Run - Awolnation

There's lightning striking all over the world.  Constantly. Which, I guess, out of context is not that unusual. Storms happen everywhere. But things are different now.

There are no storms.

Only the lightning.

Everywhere.

Fires are rampant. The world is crackling with energy from... somewhere. The news can't say, or won't say. Remain indoors. Stay away from electrical appliances. Tell your family you love them.

Do not touch the energy.

Do not let it inside.

Do not let it inside you.

Do not look at the lightning, do not enjoy it's radiant brilliance.

Enjoy the flash.

Let the light in.

Let it inside.

Let it inside your family.

Everything is under control.

Profoundly Simple

It is in the eyes of the predator, that you can see its intent. There is no telling a hunter's designs from their movements, or the sounds they make, or the look upon their face.

It is true for wolves, it is true for people.

Once you know what to look for, it becomes a profoundly simple task.  You'll find yourself doing it with everyone you meet.  Everyone's hunting something, whether it's a meal or a promotion or the life of another.  The look is more or less the same. But you get better at it.  You start to see the tiny changes, the minor differences.  Before long you'll be able to tell just how much of a threat they really are.

But it doesn't always take that much practice. Sometimes, it's profoundly obvious. Painfully obvious. Sometimes, even the uninitiated can look into a man's eyes and see exactly what he intends.

So look into my eyes and tell me... what do you see?

The Belemorn

Humanity's trek across the stars has been an amazing adventure.  In the last few hundred years, we have gone places, and seen things our ancestors could not have even conceived of.  The fernships of Feremolius, the Lightmoon, She That Speaks in the Silence...

But put aside the wonders of technology and the mysteries of the galaxy. The thing that has always amazed me, the thing that has always filled me with wonder, are the people we've encountered. The multitudinous orders of life we've discovered, and in most cases, befriended. The utter differences in the types of life we've met yet we've still, somehow, found common ground. It makes me proud, to know that humanity has been able to put aside differences and grudges to create a better galaxy.

Take, for example, my friend here across the table. A Belemorn. No eyes, no mouth, no discernible orifices of any kind. They're basically giant, floating jellyfish with space cruisers. They communicate mostly by complex tenticular motions beyond the comprehension of humans, but when they have to speak with us they vibrate their outer membrane to create sounds. It's a beautiful system, and shows how hard everyone has worked, on both sides, to create a peaceful galaxy.

That said, this son of a bitch is taking me to the cleaners today because I can't read his goddamn non-existent pokerface.  No-faced, floating little bastard.

An Agent of Her Grace

"What is it you are trying to do?" Abbott Keremor asked his pupil.

"Smite the target, Abbott." Rankin replied.

"So why isn't it smote?"

"Well..." Rankin kicked at the dirt sheepishly. "Maybe... the target isn't... evil? Enough? You know, to warrant Erathis' wrath?"

"Ugh, if only it worked like that... no. It is not yet smote, because you have yet to smite it." Abbott Keremor shook his head, but smiled warmly.  "Remember, you are not just a conduit for the power of Erathis, not some wand used to direct her righteous fury or her benevolent love. You are an agent of her grace, an operative of her might. You must earn her trust, and her power."

"Right..."

"She is not working through you. You are not some mere puppet of her Holiness. She does not reach through you to strike down her foes, she's busy boy. She needs to trust you to find her enemies, root them out and strike decisively. She needs to believe that you will give her blessing to those in need, not those who want."

"Okay... so... how do I convince a god that I'm worthy of her time?" Rankin asked, more perplexed than ever.

"You start the same way you do when you ask Brother Lawrence for seconds, child."

And Abbott Keremor lifted his hand to the target, and spoke with a booming voice a word as ancient as the gods themselves. His whole body shook with the deep timbre of his voice, and the walls echoed with the clarity of his speech. The target was engulfed within a column of flame as high as a house, a twisting torment of fire as hot as it was divine, which dissappeared as quickly as it came. All that remained of the target was a pile of embers, glittering red. Abbott Keremor smiled.

"You ask nicely"

Definitely Up

Qeul had traveled six days and five nights over the plains.  He had stopped to rest only twice, and had nearly died on both occasions.  The plains were not safe. No height. Can't stay off the ground, so you have to keep moving.

He was carrying two tusks, each nearly as long as he was tall, behind him.  There had been the skull of some kind of elephant creature a few kilometers back, and if Quel could just find a stick, or some kind of post he could construct a tower. Three legs, very sturdy.  Sleep on that.  Up. Off the ground.

He looked at his blistered, bleeding feet.

Yes, definitely up.

He scanned the horizon.  Quel had never seen so much nothing in his life, and would be most glad never to see it again.  For the third time, he questioned if he had gone mad. That's what happens to people without sleep. They go mad. Everyone knows that.

His feet started to tingle, and he realized he had stopped moving. No good, no good. He trudged forward, dragging what he hoped was his salvation behind him.

He thought of home while he walked. Of Vanya, and her blessed smile. Of the smell of roasted vegetables and the taste of cooked meat.  He smiled, and his face hurt. He rubbed his cheeks with a hand. How long has it been since I did that?

He blinked, and the world tumbled for a moment. In an instant he was on his feet again, a fighter's reflexes popping him into a defensive crouch in the instant of threat. But there was no threat. He had simply... fallen.

Fallen asleep.

Only for an instant, but the realization struck him hard. He was falling asleep while he walked. And death comes to those who sleep on the plains.

No, I will not die here.

He grabbed his tusks, and walked on.

And walked.

And walked.

Could I make a stand with the two tusks?  No... no it would fall. It needs the third support, or it will fall and I will be on the ground.  Bad.

And walked.

And walked.

And as the sun began to set on the sixth day of Quel's quest through the plains, he fell to his knees in despair. He watched the sun fade down below the horizon, and the moon peek out of the darkness while his knees began to burn beneath him. And soon, he fell forward, his body slumping face first into the soft, deadly ground.

Only it wasn't soft. Not at his face. In fact, it was painfully hard. The pain jolted him awake, just enough to realize his fortune. He crawled up onto his feet, blood seeping out of a dozen wounds on his knees, and ran his hands over the ground. There was something... something metal.  Metal is good.

It was long, and thin. Oh, sweet praise yes it's perfect!  He got his hands around it, and pulled. It was caught in the roots of the grasses, but he pulled and pulled and it tore free.

Perfect.

A metal pole, half-hand wide and more than a man tall. There was some kind of flat shape on one end, with eight sides. Might make a decent shovel, if he bent it right.  But that's tomorrow's problem.

He reached in to his pack, and pulled out some rope.  In a few moments, he had constructed a three-legged structure with the pole and tusks.  At last.

It looked like a giant caltrop, a collection of sharp points bound in the centre. He gave it a test shake, and it appeared to be sturdy enough. He climbed up, and rested his back against one of the protruding tusks, cradling himself in the middle. At last.

I will not die here, he thought. Instead, I will sleep.

And so he smiled, and fell asleep.

Two Shy

The coffee steamed in front of them, it would be too hot to drink for some time still.  The coffee shop's vintage table was dotted with ancient rings of similar cups from the last dozen years.  No part of Stanley's attention was invested in either the coffee or the decor, however.  Stanley was watching the door.

Martha was pointedly looking at the steaming cups, on the other hand.

"They changed the design." She said, lifting her paper cup up between them.

"Hmm?"

"They changed the design, on the disposable cup.  It used to have fourteen swirls from the top to bottom, now it has twelve." She indicated to her partner across the table.

"Hm." Stanely rarely admitted that he was envious of Martha's attention to detail. And not once did he ever mention it to her. But it was a remarkable gift, to be sure. And very, very helpful in their line of work.

"Why do you think they changed it?" She asked.

"Save on ink, maybe. Less to print."

"Hm.  But it probably cost them more to re-design it than they'll save on the new ones."

"Perhaps." Stanley admitted, tilting his head slightly in agreement. The door opened, and his body became alert with lightning speed, belied in no way by his outward appearance.  In fact, he moved not at all, save for the immediate dilation of his pupils as they locked on to the person entering the coffee house. "A discussion for another time, I'm afraid Martha. Our job is here."

Martha didn't turn to see, she knew what she would find. The dossier had been quite explicit, and Stanley was rarely wrong.  She slipped her gun out of her purse, and rested it on her lap.

"Very good," She said. "I was afraid if we had to wait much longer we'd have to actually drink some of this god-awful coffee."

The Argument of Magic

"So what's it like?"

"What, magic?" The mage replied, smiling at his brother.

"Yeh." The younger one prompted. He wiped the soot from his hands on the blacksmith's apron he wore before scratching at his short beard.

"Hmm." The mage stroked his chin, and pulled his hood back.  He was young, for a wizard, and his full head of black hair was a source of some jealousy among his peers. Which caused him no end of confusion, considering they were wizards and could change their hair into, I don't know, snakes or something if they wanted.  How hard could black hair be? "Well... you know when you're having an argument?"

"Shasson, I have a wife. Yes, I am familiar with arguments." He said wryly. Shasson smiled back, and continued.

"Ok, well, when you're arguing with someone about something with which you have absolute certainty, when you're filled with the conviction of the righteous... and they suddenly come to understand you're right and shift their opinion to support you? That's what magic is like."

"Huh."

"Except you're arguing with the laws of gods and nature and physics, and you might not be right after all but you've still managed to convince everything that exists that there should be fire right here, in the palm of my hand... whether it's true or not." Shasson continued, conjuring a small orb of flame in his palm.

"Huh." The blacksmith repeated. Shasson grinned proudly at his magical prowess. His brother stared at him, unimpressed.

"I was expecting something a little more... fantastic.  Oh well. That's nice Shasson. Chicken for dinner tonight." And he turned back to his work, crafting a new set of horse shoes.

Shasson fumed behind him, lifting the flame up as though to throw it... before extinguishing it and heading in to the house, muttering about conjuring chickens of doom.

Not So Bad A Thing

It is not so bad a thing, the flames. The pain is great, but not unimaginable.  And better to face the pain of the fire than the pain of loss, of losing her.

Does that make me a coward? To force her to take the harder path, to live without one's heart for the rest of her days, while I get to pass through the veil seeing her face through the shimmering heat?

Perhaps. The decision is long since made now.

I cannot feel the heat anymore.  Or rather, I have chosen not to feel it, I suppose.  My mind can take only so much. Thank you, mind.  The world crawls past at a glacial rate while I burn, unfeeling.

There is the disengage console.  I key in the compartment vent sequence ponderously with shrinking fingers.  The heat is replaced by dragging thunder, and I am blown out into space. The Dark Man wraps his fingers around mine, and then around the rest of me, and I have done it for her.

It is not so bad a thing.

Vicar and the Corp

Can’t sleep.  Had too much coffee already.  So tired.  Gotta keep the eyes open.  Don’t these assholes ever go home?

Vicar yawned, and rubbed at his exhausted face.  He’d been crammed into a supply closet for the last twenty-three hours, staring at a set of augmented reality windows. They were patched into the security feed of the office he and his crew were waiting to raid.  His job, for the moment, was to keep an eye on the drones working away in the office, and tell his crew when the floor was empty so they could infiltrate.  He’d slipped in shortly before quitting time yesterday, expecting the place to clear out quickly.  Instead, he was stuck waiting while a bunch of corporate wage-slaves worked their assess off all night for a corp that would kick them to the curb the moment they stopped being useful.  Gross.

He yawned again, and slumped his face in his hand.  One eye he kept open, watching the screens.  The floor was starting to clear out again, people grabbing their coats and bags.  

After another hour, there were only a few stragglers remaining.  Two drones having a chat in a cubicle, and one asshat hunched over a terminal.  Don’t you have lives? Vicar stared out at these last peons, squeezing the sides of his head and trying desperately to kill them with his mind.  That wouldn’t help, they’re supposed to ghost this mission.  No witnesses, no bodies, or no pay.  
But damn, would it make him feel better.  

The Chatty Twins grab their coats and head towards the elevator.  Yes!  Go!  Get yourselves something to drink.  Get drunk!  Get alcohol poisoning and die, you corprate stooge bastards!  Don’t come back.  Vicar stretches his neck out and leans back, resting his head against the wall.  Maybe I’m being too harsh.  

He opens his left eye, and stares angrily at baldy.  Last one, asshole.  Go home.  Go hooooooome.  Gooooooooooo hooooooooome.  I’m sure you have a perfectly acceptable corp approved hovel, with some nice soycaf and ramen waiting for you. Go, go you glorious bastard, go home and eat.  

Sigh.

Vicar waits.

He pulls a pair of energy bars from his vest, and for the hundredth time this day debates the qualities of vanilla versus those of peanut butter.  Sigh.  Fuck it.  Peanut butter. He puts the vanilla back, and tears into the peanut butter bar.  Damn that’s tasty.

Shit!  Baldie got up!  Vicar lurched forward, putting his face almost against the intangible AR screen.  Leeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeave.  Leaveleaveleaveleave.  

Baldie shuffled some papers, and grabbed his coat.  Yes!  Finally!  Aaaaahahahahahaha! Baldie starts shuffling towards the elevators, and Vicar gleefully starts punching up his crew’s contact in the matrix.  Almost go time.  Vicar watches as the wageslave slides his coat on, and shuffles his pages into what he can only hope is the right order.  The guy’s so intent on whatever he’s got on there.  Reading paper like a chump.  Who uses paper?  Corps that have the nuyen to spare, I guess.  Oh, hell no…

Baldie stops in his tracks.  He shuffles a page into a different order, and then turns to the supply closet.  No no no no nonononono.  Go home.  Do it at home.  You don’t need supplies.  You need to sleep.  We both need to sleep.  Damnit you stupid…

Vicar slips the strap off his Ares Predator, and thumbs the safety off.  Damnit, a whole day wasted.  Not even getting paid.  Stupid rules.  Stupid Mr. Johnson.  Stupid bald corp drone.  He levels the pistol at the door, and shuts off his AR windows.  

Baldie opens the door to the closet and flicks on the light without looking.  He’s got his face buried in his papers.  A tortured, confused look on his face.  Vicar’s pistol tracks the guy’s face unerringly.  Baldie’s free hand reaches up, and starts flopping around on the shelf, searching while he reads.  Jesus, what’s this guy’s problem?  His hand passes back and forth over pens, reams of paper, datajacks, you name it.  What does he want?  

Vicar’s face twists with incredulity.  Does this guy seriously not see me?  What the hell?

The drone keeps reading, nodding his head while he scowls.  He re-straightens the sheets of paper, and continues to read.  It dawns on Vicar.

“Stapler?” He asks, grabbing the red swingline stapler on the bottom shelf and handing it to Baldie, his Predator never twitching away from the guy’s head.

“Mmm.” the drone grunts in reply, taking the stapler without looking up.  He staples his papers, places the stapler on the shelf, and shuts off the light as he leaves the closet.

Vicar, alone in the darkness, stares with disbelief at the shut door.  The elevator dings, and he hears Baldie get on and disappear into the night.  

Un-fuckin’-real.

Vicar’s comlink chirps.  It’s Behir.  

“Hey Bee… place is finally empty.  Let’s do this, I want to get out of here. This place gives me the creeps.”

More Descriptions

The Immemorial Stone

What is trapped in here is more than an insect, more than a hard-shelled beast... it is time that is trapped inside the stone. Break it, and you might not be so pleased with the world you find... the world that was trapped inside the stone.

Ngaro People

The Forgetting

We forget the age of cages.  We forget the Great Trials, because to remember them is to bring forth great pain.  They say those who do not remember their history are doomed to repeat it... but this was an evil that could not be repeated.

Forget what you saw on the wall.







Ilshen, City Of Stars

It glitters, even in daytime. The sun itself is envious of its vibrant beauty. But it is in the shadows cast by the bright lights of prosperity, that the real work of the city is done.