Author's Note: \*I have always wondered about the faceless henchmen in movies. The mercenaries beaten by a James Bond or Jason Bourne. Many of those men and women have families. What if there was a story about one of them and the story intersects with a known scene from an action movie, but from their perspective like Rosencrantz and Guildenstern are Dead. This is the story of the henchman motorcyclist at the 11:11 minute mark of Deadpool. He was the only “bad guy” to escape alive from the opening fight scene on the bridge. I am assuming for the sake of the story that the escaping motorcyclist is not Ajax who shows up later in the scene on a bike. An earlier scene shows multiple henchman next to bikes so it’s possible one escaped).\* *\*\*This is an abridged version for Reddit.\*\**  Link to part 1:  **Chapter: Dr. Ford** In the ensuing months, the MCU were called on five times to respond to mutant activity. The spike in the MCU’s operations, despite years of inactivity was not lost on many of the senior commanders. What they did not know was that the Deputy NSC Advisor for Mutant Affairs and nominal leader of the MCU, Dr. Theodore Ford, was in cahoots with sectors of the Canadian government running the modern version of the Weapons X program. Dr. Ford maintained communication with Dr. Killebrew the lead scientist running the initiative. The uptick in “run-ins” was not accidental. Dr. Ford was a true believer in Project X and over the course of his long government career, covertly helped move resources and funding across the border to support the program. Dr. Killebrew was always a rogue (pun intended) and lately the Program had gone out of hand. This was an understatement considering what happened with James Howlett but that was way before their involvement and those sins were redeemed by Alpha Flight and later Howlett’s inclusion into the X-Men. That’s at least what Dr. Ford told himself. What Dr. Killebrew was doing now was wrong. His own private army. It was supposed to be OUR private army. An army of loyal mutants. Loyalty was determined by implanted explosive devices in their brains, a technology he knew Dr. Killebrew had not perfected yet. Who did he think he was? Shutting me out like this, Dr. Ford thought. Selling mutants for financial gain? Without him getting a piece. Did he think he could get away with it? That he wouldn’t know. Their mutants were never supposed to hurt civilians but yet, it had happened. Time and time again. Hence, this was the reason Dr. Ford maneuvered himself into leading the MCU and expanding it. The rising casualties caused ample justification (although few within the general public outside of a few journalists suspected mutant connections to many of the murders). He had to stop whatever plots Dr. Killebrew had cooked up and bring him back into the fold. Dr. Ford knew the situation was actually worse. Dr. Killebrew was not only stepping out on his own and going solo but was also losing control. The escapes, the random attacks. The successful capture and interrogation of the mutants, Worm Cunningham and Jacques confirmed his suspicion that Dr. Killebrew and this…Ajax, his apparent number 2 were going rogue. It would soon get out in the open. In the meantime, this Ajax was worth looking into. Dr. Ford felt a tickle in his brain as he pondered next steps. **Chapter – Professor X** A few days later, Professor X is testifying before the Senate Intelligence Committee. The hearing is at his behest. PROFESSOR X – I have information and updates regarding the covert program in Canada called Weapon X. You’ve been briefed before on Weapon X and each of you have met Wolverine, who came out of that program. Dr. Killebrew, who has led the program for years, is using it to ultimately create his own private army. In the near-term he is selling mutants to the highest bidder. Mutants from this program are connected to a few deadly incidents where civilian lives were lost. SENATOR MARSHALL – How do we know this isn’t just to provide new members for Alpha Flight. PROFESSOR X – I know for a fact that many of the recent run-ins with mutants which have resulted in over a dozen deaths, have been from mutants created from Project X. I also have proof that Dr. Theodore Ford is working with Dr. Killebrew. Or, until very recently was working with him. “There is a murmur among the Senate committee members until the Chair brings everyone to order.” CHAIRMAN LUNDGREN – You signed an agreement with our government, and with most governments of the world that you would not eavesdrop into people’s minds. Can you assure us that this…intel….did not come from a violation of that agreement? PROFESSOR X – It did not… CHAIRMAN LUNDGREN – Where then…how do you know this? PROFESSOR X – I cannot say unfortunately Chairman Lundgren looks at Charles skeptically. **Chapter - Ajax** Several weeks later the MCU is disbanded out of fear that its ranks are filled with traitors and a prevailing concern across Congress and the White House that the recent increase in mutant attacks was used as a justification for expanded funding and operations. That was true and untrue. The members of the MCU are given a choice, return to their former billets or retire with a pension. Jason is filled with rage at the news. He feels that it means the loss of his friends were meaningless. He chooses to retire, after short stints in the Army and MCU. Instead of moving back to Colorado he chooses to live in New York City which was where many of his most recent operations occurred. He takes a small apartment in Brooklyn and is in Manhattan when he gets a call from one of his MCU comrades, Danny Kehoe. Danny tells him about an opportunity for “guys like us.” Bored and rudderless, without hesitation Jason asks Danny to make the connection. A day later Danny and Jason are escorted into an office suite in a nondescript office lot in Yonkers, NY. The job description had gotten to Danny through MCU word of mouth. The job responsibilities were varied, interdictions, escort, personal security, …what caught both men’s eye was that the job had experience working with mutants as a highly preferred qualification. Since the Unit was super-secret he wasn’t sure how they were even targeted. Soon after they sat down, a door to one of the corner offices opens and a man in his 30s in a leather jacket and jeans walks up with a smile on his face. FRANCIS: Hi, I’m Francis Freeman. Thanks for coming. I’ve been a huge fan of you guys, from afar. Despite you being a thorn in my craw. I manage a workshop which you’ve no doubt heard of. One that you’ve had a front row seat…Project X. Both Danny and JASON exchange looks. The rumors were true. FRANCIS: \*misreading the looks\* “Yes, yes I know all about the Mutant Containment Unit. You’d be surprised at the friends we have in high places JASON: You’ve killed innocent people… FRANCIS: No! No. I mean, yes. But not intentionally. Some of our clients got out of hand and it was us that requested help from the MCU and X-Men. Our purpose is to recreate Alpha Flight, and other teams of benevolent and heroic mutants. The events in the 80s and 90s demonstrate that the X-Men are not enough. We would have handled the runaways with our own but due to… complications we’re not there yet. DANNY: Looks like you have a tough time keeping the animals in the zoo…. maybe shut it down? FRANCIS: But we’ve made so much progress, I’d like to show you…. DANNY and JASON exchange looks, and simultaneously shrug. DANNY: Sure, why not. The three men travel to the elevators. Francis opens a hidden compartment and scans a digital reader. The elevator moves down. Danny and Jason exchange nervous looks as the elevator keeps descending. Eventually it comes to a rest. The door opens to a dimly lit industrial looking facility with gangways, beams and what look to be housing units scattered throughout. JASON stares in amazement: How long has this been around… FRANCIS: Decades my friend. He points to a laboratory FRANCIS: This is where we give people a chance to achieve their dreams or have a second chance at a full life. Our clients include the terminally ill, the disabled. We give them abilities that will help the greater good. Several countries have purchased our mutants. JASON: Wait, you’re selling mutants? Like, to the highest bidder? Isn’t that slavery? FRANCIS: The mutants have full mental faculties and they willingly go. They come to us to become superheroes. We view them as our clients and our customers are those who procure their services and abilities. We ensure that our customers are morally upstanding. Both the US and Canadian governments are fully aware of our actions. Again, the only reason why the MCU was called in was to help us bring down the…abnormalities. JASON: What would we be asked to do? FRANCIS: We have shipments that will need escorts. Mostly from here to various airports, seaports and the like. There are elements, including rogue mutants, that would like to steal our valuable cargo, your experience is sorely needed and you will be paid handsomely. The two men tour the facilities walking by mutants in see through glass cages. DANNY: Looks like a zoo to me \*whispers to Jason\* Danny and Jason ultimately agree to join Francis’s outfit. With no base or living quarters, they drive into Project X facility from their homes like it’s a 9-5. During their first week, they get to meet the other members of The Detail, the informal name given to the ragtag bunch of Project X mercenaries. The Head of the Detail is Gustave Zola, a grizzled dishonorable discharge from France’s Action Division. In Jason and Danny’s second week they are given their first mission, a convoy escort to a remote helipad. **Chapter - Meet Deadpool** GUSTAVE: Ok listen up, the mission is simple. This will be a convey escort to Teterboro airport. At 1100hrs we will meet with the customer and transfer the three crates you see being loaded into the vehicles behind you. New guys! Jason and Danny, you will take rear and watch our six. The other bikes will guard our flanks. Mr. Francis wants to run point…despite my repeated advice that he need not endanger himself. Francis smiles wryly GUSTAVE: Anyway, you should be aware that elements of our supply chain have been targeted by a rogue mutant by the name of Deadpool. Gustave shows everyone a picture of Deadpool on a display screen. GUSTAVE: He is a mutant but his only powers are strength, speed and agility. You shoot him and he dies like any man. There’s no intel suggesting he is aware of today’s operation but keep your head on a swivel. From the airport, we go to Pier 6 in Manhattan where we will pick up supplies. The three crates contain three mutants, hibernating in specialized life support systems designed to keep them unconscious but alive during long duration transport. The contract involves three orders, with each spaced a month apart. The customer that Gustave referred to is Mazi Talik Bhat, a warlord from the war-torn Kashmir border region. These mutants are highly specialized to operate in high altitude and cold regions. They arrive at their first destination… CUT TO: AIRPORT RUNWAY Francis sits on top of a crate. A helicopter lands a few yards away. Some men get off. One in particular approaches him. Francis smiles and taps on a crate, standing up. FRANCIS: They won’t disappoint. TAZIN BHAT: They better not. What about next month’s shipment? FRANCIS: There won’t be one. You’re not the only one with a war to win. TAZIN BHAT: That won’t do. FRANCIS: See, we’ve had this small disruption to our supply chain. Francis grabs the man by the throat and lifts him into the air. FRANCIS: We’d appreciate your patience. TAZIN BHAT: Okay! FRANCIS: We’ll deliver in full the following month. Francis drops the man, who chokes a little. FRANCIS: Pleasure doing business with you. He walks away. He and his men leave. TAZIN BHAT: A mutant?! Some men grab the crates. Francis’s convoy drives off. (author's note, the excerpt above was pulled from the Deadpool script) Jason can’t believe what he just saw. Francis is a mutant? He had to be. Only a mutant had that kind of strength. In the distance, amid the din of engines, he can hear Francis yell “Let’s move out.” The convoy snakes out of the airport on to its next destination. Manhattan. Unbeknownst to Jason, Deadpool spots Francis’s convoy. In the distance up ahead, he sees someone in red drop from a bridge into Car #2 in the convoy. JASON: What the…?! He knows from the shattering glass and swerving that whatever is happening inside is not good…and we’re not winning. Is that Deadpool? Has to be. Unfortunately, Jason gets caught in the chain reaction of crashes and fender benders caused by the ongoing commotion and crashes into a sedan. His bike is caught in the sedan’s hitch handle JASON: Who puts a hitch on a sedan?? He motions the driver to move the car JASON: Move! The sedan driver creeps forward, freeing his bike. Good! It still works. He revvs the engine and starts for the chaos, unholstering his modified PP-2000. JASON: Oh man! Catching up to the fight, Jason can hardly believe what he’s seeing. Bodies, limbs, carnage…while he didn’t have time to really get to know his crew, their loss fills him with rage. He sees what remains of Danny, who must have been slammed against the sign up there and is now human lasagna. He also notices two of his crew get out of Car #4, approaching the car that Deadpool is in. He accelerates and is close enough to clearly see both men get shot in the head. JASON: Here’s my chance! Jason speeds toward Deadpool who is on the other side of the upturned Car #3, he weaves around cars in the road. He roughly knows where Deadpool is on the other side of the car. He can see his hands in the air after all? Is he surrendering? Doesn’t matter. Half his team is dead, this mutant is going down. He clears the car and sprays Deadpool with half a clip. JASON: He’s still standing?! I know I shot him at least twice. He stops and turns around, preparing for another charge. He sees Deadpool take aim and fire. Jason somehow ducks every shot. He can hear how close the bullets are to his head. He’s still alive somehow. He extends his weapon again and sprays Deadpool with a hail of bullets. He knows he shot him again. At least once. It’s like the first shots never hit him. Jason looks back. Stunned. Jason quickly realizes that he was lied to? This was no vulnerable mutant. This Deadpool was something different. More powerful. Whether he was bulletproof or had a force field, Jason was lied to once again. Lives lost. Unnecessarily. Again! Why? What am I doing here? This train of thought happened within seconds but it was enough to inform his next decision. He wasn’t going to circle back around for another pass. For what would surely be a suicide mission. No! He realized how fortunate he was. He felt his body to make sure the bullets whizzing by, shot by Deadpool, did not find their intended target. No, this was ABORT MISSION. He was out of there. He could only hear one other convoy motorcycle at this point. His bike and the other were the only remaining sounds from the Detail. The rest of the crew is dead. He holds out a sliver of hope that the mass of meat he saw on the ground wasn’t Danny. He knew deep down that it was him. He also hoped that the motorcycle he heard belonged to Francis Freeman. **He hoped Francis survived the battle with Deadpool because he had a debt to pay and Jason was going to be the collector.** This is the end of the story but it obviously is set up for a sequel.


First time posting a story publicly just for fun.. Here we go. *"Oh, what a day!" a man says as he sits down on the bench, "it’s after midnight, a bit late isn't it?" The man states looking at the teen sitting next to him. Broken from her daze the girl looks at him and replies "Oh, uh yeah I just needed a minute". Without breaking the focus of packing his pipe with tobacco the man says, "I'm Gus". Watching as the almost hypnotized girl replies " Hi I'm Liz". "What brings you out at such a late hour Liz? To the park of all places" Gus asks as he laughs and lights his pipe. "I mean, your parents must be worried?" Gus continues. Liz folds her arms, looks at the ground as she uses her foot to draw in the mud and says "with how much they are fighting, I doubt they even know I'm gone. Which does not even make sense, they aren’t together anymore". “Oh my, that’s never pleasant” Gus says as he looks up to the sky. Curious to the claim Gus asks, "Why do you say that?". Liz looks at him and says reaching for her bag "let's just say I haven't really been noticed lately by either of them, hence the reason I am here right now". She Pulls a bent cigarette out and puts it between her lips. As she goes to light the cigarette Gus takes it from her lips "These are bad for you". Irritated, Liz snaps back "you're one to talk, you're smoking a pipe". Gus laughs "I know it doesn’t seem fair, does it?", "fair has nothing to do with it" Liz says with a smirk on her face. "You know why I am here, so what brings you out here tonight Gus?" Liz asks. Gus stares off into the distance for a moment then says, "I have been coming to this bench for seven years, ever since the night I lost my granddaughter". Liz feels a lump form in her throat, a tear escapes as she plays with her lighter. After a moment of trying to figure out what to say, all Liz could think to say is "I'm sorry". Gus gives a reassuring smile then says, "I return to this spot every year, Sometimes I swear I can still hear her". Gus says before taking a long hit of his pipe. "What happened? If I may ask" Liz says in a slight mumble. Slightly choked up, Gus says "She was kidnapped" Gus says as a somber mood overtakes him. "Someone grabbed her from this bench while I had my back turned during a city festival in the park”. Gus runs his thumb on the rim of his old, yet polished pipe and says, “her name is Sarah, today is her birthday, she is fifteen". With a lack of words, Liz seems to only let out a melancholy "oh, I'm sorry". “I have never lost hope, even though everyone else have given up, saying she is most likely dead” Gus continues as he puts the pipe to his mouth. “Excuse my manners Liz, but how old are you?” Gus asks as he strikes a match, lighting his pipe. “Sixteen and a half” Liz says as she continues to play with her lighter. Gus nods and says “ah, around my granddaughters age”. After a moment Gus gets a thought and says “you’re sixteen and smoking? Oh my”. Liz shrugs and says “well what do you expect? I walk on eggshells around the house, smoking is my stress relief, and the park is my escape”. Gus nods and hands Liz back the cigarette and says, “I don’t blame you, sounds tense”. Liz straightens out the cigarette and lights it, “thanks Gus” Liz says blowing smoke out of her nose. Gus is silent for a moment then looks at Liz and says, “would you like to take a lap around the park on the path?”. Liz nods and cuts out her cigarette “sure Gus, it’ll give me time to let the smell of smoke air out of my clothes”. The two stand up and make their way to the well-lit path that circles the park. Gus and Liz walk for another hour. As Liz listens to Gus describe Sara, Liz notices Gus’s mood change and look like a heavy weight has been lifted off his chest. Towards the end of the walk, Gus looks at Liz and says, “thank you for listening to me ramble, may I hug you?”. Caught off guard, Liz says “um” immediately Gus interjects “I am so sorry, I didn’t mean to come off as creepy or anything”. “No, you are okay and yes Gus I’m sure we could both use that hug”. The two hug and say goodbye and goodnight and go their separate ways. Some months pass and the two strangers, who’s paths crossed one night on a park bench instantly clicked. when a beautiful day to spend at the park Liz wakes up and goes about her morning routine. Once ready for the day, Liz decides to go for a walk and ends up at the park. She decides to put her headphones in and heads down the path that she and Gus walked the night they met. About twenty minutes into the walk, Liz sees an opening to a pond with ducks that were not visible the night of their walk. So Liz decides to go sit on a rock near the pond. After a short time, Liz hears a familiar voice say, “hey there stranger” and turns around quickly to see Gus standing there in the grass a few feet away. Liz smiles and says excitedly “oh my gosh! I didn’t think I would run into you again”. Gus chuckles and says and lets out a laugh “well here we are, how have you been Liz?”. Liz looks out at the pond and ducks in the distance, “well a good thing is my parents have not argued as much lately” Liz says as she pulls out a cigarette. Gus notices the pressure and stands her up and hugs Liz. “Why the stress? Isn’t it nice to not have to be tensed and stress?” Gus asks as he pulls out a tissue from his pocket and wipes her tears away. Liz nods and says “yes, it is nice, but my dad left and now they’re getting divorced”. Gus is taken back by what Liz says and replies “I am so sorry, I didn’t know, I wouldn’t have asked”. Liz giggles and says “how could you have known? We haven't talked in a while”. Gus nods in agreement with Liz. Gus signals to the bench they first met at, and Liz says, “oh yeah, let’s move over there”. As they sit down, Gus asks “how long has it been since we last spoke”. Liz looks at him and says “well, I’m about to turn seventeen and I have my drivers permit”. Gus pats her shoulder and says, “that is great, you have been busy”. Liz smiles and asks, “what about you?”. Gus’s smile and mood changes from happy to sad as he tells Liz the news. Gus tears up and says, “they found Sara, but before I could get to the hospital she passed away, Sara told a nurse to tell me that she is in a better place and that she doesn’t blame me”. Liz's heart drops and she starts to tear up along with Gus and all she could muster up to say is “oh shit”. Gus with a lump in his throat, and a shaky voice just nods for there are no words he himself can muster up. The two sit in silence for what seems like hours, neither able to break the silence until Liz’s phone goes off. “I have to take this” Liz says as she stands up and walks a few feet away. After a brief conversation Liz returns to the bench. “I’m sorry” Liz says looking at the ground. Gus speaks up and says, “no need to apologize, it’s quite alright”. Just then they are approached by a guy holding a stack of papers, “hello folks, I would like to invite you to the city festival in the park”. Gus reaches out for the paper that is held out in front of him, and Liz can see his hand shaking and gets the paper for Gus. Liz notices that Gus’s breathing is increased and sees his hands shaking, and tears pouring down his face, so she turns to the man with the flier's thanks him and gets him to quickly leave. Liz turns her attention back to Gus and she walks over to him and rubs his back. Knowing he is having an anxiety attack due to her having anxiety too and knowing how it feels, Liz reaches into her bag and grabs her anxiety meds and the one of the waters she packed and hands it to Gus. Almost immediately Gus hands Liz the pill back to Liz and says, “I don’t take pills”. Liz says, “Are you sure?” before putting the pill back in the bottle. Gus nods and Liz puts the pill back. Liz sits next to Gus and rubs his back while she says, “you are safe” and “I am here and won't leave”. Gus does not speak but nods, for the next little while they sit there silently. Liz consoling a man that she met one time and barely knows. Liz puts those thoughts aside and realizes Gus’s breathing has returned to normal and he is not shaking as bad. In a mellow calm tone Liz says “hey, let’s walk around a little bit, a change of scenery. They get up and start walking and after a few minutes, Gus turns to Liz and says, “thank you”. Liz smiles and answers back “I have panic attacks at least twice a week, so if I can help someone else through theirs, I don’t mind”. Gus looks at Liz and asks, “you do?”, Liz nods and Gus continues “it sucks”. “Huh you can say that again, I hate having to take meds just to feel numb from it all” Liz says as she swings a stick she picked up along their walk. Confused, Gus asks “what do you mean numb to it all?”. Liz smirks and says, “I used to self-harm, with how much my mom and dad used to argue it became an escape that let me have control of something in my life". Gus tears up again and hugs Liz saying, “Oh my dear I’m sorry you got to the point that you turned to harming yourself, do your parents know?”. Liz shakes her head and says “no, I don’t think they would care much if they did”. At this point Gus is shook to his core, Liz continues “yep as long as I smile around them and live in my jacket, they assume I am happy and fine”. Liz sees how this is affecting Gus, so she ends the conversation with “but I am doing better now”. As they came to the end of the trail, Gus looks at his watch and says, “oh I best be going, but I do hope our paths cross again”. Liz smiles and says, “same here Gus” and heads home. Arriving back at home, Liz is met by her dad standing by his car saying “where the hell have you been? Your mother went to work so I’ve been waiting in my car for hours I thought about leaving”. Liz thinks and remembers that she was supposed to go to her dads for the weekend. “I’m sorry dad I completely forgot” Liz says pulling out her house key “give me a few minutes and I’ll be ready to go”. As Liz packs her bags she starts thinking about the past times of staying with her dad, remembering the lack of effort from her dad when it comes to getting to know her. When Liz returns home, she goes straight to the park to see if Gus was around so she has someone who seems to put in effort and cares enough to ask how she is doing. As Liz approaches the bench where she and Gus met, she notices that the bench has been replaced. “Wow a new bench, Gus will love this” Liz thinks to herself as she sits down. After a while of sitting on the bench and concluding that Gus must not be coming today or that she has already missed him, For the first time Liz notices a raised piece of metal and screws pressing on her back. As she stands up and turns around, she looks at the shiny plaque on the bench that reads “In Loving Memory of Gus Fitzgerald”. It takes a moment to register, but when she realizes what has happened her eyes start to tear up. “What? No, this can’t be real” Liz says in a chocked-up voice. Just then an elderly lady walks up tissue in hand and sniffling. “Are you okay?” Liz says to the lady. Without word, the lady nods and places a rose on the bench and proceeds to walk away. The rest of the day was spent in silence as Liz sat and remembered the brief encounter with Gus Fitzgerald.


“You’re sittin’ in it.” “No, not just some bar. THE bar.” “Oh! ‘THE’ bar. I guess I don’t know where ‘THE’ bar is, Stew.” “The bar that tells you what’s makes a person. See, like, today I see a woman put out a cigarette and throw the butt in the grass at central park. Which, yeah, I think, ‘that’s a no-good thing to do,’ but it’s not like she put it out in someone’s eye. She didn’t blow smoke in an old guy’s face, or… or attack anybody, or anything like that. So how no-good is she? Where’s the bar for good and bad, y’know? Say I’ve drank and drove, but I’ve never, y’know, killed a lady. Or I’ve killed, say, think like, a cat, but not a person. Would I still be good? Where’s that bar?” “After all this time, this is still just ‘some bar?’” “I didn’t mean it like that. Were you listening to what I said?” “Maybe. I mean, no, not really. Don’t get paid to listen. I get paid to bartend. And, y’know, that’s why I’m here. That’s what I’m good at, so that’s what I like to be.” “Don’t we all.” “Hope not. Otherwise I’d be out of business.” “I’m just saying, like… well, y’know what else? I see this same lady not an hour later, and she’s giving her spot up on the bench to some oldie from the home. Same park. So where’s that put her on the bar? How many good things you gotta do to make up for the bad things?” “I don’t know, Stewie. I don’t think there’s a transfer rate. Don’t think you gotta get it down to a ratio.” “Well, is this lady a good person or a bad person? That’s my question.” “Then I guess I don’t got an answer for you. Now let me wash my glasses, you nut.” “…Hey.” “Yeah?” “Does this line of work make you feel fulfilled?” “What’s your problem tonight?” “That’s not how I meant it.” “Yeah? How’d you meant it?” “I’m considering going into a different line of work.” “Bartending?” “Maybe.” “Well, I don’t know your line of work. I don’t know what you like to do. Jesus, I’ve known you for a decade and I don’t know what you do!” “You never asked.” “You never asked me to ask.” “Is that my job?” “I mean you’d never make a motion that’d make me think to ask about you. You strike me as secluded.” “That wasn’t my intention.” “And it wasn’t my concern. So that’s where we are. Here we are. Forgive me. What is it that you do, Stuart?” “Well… this and that, you know. Nothing much.” “Well, I guess, there you go. Look, I love this job. I love the people. I love makin’ em happy. And, in all honesty, I love guys like you.” “You don’t know me.” “Well, yeah, I suppose, but I know the you that comes here. I know the everybody that comes here. My favorite part of working here is nights like this, right here, where even a loud city like this goes quiet, and you just sit with a guy like you and talk about whatever crazy world you live in. Just sitting in a silent city, it’s—it’s something else.” “How long does it last?” “The silence? I don’t know, couple of hours? Thirty minutes? Depends on the night. But comin’ home to a room I paid for, sittin’ on my bed, turnin’ on a TV I paid for, pouring myself a drink that only I know how to make? After a quiet day like this? I know no greater fulfillment.” “Hmm.” “Does that interest you?” “What?” “Any of that. What I just said. Bartending.” “The... quiet sounds nice.” “Yeah, well, you’d have to work with people. It’s not always quiet.” “I could work around that.” “Plus... I think a guy like you in a quiet like this might get lost in his own ramblings.” “I’ve been in quiet rooms before.” “Right. You’re right. Just never pictured you doing anything *but* rambling, I guess. do you want a drink?” “Not tonight.” “Seriously, Stew, what’s goin’ on? You still thinkin’ about that lady?” “It’s just… what’s the worst thing you can do to still be a good person? Say you’ve killed a cat but you’ve never blown up a building. Which side of the bar are you on?” “Stew, did you kill a cat?” “What? No.” “You keep bringin’ it up.” “I thought you weren’t listening.” “I try not to. You just say some heavy stuff sometimes.” “Sorry.” “Don’t apologize… look, if you’re really interested in bar work, I can show you how to pour your own drink.” “I’m not thirsty.” “We don’t drink for thirst, you maniac. Watch me. Look at the shot glass. *Bam*, right there, slam it on the table. Make *sure* you can slam your glasses on the table. Most people don’t think about it, but you see the boys that run through this place. Young ‘n fresh Neanderthals who think they’re in the damn Wild West. *Slam*, every time. They slam a glass and it breaks, they’re not comin’ back. And you’re down a glass. So none a' that cheapy bargain bin crap. Got it? Thick, heavy glass.” “Am I gonna be in charge of buying glasses?” “Well, no. Just letting you know.” “Gotcha.” “Okay, time to pour. The key is half an ounce per second. Can you picture half an ounce?” “No.” “Alright, watch. One. There, that’s half an ounce. You got that? Two, three, four. Four seconds, two ounces, you see?” “I’m not great with numbers.” “Okay, well, this one’s mine. You wanna try?” “I’m fine.” “You givin’ up on bar work that easy?” “I think I’m kidding myself.” “Well, it takes practice. You aren’t gonna get the perfect shot day zero. If it was easy, everyone would do it.” “I guess.” “Can’t say I didn’t try.” “You ever think you drink too much?” “What? No, not really.” “How often do you drink?” “As often as I’d like. Most nights I work.” “That’s not too much?” “As often as I’d like? No, I don’t think so. I own the place.” “You afraid of getting addicted?” “Like, being an alcoholic? Sometimes. Depends on the day.” “How much do you drink on your worst day?” “What’s this about, Stew?” “Just asking.” “I’d say my worst day was probably the day pops died. And, y’know, I had just got my hands around these bottles, so I might have taken it a little too far. But I learned the lesson.” “What was the lesson?” “Don’t drink for dead people.” “How do you know you won’t have that bad of a day again?” “Well, like I said, it was my worst day.” “You won’t have another worst day?” “If I did, what’d be the point of learning a lesson?” “I guess sometimes I feel like I can’t learn.” “What’d make you think a thing like that? We all gotta learn. Someone taught you to walk in here and buy a drink.” “It’s not what I’m good at.” “Yeah, no kidding. When was the last time you actually bought something from me?” “Before I got my new job.” “Give me somethin’, Stew.” “Social work.” “Ah, social work. Social work’s not too bad. Do you like it?” “Not really.” “What’s wrong with it?” “It’s what I’m good at. But it’s not what I like to do. Or I hope it isn’t.” “You hope it isn’t?” “I-I mean I think it isn’t. I mean, I don’t think I could do it for the rest of my life. I don’t want to.” “Yeah, well, they say you gotta find that happy medium.” “I don’t think I have a happy medium.” “Sure you do.” “I keep having the worst day. Or I keep thinking it’s the worst day, but it’s not. The next day is.” “Well, are you learning?” “What am I supposed to learn? That it doesn’t get better? That I’m doomed?” “No, of course not. You’re not doomed. You’re still here. It gets better.” “When?” “I don’t know. When you find something you like to do.” “…I think I need a drink.” “Ah, now look who’s thirsty. Alright, remember, what’s the key to the drink?” “Thick glass.” “Right. One, two, three, four, and that’s yours. Drink responsibly.” “Always do.” “…I think you’re above the bar, Stew.” “Thanks.


Sometimes a fishing trip is more than a fishing trip. It was just the three of us – Pop, Phil, and me fishing for Muskies. What in the world is a muskie? It’s a type of pike found in the lakes of Canada and northern Wisconsin, Michigan and Minnesota. Muskies are big old badasses with a mouth full of sharp teeth and an unpleasant attitude. It’s the top predator in their territory; they eat what they want, when they want. If you hook one, they’re fighters who will jump out of the water and make powerful runs away from or under your boat. The state of Wisconsin only allows you to keep a muskie that’s at least 50 inches long. That’s over four feet, about the size of your average fourth grader. On the day of our trip, a Thursday in August of 1968, Pop was 49, Phil 22, and I was 13. Phil was my oldest brother. This was a most unusual group. Normally there were several more of my four brothers, a couple of uncles and a handful of male cousins. Never any females. The following week Phil was going to Vietnam, and he wanted to try for a muskie one more time, before joining that mistake of a war. Pop probably wished to be alone with Phil, his favorite son. I still don’t know why I was there. It may have been because I could row a boat all day without complaint. If I rowed, Pop wouldn’t have to rent a motor. I was kind of a free two horsepower Evinrude. Phil had graduated from college about fifteen months earlier. He did very well in school and immediately went to work for the CIA, where he re-wrote reports that came in from field agents. He produced documents that were read by the President. Apparently he hated the CIA because after less than a year he quit, despite knowing that the Army would ship him to Vietnam as soon as it could. He never wanted to be a soldier. Phil wanted to be a journalist like our old man. Pop wrote for *The Chicago Daily News*, an afternoon newspaper. He started there in 1937, the week after graduating from Morgan Park High School on the south side. While Phil was a good student. Pop wasn’t. He liked to sleep late, smoke cigarettes on the corner, and hang out in the park. It took him five years to escape Morgan Park high, and no college would touch him. By 1968, he had worked in journalism for thirty years, except for a grim four year stint in the Army during WWII. He was drafted and fought the Japanese in the jungles of Papua New Guinea. He was injured and due to nerve damage, he couldn’t move his right foot. He could bend his knee but not his ankle or toes. He had more PTSD than anyone was aware of, at the time. Nonetheless he had a spectacular newspaper career. He saw the world and met Presidents, Popes and murderers. So there I was with an emotionally and physically wounded WWII jungle fighter who was seeing his first born son off to another jungle war. The weather was awful – with temperatures in the low 60’s, intermittent rain, and strong winds out of the north. We were the only ones on the water. They started fishing at about 9:30. At this point in my life, I had quit fishing. Since I had never seen anyone catch a muskie, I stopped believing in them. To me they were a myth created by the fishing tackle – industrial complex. Also, I noticed that fish did not like getting caught; they’re not thrilled by the experience. So I made a deal with all the fish; I won’t kill them, if they won’t kill me. That’s worked great, so far. Pop and Phil flailed the water for the next two hours and didn’t get a bite. When it started raining harder, Pop told me to row over to the bar on the other side of the lake. That’s another thing I noticed. Pop only fished at lakes with bars within rowing distance. Apparently he thought the fish liked bars, as much as he did. Lunch consisted of three cheeseburgers and twenty pounds of fries. They ordered Kingsbury beers and I got a coke. After we finished the burgers, Pop ordered another beer. The rain persisted, and we started playing pinball. That went on for an hour. Pop won consistently. I guess part of his misspent high school career and time in the army involved playing pinball. During the games Pop and Phil remembered covering Richard Speck, who killed eight student nurses in Chicago one night in 1966. They both reported on the story. Pop for the *Daily News* and Phil for the United Press International, a wire service. That was Phil’s summer job. The Speck story led to another tale from our father. In the early sixties, as a columnist, he took up the cause of a man on death row named Paul Crump. Through Pop’s efforts and the help of many others, the Governor of Illinois commuted Crump’s sentence to life. In their last meeting after his life had been saved, Crump told our father this story. Inmates on death row in Cook County jail had an agreement. They never interfered if any of them attempted suicide. Crump and the prisoner across from his cell had a side deal, an addendum, if you will. If either man chose to kill himself, he agreed to make a fist with one of his hands if he saw an afterlife. If he saw no afterlife, he would make a fist with the other hand. One night the man in the cell facing Crump’s hung himself. When the kicking and gagging stopped Crump looked at his friend and saw the right hand was closed. The guy had sent the signal. Unfortunately Crump had forgotten whether the right hand meant there was an afterlife or not. This was a typical Pop story. Most people would have been taken aback by all this, Phil and I were not. We grew up with this guy and knew he had seen things during and after the war. We were just learning about more things. Around 1:30 we got back on the water. Again they didn’t hook any muskies – remember they’re a myth. The rain came back and they gave up around 4:30. On the hour-long ride back to the resort, for the first time in my life, I heard Pop talk in detail about his war experience. He didn’t talk long. We knew he was a scout who went into the jungle with native Papuan soldiers as guides. These guys knew the jungle like my father knew his southside neighborhood. My old man favored the leader of the Papuan battalion, Tapiole. As a scout, our father was expected to walk into the jungle, sometimes for days, and observe the enemy, but not kill them. Then he would return to division headquarters and report on what he saw. Here’s the story he told, as I remember it. Tapiole and I went on several patrols over about two weeks. Each time we reported that the Japanese were chopping wood on a particular ridge. Finally Major Archie Roosevelt, President Teddy Roosevelt’s son, said, “If they’re chopping that much wood, there can’t be any jungle left. On the next patrol, Tapiole and I heard another lone Japanese soldier chopping away. I whispered to Tapiole, “Get the ax.” He crept away and came back ten minutes later with a bloody ax. Tapiole never used a gun; he preferred using his knife or a club. We came back to the camp and reported to Major Roosevelt. I put the ax on the table and stated that one Japanese soldier wasn’t chopping wood on the ridge any longer. The car was very quiet for the rest of the ride. The next week, Phil went to Vietnam. He came home a year later and our brother, Pete, was shipped across the Pacific to continue the battle. Over the last fifty years, I’ve thought about that day and why Pop told his story about Tapiole and the bloody ax. Maybe our father wanted to let Phil know that he might have to do some awful things, but he’ll be okay. I’ll never know because Phil and Pop are both gone now. I do know that neither of them ever caught a keeper muskie because they’re a myth.


# The Snails Are on the Move Harry noticed them immediately. Groups of snails clustered in three or four moving across the slick, freshly rained-out pavement. Steam rose in twisting tendrils off the warm pavement, obscuring their paths in a fine mist. Harry weaved through the snails like a slalom course, trying not to step on any. *This can’t be normal, can it?* Every four to five feet in front of him, a new cluster of snails made their way through the world at a decidedly languid pace. CRUNCH. Harry looked down, already feeling guilt and shame. Lifting his boot, he saw the shattered shell and gooey carcass of not one, not two, but three snails. “Ooh, I’m so sorry.” Genuine anguish filled his words. “Why do you have to cluster together like that?” It wasn’t the snails’ fault but asking helped. Harry made his way toward the grassy surface of the neighborhood park, hoping that the snails would stick to the concrete. His mistake was immediately apparent when he took his first step into the dewy grass. SQUISH. CRUNCH. He let out a gasp of horror and jumped back. CRUNCH. “Why?!” The unforgiving gray sky, barely holding back a torrent of rain, didn’t answer. Harry carefully moved away from the site of the kill, finding an unoccupied piece of pavement and staring out at the park. He was in the process of plotting a snail-free route home, when he saw the tree. The neighborhood park didn’t have many of them. There were rows of low shrubs next to the sidewalk, and a few saplings that would one day shade the paths, but an old oak dominated the landscape. Its branches were gnarled and crooked, standing out against the elements with suicidal determination. The tree looked sick. There were green leaves as one would expect at the end of spring, but something about the bark felt wrong. Bulbous knots dotted the thick trunk-like sores waiting to burst. The tree groaned, giving the impression that it might collapse under its own weight at any minute. Harold approached it out of a sense of need more than want. A slick, clammy chill fell over him as he stared at the bark. Growing dread mounted in his chest with every step he took. CRUNCH. Somehow, he found himself able to ignore the sound and the implication. He was transfixed by the bark of the tree. It looked as though it had blown a thousand tiny bubbles, and they shifted ever so slightly in the evening breeze. Only, the wind was calm. There was no breeze. CRUNCH. Harold didn’t look underfoot. Yes, the bark was moving. As he approached, he saw them. Thousands, maybe even tens of thousands. Snails coated every inch of the tree, writhing their way toward the upper branches. The soft, squishing sound of their movement was like a whisper in silence. Dread, confusing and all-encompassing, filled him at that moment. Despite the growing sense that something was very wrong, Harry couldn’t look away. For an hour, or at least it seemed like an hour, Harry stared at the moving bark of the tree. Watching the snails make a seemingly endless march toward the sky. He didn’t feel the weight on his boots, or the slick sensation on his pant legs. Time passed at blinding speed and was at the same time placid. By the time the cold, creeping sensation had risen to his chest, there wasn’t much to be done about it. He couldn’t say why, but he knew the outcome was inevitable. His eyes darted down, just for a moment. Snails. Snails, covering his body from chest to foot. They were heavy, giving his clothes a sodden, soggy feeling. A numbing, slimy sensation ran up his neck. *The snails are on the move.* They were covering him, climbing, just like the tree. The inevitability of it was both comfort and dread. His lips parted, maybe on the verge of forming a scream, but no sound came out. A snail, surprisingly heavy, slithered between them. Its bubbly shell filled his mouth. *Why is this happening?* Harry tried to take a breath and found he couldn’t. Soft, mucous underbellies covered his nostrils. He tried to move, wondering if there was a way out of this. Back to the path, back the few blocks to home. Movement was impossible. His feet were fixed to the ground, weighed down by an endless wave of snails, measured and steady in their march. His lungs started to burn. A dark cloud came over the bottom corner of his left eye. He tried to blink, but couldn’t tell if his eyelid had moved. The world descended into darkness. *The snails are on the move.* He knew that much was true. It would be impossible not to feel their movement. Wherever they were going, they were determined. The burning in Harry’s chest changed to shooting pain and he knew he would need to breathe soon. Against his better judgment, he inhaled, the sensation thick and wrong. His throat bulged and yet his mouth filled again with more slick bodies waiting to take the first one’s place. *The snails are on the move.* \ Note from the author: Yeah, I'm not sure if this is anything, but for some reason I had to write it. I saw a bunch of snails on my walk yesterday and this is what came of it. I hope it was enjoyable or at least well-written nonsense.


\[Warning: use of language, allusion to torture, violence\] It had been decided that the machine must go. I didn't find myself agreeing with Major Milic very much these days. His methods were harsh, brutal and he had become a fanatic. I'd call him more of a terrorist than a freedom fighter. But he was right, the machine had to go. I didn't have any confidence we could do it, however. The resistance had changed in the last couple years. The Emperor's personal secret project was brought online. Though it was round, it wasn't like it the “Death Star.” This Empire was real, and it made smarter decisions. It spent its time and money on a brain. CyCLOPS- Cybernetic, Control, Law-enforcement, and Online Policing System- changed the rules of human nature more and more every day. It make it possible for a few people to effectively watch the entire human populace at once. It watched, it learned, it analyzed, it predicted, and it remembered with perfect clarity all at a single time. I had been surprised at first when Major Milic rescued me from my prison, but not when I figured out what he planned to do. He needed me for two reasons. One- I could fly helicopters, the old ones without autopilot. Two- I knew where CyCLOPS was. And I suppose a third reason too; I would never turn him into the Imperial Union. I agreed to help, not that I had a lot of choice when everything I knew was lost and there was a gun in my face. I left the prison behind, but all the while knowing I would die with them instead. \~\~\~\~\~\~\~\~\~\~\~\~\~\~\~\~\~\~\~\~ CyCLOPS is not easy to get near. It was secret to begin with, but they knew better than to rely on that alone. Through torture, Major Milic's loyal team discovered a lot information about the facility. Though most work with it is done remotely, it has over 500 that work directly with the machine on-site. These are mostly fat technicians and overpaid civilians, not that Milic recognized civilians anymore. They wouldn't put up much of a fight when push came to shove. The security came from a reinforced, mixed-guard company made up of Sentinels and Assault Forces. One company of three platoons. Each platoon covered a 12-hour shift. One was on days, one on nights, one on recovery cycle at all times. They had six guard towers with heavy machine guns on the walled perimeter. The walls were made of carbonized concrete, the gate was heavy metal and automatic, and there was electrified razor wire across the top. Four roving patrols covered the exterior of the facility, rejecting any trespassers onto the "Navajo Sanctuary Reservation." At least one large armored vehicle was ready at all times for a quick reaction force. The rest of the on-shift platoon patrolled the inside of the compound and checked key points. If at any point the guards caught wind of our approach and intentions, the other platoons would be woken and activated as reserves. An entire company of heavily armed and armored Sentinels would be vastly too much to deal with, and we'd be slaughtered. We had to 1- approach undetected, 2- blind the guard towers so they could not shoot down our helicopters, 3- secure the barracks and take the reserves hostage before they could get to their arms room, 4- deal with the existing guards in the compound, 5- lock the gate to prevent the roving patrols from returning with more firepower, 6- break into and make our way into the facility, and at last, 7- blow CyCLOPS to high hell. None of the major processor banks can survive. No one knows the extent of its capabilities for certain, besides the Emperor and his chosen team, but it may likely begin to back up its data to external servers outside of the facility. The more we can destroy, the more we've set back the Empire, and the more time we’ve bought for a larger resistance to mobilize. They are dependent on the machine now. They will be weaker than they were before it's installation. But first, we had to get there. And I had a bad feeling. So many things could go wrong. \~\~\~\~\~\~\~\~\~\~\~\~\~\~\~\~\~ I listened as intently as I could to Milic's briefing. He'd thought of everything. Even from his little bunker hidden away from the world, he'd managed to gather a lot of intelligence. From his position at the top of the map, he could point out every section of the base, where we would land, where the satellite communications were, where the barracks and arms rooms were, where we would enter the facility, and more. I wasn't sure how he knew all of this. I think I didn't want to know. "Sam, are you fuckin' paying attention!?" His eyes seemed to glow from the light reflected off the map in the otherwise dark bunker. "What? Yes. I know where to land." Truthfully I'd never been the same since that prison. I couldn't focus on anything too long. "But after that?" "What... what am I doing after that? That wasn't... I didn't agree to-" "I don't give a shit. You're with me. I'm not letting you out of my sight." "Who's going to stay with the helicopter?" "Jacob will keep it running." He pointed to Powell, next to me. Anyone who knew him called him Powell. Only people who pretended to know him called him Jake or Jacob. They'd had a long history, but that told me how close they weren't. Powell's eyes locked with mine for a moment then looked away. He was a hostage here, too. He was the man that taught me to fly. He was old now. So was I. "I'm not shooting anyone." "That's fine. You'll help carry explosives. You've got no problem blowing this thing up. That's what we agreed on, right?" "Okay... right. I'm with you." "You're attached to my hip. You go where I fuckin' tell you and nowhere else. Is that understood?" "I'm with you." I growled. "3rd squad, alpha-team's goals are the communications array..." he continued. But again, I already wasn't listening. A faint whining grew in my ears, and I faded out into one of my blackout spells. After coming all this way, and everything I've worked for- everything I did to fight the Empire- it was probably Milic that was going to kill me. \~\~\~\~\~\~\~\~\~\~\~\~\~\~\~\~\~\~\~\~\~\~\~\~\~\~\~\~ During pre-flight checks with Powell, we talked a little bit. It was nice. I climbed up on top of the back of the bird to give the yoke a good look. "This piece of shit is not gonna fly." I interjected, looked at the rust near the blade hub. "It'll fly. I flew it yesterday." "The rotors are going to fall off before we get there." "No... but we're in for a bumpy ride. She definitely handles like a... heh heh, Sammy, you remember that old two-seater we flew up to that Appalachian relay station?" "Oh dear god, we almost died. On three separate occasions." I grinned. "We've been through tougher spots." Powell grinned too and climbed up the other side. His entire bald head wrinkled when he smiled. "Yeah... but we were younger men. And the Empire didn't rule the world yet." "Nothing lasts forever. Not youth, and not this crummy empire. They all fall down eventually. We're just giving it a good shove." "You really think we're going to win?" my grin faded. That old feeling returned. "I think so. Major Milic's got his plan down tight. He's resourced everything he needs. We have our opening. You don't think we can?" The yoke, despite several conditions I would normally reject, appeared okay. The blades were in surprisingly good condition. It would fly all the way to the scene of the crash. "I don't think so." "You need to give the guy more credit. I know you don't agree with his methods, but he's a warrior. This is what he was built for. You have that prison mindset still. The walls are all closed in around you." "Oh I don't think it's the prison that got to me," I looked out into the setting sun of the evening. The scenery from up here was incredible. "Is this about Lindsey?" "No. Lindsey's gone. This is about us. Now. Though I admit, it's hard to forget her face with a bullet in it. I'm glad she's not here to see this. This is going to be... a mess." Powell reached up and grabbed my hand and held it in both of his. "You've gotta have a little faith in this team. They know what they're doing." "I know. But this team never met the Emperor. I've met him, and... No one on earth knows what they're doing compared to him. He sees everything coming." "Sam, you have to believe we can win." "I know... there's a chance we can win. But we need to be ready. If it's not a trap now, it will be by the time we get there." The sun slipped from view, and we were left standing in the dark.


The Valley has always existed outside of the normal world. When people come here, they come to stay. There are no passers-through, no tourists or hikers who wandered too far off the trail and are trying to find their way home. When people come here, they are not looking for home; they are looking for refuge. The Lord of the Valley calls them to him, through dreams and visions and a pulsating need to be anywhere but where they currently are. He teases them with tastes of mountain winds and gurgling creeks rushing over rocks. He persuades them with promises of abundance and mercy. “Come to me,” he says, “Come to me and taste freedom.” What that means to each person who arrives is different, but the price remains the same for all. For those of us born here, and yes, I do include myself in that, no matter how odd the circumstances, the price is significantly higher. While the adults who come and agree to the desired sacrifice are welcome to leave at any time, the children born to them are required to stay for life. We have been dedicated to the Lord’s service, and to attempt to leave it is Death. We are the price our parents pay to leave the world behind. There have been some over the years who did not believe that Death would follow them once they left, but every one of them has always been returned to the Valley’s center, sometimes in pieces, sometimes not. The ones who come back in pieces have the preferable fate. The ones who come back whole in body are nothing more than empty shells, their minds wiped clean by the Lord. Purification, he calls it. These purified husks are then taken to the edge of the Valley, right up to the base of the mountains that contain it, and tied to a tree for three days. If their body survives the exposure and the scavengers, they are released and allowed to live out their days in a house that appears just for them. If not, they are left to the elements until whatever bones that remain are bleached white as a warning to others. There have been many who tried to leave only to be brought back. Each generation has their rebels and fearless leaders who decide they want more from life than service to a Lord who will happily hunt them down and kill them for nothing more than a desire for choice. The instigators almost never make it back in pieces. Many survive the three days of being bound, and go on to live half-lives in service to the Great Lord. The Great Lord is a demanding task-master. He is not the Lord of the Valley, who requires a single price; he is the Great Lord, who requires absolute surrender. The Great Lord’s servants are kept separate from the rest of the Lord’s people, especially the children. Their hollow eyes and sunken cheeks are deemed too unnerving for youngsters to witness and gossip about. I’m of the opinion that this tradition is to prompt those who yearn for more to take the risk of flight, having not been exposed to the severity of the consequences first, but I digress. The day the first house in the Great Lord’s pen disappeared, a murmur swept through the Valley. Had a halfer managed to gain some semblance of self back and was removed? Had they done something to displease the Great Lord? If so, how was that possible? The Elders organized a procession to offer praise and worship to the Great Lord, including trumpets, flutes, violins, and the Lord’s chosen child-bearers. The procession circled the Valley’s perimeter three times, each time the praise growing louder and the worship more vigorous as the people’s minds became more connected with their Lord and master. Satisfied that this had appeased the Great Lord, the procession devolved into a feast of the senses once it returned to the Valley’s center. The children were sent home to practice their sacred duties, and the adults remained to celebrate their freedom in whichever way they deemed fit. The second day, once another house had vanished, the Elders could be heard speaking in whispers and shouts. A child was brought forward and sent to the Lord’s tent, a giant structure that guarded the single pass into the Valley, with instructions to plead for understanding of the infractions committed to ensure this brand of punishment did not get visited upon the Lord’s willing servants. The child did not return until the third house had vanished. His once bright eyes were now muted, and the shine in his cheeks had paled. The Elders rushed him to the Valley center to deliver the Lord’s message. Opening lips that seemed lifelessly blue, the child spoke with a resounding voice too deep for one his age: “The Fallen has returned. It is he who rips my children from me. He rends! He hates! He burns! Take heed, my children, for I must wage war against him that he does not steal into your homes and commit his acts of despair upon you!” A great murmur rose over the assembly, and the Elders quickly ushered the child into the confines of their circle and secreted themselves away for the remainder of the day. The following morning, the child was seen walking among the halfers, and it was understood the Great Lord had claimed him for his own purposes. Tensions rose as the days passed and more houses and halfers disappeared. Each day brought a new blight upon our cozy little Valley, robbing us of the contentment and peace we had so dearly bought. Who was this Fallen, who had the power to steal from the Lord’s Valley? We began to be suspicious of one another. Which of us was harboring this creature, giving him free rein to commit his acts of theft from the Great Lord? Which of us had allowed this monster inside? Once the halfers had all been taken, the houses on our side of the Valley began to disappear. Another child was sent to the Lord’s tent. This one also returned changed. His eyes were darkened to black, and his skin was flushed with grey. When he spoke, it sounded as though the river had grown a tongue and wished to commune with us: “Rejoice, my children, for I am returned! The Fallen has fallen once more, to be bound in the depths of the mountains for a hundred years to come!” A great cheer rose up from the crowd, and the child was hoisted on shoulders and passed around from one to another as we showered him with kisses and praises of worthiness. Having no halfers to send him to live among, the Elders approached me, the eldest of the Dedicated. My skin was grey and my eyes were dim, but I gladly accepted the child into my century-old home. I tried to re-teach him his letters and songs, but he could do no more than mumble for a bit before trailing off into silence and emptiness. Once it became fully apparent that there was no help to be given for the boy, I laid him down in my cot and smothered him with a pillow. It was a kinder Death than any of us deserved. Time passed, and our Lord began calling more people to the Valley. It was time to rebuild, he said. The Fallen had completed the cleansing, and it was time to restock the Valley with worshippers. Lord help us, I thought. The cycle begins again.


I had known for a while that I needed to change my lifestyle. Last Monday I woke up dehydrated, hungover, and depressed. This wasn't unusual. I beat my body up daily. On an average day, I woke up and smoke a cigarette while the coffee brewed. Drank a 20-ounce cup with way too much creamer, and headed to work. Normally, it's about an hour drive. Of course, I chain smoked the entire way even though I didn't know what I was getting out of it. Did I feel that much different after smoking? I wasn't sure, but I bought a pack every time I fueled up. Sometimes the thought of how dumb I was being would begin to surface in my mind, but I drowned it out with a podcast or an audiobook. Easier to think other people's thoughts than my own. My job was stress-free, but labor-intensive. As the sun beat down I often got an ache in my side. Was that my liver from the alcohol abuse? I wasn't sure. Make no mistake, I realized that I was an alcoholic. I had done stints at AA, but my social anxiety didn't mesh well with the group. At that point, I didn't know if I could quit cold turkey without suffering from a seizure, or other withdrawal symptoms. Yet, there was still a small hopeful voice that piped up "you can be better." I wanted to listen to that voice. Damn, I'd been drinking and smoking since I was 16. Over a decade lost to that self-indulgent, physically, and psychologically damaging lifestyle. Something clicked that Monday. I wanted to make a change. I wanted to listen to that voice telling me to get better, that there is hope for a mindset that is comfortable with a sober reality. Gabor Mate's book "In the Realm of Hungry Ghosts" informed me that addiction is rooted in trauma, especially childhood trauma. Trauma being an event that forces you to split your mind into two parts. A barrier to protect yourself from the world, and the true emotional human that wants to be well adjusted. I'm not Mate, but that's how I interpreted it. Intellectually, I agreed with the concept, but I needed to find a way to resolve the trauma that fed my addictions. I stumbled upon an organization called MAPS, the Multidisciplinary Association for Psychedelic Studies. They conduct studies that use psychedelics to help people recover from PTSD. I decided that ibogaine would be best because it was shown to combat addiction without too much of a 'trip' like effect. I wanted to sit with my thoughts and focus on sobriety while under the effects of the substance. I reasoned that party-like stimulus may take away from the healing aspect. The problem was that ibogaine was difficult to find. It is both illegal, and not fun to take, which makes it a bad product for the white, and black markets. After reading, and listening to a bunch of material by Terrance McKenna I decided to undergo a Heroic Dose of golden teacher mushrooms. This is 5 grams, a normal dose being about 2, in a solitary environment without distraction. I wanted to undergo the trip as effectively as possible. Before taking the mushrooms, having never had a psychedelic experience, I needed to know both how it worked in the brain, and what to expect. The body converts psilocin into psilocybin. This is the uncomfortable beginning of the trip. Take everything that I am saying with a grain of salt. You'll see how my research failed me later on. Anyway, to speed up this process I decided to take an MAO inhibitor. I won't get into how this makes mushrooms more effective, because I am both unqualified, and under intense pressure. They aren't giving me much time to write this, and I'm wasting it trying to show you how smart I am. I sought out ego death, and here I am stroking the old dog. The room is shifting again. Fuck I have to hurry, but I'll tell this story in order. Sorry about the temporary lapse.


#Welcome to Serial Sunday! Please be sure to read the entire post before submitting! To those brand new to the feature and those returning from last week, welcome! Do you have a self-established universe you’ve been writing or planning to write in? Do you have an idea for a world that’s been itching to get out? This is the perfect place to explore that. Each week, I will post a single theme to inspire you. You have 850 words to tell the story. Feel free to jump in at any time if you feel inspired. Writing for previous weeks’ themes is not necessary in order to join.   ***   #This week's theme is Deception! This week we’re going to look at ‘deception’. Deception comes in many forms, and the possibilities are endless. Think about the lies that are being told, the secrets that are being kept and the reasons for them. What does deception look like in your world? What are the intentions behind it? How will things unfold when, or if, the truth is revealed? Are the characters better off in the dark? These are just a few things to get you started. Remember, the theme should be present within the story in some way, but its interpretation is completely up to you. /   ***   #Theme Schedule: I recognize that writing a serial can take a bit of planning. Each week, I will be releasing the following 2 weeks’ themes here in the Schedule section of the post. * June 13 - Deception (this week) * June 20 - Hypocrisy * June 27 - Amends   ***   #How It Works: In the comments below, submit a story that is between 500 - 850 words in your own original universe, inspired by this week’s theme. (Using the theme word is welcome but not necessary.) This can be the beginning of a brand new serial or an installment in your in-progress serial. You have until 6pm EST the following Saturday to submit your story. Please make sure to read *all* of the rules before posting!   ***   #The Rules: * **All top-level comments must be a story.** Use the stickied comment for off-topic discussion and questions you may have. * **Do not pre-write your serial.** You may do outlining and planning ahead of time, but you need to wait until the post is released to begin writing for the current week. Pre-written content or content written for another prompt/post is not allowed. * **Stories must be 500-850 words.** Use to check your word count. * **Stories must be posted by Saturday 6pm EST.** That is one hour before the beginning of Campfire. Stories submitted after the deadline will not be eligible for rankings and will not be read during campfire. * **Only one serial per author at a time.** This does not include serials written outside of Serial Sunday. * **Authors must leave at least 2 feedback comments on the thread (on 2 different stories) to quality for rankings every week.** The comment **must** include at least one detail about what the author has done well. Failing to meet the 2 comment requirement will disqualify you from weekly rankings. (Verbal feedback does not count towards this requirement.) **Missing your feedback two consecutive weeks will exclude you from campfire readings and rankings.** You have until the following Sunday at 12pm EST to fulfill your feedback requirements each week. * **Keep the content “vaguely family friendly”.** While content rules are more relaxed here at r/ShortStories, we’re going to roll with the loose guidelines for now. If you’re ever unsure if your story would cross the line, please modmail and ask! * **Begin your post with the name of your serial between triangle brackets** (e.g. <My Awesome Serial>). This will allow our serial bot to track your parts and add your serial to the full catalogue. Please note: You **must** use the same serial name for each installment of your serial. This includes commas and apostrophes. If not, the bot won’t recognize your serial installments.   ***   #Reminders: * **Make sure your post on this thread also includes links to your previous installments**, if you have a currently in-progress serial. Those links must be direct links to the previous installment on the preceding Serial Saturday/Sunday posts or to your own subreddit or profile. But an in-progress serial is not required to start. You may jump in at any time. * **Saturdays I will be hosting a Serial Campfire on the discord main voice lounge**. Join us to read your story aloud, hear other stories, and share your own thoughts on serial writing! We start at 7pm EST. You can even come to just listen, if that’s more your speed. Don’t worry about being late, just join! * **You can nominate your favorite stories each week**. Send me a message on discord or reddit and let me know by 12pm EST the following Sunday. You do not have to attend the campfire, or have read all of the stories, to make nominations. Making nominations awards both parties points (see breakdown at the bottom of this post). * Authors who successfully finish a serial with at least 8 installments will be featured with a modpost recognizing their completion and a flair banner on the subreddit. Authors are eligible for this highlight post only if they have followed the 2 feedback comments per thread rule (and all other post rules). * There’s a Serial Sunday role on the Discord server, so make sure you grab that so you’re notified of all Serial Sunday related news! *** #Last Week’s Rankings There were a small number of stories this week, so there will only be three ranking spots for last week. I hope to see more stories this coming week! - - u/ReverendWrites - - u/stickfist - - u/Leebeewilly - - u/NobodysGeese   ***   #Ranking System The weekly rankings work on a point-based system. Here’s the breakdown: **Nominations (votes sent in by users):** - First place - 6 points - Second place - 5 points - Third place - 4 points - Fourth place - 3 points - Fifth place - 2 points - Sixth place - 1 point **Feedback:** In order to be eligible for feedback points, you have to complete your 2 required feedback comments. - Written feedback (on the thread) - 1 point each, up to 3 points (5 crits total on the thread) - Verbal feedback (during Campfire) - 1 point each, up to 3 points. * *Note: Completing the max for both is equivalent to a first place vote. Keep in mind that you should not be using the same feedback to receive both written and verbal feedback points on the same story. Your feedback should be actionable and list at least one thing the author has done well.* **Nominations:** Making nominations for your favorite stories will now earn you extra points! - 3 points for sending your favorite stories to me, via DM, by 12 pm Sunday, EST. You may send a max of **six** nominations. (The 3 points are the total.)     ***   ###Subreddit News - We’ve recently updated our subreddit rules. Please take a moment to or take a look at our sidebar. - You can now post serials to r/Shortstories, outside of Serial Sunday. Check out to learn more! - Sharpen your micro-fic skills by participating in our brand new feature, - Have you ever wanted to write a story with another writer? Check out our brand new weekly feature on r/WritingPrompts.


Bad dreams can’t hurt you. No matter how real they seem, you always wake up. Sometimes quickly with a start, sweating and panting in the middle of the night. Sometimes slowly, your eyes unfocus from the eyelid movie and come back to the world around you. The terror of the dream fades into a dull ache, fading away into the mist of memory. In my worst dream there were white plates, silver and cups ringed with baby blue lines, gleaming in the midday sun. Rainbows of flowers swayed gently at tables clothed in gold down to the feet making them seem to float off the ground. The cool breeze carried the lazy large clouds lingering in the glistening blue sky, rippling the water in the lake. The exuberance reverberated off the curved wooden pavilion with voices accented from all corners of the earth. The door opened. She stepped through the door carrying her own localized wind, curling and gusting in visible wisps. A head full of flowers, rooted around her neck and shoulders, climbing upwards into a crown reaching for the sky. Her skin reflecting a dark golden warm honeyed brown wrapped in a dazzling white with small strips of baby blue and lavender placed thoughtfully and practically.”Plain white is just too boring”, I remember her saying. Her smile pushed out from her glistening teeth to the corners of her lips and spread up to her eyes. The music swelled to her entrance and the gathered party hailed her with applause. The moment reminded me of the first time I turned the corner and walked through the doorway and saw her. Wearing blue overalls with a white shirt, she was sitting in the sun focusing on a book. The air swirled softly around her and I approached. “Um excuse me —” She looked up and slowly focused her eyes on me as I stumbled my way through the first spark, a stranger to her universe, a rogue comet meant to pass by but got trapped by gravity. We pushed on together through the void of those youthful years over late night chats, stolen kisses in the stairwell at Smiths, shared jelly buns gushing all over us, notes and letters passed between friends, quick touches between hawk like eyes watching us, secret rendezvous, tears, fears and trepidations. Locked in a spiral of each other's gravity now we reached out with soft touches at the heart, slowly uncovering more about that new world that had appeared in each of our skies. A ringing brought me back to the now with a jerk. Hues of dark purple and orange were pushing away the blue sky. Someone was tapping a glass, cheering for the kiss. She blushed and slowly turned. Her shadow followed, wrapped around her and invaded her local atmosphere to embrace for a kiss. I stood apart from the audience watching the scene of happiness around me as I gravity disappeared for me and I began to float away: a rogue comet, meant to pass through and now sent back into the cold endless abyss. The door had shut and vanished without a sound. But bad dreams never affect me, they’re just a flash of memory, the mind playing while you rest. High above the world I look into the lake reflecting the deep purple of the sky. I watched my water twin swirling, screaming and twisting silently as it floated away, waiting for the terror to fade to a dull ache, for the scream to turn into a yawn.


#Welcome to the Micro Monday Challenge! Hello writers! Welcome to Micro Monday! I am excited to present you all with a chance to sharpen those micro-fic skills. What is micro-fic? I’m glad you asked! Micro-fiction is generally defined as a complete story (hook, plot, conflict, and some type of resolution) written in 300 words or less. For this exercise, it needs to be at least 100 words (no poetry). However, less words doesn’t mean less of a story. The key to micro-fic is to make careful word and phrase choices so that you can paint a vivid picture for your reader. Less words means each word does more! Each week, I’ll give you a single constraint or jumping-off point to get your minds working. It might be an image, a theme word, a sentence, or a simple writing prompt. You’re free to interpret the prompt how you like as long as you follow the post and subreddit rules. **Please read the entire post before submitting.** Remember, feedback matters! And don’t forget to upvote your favorites and nominate them via message here on reddit or a DM on discord!   *** #This week’s challenge: We’re going to try something a little different! This week’s challenge is to use the above song lyrics as inspiration for your story. You can use all or part of them. The sentences do not need to appear in your story (but you are more than welcome to, if you like). You may interpret them any way you like, as long as the connection is clear and you follow all sub and post rules.   ***   #Last Week The stories this week were just… *magical!* See what I did there? Great job all around. ###Crowd Favorite - - Submitted by u/QuiscoverFontaine ###Bay’s Spotlights - - Submitted by u/OneSidedDice - - Submitted by u/GarnetAndOpal   ***   #How It Works: - **Submit one story between 100-300 words** in the comments below, by the following Sunday at midnight, EST. No poetry. One story per author. - **Use to check your word count.** The title is not counted in your final word count. Stories under 100 words will be disqualified from being spotlit. - **No pre-written content allowed.** Submitted stories should be written for this post exclusively. - **I accept nominations for your favorites each week via a message on reddit or our discord.** You have until 1pm EST Monday to send them in. Each Monday, I will spotlight two deserving stories from the previous week that I think really stood out. I will take all nominations you make into consideration. But please remember, this is not a contest. - **Come back throughout the week, upvote your favorites and leave them a comment with some feedback.** While it’s not a requirement, I encourage everyone to read the other stories on the thread and leave feedback. I will take all of this into consideration when making my selections each week. **Do not downvote other stories on the thread.** Vote manipulation is against Reddit rules and you will be reported. - **Please be respectful and civil in all feedback and discussion.** We welcome writers of all skill levels and experience here, as we’re all here to improve and sharpen our skills. - If you have any questions, feel free to ask them on the *stickied comment* on this thread or through modmail. *Top-level comments are reserved for story submissions.* - And most of all, be creative and have fun!   ***   ###Subreddit News - We’ve recently updated our subreddit rules. Please take a moment to or take a look at our sidebar. - Try your hand at serial writing with - Have you ever wanted to write a story with another writer? Check out our brand new weekly feature on r/WritingPrompts - You can now post serials to r/Shortstories, outside of Serial Sunday.


Metal scorpions fall on Stephen from above. He claws against the steel walls of the room, but they hold steady. The scorpions crawl on him; his skin shivers at their touch. The walls close in around him as the amount of steel scorpions increase. Stephen is now swimming in a pile of them. He struggles to keep his head above the rising tide, but the scorpions are pulling him under. He closes his mouth and eyes and descends into the pile. A few of the scorpions start burrowing under his skin. His limbs start to flail under their control. Stephen wakes up on the floor next to the bed. The sheet is tangled underneath him, and the pillow is several feet away. Stephen struggles to untangle the bed sheets and stand up. His head is throbbing, and he moves to the bathroom to splash water into his face. When he looks into the mirror, the oddness of the situation sets in. How did he get into this room in the first place? He lies on the bed to try to remember the day. The town could not have been real. It was a relic from an earlier time with its streets filled with cars and sidewalks filled with people. Yet Stephen and his friends, Tim and Velma, were driving through it with their mouths agape. Stephen felt self-conscious for how grimy his attire and body is. In spite of their depilated nature, the people did not stare at them. They went about their day as if this was a regular occurrence. When they drove by the city hall in the center of the town, they got their first reaction from a cop pulling them over. Stephen looks over at the brochure on the table, and he walks over and picks it up. The front page is a sunrise over a forested hill with a river at the base. In the foreground of the river, an idyllic town sits bathed in the sun’s rays. The cover could’ve been considered trite and cliche in another time, but Stephen cannot help but smile over what it represents now. Stephen opens the brochure, and a business card falls out. It reads Phillip Clark, Bass Creek Comptroller along with a phone number.. The cop didn’t kick them out of town. Instead, he escorted them within the city hall where they were placed in an office, and they were greeted by a man wearing a three piece suit and with a gray combover. He introduced himself as Phillip Clark, and he gave each of them a brochure with his business card in it. He said that they always love having visitors and new residents. Especially now, because they recently lost several people to a boating accident. Tim jumped at the opportunity to become a full time resident. Stephen responded by stating that he would never join. The two of them started fighting within Phillip’s office. Stephen starts to cry as he thinks about that fight. There has always been tension between Tim and Stephen. Stephen cannot help but see Tim as an idiot who would trust anyone after two minutes. Stephen is pretty sure he said that during the fight. Tim’s view of Stephen is that Stephen is pretentious, distrusting, and enjoys making others suffer. Stephen is sure that Tim said that during the fight. Stephen wishes that he could make amends with his friends. During the fight, Velma stood up and walked out of the office without saying a word. Tim followed, flipping Stephen the bird on the way out. Stephen slammed his fist on the comptroller’s desk and quickly apologized to Phillip for his behavior. Phillip chuckled and said that it was a common reaction for newcomers to be skeptical of the location, and Phillip encouraged Stephen to give the town a chance. Phillip made a call to the local motel and got Stephen a room there. He ensured Stephen that Velma and Tim would be given the same accommodations. Phillip even offered to drive Stephen to the motel himself. In an effort to prove Tim wrong, Stephen accepted the offer. Phillip had a nice van that had toys in the back for Phillip’s kids. Phillip told Stephen about his family and his life. He offered to take Stephen home for dinner, but Stephen refused. Stephen asked how the town survived the devastation. Phillip said that the town was noted for its grit. He dropped Stephen off at the motel after their conversation. When Stephen entered the motel, he was greeted by a clerk named Cameron. Cameron was extremely polite, and he said that he was new in town a few years ago. He couldn’t believe it was real either. He handed Stephen his key and told Stephen that he hoped Stephen would stay. The hotel room was larger than any room Stephen had been in his life to say nothing of the fact that it was cleaner. There was a set of clothes on the bed with a card that read courtesy on it. Stephen showered with hot water to match the cleanliness of the town and went to sleep in his bed. After recollecting his day, Stephen looks at the time on the bedside clock. It’s 3:00 AM. The sun will not come up for another few hours, and Stephen is not sure he can fall asleep. He wonders if he could get a home in this town that is nicer. He hopes that he could reconcile with Velma and Tim either way. Out of the corner of his eye, he sees a blinking light in his window. It is far away, but Stephen is determined to investigate. He puts on his clothes and moves out of the hotel. He starts running towards the light. He runs for a half-hour, years of running have given him endurance. When gets close, he sees two people standing in front of a car with a small antenna on the hood. He ducks down to watch closer. The two people turn around and point guns at him. “Hands up, come down slowly,” a man’s voice says. Stephen obeys. When he comes down, he sees a man and a woman in nice clothes like the town. “Are you the guards of Bass Creek? I am a guest. You can contact Phillip Clark to confirm,” he says. The woman puts her gun and whispers to the man. The man puts his gun down as well. “We are not with Bass Creek, but maybe you could help us?” the woman says. “Help you how?” Stephen asks. “It is a long story, but we are going to have to run some tests on you first,” the man pulls out a separate gun and fires at Stephen. Stephen passes out on the spot.


“Are those their fighters?” A young ensign questioned as he pointed to a hazy blob on the holo console. “Drones,” a Lieutenant Commander barked while brushing him aside, ignoring his ill-timed curiosity. “Battlestations!” He yelled into his collar. His voice mixed with a whaling siren as they both resonated down the steel halls. The Cordiovasquez was a prestigious ship; however, she was well past her days of making history. She was now a museum piece floating in orbit, focussing her resources on life support. Conquest was for the young, and she had slain many only to stave off decommissioning. Her sister ships were all mothballed, and she had the backwater duty of protecting the spaceport housing her antiquated comrades. It was a slap in the face for the captain and his uncharacteristically loyal crew. “How much Gauss?” Captain Faraday asked “Eleven, 14 without detonators.” A weapons officer answered “So eleven Igor, we have eleven Gauss.” Capt. Faraday “Yes sir.” the officer conceited. “Low-Velocity charges?” Capt. Faraday asked as he turned an old-world wheel given to him as a ceremonious antique, never intended for use on an Orbital Gallion. The giant sperm whale of a vessel lumbered to the left of a moon and the right of a twirling sphere devoid of activity but clearly, manufactured. “How many marines are on ARG-12?” “We have 467 LVC’s, and we can convert another 42 in an hour.” A charged officer responded “There are 14 Marines, sir, none of which are responding.” A senior officer responded in defeated intonation “So we have 467 LVC’s and Zero Marines!” The commander threw at his tired crew while tossing the wheel to the right again, corralling his lumbering space tube into the wake of their moon’s orbit. “Tell Cortez I want 3 LVCs cut in half and loaded with firing solutions on their Cruiser.” “Ummm, yes, sir.” The lieutenant verified her auto scripter and sent the copy, knowing full well Cortez could hear a recording of Faraday in engineering. At that moment, Cortez quickly grabbed a drawing pad and rep box and ran down the main batteries bay, yelling for help. “I know I heard!” A man in an Exo Suit hailed while waving as Cortez rounded a corner opening up to a massive bay full of reinforced bulkheads. “I’ll admit we have a lot of these, but unless he wants us to blow ourselves up with them, I have no idea what he is thinking this time.” The man had a giant steel wedge in his hand with the markings EGR-6(Egress Ramp 6) sloppily painted and worn by mass use. “What the fuck are you doing with that!!!” Cortez screamed. “How much do you like old-world history, say... revolution of the Francs?” The Exo pilot proudly proclaimed like he’d been waiting his whole life to flex his obtuse knowledge. “By then, they were French, the French revolution!” Cortez rebutted in a panic “Awww, so you get my point. We sure as hell can’t torch it.” Exo pilot “No…” Cortez At this point, the bridge was invigorated by numerous sirens. “Shut that shit off!” Farraday yelled as he wiped dribbled beer foam off his pant leg. “That’s another group of sleuths, four squadrons, bearing….” An officer said while observing his iridescent monitors “Dammit, two of those could wipe the lot of us. BEARING?!?” Captain Farraday demanded “Sorry sir, my monitors are only on 13% since we re-routed to life-support.” Officer “Reroute everything to targeting, I want those solutions, and I want them NOW!” Farraday yelled as an officer hit four keys on a screen and slid into a seat beside a console erupting with life. “Sir, we’re in Chester’s gravity! With our current fuel levels, I don’t….” The pilot officer divulged while poorly hiding his concern “Never mind that, reroute all that to targeting,” the Captain ordered while thinking: *Come on, Chester, don’t swallow us yet.* The ship groaned as the large geologically active moon Chester bent and pulled the craft around it like a tiny belt bucket. “Give me more shields!” “At the expense of???” A Officers questioned “Do we have the Cephalopod sighted?” The captain asked as the weapons officer cut him off. “Yes! I was able to find the bastard back-tracing his fourth squadron! Targeting verified….. Now!” Weapons officer “Cortez!” Faraday yelled into his collar. “One more sir,” Cortez said while watching his colleague bash the back of a giant ramp with more mechanical energy than he’d ever seen. The exo-suits servos whined and screeched as the pilot swung with all his mech-assisted might, cleaving the charge in two. The exo-pilot grabbed the piece dripping with anti combustible gel and waddled it over to the breach. Cortex watched and sprayed the remaining charges with the gel. As the exo-pilot egressed the breach area, Cortez radioed the bridge, “Ready sir!” “FIIIIORE!!!!!” Faraday yelled. The crew, utterly perplexed as to why cleaving a charge would ever be advantageous, remained hopeless but driven. “Load every gauss that won’t burst!” The captain said in a desperate but commanding tone “Sir, the fighters are about to intercept the hospital ship!” Radar officer “Cowards!” Faraday barked. The crew watched without directing their eyes away from their duties. They all had a peripheral blur of the slaughter. Large columns of orange flicked on every reflective surface in the bridge. They watched, certain their ship would share a similar fate. “Sir!” An officer yelled! “The Cephalopod is moving; it’s heading toward ARG and turning broadside to us!” The Cephalopod was a *Drone Carrier* capable of delivering payloads from safe distances. It sat eerily still on the dark side of Chester: the lava-spewing sphere of chaos, chock-full of rare earth materials. This whole microcosm of violence was hosted by Ethos, the hydrogen rich planet Chester orbited. Ethos was why Chester had such growing pains; its massive gravity squeezed the satellite in constant flux. Thus, Cephalopod and Cordiovasquez had giant columns of magma to avoid along with each other’s monstrous weaponry. Farraday looks at his monitor and yells, “give me a solution across the bastard’s nose!” “Done,” Officer. “Fire all gauss!” The captain yelled triumphantly as the massive maternal vessel belched energy and bulk out of its broadside batteries. The Cordiovasquez looked like a freshly tossed oil pipe angulating through space with a fiery gash erupting from its side. The weapons forced the vessel into a clumsy spin. The crew, now whirling, grabbed hold of whatever they could as the gravity computers stressed to compensate. “Power down!” the captain said as officers quickly shut down everything but life support. They now all sat tranquil in their seats, helplessly watching stars streak across the bridge windows as they twirled in their orbit. Meanwhile, on the Cephalopod, things were starkly different. A calm admiral watched as drone fighters encircled his easy prey. “The Enemy vessel fired one salvo, but they’ll miss, sir.” A lieutenant said with confidence. “We detected small explosions in their hull earlier but too small for gauss cannons.” “Their ships falling apart before we’ve fired a shot.” The Enemy admiral admired. He then looked at the defense matrix and traced the main salvo. “They’ll bounce off our bow deflectors. A good admiral conserves everything he can, bring her back to the initial launch point, our drones will perforate their hulk of a ship.” “Yes sir!” A lieutenant said while punching a solution into his holoscreen. Back at Faraday’s ship, the captain unbuckled himself and conveniently waited for the ship to twist via gravity, allowing the radar console to slowly link up with his hands in an elegant display of competence. He peered at the screen with a smirk on his face. “There,” he said as his worried crew’s faces transformed to glee. Just then, three large lumbering objects carried by the moon’s stubborn weight streaked toward the enemy blip. Onboard the Cephalopod, everything short of champagne was ready for victory when a strange shadow quickly blotted out the stars and was gone. Silence ensued as perplexed crew members looked at each other first, then the admiral. As the admiral stepped toward his radar screen he was thrown to the wall as an explosion of glass and sparks spared from all around him. The ship took one gauss round near the bow and another, seconds after—dead center. It looked like a stressed girder as it first buckled inward, then detonated and was enveloped in its fiery outcry. Its mindless fighter drones carried on their stubborn trajectories, unable to receive any new commands, destined to travel the cold space forever. “Call the marines, tell them to bring me some beer and all the engineers they got.” Captain Faraday said proudly in his comlink from the spinning dark bridge of his tired vessel.


The person walking in front of him stopped. He was immediately angry. *Everyone is an idiot!* He thought for the third or fourth time today. *Why can’t people just function normally, like I do? Why can’t everyone just do what’s right?* For a moment, he thought of her. She was lovely and kind, he thought, but it was basically all ruined by the fact that even she couldn’t just do what made sense. She needed to talk about the things that would be helpful to her, and never about the unpleasant things he’d decided he shouldn’t allow her to bring up. He knew what she could handle and what would be pleasant for them both, didn't he? She was there for him, but couldn’t she just do basic things right, like he could? She should have a manual for the 25 year old car she can barely afford to keep running- like he had for his new-off-the-lot truck. Didn’t he buy a tire to replace her flat when she couldn’t afford it, out of the goodness of his heart? Sure he knew that her gratitude would give him a little more wiggle room to let his feelings out- tell her what an idiot she was, how her childhood trauma was her fault or scream at her until the relief came from hearing her cry and knowing that he was in charge. Everyone did something kind of naughty to feel better, and she *was* an idiot for not taking his obviously useful advice, anyway. She should know he only said most of those things out of anger and just accept them. After all, he was generous, wasn’t he? He often bought her little things after he’d broken her down a bit, which he didn’t have to do. She was the real coward for not calling him names back, for not defending herself more often. She just liked to pretend he was mean because she was a manipulator and frankly, she didn’t deserve all he’d done for her. He’d told her so. He deserved a better life than the losers he was surrounded by, that was a fact. And as much fun as she was to talk to, he was better than her, too. He didn’t deserve to be sad listening to her talk about sad things, bad days, stresses. He didn’t deserve to watch her suffer. If he had to scream at her and wait for her to stop crying to make her understand that she should just smile and be happy, then he had to. He wasn’t going to beat himself up about it. He had to feel free to say what he felt like saying somewhere without worrying about repercussions. She had no idea what stress he was under. There was always someone at work, some black person usually (he did *not* just think the n word, he noted) who was making trouble the way those people usually do. Or some moron who got promoted above him just because whoever yells loses. Or some woman just looking to create trouble because the new ‘kinder gentler’ airforce favored bitches who liked to pretend they’d been sexually harassed. Wherever he was stationed, there was some massive conflict with at least someone, and the higher-ups always took the other guy’s side. It was complete bullshit. Rage counseling really hadn’t done anything. Neither had the drugs. And as he’d said before (and he meant it!), he was under enough pressure that if he really started to lose out and couldn’t get ahead, he could simply plan to take one of his guns and shoot everyone he’d ever fought with on base and then commit suicide. No one had any idea the stresses he was under, how he never got what he deserved. All of this flashed through his mind in a matter of just a few moments as he pushed past the idiot who had stopped short on the sidewalk right in front of him. *Just another dumbfuck,* he thought, *everyone is an idiot. They should all be put to death.* Looking up, he had a fraction of a second in which everything played in slow motion. As the truck grew larger and blocked out his vision, he had just one moment before it blacked out his world forever to consider that the person in front of him had not been the idiot, after all.