"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.
Saturday, 3 December 2016
Tuesday, 1 November 2016
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."
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."
Sunday, 22 May 2016
Plaisir (Collab with Wulf)
It was not the first time Conrad had woken up in a dark room tied to a chair, but it was the first time he’d done so and seen his severed arm dangling in front of his face.
He stared at it blankly. Then he turned his head. Yep. It had been his remaining real arm. He tried to think of a joke to stop himself screaming. He failed.
“Shut up.”
Something cold and metallic hit him, and stars flashed in his eyeballs. He grunted, realised there was no pain. Turning his head felt weird, but he managed to do so and look at whatever had hit him. It was a synth - in a past life. It had so many exposed joints and extra limbs bolted to its frame that it resembled some kind of decayed insect. It watched him through a single azure lens set into a slab of a head, low between its broad shoulders.
“Not from the Free Machines, I take it,” grunted Conrad.
It hit him again.
“Shut up,” it repeated. Its voice was a bass proclamation.
Conrad shut up. The thing regarded him for a while.
“Your body parts,” it eventually said, “are worth a fortune. Your arm is a trillion Hub credits. Your dual-heart system is a delicacy for the Roth Dominion. The right people would shed the blood of a thousand for a few drops of your own.”
“Then why aren’t I being packed up and shipped out already?”
It hit him yet again.
“Because if you are alive, you are worth twice as much.”
It turned away briefly. Conrad tried to avert his gaze from his dangling arm - he didn’t want to know how it was hung up. Instead, he looked to his right and saw a thick canopy of iv bags and medical equipment. He started counting all the sedatives he recognised.
“People know I’m here,” He said.
“I don’t care.” Something glinted in the corner of Conrad’s eye, and he glanced over at the largest scalpel he’d ever seen, held in a rusted hand.
“You could ransom me back.” He was getting the feeling this might be a personal issue. “Ekspansa would pay billions to make sure I’m safe.”
The thing shrugged. “Perhaps. Arcturus works in mysterious ways.”
Conrad didn’t bother to correct it. “You know Wulf?”
“Why?” The blue searchlight eye whipped around and blinded him for a second. “Do you expect a rendition of my life story? This is not one of your cartoons.”
“Hey, they’re- “
It hit him across the face.
“Why do you keep doing that?”
“Your words are, unfortunately, worth nothing, which means I would prefer it if you were silent.” The scalpel came up. “However, your tongue has a potential application in several alchemical recipes. Maybe I should have cut that out.”
There wasn’t a good response to that, so Conrad didn’t bother. The thing grunted in satisfaction and turned away again, fingers stabbing at a very old portable communicator. The click of the keys echoed in the dark space.
“What’s your problem with me?”
The android went deathly still, and for a wild moment, Conrad hoped it had shut down.
“I was a butler droid for Godking Guillaume,” it said. “Then David Wulf shot me in the face. I presume he had a good reason.” It resumed typing. “You can work the rest out.”
Conrad stared, and realised that anyone coming for him was too slow.
“So, revenge then?” he tried.
“No.” the droid sighed. “I am incapable of making value judgements about anybody above a certain level of income. Unfortunately, a hardcoded predilection for… rich living, requires certain measures to be taken.” The scalpel came up again, this time with purpose.
“Woah, woah, wait!” Conrad wracked his brains. “What about, like, the Asimov Laws? Or the Restrictions? Don’t you have those?”
A sick laugh.
“David shot them out of me.”
The scalpel came down, and the wall exploded. A mass of shimmering black shot across his vision and took the scalpel— And his assailant— With it. There was a loud crash, and Conrad’s vision shot towards the opposite side of the room, where the slab-faced android sat in a heap, screen flickering as its eye stared at a dark figure standing before it. Conrad took them in— Form-fit vantablack armor with the faintest shine of karzantium film, like rainbows at an event horizon. The attacker reached up and removed their hood, revealing light brown hair spooled up into a tight bun. They wore small, flat hoops that pulsed with blue light.
“Plaisir,” they said to the droid, and held their arm out. The air shimmered, and a chunky pistol appeared in their hand, glimmering with a chrome-finish. A sharp, black lacquered nail caressed the trigger.
The synth laid down its scalpel. “Tout le plaisir était pour moi,” it said in response.
“Non, j’étais heureux de le faire.” The assailant laughed softly. “By the way,” they said, cocking the hammer, “it’s A’isha Arcturus Wulf. Respect my name and pronouns, you fuck.”
There was a loud bang, and the synth’s screen went dark. A’isha holstered her gun and spun on one foot to face Conrad
“Hola nephew! You uh, shit. You don’t have a bloody arm. Jesus.”
“Yeah, that’s, uh, that’s a problem.” Conrad pulled at his restraints. “Can I get untied?”
A’isha trotted over at a casual pace that made Conrad’s eye twitch. “You kids and your ropes.” There was a rustling and a soft snap, and Conrad felt the pressure on his ribcage dissipate as the ropes fell in his lap. “You know,” she said, twirling a karambit around her finger, “if you just dislocated all your joints and slithered out you would’ve been dandy, lad.”
“I, uh, forgot.” The sedatives were really kicking in now, and Conrad tottered to his feet. “Thanks, Auntie. I owe you, like, a million. A million and one favours. All of them.” He squinted. “Why did you name yourself after a Power Ranger?”
A’isha slapped him across the face, but lightly this time, like being gently flogged with bootlaces. “Wife of the Prophet, you little otaku git. I was a student of hers years ago; brilliant woman she was. God bless her. ‘Sides, used up a lotta good names on my kids this time around. Never should’ve named your cousin Zoe Fatima, C, really gave up some prime linguistic real estate on that move. I mean, I was wasted when I named my kids, sure, but when was I not back then?”
“Yeah, good point.” Conrad looked at his severed arm. “You were always, pretty wasted. Uh, speaking of wasting things, can we reuse my arm? ‘Cause, that’s a pretty clean cut he did.” Everything felt fuzzy. “I want it to go to a good home at least. Not the severed arm… pound… Shit, did he put noxatine in me? He did.”
Then, very gently, he keeled over and fell on his face.
A’isha sighed and looked at her watch. “Damn, I’m gonna be late for that lunch, aren’t I?” She rolled her eyes. “Eh, xe was late on me last time.” The merchant put two fingers against her ear and speed dialed a number on her neural mesh. It rang for a few moments.
“Good afternoon, Empress.”
“Batiĉé, Park. Hey uh, do you mind swinging by twenty third Orkoji Ave in a few minutes? I may have a, uh…” She looked down at Conrad, foaming slightly at the mouth. “Medical emergency.”
“Conrad, ma’am?”
“Bingo.”
The sound of Park suiting up echoed through the phone. “On my way, madame Empress.”
“Bonza, hun. See ya in a flash, hugs and kisses~”
A’isha hung up and shoved the phone back in her pocket. She glanced down again at Conrad, and then to the dead droid in the corner. She sniffed the air.
“Now where was that gyro truck again,” she mumbled to herself, and stepped casually back over the broken wall onto the street outside.
He stared at it blankly. Then he turned his head. Yep. It had been his remaining real arm. He tried to think of a joke to stop himself screaming. He failed.
“Shut up.”
Something cold and metallic hit him, and stars flashed in his eyeballs. He grunted, realised there was no pain. Turning his head felt weird, but he managed to do so and look at whatever had hit him. It was a synth - in a past life. It had so many exposed joints and extra limbs bolted to its frame that it resembled some kind of decayed insect. It watched him through a single azure lens set into a slab of a head, low between its broad shoulders.
“Not from the Free Machines, I take it,” grunted Conrad.
It hit him again.
“Shut up,” it repeated. Its voice was a bass proclamation.
Conrad shut up. The thing regarded him for a while.
“Your body parts,” it eventually said, “are worth a fortune. Your arm is a trillion Hub credits. Your dual-heart system is a delicacy for the Roth Dominion. The right people would shed the blood of a thousand for a few drops of your own.”
“Then why aren’t I being packed up and shipped out already?”
It hit him yet again.
“Because if you are alive, you are worth twice as much.”
It turned away briefly. Conrad tried to avert his gaze from his dangling arm - he didn’t want to know how it was hung up. Instead, he looked to his right and saw a thick canopy of iv bags and medical equipment. He started counting all the sedatives he recognised.
“People know I’m here,” He said.
“I don’t care.” Something glinted in the corner of Conrad’s eye, and he glanced over at the largest scalpel he’d ever seen, held in a rusted hand.
“You could ransom me back.” He was getting the feeling this might be a personal issue. “Ekspansa would pay billions to make sure I’m safe.”
The thing shrugged. “Perhaps. Arcturus works in mysterious ways.”
Conrad didn’t bother to correct it. “You know Wulf?”
“Why?” The blue searchlight eye whipped around and blinded him for a second. “Do you expect a rendition of my life story? This is not one of your cartoons.”
“Hey, they’re- “
It hit him across the face.
“Why do you keep doing that?”
“Your words are, unfortunately, worth nothing, which means I would prefer it if you were silent.” The scalpel came up. “However, your tongue has a potential application in several alchemical recipes. Maybe I should have cut that out.”
There wasn’t a good response to that, so Conrad didn’t bother. The thing grunted in satisfaction and turned away again, fingers stabbing at a very old portable communicator. The click of the keys echoed in the dark space.
“What’s your problem with me?”
The android went deathly still, and for a wild moment, Conrad hoped it had shut down.
“I was a butler droid for Godking Guillaume,” it said. “Then David Wulf shot me in the face. I presume he had a good reason.” It resumed typing. “You can work the rest out.”
Conrad stared, and realised that anyone coming for him was too slow.
“So, revenge then?” he tried.
“No.” the droid sighed. “I am incapable of making value judgements about anybody above a certain level of income. Unfortunately, a hardcoded predilection for… rich living, requires certain measures to be taken.” The scalpel came up again, this time with purpose.
“Woah, woah, wait!” Conrad wracked his brains. “What about, like, the Asimov Laws? Or the Restrictions? Don’t you have those?”
A sick laugh.
“David shot them out of me.”
The scalpel came down, and the wall exploded. A mass of shimmering black shot across his vision and took the scalpel— And his assailant— With it. There was a loud crash, and Conrad’s vision shot towards the opposite side of the room, where the slab-faced android sat in a heap, screen flickering as its eye stared at a dark figure standing before it. Conrad took them in— Form-fit vantablack armor with the faintest shine of karzantium film, like rainbows at an event horizon. The attacker reached up and removed their hood, revealing light brown hair spooled up into a tight bun. They wore small, flat hoops that pulsed with blue light.
“Plaisir,” they said to the droid, and held their arm out. The air shimmered, and a chunky pistol appeared in their hand, glimmering with a chrome-finish. A sharp, black lacquered nail caressed the trigger.
The synth laid down its scalpel. “Tout le plaisir était pour moi,” it said in response.
“Non, j’étais heureux de le faire.” The assailant laughed softly. “By the way,” they said, cocking the hammer, “it’s A’isha Arcturus Wulf. Respect my name and pronouns, you fuck.”
There was a loud bang, and the synth’s screen went dark. A’isha holstered her gun and spun on one foot to face Conrad
“Hola nephew! You uh, shit. You don’t have a bloody arm. Jesus.”
“Yeah, that’s, uh, that’s a problem.” Conrad pulled at his restraints. “Can I get untied?”
A’isha trotted over at a casual pace that made Conrad’s eye twitch. “You kids and your ropes.” There was a rustling and a soft snap, and Conrad felt the pressure on his ribcage dissipate as the ropes fell in his lap. “You know,” she said, twirling a karambit around her finger, “if you just dislocated all your joints and slithered out you would’ve been dandy, lad.”
“I, uh, forgot.” The sedatives were really kicking in now, and Conrad tottered to his feet. “Thanks, Auntie. I owe you, like, a million. A million and one favours. All of them.” He squinted. “Why did you name yourself after a Power Ranger?”
A’isha slapped him across the face, but lightly this time, like being gently flogged with bootlaces. “Wife of the Prophet, you little otaku git. I was a student of hers years ago; brilliant woman she was. God bless her. ‘Sides, used up a lotta good names on my kids this time around. Never should’ve named your cousin Zoe Fatima, C, really gave up some prime linguistic real estate on that move. I mean, I was wasted when I named my kids, sure, but when was I not back then?”
“Yeah, good point.” Conrad looked at his severed arm. “You were always, pretty wasted. Uh, speaking of wasting things, can we reuse my arm? ‘Cause, that’s a pretty clean cut he did.” Everything felt fuzzy. “I want it to go to a good home at least. Not the severed arm… pound… Shit, did he put noxatine in me? He did.”
Then, very gently, he keeled over and fell on his face.
A’isha sighed and looked at her watch. “Damn, I’m gonna be late for that lunch, aren’t I?” She rolled her eyes. “Eh, xe was late on me last time.” The merchant put two fingers against her ear and speed dialed a number on her neural mesh. It rang for a few moments.
“Good afternoon, Empress.”
“Batiĉé, Park. Hey uh, do you mind swinging by twenty third Orkoji Ave in a few minutes? I may have a, uh…” She looked down at Conrad, foaming slightly at the mouth. “Medical emergency.”
“Conrad, ma’am?”
“Bingo.”
The sound of Park suiting up echoed through the phone. “On my way, madame Empress.”
“Bonza, hun. See ya in a flash, hugs and kisses~”
A’isha hung up and shoved the phone back in her pocket. She glanced down again at Conrad, and then to the dead droid in the corner. She sniffed the air.
“Now where was that gyro truck again,” she mumbled to herself, and stepped casually back over the broken wall onto the street outside.
Sunday, 3 April 2016
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.
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.
Tuesday, 29 December 2015
Holidays with a Dork, a Delinquent and the Dungeon
"Dimitri, what are you doing?"
The red hologram - which currently resembled one of the frilly-dressed girls that seemed to be everywhere nowadays - looked down at Sean.
"I'm installing lasers," she replied.
Sean sighed. He really wanted to go back to bed. Sakuya had been woken up by the banging noises, and Sakuya had a way of channelling her displeasure at him in subtle ways.
"Why," he asked, "are you installing lasers into the mansion at 2 in the morning?"
"Marisa."
Sean's brow furrowed. "Marisa?" Then recollection emerged from the sleepy fuzz of his brain. "Oh, you mean the girl that keeps beating Meiling in fights?"
"Yeah, and coming in and stealing stuff and being a total bitch." There was a fizz of sparks from within the contraption attatched to the corner of the ceiling. "Well, let's see her waltz in when sixty thousand degree plasma death is pointed at her."
Sean arched an eyebrow. "Did Remilia give you permission to do this? Not that I care what she thinks, but modifying her home is -"
"She pointed me towards the scrapyard, buddy."
Sean tried desperately to cast his mind back to Christmas, where there was mistletoe and eggnog and food and presents and everything was slightly pink because Sakuya was being extra romantic. It seemed a very long time ago now. He'd like another day of that, and not this. He was starting to get cold.
"I don't think Meiling would like this," he said.
The tinkering stopped. "What?"
"You waking everyone up at 2 in the morning." Sean left "trying to fight her battles for her" unsaid.
There was a pause.
"In fact," Sean added, hoping Dimitri wasn't using his eyes at the moment, "I think that's her coming down the corridor right now."
Dimitri, expression fearful, vanished in a blur of red pixels. Sean nodded, and went back to bed and Sakuya. Snuggles were good.
---
A small town's Christmas was ruined when they woke up to find their town Christmas tree knocked over, the decorations torn and "inhale my dong santa" burned into the baseball diamond. There were also a lot more empty bottles of alcohol lying around than usual.
They blamed it on travellers, but without conviction.
---
The campfire was the only source of light.
"- back of the knee, boy. The Swine have weak legs, you see. Try it!"
The young man concentrated as he gripped his hands around the remnants of the schackles that danged from his body. With a grunt, he swung a length out, down low, and hit the leg of the dummy with a dull thunk.
"Good!" A heavy gauntlet patted him on the back. "Again. We'll see you get it down right before we turn in, or my name isn't -"
"We're going to die down here."
She turned away from watching the two men, old and young, and focused on the girl. Swaddled in her vestements, clutching her holy tome to her like a shield.
"And what makes you say that," she asked.
The girl stared blankly at her. "You know. You saw, back there. I mean, people eat pigs, yes?" A giggle crept into her voice, wild and unhinged. "So, so obviously the pigs eat -"
The slap came and she regretted it the moment it landed. Old habits died hard. The girl stared, eyes wide and cheek red.
"With that kind of talk we WILL die down here,' she hissed. " we're on our last set of firewood and our packs only have food for a few days. The last swine we fought cut the boy up badly. If you lose your fool senses now, nobody can heal him."
The girl's eyes shone in the firelight. Too harsh, perhaps. A crack of wood made their heads turn to see the ragged, chained boy beaming and the dummy's leg amputated.
"Look," she said. "I won't let anything happen to you down here. The Swine are not the worst horror we've seen here. We will make it."
The girl's voice was faint. "Promise me?"
"I promise you, S -"
"AMBUSH!" The old man roared, lionesque. His mace flashed into the night, there was a sick crunch, and a twisted, bloodied body fell into the light of the fire. In the dark beyond came squeals. Metal glinted. Red eyes leered.
The party drew weapons as, once again, the Swine fell upon them.
The red hologram - which currently resembled one of the frilly-dressed girls that seemed to be everywhere nowadays - looked down at Sean.
"I'm installing lasers," she replied.
Sean sighed. He really wanted to go back to bed. Sakuya had been woken up by the banging noises, and Sakuya had a way of channelling her displeasure at him in subtle ways.
"Why," he asked, "are you installing lasers into the mansion at 2 in the morning?"
"Marisa."
Sean's brow furrowed. "Marisa?" Then recollection emerged from the sleepy fuzz of his brain. "Oh, you mean the girl that keeps beating Meiling in fights?"
"Yeah, and coming in and stealing stuff and being a total bitch." There was a fizz of sparks from within the contraption attatched to the corner of the ceiling. "Well, let's see her waltz in when sixty thousand degree plasma death is pointed at her."
Sean arched an eyebrow. "Did Remilia give you permission to do this? Not that I care what she thinks, but modifying her home is -"
"She pointed me towards the scrapyard, buddy."
Sean tried desperately to cast his mind back to Christmas, where there was mistletoe and eggnog and food and presents and everything was slightly pink because Sakuya was being extra romantic. It seemed a very long time ago now. He'd like another day of that, and not this. He was starting to get cold.
"I don't think Meiling would like this," he said.
The tinkering stopped. "What?"
"You waking everyone up at 2 in the morning." Sean left "trying to fight her battles for her" unsaid.
There was a pause.
"In fact," Sean added, hoping Dimitri wasn't using his eyes at the moment, "I think that's her coming down the corridor right now."
Dimitri, expression fearful, vanished in a blur of red pixels. Sean nodded, and went back to bed and Sakuya. Snuggles were good.
---
A small town's Christmas was ruined when they woke up to find their town Christmas tree knocked over, the decorations torn and "inhale my dong santa" burned into the baseball diamond. There were also a lot more empty bottles of alcohol lying around than usual.
They blamed it on travellers, but without conviction.
---
The campfire was the only source of light.
"- back of the knee, boy. The Swine have weak legs, you see. Try it!"
The young man concentrated as he gripped his hands around the remnants of the schackles that danged from his body. With a grunt, he swung a length out, down low, and hit the leg of the dummy with a dull thunk.
"Good!" A heavy gauntlet patted him on the back. "Again. We'll see you get it down right before we turn in, or my name isn't -"
"We're going to die down here."
She turned away from watching the two men, old and young, and focused on the girl. Swaddled in her vestements, clutching her holy tome to her like a shield.
"And what makes you say that," she asked.
The girl stared blankly at her. "You know. You saw, back there. I mean, people eat pigs, yes?" A giggle crept into her voice, wild and unhinged. "So, so obviously the pigs eat -"
The slap came and she regretted it the moment it landed. Old habits died hard. The girl stared, eyes wide and cheek red.
"With that kind of talk we WILL die down here,' she hissed. " we're on our last set of firewood and our packs only have food for a few days. The last swine we fought cut the boy up badly. If you lose your fool senses now, nobody can heal him."
The girl's eyes shone in the firelight. Too harsh, perhaps. A crack of wood made their heads turn to see the ragged, chained boy beaming and the dummy's leg amputated.
"Look," she said. "I won't let anything happen to you down here. The Swine are not the worst horror we've seen here. We will make it."
The girl's voice was faint. "Promise me?"
"I promise you, S -"
"AMBUSH!" The old man roared, lionesque. His mace flashed into the night, there was a sick crunch, and a twisted, bloodied body fell into the light of the fire. In the dark beyond came squeals. Metal glinted. Red eyes leered.
The party drew weapons as, once again, the Swine fell upon them.
Saturday, 12 December 2015
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.
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.
Monday, 30 March 2015
This is Really Stupid
Abandoned Pizzeria
Las Vegas
Las Vegas
In the cold corpse-air of the abandoned building, they came together.
Well, three of them did.
"FREDDY MY FUCKING HEAD IS GONE."
One of them turned, servos whining with age, and glared at the open door to the parts and services room. There wasn't enough mechanisms in the face to express how it felt. It tried, anyway. The mouth opened, and a hissing tape recorder played;
"just use a spare you insufferable garbage can"
"BUT IT'S NOT THE SAME."
"hurry up this is important shit"
Eventually, the missing figure stumbled from the back room and joined the other four, looking as sheepish as it was possible for a costumed robot to be. The leader didn't spare it a glance, but simply cast its glowing eyes across the assembled figures.
"gather around all you shitlords and shitheads," intoned the leader, "for i have intercepted
the mail"
Expectant silence.
"it turns out we're all fucking fired"
"ARE YOU FUCKING KIDDING?" This roar came from the most broken of the four, his teeth gnashing and mouth spitting sparks. His hook dragged across the floor's tiles with a screech.
"sadly no, it appears you have insulted your last birthday child"
"WHAT THE FUCK ARE WE GONNA DO I HAVE KIDS TO FEED"
"none of us have any kids you yiffy pile of useless garbage"
The leader sighed and shook its head.
"it seems we no longer have any choice my shittiest companions"
The word were spoken with grave solemninty, and the others knew their time had come.
"we're going to have to rob a casino to pay for our nights of debauchery"
"YES"
"FUCK YES LETS FUCKING DO IT"
The third one, who hadn't made a noise this whole time, weighed in. "devour my hot bird ass freddy"
"no"
"it turns out we're all fucking fired"
"ARE YOU FUCKING KIDDING?" This roar came from the most broken of the four, his teeth gnashing and mouth spitting sparks. His hook dragged across the floor's tiles with a screech.
"sadly no, it appears you have insulted your last birthday child"
"WHAT THE FUCK ARE WE GONNA DO I HAVE KIDS TO FEED"
"none of us have any kids you yiffy pile of useless garbage"
The leader sighed and shook its head.
"it seems we no longer have any choice my shittiest companions"
The word were spoken with grave solemninty, and the others knew their time had come.
"we're going to have to rob a casino to pay for our nights of debauchery"
"YES"
"FUCK YES LETS FUCKING DO IT"
The third one, who hadn't made a noise this whole time, weighed in. "devour my hot bird ass freddy"
"no"
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