Ride

"What is it you want?"

Vince turned. He couldn't read anything in his sifu's face. The question had come from nowhere.

"...What?"

The old woman sighed. "Young Vince, when people come to my dojo, they all want different things." Her round face was sliced in two by the shadows cast from the sunset, making her folorn smile unnering to Vince. "The tourists want to experience our 'culture', whatever that is. The kids want to be their heroes on television. The young men want to impress the young women, and the young women want the young men to go away. But I have trained you for two months and you have not said anything to me about why you are here."

"I pay you." Vince looked around the open air dojo, a palm-leaf roof on wooden struts that gazed out over the ocean. "Six bucks a week to learn how to defend myself. Isn't that enough?"

For an answer, she swept out a leg. He almost managed to keep his balance this time.

"Money doesn't fuel people, Vince." Her voice was reproachful but not angry. He'd never seen her angry. "People who only want money aren't people at all. You want something else."

"Yeah, to not get beat up by old ladies." Vince climbed back to his feet, wincing. "Can I go now, or do I have to tell you my life story to get away?"

She looked disappointing in him. "Very well."

He wondered if he should have answered. Then he wondered if he had an answer that would have been good enough anyway.

---

The store didn't like him doing this.

Oh, it wasn't concerned for his safety. It could look after itself. It had figured out how to blend in on the new island, although so far it had trouble understanding that people on holiday didn't want to watch anime. No, what it was concerned about was that he wasn't doing it properly.

The neon green chunk of plastic rested on the bed behind him as he changed.

The vacation was doing him good. He'd gotten some muscle tone and lost a bit of weight, and he no longer looked like a zombie. So that was an improvement.

He hefted the ice hockey chest and shoulder pads over his head.

No, it wanted him to use the machine. Do the jingles. Say the catchphrases. But he wasn't gonna do that. He was his own person, not a product. Besides, he wasn't really doing this to help people, although it was a nice side bonus.

On went the ski goggles and the bandanna over his mouth.

It wasn't even as if there was much crime on this island anyway.

He picked up the rubber mallet in gloved hands. He looked like he could pass at a con. Ghetto Rider cosplay. Heh.

Vince went out into the night.

Perfection

"Unknown genome. Genetic tampering. Clone activity detected."

Chairman Satoshi Hiro scanned the words on the paper over and over, but they revealed no further meaning to him. Around him, the servers hummed, black egg-shaped monoliths sprouting from the serene skin of the garden. A woman in a kimono polished their surfaces.He regarded the bonsai tree in front of him.

A clone. Loose. With them?

He'd had a tiring day. He'd had to explain to the elder executives, in no uncertain terms, that their plans for the new franchise on Earth 02 would go ahead. NBN's failures were their own fault. Hubris. They had snatched and grasped where they should not have, and suffered swift retribution. Word travelled fast. NBN stock was in freefall. This was their time. Now nobody trusted what they were told on the news, they could exploit their newfound freedom.

And, of course, they didn't desire the same things. NBN needed to own, own, own. But we, he explained, do not. We work in harmony with existing structures.

In other words, he thought, we make our takeovers look good.

Hiro studied the tree. Where was it...

Their offers were much more subtle. After all, what they offered could hardly be called villainous, or sinister. Just methods to remove stress, make the working life easier. Entertainment, too, would be possible. They could introduce the rest later, once they were comfortable with the new ideas presented to them.

The woman came over and poured Hiro a cup of tea. He glanced at the barcode on the back of her neck.

There was the problem of the clone. It had been detected during the Universe of Tomorrow Expo they'd held. The Ancestral Imager attraction had reported erroneous data.

"Unknown genome. Genetic tampering. Clone activity detected."

The words haunted him. If there was cloning on Earth 2, then a sword hung over his neck. He doubted the Kobbers would tolerate the industrial attitude to cloning. This one was special, unique. He would have to... nullify it, somehow.

He would have to be very, very careful.

Hiro found the errant branch and carefully cut it away with the shears. He sat back, examining his work, and nodded in satisfaction.

It could be done.

Prison

It moves. Head, arms, tail.

Dark. Feel. Cold stone, black water. Cannot see. Feels all, everywhere. Cold metal of prison. Has felt the cold metal of prison for countless years.

Feel. Strange. Symbols. Cannot read. Belong to jailors. Push.

Light? No heat. Pressure changes. Moves, pushes, breaks chains, pulls down walls -

"We made them. We couldn't control them, but in our arrogance we made them anyway, much like we made countless others."

Change.

Light. Warm water. Can see. Blue clear waters, color, sun, light.

No chains. No walls.

Freedom!

"What will we do, when it breaks free? It must hate us so much."

It dances, all one hundred of it. Jubilation. No longer a prison. Swim swim swim, breach water, find warm air and sun.

Freedom!

Thoughts turn. Images of fire, stone, metal. Memories? Goals. Feel. Island. Land. Rich. Swim. Take. Gain firestonemetal.

Must build.

"The world will weep..."

Must build. Must grow. Grow strong. Stronger than anything. Stronger than jailors.

Will never be jailed again.

"...tears enough to fill the salt seas."

Worth

Nevada Desert, April 2016

The golden figure sat at the crossroads. Next to him was a branch, planted in the ground, A bleached cow skull was tied to it.

"You cannot save them all," it whispered.

"Why not?"

"They are not worth saving."

"What," said the golden figure, "defines worth?"

---

"Fucking imbecile! Get out! Clear your desk!"

The underling - Victoria had already forgotten his name - fled the office. She let out the breath and turned to the window of the office.

Some people, she thought, just did not want to try. They just wanted to coast on by, putting in the barest amount of work. Like that one. He'd been pioneering a new show, the most insipid reality stuff ever. They had thirty channels of that. They'd lost money, and he'd lost his job. It was fine, he'd been wasting time on his phone most days anyway. Worthless idiot. She hated people who didn't even try, who didn't even want to try.

She breathed in, counted to ten, and looked out at the SanSan skyline. Hoppers flitted between the skyscrapers, mirroring her thoughts. It was okay. They could recover. Projected profits from the Fast Food district of their new Franchise City in Mojave would cover it, easily. But she needed cheering up now. Failure made her tetchy. She couldn't handle failure.

It was okay. She had something to take her mind off of it. She pinged her receptionist.

"Get me Jackson Howard," she said.

A few minutes later, he entered. He carried his usual aura of innocence, and his sunny grin and blue eyes calmed her down immensely.

Jackson Howard had worth. He had a mind that wandered into genius entirely by accident, and a personality that only had occasional brushes with negativity. His naivety was a comfort to her, both from a practical and an emotional standpoint. What better pick for the Executive of Child Programming than someone who could still think like one? She put on her best smile.

"Hello, Jackson."

"Hello, Victoria!" Jackson moved like he was about to bound. "What did you need me for?"

"You know the raffle Harpsichord Studios ran? The skeletons won it." Victoria brought up a holopic and sent it floating over to him. "Yes, I know. That place is strange. Anyway, they look pretty marketable and I think we can get a sitcom out of them. A few seasons worth." She didn't mention the bugs - things like that upset him. "Do you think you can make anything with these."

Jackson peered at the image. "Um... Well, they have pretty rounded edges, they don't seem too scary... probably?" He suddenly brightened. "Oh! There's these new learning brains I wanted to try! The ones Haas-Bioroid made available? I think maybe putting them in some dolls will be great! They could respond and give feedback and - "

"Okay, I've heard enough." Victoria clapped her hands together. "You'll get funding. Hop to it!"

"Thank you, Victoria!"

As Jackson practically skipped out of the room, Victoria turned and began to contact his project managers, because someone had to keep their head on around here.

---

"It is greatness of deed." Sand whispered through the skull's eye sockets. "Those who accomplish much in life are of value to others."

"There are those in power who are despised, and those who had power who died because of it. Power and deed are not measure of worth."

The road stretched to the horizon.

"Then it is... goodness." The words sounded harsh.

---

He was dead.

The man stood at the grave. A simple wooden cross. They needed the stone for the abbey.

He'd been there. Always. Since the coach crashed, since they'd reached the hamlet. They'd faced the necromancer together and brought the monster down. They'd shared stories, shared drinks, shared secrets. He couldn't be gone. It wasn't -

"Sean?"

He turned. She was waiting for him. She didn't say anything more.

"Go," he whispered. "I'll be with you soon."

She nodded and left. He turned, ran a gauntlet-clad hand over the wood.

"Goodbye, Dimitri."

He left.

---

"Some are good. Not all."

"Then what do you think worth is?" The skull rattled in the wind. "Who is worth your attention, golden one?"

Julius got to his feet. His armor was dirty and his wings ragged.

"They are all worth saving," he said, "because to judge a person's worth as if they are material goods is wrong."

"Until proven otherwise," hissed the voice.

"No." Julius looked down at the skull, eyes flaring. "There is always a chance. People do not understand that they are important and needed and that others depend on them. They see the miracle that is life around them and they find it dull, or even frightening. Every day they walk in shells, and they never open themselves to others."

The sun beat down upon them.

"Oh. Love." The voice dripped with disgust.

"Yes. The ultimate act of bravery is to reveal your true self to somebody, and to offer to handle the other person's trueness with care and respect. That is the most beautiful and precious thing in the world."

"Love is useless." The skull shuddered. "Love kills. Love can be broken. Love does not inspire greatness, it inspires restriction and mediocrity. Love does not gain power or riches."

"Leonardo da Vinci loved to create. Mozart loved to make music. Love enables greatness. Love has done all of these things and more. And nobody should measure themselves by impossible standards. Love is enough."

"Do you love her?"

Julius paused.

"It does not matter," he said, slowly.

"It does." The skull ceased all movement. "For if what you say is true, then you must not hide yourself in a cage of gold. You must let them know the truth. Not today, not tomorrow, but soon. For what you did and what you have seen must be made known. And when you do, there will be a war. Know this."

Julius nodded.

"Thank you."

"You are welcome. Don't be a stranger. It is lonely here."

The astral knight began to walk, leaving nothing but a bleached cow skull, stuck at an empty crossroads in the desert.

Inferno

Midway upon the journey of our life,
I found myself within a forest dark,
For the straightforward pathway had been lost.



The diner door's chime had broken a long time ago, so it took the thudding footsteps to alert the waitress to the new customer. She turned around.

"Hi! Welcome to-"

Her best smile faltered. The new entrant was ten feet tall, and had semi-crouched in order to get their enormous bulk sideways through the door. The light struggled through the stained windows to gleam on their golden armor. The waitress dimly recalled a medieval fair her mother had takenn her to as a child, and seeing two men in shining armour pantomiming their roles as knights. This... person's armor put them to shame. Two electric blue points of light looked down at her as it approached.

"Um," she managed. Did this thing even eat?

The boots banged on the tiles as it approached the counter. It stopped and regarded her.

"Hello," it said. Its voice was like a musical chime, from far away. Her mouth was suddenly dry.

"Hi," she replied. "Welcome to Bert's Diner! Uh, What can I get you?"

The thing looked up and down the scarlet counter. Nobody else was here - the Kobbers had left the city for the rest of the year, and it was off holiday season anyway, so most people had headed home. All that was left were the empty red seats and the dust starting to collect on the road signs and registration plates adorning the walls. The TV suspended on one wall was tuned to a NBN music channel - some vaporwave track that had never left the charts.

"I would like," the figure chimed, "a cheeseburger. And a chocolate milkshake."

The waitress nodded and hurried into the kitchen. The figure looked around the dying restaurant again. Its eyes fell upon a potted plant on the end of the diner counter, a bonsai that was reaching the end of its life and patience.

Half an hour later, the waitress came back with a plate in one hand and a tall, cold glass in the other. Her eyes fell, briefly, upon the small tree. It was in full bloom, with small red flowers bursting from the end of the branches. She glanced at the figure, which was still standing at the counter, and briefly wanted to ask him two questions at once.

"Here you go," she said instead, voice full of fake joy as she set the plate and glass down. "Enjoy your meal!"

"Thank you," it said.

She went to the end of the counter and pretended to polish it, watching as it lifted golden gauntlets to the helmet, flicking unseen catches open and lifting the helmet off.

It was like a midnight sky.

She wasn't quite aware how long it was before the figure finished, put the helmet back on and paid for the meal. She recalled only a midnight sky, and the rustle of its broken wings as it left the diner.



"Ah, this looks fabulous on you! The cut really brings out your shoulders!"

Bored.

Tak-Sin paid for the dress and left the store. The mall blared Christmas at him. His heels clacked on the tiles as he passed brands, offers, toys, cheer.

Bored.

He pulled out his phone. No texts from James. The wallpaper was of the two of them at a theme park.

Bored.

He wondered if this was what it was like to die. Stillness, nothing happening or developing. No current flowing. Oh, James was nice - as much as a mostly physical relationship could be, anyway. James was cute, fluffy, inoffensive. They shared similar tastes in clothing. He was easy to keep happy. He was insufferably boring.

He looked up and saw something interesting. There was a young man in clothing that was probably out of fashion when his punk rocker idols had gotten married and had children. He was hunched over a laptop, squinting, fingers flying like fish amongst the reef. People, for some reason, weren't noticing him.

Interesting.

Tak-Sin walked up behind the man and watched silently over his shoulder for a while. He didn't understand any of the words. He did understand the part where the man appeared to take ten thousand dollars from someone. It was hard to miss. Whoever had made that program had wanted the user to know exactly what they were doing. He quickly placed a hand on one shoulder and leant over.

"Well done," he whispered into the man's ear. He froze up, staring straight ahead and hands hovering above the keys. Tak-Sin kept talking.

"I don't need to know what you're doing to know it's stupid," he continued. "You're in a public place. The only reason you've not been caught is that the guards here aren't paid enough for the hours they work and don't dislike you enough to investigate. If I shout, you'll be in jail. Nod if you understand."

The man, face pale, nodded.

"Now then." Tak-Sin leaned a little closer. "Would you kindly direct me to whoever hired you? I'm in need of a job."



Old coin. Confederate. Battered from time and travel. Feels solid in the hand.

Flip.

Tails. Hah.

Old gun. Revolver. Not a common service weapon in the military. Six bullets. Five chambers empty.

Point at head. Pull -

Jonesy waited until the echoing in her head had stopped and her brain and skull had regenerated.

"Shit," she muttered, and slammed the gun on the kitchen counter. Then she went to fix herself a whiskey.

Royalty

There are two kinds of royalty.


The dwarves and the elves have never got on, ever. The dwarves thought of the elves as arrogant upstarts who stole the majesties and riches from the old Dvergarholms. The elves thought the dwarves were arrogant old men who squandered what they had on pointless ventures and effigies. In some ways, they were very alike.

The skeletons that descended upon the two outposts - one elf, one dwarf, eyeing each other over the Strang River - didn't think anything of either of the races. They came in droves, silent except for the clink of metal on bone. By the time the alarm was raised, it was much too late to respond.

The elves and dwarves, for all their differences, died very much the same.

When the horror had ended, the horde did not take gold, or weapons. They did not burn down flags, or destroy the outposts, or seize their new holdings. They piled up the corpses on a cart pulled by fleshless horses and vanished into the fog, as silent as they had come.

Two days later, the cartographers of Ardea noticed the Ivory Forest had expanded by half an inch westwards, across the entire border.

And thus did Ostaria, the Empire of Bone, expand.


Light swept into the room, and prince Tak-Sin stood back from the window to admire himself in the full-length mirror, the sunlight playing off his nude form.

Nice. Still as refined and delicate as ever. Long blue hair that went down to just above his hips. Toned legs, slim body, and a face that could pass for beauty in either gender. No wonder the Duke of Calra fell for him so quickly. Then again, Duke John Estwald, of the province of Calra, was a handsome young man who unfortunately was both inexperienced in ruling and suffering from an orientation that his stuffy old father didn't like. Thankfully, Tak-Sin was more than happy to accommodate both of those things.

What a lovely party. What a lovely dress he'd worn - although he couldn't seem to find it in the scattered items on the royal carpet. What nice food. What a fun evening.

What opportunity.

He could hear Morgan in his head, the eidolon lurking in a corner of space-time and begging for blood. He dismissed the spirit with a mental wave of his hand. There was plenty of time for that. No, John wasn't quite ready. His estate was rich, and had connections to the merchants of Belgrazia. Handsome young merchants who would be looking for financial aid, and who might be lonely on cold nights waiting for their ships to come in, and who might turn a blind eye if somebody close to them might want something special brought in on those ships.

Later, the merfolk would give the slient command, and poor Duke Estwald would be stabbed in his sleep by a madman, or take a nasty tumble and break his neck. But until then, there were still things to do. He could have a lot of fun with John. More parties to attend, official functions to laze around in looking for the inevitable replacement, more wine to drink and gold to spend, more lovely nights in.

Speaking of which...

Tak-Sin padded over to the four-poster at the far end of the room, climbing on and crawling on all fours over the sleeping form in the middle. He made sure to brush John's body with his own as he lay on top, and relished the flush of the young man's face as the young Duke awoke to see the results of last night.

"Good morning, dear," the merfolk whispered, and kissed him.

He really was very handsome. It would be a shame to kill him. Maybe he could enslave him instead.


There are two kinds of royalty. Those who wear an iron fist, and those who wear a velvet glove over the top of it.