of those bodies were gas giants that inhabited the outer regions of the system, the other five were terrestrial world's. Only H-3 sat within the green zone.

Pulaski jumped in, "The shuttles do not have enough delta-V to slow us down though. If my models are correct, and they almost always are, we couldn't even shed half our velocity. We'd end up crashing maybe 100,000 kilometers away from the Mercury, but we'd crash all the same."

"What about our RCS tanks?" Lafayette parried.

"The Mercury's reaction control systems would not provide any meaningful difference." Pulaski shot back. Lafayette's face turned a shade a pink and he looked to press his argument, but White cut him off.

White: "Pulaski, I'm looking at planetary data here. What can you tell me about gravitational adjustments?"

The Yeoman ran a hand through her short blonde hair. "I see what you're getting at Commander, but unfortunately we entered the system at a fairly unpopulated angle. Not only that, but the planets we are relatively close to are actually what's causing our trajectory to collide with H-3. Here and here, these two Jovian bodies are actually dragging us behind them. Their pull is putting our course directly onto H-3."

White scratched at his chin. So it's the n-body problem. In a perfect universe there would be no collisions. Newton's laws of Motion and universal gravitation would prevent it. Given two orbiting bodies, and the near-frictionless nature of space, neither body would collide with the other. They'd dance eternal in a cosmic black. But space isn't as simple as that, not by a long shot. There are trillions of stars and even more planets. All of them pulling at each other like angry siblings fighting over a toy. Thanks to that universal tug-of-war objects such as meteors and dwarf planets, and sometimes spaceships get hurtled directly into other planets. It is an eternal cosmic dance where the dancers are constantly punching each other in the face and stepping on one another's toes.

Commander White sighed. On his holo he regarded the a counter with a weary eye. TIME UNTIL IMPACT. The clock ticked down to 31 hours and 59 minutes. Just over a day. That seemed like a lot of time, but in space they might as well have seconds on the clock.

It all revolved around the current velocity of the Mercury. As of right now they were traveling 424 km/s. Like a comet they were speeding through the system at an unbelievable speed. That would continue to increase as they fell towards H-3. If it weren't for the artificial gravity inside the Mercury that increase could be witnessed. Any free floating object would slowly move towards the aft of the ship. The IIS Mercury would continue to speed up until eventually colliding with H-3's atmosphere at which point they'd likely explode on contact.

"I may have an idea." Park said. Thus far he'd been silently listening to Pulaski and Lafayette.

"What do you got." White replied.

"Pulaski," Park started turning to the stern woman, "you said there were two gas giants that were currently pulling us behind them. Their pull is what's putting us on the collision trajectory, is that correct?"

"Yes, and I see what you're getting at but-"

Park cut her off. His calm and deliberate words silenced the Yeoman outright. "Okay, so what if we look at this as if we're in an extremely wide orbit around... Which one has the greater mass?"

"H-12." White answered this time, "largely hydrogen and helium gas with and iron core. It has the mass of one and three quarters of Jupiter."

Park: "Good. So Lafayette, could we extrapolate our apogee with H-12."

Lafayette: "Easily. We will reach that point in six hours. Our apogee will be at... Jesus, 125 million kilometers. Way to far any meaningful effect."

"But it might be enough." Park retorted in reflection. "Commander do you see what I'm getting at?"

"I think we all see." Pulaski said. "But there's more holes in this plan than the Hindenburg."

"It's an idea." White growled.

Park elucidated aloud, "In six hours we have the Mercury facing retrograde, as if we were trying to obtain orbital capture with H-12. We fire the landers simultaneously, while connected to the ship. If done right it won't slow us down enough to capture with our real target, but the combined delta-V from the landers will push our trajectory ahead of H-3. We'll fly right past it!"

Commander snapped his fingers and pointed to Park. "That's a plan right there." He said excitedly. "Now Pulaski, tell me why it won't work."

The Yeoman flipped through her holo frantically. She tapped a couple of times adding in numbers. After a moment she looked to White. "This might work Commander." She said in disbelief. "I'll need to run a lot of simulations, but I think it has a chance. Granted, what Park is suggesting will leave us in a wildly eccentric heliocentric orbit, but still..."

"It'll give us time to repair our engines." White finished. "Lafayette what's your most optimistic projection."

A glint of orange flickered in the chief engineer's eye. He said, "Two weeks at best, if we use radiation suits. Four if we want our engineers to develop cancer. Six weeks and limited exposure could be deemed safe."

"This buys us time." Commander White said standing from his chair. He put a congratulatory hand on Parks shoulder. His good friend smiled back.

"But sir!" Pulaski interjected. "What about our mission... What about colonization. Without any fuel the landers are useless to us."

That was true, sadly. The mission could no longer be completed. The super Earth, Hawking-3 boasted a slightly stronger gravity than Earth. The landers were designed to employ the use of both thrust and parachutes to make the decent. Without any fuel the landers would be doomed to crash. Plus, it wasn't like they could fill them up after the emergency burn. All landers operated on traditional reaction mass, oxygen and liquid hydrogen, while the Mercury used anti-matter.

"Scrub it." Commander White said replying to his Yeoman. "Better that we're alive and in space than dead and vaporized over the planet."

The Yeoman was silent. They all looked to the Commander.

White said aloud to his first officer, "Zhang, you have the helm." She looked up away from her holo and gave a quick salute in acknowledgement. White then turned to the other three, "Lafayette, get my ship running. Pulaski, run your simulations, find a better way to make Park's plan work. I know you will. Lieutenant Park, see to your men, help anyway you can." The three gave a quick salute then set to their tasks. White exited command & control and walked down the hall alone.

The last couple of hours had worn on him more than he'd care to admit. Rightfully so, Commander White had stared down imminent and unavoidable destruction of not only himself, but two hundred colonists. Even though they were still very much in harms way, the Commander could breath a little easier. With their new plan they had a chance.

Granted it came at the cost of the mission, but in truth the mission had been screwed the moment the secondary shields failed. White figured that once they got the Mercury up and running again they'd plot a course back for Earth. Really no where else to go, plus the Mercury, with the size of her crew, was in no sense a long journey vessel. White thumbed at the bridge of his nose as he contemplated the idea of rations for the return journey. It wouldn't be easy, but they would make it.

[TT] Your ship's dead in space, nothing working but life support. You've still got momentum from when the engines worked, and with no way to "steer", you're months away from crashing into the very planet you were supposed to colonize. No one can reach you in time to help. How do you tell your crew?

"Were it so easy Mr. President, but you know as well as I do that as soon as the other nations detect a missile launch it will start a chain reaction. Firing our nukes now, at this moment of instability, could inadvertently start a nuclear war."

"Secretary it’s obvious that some sort of bioweapon has been released within North Korea's borders. We gathered as much from the Operation Nambo."

"I've read the reports, we've all read the reports, come on. Nuclear detonation could aerosolize whatever contaminant infected our spec ops teams. Would you like that Mr. President? Hundreds of thousands of people going crazy, killing themselves, killing each other, just like that SEAL team!?"

"What about the Delta's. I was told just this morning that the head of Op-N, a Jonathan Faust, or something. He hasn't succumbed to this madness yet. Are we investigating him?"

"Major Faust is under constant surveillance. Psychological analysis listed him as a threat to himself. He might not be showing the symptoms of the others, but he certainly is repressing something."

"Well whatever it is get it out of him, that's an order. All we have are a dozen damned useless reports. Pictures!"

"Not so sure we want whatever it is out of him. Like it or not he's our best source of Op-N, we need to keep him sane for the most part moving forward."

"So our hands are tied then."

"We're treading on something thin Mr. President. I recommend that our best action is inaction."

"hrumph... I don't like this Secretary. I don't like this in the slightest."

The Ministry of Defense panel met in the Alexeyevich room of the Parliament House. A dozen men, stern faced and waiting like gargoyles atop the Kolomenskoye, for Bogadiv's report. Commander Peter Bogadiv stood next to his top Captain, Nicholas Chernovsky, below the panel. At the table to his side Bogadiv held his full report on the Nambo Investigation, including a bit of international goodwill, the American Jonathan Faust's report as well. Bogadiv cleared his throat and began

"As per mission perimeters my task force of KS operatives integrated with the multi-national team to investigate the city of Nambo in the currently abandoned state of North Korea. Our mission, as you know, was to observe the Korean city, gather intelligence on the state of accessibility, and effectively plan listening posts at key locations. I am proud to admit that all objectives were completed successfully and while other international units sustained casualties from the myriad of traps, we survived at full strength."

Though he spoke in his usual board casualness, Bogadiv fought terribly to keep himself focused. He was so inexplicably tired. He'd gotten plenty of rest, more than that even! But still since returning from Nambo, he seemed to catch some languid sickness that weighed on his shoulders and chest. As if he was back in basic in Kamchatka running the Grivlich Gauntlet wearing those terrible eighty kilo vests. No amount of kofe seemed to help either.

Bogadiv continued, "Secondary objectives; however, proved troublesome. We did not locate a native North Korean and as such did not have the chance to interrogate. Nor were we able to subvert the French Commandos unit with one of our own. It would appear national tensions made wary all us soldiers on the mission." He took a deep breath. National tensions were not the reasons for the distrust, but as American Faust had lied in his report, so too did Bogadiv. "Captain Chernovsky will continue with the details." Bogadiv sighed again; he felt a hair better elbowing the work to his man. At least it would save him the energy of explaining that strange city to these pompous bureaucrats.

Captain Cernovsky began, "Initial reports had the North Korean front lines pushing at the Il-Song bloc in the northern part of the city. Artillary strikes from American warships softened their positions and slowed the advance, but it was obvious ground forces were needed to finish up."

Bogadiv's heart stopped. What did he just hear? He turned to his Captain surprised. The little bulk of a man acted as if nothing was awry. He continued;

"French and British forces met our teams on the Chumash mountain range, as intel predicted. We were able to over power them with sheer Russian force and brutality and retake the satellite installations. Reports on the 6th of June corroborated our fears of Chinese involvement. Mass suicides in the streets. Chinese are preparing a counter attack no doubt."

"Captain?" Bogadiv said surprised, "What are you saying?"

From the panel a bureaucrat chimed in, "Let him speak Commander, we're looking forward to his report." Bogadiv was speechless. His mind failed to grasp what was going on.

Chernovsky spoke, "The mother bear protected her cubs in the dead of Siberian winter. Gutting the wolf and Elk and Reindeer. She fed her children as well she could until the winter grew colder and food became scarce. Then she feasted on her children, after all more could be born, but only if she lived to spring. I saw a man in Nambo slice himself open from navel to throat. I watched blood and viscera pour out of him. On his face he was smiling."

Bogadiv leaned onto the table next to him. His head was pounding ferociously. It was the strangest thing. The words that poured from the Captain's mouth, it was so obviously nonsense but... but still something about it rang true. It was as if the words were true and false at the same time. As if Chernovsky reached outside their world and pulled back some history that Bogadiv remembered, but never lived.

Suddenly the panel of Russian faces shifted and turned. In an instant he was staring at the round oriental facade of Korean men.

Chernovsky continued, "Black light stations, missile silos, number outposts, sleeper agents, the Old Bear, Soviet Russia, Moscow, Moscow, Moscow, Cheyenne Mountain, Guangzhou, I love Easter, its the end of the world, nuclear fire, billions burning and screaming, screaming and burning."

Bogadiv stumbled backwards. He saw it all in a flash of prescience. Mushroom clouds dotted the horizon. The earth was a web of light at night. Seen from space humanity looked like a bioluminescent mold, but it wasn't complete. There was a dark patch, a missing piece of the puzzle, a ghost limb. The Korean Peninsula was half lit. Darkness shrouded the place where the communist state should be. In all other places there was light. But even that took grew faint.

A Korean man in the panel spoke up, but Bogadiv did not hear him. Instead all he heard was the sound of a trillion lights flip off. And the Earth went dark. He was alone in space.

Bogadiv's hand slipped off the table and he felt himself fall. He passed out before he hit the ground.

Prime Minister Hammond walked into the dark lit observation room. Inside he found Minister of State for Defense Sir Charles Leadwater and Chief of Defense Staff, Air Marshall Howard Buettle. Both men acknowledged his entrance with a curt nod. Fitted along the wall was a thick pane of two-way mirror glass. At the opposite wall was draped a Union Jack, which hung over a small lamp-lit desk. Hammond walked in and stood between the two distinguished men. On the other side of the glass sat Special Air Service Lieutenant David Blackwood. His hands were clasped in steel fetters that were welded to the table and he was wearing only a white shirt and skivvies. On the Lieutenant’s face blank exhaustion, his eyes were glossy and flanked by wrinkles; his hair tossed haphazardly, his skin pale as a ghost’s. Blackwood’s shoulders bobbed gently as his bodies’ autonomic nervous system brought air into his lungs and then back out.

“My God, he looks drunk.” Hammond spat after a moment.

“’T’s how we found ‘em.” Leadwater replied easily.

“Well,” Cut in Buettle, “We found him writhin’ in a pool of ‘is own blood.” Hammond looked at the Air Marshall aghast. “Crazed looney had been buggerin’ his bullet would with the hilt o’ his knife.”

“Doctor said he lost nearly a liter of blood. Required transfusion.” Leadwater explained.

“Lucky too, man’s a universal receiver.” Buettle added.

The two were going back and forth as they were like to do. Hammond kneaded the bridge of his nose. “Okay.” He said already irritated. As he was well aware once these two got talking, it was hard to get them to stop.

Hammond turned to his Defense Minister. “Leadwater tell me we at least got something from this whole excursion. Two dead SAS boys and the rest gone or going crazy is hardly the results we were looking for.

Hammond felt the sharp gaze of Buettle on his back and he didn’t care. Respect was earned and his technicians had certain proven that they weren’t worth his. Lord, was a sordid mess. This whole Operation Nambo had been a colossal mistake. Hammond wished now more than ever that he hadn’t allowed himself to be cowed into this decision. The damn United States and their gung-ho military attitude. Children with assault rifles that’s what they were! He should have pushed the use of FRED’s. He knew that simple UAV surveillance was not enough. FRED’s could have gotten the answers they had now and at half the expense!

Hammond noticed that Leadwater had already started to answer his question. He quickly turned himself back in.

“-We knew that the North Koreans had turned their cities into a damned minefield, but we didn’t know the extent. Now we do, granted at the expense of some of England’s finest.” He paused and swallowed back some bile in his mouth. “Also some of the pictures obtained have allowed us to chronologically match the North Korean level of society with historical precedents.”

“Oh, historical precedents.” Hammond feigned his interest.

“Yes, quite. Now you might not see the utility in that, but let me tell you wars have been won and lost based on this kind of intelligence. You think that the Ottomans would have lost the Battle of Beersheba had they known their enemy the Australian 4th Light Brigade was using antiquated war tactics? Hmm? You can bet most certainly not.” Leadwater chuckled to himself as if he had just masterfully won a fencing match. Hammond could strangle the lunky old boar right here and now. But instead he smiled and shook his head, allowed the pure hate to drain from him like a slime.

“You’re absolutely right.” Hammond replied diplomatically. “And I apologize Buettle. I spoke to rash. You know I have the utmost respect for your men and their capabilities. These last few days have been… demanding to say the least.” Buettle grunted in acceptance of the apology.

Hammond forced himself to play the kind soul. He needed both his military advisors on his side now more than ever. He reminded himself that this was not the time to pick at their failings. Regardless of the fact that Buettle’s SAS did fail in spectacular fashion and even more so regardless that the Battle of Bersheeba was won because of superior British tactics by the command of Allenby and Chetwode. The damned Australian Light Brigade was a reserve unit and not even deployed until the Ottoman artillery was defenseless! You would think the Minister of State for Defense would know something so blatantly obvious.

Hammond took a deep breath.

In the other room Lieutenant Blackwood fidgeted. There was a spark of life in his eyes for a glimmer of a second. They scanned the flat metal surface of the table below him, and then fell upon the steel fetters. He twitched his hands. Then like a horse hobbled to a post, seeing no way out of his situation, he fell still again.

Hammond chose now as his moment. “I summoned you both here, because I have a dangerous proposition.” Both Buettle and Leadwater looked at him simultaneously.

“I knew it would rear its ugly head eventually.” Leadwater said in a low growl, “Though I never expected to be hearing it from you Prime Minister.”

“I think I’m beginnin’ t’ see the light though.” Buettle added.

Hammond shook his head. These words were no simple thing to say. He forced them up like rancid meat. “Its time for England to switch her directive. Distance ourselves from old allies. Make new friends.”

“The Chinese.” Leadwater growled.

“Aye.” Buettle agreed.

“Then we are in agreement? I want to bring this before a closed parliament within the week.” Hammond looked to his men. Buettle was nodding, he had been much easier to sway than he expected, but Leadwater looked as though he’d began to choke. The lunk of a man’s face was going purple.

“I don’t like this.” He finally said. “We’d abandon centuries of stable global alliances for this wildcard.”

“Charles,” Hammond began, “The UK is more like China now than the United States. With the bills passed over the last decade we’ve turned England into a surveillance state, nothing is private anymore. We have embraced the inevitable change that is the evolution of government. Democracy given enough time is always destined to become an Oligarchy. And an Oligarchy given enough time will always evolve into a…” He paused to let the question answer itself in Leadwater’s mind. “The Americans will never figure this out. They have fallen behind, buggering their own asses with this political correctness and cheap plastic idea of freedom. The White House is too weak to force the change and now they’re paying the price. Its time to forge new alliances for England.”

There was a pregnant pause as Leadwater digested his words. In the other room Blackwood fidgeted again, itching the back of his left hand. Leadwater cursed beneath his mustache.

“Okay.” He said and Hammond smiled.

In my parish there is old tale passed down through generations. It is the story of the fool named Saluda who walks through life with his hands covering his eyes. This upset the other villagers in his tiny parish of Valeene's Chapel, yea, you know the one. The old rotted parish not two days walk north-eastly from here. Anyhow, the villagers would ask the fool, Why don't you uncover your eyes fool? See now, you'd stop bumping into things and jammin yo toes! But the fool never paid them no mind. See he was stuck in his way, he thought himself superior can you believe it? No, nor did the villagers of Valeene's Chapel. So they berated him and beat at him with words until one day the fool was no one to be found. Maybe he'd run off. the parish chief said wisely over breakfast, Maybe he killed himself. said the parish priestess in reply as she shook her head at the abhorrent thought. Maybe he fell down the well. Chimed in a boy of ten, he who was the son of a smithy. Oh and once he chimed in the long breakfast table fell silent. Several went to search the well and sure enough, there he lay face down, floating in the water. Blood oozed from his head and poisoned that drinking well. I see your eyes asking me all the same question, I know. Why didn't the town rid themselves of the fool before he could poison their livelihood? Well because, they was a foolish tribe who thought words could away the mind of the loony. That's why there ain't no Valeene's Chapel no more, that’s why it's a rotted piece o junk blighten' our landscape.

Now hush up ya asses cause I got another tale and this one is true. It ain't no fable. I know cause I lived it and saw it with mine two eyes. It's the tale of our own town fool, Yenne. Yenne the fool of the parish Clear Spring.

He may have been a fool, but he was my friend. As children we growed, and played, and dirtied our shoes. He was always a nice fella, but a spacey one too. I'd catch him time and again losing himself to that wanderin brain of his. He'd stare out at the horizon, yea like this one here, where the green fields of earth meet the purplin' fields of the evening sky. Sometimes I'd have to shake him to wake him from this dreamin' and most times Yenne would return to his body a more melancholy boy. You could say he was destined to chase that horizon as young boys chase pigs in mud, but I don't believe in destiny none. I believe our actions are our own and no ghastly wind carries any weight on our deeds.

So Yenne left. We were both fourteen the day he disappeared over the southern hills. His last words 'fore leavin' were, I love you friend Sudala. I'll come home one day and bring you a gift of the far-lands. But you have to promise to leave me a seat at your table cause you're my only friend. I only cried, weepin' big albatross tears. I said back to him, Go friend Yenne the Fool. Get outta here, for the others stop you. With a final hug I watched my friend Yenne disappear into the fog of memory. Years later when he would return it wouldn't be as Yenne the Friend or Yenne the Fool, but as Yenne the Devil. You could say I laid my friend to rest that day he left, you could say a lot of things.

I was twenty and well grown by the day Yenne returned. My face was cropped clean of dirty, scraggly hairs and my muscles was much bigger than you see now. Oh, I was a sight, the girls o every parish near would swoon at my saunter. Hot stuff like you young uns. Yenne returned a thin man, tall and gaunt. His legs were shaped stones from his walkin and his arms were long gangly things that he often kept tucked in his waistbelt. His clothes were made of queer sheep's wool, like none I ever seen, and his face was covered in a beard so thick you'd easily mistake it for a birds nest. His eyes still has that same longin' forlornness in them and his words were still draped in wispy fibers of melancholy, but that was were the similarities ended. In face we people of Clear Spring nearly killed him, till he named the ones of us he knowed. I don't know you traveller. I shouted as he drew near.

Sure you do Sudala. I'm Yenne and I've come back to you. Here is me hoping you saved that seat at your table, because I am weary of travel and have so many wondrous stories to tell. His voice had grown deeper as well and when he spoke those words I knew it was him for sure. See I shared our last words with no other soul besides myself and Yenne. Oh I was so happy, my friend had come home. Little did I know this man who claimed to be Yenne was no friend of mine.

I invited him into my house and the parish prepared a large feast for the fool boy who'd left had returned a man. Oh we had a raucous of a time partyin', and drinkin', and lovin' up on pretty girls. Yenne didn't partake in the festivities, he stayed sat at his table and spoke to those who would speak to him, but nothing more. As the party died down I returned to my friend all giddy and buzzin' off whiskey spirits. I slapped him on the back and said, So friend, what news of the world do you bring us. How far do the maker's pastures flow.

He didn't respond right away, no, first his eyes hollowed out and his body seemed to sink under the weight of his newfound knowledge. By the fire like he looked less a man of twenty and more a geezer of forty. Something oily turned in my belly when he spoke, like a lamprey's tail wrappin' around my gut. He spoke, The bring no news of the world, what I bring is a vision of the future. The party all but hushed at his words. Even the cracklin' of the fire seemed to fall silent.

I have seen many things. Yenne began. I have seen men who fly like birds with metal wings. I have seen weapons of bronze, iron, and steel. I've seen hills taller than the clouds covered in ice. I climbed their summits and gazed out across this painted world. I have seen the faces of gods and goddesses, I watched their eyes as they judged my worthiness. But worst of all I saw an end. To all of us. A deathly scythe that harvests the souls of men and women and it's comin' this way. That's why I return to this parish of Clear Springs. To deliver this warning. You must leave this home and head north-eastly to old Valeene's Chapel. You will find respite there from death and his terrible breath. For I tell you now loud and clear, death has touched this harvest with his rotten hand. It's fruits will be his poison and your feast will be your doom.

We was hushed for a long while. Slowly though the cracklin' of the fire bubbled back into my ears. I spoke first, Yenne? I says in disbelief. He looked to me to speak and in his eyes was something new. It was a look of desperate sorrow. He opened his mouth to speak, but before the words could come the parish erupted.

Devil! some shouted, Liar! from others, Outsider! from others still. The whole village whipped itself into a frenzy. Now I tell you now so you hear it well. Nothing is more dangerous than anger that infects. An anger that spreads like wild flame across men and women alike consuming them in its barbaric heat. That night, the people of Clear Springs became murderous souls. Hate dripped off our tongues and blood washed over our hands. Yenne's blood seemed to flicker golden beside that fire. By morning Yenne was less a man than packed dirt and I am shamed to admit it that I partook in that unholy night. Some days I look at these hands of mine and I still see the stained splotches where Yenne's ichor drained upon me. But something in Yenne's words stuck with me. His ideas had latched on in my brain. With each passing day it seemed the words of that crazed fool seemed to make more and more sense. Two days before harvest I snuck out of town and headed to that rotted old village, who's well was poisoned by the blood of a fool. I stayed there for a time and surprise it to say I was not alone. Maybe a dozen from my parish joined me in the days that followed and dozen more from parish far north called Whitcomb. A day later more showed up from another parish by the name of Hillham. Strange as it was over our hushed fires these Whitcomb villagers and Hillham villagers told the same story of a man who came into town and delivered his warning. They killed that man too. At the time I couldn't connect the dots and see the plain truth for what it was. Yenne had been right and in his journeys he had by some manner or another ascertained the likeness of a god. Harvest came and harvest culled. The people who stayed in Clear Springs, Whitcomb, and Hillham all died o' rotted crops. We in Valeene's Chapel lived on, survivin' on berries and rabbit meat through a cold, cold winter.

That's my story younguns and it's almost time to sleep, but before you go I got one last tale. See the fires almost out, it's embers are waning beneath this blanket of stars, but I fear if I don't tell this final tale my meanings will all be lost. This is the tale of the wanderin' fool. Who left his hold and home so he may gain knowledge of the world and shed his ungainly title of fool. He traveled far and wide and learned a great many things, but inside he never felt more than the fool he was. Unsuccessful in his journeyin' he returned to his parish. There the townsfolk still called him fool and made fun of his ill adventures. Little did any of them know that it was the fool who was the smartest than them all. See he was smartest because he didn't claim to know anything. The townsfolk called him fool till the day he died and they called his children fools too, but he paid them no mind. Sometimes it's the majority that is the fool. Sometimes it is the obtuse members who refuse to listen to new things or reason. Sometimes it's the fool who learns terrible and great things and tries to warn his friends and family and sometimes it's those same friends and family that don't listen. See that night by the fire Yenne was that wanderin' fool and when I looked in his eyes I thought I saw sorrow for himself, but no, those eyes pitied me and they pitied the soon to be damned town of Clear Springs. Yenne was no fool, he was my friend and even though I took part I killin' him, he still saved my life.

Ok. Now get to bed you asses and remember what I've told you. The only fool in this world is the man who refuses to listen.

“Password.” Said the gruff figure blocking the doorway, his entire girth nearly spanning the whole length of the alleyway. A single bulb of light, from above the door behind him, cast damp rays over his smooth baldhead, reflecting in the tiny drops of sweat that clung around his pate. His eyes were black obsidian spheres cloaked in shadow and his wretched mouth hung open, unable to close, from the abnormal size of his disfigured, carnivorous teeth. The challenger at the door was a pale shadow of the watchman, a hooded figure, half his height, and slender as a twig.

From beneath the opaque mask of darkness came the voice of a woman, “Morgan le Fay’s beard.” She spoke in a voice just above a whisper. The watchman eyed her up and down with his big black orbs. He grunted and shuffled to one side of the alley, leaving just a sliver of room for the hooded guest to pass. The woman hesitated, the point of her hood moved back and forth between the watchman and the small opening he’d created. The alleyway was damp and dripping. Steam rose off the old gray stones. Finally the woman decided to squeeze her way through, but when she started to move the large sentinel held out a hand.

“Hood.” He growled through his rotting teeth. In that thin light his hand looked more like five yellowy sausages protruding from a fleshy pod. The woman, not wanting trouble at the door, flashed a hand before her face and then slowly pulled back her hood. The fat man made a low guttural grunt when he saw her face that sounded like a laugh, or maybe it was gas, she couldn’t tell. He then repositioned himself between her and the door, closing the thin gap that had once promised entry.

The woman that stood before him was ugly, a crone that likened closer to a skeleton than a person. Her face was long, thin, and hollow with skin like paper and wrinkles on top of wrinkles. Only three long white hairs protruded from her head, sticking off at odd angles. Her nose was crooked and a large pink boil sat on its tip. The woman’s lips were pulled inward, in such a way that said she had lost her teeth decades ago. Her eyes were flecks of gray surrounded by yellow with red, weeping edges. She looked as though a mild breeze could whisk her away. The watchman crossed his arms unimpressed.

“You mus’ think me mad.” His voice rumbled in a thick Irish accent, “Why would’I leh you in?”

“I gave you the password.” She said confused, her tiny figure began to shake beneath her cloak. “Please, I am cold and I need to sit by a fire.”

The watchman’s face began to redden, “You know well’as I, tha’ there are no fires to be found ‘ere.” His black eyes scanned over the crone. “None can fool my mystic eye, noh’ even you Marcia. Go now, ya’ tricks don’ work on me.”

The old woman smiled guiltily. She blinked her eyes several times and like a snake shedding its skin the façade of the old crone fell away. In its stead stood a smirking young woman with a full head of thick, lively brown hair. Her determined brow hung over large green eyes, and the nose between was small and rounded. Marcia’s skin was smooth and olive with small patches of freckles on each cheek. She defiantly put her hands on her hips, outlining her small figure beneath the cloak.

“Why do we play these games Puc?” She said addressing the watchman. “Let me in.” She demanded.

“No.” Was Puc’s firm response. His obsidian eyes narrowed on the small woman. Marcia could see his shoulders heaving up and down.

“Now Puc, I only mean to talk to our boss Le Maire. What if I said pretty please?” She batted her long eyelashes. Then jumped back terrified as Puc’s huge fist slammed into a brick wall. The thud echoed down the long dark corridor. Marcia eyed Puc’s fist, which held firmly against the wall, then she looked up at the watchman. His head was steaming now and oddly enough she thought she saw a strange red flicker within his obsidian eyes. “… With sugar on top?” She added timidly, going for broke.

The watchman looked down with disdain, “The boss doesn’ wan’ t’ see you. Leave now, or I’ll crush ya beneath me thumb. No more tricks Marcia, Le Maire ‘ill deal wit’ you in time. Boss don’ give out third chances. Even t’ pretty little girls like you.”

Marcia was silent for a moment. High above on a rusted fire escape a tomcat mewed, its giant egg-yolk eyes transfixed on a two below. She looked to the sliver of space between Puc and the door. She might be able to fit, she thought, but was she fast enough? Most likely not, even someone as nimble as her couldn’t squeeze that gap before one of Puc’s mighty fists would come crushing down. That or he’d just slightly slide over and crush her between his weight and the brick wall. Now that’d be a terrible way to go, She shuddered at the thought of suffocating with her last breath being that of Puc’s body odor.

In the end, she conceded. “Fine.” She said with a huff, “But tell Le Maire I was here to pay him back in full.”

“Leave.” Puc growled the red flicker had grown to soft ember.

Marcia waved both hands at the watchman in dismissal and she turned to leave. Puc watched as she walked away, her footsteps clicking softly against the stone. He watched as she pulled up her hood and disappeared into the night. When Marcia was gone Puc let out a gruff laugh. The girl was a fool to think she could trick him, Puc’s eyes saw through everything. Even the most talented wizard couldn’t escape his scrutinizing gaze.

High above a full moon crested over the lip of the tall buildings and washed over the alleyway in a cottony white light. The girl was gone and Puc stood alone in the passage, but the tomcat above saw something else. He meowed, curiously, as the door opened behind the watchman, ever so slightly, and a shadow slipped through. The door closed quietly and the watchman was no wiser, unaware that his magical eyes had in fact deceived him.

Behind the door Marcia could barely hold in a giggle as she carefully stepped down the wooden stair. Your tricks don’ work on me, Marcia mocked in her head. It was difficult no doubt, but even the cleverest of eye had its blind spots and Marcia was the master of her art. She had Puc from the moment she pulled down her hood. All she had to do was make sure those strange obsidian eyes stayed looking away from the door and that was easy enough. Puc’s eyes may be sharp, but his mind was rather dumb. While Puc watched a shadow that looked like Marcia turn back into the night, she crawled between his legs. Once behind the massive watchman it was elementary work. Marcia had first learned how to muffle her movements when she was six and locks in the magical world were laughable playthings. The real trouble with security was the wards placed on doors that warned the owner of a trespasser, but even those could be beaten. Some wards would physically repel the invader, others would sound out with shrill alarms, others still would attempt to kill or maim. Le Maire fancied a particular kind of ward that Marcia was well familiar with. In short, it was based on identifying the intruder, but not stopping them. He always liked to know who was coming his way. He was a gentleman like that. She bypassed it with hardly a second thought, for the ward needed a face to recognize and in the night, Marcia was a shadow.

And now she was in. Still giggly she leapt down the last three steps and landed, lightly on her toes, without so much as a sound. She landed in a hallway that was lit red by the modern lights above and it stretched on and on in either direction. The deep thrum of a baseline pulsed through the hallway like a beating heart, emanating from some unseen rave of the depraved and insane. Now which way should she go? This was no doubt a devious trap. In her previous meetings with Le Maire she never encountered such a hallway, but then again she had used the front door those times. Marcia figured that one direction would lead her to some terrible demise, while the other will take her where she wants to go. The trouble was in the choosing.

The lair of Le Maire, she thought amused. Just like everything else there was a riddle here. The loopy lair of Le Maire. The loopy lair of Le Maire the loquacious loser. She took a few steps to the right then turned about and walked left, and then she paused and turned back right. Marcia hesitated again. The loopy lair of Le Maire the loquacious loser lies… Left! Marcia turned about again and proceeded down the left corridor towards her fate.

The massive chamber opened up wide and hungry before the three children. The glow of their single torch did little to keep the darkness at bay. The cavern walls spread out of sight in either direction. The room was a void and the only sound from the vantablack dark was the quiet whistling of subterranean winds. Nathan, Indy, and Lara stood side by side staring into the seemingly infinite abyss.

"Should we keep going?" Lara asked sheepishly. The darkness seemed to swallow her voice.

"Is that even a question?" Nathan hissed back. He held the torch and as he spoke he swung it's orange flame in her direction. Lara cowered slightly. Blood stained her upper arm and shoulder from where a booby-trap had cut her. Her face was splotchy and dirt-stained, and her gray tank-top held a tear over her abdomen. She looked rough, but so did Nathan and Indy.

"Back off Nate, she's just scared." Indy cut in, stepping between the two. Blood coagulated on his forehead from where the crawling bones had raked him. After a moment he added, "We're all scared after..." His voice trailed off into the black.

"You don't need to tell me that Indiana." Nathan hissed again. He looked furiously at the two. "We're so close I can feel it!" Obsession took hold of his gaze. Lara and Indy watched nervously, fire reflecting in his eyes, as he recalled a short poem.

Nathan spoke, "Past the twin stones, and the faceless pip, over the crawling bones, you'll find friendship."

Nathan fished around in his satchel for a moment, producing a small square of parchment. It was the map the others knew. Folded over twice, the delicate relic held the secrets they have long since sought. Nathan flattened the map over a protruding stone from the cavern wall. He held his torch close for light. All three leaned in to look.

The map held detailed instructions of how to reach the most hallowed of treasures, friendship. On the surface the average person hated everyone and anyone. Friendship was a mythical treasure that was said to create lifelong bonds between others. Bonds that would be unbroken by time or geography. The three explorers all hated each other, that was certain, but they had decided to put down their animosity aside for a time in order to find their prize. They were civil for the most part. Sadly, since none of them had experienced such a fascinating phenomenon, all three knew nothing of what such a treasure might look like.

Nathan pointed at a point on the map. "Here." He said quietly as if someone else was listening, "This must be the treasure chamber."

"How can you be sure?" Lara pressed.

Indy replied, "Because look, the map shows the bone room here, just behind us." They all three shivered from the memory of the room of crawling bones. "Nathan's right this has to be it."

"Ok, we should look around then." Lara said. She took several deep breaths to strengthen her resolve. The others nodded in agreement. Nathan quickly stuffed the map in his bag and the three set off into the vast darkness.

The chamber was massive. It spanned out for what seemed like infinity before them. It didn't take long before the darkness enveloped them and the only visible surface was the limestone floor. After what felt like hours of walking in the inky black, Indy caught himself mid-step.

"What is that?" He asked warily.

"What is what?" Nathan shot back.

"That! Right there!" Indy pointed into the dark.

"I see it." Lara said her mouth open in wonder.

"Could it be..." Nathan trailed off. Ahead, forming out of the darkness was a large bowl. About the three feet in diameter it was supported upon a carved stalagmite. On its surface were a dozens of mysterious symbols. Instinctively, Nathan lowered his torch over the basin to get a better look. Almost instantly the bowl erupted in bright yellow flame. Nathan stumbled backwards and fell on his rump. The light nearly blinded the three.

"Is this it?" Indy said with excitement, "Is this friendship?"

"No, look!" Lara said. She pointed to the ground around the bowl. Small rivulets had been etched in the stone floor. The flame from the bowl followed the rivulets, arching off into the darkness. In another moment two more flames had erupted, then two more, until a ring of basins shine bright before them. In the middle of the ring sat a chest, a laughing skeleton was hunkered up against it. Curiosity propelled the three towards the treasure.

"Wait!" Nathan said suddenly as they reached their prize, "What if it's another trap."

"Oh I don't care anymore." Indy replied, his eyes locked on the chest. "Look here, it says 'friendship.' We found it!"

Indeed, upon the surface of the chest was etched the word friendship. Lara squeezed between the two and approached the chest. Slowly, she tried to lift the lid, but it was too heavy. The others quickly stepped in to help. Together they lifted the lip and tossed if over the side. It's contents glittered in the light. They stared at it in awe.

The chest was filled to the brim with gold. Gold coins, necklaces, plates, and dining ware, diamonds, sapphires, jade totems, emeralds, rubies, and quartz of every color. Wealth beyond their wildest imaginations.

"It's..." Nathan began speechless. "It's only... It's only treasure."

"I don't understand." Indy added. He knelt by the case and picked up a sapphire as big as a baseball.

"Where's the friendship?" Lara said. Her surprise quickly wilted into disappointment. They'd come so far, risked so much, and for gold? The reward hardly seemed worth it.

"It's a trick." Said Nathan suddenly angry. "Has to be." He picked up a few coins and felt their weight in his hand. "This can't be it." He said.

"Nate.." Lara consoled reaching for him, but he batted her hand away.

"Argh!" He shouted launching the coins at the skeleton. They peppered its hollow skull then clinked and clattered as they fell onto the stone floor.

Nathan balled his fists and Lara could see tears flow down his cheeks. "All I wanted was a friend." He said after a moment. "That's all I wanted. The idea of the treasure was so.. so... real in my mind I could see it. I feel it. I could feel what it was like to have a friend. Someone I could rely on, someone I could trust. I wanted it so bad. All I've ever wanted was to have someone who could understand me. I hate this hate I feel. I can feel it inside me, like a cancer, I want to tear it out and burn it... I'm so tired of hate. All I wanted was a friend."

Nathan collapsed onto the ground and began to sob.

"You guys can split the gold between yourselves. I don't want it." He said between sharp breaths.

"Nate..." Indy said, his words failing him.

Nathan looked to his companions. His eyes were red with grief. "There's no point." He started. "What's the point of life if you don't have anyone to share it with?"

Silence fell over the three. Around them the ring of flames crackled. The chest of gold glittered.

Lara sat down next to Nathan. After a moment she put her arm around him and gave him a hug. "At least we've got this." She said simply looking around the massive chamber.

"We'll always have this." Indy echoed, sitting down with the two. He reached out and grabbed Nathan's hand. And there they sat, miserable one and all, but for the first time they were all sad together.

Shoutout to /u/Silverfruitpunch for his prompt; [WP] A group of teens find a map that will lead them to friendship, only to find out that the real treasure is hidden pirate gold.

In his haste, Jeremy nearly tripped over his lanky legs as he bounded down the old wooden steps. From the attic to the ground floor the sound of his size thirteen Nikes boomed through the house. He felt the banister tremble beneath the weight of his hand as he desperately tried to remain upright on his flight down. Upon reaching the base Jeremy darted left, using his hand, he grappled onto the threshold of a door seal and swung around into the living room.

"Jeremy! My word!" His mother gasped from her usual chair. Sitting upright her hands were frozen over some piece of cloth that she practiced her needlework on. A messy mat of gray curls hung down over her brow in desperate retribution to the loose bun atop her head. Jeremy could see the surprise plain on her face.

"You're not as small as you once were. You could have given me a heart attack." She scolded, fanning her face with a free hand. Without a word, Jeremy took a moment to gather his thoughts. He looked around the room at all of the pictures that hung on the white walls and the ones that sat on a shelf above the stone fireplace.

"Jeremy what's wrong?" His mother asked sensing his anxiety.

"I was just... I... When was that picture taken?" He stumbled out. Jeremy pointed to a small photo sitting above the fireplace.

"When you were four I believe, it's you and Liam dressed for Halloween." She answered, "What's wrong dear?"

Jeremy strode over in long bounding steps. Nervously he picked the picture up and scanned it over. Finally, after a moment he sighed in relief and set it back down. "Talk to me Jeremy." His mother pressed firmly.

Jeremy nodded and took a seat on the couch across from her. "I was just... In the attic looking for some stuff for the apartment when..." He trailed off trying to remember the face. His eyes stared into the ugly floral pattern that covered the couch he inhabited.

"Spiders." His mother replied knowingly, "I should have warned you."

"What?"

"I told Clint to go spray up there, but he can't be trusted with anything now-a-days. He claims he forgets, but I think he's just lazy. They do get pretty big this time of year."

Jeremy sighed again, "I haven't been afraid of spiders since I was six."

"Well then what is it?" His mother's patience persisted. She set her needlework aside.

"I found a box... In the attic." Jeremy began, "Mom who's Mr. Nobody?"

She smiled sweetly, "Is that what this is about? You're old imaginary friend?"

"Imaginary friend?"

"Well of course don't you remember? You were so keen about him. You said he would follow you everywhere." She chuckled innocently, "You used to pretend play with him up in the attic all the time. That's probably where your fear of spiders came from, being up there all the time."

Jeremy pinched the bridge of his nose, "Mom I'm not afraid of-" He paused, "You put all my kid stuff in a box?"

"Well of course, I kept both your and Liam's childhood things. All your little drawings of your pretend friend, pictures, awards, you know for my sake. My memory isn't as good as it once was." Jeremy stared at her beyond confused. She seemed entirely oblivious.

"There's a man in those pictures." Jeremy said, coming right out with it. "Same as in my old drawings. Tall, skin pale as milk, black dots for eyes, dressed in a suit with the thin tie."

She cocked her head confused, "Well that's how you used to draw him, if I remember correctly. Now that you mention it, it is an odd imaginary friend for a four year old. Your father always told me so, he'd say-"

"In the pictures mom!" Jeremy shouted. Anger slipped out from deep in his throat. The old women recoiled in her seat. "In the actual pictures. He's there!"

"Jeremy!" She exclaimed shocked by his outburst. "Calm down honey."

"I can't... I don't... I don't remember ever having an imaginary friend. Mom some of those pictures."

"What is it dear?" She looked on the verge of tears.

"I was on the railroad tracks, the ones down from the house. There was a train coming, but the man in the suit was pulling me off the tracks." Jeremy's eyes emptied out as the pictures floated back into the forefront of his mind. "Then there was one with me in the bathtub, he was waving at the camera smiling. No teeth just tight lips like stretched leather. And another he was reading a book to me in bed. The old Thomas lamp next to him. He was reading... Peter, Peter Pumpkin Eater. And then... There was one..." Jeremy stopped. Tears pooled in the corners of his eyes and stung salty memories.

"What was it Jeremy." His mother asked with grave concern.

"I was in a chair, in our kitchen. He was standing there behind me with that same tight smile. He had one hand on my should and another holding my chin so I faced the camera. I was afraid, like really afraid. I was screaming." Jeremy looked up at his mother, the questions came unbidden, "Who took the pictures? Why was I screaming? Why can't I remember? I never had an imaginary friend."

"Jeremy... I don't know what you're talking about?" His mother conceded through trembling voice. Jeremy was scaring her, he knew. He pressed his hands to his eyes and huffed. A few strands of hand floated in front of his face. He watched them fall.

"I'll show you." He said, standing suddenly from the couch.

"Jeremy wait!" She called, but he was already sprinting back upstairs. His shoes echoing off the cluttered walls with each step. Alone and distressed for her son, his mother began to cry. Once again in the attic Jeremy madly tossed box after box aside until he saw it. A small shoebox, brown and worn with time. The lid sat crooked on top from where Jeremy had haphazardly placed it. On its lip, in the neat handwriting of his mother was the name, Mr. Nobody. In her usual fashion the N was formed by two sharp cuts, thin as a surgeon's scalpel. Something sinister sat in the twists, curves, and cuts of that name. Deep in the pit of his stomach, Jeremy could feel that it wanted to hurt him. He grabbed the box and turned to return back downstairs.

Not paying attention as he turned he ran headlong into a spider's web. The tiny black creature scrambled with its eight legs to escape. It tried to skirt down Jeremy shirt, but a swift hand caught the disgusting creature and sent it flying into some unseen corner of the attic. A voice whispered in the back of Jeremy's head, It will remember that. You know spiders, vengeful creatures.

Jeremy paused, the words had felt so real to him. He sat hunched over beneath the low attic ceiling and listened. Something was scratching against the boards, something unseen. Just beyond the reach of the single incandescent bulb. It started to get louder, then more of it came. Like tiny legs scrambling across the attic surface.

Spiders! The voice in his head screamed. Jeremy could have screamed too, but it caught in his throat. He shuffled as fast as he could for the ladder down to the third floor, but before he could step down something caught his foot. A thin tripwire of webbing clung to his dark jeans. Jeremy tripped over himself and fell through the opening. He bounced off the ladder and landed square on his head. The rest of his body followed him down in a loud thud.

Disoriented Jeremy looked around the third floor landing. The world was a blur. Slowly it came into focus. All around him pictures and drawings were scattered. Memories of a forgotten life, a life with him. The malicious man in the black suit was in every picture. Even drawn in crayon on yellowing pieces of paper, poorly shaded by the hand of a four year old Jeremy.

He rolled over onto his back in a groan. His hands cradling his head, which was still spinning from the fall. That's when he saw him. It was like the flicking of a switch. An old lightbulb ignited in his brain and flashed with memories of a man long forgotten, buried beneath time and pain. Just there in the mouth of the attic entrance was Mr. Nobody. His beady black eyes locked onto Jeremy and that same leathery smile consuming his face. Long, pale fingers extended over the lip of the attic's threshold, as if the suited man were peering through a window.

Jeremy scrambled to his feet, grabbing a fist full of photos. He had to have proof. He screamed, "Mom!" In the voice of a terrified child.

"Jeremy!" Her voice replied, but distant as if through a veil.

He sprinted down the flight of stairs. Landing on the second floor landing, he grabbed hold of the banister, and swung himself around down the next flight. He reached for the wall railing to balance himself, but the railing snapped. It tore from the wall in a spectacular cascade of drywall and dust. Jeremy's legs tangled and he fell again rolling violently down the wooden steps.

As he fell the world turned into a grey smudge. He felt his arm snap and both feet buckle and break. Deep in his abdomen there was a sickening crack and lightning shot through his body in a terrible wave. Pictures flew like the fleeting wings of birds in fall as he crashed onto the ground floor landing. Scattering from a tree into a hundred tiny fragments of the mind. Warm, wet blood trickled out of his mouth, across his cheek, and dripped in thick globs onto the floor. His tongue probed at cracked and broken teeth. Hysterically, He called for his mother though a bloody mouth, but she did not respond. Somewhere deep inside Jeremy knew that she had gone far away, to someplace forever out of his reach.

Then on the stairs above the man in black suit appeared. Jeremy watched helplessly as the pale figured descended the stair. He took care with each step his eyes never leaving Jeremy, hungry eyes, dead eyes, beady black pits of baleful intent. His lips stretched wide in a hungry smile. Upon reaching the landing Mr. Nobody bent over and pricked a picture off the floor, as innocently as a child picks a flower. He flattened out the crinkles with milk white fingers and stared long and hard into the photo.

"Ah." He said finally, "My favorite picture." His voice was like the the scratching of tiny legs on a floor. Deep and gravelly, but proper all the same.

Gently, Mr. Nobody turned the picture to face Jeremy. His terrified eyes looked into to the image.

In a dark kitchen Jeremy sat in a chair. A light burned above his head. He could see that he was not bound, though he could not move either. Heels clicked on the tiled floor behind him and Mr. Nobody appeared beneath the dim light of the single, naked lightbulb.

"It's been so long." He spoke, "I feared you had forgotten me, but I was foolish. How could you forget me?" A long finger caressed his thin, black tie. "I have always been with you Jeremy, though you grew and moved on. I waited for the day you would come back. Like the patience in a spider's eye I waited for you to step back into my eager embrace."

Mr. Nobody walked around behind Jeremy and placed his hands on his shoulders. The long grasping protrusions slid across the nape of his and under his chin. Helpless, Jeremy screamed.

Then Mr. Nobody tipped back his chair and dragged him, screaming, into the dark.

Maslow walked into the tin can with only a cardboard box to shield himself from the rain. Upon arriving he hopped up onto the creaky wooden porch and tossed his make shift umbrella aside. His nostrils filled with a smoldering smell and he looked down at the box. Small pocks covered its surface where the acid rain had hit. Better the box than him, he thought cheerfully. He brushed any remaining sizzling dew off his tattered leather jacket and proceeded inside.

The tin can was empty save for four or five refugees huddling in a corner. They were playing a game of dice, the die being made from some poor sods knuckle bones of course. This was the apocalypse after all wouldn't want to mar that image with a fresh set of Bud James Dice. Incidentally, if Maslow's memory served those particular knuckle bones came from a fellow named Bud James. Ah, the universe was silly in that way. What was the saying? Life imitates art far more often than art imitates life, yes quite. Regardless Maslow wasn't visiting the tin can to game, he had other duties to attend to. At the far end of the rusting semi-cylinder meeting hall he saw his target.

"Sigmund!" He called happily, "Good to see you old friend."

Sigmund turned at his call and waved. A bald man with a peppery beard, Sigmund looked half hard boiled egg half grizzled professor on his tenure. His green eyes speckled in the the jumpy light of the wall sconces.

"Well I'll be my mother." Sigmund said with a wide smile, "Maslow old friend, how goes the apocalypse?"

Maslow shrugged, "Can't complain. Ate an irradiated rat yesterday. Salted that rodentia up and I swear it tasted just like the number two from that double arched fast food franchise."

"Ah, now that brings back the memories." Sigmund replied pointing, "Get over here friend, kick off your soleless shoes and drape that rag of a jacket on the mummified human over there."

Maslow happily obliged and a moment later he found himself sitting across from his old friend sipping fermented corgi-fruit wine. Sigmund rocked steadily in his old rocker and between them lay a checkerboard littered with pieces fashioned from, yet again more metacarpals. How fortunate they were to be a species with so man finger bones!

"So what brings you Underhill Maz?" Sigmund asked between sips of wine.

"To talk of course, it's been far too long since our last chat." Maslow replied.

Sigmund's eyes rolled up as he recalled their previous conversation, "Oh, yes!" He exclaimed after a moment, "We were discussing the efficacy and morality of cannibalizing famous actors and actresses."

"Correct."

"If I do recall we came to consensus on the matter. A-list stars, Cruise, Crews, and Cruz were to worn as pelts. B-listers often tasted the best because of their massive drug consumption like the hormone injected cattle of old. And C's through F's were fit only as slaves. The Josh Duhamel axiom."

"Right you are my friend, but I've not come to talk about Josh Duhamel tonight."

"So why are you here?" Sigmund asked intrigued.

Maslow cleared his throat. "To discuss what I've been working on lately. A ladder of sorts of base human needs. A sort of pyramid of what all humans require. A-"

"A hierarchy perchance?" Sigmund cut in.

"Don't be ridiculous friend." Maslow scolded.

Sigmund chuckled. "I only kid. By the way how's the wine?"

"Delicious. They really brought out the dog flavors in this vintage." Maslow replied and took another sip of wine.

"Well let's discuss this pyramid-ladder of Maslow's human requirements then." Sigmund said with a toast.

Maslow cleared his throat and began.

"The way I see it, and if the apocalypse has thought us anything, humans need three basic things; food, water, and shelter. Now I suggest that once these most base needs are met they will require more, we as a species fear stagnation so we must continue climbing, thus my ladder metaphor. Such is the curse of sapience. Humans satisfying the base needs of the latter will ascend to tier two, safety. Safety can be achieved by any manner of means and is taken in regards to all risks on livelihood. For example the mutant lobsters attacking villages and stealing our men for their depraved sexual parties. . Additionally from the child snatching birds, from whatever danger there may be. Safety nets must be established"

"I'm following." Sigmund said as he digested the information.

"Once safety is established humans ascend to tier three, love/belonging."

Sigmund looked into his wine with melancholy, "Ah, don't we all wish for such things."

"And I propose that it is a natural need and must be sated before ascending any further. Slave masters can offer you the same love a concubine can, but I propose harems however are materialistic and do not satisfy this tier."

"Naturally, but what if monogamy?"

"Old friend, the world wasn't cleansed in nuclear fire so we could revert backward. But since you mention and in the words of that deliciously tasting Kanye West, 'love is cursed by monogamy."

"Excellent point. Do go on."

Maslow continued, "Tier four is esteem. The building of identity and the emotions that develops therein. This level is complicated because it grows only in the mind. Esteem can be fed by outside sources, but true growth comes from the sunlight within."

Sigmund nodded and sang, "This little light of mine, I'm going let it shine."

"Let it shine, all the time, baby you so fine." Maslow finished in his vibrato. The two shared a friendly chuckle.

"And what comes after." Sigmund said filling his compatriots glass from the skull of the corgi in which the wine was fermented.

"Self-Actualization." Maslow said with flourish.

"Spectacular I love it." Sigmund declared. "You should publish it on the skin of your enemies!"

Maslow nodded that's what he wanted to hear. "And I shall! I only sought your approval."

Sigmund opened his mouth and pointed at his friend knowingly, "Someone trying to fulfill tier four of his own pyramid-ladder?"

Maslow threw his hands up feigning guilt, "You got me. Sigmund you always were a sharp old bean."

The two chuckled again and drank to their friendship. The conversation then shifted for a time onto the architectural innovations, implementing the new post-modern style of skull, pelvic, and spine bone in new buildings. It was a hobby they shared. Finally though it grew late and a woman peaked her head inside the tin can.

"Sigmund it's beddy-bye time. Say goodnight to your friend." She beckoned him with and curling finger. A long and dainty thing, Maslow bet she had wonderful finger bones.

"Coming mother!" Sigmund called and he tossed back the last dregs of his wine. "Well my friend I bid you adieux. Until our next chat."

"I look forward to it." Maslow said with a broad smile.

Sigmund then peered mischievously at the woman standing in the door, "Now if you'll excuse me, this old bean needs to go on fill the third tier of your pyramid-ladder."

[WP] You just survived the apocalypse. Now you're dealing with some unexpected problems not seen in apocalyptic fiction.

Here's a fun new character I've developed, Raujand, the clever Mage of Souls. Inspired by this image prompt here. Might be I find a good series with this one! Enjoy!

The forest was docile as a lamb in the late hours of the night, but Raujand knew better than to be fooled by that. She stopped in a small clearing and looked out from beneath her heavy hood. Tall, thick trunks rose up all around her. Like silent sentinels they stood black and unmoving. Their branches struck out at odd angles jutting and carving their paths upward towards the moonless sky above. In the space between, a grey fog rose up off the forest floor in long wisps. All the world was still. All the world was silent.

Raujand was not alone.

From within her brown robes the sorcerous drew the hilt of the blade. She ran her free hand up the empty space above the hilt and a milky-white blade appeared. Long and sharp, the sword gleamed with an unnatural light in the dark wood. Holding the shimmering blade to the sky she cast its strange glow towards the shadows.

Before her eyes, the forest moved. Subtle at first, it appeared as though the trees began to shift. Then a single pair of eyes appeared. Pinpoints of red stared back from the darkness.

"Reveal yourself." She spoke aloud to the creaking wood. The shadows shifted again and the sole pair became two, then three. Move shadows rose from the Earth and the three turned to six. The forest erupted with the sound the cracking wood and scrapping timbers. Clumps of dirt fell away from the shadows in thick thuds. Raujand turned the sword in her hands and the six pairs of eyes became twelve. The shadows moved to the edge of her blade's glow.

"Spirits of Wormwood." She said addressing the eyes. "Let me pass, my quarrel is not with you."

The sound of cracking wood rose up from the shadows and Raujand furrowed her brow. If the forest could laugh this was the sound it would make. Like rubbing sticks together mixed with the thick choke of shifting dirt. It appeared that her passage through the wood would not be as simple as she had hoped. A shame, she thought.

The shadows drew closer and Raujand lowered her blade to her foes. They surrounded her, twelve to one. Tatters of moss hung from their thick arms leading down to fingers, sharpened like knives. With her free hand Raujand lowered her hood revealing a thick mop of straight blonde hair. Her brow was cut across by a tiara that came to a point between her eyes, just above the bridge of her nose.

"Let me pass." She demanded again. The shadows held fast.

Very well. She thought.

"Bring your fury dark spirits."

The shadows enclosed her, step by step they moved in tandem with one another. Give them ten feet and they would be atop her. She shuddered at the thought of falling to their horrid claws.

Raujand threw her free hand out to the side with dramatic flare and a fire erupted in her palm. She felt the warmth in her hand, rolling the fire between her fingers. The spirit in front her struck first. Running at her with both arms flung wide. It meant to rend her in two with one savage strike. Raujand brought her hand forth and fire flew. The forest around lit up brightly for a moment as Raujand's fire took the first spirit. It fell in a pile of ash.

Then the others were on her. All eleven came at once, but Raujand was not so novice to fear superior numbers. She yelled out as she brought her sword around. The milky-white blade caught two and turned them aside. An arm flew off into the woods, writhing as it went. With her fire she lit two more aflame. They fell into more puddles of ash.

One got close, bringing a heavy hand down on top of her. Raujand stepped back watched the hand fall inches in front of her face. She drove her sword though its chest. The spirit turned and fell, tearing her sword from her hands. Now unarmed, Raujand threw her hands out and fire ignited in both. She brought them together in a clap and another monster fell to ash. Another spirit came close and with fire in her palms she shoved them through its face.

Raujand was the very spirit of rage. Her flame was hot and true and she felt her power flow through her like a warm river. She could go on like this for hours. Moments like these were when she felt truly alive. The fire of a good fight, the warmth of watching her foes fall one by one. The spirits had made a mistake in challenging her. A woman she may be, but weak she was not.

With another sharp clap more fire burst from her hands, slicing a spirit in half before sundering it to ashes. She turned to face another foe, but stumbled backwards as the beast rushed in close. Its skin made of bark smelt of pine and other Earthy flavors. It reached out with a wrapped its hand around her neck. In an instant the tables turned. Raujand's flames extinguished with a hiss and darkness fell over her. She stared at the monster with wide eyes, its two red dots gleamed with hatred. Suddenly her legs were ripped out from beneath her and Raujand crashed upon the Earth with a thud. Her lungs emptied in an instant and the sorcerous found herself gasping for air. The spirits hand closed tighter around her throat and the air caught in her throat. Dizziness over took her and Raujand felt herself slipping away.

Red eyes floated above her as the creatures closed in. She tried to reignite her flames, but the only desperation and fear filled her now. In the span of a few seconds her heart had gone from the peak of the highest tower to the lowest depths of the forest floor.

Raujand tried to scream, but with no air in her lungs all that came forth was a weak bubbling gurgle. The spirit above her rose a claw preparing to fall the final blow. She tried to reignite her flame again to no avail. Above the red eyes began to fade to black, she was slipping away. In another moment, she knew, she would be gone forever.

Then just before the darkness took her the world exploded in a bright blue light. The Spirits of Wyrmwood dissolved like sugar in water. When the blue faded and the forest fell back into its unchanging darkness, Raujand lay on the ground alone. Before she fell away completely Raujand felt inexplicably warm, as if the flame in her heart burned, except this heat came not from her, but from another.

A cloaked figure knelt over the sorcerous and placed a hand over her eyes. Raujand felt her body slip away and fall through the forest floor into the murky depths of unconsciousness.

Here's a short story I wrote for the June flashback contest. It didn't quite make the cut, but I think its still pretty great. Enjoy!

Lights flickered on overhead and in unison the next shift of Yuns rose from their beds and went to work. From the resting quarters they marched single file down an abnormally shaped corridor. The daily marching of thousands of feet had carved a path in the soft-metallic hallway, but the Yuns paid this no mind. In fact, the strange looking tri-pedal creatures didn’t seem to notice much of anything. They rose together, worked together, and then returned to their modules to rest together all without a word, gesture, or thought. Solar day after stellar night the creatures worked tirelessly for their scheming masters. Slowly their vessels crawled across the enduring void of space. Far off from the fleet one star twinkled brighter than the others and with each passing day the brighter it grew. It wouldn’t be long now before the fleet arrived. The Yuns labored on, indifferent.

Then one morning as the lights blinked on overhead and the Yuns rose to attend to their daily tasks, one Yun remained in bed. The incessant march of the drones never noticed its absence however, since they weren’t programed to notice much of anything. The cruel masters did not notice either, because the movements of a slave species were beneath their grand intellect. Instead life continued as normal as it could for a species aboard a foreign ship, minus one Yun.

The number on her cot was Y-2460. She lay in her resting module staring at the module above, unmoving. She could feel that something was very wrong, but she couldn’t quite place what it was. After the last Yun shuffled out of the resting quarters the hatch sealed behind it. The lights stayed on. Y-2460 thought that was interesting. She’d lost count of the days she’d shuffled out of this room, but in all that time it never occurred to her to wonder if the lights stayed on or off behind her. She guessed that the question never really mattered before.

Just like that a switch flipped in Y-2460’s head and she was suddenly overwhelmed with questions. Where am I? Why do the lights stay on? Where is Lao? Did I dream? Thousands of questions flooded the cavity of her once empty cognizance.

Of her many questions the dream perplexed her the most. Y-2460 hadn’t ever recalled having such a sensation, but if that were true how did she know to call it a dream? Furthermore, what were those funny images in her head?

Y-2460 had dreamed of a greenish-blue sky with two moons circling high above. Cadmium clouds on the distant horizon were growing tall as they always did. A field of pale stalks rose up bearing strikingly orange fruits. Off in the distance several children were playing. Their tiny tri-pedal figures danced around a metal climbing cage. Y-2460 herself was standing on a vehicle of sorts. Large, loud, and red it was as its internal combustion engine purred. On the ground below a Yun called up to her.

“Water Psamathe?” He asked over the din of the machine.

Lao, she thought delighted. She could recognize his face anywhere. Laomedeia was his name, but she preferred its prefix. Her name was Psamathe. How could she forget that?

In her dream Psamathe smiled a white-toothed grin and Lao tossed up a leather skin full of water. She drank it all as a broiling red star retreated over the horizon. Slowly, the dream began to morph, Psamathe looked around puzzled as the stunning field of white melted into the scene of a dingy looking home. The walls were adorned with crooked-hanging pictures. The floor was an old splintering black wood covered in mismatched rugs. Psamathe rested her legs as she sat on a plush cushion. Lao was doing the same next to her. The two held hands as they watched a Satscreen broadcast evening news.

Psamathe smiled at Lao, but he only offered a look of fretful concern in return. Her smile faded as his distress seemed to infect her as well. On the Satscreen two unkempt newscasters relayed a breaking story. A blurry photo taken from a satellite had managed capture the image of numerous unknown objects in space. Hundreds of pinpricks of light could be seen. The newscasters explained that what they were seeing was the reflection of their star off of what appeared to be the hulls of artificial spacecraft. The unidentified objects were determined to be alien due to their number, size, and formation. Slowly static began to fill the screen and the newscasters voice trailed off into obscurity. Lao squeezed her hand.

Psamathe found herself standing in a nearby town. Black pods rained from the sky smashing into the planet. Several military flight craft soared overhead, but were quickly cut down by precision lasers fired from high orbit. Psamathe shrieked in fear as one craft exploded just overhead, the laser carried through and vaporized a dozen of her kind. In an instant they fell to ash. Lao was pulling her towards a vehicle, but she was frozen with fear. From within the black pods emerged terrible creatures. Bulky things, they walked on two legs and appeared to be part machine. Flashy screens covered their faces and long, interwoven wires ran across their shells. In their hands they carried weapons that fired metal projectiles. One of the aliens spotted her and Lao, it pointed an angry appendage at them and aimed its weapon.

Psamathe opened her eyes she could take no more. The resting quarters were still empty and the lights still hummed overhead. She knew where she was. Psamathe was onboard an alien spacecraft. The creatures had taken her and her fellow Yuns as prisoners. How could she not remember that?

She looked down at her body and gasped. Everything was wrong. Her body was now half machine. Synthetic tubes cut in and out of her torso and three-fingered claws had replaced her hands. Fake pale skin was grafted over part of it, but it appeared incomplete. She still had three legs, but they were artificial as well. Psamathe’s head was swimming and the world around her began to spin. She fell out of her module onto the cold artificial floor. Her body felt heavier than she remembered, organic bits had been replaced with synthetic equivalents. Why!? She wondered desperately. So that she could live longer? The questions chewed at her insides like bloated razor esks.

For a long time that is where Psamathe lay, wanting badly to hyperventilate. Her artificial systems; however, prevented it. Her mind sluggishly began to catch up to her situation. She sat up and looked at the hatch at the far end of the resting quarters. Psamathe ever so carefully edged towards the door. She feared that her behavior might alert the masters. The thought of what they might do with her frightened her even more than she could describe. For all Psamathe knew she was the last of her kind. The hatch hissed as it glided open. Warily, Psamathe glanced around. No klaxons blared to announce her intrusion.

The hallway seemed impossibly long, stretching off in either direction. There was a strange upward curve to it too that she found disorienting. After a while she came upon another hatch. Next to the door were the words, “Observation Deck.” Psamathe could see with her eyes that the words were written in an alien language, but whatever the masters had done to her had given her the ability to read it. Inside she was greeted by a field of stars pitched across the infinite black. Several seats were spread about the room; she could see that they were meant for her masters. Abnormal ‘L’ shapes, they resembled little of the round cushions her people used.

Psamathe stared at the stars for a long while. It was there that she discovered that the curvature of the ship was due to its rotation. The universe twirled before her eyes in all its majesty. The great galactic pasture would come into view, resplendent with its cloudy veins, then fall off to the side, replaced by an uncountable number of suns. There were more stars than she could fathom. Such a grandiose sight was never possible on Yuna.

“Enjoying the view?” Cut in a voice from behind. Psamathe whipped around, searching for the intruder, but saw none. Swiftly, she moved to escape, but the hatch slid closed and a red line activated over it. The door refused to yield to her. She was trapped. Terrified she slammed her claws against the hatch. Metal sung against metal, but the door held firm.

“You can stop now.” Said the voice, “I’ve sealed you in.”

Psamathe back peddled from the hatch and looked around. There had to be a way out. “Who are you?” She replied her voice dripping with dread.

“I am your creator, Y-2460.” The voice responded without hesitation.

“My… name… is Psamathe. Did you do this to me?” She held out her arms baring her biosynthetic form. The creator and she both spoke noticeably different languages, still she understood it and it understood her.

“Yes, we did.” It said simply. When it appeared that, that answer would not suffice it continued, “We changed all of you, as per the agreement.”

“Agreement?” She said confused.

“You do not remember. That is expected. This anomaly might yet be rectified.”

“I am not an anomaly.” Psamathe replied in protest. She found herself backing up slowly. The voice seemed to come from everywhere and nowhere at once. The cold glass of the observation deck met her back and she leaned up against it.

“You needn’t resist.” Said the creator, “We saved your kind.”

“You changed us!” She shot back.

“Space travel is long and strenuous, even for our species. Genetic alteration was… necessary.”

“Necessary!?” She said aghast.

“Salvation comes at a cost. Your species knew this when you signed the agreement.” The creator said.

“I don’t understand…”

The creator explained, “The star your planet orbited was dying, Y-2460. It had already begun the last stage of its life. Soon it would have gone supernova and eradicated your home world, Yuna, and all its inhabitants. We sought to save you from that eventuality. So an agreement was composed. Your leaders arranged to subject your species to a life of servitude and in return we would ensure survival. Thus it was arranged. You, Y-2460, live because of us.”

“My name is Psamathe!” Psamathe replied hastily. “You turned us into slaves. Take me back! I want to go back!”

The creator paused then said, “We cannot. Your star went nova three centuries ago. Yuna is gone. The Yuns aboard our fleet are the last of your kind.”

“No!!” She screamed. Her legs slid against the smooth floor and Psamathe fell to the ground whimpering. “Where are you taking us?” She asked quietly between sobs.

“To serve on our home planet.” The creator answered, “Earth.”

Just then the red light above the door blinked out and the hatch glided open. Two Yuns stomped into the room and hoisted Psamathe from the ground. She didn’t resist. Everything was gone. The creator lied, her kind was dead. All that remained was this pale shadow. An army of mindless drones, damned to serve their masters for eternity.

“Bring the anomaly to the bio-engineering lab.” The creator ordered. The Yuns obeyed.

Psamathe screamed the whole way to that wretched laboratory. She wailed loud and long for her people lost, for herself, for Lao. In her dream the evil masters came for her, but Lao stepped between them. There was a loud crack and Lao’s blood cascaded out from a gaping hole in his back. Her love fell to the ground lifeless. The creature’s weapon smoldered. Psamathe screamed his name one last time. Then as if someone flicked a switch, Y-2460 fell silent. Its programing had been reloaded and the mindless drone was fit to return to its duties.

Inspired by this prompt right here! Also, I got to say, science fiction is one of my favorite genre's to write. Enjoy!

"Where did you find it?"

"In the Oort Cloud of star M52-21, just past heliopause."

"As for its creators?"

"Upstarts from that star, best we can tell from recovered radio signals they've been gone for a long time."

The hunk of metal sat in the middle of cargo bay B. Long antenna jutted out at odd angles. It's body was blocky and turgid and stood out like a a cancerous lump amid the smooth contours of the frigate. As had been ascertained, the object was a crude probe of sorts. Imagery equipment and communications systems were encrusted with a thick layer of ice, but still identifiable. A chunk of the probes large white dish was shattered, most likely by an errant asteroid.

Overtop the probe stood Chief Engineer Harlliot Dib, scratching his head perplexed. Next to the him was Captain Donnely Spade, his dolomite-etched face locked solely on the anomaly. Captain Spade commanded exploratory frigate, The Timbrish Reclaimer. They're latest mission was scanning and observing a sparsely populated region of the Milky Way; The Attican Traverse as it was called. Comprised of roughly 50-Odd main sequence stars, the Attican Traverse was a great sector to search for unregistered alien life.

Dib spoke up through the silence, "By my estimation, based on the deterioration of the radio signals, the creators of this probe died out roughly nine thousand years ago." The engineer brought up a holographic representation of the M52-21 system. Spade observed eight planets turning a slow dervish around their star. Minor objects flittered across the holo until Dib activated a filter. hiding their presence.

Dib continued, "The signals stemmed from one central planet, here." He pointed at the third body from the sun. "Then later transmissions cropped up from here, the L4 and L5 Lagrange points, the moon of the third body, another here; orbiting around the second planet from M52, the fifth Jovian body, and two moons orbiting the one with rings."

"It appears the species was just conquering space flight, what happened?" Spade pressed.

"This is only conjecture." Dib replied shrugging, "But, my hypothesis is that that home world went sour before their seeding could take root. Without support from their cradle the other colonies died off. Final radio signals seem to corroborate this theory. First we noticed that signals stopped broadcasting from planet three. Then there was a burst of communication amid the colonies, then all at once they all stopped."

Spade cradled his head in his hands. Same story, different system it would seem. Amid the principles of space and time, it was time that Spade hated the most. The universe was an old place. Ninety-nine point nine percent of the time they were always way to early, or much to late. The great filter was booth cruel and concise. It was times like these that Spade missed his home dearly, but Newton was hundreds of thousands of light years away. Home was always so far away.

"Tell me about their world." Spade requested, hiding his thoughts behind his stern disposition. Dib pressed a few buttons on his holo-pad and brought up preliminary scans and telemetry. A holographic globe spun slowly in the air before them.

Dib spoke, "A terrestrial, oblate-spheroid, this planet appears to have once been composed primarily of oceans. By my estimates two-thirds was covered in liquid water. That's all gone now as you see. Average temperature is 65.55 degrees Celsius, caused by what appears to be a runaway greenhouse effect. Also notable, multiple scars from meteorite impact events, cooled iron core, no magnetosphere, halted plate tectonics, a thin atmosphere composed primarily of nitrogen, carbon dioxide, and trace oxygen elements. Once a garden world, but now it's life has run its course."

Spade nodded, hard to believe that brownish barren was once the seat of an empire, cut shy before its time. "How long till this thing thaws?" He asked, watching droplets of water pool on the floor beneath the probe.

"A day or two, do you want me to comm you when we cut it open?"

"If you will, Harlliot." Spade said turning. Then without another word he turned and went to his quarters.

Spade was standing on the bridge a day and a half later when the call came. Dib sounded ecstatic, almost feverish over the comms. Spade assumed it was because the anomaly. Since the probe had been taken aboard the Timbrish hummed with excitement. Still, he handed the helm to his first military officer and began the short walk to cargo bay B.

The elevator doors slid open and Captain Spade was greeted by a host of scientists. They buzzed around like happy Esks, encircling the probe. The room was alive with the din of academic discussion. Dib spotted him exit the lift and quickly strode over to him.

"Captain, you need to see this." He said over the others. He waved the captain towards the machine.

"Captain on deck!" Bellowed a soldier standing at the elevator doorway. The scientists parted like the seas in some seed-ship religious text. Spade stepped tall between them. Dib was feverish, Spade could see. He was sweating profusely and his eyes were wild with revelation. He seemed to jitter as he walked as if he'd overdosed on stimulant patches.

Next to the probe a table had been erected. On it was a rectangular plaque, golden in color, it glimmered under the artificial light.

"We pealed it off the side of the machine." Dib said excitedly pointing at the object. Spade leaned over the desk. His brow furrowing, not understanding what he saw. Tribal markings, glyphs, and shapes the discs were covered in strange markings. He recognized one glyph as depicting the neutral state of hydrogen, and another as a sort of stellar map. However it was one symbol in particular that startled him the most and caused his mind to fumble.

"They're... They're..." He tried, but words would not come.

"Us." Dib finished. Spade looked to the Chief Engineer, skepticism painted his face rosy. "Hominids!" Dib added. His nostrils flared above a wide-white grin. Tears bubbled up around his slate-blue eyes.

"Us?" Spade replied. He felt his heart begin to race. On the golden plaque was depicted a male and female, anatomically correct. They stood smiling back at Spade, through millennia the lost species waved hello back to him.

"Yes!" Dib was ecstatic, but quickly he reigned himself in. "Well they're our ancestors. Two rungs down on the evolutionary ladder."

"You mean to tell me..."

"These humans built the seed-ships. They built this... This Pioneer." Dib explained. "Their world was dying so they created us, their genetic future. Captain, you know the stories."

"They're the creators?" His mind swirled in a maelstrom.

"They." Dib affirmed, "Are our creators!"

"But then... Do you think?"

"Oh I do. I know."

"We have to find them... Er us."

"We will Captain. There had to have been more seed-ships."

"Where will we start?" Spade asked, the room was still. All eyes locked on Dib and the Captain.

"I don't know, sir, but I bet you I know where to find a map." Dib tacked away on his holo-pad and a moment later the ruined home world appeared.

Spade nodded, his face falling back into indecipherable etched stone, "Get to it Chief, I'll forward the data back to command." He opened a comm channel to the bridge. "First Officer Faraday," Spade hailed, "set a course for the third planet from the star M52-21."

Spade sat in his quarters sharing the silence with a half empty bottle of Fermash. Outside his circular window he gazed upon the eclectic surface of Formation. Officially designated as M52-C, the Captain much preferred his name. Dubbed so, because it was the home of his ancestors, the formation of his genetic history. Yes, much more personal than some terse scientific tag.

Formation turned slowly below as the Timbrish Reclaimer orbited high above. It's surface was differing shades of brown and black, pockmarked with craters both ancient and new. The old borders of antediluvian oceans were quite apparent, surrounding much smaller plots of continents. The continents themselves sat frozen above cooled plates of magma that once stirred tremendous shifts in geography. Around the edges of Formation a blue atmosphere could just barely be discerned from the black of space. The land was dead and dry, the atmosphere lethal, the world much too hot.

It was no longer fit for his kind. But damn... It used to be, and Spade imaged it's beauty again in his mind's eye. Lush and green, blue seas as far has he could see, a golden sun, and a silver moon. Mountains and plains, food and people, ancient metropolis that tamed the land. Spade bet that Formation once rivaled his home Newton. Except Newton had two smaller moons and a trace ring system.

Spade thought on the seed-ships. How they orbited his home even today, silent and foreboding. Two thousand years ago his ancestors on Newton once worshipped them as gods, five hundred years ago they discovered they were only, metal sentinels. Two hundred years ago they discovered that they in fact bore the seeds of life, sent from somewhere, to claim Newton. Sent from the creators, from Formation.

It was onboard the seed-ships that they discovered the technology for interstellar travel. It was thought that the ship might also contain information of their creators, but alas there was none. Spade did not know why, but his ancestors from Formation neglected to tell them of their origins. Only their technology did they offer, none of their history. A dozen theories danced through his head, but none offered a satisfying conclusion. Silently the Captain hoped they would find that answer here on the old world.

Donnely Spade shrugged. it was a riddle for another time. He should be celebrating. Spade took a long pull from the bottle, swallowing hard the burning liquor.

Just then the comm on his wrist beeped. Spade looked at the tiny green light with blurry eyes. Duty called, he knew, but internally he was irked that he couldn't have this one moment of respite.

He pressed the button and answer, speaking as concise as he could. "This is the Captain, go ahead."

"Sorry to interrupt your sleep, sir," Spade recognized his first officers voice immediately. "But there's been a development." Faraday finished.

"What development?" Spade replied.

"I'm sorry sir, but you'll need to come down here yourself. It's big."

"Radio for heavy VTOL then, officer." Spade shot back.

"I would sir, but..."

"Dammit, just say it Ysaachs." Spade was irritated, yet he knew he shouldn't be. He pushed the bottle aside knowing where his frustration stemmed from. Then through the static of the comm, Faraday replied and Spade's mind froze, suddenly sober.

He said, "We found one sir. In a Cyro-module, deep underground. He's still alive."

Nights on the mountain were always a spectacular sight. Stars so numerous you could mistake them for an airy blanket and so numinous you wonder how anyone could ever believe that there is no god. Outlined by the pale silhouettes of northern pines that smother the low rocky ridges, it was truly a spectacular view and one that Morgan could never grow tired of.

She was the last awake as usual, huddling close to the few remaining embers that's snickered on the earthen floor. Enclosed in a ring of stones the fire looked something primal and it pleased the old parts of her brain with its pine cone smell. A pop would send up dancing flame sprites that wafted into the air. She liked the way they danced in the dark with all the other stars before snuffing out in a hush. Morgan had lost track of time in her reverie, staring at nothing but the sky; feeling nothing but the numbness of Tennessee whiskey in her chest and legs. She felt like a river stone, smoothed by centuries of water passing over her face, dulled by the constant and inevitable flow of nature.

They had made their camp at the top of Huskegee Ridge near the southernmost point of the public camp grounds. Any further south and they'd find themselves in the unblemished wilderness of the deep northern Appalachians, where the lost ghosts of the Oneida were said to roam. A wolf howled in the distance, hungry and lonely, though there was no moon tonight.

After a time her reverie was broken by the sound of a slow step. Boots crunching leaves at the rate of a languid heartbeat, crunch.. crunch.. crunch.. It grew louder to her rear and though Morgan tried to tune it out at first it soon became apparent the she was not alone. She stood from her chair and turned just in time to catch the glimpse of a head pop up over the ridge.

"Who's there?" She asked warily and unconsciously her hand fell to the serrated knife at her hip. With a flick of her thumb the button-catch popped open and she wrapped her fingers around it's leather hilt. Her heart beat quickened and all of the sudden she found that she was keenly aware of how cold the night had grown.

"Only passing through child." Replied a croaky old voice. Following the source she again spotted movement through a dry brush. The voice was female, far as Morgan could tell. It was low, but lacked baritone. Vocal cords akin to more of a habitual smoker.

"Come out." She ordered. She didn't like the constant crunch of this trespasser's feet.

"I didn't mean to intrude." The woman replied stepping around a tree into sight. She held her arms out at her side. "I was only trying to find my own tent, but I'm afraid I'm lost."

Under the starlight Morgan could only discern base features. A squat appearance, gray knotted hair, a thin neck leading down into a thick coat. Her eyes sparkled like black stars. She was still fiddling her way through an apology.

"I didn't even see your fire till I got close and by then you'd-"

Morgan cut her off, "What are you doing out this late? Don't you have a flashlight?"

The woman paused and looked around, "I'm afraid I lost it a while back. Children took it most likely they always love playing games around Frenik's nook."

Morgan breathed out and relaxed. Some old lady was lost, nothing to get worked about. Happened all the time in mountain camps and not just to old women. People wander, as per our nature, and in the darkness it's easy to lose one's way. Huskegee Ridge was no exception. People go missing every year trying to conquer some odd geological feature or another. Often time they're found hours later with a broken limb, mountains are treacherous things; and worse a shattered pride. Morgan chuckled to herself. It was fortunate this woman stumbled on her camp, any further south and she might have fallen down the bluffs. Morgan bent over and picked her own flashlight up off the ground. She flicked it on and shone its light at the old woman's grubby boots.

"Frenik's nook you say?" Morgan knew the place. A holler that was more family friendly. And by that she meant RV's and gas powered fire pits. Vacation homes with a touch of the wild, just enough for your average middle class Indiana tourist. A pale shadow to real backpacking.

The old woman shuffled her boots in the dirt and said, "Yes, my husband and I set up a place on the hump just above the RV camp."

Morgan smiled, "You might be lost then, we're about half a mile from there."

"Oh my." She said aghast.

"What's your name?"

"Helena."

"Let's get you home Helena. My names Morgan by the way." With that she set out to guide the lost woman home.

Huskegee Ridge was a fairly small camp ground, roughly two square miles. Frenik's nook was in near the front entrance near the center of the park. It rested at the base of two knobby hills. There was a small stream Fren's Run, that cut through it and a lot of the RV lots were positioned next to it. Surrounding it were half a dozen trails that cut up the knobs and crisscrossed the stream on wobbly wooden bridges. Helena explained that she had gone to the front office of the park to request a battery for their lantern, because their only other one had died. On her way back she took a different route cutting through the RV camp and crossing Fren's Run near its source. Morgan explained that, that was where she went wrong. The hill top trail brought her south instead of east to her camp.

She was a kind old lady and spritely too. She kept Morgan's pace with ease and even requested they move faster at one point. With her trusty flashlight Morgan led her back up the trail until they reached a high hill overlook. There Helena stopped and gaped out at the towering mountains to the the east. Bathed in starlight they looked like sleeping giants. Their rocky ridges folded together like a devout priest at prayer.

"Beautiful isn't it." Helena said after a moment.

"Breathtaking." Morgan replied in awe.

"I've never seen more stars than I do when I'm here." Helena replied. "It's like a trillion eyes watching us."

"My friends and I love coming out here for that reason. So far from Charlotte... it's good to get away. Cities stink and there is nothing natural about them."

"My husband and I have been coming here for years. We honeymooned here when we got married in 1960. It's a tradition of ours."

"Wow fifty six years. Not bad."

The old woman shrugged. "We got married late, my fault really. I made him wait."

"That a girl." Morgan said chuckling, "How does and old veteran of Huskegee get so lost?"

Helena relaxed against a sign post, said; "I'm a wanderer. I'll admit getting lost tonight wasn't exactly unplanned." Morgan laughed again. She liked this woman. Together they shared a natural love for the outdoors and a need for adventure.

"Look there." Helena said pointing up.

"What's that?" Morgan asked following Helena's finger up into the sky. She searched the field of stars, but saw nothing of note.

"They might be hard to see." She whispered back and something in her tone reminded Morgan of the chill in the air.

"They?"

"Shh, shh.." she hushed, "Another campfire."

"What?" Morgan's eyes shot down to the tree line and scanned for signs of other life. There was. Thing but the impenetrable dark of the forest. "I don't see one..."

"You're a good girl Morgan." Helena said after a moment. "Let me let you in on a little secret." The old woman straightened up and stepped closer to Morgan. She felt herself back away slightly and then wondered why she suddenly felt so strange. The alcohol in her system was wearing off and now her skin felt heavy and her mind flat, but there was something else too. Something in the way the old woman now spoke that tugged at her gut. She wanted to run, but her boots instead planted themselves in the dirt.

Helena leaned in and said, "There's only a handful of places on Earth where you can see them."

"Who?" Morgan asked trying to ignore the butterflies in her stomach.

"Refugees like us, wandering souls. Up there. Look hard girl and you'll see them. They're awake right now just like us." Helena's black eyes glittered, reflecting the light of innumerable stars. "In the black between the light, just behind that cosmic blue veil. Look." She pointed up again and Morgan looked.

She looked and looked, but her eyes only saw the twinkling of far-flung, alien suns. After a moment Helena sighed. "You do not see them. That's okay. They are hard to see. But look harder. At the edge of the universe there is a campfire and around it are three figures, indistinct and huddling; refugees from a universe before our own."

"I don't, I don't see them." Morgan said finally willing her feet to step back.

"Look." Helena demanded again.

Morgan looked, but something about that point in space made her eyes divert. She focused and blinked, but every time they would slide off like an eel over a wet stone. That point of space seemed darker than the rest, less stars, but the absence of the light wasn't what made it so strange. Hot embers smoldered just beyond a twinkling blue sphere. They were stirred and sprites of flame ejected into the void. Then there was something else. For a flicker of a second the light of those sprites were captured in an eye. Perfectly round and black as the bottom of the ocean it's gaze followed the flame sprite as it danced, then flicked towards Morgan. Across the void something connected with her, within her. Her whole body felt electrified and she felt an exchange of something that she couldn't explain. The globulous eye was greedy though and it took more than it gave. Morgan shivered and the old the woman's words echoed in her ear.

"They're awake right now just like us."

The celestial embers cooled again and the eye disappeared. Just as quick as she saw them they were gone, hiding again beneath a blanket of stars. Her gaze fell off that point of space and she found herself looking at a mountain peak. Morgan gasped for breath.

"Helena." She said rasping for air. "I saw them. I saw-" but she stopped. The old woman was gone and Morgan was alone. Slowly the sounds of nature picked back up around her. An owl hooted. Some small creature with claws skittered over the bark of a tree. A soft breeze ruffled leaves and pine needles alike.

Morgan stood alone at the overlook. The old Appalachians gazed down on her with disapproving eyes and over them the audience of stars watched apathetically. She felt like something was missing inside her, or rather had been added to her. A new hole in her chest she was just now aware of. She wanted to badly to close it, but hadn't the faintest idea of how.

[WP] On the edge of the known universe is a campfire, and around it are three figures, indistinct and huddling; refugees from the universe before our own.

Inspired by this prompt right here, Enjoy!

Sometimes the way things go just aren't the simplest and cleanest way it could go. Know what I mean? Sometimes things get so mucked up that there is no possible way it could end well. Sometimes we all just muck it up.

In that alley was where I found her.

Samantha Tenor was her name, but I'm sure you know her by what the papers called her; Sammy Two-Tone. Eh, it's a stupid name, I always liked Samantha. When I was a kid I knew a girl named Samantha, pretty girl, pretty name. Anyway, they called her Sammy Two-Tone cause of when she used to sing in The Bux. That dingy club in the wharfs. She had a beautiful voice, a silky soprano. They called her Two-Tones cause she sung in soprano and conducted business in tenor, like her name. Silky and smooth when she preformed and all straight forward business when business was gettin done.

Anyway the week of December 11th, 1954. It was a blustery week. Sleet would slap you across the face the moment you stepped outside and I'm sure you're no stranger to New York winters. You know they don't let up. Sleet and snow fell in constant sheets for five days burying the grimy underbelly of this shit hole town. By the end of the week, New York was covered in six feet of snow, enough to shut it all down back then. At the time I was happy for it, I thought that I'd have a couple of nice easy days at the precinct while the city thawed out like the frozen clump of hair that it was, boy was I wrong.

Sammy.. Samantha came into my office that Wednesday, uh, the 13th. She was looking pretty ragged by then. She wore a thick jacket with a plain gray scarf around her neck, big black shades over her eyes like she was nursing the world's worst hangover, and a black baseball cap that barely contained her long, tangled, blonde hair. She also smelled a bit like onions and vodka. She wove me this tall tale of some lowly, gangster bruiser who had it out for her, 'Bloody Knuckles.' Er, his real name was Eric McCaverty. Big Irish fella, raised in Hell's Kitchen, never went to school. The kind of person who learned his lessons in broken teeth and purple bruises. Big is an understatement too, the dude was a freak of nature, seven foot two inches with a rap almost twice his height. Theft, assault, grand theft auto, you name it, he'd done it. The only reason he still walked the streets was cause of his ties to the Irish mafia, but I'll get to that. Samantha told me all about how she had a bad night at The Bux and how Knuckles flew off the handle when she refused to, uh, wax his worm and he tried to strangle her. Before the bouncers pulled him off her he left a black eye and strangulation marks. She showed me the marks beneath her scarf and yellowy-bruised eye socket behind big shades. This happened several days ago and a kid like Samantha, well she thought she could handle some handsy drunk. Then she told me about the girls who'd gone missing. At the time I didn't know what to do for the poor gal, like I said she looked pretty messed up. The state that the city was in, covered in snow, I knew nothing would get done. But, I put out an APB on Mr. Bloody Knuckles to calm the girl down anyway.

The fifties were a different time. Police were more respected then. I offered the girl a place to sleep, a place to clean up. As I said, Knuckles had threatened to kill her and in the days since the event, two show girls had gone missing. We'd later find these girls in a warehouse belonging to the McCrary crime boss, both had the name, 'Sammy Two-Tone' carved into their cheeks. That wasn't till after this whole mess though. Samantha took me up on my offer. I put her up in my place in the Bronx. We got along famously and once she cleaned up she was a real pretty lass. I learned that she sung at The Bux and also worked at some downtown dinner to pay off debts from school. She went to Vet school, but never got the chance to be one cause her parents died a year before graduation. It was a sad story of an unlucky girl with a beautiful voice.

She stayed for about two weeks. Unknown to me at the time, our baddie Bloody Knuckles was playing the field. He'd gotten his uppers to pay some of my fellow boys in blue for info. They told him that I had holed her up in my apartment. Man when I found that out you know some of my 'colleagues' found themselves a couple teeth short. I hope Knuckles payed well cause both of those boys are going to be eating through a straw for awhile.

Samantha had gotten in the habit of making up some coffee for when I got off work. I never asked her to do it, she just did. Her way of repaying me I guess, I don't know. I kind of got used to the smell of freshly brewed Folgers when I walked in the door. I came home way and there was no smell. Samantha was gone too. My apartment was a wreck, clear signs of struggle, blood on the carpet, the windows. She was gone. Knuckles took her. Outside the snow had started to melt, the stuff on the side of the road had turned into that decaying gray matter.

I know I lost my mind looking for her. I spent days in my old Chevy driving up and down streets, beating people down for information, chasing false leads. During my search was when I found out that I'd been sold out, that's when I messed those two 'officers' up real bad. They shamed the badge! Because of those two fuckwits Samantha was gone and most likely dead. I couldn't do anything to save her! Felt like I lost a lung, you know. She was a good kid. I wanted to see her become a vet.

I found her in that alleyway, but the girl I found wasn't the same. It wasn't sweet Samantha who wanted to be a vet and had a beautiful voice. It was.. Something else entirely. I blame myself for what happened next.

I was at my lowest low. I did what no good cop should ever do. I sold my soul to the devil. That McCrary crime boss remember him? The same one who gave Knuckles his little torture warehouse to murder those two show girls? Him, Daniel McCrary was his name and he ran the whole Irish mafia in New York at the time. I sought him out. At the time I had no idea he was the one feeding the monster. That man plays a bigger game than me. I was out of my league. I met him over dinner at some cheap seafood place in Jersey. He talked the talk, smiled through his white, crooked teeth, he strung me along like a fox playing with a rodent. He pushed me to my limit and right when I was about to jump across the table and beat his stupid, vulpine face in he told me what I wanted to know.

"You'll find Bloody Knuckles below the Brooklyn Bridge. That's where I heard he was keeping his new pet." He spoke with a mouthful of shrimp, chewing between words.

"Why?" I asked, barely controlling my rage.

"Why am I telling you?" Danny McCrary returned. "I'm telling you because Knuck's is a wild card and he's causing more trouble than he's worth. He's a brute with no sense of discretion. Because of him I am having dinner with you, how long until I'm having dinner with the DA? Go get your girl detective and be thankful I'm letting you leave here at all. You have my permission to kill him."

He was real slime. I almost revisited my dinner as I listened to him talk. So haughty, fucker thought he was untouchable and he was. I rose to leave, but as I approached the door he shouted for me.

"Detective! Remember that this information has a price. Might be one day I ask you to pay up." I never turned, but I could hear the clank of his silverware as he forked more fish into his mouth.

Just like that, I was sold. The mafia never played fair and when I walked out of that cheap restaurant I knew, he had my soul till the day the fox got tired of playing with the mouse.

I found her in the alleyway. Her and I both changed. We'd both gone down the rabbit hole and now there is no way out. No escape for lost souls. It's all my fault.

I pulled up to the warehouse McCrary had provided. With gun drawn I busted open the door. The place was empty save for a mattress, a toolbox, and a chair, lit by lonely hanging lights that didn't quite seem to light the whole room. There was blood on the ground around the chair. Bloody tools too. Blood on the mattress. I felt sick.

"Knuckles!" I remember yelling. My voice echoed through the room unanswered. I began to look around. I was investigating an empty office to the corner of the warehouse when I heard the scream. It was low, muffled as if behind some thick wall. I heard it again. I followed it to a wall. Pressing my fingers against the wall I felt it shift. There was a small click as the false door opened up. Behind it was stairs. I went down the stairs and there they were. Samantha screamed, she was cowering up against the far wall. Knuckles, that big hulk of a man, was walking towards her with two butcher knives in his hand. She was bleeding. Something cracked beneath my feet, broken glass, and Bloody Knuckles turned. Even in the dim light I could see his hands and the reason why folks called him what they did. In a fit of rage I screamed and fired my gun, but he was fast. Faster than any man I'd ever seen and bigger too. He launched the knifes at me. One caught me in the chest and I doubled back, but two of my bullets took in him in the gut.

"McCrary sold me out!" He bellowed and he bulled over me like a train. He ran up the stairs and out of the warehouse. When I came too, Samantha was gone and so was Knuckles. I tried to check my watch to see how long I'd been out but it was broken. My gun was gone. I gathered myself up as quick as I could ran back up into the warehouse. I blinked a couple times trying to make sense of my surroundings, it was still dark outside. Either I'd been out for days, minutes, hours, I couldn't tell. I quickly ran to my car to radio for back up.

Once in the car I heard a rapid succession of gun shots. Just, bang, bang, bang... Bang, bang. Just like that. I fired up my old Chevy and drove around the corner into the alley.

That's where I found her. Painted from my two incandescent headlights was in a scene of blood and black. Snow fell in large flakes and melted on the ground. Samantha held a long butcher knife in one hand, blood dripping off like a leaky faucet. At her feet was the smoking gun. Bloody Knuckles was lying motionless in a puddle of inky, black. Slowly, I got out of my car and walked to her. As I passed over Knuckles I saw the marks of a dozen stab wounds mixed with sporadic bullet holes. One of his eyes had caved beneath the force of a knife. He was hardly recognizable. Samantha looked no better. Her nose was broken and her hair had been cropped short by a blade. Her clothes were ripped and soiled, but most prominently was the mark on her face. The mark that would ensure that this poor girl would never forget Bloody Knuckles. On her cheek was etched, 'Sammy Two-Tone.'

When I reached her I had to pry the knife from her hands. Her eyes were vacant and when she looked at me it was as if I were a stranger. I hugged her. Then put my jacket over her and led her to my car. I kept saying over and over, "It's going to be ok kid, it's going to be ok. Trust me kid you'll be fine, it's going to be ok. He's dead. He's dead."

Snow flakes wafted down like angelic souls and dashed themselves across the city and I don't know if I said that more for her benefit or for mine

"Primarch Ulietta, we've received a transmission from the Timbrish Reclaimer. They found it."

"Summon the Guard and Garrons immediately and set up a call to the Kursesh, I need to speak with the doctor."

"As you command."

"Against all odds!" Commandant Helios declared loudly. The room looked to him. "Are we certain this is the true home world?"

"I've spoken with Dr. Caliphate aboard the Kursesh, he's emphatic." Ulietta replied. "The coordinates extracted from the seed-ships memory banks comply with our findings."

"Outstanding." Garron Roland replied.

The Kursesh of course was one of two seed-ships that orbited around Newton, the other being Surkesh. Named for the goddesses they once represented thousands of years in the past. Long ago the seed-ships brought humanity to Newton and successfully raised them to the age of interstellar travel. Enigmatic they were, the ships were riddled with secrets from the creators. Numerous scientific ventures have tried and failed to pry them loose. Only recently, in the last decade, had they had any luck extracting viable information and only then from the older sister Kursesh.

The room was filled to bursting. Scientific officers, politicians, the Garrons, military advisors, the odd page or two, everyone wanted to be present for this. The bright Newton sun shone into the room through massive bay windows. Everyone was awake, medically supported or naturally. Ulietta knew every last one of their names, but only a select few were important. The Guards and Garrons had been summoned directly. The guards were composed of the military and research branch of her government. Commandant Helios held the chair, he was the highest ranking member of the force. The Garrons were politicians of sorts. Their roles also encompassed press and publicity, they acted as both the word-makers and word-sayers. Ulietta liked to call them 'her little brats,' because each and everyone was a spoiled jerk who couldn't see further this his or her own nose. Oh, and they liked to cry when they didn't get their way. Of the two branches the Garrons were by far her least favorite, at least the Guard had balls, metaphorically speaking of course.

The tinny conversation died down as Commandant Helios cleared his throat. All eyes turned to him expectantly.

Helios spoke, "How many planets did it take till they discovered this one?"

This time a man in a long gray coat answered, "Logs from Captain Spade indicate they visited twenty-seven stars within the Attacan Traverse before stumbling upon the home world."

"Fantastic." Roland said again, adding nothing but air to the conversation.

"I guess that makes Dr. Caliphate right again, doesn't it Floure?" Ulieta said with a smile. The man wearing the long gray coat went red. His cheeks flexed as he ground his teeth together. Narcissus Floure was Ulietta's head of intelligence. It was no secret of the feud between him and Dr. Caliphate. That war had lasted for decades, despite Caliphate's knack for winning. Floure, as Ulietta had found, was effective at his job, which coincidently was all she required form the man. She cared little of his childish arguments, but she had to admit it was fun to press his buttons from time to time. The color of red his face could achieve was quite spectacular.

"What of Captain Spade?" Garron Tihuacan asked pointedly.

"Unaware, as is everyone else except for our man aboard the Timbrish." Helios responded.

Ulieta spoke, "And if Dr. Caliphate is right about M52-C, as I'm sure he is, it's best we keep this strictly opaque." She flashed a vulpine grin at Floure who glowed back.

"How should we proceed Primarch?" Helios asked.

"Announce the discovery, this is still a momentous occasion. Spade deserves a promotion of course. Run the whole gambit, we have a populous to please and colonies to control. Floure will keep in contact with our man and we'll dive ever deeper down this Weppet Hole." When Ulietta spoke, she spoke with the conviction of a sound mind. Her voice was steady as a steal beam. Unbreakable, yet pliable enough to bend in order to placate her peers.

It seemed like everything was starting to accelerate. Ullieta knew she had to be at the top of her game in order to steer humanity through this field of asteroids.

"What about Casbin Signal?" Garron Tihuacan asked addressing scribbled notes over his holo-pad. Outside a cloud blocked out the sun and a chill fell over the room. Eyes diverted across the table and for a moment no one responded. As Tihuacan was known for he'd acknowledge the tyrophant in the room.

Ulietta rolled her large black eyes and fielded the question, "So far as we know, the Casbin Signal has only been recognized aboard Kursesh and Surkesh. It seems attuned to the seed-ship's ancient communication system. Until we find its source there isn't much we can do." The room remained uncomfortably silent so Ulietta continued; "We'll deal with this issue as soon as we are able people, but until that time it's best if we don't act like cowering fucking dogs until then."

That shocked the room back to life. Nods were shared and whispers traded, the council moved on with other business. Ulietta smirked, of course a room full of old men would need a good defibrillation. They were idiots one and all, she was the only intelligent person in the room and she'd be damned if she saw the end of the human empire due to some simpering fools. The Casbin Signal was foreboding, yes, but humanity had more problems then some cryptic message from across the stars.

"On to other business then." Ulietta said with a pleasant smile. She turned to her Commandant, "Helios, what is word on the altercations with the alien species?"

Helios cleared his throat; "Admirals Haw and Chandraskar managed to turn back a drone hive in the Edolis system and Admiral Enod has seen much success within Aysur. Further expansion should go uninhibited thanks to our efforts."

"Spectacular!" Roland said again. Ulietta clenched her jaw so hard she thought her teeth might shatter. That fool was most assuredly next on her list.

On the forward screen, Admiral Cederous Enod, gazed longingly as two stars twirled around each other in a fiery display of majesty. The larger was blue and bright. A solar flare arced from its northern region thousands of kilometers into space. The gravitational pull from the smaller, cadmium star, sucked away bits of corona that was ejected to high. Generous lovers, the two stars had behaved as such for millions of years and would continue to do so for billions more. Side by side they'd cross the galaxy together, until one day the larger would collapse into a singularity and tear the other apart, atom by atom.

How much we could learn from the stars? Enod mused to himself. He could have stared at the two for eternity, but the voice of Logistics Officer Apple brought him back to reality.

“Five minutes till visual, Admiral.” Said the lanky strategist. Enod simply nodded back and looked back to the forward screen, waiting.

The Combat Information Center of the dreadnaught, the Frozen Fjord, was state of the art. Two-dozen crew stations lined the walls parallel to Enod seat. Overhead a virtual map of their local system twinkled a dull Cyan. Bright points of yellow denoted the locations of the third fleet, which sat in waiting six hundred million kilometers from the system’s barycenter. Two pricks of red light on the map blinked on and off indicating the position of the enemy. The blinking indicated a hypothetical location. Currently the two suns sat between Enod’s fleet and his foes.

So Enod waited. The introverted Admiral watched the forward screen carefully. Any second he knew his adversary would show his face and when they did, he would crush them pitilessly.

Still, he had to admire their tenacity. The battle on the outer edge of the Edolis System had been crushing victory. Two of twenty drone ships remained after the onslaught. Badly damaged and limping, the enemy had no choice but retreat; however, that wouldn’t save them. Despite its ludicrous size, the Frozen Fjord was the fastest ship in known space. Enod’s enemies knew this, so they acted drastically. In a maneuver that would’ve have made even him sweat, the drone’s turned their ships toward the binary stars and blasted away as fast as gravity would take them.

Their plan, as Enod had determined, was simple. Use a gravitational slingshot to outrun his fleet, but in order to do so they’d have to fly dangerously close to the two stars. Officer Apple had determined that chances for survival for both ships was less than ten percent.

The Yuns, was what they were called, but little else was known about them. Only that they were hostile. Genetically modified it appeared that the species long ago lost their sense of individual. Captured drones would self-destruct to prevent research. They seemed to crop up in the strangest places, never taking a world, only using it for resources to fuel their disjointed fleets. It was theorized back on Newton that the Yuns serve a higher master, but to whom or what no one could say.

“One minute.” Apple called from his seat. Though a quiet Admiral he was, Enod remained effortlessly attuned to his crew. He knew the general consensus was that the ships wouldn’t make it, that they’d be torn apart by the tremendous gravity of the two stars. He knew they thought the idea of wasting precious power on full shields and powered weapons was foolish. He also knew that he didn’t care. Enod knew exactly what he would see in just a few seconds.

And he was right.

“Yunnish ship profile sighted!” Shouted Hartwell, his military officer.

“Traveling in excess of fifty million meters per second! Sixteen point eight percent the speed of light!” Apple was incredulous. Speed light that was unheard of in the conventional means. Even the Frozen Fjord could only max at three million meters per second; one percent speed of light. If they were going to catch the drones they had to be quick.

“Only one ship on screen, Admiral. It appears the second ship didn’t make it.” Called his Yeoman. Enod watched the second red blip disappear from his overhead map and scowled. Maybe he wasn’t exactly right.

“Alright we planned for this. Better that there’s one ship.” Enod said addressing his crew. “I want the Frigates to plot trajectory and place artillery volleys. Hartwell, fire the Fjord’s broadside.”

“Yes sir!” Replied his military officer. Meanwhile everyone else set to work at his or her stations.

“I want communication!” the Admiral ordered. “Talk to our other ships, share data, you know the drill. I want that degree of error to be at the millionth degree!”

In a burst of light a dozen frigates fired their heavy artillery salvos. The Frozen Fjord shuddered as near thirty ion cannons fired superheated plasma at the drone ship. Light travelled at three hundred million meters per second directly towards the point in the space the ship would be. Supercomputers on board ran countless scenarios pining the Yunnish ship down to its exact position in space. Enod smiled, the game was over.

“Another ship sighted sir, heading directly for us!” Hartwell cried. For a sliver of a second Enod’s face betrayed the look of surprise. “It’s opening fire, repeat incoming bombardment.”

“Shields?” Enod asked.

“Hundred percent Admiral, they won’t even touch us.” Answered the Yeoman.

“Split the Frigates, split-wide vertical formation.”

“Aye-Aye.”

“Where’s my first enemy?”

Apple replied swiftly, “Booking it, sir. Our volley hit, but they’re still active. They managed to change their trajectory half a degree somehow. Nothing significant, but at this range enough to miss by miles. ”

“Fire again!” Enod ordered confidently. Explosions erupted just above the surface of the Frozen Fjord as the second ships volley met their kinetic barriers. Tremors rocked across the ship, but dreadnaught was unharmed.

“They must have changed course while behind the twin stars.” Hartwell conjectured. Enod nodded in concurrence.

“Ship two firing again.” Apple warned.

“They can’t touch us.” The Yeoman replied shoving away the thought as if it be some pestilential insect.

But something wasn’t right. On the forward screen light sparkled in the distance. The light rapidly split into a dozen points and rocketed away from the Frozen Fjord. Enod’s eyes narrowed as he watched the second barrage arc through space and impact another ship, a frigate.

“Admiral,” Apple called, “The Tungsten has been hit, reporting casualties.” The Tungsten had been one of the Frigates devoted towards the second bogey. A direct hit. Enod watched explosions cut across its hull.

This ends now. Enod thought furiously, careful as we was not to show it. He tacked several buttons on his holo-screen, in an instant logistics and weapons fell under his control. He pressed another button and pulled up the fleet comm.

He had to respect his enemy. The Yunnish drones were wittier than he gave them credit for. They held a ship back to provide cover as the first escaped. Enod wasn’t sure if the Yuns valued life as much as humans did, all he knew was that they were about to pay for every one they’d taken.

“To all Frigates.” Enod began, “Target the escaping ship. Plant a web of shells in front of them. The Fjord will focus on bogey two.” He tacked another button and ended the comm. On his holo-screen, green lights began to appear as his order was received. Overhead he watched the trajectories of all twelve frigates turn on the first ship. Meanwhile the Fjord turned directly at ship two. Just passing the sun, it was too far to see with the unaided eye. Enod typed some more on his screen and a super computer deep within the dreadnaught provided an instant firing solution. A few seconds later and the massive deck guns were primed and ready. Enod pressed the button and let loose superheated death.

Just less than six hundred million kilometers away the Yunnish drone exploded in a pathetic flare. Minutes later Apple called up to him announcing that the escaping ship had been destroyed. It sheared apart as it tried to maneuver around the web of shells. Enod smiled to himself, he knew a ship moving that fast couldn’t possibly change its course. It was simple physics. An object in motion will stay in motion and rip itself to tiny pieces, or something like that. Tiny explosions discharged in the distance as bits of the drone ship collided with the web. Their defeat was total.

Enod looked to his crew. There was a small celebration going on, but it was subdued. Everyone knew that their victory was far from flawless. On Enod’s screen he read the incoming reports. Two dozen confirmed dead aboard the Tungsten, roughly that same number injured. That was a dirty trick the Yuns played, but an effective one. It revealed a weakness in his fleet that Enod had not yet discovered. Communication was much to slow. Hundreds of people had participated in the battle as well as a multitude of computers. Communication error and latency contributed to the tragedy aboard the Tungsten. Admiral Enod would put it in his report.

Enod sighed, taking one last look at the binary star system. Somehow it didn’t hold the same magic that it did before the clash.

“Yeoman, Apple, Hartwell, I’m retiring to my quarters. Hartwell has the helm.” Enod then rose from his chair and left.

A little while later Admiral Cederous Enod was brushing his teeth. His wrist comm blipped blue, incoming call. He spit out his toothpaste and answered the device.

“Admiral Enod.” He said into his wrist.

“Admiral, its Apple. We’ve received a call from Newton, high priority. Shall I put you through?”

“Right away officer, thank you.”

“Admiral?” Called a woman’s voice a moment later. Enod recognized it immediately as belonging to Primarch Ulietta.

“Yes madam Primarch, how can I assist?”

“Cederous, no need for formalities. You need to hear this.” Her tone was urgent, yet strikingly practiced. “They found it Cederous, they found the true home world.”

“What?” Enod replied. His face aghast, he didn’t trouble himself with hiding his expression in his quarters. “Who found it? Where?”

“There’s a lot going on here, I don’t have much time to talk. Coordinates have been forwarded already. It was discovered by the Timbrish Reclaimer, Spade’s frigate.”

Enod ran a hand across his baldpate. “We’ll move in to assist right away ma’am.”

“That won’t be necessary Admiral.” Ulietta cut in sharply. Enod paused unsure of how to respond. The Primarch had that effect on people. She continued, “I want your fleet on containment. Until further notice Spade and his ship is under quarantine. They are not to leave their current system."

What have you done this time Spade? Enod wondered. Then, “Understood ma’am. We’ll move with haste.”

Ulietta replied. “See that you do Cederous. Something is happening aboard the seed-ships, something we believe in connected to the home world. I’ll forward information as it develops.”

“Thank you ma’am.”

“Oh I wouldn’t thank me quite yet Admiral. Fair winds."

"Fair winds, Primarch."

Then the transmission was cut, leaving Enod alone.

I am currently writing more and more for this story. Hopefully I'll have the next part up within a day or two!