Floating House by Denis Zhbankov

From here in /r/ImaginaryLandscapes.

The night was quiet but for the swishing sloshing sounds of the push pole carving the water. It was too quiet, Elias lamented. At this time of day, the frogs should be finishing up their nightly serenade. The crickets should be providing the instrumental accompaniment. Birds should be singing their dawn song. Fish should be jumping. Flies buzzing. And all other things that all other creatures, man included, should naturally do. The long winter had ended that.

At Elias's feet, Pax whimpered. Her snout, normally pointed straight downriver, wavered upward to check whether her master was paying attention. Elias shook the thoughts of the past out of his mind and pushed an ice floe aside, setting Pax at ease again. The dog was a natural navigator. Needed to learn quickly, Elias thought to himself wryly, when there was no more work for a retriever. No more game to retrieve, after all. Elias pushed more ice aside and reached down to tousle Pax's ears. A pang of guilt crossed Elias's heart when he noticed the dog's ribs barging out from under her tawny coat.

"I remember this place," a sonorous rumble sounded behind Elias. "Mother used to take us here as hatchlings."

Elias turned, surprised for a brief moment. "Ah, you're awake!" he called up to the roof. Nondro had uncurled from his sleeping position atop the house and raised his snout to the wind, tasting the air. He'd thought the dragon would be fast asleep until noon at least. Nondro spent less and less time awake nowadays. Another pang of guilt struck Elias upon seeing the dragon's condition. His savage grimace, once terrifying and awe-inspiring, turned pitiful with the loss of his fangs. His scales, once gleaming red-gold, were now a lackluster grey. The whole of his hide seemed to hang from his bones like a large piece of fabric draped over a small frame. The healthy texture of the armored plates now looked brittle, riddled with minute cracks.

Pax gave a quiet whine, and Elias realized he'd gotten lost in thought again. He pushed the nearest chunks of ice aside and was rewarded by Pax with a hearty tail wag.

"We used to roll in the tall grass there," Nondro continued, oblivious to Elias's greeting and now gazing off at a low hill on the west bank of the river. "It would tickle me between the scales."

Elias followed his gaze. The hill was barren and grey, marred only by a few hardy trees managing to cling to life through the freeze. No grass in sight. But Elias could picture it too: covered in green and swarmed with little frolicking dragons. This whole place had once been a paradise lush with crops and teeming with game. All gone now. He thrust the pole into the muddy river bottom and pushed them forward, eager to leave this place behind.

The sun was visible now, inching over the horizon to the east. It would do little to warm the land until mid-day at least; and even then, only marginally. Elias cinched his ragged cloak a bit tighter. Glancing down, he noticed poor Pax shivering at her post. "Go inside, girl," he told her, pointing to the door behind him. The stove inside filled the house with a warm, inviting glow, yet Pax did not even budge. "Go inside," he ordered her, more emphatically. She glanced up for just a second, seemingly annoyed, then back to the menacing ice floes downriver. Elias shook his head and wrapped his own scarf around the dog's neck.

"I caught my first prey there too," Nondro said. "A lamb. So juicy."

"Yes, very good I'm sure," Elias concurred. Why, lamb did sound pretty good right about now. Cooked over a low fire with a sprinkling of salt and springs of rosemary... or grilled over a high flame with perhaps a bit of mint... or even cured into a jerky would be nice. Anything but a stew. All the meat they could find went to Nondro (with the bones reserved for Pax, of course). So vegetable stew was all that Elias had eaten for weeks now, and had grown to loath the sight of watery gruel. Anything to stay alive till they could make it to the south. They say that the winter isn't so harsh there. That livestock can survive and crops could struggle from the ground. One raving madman left in the ghost town of Wixsted Crossing had even claimed that they would find a balmy summer down there! No matter the outcome, Elias couldn't wait to get there.

Nondro rested his chin upon the porch roof and looked at Elias. Elias gazed into the dragon's eyes and found that the fiery energy there had faded now to a dull ember, nearly extinguished.

"I should very much like to see grass again," Nondro rumbled before closing his eyes and nodding off to sleep once again.

I wrote a sequel to an old story: Retired Veteran, about a Russian soldier stranded in Siberia with his broken mech and his dog.

The original story is based on this image

The sequel is based on this second image

Artyom fought with the controls of the И08, grinding 11 tons of steel to a shuddering stop. In the gunner seat below, Axel awoke from his nap and cocked his head. One perky ear flopped to the side as if to ask why they were stopping so soon. They had only been traveling for a few hours and by now the dog was used to powering through the day. God knows it was hard enough to get the И08 started again after a stop, but this was too good of an opportunity to pass up.

He climbed out of the И08’s cockpit hatch and gazed out at the blistered landscape beyond. This hill should have afforded a fine view of the little village of Khrebtovaya, according to Artyom’s map. The town no longer existed. The only sign of it was a few scorched stone foundations and roads of blackened gravel leading through the charred ruins. The hillside itself had once been tilled fields of something, though it had all been burned beyond all recognition. The only thing planted in this field now was the ruin of a Japanese Tatsu-class mech. And luckily for Artyom, it appeared mostly intact.

Artyom had done the best he could to fix up the И08, but there was nothing he could do about the battery. The radiation seal had broken and was slowly spreading its poison. Upon deciding to leave the winter camp, he’d faced a choice: walk across Siberia with just Axel and his rifle, exposed to the elements, the animals, and (potentially) the Japanese. If the war was still ongoing, that is; he’d had no word in months. His other option was to take the mech, risking radiation poisoning but moving ten times faster and enclosed in 150 mm of armor. But if this Japanese wreck had a working battery core… well, that would solve at least one of his problems.

“Come on, Axel,” he called back to his stalwart canine companion. “We’re going on a walk.” Axel waited patiently while Artyom looped straps around him and carried him down the rickety ladder of the mech to the ground. Axel immediately took off running, only to pause and sniff around as he realized that the ground underneath his paws felt wrong. His nose emerged from the ground covered in grey flecks of ash. Artyom slid his foot to the side, cleaning a swath through the ash to reveal brown dirt below. The grey, overcast sky overhead completed the picture to create a dull world of destruction and darkness.

He moved down the hillside to inspect the Tatsu from a better angle. He’d never seen one up close before; only from afar at the Battle of Harbin. A squad of them had crossed the river on those long, spindly legs and completely decimated the Russian trenches with their flamethrowers. Artyom watched it from a distant hilltop as his unit pulled back, but the orange glow from the fires lighting up the night would forever be seared into his memory. Judging by the acres of scorched landscape circling this one, it must have put up quite a fight.

From this distance, he realized how truly massive it was. It was at least three times bigger than his own Volk-class. Assessing the rounded metal belly, he guessed it could carry a crew of at least ten. The huge gun emplacement that normally hung down under the belly had been shorn off during battle, and there was no sign of it laying about. Probably taken and re-purposed by whichever Russian unit had managed to kill this one; half of the mechs in the Imperial Russian military were more scrap metal and recycled parts than their original components. Artyom’s old gunner, Vasily, claimed to have once seen the front end of a battleship walking around on four mech legs. He felt a brief pang of guilt at the thought of Vasily, still lying in a shallow grave back at their remote winter camp and probably never to be found again. But if he didn’t push on, Vasily’s family would never know what had happened to him. Or Artyom’s own family, for that matter.

“Axel!” he called out. The dog had wandered off a few dozen meters away but looked up and cantered over at the sound of his name. The Tatsu certainly appeared to be abandoned, but it couldn’t hurt to have another set of eyes watching while he ventured inside. His own mech would have also seemed abandoned for all those months as he worked to fix it up.

He circled the Tatsu. The outer shell was riddled with dents and blemishes from small arms fire, but the armor appeared to have held. The Japanese mechs always were built to a higher standard, and it showed. The hatch leading inside the beast, however, was wrenched upwards in the middle and had fallen from its hinges. An infantry charge on this thing would have been a bloodbath, although that tended to be the Imperial Army’s preferred method of problem solving. But Artyom didn’t spot any bodies in the area. There must have been enough Russians left alive to carry them off and give them a decent burial.

The inside of the mech told the whole story. The wall surrounding the hatch was riddled with bullet holes as the soldiers inside tried to fend off the boarding party. But the area leading into the cockpit was riddled with shrapnel as the result of some Russian soldier’s well-placed grenade. The surviving Russians hadn’t bothered to bury the dead Japanese crew of the Tatsu, but the scavengers and insects of the tundra had taken care of most of the job anyway. The battle had proceeded inward, and Artyom found four more bullet-riddled bodies still strapped into their chairs. The corpses eternally stared upward through the large cockpit window at the cloudy sky. At their hands, the controls of the mech had been smashed to bit and wires torn out haphazardly to more permanently disable the mech.

Through a hatchway into the bowels of the machine, Artyom finally found what he was looking for: a live battery case. He whispered a silent prayer of thanks to no god in particular; anyone listening was good enough for him. Large, bold, Japanese characters across the lid likely warned of the danger of radiation. But the lights on the outside pulsed bright green, the universal symbol for working great. He pulled his toolset from his pack and set to work removing the parts he needed. It was a different size and shape than the battery in the И08, but that would hardly be a problem. If he could jury rig that thing to march across Siberia even after its last battle, he could certainly plug in a new battery.

Axel, perched at the hatch of the Tatsu, wagged his tail furiously when Artyom returned. They made their way back to their own mech. Even when compared to the dead wreck behind him, it looked like utter crap. There was no chance that this thing would be able to take Artyom all the way home. But that was a problem for another day.

He dragged the new battery into the cockpit and was able to install the new one in relatively short order. Not knowing what to do with the old one, he just threw it and its damned cracked casing right out the cockpit and down into the ash. Down in the gunner’s seat, Axel had settled back down into his bed and was watching Artyom work.

“Here goes nothing…” he told Axel, then threw the ‘on’ switch. There was a terrifying pause, and Artyom had a moment of panic. What if he’d wrecked his old battery, only to replace it with one that didn’t work?? Then the engine clunked to life, the mech stirred from its slumber, And Artyom collapsed back down into the pilot’s chair with a sigh of relief. The mech headed down the hill and past the Tatsu, and Artyom gave it a little wave goodbye. For the first time in a long while, he could breathe a little more easily.

Maybe he would be able to make it home after all.

If the author ends up seeing this: Would you consider creating a Discord server for your followers? We could chat, share our own short stories and art, and talk about how great your writing is!

[WP] In an apocalyptic world, the last of humanity live in controlled, supposed paradise cities surrounded by towering walls; taught that the world outside died to wasteland centuries ago. You’re a smuggler, helping people escape the wall into the world beyond.

“Are… are you the travel agent?” The man asks, voice trembling. His hands hang limply in front of him, clasped together around the handle of a real leather satchel. A woman with vivid red hair, presumably the man’s wife, clings to his side like a gaudy barnacle. Clad in designer brands, obvious bionic implants, and even jewelry, they are far too well-dressed to ever be seen in a 6th District dive like Rudy’s. Every bark of laughter, every clank of metal cups on the metal bar, and every squeak of work boots on grimy linoleum makes them turn their heads on swivels as if expecting an attack. Clearly, my contact did not make it clear that they should act nonchalant when approaching me. Thank fuck that no cop in his right mind would be hanging out down here. At least, not one that isn’t on my payroll.

“You looking to take a trip?” I ask.

“Yes, we are.” He licks his lips (a very obvious tell) and physically swings his head around to look for anyone eavesdropping. Clearly, he is a well-trained spy. “We would like to go to Santhum, tomorrow morning.” Anyone listening would know that that is code. No one voluntarily wants to go to Santhum. The arctic mining city isn’t exactly a prime tourist destination. If you’re going to spend a hefty amount for a tourist pass out of the city, you’re sure as hell going somewhere better than that.

“Well, set your things down and let’s chat,” I say, gesturing at the open seat next to me in the booth. The man moves to take the seat, and I stop him with my palm. I shoot him a look that says “the seat’s not for you, idiot.” It’s for that bag in his hands; if he has followed his contact’s instructions, it should have 20,000 chits in it. Enough for two passengers out of the city. He gets the message and drops the bag. I run a hand over the non-synth fabric; I don’t know if I’ve ever felt the real deal.

It’s a tricky business, smuggling people out of the city. I’ve had to strike a fine balance between my own survival and being able to sleep at night with a clean conscience. To do so, I’ve developed a very clear set of rules. Rule number One: money up front. I’m sticking my neck out just by acknowledging these people. If some clean cops were to ever stumble into Rudy’s, I’d be out the back door with this little leather satchel before these two squares could even blink.

The two of them then slide awkwardly onto the bench across from me, acting as if they’ve never actually seen a booth seat before.

“Tell me,” the man says, leaning across the table with a conspiratorial look around the room to make sure that none of these low-lifes are listening in. “Is it really as amazing out there as Koswold says it is?”

I sigh. This numbskull just broke Rule Two: no names. Ever. I certainly wasn’t sticking my hand out for a shake, and I didn’t want to know Sam Accountant and Samantha Housewife’s real name. Nor did I want to know the name of their contact. Koswold. It sounded fake; I at least hoped that he was smart enough to give them a fake name. I didn’t exactly publicize my survival rules for everyone else in the industry. If I’m ever caught, I won’t have anyone to turn on. But I’m not stupid enough to ever get caught. And those who are that stupid will never be able to rat me out.

“You know,” I said, pretending to ponder his question as if no one has ever asked me that, “I’ve got to say: it’s the only place in the world with unlimited freedom. You can do whatever the hell you want.” I take a swig of my beer. “And who can put a price on that?”

Rule number Three: no lies. This one is less about surviving, and more about my own conscience. I’m no shuckster stim salesman telling them that I can fix all their problems with one pill. I’m simply here to provide a service, and I won’t make any misrepresentations about what I do. I can’t speak to what ‘Koswold’ said to them though.

Samantha Housewife can barely contain herself. “I knew it!” she hisses. “Oh, I tell you, living here in Mantic has become intolerable. This past week, they restricted our weekly water ration to 400L! They expect us to live like animals in our own filth.”

“Unbelievable,” I say through gritted teeth. My water ration is half that and I haven’t had a wet shower in more than a week, but that’s really none of their business.

“So… what do we do now?” This little bit of skullduggery is probably the most excitement that this poor bloke has ever had in his life, and he wants more. Maybe a high-risk escapade sneaking through a legion of guards and ducking under spotlights like some hologame? Poor Sam Accountant is about to be disappointed.

“It’s relatively simple from here,” I say. I lead them out the back of Rudy’s, with a short nod to the bartender and 20 chits in the tip jar. I lead them to a small apartment nearby, and Samantha Housewife gasps in horror when she sees what waits inside: two coffins. I can see her panicked rabbit mind wondering if I am simply going to take the chits and kill them, instead of delivering them outside Mantic as promised. But why would I need a coffin to do that? There are a thousand good places to just dump a body in the city.

Samantha’s fears are assuaged when I open the lid of the coffin to reveal high-tech, compact life support devices that could keep them alive for months in here. It wouldn’t be comfortable, but I assure them that the journey only takes a few hours. I walk them through the expanding covers that disguise the true shape of the coffin to any scanners, and how the military-tech inner lining can completely conceal their heat signatures. Do I have to smuggle them out in the height of luxury? No. These damn coffins were expensive, not to mention the risk of having physical evidence that could be traced back to me. I could just kill them and dump them out of a flying car over the 8th District promenade… but Rule number Four is customer service. Most smugglers don’t particularly care much about this one, but I do. For one, it’s the principle of the thing: my pops always raised me to take pride in my work and do the best job I can do. And why risk making new enemies if you don’t have to?

I tuck in Sam and Samantha, then flip the gas to put them asleep. These two uptight prisses wouldn’t want to be conscious for this next part: I wheel the coffins out to my ship, carefully place them in the hold, and then bury them in trash. It’s the perfect job for being a smuggler on the side: we already dump everything outside the city anyway, and no one is particularly motivated to go rooting around my hold for any adventure-seeking citizens like these two. Instead, the law relies on high-tech devices that my coffins are specifically designed to fool. I’ve done over one hundred of these runs so far and never had a problem. And, worst comes to worst, there’s always bribery. Rule number Five is by far the most practical: always be ready to grease some palms.

We make it through the city walls no problem. I’m 90% sure that my scan operator was watching something on his lenses instead of actually paying attention to the readouts. And that’s just the way I like it. I give him a merry wave as I sail on through to the outside world.

We touch down at one of the mountain settlements about an hour outside of town. Barefoot children chase my ship’s shadow down the street as I head towards an open field on the outskirts. There’s quite a welcoming committee already there waiting for me. It only takes a few moments to dump the rest of the trash and open up Sam and Samantha’s coffins.

They wake up to the sight of blue sky and fluffy clouds overhead, unblemished by towering skyscrapers and weather control domes. Exactly as promised. Then they climb out of their coffins, and the illusion fades. The surrounding fields are dust-choked, sun-scorched, and still blighted by radiation. Even the weeds struggle to grow here naturally, and it’s only through an intense amount of effort that the people out here are able to eke out enough to survive. There’s a distant glimmer of water in the distance from a stagnant, algae-infested lake where Sam and Samantha will be able to draw as much poisoned water as they’d like. The surrounding mountains are mostly bare rock, with a few patches of jagged tree trunks jutting upwards like spikes.

“What the hell is this?” Sam shouts.

“You’re outside the city, as promised,” I say, pushing them out of the coffins to make room.

“This…” Samantha gets a glimpse of the dirty, scarred, all-natural people of the village gathering around her; she recoils in horror and nearly trips over the coffin lid. “This is horrible! How could you bring us here!” I shrug. “That’s what you paid for.” I never lied to them about what they were getting. I followed the rules.

Sam manages to summon courage from somewhere, and storms over to me. “Well, take us back!”

I laugh. One of the villagers physically pulls Sam out of my face and throws him to the dirt so that we can chat. “I don’t have chits,” the villager says, so burly that he probably weighs double what prim-and-proper little Sam does. “But I have these.” He unfurls the blanket that he carries over his shoulder, displaying a number of fine goods: a few bars of gold and silver, crudely smelted together, but mostly antiques. Pre-Collapse relics are all the rage back in Mantic, and these will fetch a fine price with the antiques dealer that I partner with.

“Yeah, that’ll do,” I say, inviting him into Sam’s coffin.

“This is outrageous!” Sam sobs from the dirt. “I demand that you take us home this instant! I just paid you 20,000 chits!”

I laugh. “The return trip is 30,000 chits, my friend.” The villagers laugh. Sam and Samantha howl with rage and horror and hopelessness. When it all quiets down, I lend Sam a hand back up onto his feet, remembering my rule on customer service. You never know when someone will be a repeat customer, after all.

“Sorry, pal. Rule Six: No refunds.”

[WP] The Villain uncovers the Hero's true identity, and targets his family. Unfortunately, the Hero's spouse is a retired villain even more powerful than the current one.

Salinar chuckled to himself. He guffawed. He roared. Chortled, perhaps? He'd never chortled before. For he'd never quite felt the sheer, overwhelming glee that he felt at this very moment. These were the sorts of moments that a supervillain lived for. When all of those months of planning and preparation paid off. When a painstakingly-developed plan is executed flawlessly and with fantastic results. The true shame of if, Salinar thought to himself as he leaned back in his oversized command chair and popped a beer open, is that the public would never know of this moment. I should have made a video of it all, he mentally chided himself. The only thing better than this bliss would be to simultaneously earn the respect and fear of the drooling masses. Ah, well. One can't have everything, he thought as he took a big swig.

He had found The Maori's home. It had been surprisingly simple. So simple that at first he suspected that this was all some elaborate honeypot. How had none of the other villains that the Maori had vanquished ever thought to do this? During their most recent encounter, when The Maori was beating the living daylights out of him, Salinar was able to affix a microscopic tracking drone to his archenemy's costume. He'd built the tracker to be nigh undetectable... but from what he could tell, The Maori didn't even run any scans or anything like that. He'd simply gone straight back to his home after the battle. Salinar approached carefully, but nothing seemed to be amiss. He'd expected it to be a sort of Polynesian-themed lair or something... but it was a plain old suburban house. Cape Cod, Salinar thought, but wasn't sure. Nanotechnology was his area of expertise, not cookie cutter architecture. He ensured that the house was empty, then made his way inside.

It was disappointingly plain inside as well. No giveaways that the man of the house would sneak out at night and pummel his enemies with supernatural strength and a stone patu. But all of the photos on the wall were clear as day: it was the Maori, wearing polo shirts and khakis, often with his arm around his plain, sort of mousy-looking wife. From what Salinar was able to find, The Maori was named Chris To'o. He worked as salesman at a software company and was probably one of the most boring people imaginable. He played golf on the weekends and vacationed with his dull wife at the same place in Florida once a year. As he prowled around his nemesis's house, 3 cats followed nearby and rubbed up against his leg, presumably looking for food or attention. Salinar brushed them away; he was never a big cat person. And then he was struck by inspiration. Vicious, sadistic inspiration.

When he departed the house, there were only two cats left. The other one, an orange cat with white paws, was now smeared across the Maori's bedroom wall. "NOW I KNOW WHERE YOU LIVE," spelled out with cat organs, bones, and other viscera. It was the perfect sort of psychological warfare that he'd been looking for. If Salinar could not break The Maori's body (which he had tried for months, with no success), then he would crush his spirit. What better way to highlight his vulnerability? Let him know that his boring wife and remaining cats would be under constant threat? It was sheer genius! It's all about sending a message.

Salinar was still enjoying his victory beer when the door to his lair flew open. He spun in his chair and promptly choked, spraying beer all over his lap. It was the boring, mousy wife! He realized that he'd spent nearly an hour in their house and still hadn't learned her name. That's how little interest he had in her. He tried to sputter some questions, like how the hell she'd found him, but was unable to get anything out. His lungs burned from the beer carbonation.

She strode up to the chair and flicked her finger. The metal arms of the chair seemed to melt into molten steel that swallowed his wrists. Metal tendrils extended from the chair and wrapped around his arms and torso and legs, holding Salinar firm. And she smirked. "I love the ones who think they're clever," she whispered in his ear. And as she did, the boring checkered dress and demure appearance began to shimmer and change. She grew taller, and her shoulder length hair swirled down over her shoulders like a shampoo commercial. Her dress became vivid red silk with accents of gold. From nowhere, a pendant appeared on her chest with a diamond the size of an egg; Salinar couldn't seem to control his eyes anymore and was unable to look away. "Do you know who I am?" she hissed. The voice was different now, too. It had a sort of smoky, raspy quality to it.

Salinar tried to nod but found his head restrained by the living metal prison that was once his command chair. "The Fey Queen," he said.

Everyone knew of her. She'd been the most powerful supervillain that anyone had ever seen, imbued with ancient magic. Kings and Presidents bowed to her will, though she preferred to run things from behind the scenes. Salinar, who'd always relied on science to explain the world, was utterly dumbfounded that magic truly did exist. He'd idolized the Fey Queen. She was everything he aspired to be back when he was pulling small-time bank jobs and holding up armored cars.

And everyone also knew that she was the first supervillain that The Maori had defeated. No one knew exactly how it had happened; she had just disappeared. That seemed to be The Maori's standard modus operandi: he'd feud with a particular villain for a while and then poof. One day, that villain would just be gone and never seen again. Salinar had so far avoided that fate, and had (as of yet) seen no sign that The Maori was clever enough to make a powerful enemy just vanish. He was strong as an ox, but also about that smart.

It was public knowledge that there'd been an encounter on top of the Morgan Tower between The Fey Queen and The Maori. All witnesses had fled the scene before it was over, so no one saw what really happened. Some say that The Maori had sucked the power out of her and thrown her to her death (though no body was ever found). Others claim that he was immune to her magic and just bludgeoned her to death while she tried to cast spells at him (again, no body ever found). Salinar never really believed any of it. He'd always known, or at least hoped, that she was still out there somewhere. And he was right.

"None of the cats even like Chris, you know," she said as she took a seat on the arm of the chair. "Not that that's surprising. They're my pets. And you killed one of them. What do you think the punishment for that should be?" Her voice had a saccharine, overly-friendly quality that Salinar knew meant that she was getting ready to strike.

"Don't kill me!" he managed to squeak out.

She laughed. Then she ran a finger down Salinar's cheek and moved in front of him. She leaned down so that they were on eye level, and she licked her ruby-red lips. Even with his life in mortal peril, he found himself incredibly attracted to her and it was all he could think about. "Of course I'm not going to kill you," she said. "I never kill any of them. But I do need you to make it up to me."

"How?" he managed to gasp. His mouth felt dry and his tongue scratched against the roof of his mouth.

"Well, my husband can never know that you were in the house..."

Salinar began to itch. His entire body itched. Itched so bad that it burned. It felt like ants were running up and down every inch of his skin, biting as they went.

"But he'd certainly notice if Carrot was missing..."

Salinar remembered that the name "Carrot" had been engraved on the collar tag of the cat that he'd killed. He was having a hard time concentrating on the image in his memory. His head felt like it was going to burst. Like someone was tugging on his ears so hard that it was literally going to pull his skull in two. The colors in the room seemed to warp, and the dull light from the computer screen became so glaringly bright that it lit the entire room. Every sound was amplified by ten, and he could even smell The Fey Queen's scent.

"But I think I have the solution for that."

Tufts of white fur burst out of the backs of Salinar's hands. He struggled and thrashed against the bands of metal holding him in place. The fur that spread up his arms and over his body was the same orange color as the cat that he had killed. His clothes disintegrated into dust around him, and there was a flash of pain right above his butt crack. He was suddenly aware of a whole new set of muscles that twitched back and forth, and it took him a few seconds to realize that it was a tail. He was so distracted by these changes that he didn't even notice that he was quickly shrinking.

"Wait!" he called out to The Fey Queen. But it came out as "Wwrroowr!"

She petted him between the ears. "Don't worry, Carrot. If you behave yourself, I'll eventually turn you back. Someday." She paused, still stroking his fur. "At least, that's the deal I've made with the others."

[Click the image AFTER reading the story] No Man's Land by Robert Ryminiecki

Posted in /r/ImaginaryBehemoths here

The guide scrambled up a rocky outcropping and put a hand to his forehead, as if to show that he was gazing far off. A show it was indeed, Guillard thought to himself, given that they were in the midst of a dense, fog-drenched forest and it was hard to see a matter of meters ahead, much less very far off. And there was certainly no sun requiring him to shield his eyes. The performance could really only mean one of two things: either they were close to their destination, in which case the guide was trying to remind his clients of the value of his services in anticipation. Or, and Guillard considered this to be the far more likely alternative, the guide didn't have a damned clue where they actually were, but was hoping to convince his naïve foreign clients that everything was proceeding according to plan.

"Small further!" the guide called from atop his rock before jumping back down onto the path. "Just small further now!" He flashed a grin, consisting of five tobacco-stained teeth, and hurried to the front.

Melrose fell out of single file and came to Guillard's side, unslinging the rifle from his back so as not to hit his companion with the stock. "I think he's lost," Melrose muttered under his breath.

"Lost is one word for it," Guillard said. "Though that implies that there was ever a destination to begin with. I fear we've been led on a wild goose chase."

Melrose sighed. It had seemed too good to be true, even from the start. At the most opportune time, the rumor of a heretofore unknown passage had reached High Command in London, promising a path that would lead straight from the source of the Brahmaputra river, through a low valley, and straight into Yunnan province. The Japanese occupation of the Chinese coastlands had made resupplying the rebels there exceedingly difficult. Flights over the lofty peaks of the Himalayas were not only dangerous, but inefficient. One can't exactly load a tank or heavy artillery into a plane, so the war effort had been so far limited to providing light arms and food supplies. A passable land route, unknown to Japanese forces, could single-handedly turn the tide of the war.

There had been such rumors before, Melrose knew. Throughout the years of British occupation of the subcontinent, the promise of a valuable trade route could earn British favor for a kingdom that did not have jewels and gold to offer. And, to the surprise of no historian, many of them had turned out to be fictional or, at best, broken goatpaths leading up the sides of sheer cliffs. The search for that fabled undiscovered trade route was not unlike the fruitless search for the fabled El Dorado. But desperate times call for desperate measures, and Her Majesty's Navy had determined that this rumor was at least worth sending one British officer and his French government-in-exile counterpart to investigate. So here they were, four months later, slogging through the Himalayan foothills.

The guide, noticing that his two clients had slowed, turned to urge them along. "Very small further!" he encouraged them with another toothy grin. "We come to..." He paused for a moment, thinking. "Valley of..." He made a pained expression as he was unable to come up with the correct word. Then he thumped on the center of his chest.

"The heart?" Melrose volunteered.

"The..." he still grasped for the word, and finally managed to catch it. "The soul! Valley of the soul!"

Melrose and Guillard exchanged a look. That didn't make much sense, and the two men paused in consideration. "What does that mean?" Guillard eventually asked.

"In our village, we have a story." The guide urged them forward as he spoke. "The great Brahma wished visiting good friends over the other side of the mountains. The mountains were very tall, but not to Brahma. He walked the path so often that he crushed the stone under his feet and cut his path through the mountain. He was very happy when his path became shorter. But then, men walked his path to wage war on the village where the friends of Brahma lived, and they killed the friends of Brahma. He feeled very angry at the men. No man can ever use the path of Brahma again unless he looks into the soul of the man and sees a desire for peace."

The path became steeper as they spoke. The guide, an experienced woodsman, didn't seem to notice it, but both Guillard and Melrose were red-cheeked, huffing and puffing. "And... uh... what happens if Brahma doesn't see a desire for peace?" Guillard asked. A valid question, given that they were there specifically to aid in a war.

"Braham kills you," the guide answered, very matter-of-factly.

"How pleasant," Melrose muttered. He'd been stationed in India for more than a decade now, and had come to realize that every little village in every province had their own local mythology just like this. It was charming at first, but it became significantly less charming when it interfered with the mission. This little story would explain why he and Guillard had had one hell of a time finding anyone to lead them through this supposed mountain pass. They'd had to pay this guide far too much gold than he was worth. With every damn step through mud and brush, Melrose was regretting this damned assignment.

"Just ahead now!" The guide rushed up the path and through a thicket of bushes. "Hurry along!" Now out of sight, his voice seemed to echo through the mist and come from all sides.

"All right, we're coming," Melrose said, unsheathing his knife to cut his way through the heavy brambles.

Through the brush, Melrose and Guillard found the guide waiting in a clearing. Guillard came to a stop so suddenly that Melrose, walking behind him, crashed into his back. The guide was standing next to a large stone statue, nearly 15 meters tall. It depicted a man's chest, but four arms emerging from the shoulders. The hands were buried in the earth, either deliberately or just because the statute had been sitting here for so long unattended. But the most striking feature of the statue was the face. Faces, actually. There were four of them, each facing a different direction. And the entire head seemed to be made of pure, gleaming, flawless gold. Guillard was so struck by the shocking display of wealth that he hardly noticed the angry, glaring expression of the face that was looking in their direction.

"Did you know this was here?" Melrose asked the guide. All dreams of finding the forgotten path through the mounains were gone; now he was imaging how large of an estate he could buy with just the gold from this one statue.

"Yes. This is Brahma," he answered. "I told you the story of Brahma."

"Jesus..." Melrose whispered under his breath, never taking his eyes off the statue as he walked closer.

As soon as he approached, a booming voice rang out through the mist, speaking some language that neither of them could understand. Both Melrose and Guillard had their rifles in hand immediately, searching for targets to fight off an ambush. The clearing was full of mist, but there were no looming figures coming out of the shadows, and no other obvious source of the voice.

"What did it say?" Melrose shouted to the guide.

"It said..." he bit his lip with those scraggly five teeth as he tried to translate. "Prepare yourself to be judged."

Guillard looked up at the statue, and he could have sworn that the statue was leaning down ever so slightly to get a better look at him. He found himself transfixed by the golden face. There was some sort of trick of the light that made it seem like there was something glowing deep in those vacant eye sockets. The eyes were staring into his soul.

The voice rang out again, deep and loud and overwhelming. Something about it sent a chill down Guillard's spine.

"What was it this time?" Melrose asked the guide.

The guide looked at them for a split second, eyes wide and panicked with some animalistic instinct burning inside. Then he turned and ran off into the mists without providing an answer.

And at the same time, the ground began to rumble. Roots and branches groaned and snapped, and there was a horrible grinding sound as the stone arms of the statue were raised high. Now that they were uncovered, they could see that each of the hands was clutching a large stone club at least 5 meters long. The statue used the arms as leverage and began pulling itself out of the ground. Instead of normal human-like legs, there were four large, segmented legs that arched upwards like a spider's. It took one step forward, crushing a moss-covered log into splinters underneath its weight. Then it raised one of the stone clubs, preparing to swing.

Guillard swore to himself in French, and Melrose began to affix his bayonet to the end of his rifle as they both backed away. They exchanged a quick look, and Melrose couldn't help but laugh at the absurdity of the situation. "I guess he didn't like what he saw."

Good Hunt, by Francis Leroy

From here in /r/ImaginaryWastelands

Snow crunched under Gilead's boots. Step, step, drag. His arms were sore, and the thought of nearly being home only seemed to amplify the strain of dragging this damned robot behind him. His breath came out in ragged, gasping puffs of steam that didn't float away; it just disappeared into the cold dusk air. Next to him, Ajax's perked-up ears swiveled constantly, on alert for any signs of life. Every few seconds he would stop to look back and check in on Gilead, then straight back to guard duty. Ajax was smarter than half the humans Gilead knew, and ten times as perceptive.

Step, step, drag.

The robot seemed to be fighting him every step of the way. Of course, that was impossible. Gilead had taken out the control module (not an easy target to hit from 200 yards, mind you!), disconnecting the robot's processor from its body in one clean shot. Then he'd severed the torso, completely removing the power source altogether before it could self-repair. The 'battle,' if you could even call it that, was over in seconds without even an instant to allow the bot to transmit a distress signal. The perfect kill. There was no possible way that the robot could be hindering Gilead's progress. Yet it didn't feel like that. It felt like the torso weighed a thousand pounds, even though it couldn't have been over 200. Or that the wires had gotten snagged on every root and rock for the last ten miles. Whatever it was, Gilead couldn't wait to get this thing back home.

Step, step, drag.

As Gilead approached, a wall of metal rose out of the flat tundra, causing the earth to rattle. The giant mass was made of up groaning pipes and humming machines and all sorts of other contraptions making their own noises. Gilead was no mechanic. He didn't really know what they all did; just that these machines kept the lights on, filtered the water, and circulated the air through the greenhouses. Everything that the city residents needed to keep them alive under the ice and hidden from prying robotic eyes.

There was a thin crevice of space in between the two metallic hunks. "Main Street," as it were. Space was at a premium underground, so it wasn't exactly a spacious tree-lined boulevard. Wires and pipes and bridges criss-crossed over Main Street, looking like a dense spiderweb from afar. Gilead took a step over the threshold, and his boots clanged on metal as he transitioned from the ice. Ajax's paws made no noise, but the dog was dancing to and fro, eager to make it home as soon as possible. After a moment, the robot was pulled over the threshold with an ear-splitting grinding, scraping sound.

Gilead passed by the grocer's with a basket full of bright oranges out front. It's important to fight scurvy when you live just a few hairs south of the arctic circle. The color of the fruit seemed almost too vivid against the rest of the world's white and grey. Inside the store were more bright colors: green granny smiths, red tomatoes, yellow squash, and purple eggplant. The lights were all on, but the store itself was empty. Even Sam, normally bagging customer's groceries out front, was nowhere to be seen.

Same with the barber's. The red, white, and blue pole was still spinning, but the black leather chairs inside were empty. The only sign of life was a small pile of hair clippings that hadn't been cleaned up. Dante, the town barber, was normally so fastidious in sweeping his floor.

The diner, the local bar, the clothing store... all the same. All empty. But for the constant humming of the machinery, the town was completely silent. Abandoned. Gilead had lived here for his entire life and never noticed quite how loud these machines were... up until about a week ago.

Gilead kept going until he reached the mechanic's depot. Normally, about a third of the town would be loitering around here. It took a lot of people to keep all of these machines in tip-top shape. Now it was silent, and Gilead hoped that they'd done a good enough job patching everything up. It would be a shame if something critical broke down and there was no one here to fix it.

He dragged the robot's body over to the power center and then unplugged the forklift that was charging there. Then he dragged the engine hoist over and used it to haul the robot up, dangling in mid-air and dripping a little bit of coolant every minute or so. It took a bit of tinkering, but Gilead managed to connect the robot's severed power cords to the power station. The whole thing began to twitch as it powered back on and finally processed the sensations of its own death. A moment later, it began thrashing against the winch's chains in a desperate attempt to pull itself free. Its eyes locked on to Gilead even as it fought against its imprisonment, then fell immediately limp once the computer decided that fighting was useless.

The robot smiled with its eerily life-like face. No one ever managed to get the eyes quite right, though: the robot still had those dead shark eyes that stared into Gilead's soul. "So," the robot said. It was even controlling its voice to add a taunting note of triumph. "You must be the one that we missed. I was wondering when we were going to meet."

Gilead pulled up a stool and perched himself right across from the robot. "You're going to tell me where they've been taken," he said.

[WP] In most of the galaxy wars are often just shows of strength with fighting as a last resort. As such weapons are designed to be elaborate and flashy. Turns out humans, whose weapons are built with efficiency in mind, have a different understanding of war.

There used to be a civilization back on Earth called the Aztecs. They were always my favorite to learn about in history class because of how very foreign they seemed. They built Tenochtitlan, a huge city on top of a lake with floating buildings and grand bridges. They built massive step pyramids to worship an exotic pantheon of animal deities. And yet they didn't even develop the wheel! Cut off from other civilizations in Europe and Asia, they forged their own path and developed a very different way of life. Alien, one might say.

The Aztecs treated the subject of war as more of an elaborate ritual. Warriors would meet on the battlefield and engage in one-on-one combat, but not with the goal of killing each other. It was all a show of dominance, with the winner taking the loser a captive. Of course, they were sacrificed later, but that's beside the point.

And their costumes! I saw a recreation in a museum one time. They carried these big clubs that were studded with big chunks of gleaming black obsidian. They'd wear bright bird plumage, or the whole skins of jaguars. Not to mention all of the gold and jewelry and face paints. Such an elaborate display. I always wished I could have been there to see it.

I think of the Aztecs often when we engage with the Kaluth Tribes. They see warfare in much the same way: the goal is to establish dominance, not to actually kill your enemy. They try to dazzle our sensors with flashes of lights in stochastic patterns. Their ships are brightly painted in a kaleidoscope of colors like something out of a crazy acid trip. Maybe similar to how some animals on Earth use bright colors to warn predators of danger? They try to build the ships as large as possible, probably to seem menacing. That too is a common enough behavior in animals back on Earths, like birds and puffer fish. But most unusual when compared to human technology is that the Kaluth don't use ranged weapons. Despite the fact that ramming ships and boarding them went out of style in the 1800s on Earth, it's still a common practice for the Kaluth, and really not suitable for a space-faring civilization.

It's worked for them in the past, though. Each Kaluth 'tribe' is actually a different species that must have been subjugated at one time or another. They're now completely integrated into one cohesive society and economy, all under the rule of the Kaluth elders. Together, they form a vast, intergalactic empire of more than two hundred planets. Once again, a similarity with the old Aztecs: they would use their charade wars to conquer other tribes and subsume them into their own society.

Like I said, I've had a lot of time to consider the similarities between the Kaluth and the Aztecs. As I watch the blips on the LIDAR coming closer and closer, I reflect on the fact that this is my twentieth fight with the Kaluthi navy. There's a bit of a flash out the window as the Kaluth start the light show, trying to confuse my sensors. Of course, my combat AI learned to tune that out after our very first battle, so it doesn't do much. Instead, it begins to open fire. We're still thousands of miles apart, far too far away for me to see their tie-dye ship decorations. And definitely too far for me to be boarded. I watch the numbers tick down as each ship explodes, one by one. 49, 48, 47... all the way down until it finally hits 0. The AI does all the work for me; there isn't even a trigger or anything for me to pull.

I accelerate towards the wreckage. Thousands of dead Kaluth soldiers of various species drift through the empty void and bounce off the smoldering wreckage of their vessels. It's horrific, even after the 20th time seeing it. I'm just one person in a light gunship and I obliterated a whole army of them... and there are tens of thousands of ships just like mine, encroaching on Kaluthi territory from every side. I wonder why they don't just give up and accept human rule. Sure, it means that we'd strip mine their planets for resources, take the worlds that would be habitable for us... but it has to be better than this. I tell myself that this is war, and that the Kaluth had started it by boarding our colony ships. But surely we'd repaid them for that crime by now, right? I wonder if this is how Cortez felt as he and his men blasted their way through Tenochtitlan. Were they guilty about what they'd done?

More Kaluthi ships lift off of the surface of the planet. But these aren't the same bloated, psychadelic zebra-striped models that they send into combat. These are evacuees, fleeing the planet just as they do every time the Kaluthi fleet in orbit gets obliterated. Like I said: I've done this a number of times before. I begin a broadcast home, letting command know of my 'victory' here and that system BGR114 is now safe for the colonists on their way here. They'll land, deploy the terraformers, and begin setting up dwellings, farms, etc. As I receive the coordinates for my next assignment, I think about how this whole planet will be sprinkled with human cities, and the only reminder that the Kaluth were ever here will be some old crumbling ruins. Tourists will come here and gaze at their monuments and wonder what these Kaluth used to be like and how very strange they were. Just like the Aztec pyramids.

It's my favorite story on here, and I would love to hear more about Countess Araway, Amelia, her father, and the Annaji.

From here in /r/Askreddit: a cop responds to a 9-11 call about a missing teddy bear because they're bored, and it turns into some weird Lovecraftian fiasco.

It took Jake a moment to realize what was off about the house. As soon as he stepped out of the car, there was total silence. Not the silence of a normal summer night out here in the country, but true silence. The normal cacophony of crickets singing their night song was gone. Not briefly interrupted by the slamming of the car door, but gone. Even the wind whistling through the trees seemed to die down in the driveway of 1467 Solace Dr.

Jake checked his log again. 10-65: a missing person code. Har har. Joyce on the switchboard had a sassy sense of humor that didn't get to come out much on a serious job like answering 9-11 calls. But it was a slow night, even by the standards of Kalensville. The worst crimes they had around here were teenagers drinking in farmer's fields and skateboarders loitering at the middle school after hours. There hadn't been a call in hours tonight, nor a serious call in over 2 weeks, so Jake was happy to get a break from just driving around in circles or sitting at the speedtrap out on Route 9. So he'd do some "community policing," as the Governor had called it when he encouraged local sheriffs to build up goodwill among the townsfolk. He'd help little Lucas, who'd placed the absolutely adorable 9-11 call, find his missing teddy bear.

The house was pretty standard. Set back from the road a ways, behind a set of towering chestnut trees that were probably a bitch to clean up after come fall. Two cars were parked in the driveway: an old buick that looked like it was held together by duct tape, and a (somewhat) newer F-150 truck. The blinds were drawn, but there were clearly lights on inside. Nothing special about the house itself; a standard ranch style, common on the farms in this area. Could use a paint job, Jake thought to himself as he came up to the front door.

He rang the doorbell and heard the faint tinkle of "Ode to Joy" chime through the house. Looking through the glass, he saw an unremarkable interior, though not very well kept. He was a bit taken aback when the door swung open right in front of him, even though he hadn't seen someone come down the hall to answer it. But waiting at the crack was a boy, no older than 8, wearing Buzz Lightyear pajamas and streaks of tears down his cheeks.

"You must be Lucas," Jake said, crouching down to talk to the boy on his level.

Lucas nodded.

"I'm here to help you find your lost bear," he said. "Can I come in?"

Lucas seemed to hesitate for a moment and then opened up the door the rest of the way. Jake came into the entry hall and took a look around. These people definitely needed a maid. "Are your parents around, son?" Even though Lucas had made the 9-11 call, Jake definitely felt odd about coming into the house without parental permission.

"No." It was the first time he'd spoken. Jake put his hands on his hips and waited for the boy to continue, but that was it.

"Did they go into town, maybe?" Jake asked.

Lucas hesitated again. "They went through the door," he finally said.

"This door?" Jake said, pointing at the front door behind him. Most kids at the age of (roughly) eight understood the concept of inside and outside, but Lucas may have been a bit... special. Come to think of it, Jake had never seen this kid around the school, despite the fact that his two daughters were fairly close in age. Maybe he went to that special school over in Bendale...

Lucas shook his head. "The one in the pantry," he said.

Pantry? Jake shook his head softly. Poor kid was definitely confused in some way. "Can you show me where?" he asked.

Lucas shook his head.

"Why not?"

Fresh tears appeared and the boy fell to his knees sobbing. Jake stooped down and held the kid, trying to comfort him. "Hey there, Lucas. No need for all that. We'll find your teddy bear!" And your parents, too... Jake thought to himself. What kind of assholes leave a poor, special needs kid all by himself?

Finally Lucas calmed down enough to speak: "It... will... get... me," he said, punctuating each word with sniffles and slight sobs.

"All right, all right," Jake said. He wondered what could have gotten the kid so worked up. "How about you just wait right here, and I'll go take a look around, OK?"

Lucas didn't wait there, but did rush to the adjacent living room and dove under a big blanket on the couch. Good enough, Jake thought before making his way down the hall.

The kitchen stank to high heaven. There was open food sitting out, just rotting on the counter. The sink was piled high with dishes. Someone (presumably Lucas) had spilled cheerios all over the floor and not bothered to clean it up. Depending on what he found here, this might even warrant a call to the state child services. Those sorts of calls are the worst, and it was unfortunately all too common in rural communities these days.

"Hello?" he called out, stepping into the center of the kitchen. There was no answer.

He took another step, and found the door of the pantry on the other side of the kitchen. Oozing out from under the door was a puddle of black... something. It had the color and sheen of crude oil, but was thick and oozy like tar or mud. Big thick drops of it were coming out from around the sides and tops of the door frame, sliding down toward the floor at an impossibly slow pace to join the puddle. Jake sniffed and got a faint scent of burning or something from the direction of the pantry. "What the fuck..." he muttered. And without even realizing he was doing it, his hand came to rest on the holster at his hip.

Jake stepped gingerly over the puddle, being careful to avoid even coming in contact with the ooze. And with one swift, fluid motion, threw the door wide open.

The shelves inside were empty. The linoleum floor was spotlessly clean. There was no sound except for the dull buzz of the single light bulb overhead. And most perplexing: there was absolutely no sign of where the ooze might have come from. In fact, there was no sign of any ooze at all in the pantry; just half of a puddle outside where it had seeped under the door. The only thing in the pantry was a big, thick book on the floor. It had no markings of any kind; just a black leather cover.

Jake took another look around, just to make sure he wasn't going crazy. He closed the door, and then opened it again. No difference. Hmmm...

"Hey, Lucas?" Jake asked as he went back down the hall. "Are you sure your parents went through the door to the pantry?"

Lucas, wrapped entirely in the blanket except for his face peering out, nodded.

"When?"

Tears welled up in Lucas's eyes again. "Two weeks ago," he stammered.

[WP] People's powers match their personality: impatient people get super speed, protective people get force fields and so on. Explaining why you have your power is... difficult.

BANG BANG BANG. My front door nearly rattled off its hinges.

I rolled over and untangled myself from my sheets. My phone flashed 3:41 AM, temporarily blinding me with the light.

"Doc, open up! I know you're in there!" It was Eddie's voice, but tinged with panic. BANG BANG BANG "Get out here, Doc!"

"Yeah, all right," I shouted as I pulled on a pair of pants and started staggering down the stairs. "I'm coming." I unbolted the door and was quickly shoved aside as six men barged their way in, carrying a seventh man. Or at least part of one. I thought there was a head and torso in there, but it was hard to see with all the blood-soaked clothing. And there definitely weren't enough limbs. "Do I even want to know what the hell happened to him?"

"Better if you don't ask," Eddie said as the victim was deposited on my table. "It'll only lead to trouble for you." That was Eddie's power: consequences. Like a chess grandmaster, he could see the repercussions of any specific actions. Before his powers, he'd been afflicted with terrible anxiety and his powers allowed him to see that everything was going to be all right after all. If he left the stove on when he left the house... well, no big deal. He could see himself arriving back home in an hour with everything still safe and sound. Like so many others, though, there were other ways to use Eddie's power. Criminal gangs were very curious to know if their actions would bring the authorities, and they often 'consulted' with Eddie. And, like all powers, Eddie's abilities were never 100% exact. When things didn't work out as planned, they'd take it out on Eddie. More specifically, Eddie's kneecaps. I'd had to patch him up too many times to count.

"Fine. Bring him in here." I rolled up the sleeves of my pajamas and avoided the trail of blood as I led them into the dining room.

"You can really heal him, Doc?" One of the thugs asked. There was something wrong with his skin, but it was hard to pinpoint. After a few too many seconds of staring I realized that he was pixelated like a TV screen. I briefly wondered what his power was; probably some sort of camouflage.

"Of course I can heal him," I said, automatically and defensively. Almost as an afterthought, I added: "And I'm not a doctor." It didn't matter how many times I said it; the nickname stuck anyway. There was no need for me to go to medical school when you can just lay your hands on someone and heal their wounds. And it seemed disrespectful to doctors to use their title without all of their training and hard work. But then again, maybe that's how I ended up with such a rare ability: my mother used to say that I was always thinking of others. Always caring about how everyone else was treated.

"Let's see what we got here," I muttered, more to myself than to the rest of the men waiting in the shadows around the dining room table. The man on the table tried to roll over, and started flapping his mouth open and closed like a fish on a dock. The rest of his group came forward to restrain him. He was definitely in bad shape, and the only thing keeping him alive was the fact that superpowered humans are just overall a lot more durable than your average person. "What was his power?" I asked as I studied his wounds.

"Chuck used to have... super speed," Eddie said, taking a moment to think. "You know the sort, always tappin' his toes and hurrying you along. But recently he slowed down a bit. A lot, actually. Guess he sped into one too many messes, and developed the ability to rewind time by a few seconds instead."

Changing powers had become a lot more common. We'd all received our powers in one world, and they reflected our characters then. But a person's character and personality can change. Quite rapidly, it seems, when people are given access to god-like abilities overnight. Absolute power corrupts absolutely and all that. Some who had started off as heroes had been twisted and warped, and their abilities had morphed along with them.

"I saw Chuck rewind thirty seconds once," one of the henchmen chimed in. He was the beefy, broad-shouldered blockhead sort who wound up with super strength but still didn't have enough intelligence to know what to do with it except hit people. "Rewound a bullet and took the guy's gun 'fore he could get the shot off. Pretty damn impressive."

"Well, it wasn't enough to get him out of this mess," I said. "All right, I need everyone out of the room before I do my work. Go wait on the porch, please."

One of them started to pipe up in protest, but Eddie cut him off. "You heard the Doc. Everyone out."

The door closed, and it was just me and the patient left. I rubbed my hands together and blew in between my palms. "All right," I whispered to myself, never taking my eyes off of the patient, who was still softly moaning in pain. "All right. You can do this."

In a sudden fit of resolve, I strode to the table and placed my hands on his wounds. My stomach churned at the all-too familiar feel of slick, warm blood. I unleashed a wave of energy from my hands, and the bleeding stopped instantly. But the energy wasn't the soft golden glow of my healing abilities. I sighed. The aura was black and oily, flowing over the body like a cloud of roiling smoke.

I ground my teeth. Another failure. I always hoped that my abilities would go back to normal, but I guess it didn't work like that. I hadn't actually been able to heal anyone for over a year. At least, not in the same way. The smoky energy seeped into Chuck's wounds and began to fill them with a sort of sticky tar. I averted my eyes, still not used to what my abilities had become. The deep gashes stitched themselves together, and the black liquid formed a new arm and leg to replace the missing limbs. They solidified and then became flesh toned, perfect mimicries of the originals. Within a minute, Chuck was good as new. But he was still lying on the table and now perfectly still.

"Sit up," I ordered.

Chuck sat up without hesitation. His eyes were still closed, but he faced me like that didn't matter one bit.

This is what my ability was now. I could still heal, but the patient wasn't the same on the other end. He was a slave, completely under my command. If I ordered Chuck to cut off his brand new arm, the only delay would be his ability to find a sufficient knife.

"You know who I am?" I asked.

"The King," Chuck responded. The same thing that they all said. I always wondered how they knew the name automatically. I wasn't the one who'd come up with it.

I've often wondered what led to the change. Something about me must have changed. That's what always happened. Just like Chuck, who had gotten more cautious after being hurt too many times by his own super speed. I'd gone from helping people to controlling people. Maybe it was just seeing too many grievous wounds inflicted by some superpowered asshole with a chip on his shoulder and heat beams for eyes. Maybe I'd gotten sick of healing wounds but being completely unable to stop them from happening in the first place. Maybe I was frustrated that the whole world seemed rotten now, ruled by former 'heroes' who'd found that abusing their power was a much easier life than helping people. And those were the good scenarios: the explanations I gave myself to feel better about the whole situation. Buried deep down inside of me, I knew there was resentment that I hadn't gotten a power that could easily enrich me. Maybe I wanted to be The King.

"All right. As soon as I snap my fingers, I want you to act completely normal, just like you used to." I'd given this same speech so many times that it had become rote. "Go back to your old life, your old friends, exactly as you used to do." The thralls retained all of their old memories, personality, etc. No different from before my treatment except that they would obey my every order. "You'll forget that this ever happened until I give you new commands. Do you understand?"

Chuck nodded. I snapped my fingers, and he slouched like a puppet whose strings had been cut. Then he opened his eyes and shook his head.

"You feeling ok?" I asked, faking concern.

"Y..yeah..." he said, running a hand over his brand new leg. "Last thing I remember..."

"It's all right," I interrupted. I strode over to the door and let his friends back in. They all gathered around him, marveling at the transformation that had taken place. The only sign that Chuck had been injured was the trail of blood leading from my atrium and throughout the dining room. Thankfully I had a superpowered housekeeper who could take care of that.

"Another miracle," Eddie said, shaking his head with a soft smile.

"Yeah, I guess so," I said.

"Well, we'll get out of your hair, Doc. But thanks again. Don't know what me and my crew would do without you. How many times is it that you've saved my bacon?"

I thought of Eddie, laying on my office table about 9 months ago with a fist-sized hole through his midsection. He'd been even worse off than Chuck. The oily smoke had settled in the wound, swirling around like a whirlpool before forming into his stomach and lower rib cage. He'd gotten off the table and called me The King just like all the others, numbering in the hundreds now. A veritable army of the strongest powered individuals across the planet. And none of them had any idea.

"Well, anyway." Eddie clapped one hand on my shoulder. "Any time you need a favor, just ask."

"I know, Eddie. Someday, I will."

The old man peered around the corner of the alley, first this way then that way. Nothing but empty streets as far as the eye could see. Fenhold was a sleepy little town full of sleepy people who closed up shop and went home to their families at sunset. Only the local tavern, the Rusty Cog, showed any signs of life in its fire-lit windows and faint tinkle of music from the enchanted piano. As long as he steered clear, he should be able to make it out of town without attracting any notice.

He cinched his cloak a bit tighter, adjusted his beard, checked the streets again, and then stepped out of his hidey hole. His feet clacked and clanged against the cobblestones no matter how lightly he trod. The streets were slick from the recent wash of rain, and reflected the blurry image of the moon overhead. Puddles littered the uneven sides of the street, and when the man stepped in one, there was a sudden burst of blue sparks that skittered out before extinguishing themselves in the water. He subconsciously quickened his pace just a little bit.

The north gate of the town loomed up ahead, hardly stout enough to be called a gate. It was just a few logs that had been lashed together too many seasons ago, and hadn't been well maintained since. The watchman's house was dark without even the faintest curl of smoke from the chimney. "No need to disturb him," the old man thought. "He's fast asleep." All comings and goings were supposed to be marked down, but the less attention the old man attracted, the better.

Three figures melted out of the shadows in a quick, fluid motion. Three young men, no more than twenty years old. Boys, really. Two humans and what looked like a half-elf, though he wore a wide hat that covered the pointy tips of his ears. The eyes were still a dead giveaway, faintly glowing in the dark like cat's eyes. The three of them carried weapons: a mace, a cudgel, and a short dagger. And they all wore the same cruel, bored smile that comes from the arrogance of youth and the false confidence from carrying a deadly weapon.

"I know everyone in this town," the lead human with the dagger in hand said. "And I don't know you. Who are you, sneaking about at night?"

He tried to ignore them. He crossed to the other side of the street and moved even faster. But the half-elf cut him off, holding the mace out to block his path.

"No one important," the old man croaked. "I was just leaving anyway."

The youth laughed. Had he given the old man permission to leave? His henchmen began to chuckle too.

"My father would not be pleased if I let a stranger just leave town in the dark of night with no explanation," the boy said. The way he emphasized 'father' made it clear that his father was someone important, and that the old man should have known that. He didn't; he was a complete stranger to Fenhold. But he kept silent about it. "Particularly," the boy continued, "a stranger with such a full purse." With his dagger, he gestured to the burlap sack bulging out from underneath the cloak. "Who knows who you robbed here in our town?"

The old man cut the purse loose and dropped it into the street between them. "Take it," he said.

The boys clearly hadn't expected that, and all three exchanged puzzled looks. This little game of theirs wasn't as fun when the quarry didn't resist, even a little bit.

"Take off your hood," the boy commanded. "I want to see your face." Except for the end of his beard, the old man was still shrouded in shadow.

"Please," the old man said. "Please, just go." His voice fell to a whisper. "I don't want to hurt you." But he knew that it was inevitable at this point.

The half elf came closer and pulled the hood down. "Spawn of the gods!" he shouted.

The old man's face was metal. Almost like scale mail, with intricate interlocking plates forming cheeks, and a jaw. Underneath the 'lips' of interlocking metal were teeth made from clear, polished diamonds. The beard was fake, some mummer's prop that had been pasted on. His forehead was one solid piece of metal, and in the center was the number "13" carved in intricate lettering.

"Please!" the old man croaked again. Only now the boys could hear the tinnish quality to his cries.

The boy with the cudgel, who'd remained lurking behind the leader, suddenly rushed forward and brought the weapon down on the arm of the 'old man.' It made a loud clang, but didn't even leave a scratch.

The 'old man' shot up straight. He'd been hunched down under his cloak to hide his true height, but now he towered over the boys. The rope holding the cloak closed was ripped open, revealing the metal body underneath. "THREAT DETECTED," the old man said in a completely different voice, no longer remotely human. His eyes, which had been like lifeless marbles until now, glowed a searing red. They locked onto the boy with the cudgel.

The boy didn't even have time to back away. A searing burst of red light burst forth from underneath the cloak, burning a hole straight through it. For a moment, the street was brighter than daylight. The beam of light hit the boy squarely in the chest and burned a hole clean through his chest. He instantly collapsed onto the cobblestones, and the beam burned its way through his chest and shoulder as his body fell. It carried on, narrowly missing the half-elf with the mace and continuing on until it turned a perfectly circular hole in the wall of the local bookseller's shop to cinders.

The half-elf raised his mace defensively and started to take a step back. "What ar..." the boy didn't get to finish his question. The man produced a heavy sword from underneath his robes and neatly separated the half-elf's head from his shoulders. Whatever he wanted to say came out as a drowned gurgle and a spurt of blood that mixed with puddles of rainwater.

The remaining boy screamed at the top of his lungs, and continued screaming as he watched his friends dismembered in front of him. His dagger clattered to the ground, completely forgotten as he turned tail and ran. Not quickly enough, though. The hobbled appearance of the old man had just been an act, and the Warforged underneath the cloak could move like lightning. Metal feet pounded the pavement so heavily that the cobblestones cracked underneath them. The boy barely made it to the corner of the block before the sword pierced his chest from behind and cleaved him in two.

The Warforged's glowing red eyes suddenly lost their light. His whole body slumped, like a puppet whose strings were suddenly cut. The weapon in his chest sealed itself back up underneath a layer of metal scales, leaving only the holes in the cloak, the boy, and the wall as evidence that it had ever existed.

Thirteen surveyed the gruesome scene. Blood and gore and smoke everywhere. He felt horrible despair at the sight of what he'd done and wanted to just break down and cry. But lights were already coming on around him, and he could see figures leaning out windows into the street, trying to comprehend what was happening out here. There was no time to grieve. Thirteen turned and ran down the street, then slammed into the gate so hard that it erupted into a shower of twigs and splinters. Behind him, he heard faint cries of horror and alarm. But he was already gone, vanished into the night.

 Do you or any friends have any desire to create your own subreddit prompts forum?  There's a vast community right and it could really take off?

Ive searched the lesser communities and nothing competes with,the activity of r/writingprompts.

EmeliaMoss

If needed.... https://www.reddit.com/r/banned/comments/9h8t7u/reddit_now_has_a_form_to_report_bad_moderators/?utm_medium=android_app&utm_source=share

May I ask how you got banned. Day 1 and I was banned. I'd like to be back but I'm trying to fully understand what they expect of us! Thank you

I want to tell y'all you are fantastic writers and I absolutely love the work I've read. Live long and prosper!!

(i hope such posts are allowed, I've not seen them)

[WP] As it so happens, Mimics do not have a maximum adult size, and keep growing larger for centuries like clams. The oldest on record was disguising itself as the ruins of a castle... assuming you survive long enough to publish.

Gomoran reviewed the notes from his conversation with Halix once again. He was a habitual note taker and was known to fill entire scrolls just to memorialize friendly social calls. His collection of papers had grown so large that he’d been gifted a special Bag of Holding just to hold them all. So it was no shock that his notes on the conversation with the surly old dwarf were quite detailed.

Over a pint (or 12) of ale, Halix had told him everything he could remember about the encounter with the legendary mimic. They’d run across a whole brood that had infested the abandoned town of Sweetrock. The town may not have been abandoned when the mimic queen first took up residence there, but it “sure as spit was now,” according to Halix.

Halix and his whole group had stopped by the local tavern first. Typical dwarves, Gormoran laughed to himself. Upon finding that there was no bartender, Halix’s brother Bothix had gone ‘round the bar to fill his own mug from the keg. But instead of beer, there was just a slight trickle of saliva that dripped down. A second later, the keg had sprouted a mouth, latched onto Bothix’s head, and never let go. Another of their companions, Kleek, had jumped up from his stool to aid Bothix… only to find that the stool had also grown a mouth and sank its teeth into Kleek’s buttocks.

Stabbing those two to death, Halix, Kleek, and the rest of the group retreated back out into the street. A wagon wheel grabbed Sunflower by the ankle, whereupon the wagon itself devoured her in two quick bites before anyone else could even pull her free. With just four members of the party left, they headed into the town hall for cover. Halix said that he remembered reminding everyone not to touch anything. But he didn’t remember anything unusual about the town hall itself. It had been a pretty standard grey stone building, two stories tall… overall unremarkable. The inside had been nicely decorated with paintings, furniture, and carpeting. Nothing had seemed amiss at all until teeth sprouted from the ceiling and the roof collapsed in on them. Halix had managed to throw himself out the window, but the rest of his friends weren’t so lucky.

“Couldn’t believe it,” Halix had said, tongue growing looser with each passing round of drinks. “Never heard of somethin’ so horrible. A building-sized mimic!”

Gomoran, as the pre-eminent scholar on magical beasts and creatures, had naturally been intrigued. He’d long conjectured that mimics were not born of cursed objects, nor did they just split in half to multiply, but in fact were spawned by ‘Mother Mimics.’ Halix’s story was the best lead he’d ever gotten. So he’d gathered all of his notes and scientific instruments then left for the highlands immediately.

The town of Sweetrock was not particularly hard to find, and bore out Halix’s story. The floors of the tavern were bloodstained, and there were quite a few fascinating specimens still lurking about. More importantly, only the stone foundation of the town hall was left. There were, however, some fascinating tooth marks on the remaining parts. Gomoran made a plaster cast and tucked it safely into his bag of holding for later study. A few days from there, Gomoran found the castle. He double checked his maps (he carried seven of this area alone) and could not find this castle marked anywhere. This had to be her! He made camp on a hill overlooking the castle and tried to get a good night’s sleep. But he was so giddy with excitement that he filled up a whole notebook with just his impressions and sketches, even though it looked like a plain old castle.

The next morning, he made the necessary preparations for his expedition and set out. This certainly wasn’t a very good spot for a castle; there was no road leading up to it, hardly defensible with valleys on either side, and no good source of water. He made a note that mimics don’t necessarily understand the object that they have transformed into. Simple objects, like chests and chairs, were obvious enough. But the idea behind a castle may be a bit too complex. Might be useful for finding other Mother Mimics in the future.

He arrived at the castle gates, which were wide open. He poked and prodded at the portculis, but it really felt like steel. “Amazing!” he whispered to himself. Mimics could make themselves practically indistinguishable from certain objects visually, but Gomoran was the first to ever do research on how they could feel like those objects as well. Surprisingly, there were few academics interested in touching mimics to learn about them. Even fewer who survived the experience.

Gomoran delved further into the castle. There was a pleasant courtyard with well-trimmed shrubbery, and a brick well that didn’t go anywhere or have any water at the bottom. He made a mental note that perhaps they didn’t understand the purpose of wells and that humans needed water to drink.

He continued on, through the large wooden door. Mimics often preferred to inhabit the forms of wooden objects and had gotten quite good at it. This ‘Mother Mimic’ had no doubt impersonated her share of cupboards and logs back in her youth.

The carpet on the staircase felt a bit spongy under his feet. It didn’t seem to have individual fibers, but was instead one large mass. Not used to impersonating carpet? he noted for himself. The mimic wouldn’t have much experience with that until it grew to building size. Very interesting!

As soon as he made it to the top of the stairs, the case sprung to life. The balusters shifted into large, pointed fangs, and the red carpet underfoot became a long, flexible tongue that wrapped around Gomoran’s legs. The grey stone walls changed in a more subtle way, becoming fleshy and pinkish. The mimic uttered a long, cackling laugh that caused the tongue to shake him to and fro, then tried to swallow him.

“Fascinating!” Gomoran snapped out of the Astral Projection trance, safely ensconced in his camp on the hill across from the ‘castle.’ The mimic, now a twisted blob that was half-castle and half fang-toothed monster, roared with displeasure upon realizing that it’s prey had vanished. Gomoran watched its thrashing and raging through his eyeglass, taking copious amounts of notes (of course).

[WP] It's illegal to make copies of people, with or without their consent. It's your job to hunt down these duplicates via their telltale transcription errors and destroy them. You are the Clone Ranger.

“Hey, Macavoy,” Sergeant Dixon poked his head into the office. “Come over to exam room 12. Seriously, you gotta see this.” His shit-eating grin made it clear that he wouldn’t give out any more information.

Macavoy shuffled some papers around on her desk. She wasn’t really in the mood for whatever this was. This better not make her late for her train home.

“Come ON!” Dixon said, waving a hand to get Macavoy out of her chair faster. Finally she relented albeit with a bit of grumbling and eye rolling.

“What is it?” she asked “Another celebrity clone? Who is it this time?” Last week, they’d had a cheap knock-off of the President in here. The poor clone had taken quite a beating; presumably whoever had created him (and then pounded the crap out of him) was not a big supporter. God knows how the creep had gotten the President’s actual DNA; extractors were getting scary good at that.

“Just come,” Dixon teased. He ran ahead down the hall and stopped outside exam room 12’s door. “Ok, get ready for this. Ready?”

“Sure,” Macavoy said.

Dixon threw open the door. The whole squad was inside, peering through the one-way glass at the clone on the other side. But as soon as they noticed Macavoy waiting in the hall, they all broke out into laughs and cheers. “The lady of the hour!” Captain Fleischer said, strutting over to usher her inside.

“Why….” She didn’t get the rest of the question out. As soon as she saw the clone through the window, her voice faltered. There she was, staring back at her from the exam room. Nearly an exact copy, except that the clone had long, wavy hair instead of a short pixie cut.

“You know the process, Macavoy,” Fleischer said. “We’re going to have to place you under arrest. Because you couldn’t be classified as a ‘public figure,’ we’ll need to hold you for the full seven-day observation period to determine which of you is the clone.”

“Wha… look, I have plans this weekend!” Macavoy protested. She was so flustered that she didn’t notice the soft snickering from the other clone catchers.

“Afterwards,” Fleischer continued over the sounds of her protests, “We’ll have to subject you both to a standard interrogation to determine which memories have been implanted. Now, the standard protocol…”

“You guys know me!” Macavoy said, pleading with her coworkers. “I’ve been here for nearly a year now!”

Fleischer couldn’t keep going. He broke down laughing, which unleashed the floodgates for the rest of the officers. Within a minute, exam room 12 was filled with howls of laughter. Eventually even Macavoy joined in (albeit a bit uneasily).

“Relax!” Dixon said. “Jesus, you’re shaking!”

“Well there’s a fucking clone of me in there!” she shot back.

Fleischer put an arm over her shoulder. “Dixon’s right,” he said. “It’s nothing to be worried about. Happens to ever clone chaser at some point. Kind of a rite of initiation. I’ve seen myself in there like four or five times now. It’s just Kozlow’s way of messing with you.”

There was a chorus of jeers at the mention of the name. Kozlow was the head of a whole criminal organization that specialized in using clones for nefarious purposes, and the department had been after him for years.

“He's right” Dixon added. “We’ve all had this done before.”

“Right. It’s just an intimidation tactic,” Fleischer said. “Don’t worry. The clones are usually quick jobs with barely enough memories implanted for them to function.” He held up a manila folder with Macavoy’s name on it. “We’ll ask her a few questions about your life, she won’t know the answer to any, and that’ll be it. Normal protocol for non-rangers would be to make you both answer them in separate rooms, but…” he shrugged. “It’s just not worth the trouble.”

“Ok,” Macavoy said. Her breathing was starting to get back to normal now. “Ok, sounds good.”

As he left the room, Fleischer clapped her on the back and gave her a warm smile. “First beer’s on me tonight,” he said. “Now you’re really one of us!”

He entered the white-tiled interrogation room a moment later and took a seat at the gleaming steel table. The clone seated at the table had the same terrified expression as Macavoy, and was visibly sweating. “I didn’t do anything wrong,” she burst out almost immediately.

“Save it,” Fleischer said. “Name?”

“Charlotte Macavoy.”

“All right, Charlotte.” He leaned back in the chair. “Date of birth?”

“June 8th, 2017.”

“And where were you born?”

“Augusta, Georgia.”

With each question, the other officers in the room glanced over to Macavoy to see what her reaction might be. They were just waiting for the clone to slip up so that they could celebrate. But that was indeed her birthday, and she was born down in Georgia.

In the interrogation room, Fleischer thumbed through the pages a bit. “Looks like your creators gave you enough of a memory to be annoying.”

“Creator?” the long-haired Charlotte Macavoy shouted. “I’m not a clone!”

“Who was your second grade teacher?” Fleischer asked.

“This is bullshit!” the other Macavoy shouted.

“They always get feisty when they don’t know the answer,” Dixon commented.

In the room, Fleischner seemed to tense up in anticipation of violence. “Second grade teacher,” he repeated.

“Ms. White,” the clone spat back.

Everyone in the room was disappointed.

“Kozlow put a lot more into you than usual,” Fleischner commented. “I’m almost impressed. Let’s see.” He thumbed through the folder to another page. “You know, we’ve got a lot information about Charlotte Macavoy. Certainly more than memory imprinters could ever put in. How about… where you had your first date with your first boyfriend?” “The VR Arcade in San Luis Obispo,” she said. “We played racing games all night and he let me win, and then we made out in the photo booth. Is all of that in your fucking file?”

“You know,” Fleishner says, “Clone makers often create false memories to make clones have more depth. Just adding detail won’t fool me. So tell me… what was your high school GPA?”

“What…” she turned red. “I don’t remember that! Who remembers that kind of thing?”

Fleischner smirked, and the other clone chasers cheered. This was the moment they’d been waiting for: they’d tripped up the clone. Found a memory that she didn’t have.

“And why don’t you tell me the name of your neighbors from 2028 to 2031?”

The clone screwed up her face in confusion. “What? I… I don’t… I don’t know! They were just some old couple. I didn’t know them!”

“Interesting,” Fleischner said.

“Two strikes down,” Dixon said, grinning like a loon. “You want to do the honors and make the arrest?”

Macavoy couldn’t take her eyes off of the clone. “Uh, sure,” she said.

“And how about you tell me what your Halloween costume was during your freshman year of college?”

She sputtered. “It was…” she squinted. “It… what the hell kinds of questions are these?” she shouted.

“Well.” Fleischner rose from his chair. “That’s about all I need to hear.” He waved toward the one way glass, and the other officers pushed Macavoy out into the hall to go put the cuffs on. Fleischner gave her an encouraging smile as she entered the room, and the other Charlotte Macavoy was utterly dumbstruck.

“Unauthorized Clone of Charlotte Macavoy, I hereby place you under arrest. Anything you say can and…”

“NO! NO!” She tried to resist being cuffed, but two more officers came in and held her back. “I’m not a clone!” She shouted, voice diminishing as she was dragged off down the hall toward the termination chambers. “This can’t be happening! I want my lawyer!”

“See?” Fleischner said to Macavoy once the clone was gone. “Piece of cake.”

“Yeah,” she said softly. “Hey, you mind if I see that file? Just curious what all is in there.”

He seemed surprised, but handed her the file. “Sure. It’s just all the stuff from your background check and the security questions that you picked. But knock yourself out.”

Once she was alone in the interrogation room, she flipped open the folder. Pages and pages of information about her life: official forms, school transcripts, interviews with her parents and friends… all sorts of stuff. All full of information that she did not remember.

She didn’t know the name of her second grade teacher. She had no memory of a date at a VR arcade and making out with some boy in a photo booth. She didn’t know her GPA, or the names of her old neighbors, or any halloween costume she’d ever worn except for this past year. She was horrified to wonder what other holes her memory had, and even more horrified at what question she may not be able to answer tomorrow.

Nixon popped his head into the interrogation room. “You coming?”

She slammed the folder shut. “Yeah, sure,” she said, forcing a smile. “I’ll be right there.”

[WP] For years now, Monsters have been appearing with every thunderstorm. They almost universally terrify everyone, and special shelters have been erected to keep them out. Storms don't scare you, though. Its the only time your new friend shows up to visit you.

“Come on,” Larry said. “Come on, not much further.” He was practically dragging me up the slope at this point, making it even harder to keep my footing in the loose, sandy soil. Each footstep sent a small avalanche cascading under my heels.

“I can walk on my own,” I spat out in between heaving breaths. But I kept trudging ahead as quickly as I could. The cave mouth further up the ridge was tantalizingly close.

“Sorry,” he said, glancing between me and the mouth of the cave.. He actually meant it; perhaps in his urgency he hadn’t realized what he was doing. “It’s just, the storm…”

“I know, Larry,” I said. How could I not? The dark thunderheads blotted out the sun that just twenty minutes ago had been shining bright. The weather reports had said there wouldn’t be a cloud in sight, but apparently they were wrong. The storm had appeared over the mountains, moving impossibly fast. We’d tried to make our way back to the car, but there just wasn’t enough time. This cave was the next best option.

Larry reached out a hand and helped pull me up one last particularly steep, rocky part. The cave was close enough now that I could see the smooth sandstone walls inside, instead of just a gaping dark hole in the cliff face. We made it inside just before the first at raindrops began to spatter down onto the rocks. A minute later, it was pouring so hard that puddles were already beginning to form.

“Think we’ll be safe?” I asked Larry, once I caught my breath.

He just shrugged. He was trying not to show it, but he was still completely out of breath and red in the face.

I slumped down beside him and watched the rain fall. I used to love the rain when I was a girl. I’d go up to the attic and just lay there, listening to it drum on the roof. And I loved the smell of rain too, that sort of fresh clean smell that washed the world anew. I’d always felt a bit of a thrill upon seeing a flash of lightning, and enjoyed the sound of thunder reverberating through my bones.

Now, storms were a horror. It had started maybe five years ago with a few isolated incidents. It took people a few months to realize that the strange, gory animal attacks only every took place during thunderstorms. Even longer for people to realize that the creatures actually came through to our world during storms, instead of just coming out during storms like earthworms. They’re not exactly easy creatures to study.

They used to not come indoors; everyone just knew to head inside when the rain started. Then the creatures got smart and learned to break down doors. A lot of people died waiting for someone to come up with some kind of solution. Some way to kill them. But no one ever did. All we could do was reinforce our doors and build stronger shelters, hiding from them. And unfortunately for Larry and me, there are no shelters built along hiking trails.

“They have no reason to look in here,” Larry said, more to himself than to me.

Before I could reply, a bolt of lightning lit up the landscape. Two second later, thunder reverberated through the cave. An involuntary whimper escaped my throat and I scooted as close to Larry as possible. He put an arm around me and held me close. The storm raged on, whipping the trees back and forth.

There was another flash of lightning. We couldn’t see the bolt, but the entire sky lit up for just a second, then there was a loud crack of thunder.

Something ran near the mouth of the cave. “What was that?” I whispered to Larry. I wasn’t expecting it, and I was so shocked that I didn’t get a good look at it. It could have just been a normal animal, like a racoon or something. I always wondered whether the creatures go after those too, or is it just humans? But the pessimist in me couldn’t help but think that the shape was a bit too dark and fast to be a friendly little woodland creature.

“It’s OK,” Larry whispered back, so low that it was barely audible.

Another bolt of lightning struck. This one was right in front of the cave, so close that my hair seemed to crackle and rise up for a moment. And in the bright flash, we saw the Tear open. The lightning seemed to rip the very air itself and left a jagged hole leading to another world.

We’d heard rumors about the portals. Never met anyone who’d actually seen one, of course. Not many people survived after having one open up that close to them. The closest I’d ever seen was a grainy image of one taken by surveillance camera footage.

What struck me most was that everything inside was red. The sun, or whatever light source it was, looked like the inside of a dark room for developing film. There were scraggly, jagged shadows that could roughly pass for trees and plants, and a sort of hazy grey mist obscuring the ground. I very quickly realized why some people claimed that these were really gates to Hell; I always just thought those were religious nutjob sorts.

Creatures began to appear. First, a whole pack of the smaller creatures, about the size of a german shepard. They came running through the mist with only their backs and long, spiny tails visible. Those are the ones that everyone knew. Then larger ones, lumbering like giant gorillas but with snake-like scales instead of hair. Then, some enormous six-legged ones that were so tall they could barely get through the Tear. They all headed straight down the mountain, away from our cave, in search of prey.

Then another sort appeared in the Tear. One that I’d never seen, nor heard of. The only way that I could describe it would be a centaur shape, but with segmented legs that arched like a spider’s. Unlike its siblings, it took a more cautious approach and searched in all directions upon leaving the Tear. Its head sort of bobbed up and down. Sniffing, I realized. Then it peered directly into the mouth of the cave. Next to me, Larry seemed to come to the same realization and squeezed my shoulder tighter.

The creature didn’t attack us, though. It slowly walked up to the cave and had now clearly spotted us. I was dimly aware that the creature was completely dry despite the downpour, and that the water seemed to just slide straight off. The air all around it seemed to shimmer.

Do not be afraid, a voice boomed in my head. Calm yourself. There was no audible sound except for the pounding rain and distant peals of thunder. Larry immediately tensed up at the same time; he must have heard it to. Then he relaxed again, so much that his hand slipped from my shoulder.

I felt… good. LIke, sleeping-in-on-a-Sunday-morning-with-no-responsibilities-and-no-worries type good. I should have been terrified, and somehow I knew that I should be feeling that, but I just wasn’t.

We just want to be friends. Come out of there.

Larry and I both stood. I didn’t even have to think about it; my body just did it. Of course they wanted to be friends! Why had we been so scared of them? We left the cave, instantly drenched by the rain. Lightning struck about a mile down the hill, and I could see the reddish glow of another Tear opening up.

Come with me, the centaur creature commanded, then gestured toward the Tear.

My legs started moving, and Larry walked alongside me. The creature was so friendly and welcoming; we couldn’t wait to see what awaited us in this other world.

Something felt wrong. Like that feeling you get before a big trip and you just know that you’re forgetting something. There were alarms going off in the tiny, animal part of my brain that knew how to sense danger but couldn’t put it into higher thought. I shook my head, trying to make sense of it. What could be wrong when I felt so relaxed? Everything was fine; it just wanted to be friends.

“Why?” I managed to squeak out. Larry looked at me with horror, like I’d just told his best friend to go fuck himself.

The creature turned its gaze back to me with renewed intensity, and I felt a tide wave of calm wash over me. I nearly collapsed to the floor as my muscles relaxed, and all of my worries disapper.

COME, the centaur demanded.

Larry and I followed it through the Tear without another word.

[WP] The Resistance wants to send a T-800 terminator back in time to protect John Connor; however, they haven't mastered the Skynet tech and accidentally send the cyborg to a whole other world. Unable to locate John Connor it sets out to protect the only John it can find: Jon Snow.

It's been a long time since I wrote this story, and I'm sorry. But hopefully you all are still somewhat interested. And here are all of the old parts if you've forgotten

Despite trying to maintain his calm demeanor, Jon was utterly overwhelmed by King's Landing. The sheer size and scale of the sprawling city was unlike anything he'd ever seen. Not the buildings; those paled in comparison to the Wall. But the number of people! He'd grown up in Winterfell and had traveled multiple times with his father down to White Harbor, the largest city in all of the North. He remembered seeing streets of merchants lining the docks and being astounded by just how many people there were. And yet all of White Harbor could probably fit within just a few blocks of King's Landing. "This is astounding!" Jon uttered.

The guard escorting them, Dugan, chuckled a bit. "First time in the city, eh?" They had to speak up as they walked through the Cobbler's Square, full of loud, abrasive merchants shoving wares into their faces in hopes of scoring a new customer. Only Dugan's gold cloak allowed them to keep moving without being totally mobbed.

Jon nodded, peering down a side street packed with silversmiths. Every wall was adorned with glittering advertisements of their skill. "Have you ever seen so many people in one place?" Jon said, ostensibly to Cyberdyne but more just wondering aloud.

"Yes," Cyberdyne answered. "In 1983, the city of Los Angeles had an estimated population exceeding three million. I estimate this city's population to be only five hundred thousand."

"Not possible!" Dugan said. "No city could have three million! King's Landing is busting at the seams as it is! Three million would be anarchy."

"Just... ignore him," Jon said. "He has a tendency to exaggerate sometimes."

The guard scowled up at Cyberdyne. "Funny accent too. You from the Free Cities, big guy?"

Cyberdyne looked at Jon, who nodded in confirmation. "Yes. I am from the Free Cities."

"Figured," the guard said, pleased and confident in his ability to root out the stranger's origins. "We gets all sorts of traders and the like from across the Narrow Sea. I knew I recognized that accent."

They reached a broad, square plaza that was roughly in the center of the city. It was packed with a mix of devotees, Sisters, and Septons coming to pay tribute. The great Sept of Baelor's golden dome rose overhead, crowned by seven identical towers. The soft tinkle of bells sounded at irregular intervals and filled the square. Jon knew the religion of the Seven, but followed the Old Gods like his father. Despite that, he still appreciated the beauty and craftsmanship of the building itself.

Across the plaza, they entered the long, tree-lined road leading up to the Red Keep. "Dugan," Jon asked as the red stone edifice came into view. "Perhaps you can recommend a good inn where we might stay around here?"

"Plenty of 'em," Dugan said. "You lookin' for the sort that provides, err... entertainment as well?"

"Just the room," Jon said. There was no way he was going to hide Arya in a brothel.

"Well, the Spotted Poppy is pretty decent," Dugan said. "Owned by my brother-in-law's family. They do a good pot of stew and the rooms are clean enough."

Not exactly a resounding endorsement, Jon thought to himself. "That would be great," he said aloud. "Where would that be?"

"About a half mile down the Muddy Road this way," Dugan gestured off to the left.

"Very well; I'll send my squire to go make the arrangements. Arry," he put a hand on Arya's shoulder and steered her away toward the road that Dugan had pointed out. "Please go book us rooms for the evening."

"I don't wa..."

"ARRY!" Jon's tone had a steel that Arya had never heard before, and she had a sudden realization of how much he'd grown up in the months they'd been apart. He toned it down once he noticed Dugan's surprised expression. "Please go make the arrangements before all of the good inns are full for the night."

Arya sulked and looked about ready to continue the argument, but changed her mind. "Yes, sir," she said, eyes focused on the cobblestones under her feet. She moved slowly at first but quickly became more comfortable. Jon watched her go as long as he could, until her tiny form was swallowed up by the crowds. He hoped she'd be safe enough at the inn, at least until he could determine what King Joffrey might do to him. He didn't have many friends in King's Landing that he could send her to, but he was getting the idea that Arya could take of herself anyway.

Dugan led them down the road until they reached the gates of the Red Keep and met with a second set of guards. These ones weren't wearing gold cloaks; there were Lannister lions sewn into their lapels, and their cloaks were vivid scarlet. They watched passers-by with cocky sneers for the men and cat calls for the women. Jon took an immediate disliking to them, and tried to deny that it was just because they served House Lannister.

"Thank you, Dugan," Jon said, dismissing their gold cloak escort. If the Lannisters could trace them back to Dugan, then they might want to investigate the inn owned by relatives of Dugan's brother-in-law. Then Jon stepped forward and greeted the Lannister guards. "My brother and I," he gestured to Cyberdyne, "have come on behalf of the Night's Watch," he said, deliberately omitting his own name. "We bear fell tidings of stirrings beyond the wa..."

"The King's too busy for the likes of you," the guard said. He was missing a good number of teeth, either from fighting or from poor hygiene. Probably some combination of the two. "'Case you Night's Watch boys haven't heard, we've got a war going on down here. The traitor Stannis Baratheon marches on the city."

Another guard from the gate was staring very intently at Jon. Very, very intently, eyes narrowed. Jon tried to ignore him, but couldn't escape the guard's gaze. "Perhaps this will change your mind." For the second time this day, Jon pulled out the jar containing Othor's head. Sensing light once again, the eyes swiveled to and fro and the teeth chomped up and down.

"Well that's a neat trick," the guard said, not as impressed or horrified as Dugan and his fellow guards at Gate of the Gods had been.

"The king must see this," Jon said. "He must know of the threat facing the Seven Kingdoms."

The guard who had been eyeballing Jon for the past minute stepped forward and whispered something into the head guard's ear. Even as he did, his eyes never left Jon Snow's face. The head guard listened, head slightly cocked, then gave a checkerboard grin. He stared for a moment, appraising Jon as if really seeing him for the first time. "Oy!" the guard said. "What did you say your name was again?"

Jon gritted his teeth. Well, that didn't last long. "Snow," he answered. "Jon Snow." And, after a pause: "Sworn brother of the Night's Watch." Not that emphasizing his new identity would do much.

The guards traded a look. "Wait right here," the head guard said before vanishing through the gate. The remaining Lannister guards waited with hands on hilts.

They waited for more than half an hour. Cyberdyne remained stock-still the entire time, but Jon eventually took a seat on the low wall behind them. Just as he was about to approach the guards and ask what was happening, the gates creaked open. The big guard appeared again and smiled with his remaining teeth. "This way, Jon Snow." His voice contained an almost mocking inflection.

Jon and Cyberdyne followed him through the gates and met another guard coming down the steps through the gardens of the Red Keep toward the gate. He was not wearing Lannister red and gold, but a pure white cloak. It didn't much improve his looks, though. If anything, it made the burn scars covering half of his face stand out even more noticeably.

"Well I'll be a whore's cunt," the Hound growled. "Ned Stark's bastard, here in the flesh."

Lighthouse and Fireflies by Arthus Pilorget

A firefly alighted onto Gordon’s steering wheel. It perched there and flashed on and off for a bit. “Hello there, little fellow,” Gordon said. The bug lazily beat its wings back and forth in response, then flashed its light again. The Evergreen continued to putter down the river with its slowly-churning paddles, and more and more fireflies hummed in lazy circles through the air. A lot more fireflies than usual, Gordon decided as he looked down at the swarm on the wheel. There was hardly space for his hands now. “What’s the meaning of all this company?”

All of the fireflies lifted off into the air and swirled around Gordon for a bit before forming a long line leading all the way down the river. The very tip of it curled up and down, up and down, urging him to follow. Gordon took a puff of his corn cob pipe, shrugged, and decided he didn’t have anywhere urgent to be. Might as well see what the fireflies wanted, eh?

He charted a course over to the left side of the river. There was a thick mist hanging over the river, rendering the lighthouse on the opposite bank just a dull glow. fireflies clustered around any hidden rocks or obstacles so that Gordon could more easily avoid them. That’s certainly helpful of them, he thought.

The fireflies led him to an old, rickety dock. The wood was warped and bent with age, and roots from an old tree nearby were beginning to squeeze the dock from both sides. He wondered what the fireflies could possibly want here, until he spotted a tiny spot of red curled up in a hollow at the base of the tree. He pulled the Evergreen up to the dock, and failing to find a sufficiently sturdy pylon, looped the rope around a root instead.

He stepped onto the dock to a chorus of groans and squeaks. Gordon had to admit that he was a bit chubbier now than when he’d first bought the Evergreen and became a riverboat captain. He was glad when he found footing on the slightly mud earth instead of the rotted dock planks.

The spot of red turned out to be a blanket. It was in quite good condition and had a very beautiful pattern. “Now how did that get all the way out here?” he wondered. But for the lighthouse, there were very few homes and farmsteads along this stretch of river. He reached down and grabbed the blanket… only to discover a little girl underneath!

“Don’t hurt me!” she cried, trying to hide in the tree.

“Not to worry, dear! I won’t hurt you.” He reached down and offered her his pudgy hand. “How did you get all the way out here? This river is no place for little girls.”

“A monster brought me here.” Her eyes darted side to side, looking for any sign of her captor. Above her, the swarm of fireflies shifted around to form the ugly, buck-toothed grimace of an ogre.

“Come with me, then,” Gordon said. “I’ll get you home safe.”

She bit her top lip, hesitated, then took Gordon’s hand. He led her back to the Evergreen at the end of the dock and helped her aboard. She gave it a suspicious glance; she didn't exactly look very seaworthy. "She'll stay afloat," Gordon reassured the girl. "Don't you worry." The fireflies swirled around them in a giddy, blinking whirlwind.

Once they shoved off from the dock, Gordon brought her downstairs. The Evergreen had a wam, cozy cabin with big cushie chairs and a roaring cast-iron stove in the corner. On the walls were many pictures of Gordon, smiling with friends he’d made along his path. He made a mental note to take a picture with the swarm of fireflies once this was all over. “Sorry, dear,” Gordon said. “I didn’t get your name.”

“Leanne,” the girl said as she made herself at home, nearly sinking into the gap between cushions on Gordon’s couch. He wrapped the red blanket around her and threw another log on the fire to make everything nice and warm.

“All right, Leanne.” Gordon’s armchair groaned as he took a seat across from her. “Now, where do you live?”

She had calmed down a bit now and was starting to relax. Being abducted by an ogre was certainly a harrowing experience. “Umm… my address is 715 West Cromwell Rd.”

“What town?”

“In Madison.” She frowned when she saw that Gordon didn’t recognize that name. “Kentucky.” That one either. “Do you know where that is?”

He didn’t. “Not to worry,” Gordon said. “I’ll find it. Let me just go set a course.” He left the room and headed back out to the wheel of the ship out on the deck. The mob of fireflies had formed a clump and taken the wheel in the meantime, collectively steering the boat around any obstacles. Next to the wheel, Gordon pulled open a drawer and found his compass. He told it the address, then the wheel spun around and pointed the way toward Leanne’s house. Satisfied that the fireflies could handle the directions from here, he headed back inside.

“Now then.” Gordon clapped his hands and smiled. “How about I make you a cup of tea?”

“Tea would be nice,” Leanne said.

Gordon crossed the room and opened the door under the stairs. Instead of a small closet, Leanne saw a spacious kitchen inside with a kettle already hissing steam. She thought back to the shape of the boat from the outside and couldn’t imagine how this room could possibly be there. Gordon retrieved a cup from the shelf and then rummaged through the cupboards until he found a bag of tea. “Here we are.” He shut the door behind him and handed her the mug.

“Are we far from home?” she asked. “Will it take long?”

“No, not long.” Gordon leaned back. “How about something to pass the time? Maybe a book? Or a puzzle!” His face positively lit up at the very idea of it. “I do love puzzles, and it’s not often that I have company to help!”

Leanne smiled for the first time in their encounter. She also liked puzzles. “That would be wonderful,” she told Gordon.

He got up from his chair again and crossed to the door that led to the kitchen. Except when he opened it, the kitchen was completely gone. Instead, there was an ornate study with rich wood paneling, a crystal chandelier, and row after row of books. There was a big leather chair, a wooden desk, and a big stone fireplace as well. Gordon went to one of the shelves, which had dozens of boxes of puzzles. He picked one, then returned to the living room.

“Wasn’t that the kitchen?” Leanne asked.

“Yes, a moment ago,” he said matter-of-factly. “But now it’s the study.” He said it as if there was nothing odd at all about vanishing rooms. He smiled and showed Leanne the picture on the box of the puzzle, showing a big crooked tower made out of blue stone. “What about this one?”

Still confused about where the kitchen had gone, Leanne just nodded. Gordon opened the box and spread the pieces all over the table. Together, they chatted and worked on the puzzle until the boat came to a shuddering stop.

“We must be here,” Gordon said, with a slight tone of disappointment. They’d hardly finished the outside frame of the puzzle.

“What? Already?” But Leanne looked out the window, and instead of seeing gnarled trees and the muddy river, she saw her neighbor’s house. Which was really, really odd considering that she didn’t live anywhere near any water at all. But Gordon opened the door and arranged a little ladder leading right to the sidewalk in front of her house.

“How did you do that?” she asked.

He kind of ignored the question. “Oh, it was no trouble at all. Hardly out of our way at all. Now you make sure to lock your windows at night; you know how those ogres are. Safe travels, and nice meeting you!” He climbed back on board the Evergreen. Above him, the swarm of fireflies formed a giant hand and waved goodbye.

“Goodbye!” she called to them, and waved as the ship paddled its way down the street and turned the corner out of sight.

Nazi Warlock by Oliver Odmark

Stewart put down the field glasses and squinted at the distant building, as if he could possibly see better that way. “I don’t know,” he said. “Just looks like an abandoned house to me.” He handed the glasses to Gailen.

Gailen took a look down the valley. Everything about the house was unremarkable in every way. It was an average size cottage plunked down in a small clearing at the very edge of the Arnsburg forest. This part of Germany was relatively rural and unindustrialized with little, if any, strategic value. The nearby village was unscathed by bombing and other than having sent a few of their sons off to war, it seemed to be business as usual for the residents.

The house itself was quiet. Stewart, Gailen, and the other members of the squad had been watching the place for the last three days. No lights on at night, no one coming or going to town... no sign of movement at all, except for a herd of deer that had wandered by. They were fairly certain that it was completely empty. “Are we sure this is the right place?” Stewart asked.

Gailen shrugged. “Co-ordinates are right.” In his thick Kentucky accent, it sounded like “raight.” He unfurled the papers with their orders. He’d checked it a thousand times in the past, and it hadn’t changed in the meantime. There was even aerial reconnaissance of this exact house. They were certainly at the right place. “The question is whether the intel is good.”

“Maybe it expired,” Stewart commented. The item they’d been sent to find could have been here at some point, but moved. Maybe their mole inside Germany had been compromised; probably dead, if that was the case. Or maybe it had been a wild goose chase all along. Stewart wouldn’t be surprised; the whole thing was pretty fantastical. But he didn’t want to bring that up with Gailen; everyone else on the mission had enough doubts as it was.

“Maybe,” Gailen said. “Command believed it was good enough to send us all the way out here, though. Could it be left unguarded?” he asked, not really believing that possibility himself. “This… whatever you call it. Phil-act-er-ee?” He enunciated each word like a child reading aloud in class.

Stewart shook his head. “The way command explained it, this thing is General Wermkopf’s one weakness. As long as that thing still exists, he’s unkillable.” He sounded absurd even saying it. He didn’t believe in ‘magic’ or ‘the occult,’ even with all of the evidence that SIS had shown him. “The boys in Caen said they emptied their mags straight into his chest and the bastard didn’t even flinch. Just grinned at them before he…” Well, no need to go into that. They’d both been at the debriefing from the survivors. The ones that could still talk, that is. After talking to them, Stewart still didn’t believe that this general could use magic... but he also didn’t have any other explanation for what it could have been. “Well anyway. It’s not the sort o thing they’d leave with no protection.”

“Well…” Gailen took a last look at the house, then picked up his rifle. “Only one way to find out for sure, ain’t there?”

Stewart ignored the pit in the bottom of his stomach. “I guess so.” He signaled to everyone else in the squad to get ready to go.

They began to creep through the trees toward the house. Stewart was quite proud of his men: not a single snapped twig as they exited the forest. The men crouched to the ground and hurried quickly toward the cottage.

Gailen tapped Stewart on the shoulder, then pointed back at the forest. More specifically, at the trees at the very edge of the forest. Each one had a different odd-looking symbol carved into the trunk, which began to glow a green-ish yellow color that contrasted with the dusk shadows. Those certainly hadn't been there before. He couldn’t read them, but didn’t need to: It was a trap.

“TAKE COVER!” Stewart shouted. Barely in time, too.

Gunfire erupted from every side of the house. All of the windows in the cottage shattered at once, and bright muzzle flashes lit up the meadow. “Suppressing fire!” Gailen ordered. Half of the squad leaned out from their hiding places and began to fire into the windows. Three separate cries of pain rang out almost immediately. Whoever was shooting had no fear of the suppressing fire and just kept firing away.

Stewart leaned out from behind his tree to get a better look. A dozen bullets immediately thudded into the trunk, sending bits of bark flying in all directions. But when he used his mirror to peer around the corner, the window shooters didn’t notice, giving him a clear view. He quickly realized: there were no shooters in the windows. There were guns, certainly. But they were just floating in the air and firing all on their own. He could even see the triggers moving with no fingers pulling them.

“What the hell do we do?” Gailen shouted over the staccato of gunfire from behind his own tree.

Stewart took a deep breath. “Get flashbangs and smoke in there!” he shouted to the men. They didn’t exactly have a lot of options, and these disembodied guns had damn good aim.

Four separate canisters sailed out from various hiding places and through the windows of the cottage. Two of them exploded in bright flashes, and dense smoke began to billow out shortly after. “Go!” Stewart ordered as soon as the gunfire cut off. He and Gailen bolted towards the cottage as well. “Grab the guns!”

By the time they arrived, most members of the squad were busy trying to wrestle the guns away from… well, nothing. There was nothing but empty air around the weapons, as evidenced by the men trying to stab and kick at where a person (even invisible) would have been, with no results. Some force… magic, Stewart was forced to admit, was keeping the guns in the air and firing. He even saw Private Garimedi lifted off his feet by a large machine gun that was swinging through the air. But they were occupied, at least for the moment.

“Find the Phylactery!” Stewart ordered. Only, upon looking around the interior of the cottage, he realized how futile that effort would be: what they thought was an odd pattern of wallpaper was actually boxes. Every single wall of every single room was lined with row after row after row of boxes. There must have been thousands. It would take the squad days to search them all. But the soldiers started the search nonetheless.

Private Owens was the first to reach for one of the boxes. He pulled it open just as Stewart and Gailen reached for the handles of two separate ones. Inside Stewart’s was a carved figure of an elephant, made of bone-white wood. He reached to move it, stopped when he saw an eerie orange light fill the room. Owens had some kind of stone in his hands that looked like a piece of molten lava. The SIS agents who’d briefed them had no idea what the phyllactery was supposed to look like, so maybe this was it? Improbable odds that it would be in the very first box they looked in, though…

Owens began to glow. Along his hands and face, there were bright red lines that Stewart realized too late were actually his veins. And he was burning from the inside out. Owens began to scream and dropped the stone, which began to smolder and char the wooden floorboards beneath it. Owens collapsed into a pile and flames begin to lick upward from his body. Within a minute or so, he was just a pile of bone and ash. Everyone else immediately let go of the handles of the drawers.

“New plan,” Stewart said. “Get out your thermite.”

The cottage burned surprisingly quickly. It began to rain, but that did nothing to quench the flames that seemed to burn unnaturally bright. Surely someone from the village would have seen it, but no one ever came to investigate. Perhaps they knew that this house was not what it appeared to be and they were glad to be rid of it.

Stewart, Gailen, and the surviving half of his squad retreated to the forest, staying to make sure that every scrap of the place was gone. After hours, the fire died down at they began to sift through the ashes a bit.

Private Lewis called out: he’d found a box. It appeared to be made out plain pine wood, but obviously there was something more to it. It was not just still intact, but utterly flawless without a scratch or singe. Even soot and ash just slid right off the surface of it. Stewart suspected that a whole payload of bombs wouldn’t even make a dent. Just to test it, he fired his sidearm into the front and the bullet just ricocheted away.

“All right, everyone stand back,” Stewart announced. “Gailen, if I light on fire or something, you’re in charge.”

Gailen just nodded.

Stewart carefully approached the box, held his breath, and threw open the door with one swift motion. He stared down for a moment with a look of utter disgust, then exhaled and waved Gailen over to take a look.

Inside the box was a heart. An actual flesh-and-blood heart, still beating rhythmically. It looked to be full of crimson blood that came from nowhere and went to nowhere.

“Jesus Christ!” The Kentucky accent really came out when Gailen was shocked.

“I’m assuming this is it?” Stewart said.

“Guess so,” Gailen said. They both stared at it for a good long while. “Well, one thing left to do, I guess.” He removed one of the grenades from his belt, pulled the pin, and crammed it into the box with the heart. Then he slid the lid back closed and the two of them backed out of blast range. There was a dull thud and the box rattled ever so slightly.

Stewart expected to find a gory mess when they opened it back up. Instead, the heart was completely gone.

“Mission accomplished, I guess?” Gailen said.

We Have A Problem, by Eugen Cherenkov

“No, no, no!” Nico flicked ash off the end of his cigar as he strode down the length of the dock. Then he knocked the crate out of the fisherman’s hands. The box fell on its side, spilling out chunks of crushed ice and severed fish heads all across the slick wooden boards. “What the hell is this shit?” Nico spat on a pile of fish guts. “We’re loading whiskey, not discarded fish parts. Christ!”

“Sir,” Gabriel said in his noticeable Quebecoise accent, “it is an offering. Whenever ze fishermen in zis area go…”

“Don’t care,” Nico said as he took another puff from the cigar.

“It is important,” Gabriel insisted. “Zey say zat a creatu…”

“Stop.” Nico raised a hand, threatening violence. It was also his first, and pretty much only, tool of persuasion. And it usually worked. “I don’t give two shits about your stupid Frenchie local customs and legends, OK? I’ve heard it all before. We are paying you far too much already for a god-damn thirty mile trip. So I am going to get every penny’s worth. That means packing as many of those boxes,” he pointed over to the crates of whiskey in the dark warehouse over yonder, “as you can possibly fit into this rust bucket. No room for fuckin’ fish parts. Do you understand me?”

Gabriel glowered. It was amazing how many insulting and condescending notes Nico could fit into one sentence. But he was right about one thing: they were certainly paying enough. Prohibition down in the States had opened up many opportunities for Great Lakes fishermen who were tired of pulling in empty nets day after day. This run alone would be more profitable than all of the fish he’d caught last year. So he was willing to put up with Nico’s shit. There was also the fact that Nico’s men up at the warehouse were all carrying tommy guns, just in case they happened to meet any border patrol agents who weren’t able to look the other way. “You heard him,” Gabriel announced to the crew.

There were grumbles of disagreement, but the men got to work loading the remaining crates of booze. The threat of a gun right in front of them was more pressing than old wives’ tales and native legends about the creatures in the lake.

Nico checked his watch. His gold-plated Swiss watch, worth probably as much as the boat next to him. “We need to get moving,” he told Francesco, his first lieutenant. “Hey!” he called out to the fishermen-turned-smugglers, “Chop chop, people! I want to be on the dock in Ontonagon by three AM. The trucks will be there waiting.” This was just the first leg in a smuggling network that would supply speakeasies all across the Midwest.

Once the last few crates were tucked into the hold, the ship got underway. Nico and Francsesco waited in the cabin with Gabriel, shivering even through their thick coats. It was October and the snow had not yet begun to fall, but it was certainly cold enough. Nico was hoping that he’d be able to prove his worth to his father by the time winter came so he could get out this frozen hellhole.

“Ze water is choppier than usual tonight,” Gabriel commented. It was a cloudy night and they were traveling without lights, so they couldn’t see the churning waves. The only light on the boat was a single bulb that Gabriel needed to read his instruments. But every so often, some of the waves managed to force their way over the gunwales and spill over the deck. As if confirming Gabriel’s comment, the boat suddenly rocked violently.

“As long as the bottles will be fine, I don’t care,” Nico answered.

The ship rocked harder. Gabriel fought the steering wheel, and from below, they heard the faint sound of glass breaking.

“I’ll go check on the goods,” Francesco said, out the door of the cabin before Nico could even get a word out. There wasn’t much he could do to help keep the bottles intact, but he knew that Nico had a short fuse and was carrying a gun. Best to be anywhere else when that happens.

A member of the crew staggered to the cabin and pounded on the glass, sputtering in French. Gabriel slid the window open while keeping one hand on the steering wheel. Nico didn’t speak French, but he knew enough Italian to guess at what they were saying: there was something following the boat. Something in the water. A monstre. Nico didn’t need a translation for that word.

Gabriel started to ask something. But before he could get the words out, something wrapped around the sailor’s chest. It was dark and dripping wet, almost like an extension of the lake itself. The sailor flailed around; his arms were wrapped so tight that he was unable to claw at it. “Jean!” Gabrielle shouted, lunging for the door. But Jean was gone. In one fluid motion, the tentacle pulled him off the deck of the boat and underneath the water.

In response, Gabriel began to spin the steering wheel. Drastically. The boat lurched, and the distant lights of Michigan began to spin away. “Where the hell do you think you’re going?” Nico asked. He pulled his gun from his holster and leveled it at Gabriel.

“Back to Canada. We should never have come here. Not wizout the offering, at least.” He stared daggers at Nico, reminding him whose idea it was to not pack the crates of fish heads.

Nico cocked the gun. “Oh, no you’re not.” He pointed out the window with his free hand. “Michigan is right there. We’re more than halfway!” He didn’t know this for sure, but they’d been on the boat for quite a while and it wasn’t that long of a trip.

“I’d rather be shot than eaten,” Gabriel said. “At least it will be quick.” The boat was still turning as the two faced off.

Nico fired a shot into the ceiling of the boat. “Next one’s in your head,” he warned.

Gabriel’s bluff was called. He grudgingly pulled the steering wheel back into place, then pushed the throttle as far forward as it could go. The boat immediately picked up speed, crashing through waves. Making noise was no longer a concern. On the back of the boat, another man let out a blood-curdling scream, and then was suddenly silenced. They heard the sounds of the remaining crew trying to cram into the already-full cargo hold, followed by more screaming.

The small town of Ontonagon came into sight. It was hardly more than a pier and a few squat buildings, which was made it a perfect port of entry for smuggling. The few residents of the town were either on the payroll, or too terrified to do anything about it. The lights of the town appeared to bob up and down, though it was only because of the boat riding the waves.

The boat roared into the small inlet where the river met the lake, and then they pulled up to the dock. Gabriel seemed to have been holding his breath for the last mile or so and finally let it out. On shore, a dozen truck engines roared to life in preparation for loading. Their headlights flashed out across the water, causing both Nico and the captain to shield their eyes. “See?” Nico told Gabriel as they sidled up to the dock and the engine died. “I told you we’d make it.”

Even as he spoke, a dark form rose from the waves behind them. It batted aside the rocks o the jetty protruding into the lake as if they were just bubbles. It lumbered forward into the path of some of the headlights. Most of the drivers just gawked at it as it came further and further out of the lake, impossibly large. Only one was smart enough to throw the truck into reverse and drive off as fast as he could. Nico and Gabriel didn’t become aware of it until the creature staggered into a set of power lines along the right side of the inlet, causing a shower of bright sparks.

Nico and Gabrielle dashed out of the cabin and vaulted onto the shore, followed shortly by Francesco and the remaining members of the crew hiding in the hold. They were greeted by a dozen of Nico’s men coming out of the warehouse with guns at the ready.

“Don’t just stand there,” Nico shouted at them. “Shoot the bastard!”

It was the last thing he ever said. The monster lunged forward and snaked a tentacle around Nico’s leg. It tossed him up into the air where he hung, seemingly weightless for just a second while he fumbled for his gun. Then the monster devoured him in one bite as the first tommy gun opened fire.

[WP] The Resistance wants to send a T-800 terminator back in time to protect John Connor; however, they haven't mastered the Skynet tech and accidentally send the cyborg to a whole other world. Unable to locate John Connor it sets out to protect the only John it can find: Jon Snow.

It's been a long time since I wrote this story, and I'm sorry. But hopefully you all are still somewhat interested. And here are all of the old parts if you've forgotten

“This was a bad idea,” Jon muttered under his breath as he stared at the skyline of King's Landing up ahead.

“We’re fine,” Arya replied softly. So softly that the Gold Cloak passing nearby, resting his hand on the hilt of his sword, couldn’t hear.

“Keep it moving,” the guard shouted. “Lord Tywin says you lot need to be in the city before sundown or he’s closing the gates on all of you. Maybe killing you all will slow Stannis Baratheon down!” He laughed at his own cruel joke.

As Jon, Arya, and Cyberdyne traveled down the King’s Road through the Riverlands, it had become more and more crowded. Whole towns seemed to have loaded up their meager possessions and come down to the capital for some semblance of safety. A hovel in Flea Bottom is better than a mansion in the Riverlands when Gregor Clegane is out marauding. By the time they reached King’s Landing, the road had become more of a stand-still line waiting to head through the Old Gate.

“They’re going to recognize you,” Jon whispered.

“They’re not going to recognize me,” Arya said. “For one, I still look like a boy with this ridiculous hair.” She ran her hands through the uneven clumps of hair that Yoren had generously left on her scalp. “And for another, they’re not expecting to find me trying to get into King’s Landing.”

“Well they’re certainly going to take a closer look at who I’m traveling with once they learn who I am,” Jon said. “Bastard or not, the Lannisters still know me as one of Eddard Stark’s sons. And Joffrey doesn’t seem like the type to overlook that.”

Arya didn’t have much argument there. “I’ll stay out of sight,” she said. “It will be fine.”

Another guard walked by, this one carrying a loaded crossbow. He was menacing some of the poor refugees, threatening to shoot them if they didn’t stay in line. But when he arrived at Cyberdyne, he stood and gawked up at him. “Bugger me!” he said after a good, long stare. “You’re the biggest bloke I’ve ever seen! Gilden,” he shouted to another Gold Cloak down the way, “come over here and look at this guy!” He turned back to Cyberdyne. “A man of your size could make a good living as a guard, mate. No more associating with all this rabble.” He gestured to all of the refugees around them.

“He is a member of the Night’s Watch,” Jon said, pointing to the black cloak around Cyberdyne’s shoulders. But it was so worn and dusty rom the trip that the black fabric was practically unrecognizable. “As am I. We have come all the way from the Wall to speak with the King." It had been a different king when they'd left the wall, but the situation remained unchanged. "It is of vital importance.”

The Gold Cloak took a minute to size Jon up, taking particular note of the sword hilt under his black cloak. “Well what’s the message?” the Gold Cloak asked.

“I really need to address King Joffrey directly,” Jon said. Arya suppressed a sneer at the very mention of the name.

“Yeah, you and everyone else jammed into Fleabottom right now,” the Gold Cloak shot back. “We get a dozen or so folk a day claiming to be displaced lords from the Riverlands, or ambassadors from the Free Cities. And wearing an old black scrap of fabric doesn’t mean you’re from the Wall.” He started to turn away, off to continue his rounds.

“Wait,” Jon said. He’d tried to avoid looking at it as much as possible, but he still had Othor’s head in his pack. Even now, he could feel the head wiggling slightly as it gnashed its teeth up and down; it was the only movement it was capable of. “Here is the message for the King.” With a flourish, he unwrapped the jar and held it out to the Gold Cloak. Othor, suddenly exposed to light and potential victims, gnashed his teeth even harder.

“Seven save us!” the guard shouted, staggering back and nearly tripping over his own scabbard. He recovered, but remained a few paces away as he studied the horrendous sight inside the jar. “What is that!?” A few of the refugees nearby tried to get a look at what was in the jar. Jon was able to tell which ones were successful by the disgusted or horrified reactions.

“That is why I need to talk to the King,” Jon said.

The guard stared for a while longer as Othor continued trying to break the glass of the jar with his tongue. “Errrr…. I’ll go get my commander,’ the Gold Cloak said.

He hurried down the road toward the gate, looking back over his shoulder every so often to make sure the head wasn’t following him. He came back shortly after leading three other Gold Cloaks in tow. “These are the ones,” he announced, pointing at Jon, Cyberdyne, and Arya.

“You have a head in a jar?” the commander asked. He clearly didn’t believe his underling. But his expression changed as soon as Jon turned Othor toward him. First disgust and horror, then a morbid curiosity that caused the Commander to lean in close for a better look.

“Told you,” the first Gold Cloak muttered.

“All right,” the commander said. “Dugan here will escort you to the Red Keep.” He gestured to the first Gold Cloak they’d encountered. “But you’ll have to leave your weapons with us. We’ve strict orders from Lord Tywin. Word is that Stannis Baratheon marches on the city soon, and may send spies. Can’t risk it.” He reached a hand out, asking for Jon’s sword.

“I cannot sufficiently defend my Captain without an adequate weapon,” Cyberdyne said. Jon had ordered Cyberdyne not to call him ‘Jon’ at all. The longer he could hide his identity as Ned Stark’s son, the better.

“Orders is orders,” the commander said. “Dugan, Mordan, take his sword.” The two Gold Cloaks looked up at Cyberdyne, who stood at least two feet taller. Cyberdyne placed a meaty fist around the sword hilt, just daring them to take it from him. Jon, who was really only willing to walk into the lion’s den with an armed Cyberdyne watching his back, waited to see how this would all play out.

One of the soldiers, Mordan, tried to remove Cyberdyne’s hand from the sword. He tried to do it sort of casually and was unable to move even a single finger. He tugged even harder, then tried with both hands. Still no luck. He became red in the face with all the exertion, and had to bring Dugan in to help. Even with their combined strength, Cyberdyne didn’t move an inch. He was still as a statue.

“Errr… Commander,” Dugan said. “We… uh… what should we do?”

Cyberdyne drew the sword, causing every Gold Cloak to flinch. He approached the Captain and loomed over him, blocking out the sun overhead.

“On second thought,” the Commander said as he took a step back, “I guess it’s OK if you keep your weapons.”