Written By Anonymous

[AnonymousSpeed]

Hey everyone. I host the SF writing competition and I write stories for it sometimes too. I also sometimes write stories that aren't for that competition. This thread is a place to store both manners of story.

Not everything which I wrote and posted here has been collected in this thread, mostly just those things which I liked enough to put forward or have some plans for in the future. That said, I'll try and add any new writings to this thread as I write them. If you want to see (most of) the rest of what I wrote, you can find links to them in the opening post of the writing contest thread.

These are all short stories, and quite short at that. Most of these are only about 2,000-3,000 words.

***

The Good Guy Group and the Bad Brigade: These two teams, each consisting of four members, are supposed to fight each other other the fate of the world of whatever. It's not really important because they usually just yell about stuff instead.

Spoiler

Going Forward: The first story in the adventures of the Good Guy Group and the Bad Brigade, it is also so far the only one in which they actually fight.

Spoiler

Two spacecraft rushed side-by-side towards the Thermosphere.

One was a rocket, and in the rocket was a satellite, and in that satellite was crammed full of enough ordinance to wholly depopulate Kenya if it were used efficiently.

The other was a more habitable craft, a modifier commercial spacecraft which could hold ten people and be operated by one. Here it carried a crew of two, and two stowaways as well. Thankfully, the adjustments to the vehicle included a tougher hide and stabilizers, otherwise it might have been sent veering in some forsaken direction by the two-on-one occurring inside.

A hulking, steel-clad frame dunked an average looking man through a crate of pickle jars, then hurled him against a wall. Then man slid to the ground, but rather than have every bone in his body broken, the superhuman hero landed on his feet. Or at least, one foot and a knee. "Oof...you getting soft, Master Badness?" he rasped, standing up fully.

"It is you who will be soft, Master Goodness," boomed the encroaching cyborg. "After I tenderize you as is done with an expensive steak."
"Hah! Sorry, Master Badness. Steak's not on the menu tonight. Trevor, now!"

From behind an unsmashed wooden crate popped out a short man with a buzzcut. From a fiberglass crossbow he fired a bolt at the cyborg's back which burst into a flash of lightening, stunning her. This gave Master Goodness just enough time to dart past her, towards a laser turret which would have been used to shoot down interfering agents like him. By the time he was there, Master Badness had already recovered from the shot, and turned to charge at her primary adversary.

He didn't have much time to aim; Master Goodness went with his gut and fired at the weapon loaded rocket.

He was yanked out of the seat seconds later, but not before he could see if his aim was true. It wasn't a direct hit, but it looked like it was enough. The Bad Brigade's first assault satellite had been taken out of commission, and the world had been saved from whatever tyranny they might use it for.

Master Badness beheld this as well, and a shrill scream echoed from behind her metallic mask. "You good for nothing Good Guy Group do-gooders! I was merely going to tear you apart before, but now I'll blend you like protein powder! I'll pulverize you as is done with a strawberry put in a protein shake with protein powder! I will- stop ignoring me!" There was a time it would have wounded her to see her 'dear' rival staring dumbly out a window while she threatened him, but those early days of their battles and her pure, imperfect humanity were gone. Now it merely frustrated her.
Still, she was at least a little curious to see what had grabbed his attention, and so glanced out the window. Whatever Master Goodness had taken out in her rocket, it had quite messed with its trajectory, and sent it hurtling towards the Earth. She saw a tiny little light linger on the globe for a second, and then die away.
"Oh," she gasped. "That...was Detroit."

Though Master Goodness did not possess a cybernetic brain capable of calculating exactly where those Kenyan-exterminating explosives had landed, he did know roughly where on the map Detroit was, and that it was roughly were the rocket had careened into the Earth's surface. Detroit and its half a million people, instantaneously vaporized.

He didn't say anything.
He just slumped down from the window, onto his knees, and stayed there. Blankly staring at the wall.

Master Badness looked over at him. It was...rather sad, actually. Cautiously, she stepped towards him, and did have to admit to herself that her metal cyborg steps were not as quiet as the ones she used to have, but they still didn't seem to stir her opponent.

"Uh...hello?"
There was a grunt.
"Are you alright, Master Goodness?"
"No..."

Trevor peered at them from behind his crate and froze. Master Badness raised her fist, ready to pummel her mortal enemy into pulp. "MG, look out!" he shouted.
The mechanical villain swiftly fired a needle from her arm, which pinned Trevor's Tommy Hilfiger T-shirt to another crate behind him. "Ah, God-bless it," he grumbled.

Master Goodness did not move so quickly. When Master Badness shot the needle, he did jerk his head to see that Trevor was alright, and after that, went back to stunned drooping, as if his foe was no longer there. Perhaps it was because it had been caused by chance and not by her, but Master Badness didn't find having her mortal enemy totally humbled and in a completely vulnerable position nearly as satisfying as she thought it would be. "Master Goodness, please. It was an accident- it wasn't your fault."

"Of course it was!" he snapped with a very tense voice, which broke into a series of sobs. "I...I shot that down...it is my fault!"
The cyborg sighed; She couldn't believe she was doing this. "Come on now, Robert. Humans make mistakes...no one is perfect after all, and life is messy at the best of times. So don't be too hard on yourself. You acted with the very best intentions-"
"I got everyone in Detroit killed..."
"...well, at least you didn't kill everyone in Detroit-"
The sobs grew a bit louder.

From above came the sound of a hatch opening, and Master Badness turned to see a man in a polo shirt pop his head from the above floor, for the vehicle was quite vertical and boasted many floors. "Hah!" the man grinned. "Good going, boss! I was figuring they'd escape or blow up our satellite or something-"
"They did blow up our satellite, Scott."
"What?"
"It crashed and destroyed Detroit."
"Oh, no, not Detroit! Not only do they destroy our satellite, but they gotta go and waste all our perfectly good ordinance on a city that was practically already destroyed?"
"That's not funny, Scott."
"...that wasn't a joke," said Scott, very seriously.

Master Badness sighed and looked back down as Master Goodness, picked him up by the nape of his shirt, then walked over and did the same to Trevor.

"So," Scott called coyly. "Are you going to kill them now?"
"I am going to throw them in the brig, as is done with prisoners."
"The brig?" gasped Scott.
"Do you think you know of a more suitable location in which to place them, human?"
"Yeah; the airlock. Why not just kill them now?"
"Scott, no. We have more decency than that."
"The demonstration we were planning was going to kill, like, at least a few dozen people."
"I thought you were a pilot, not an executioner."
"But, Master Badness, it's just two guys. That's not a lot of blood on our hands in the grand scope of things."
"I think the quota has been surpassed for today, Scott."
"But-"
"No more Scott. Go back to the cockpit."
Scott mumbled some profanities and shut the hatch behind him.

***

Master Badness dropped her two disarmed captives in a little white room, whose front wall was a giant window. Master Goodness was still quite torn up, and so his captor decided it would only be fair to afford her prisoner some comforts. She would never had attempted to unleash such a massacre, only convincingly threaten it, and so for Master Goodness, who seemed to always pile the weight of the world onto his shoulders, she imaged this was quite hard. Therefore, she decided, she would provide her prisoners with what carnal pleasures she recalled having been fond of.

"There are some self help books in the corner," she explained, "and some lucky charms in the other corner, the kind which is only marshmallows. I'll..." She was going to say that she would kill them tomorrow, but wasn't quite sure about that herself. She shut the sliding door to the cell, locked it, and then left.

The two heroes sat in silence, one in the fetal position and the other trying to wipe away the sweat which soaked his brow. "Okay," said Trevor, standing up from the clump which he'd been tossed into. "Right. So. Escaping. We should get to work on that. Any ideas, MG?"
"No..."
Trevor looked down at his fearless leader. "Hey, Master Goodness, come on. We gotta get outta here. They're probably going to make another satellite, we gotta, you know, stop that."
"I don't know, I don't know. I don't think that worked out so well this time."
"True," admitted Trevor, "we'll just...have to not repeat the same mistake going forward."
"Let's not go forward."
"I'm sorry?"
"I...I don't feel like I should make any more trouble for people..."
"Come on, MG, didn't you hear M-" Trevor stopped himself, sighed, and continued. "Master Badness had a point. It was accidental-"
"Terrible, too," Master Goodness moaned. He slowly pulled himself up and trudged towards the corner.

"You're eating cereal?" Trevor exclaimed.
"I figure I can't mess that up too badly." Master Goodness poured milk into his bowl.
"How can you eat cereal at a time like this? We've been captured!"
"Yeah...I know," Master Goodness started shoveling marshmallows into his mouth. He chewed. He swallowed. "Maybe that's okay. I mean...you heard Scott. They would have caused less damage if we hadn't..." He stopped and ate more Lucky Charms.
"Oh my God-" Trevor groaned, "who is in Heaven and holy, help me. How can you even eat that? It's pure sugar, you need the brown bits in the cereal to make it palpable- why am I even talking about this?"
"I'm just saying," Master Goodness shrugged between bites.
"Alright, sure, we've had trouble with damage control in the past-"
"Not like this."
"No, not like this, admittedly this was pretty bad, but...like...we still have to keep going!"

Master Goodness shook his head.

"Come on MG, they aren't going to hold us forever. You heard Scott. Eventually he's going to get his way. Heck, Master Badness will probably realize what a prime opportunity she's in and kill us tomorrow!"
"I'm sure they'd let you go."
"What about- oh, no, no, Master Goodness, please. Don't be like that. You've done plenty of good for the world-"
"I also destroyed Detroit."
"It was an accident! Yes, a horrible one, but it wasn't your fault. It's no reason to stop stopping evil."
"...I'll think about, Trevor."
"We don't have time for thinking, we have to act now!"

Master Goodness poured another bowl.

"Master Goodness! Get a hold of yourself!" Trevor stomped over. "You can't keep drowning your sorrows in Lucky Charms!"

Master Goodness continued to do exactly that.

Trevor stomped his foot a few times. He huffed a very serious huff. "Alright, look here MG, I'm going to be real straight with you."
Master Goodness kept his eyes on his food.

Trevor nearly smacked the bowl out of his hands, but then there'd be mess and-
"You screwed up," he said plainly. "Accident or no, you didn't do as well as you could have, maybe even as well as you should have. But you can't go back in time and change that. The only thing you can do is better going forward. Master Badness is going to try and hurt other people, we know that from experience. We have an obligation to protect them from her like we protected people before them. 'We' includes 'you,' do you understand?"

Trevor sighed a grumpy sigh. He could tell his boss was crying a little bit more now. Maybe that meant he was getting through to him?

"You've made a mistake. People died. Go ahead and cry. Mourn. Feel sorry for yourself. But you should feel a hell of lot more sorry if you let people get hurt because you're too busy wallowing in self pity to protect them. So instead of letting yourself get killed and leaving them without any help, why don't you stop being a selfish bastard and save your tears for when lives aren't on the line?" Trevor exhaled deeply. That seemed harsher now that it was out of his system, but he kept his face stern.

Master Goodness turned to him, slouching, so that he had to look at him for once. "They're not planning anything now," he said hoarsely.

Trevor shook his head. "If they kill us soon, then they'll have all the time in the world for planning."

Master Goodness raised a spoon of sugary breakfast to his mouth, and stopped just shy of his lips. He looked up at his comrade, who stood straight, whose eyes were bold and ready. "I..." He placed the bowl down. "I guess you're right." He straightened his back, wiped away a few tears, and got patted on the back by his smiling cellmate.

"That's more like it," said Trevor.
"Thanks for, uh, 'speaking straight' with me."
"Any time. So, any idea how we get out of this darn place?"

Master Goodness glanced around their cell. It had two tables, one for cereal and one for books, a little rug, but was otherwise all plain white plastic.

Unless-

"Well, I have at least...one idea so far."

 

Being Honest: The second story in the adventures of the Good Guy Group and the Bad Brigade, focusing on the former.

Spoiler

Time: 9:10 PM.
Municipality: Yes.
Detroit: Frickin' Dead.

The Good Guy Group stood around a wooden table older than themselves, draped under a soft yellow light from an old chandelier. The fixture's glow also fell on wallpaper of a gentle yellow shade, dotted with columns of small white flowers. This was the meeting room of the Good Guy Group headquarters. It was also the dining room of Master Goodness, and formerly the dining room of his grandmother before she dedicated her life to charitable work in the Philippines.

Master Goodness was making himself look very heroic and very inspiring.

Trevor stood behind a chair, idly tapping the back of it.

Cool Ninja, fully wrapped in black in blue, slumped into himself, his arms crossed and his mouth hidden behind a scarf. It was a toasty 73 degrees inside, but being a cool ninja, he was naturally cold-natured.

Finally, near the front of the room, stood Useless Action Girl, who had called for the impromptu meeting. "So, uh..." she began, twirling a blond lock. "Thank you all for coming. I'm sure you're all wondering why I asked you all to come here tonight. Well, the reason is-" Useless Action Girl stopped and looked at Trevor. "Uh, could you, maybe, you know...tap on the chair a little quieter?"
"Oh, sorry," Trevor folded his hands in front of him. "Say what you were going to."

"Thanks," Useless Action girl smiled, turned to the group more generally, and resumed being awkward. "So...I guess there's no easy way to say this."

Everyone put on fluffy smiles while resisting the temptation to slap the chair or twiddle their thumbs.

"I'm, well...you know how, sometimes...?"

Cool Ninja pulled out his phone.

"I'm just going to say it!" Useless Action Girl blurted. "Robot #3 and I are seeing each other!"

The room became very quiet. The men stood in shock, until Cool Ninja broke the silence. "You mean, that Robot #3? The one that works for Master Badness?"
"Y-yes," admitted the token girl.
"Is this part of some plan to destroy him while he's in sleep mode?"
"What? No!" Useless Action Girl was positively appalled. "It's a relationship! We're having our six month anniversary next week-"
"Six month anniversary? He's our enemy!" shouted Cool Ninja.
"He's not just a villain!"
"He's a robot built specifically for evil!"
"Maybe that's what he was made for, but-"
"But what, there's a heart of gold in his bronze chassis? You can't possibly be that stupid-"
"Don't call me stupid just because I can get a date and you can't!"
"I don't think any of us doubt your skills in that field."

"Okay everyone-" boomed Master Goodness. "Let's not lose our cool-"

"I never lose my cool," snapped Cool Ninja. "This, though, is unacceptable."
"You lose your cool constantly," Trevor remarked.
"Shut up, Trevor. This is about Useless Action Girl."
"Robbie calls you the Teakettle," Useless Action Girl added, which caused Master Goodness a moment of confusion.

Ninja and Girl locked scornful gazes. "I always knew you were stupid," spat Cool Ninja, "and useless too, but I never thought you could do something this monumentally stupid and useless and also counterproductive. You've gone from useless to someone who could actively hinder us just so she can get some robot action."
"H-hey!" Useless Action Girl snarled, tearing up. "D-don't- I would never- our love-"
"Your love with the evil robot? Is that lovable to you? You think it's okay to fraternize with an actively malignant machine, not only that but-"
"HE'S NOT-!"

A few broken sobs could be heard over the sudden stillness of the room. Useless Action Girl dashed out of the room with her head firmly buried in her hands.

"Oh," gasped Master Goodness. "Oh, oh dear-" He chased after her. Trevor took a pair of steps after them before halting skittishly.

"Can you believe this?" Cool Ninja asked Trevor.
"No," said Trevor tersely. "I cannot believe how even you could be so utterly obnoxious," he groaned. "Alright, that was a bit rude of me to say, sorry-" though he didn't sound too torn up about it. "But you just acted like a complete jerk to Useless Action Girl."
"Are you trying to tell me that it's okay for her to date an evil robot?"
"No, of course it's not okay, but- neither is penalizing honesty."

"Penalizing honesty?" Cool Ninja raised an eyebrow.
"I don't want her or anyone to think that they have to hide things from us to keep from getting yelled at. It sends a bad message- we should encourage open communication."
"Trevor, we're not children. We don't need you to send us the right message all the time- we're old enough to think for ourselves."
"That doesn't mean your thoughts are infallible, or that you can't still learn from what other people have to say," said Trevor, mostly calmly.
"What, people like you?"
"In this circumstance, yes, I think you should listen to me."

"Of course I should listen to you!" Cool Ninja said mockingly. "You act like you're always right," he spat.
"Most people think that they're right. They'd change their opinion if they didn't."

Cool Ninja groaned.

"Now look, I acknowledge that I'm not infallible either; I've thought I was right before and realized I was wrong- usually because someone talked to me about it. But hear me out here," Trevor held his palms up. "Making people feel ashamed pushes them away-" he demonstrated with his hands, "emotionally."

He continued. "If they do have a problem or are doing something wrong, you're not going to hear about it because they expect you to yell at them. How are you supposed to convince them that they're wrong if you aren't even on proper talking terms? How can you expect them to open up to you if they'll get insulted for doing so? That's how you're treating Useless Action Girl."

"Useless Action Girl is a rock with tits, you couldn't reason with her even if you wanted to."
"Okay. First of all, that's extremely impolite." Trevor held up his finger. "Second. You can reason with anyone if you take the time to understand what they think and why- for once. Not to sound too rude," Trevor quickly corrected. "I mean, I don't mean that sarcastically, I- look, I'm just trying to say that it's important to properly engage with people. You might even learn something yourself from it."

"Learn something?" Cool Ninja scoffed. "What, is the ditz going to teach me about how her evil robot boyfriend is really a nice guy? Or am I going to learn from you to just do whatever you say is right?"
"I said I wasn't infallible-"
"Is that what you really think? Because you could've fooled me. You're always trying to get us to see how great your way of doing things is, which is just whatever you feel like." Cool Ninja threw back his head and laughed. "Half the time you're telling us to suck it up and tough it out, and the other half it's the complete opposite-" Cool Ninja lowered his voice to Trevor's pitch. "Oh, you have to be nicer to people, you have to be soft and empathetic, I know that our team is potentially being compromised because the token idiot has the hots for a hunk of metal, but we should be more considerate!"
"CN, of course different situations require different solutions. There's no one size fits all approach."
"Sure there is. Whatever's most palatable for you, you arrogant hypocrite."

"What I try to do is demonstrate what the most moral and productive option is and why," Trevor spoke tensely. "What has your losing your temper with Useless Action Girl accomplished other than making her feel guilty?"
"You say that like she shouldn't feel guilty," Cool Ninja snapped.
"Do you not realize how heartless you sound?"
"All because it's hard for you to swallow doesn't mean it's not true."
"It's un-Christian."
"So am I."
"How could I forget," Trevor grumbled. "Agh, I'm sorry, I'm not trying to be rude here, but you're being ridiculous! How is being so hostile going to help anyone move past their missteps?"
"I'd rather people not do whatever stupid thing they're doing."
"That would be ideal, yes, but the world doesn't always work that way, and you need to be able to respond in a mature and constructive manner when it doesn't."
"You sound like a broken record."
"You keep making me repeat myself! I just don't get how you aren't seeing this."

Cool Ninja scoffed. "Save it for your church group."
"I am not a member of a church," corrected Trevor, and then it hit him.

The practitioner of ninjutsu chuckled and walked towards the front door.
"What," Trevor began, "you're just going to leave your mess for the rest of us to clean up?"
"The mess belongs to the one who made it, and that's Useless Action Girl." Cool Ninja put his hand on the door handle. "You can waste good will trying to clean it up if you want, but I'm not going to sacrifice my time or integrity and tell someone that they can get away with doing whatever if they hold a team meeting and dress up their confession. She should have known that getting intimate with an enemy was wrong, and she should have to deal the consequences for it." He opened the door.

"We're not talking about the economy here, this is our-" Trevor paused when the door slammed shut. "...our teammate." The young man sighed. Why does he have to be so emotional? Trevor thought. He drug his hand down his face and turned his head towards the ceiling- it was a two story house, and Useless Action Girl had probably barricaded herself in some room upstairs. Good. It was less likely she heard any of that. "It is his mess," Trevor grumbled, stepping onto the carpeted stairs.

***

A cyborg, a witch, and a pilot stood around in a shady warehouse, listening to what a bronze robot had to say.

"So. Everyone," Robot #3 chuckled nervously. "I feel I should tell you all something. You see, I've, well. You might not expect it of a robot like me-"
"Say the thing," said Master Badness.
"I'm dating Useless Action Girl from the Good Guy Group."

Things fell silent as Robot #3 came under a trio of odd stares.

"Robot #3," Master Badness began.
"Yes?"
"You have been courting Useless Action Girl in a continuous manner?"
"We're coming up on our six month anniversary now."
"Congratulations."
"What?"

"I do not approve of your choice of partner," Master Badness said plainly. "However, I am proud of your stable relationship and I wish you two all the best, as one does towards couples of which you approve both members. Perhaps your relationship will convince her to join the side of evil."

"Isn't the first rule of dating to not try and change the other person?" asked Scott.
The woman in a ridiculous hat giggled. Scott glared at her, a little more confused than he normally was when that hat was present.

"I do not feel romantic emotions," Master Badness stated. "Therefore my input on how to conduct courtship is as the input of one who does not understand biotechnology attempting to create a cybernetic organism. I would assume Scott is correct. However, it would be desirable, whether or not it comes to fruition, for her to join us. We are glad for you regardless."

"I'm impressed," cooed the hat-wearing witch. "I'd think she'd be out of your league, especially with the whole opposing teams thing."

"Token team members like us have to stick together. I suppose," said the android.
"Nonsense, Robot #3," said their cyborg leader. "You are very useful to us."
"Oh. Thank you, ma'am."

"So, what are you two going to do about the whole, good versus evil dynamic?" asked Scott.
"She and I agreed that we would respect each other's affiliations," explained Robot #3. "That said...we were wondering if, for our six month anniversary, we could...have a quiet day together? No plans or foiling or anything?"

"We shall see what we can do," said Master Badness. "Understand that we cannot compromise our goals entirely for love." The hulking cyborg turned to face her other subordinates. "Hot Witch, bring to me the champagne. We shall toast to the romantic endeavors of our cohort, as is done by congratulating associates."
"Whatever you like, boss," and the caster strutted off to fetch the good wine.

"I have to say, you guys are taking this really well," Robot #3 remarked.
"We are teammates," Master Badness replied. "We are obligated to be supportive of each other."
"That's...that's very kind of you, ma'am. I hope the Good Guy Group is handling the news as well as you are." The android raised his cold hands to his shiny forehead. "Oh, no, she's going to have to break the news to the Good Guy Group- they're going to take it extremely poorly. Poor Uie-"
"U-ie?" Scott chuckled. "Aw, you guys have pet names? That's cute." He managed to say that merely 43% ironically.
"Thank you?"
"You're welcome, or whatever," Scott shrugged, then broke into a grin. "Hey, Robot #3, I got a question about you and Useless Action Girl. With you being a robot and all-" Scott attempted to represent a thing with his hands, "how do you two-"

 

Goofy Gaiden: This has nothing to do with anything, I just thought it was funny.

Spoiler

Elon Musk sat at the head of a very long table in a very long room where a Space X board meeting was being held. He had posted another marijuana joke on twitter and so the SEC had told him to not say anything at Space X board meetings either, so he could only watch as people talked about boring nonsense that didn't involve reviewing memes or saving the world with steel rockets, and it was all so uninteresting that he was actually quite glad when a giant cyborg and a woman in a really tight dress and really baggy hat violently broke in the door behind him. Musk spun around in his swivel chair and addressed them directly. "Hey. Aren't you two of the villains from the news?"

The cyborg spoke for them. "Correct, Elon Musk. We have come to make demands of your corporation, as extortionists from a weaker party."
"Weaker party?" Elon Musk was indignant.
"Your rockets are not sufficient defenses against the power of the Bad Brigade," stated Master Badness. "As you, specifically all of you, and the governing bodies of the world lack the ability to sufficiently protect you, specifically all of you, from the ill will of myself and my minions, it is in the best interest of all of you to yield to our demands."

Master Badness straightened out and reviewed her PDF file of demands in her cyborg brain. "We of the Bad Brigade demand unlimited access the materials and research of Space X, as well as six Teslas with lifetime warranties and lifetime coverage of all maintenance costs." Master Badness did not personally care for the carnal pleasure of a really cool car, but Hot Witch and Robot #3 had decided they wanted one after Scott had requested four.

Musk looked at them with curious and uncertain disbelief. "What if I say no?"
"If you do not comply with our demands, then we shall retaliate against you with what might legally be considered sexual assault."
"...that's a very weird threat. I think you're bluffing. Go away please."

Master Badness stared very intently at Elon Musk. "Hot Witch," she began, and without need for further words, the redhead in the tight dress walked up to Elon Musk, grabbed him by the collar, and kissed him on the lips so that he caught on fire and died.

The Space X board sat in shocked horror.
"Ladies and gentlemen of the board, you have twenty four hours to formally yield to our demands," said Master Badness, and she turned to leave the room.
"If any of you are feeling lonely, you know exactly who to disobey." Miss Witch winked, blowing a kiss as she followed her boss out.

Elon Musk popped his head out from under the far end of the table and put a cell phone against his head. "Felix," he began, "I have a problem that I might need your help to solve. Two women just broke into one of my board rooms and destroyed my robot duplicate-"

***

21 hours remained until Miss Witch started killing off Space X board members with sexual assault. She and Master Badness were walking down the streets of Los Angeles, because Hot Witch wanted to do California stuff while they were in the state and Master Badness had nothing better to do. So they went sightseeing, beholding glorious California landmarks like the Golden Gate Bridge and smog and Space X and homeless people peeing into Gatorade bottles. Los Angeles was truly a beautiful city.

They were passing an alleyway when they heard a squeaky voice. "Excuse me! Beautiful ladies!"

They turned to see a Swedish Meatball stand in the alleyway entrance, manned by a blond man in chef's hat who was exactly 180 centimeters tall- Master Badness could tell because she had computer-like precision, which also allowed her to know this was objectively the perfect height. Mathematics proved it.

"It is I, Felix Kje- Meatballs," explained Felix KjeMeatballs. "I offer delicious homemade Swedish meatballs to people who need more flavor in their lives! It is my sovereign mission to ensure that the delicious flavors of Swedish Meatballs remain relevant for all of time! Would you like to have a sample?" Not once looking away from the ladies, Felix pulled the lid off of a Crock-Pot® full of steaming hot homemade Swedish Meatballs and gestured towards it in a very presenting and inviting manner.

The two villains looked at each other.

"Sure sweetie, I'll put your balls in my mouth," cooed Hot Witch, sticking one with a toothpick.
"I do not consume food," stated Master Badness.
"These taste like furniture," Hot Witch remarked.

"Oh I get it," said an indignant KjeMeatballs. "It's because everything Swedish has to be IKEA, isn't it?" The standkeeper nodded disapprovingly. "That's racist. Really, I thought we were better than this. We, as a society, should be beyond such discrimination."

"Swedish?" Hot Witch gasped. "Wait, aren't you that guy who reviews memes on the internet? Felix K-gel-berg?"
"It's Kjellberg! Also PewDiePie. Also no."

PewDiePie then ripped off his face to reveal Elon Musk.

"Elon Musk!" squealed Hot Witch. "I thought I killed you using sexual assault!"
"Furthermore," interjected Master Badness, "you are supposed to be 188 centimeters tall. I determined that you are 180 centimeters tall."

"I dug an eight centimeter deep hole in the ground," declared Elon, throwing the meatball stand aside to show that this was true.

"...I applaud your cleverness Elon Musk." Master Badness brought up one hand, which took on the form of a large axe. "However, the continued survival of those I have requested be killed produces the appearance of weakness and thus reduces the likelihood of others to respond in desirable manners to threats issued by myself and the organization which I represent. Therefore it currently appears that what is most effective for the purposes of realizing my goals to kill you. Thus, as one who is concerned primarily with their financial self interest makes wise investments in the stock market, I will now attempt to kill you and verify that my efforts have achieved their intended purpose."

"Wait-!" screamed Musk. "Before you try and fail to kill me, there's something you should know."
"What is this knowledge which I should know?"
"It's something critical about PewDiePie's height."

A squeaky blonde voice came from the ground. "It should have given away that it was not actually PewDiePie." Master Badness turned to the ground behind her to see half of a Swede sprawled out on the pavement. "If you were real nine-your-olds," he cried, "you would know that I have NO LEGS!"

PewDiePie then lightly tapped Master Badness on the shin with his ring of ultimate power which subscribes you to PewDiePie and unsubscribes you from T-Series, which confused the cyborg's circuits and caused her to clunk to the ground.

"Huh? What the-" Hot Witch stepped back once in shock, then several more times in confusion. Her brow was as furrowed as the wrinkles in her oversized hat. It was then that she remembered the invaluable lesson her grandfather had always told her: Speak seductively and burn your enemies at the stake, you will go far.

Hot Witch lit her hands on fire in such a manner as to cause harm to people who weren't her.
PewDiePie, with some difficulty, hoisted his legless body onto his $399 chair.

"Sorry wamen," said the Swede, "but we're going to have to frick you up. So sad."
"Fufufu, no boys," mewed Hot Witch. "It is I who will frick you two."

Both sides were ready for battle.

With a weird wormy swing of his body weight, Pewds sent himself hurtling towards his tightly clad opponent.

Hot Witch extended a palm and sent forth a beam of fire to strike both of her foes.

Quickly, PewDiePie did this and dodged under the flaming laser, crashing into a vegan taco bar called The Piss-Filled Gatorade Bottle.

Elon Musk, who was still in the path of the blaze, whipped out a device which was not a flame thrower, and from it he fired his own stream of fiery flame to combat Hot Witch's, locking the two in a struggle for dominance. Things were getting so uncomfortably hot that the taco bar patrons across the street started taking their shirts off.

It was even hotter for PewDiePie, who was wearing a high quality PewDiePie merchandise hoodie. "This is too hot," he reiterated, pushing himself up with his hands so as to better behold the brightness of the fiery battle. "If I don't do something soon, then we're going to get demonetized! But how can do things with no legs? I've only done it my whole frickin' life!"

It was then that PewDiePie then remembered he did in fact have legs! It was confirmed in all the videos where his legs are shown, such as Congratulations, a song as fire as Hot Witch's ongoing asexual assault. He chugged a bottle of G-fuel to summon his legs and then charged at Hot Witch with a mighty 9-year-old battle cry.

Hot Witch turned to the screeching Swede, and momentarily panicked, as her offense was occupied with another threat in a different direction. It was then that she remember that she had two hands, and started shooting fire at PewDiePie using the other one. Quickly, the Swede jumped to the ground and rolled behind the discard meatball stand for cover.

Elon Musk's not-a-flame-thrower was quickly losing ground to Hot Witch's dominating presence.

The meme heroes were cornered. Victory was going to require a powerful gambit. Something bold. Something brash. Something that would land him in trouble with the SEC.

"I'm just getting started," bluffed Elon Musk. "I'll leave you dead like a-" he took a chuckle break. "I'll leave you dead like a deer in a pool! Sorry, pedo guy!"

"EXCUSE ME?!" Hot Witch completely forgot about PewDiePie and focused both hands on Elon Musk. The South African billionaire swiftly dodged out of the way before her fire overwhelmed his own. The magician ceased to burn with fire and now merely burned with indignant offense. The fighting had ceased.

"I'm going to kill you," replied Elon Musk.
"No, the thing you said after that!"
"Pedo guy?"
"That! How dare you!"
"What?" Elon Musk threw up his hands. "You threatened to kill my board members with sexual assault, I figured-"
"I have standards!" Hot Witch decreed. "All because I am a witchcraft practicing super criminal who kills and sexually assaults people consistently and without remorse does not mean that I do the latter of those things to children!"
"Wait, you do the former of those things to children?" That was actually a disconcerting possibility the billionaire hadn't thought of.
"N- that wasn't the question!"

Before the debate could continue any further, the gambit reached its climax. PewDiePie had snuck up behind Hot Witch and dropped a Crock-Pot® on her hatted head, knocking her out.
The distraction had worked.

"Good job, Felix," said Elon Musk.
"H-wha?! Elon Musk is complementing me, humble PewDiePie? Thank you Elon, I feel very complimented. Beautiful."

Then they stood awkwardly for a second.

"Anyway. I'm going to go check on my board members," said Elon. "So, uh...bye."

***

"So we're all agreed, then?" asked the chairman of the Space X board of directors. "We give them what they want?"

There was a wave of agreement throughout the table.

"Charlie? What about you? You've been awful quiet."

Charlie took a deep breath. "I'm not going to do it."

"What? But the hot chick will kill you!"
"I know."
"Don't do it Charlie! Taking a stand against tyranny and oppression isn't worth your life! We would have joined the Good Guy Group if it were."

Charlie took another deep breath. "You're right. But if I don't do this, I may never get a girl to kiss me, and that is worthy dying for."

"...I'm sorry what the f-"

The doors swung open, and Elon Musk haughtily stepped through the entrance. "Whaddup, pedo guys."

"Elon Musk!" cried the board.

"Did you defeat the Bad Brigade and save our lives?" asked the chairman.
"For now," answered Elon.
"No one will ever love me," muttered Charlie.
"That said," the billionaire continued, "I was only able to fight them off temporarily. They may be back."

Most of the board members looked aside at each other.

"Hey Elon," asked the chairman. "You know, you put in a lot of good work for this company. I think it would be best for our safety- I mean, I think it would be best if we just...gave you all the stock."
"I think that's a great idea," replied Elon Musk, nodding with approval.

***

 

Rebootspace: Named because it's a reboot of a now-dead roleplaying campaign which I was a passionate member of. Reshaping the world to suit its new structure is still very much a work in progress, but there's several years of built up potential which I would like to translate into an episodic story of some sort.

Spoiler

Choose Mercy: I'll maybe write more of this story at some point. The one snapshot so far doesn't exactly do the best job introducing the world (which is, again, still a work in progress) so you'll have to forgive it for that.

Spoiler

"Surrender?"

Maw looked around. Fourteen Olympus units had showed up. Six were still there. They were damaged from the battle, but he was starting to feel pretty worn out himself.

"No one has to get hurt if you come quietly."

Maw ignored that. He would take them.

The gears of his amorphous arms began to whir again. The infinite exposed teeth sparked and ground as the two masses were slammed together, twisting into a single heavy canon. "Quiet this! Bow down and die!"

A shimmering laser tore through the foremost unit, but they were arranged so he could only hit one at a time.

It then dawned on Maw that he hadn't really considered his defensive options, so when the Olympus units sent off another volley of those homing missiles...

"Ah, f-"

With a sudden clap, lightening tore through the sky. It formed a curtain through which the rockets could not pass, exploding high above as the amperage overloaded them. Maw swung his head around, looking for the-

"Old Man!" Maw shouted, secretly relieved. Gladius didn't respond, he continued his charge towards his student. "You got here just in time to watch me thrash these- GHJKH!"

Several hundred pounds of beef slammed into Maw, lifting him off the ground and carrying him towards a distant woodland.
"What the hell are you doing?" shouted Maw over the police units calling for them to stop.
"Getting you out of trouble again."

***

Gladius finally stopped, scanning the forest to ensure they were truly alone. It seemed so. He put Maw down, and both took a moment to recover.

"You got a real good sense of where I am, don't you Old Man?" Maw scoffed. "It's gettin' a little creepy."

Gladius considered this complaint for a second. "I assure you, the inclinations which my powers give me have never intruded upon their subject's privacy."
"Right. If you say so." Maw stretched his arms with a series of clanks.

Gladius stood still in his typical, rigid manner, straight as a sword's edge. Maw leaned his shoulder against a tree, shaving bits of bark off.

"Maw," began Gladius.
"What now?"
"Please explain to me the reason for the conflict in which I found you."

Maw groaned. "Some guy found out who I was. Why do you care?"

Gladius did not reply.

Finally, Maw broke. "I think Jack killed his girlfriend. Something like that."
"Do you not remember?"
"Jack killed a lot of people. I don't remember most of them." Maw turned to a distant tree. "Guy wanted to fight me over it. He crossed me first, so I beat his lights out. Fuzz showed up a little bit after that." Maw turned back to his teacher. "I'm not going to take flack for what Jack did. Not my problem."
"Indeed. Thus, do not fight over it."
"Self defense."

Gladius did not reply.

Finally, Maw broke. "He was asking around for Jack. I...wanted to find out if he was full of it or not. That's how he knew."

Gladius nodded. "I understand your distress. I want you to understand that I am not angry at you, Maw. However, I know you are capable of better. I've seen you restrain yourself."
"Save the lecture, Old Man," Maw spat. "I only told you to make me a better fighter."
"Strength in battle will not take you as far as strength of character, Maw."
"Character doesn't fry Olympus units."
"You needn't engage in every fight which comes your way."

***

Sunset neared.

Teacher and student arrived at the abandoned scrapyard they called home. It was dirty, but it was remote. Gladius had removed most of the rusty nails over several years, and there was plentiful metal in case he needed parts to repair himself. Most of all, it was home.

Gladius opened the door to what was once a small office building. Immediately his ears caught the sound of the radio, blaring in the back room. It wasn't classical or classic rock- he had not left it on. It wasn't rap either- Maw hadn't left it on. Instead, the distant sound of trance music filled the house.

Callahan was visiting.

Gladius stepped forward cautiously, Maw following in suit. The former called out. "Sister."

From out of a dark hall stepped a figure must smaller than either male. She was quite short and quite thin, but carried herself with a similar dignified manner to her brother, only much colder. Her face was hidden under a helmet, and she carried a strange grey device at her side, something like a hilt with no blade.

"To what do I owe the pleasure of your company?" asked Gladius. His hands were folded in front of him, as they often were.

"I needed a part," Callahan shrugged. "I found it. Installed it. Thought I'd stick around to say hello."

"I see. Hello, then." Gladius nodded politely. "We would be glad if you might stay for a while."

By we, Gladius meant himself. Maw'd heard of Callahan but they hadn't met. "This the one that killed someone for two solar cells?"
"Three," she corrected.
Maw grinned sidelong at Gladius. "Hell of a reason for conflict in, uh, in which to find yourself."

"He's always trying to lecture me about things like that," said Callahan plainly.
Maw gave a hearty guffaw. "Hey murderbug, you play basketball?"
"I win at basketball."
"Wanna take that to the bank?"

The two went out for a game of one on one, with Gladius sitting on the sidelines. The court was a chunk of cleared off concrete, a hoop someone had thrown out on one end and a makeshift hoop on the other, nothing more than a bucket with the bottom cut off drilled to plywood drilled to a metal pole.

The game opened up with Maw scoring a slam dunk, but the middle of the game had Callahan running circles around him. Maw wisened up to her movement patterns near the end, but not quite enough to recover the game. It ended 21 to 17 just as the sky was turning purple.

"I need to be going," said Callahan. "Good game."

Maw gave a terse goodbye and Gladius sent her off with a hug, waving as she walked off towards the horizon.

Maw plopped down next to the Old Man. "So, if you two were made as part of the same project, how come she's got different powers than you do?"
"She and I pursued different avenues of training. My abilities derive from mental fortitude. She is capable of it, in theory. As are you. As are most. The effort to achieve it is very great though, and Callahan was always more of a pragmatist. Equipment offered great benefits immediately. The powers I obtained were initially incidental to my training."
"You two get along?"
"We do not raise our voices," Gladius said. "Though, I do wish she would pursue a different path."
"Hm."

The two sat under the still of evening, crickets serenading them. "I was thinking of dropping by an old pal's tomorrow. Might stay a while. That alright, Old Man?"
"It is."
"Heh." That was easier than Maw expected.
"I know you've made a wide variety of friends over the years. Please try to set a good example for them, and prevent any trouble."

"You got a lot of weird friends too, Old Man," Maw smirked.
Gladius sat in ponderous silence. He always had a sort of slow, calm way of speaking, and a deep voice which felt like it weighed on your chest when you heard it. The next thing he said came out like it was weighing on both of them. "I have never wished to be the sort of person to turn my back on someone. What I believe, more strongly than I know anything, is that we all should be afforded the opportunity to change."

***

It wasn't exactly a quiet night. The neighborhood was pretty rough. Dogs had been barking since 10 PM, so it was almost an expected sound when Callahan kicked down the door to a cheap apartment. It was still quite a shock for the inhabitant sleeping on the couch, though.

"What'n the heck-! What's goin' on?" The man threw his old blanket off him, scrambled to his feet, and ran away as fast as he could, straight into a sliding glass door.
He fell on the ground, and Callahan walked up, put a foot on his chest and a gun against his head. "Tornado, right?"
"Y-yes."
Callahan pulled out a phone and squashed it against Tornado's nose. It played shaky, low quality footage of him frothing at the mouth and acting...quite indecently. He couldn't make out who else was there. A couple voices could be heard jeering him on. "See this? That's you."
"Oh..." mumbled Tornado. "So that's what I did last night..."
"Mhm. Now what you're going to do is get wrecked, because actions have consequences-"

It was then a door swung open loudly. Out of it jumped a half awake Maw, one hand formed into a launcher of some sort. He was wearing pajama pants. "Oi Torno! What's all the damn...noise...about..." He furrowed his brow. "What are you doing?"
Cal was surprised Maw took the time to ask. "I'm gonna shoot this guy," Cal answered, all drawn out like. "For money."

Tornado piped up nervously. "Found out what I did last night."
"Must've been pretty crazy," grumbled Maw, and the silence resumed.

After some time, Tornado punched Cal in the back of the knee. Tornado didn't have any powers, so it barely made it buckle, but it distracted Callahan just long enough for Maw to fire a cannonball-and-chain into her stomach. Cal flew back and clear through the thin, cheap walls of the apartment and into the streets below.

"You stay here," said Maw, reeling the heap of scrap back to his arm.

Cal had picked herself back up by the time Maw's feet slammed onto the pavement.

The assassin looked him up and down. "Bro's not with you?"
"I have my own life, you know."
"If you want to keep it, back off."
"Funny. I was gonna say the same to you. That guy there's my friend."

Didn't seem like Callahan was going to get through to him, so she'd probably have to go through him. That was okay.

"Why can't you just be a good pet and stick with my brother?" Callahan fired a few lasers from her pistol.

Maw launched his ball and chain straight into the barrage. The weapon absorbed a few hits, but one beam hit him in the shoulder and another in the leg.

Thrusters fired in Cal's boots, sending her up and back, out of the flail's way. When she landed, she saw that she'd poked a few holes in Maw. The wounds were like gaps in a beam of light, which slowly filled back in.

"I don't care what kind of stuff you're supposed to be able to do," grinned Maw. "No one messes with the king, and you ain't messing with his friends either. Actions got consequences, and yours is gettin' pulverized."

Cal answered with more blaster shots. Maw shifted his ball and chain into a sword, his free arm into a shield as he charged forward.

With a flick of her wrist, Cal's pistol changed its shape to that of a hilt. A sword like a laser beam shot out from it, and she readied herself to meet her attacker.

***

Tornado peaked out the hole in his wall. He glimpsed his old pal clashing blades with a much smaller woman. Neither could get a hit past the other's defenses, but the tiny one seemed to be keeping very good pace. She seemed kinda tough...probably wasn't much he could do to help. So he grabbed his blanket and stuffed an old backpack with pill bottles and economy sized chip bags, and scribbled something on a post-it note. He snuck down to the lot by his apartment, loaded his possessions into a rusted out Prius, and promptly skipped town.

***

A phone started ringing during the duel. Callahan jumped back and pushed a button on her helmet to turn on bluetooth. Then she went back to their clash.
"Yes, this is Cal. No, he got away. Family matters came up, it won't happen again."
"Are you really taking a phone call?" Maw barked, lunging forward in a mighty stab. Cal stepped quickly to the side, then made a swipe at Maw's face, which the latter violently deflected.
"Shut up. No, no, I was speaking to someone else, I'm in a fight right now. Everything is under control, don't worry," she hung up. "Prick," she hissed.

Taking the phone call maybe wasn't the best idea. Maw managed to sneak in a kick to the gut right then.

"Huh. Bro actually taught you okay," Callahan noted.
"Stand still and I'll show you how well!" Maw beamed, making a massive overhead swing. Cal easily dodged this, and capitalized on the opening. One cut ran from under one shoulder to above the other, and that would healed quickly enough, but Callahan pressed on, using her sword as a bar to pin Maw against a brick wall.

Now Maw was stupid, but he wasn't dumb. Give him a pair of form changing arms and pin him against the wall, he'll make an arm for punching straight up from the waist. And he did.

Cal went up a good twenty feet, giving Maw a good bit of space. He pushed himself off the wall, making a cacophony of clanks as one arm reformed his crude ball and chain. Once Cal hit the ground, he swung it down to crush her against the road. The king had her pinned now, the weight of his weapon too much to just throw off, and marched towards her with a satisfied grin and a spear for his other hand.

Callahan cranked her gun's power to the max and fired at Maw. The kickback was almost as heavy as the weight on her chest, the blast so strong it hurled Maw back. The ball and chain acted like an anchor and yanked him back, but he had enough momentum for that anchor to get dislodged, and Callahan was able to push it off her.

Cal's gun could only handle so many shots at this level before overheating, but with a regenerating opponent? She figured she'd unload the lot on him anyway. The fire kept him down, letting her get in quite a few shots uninterrupted. Her weapon got a little too hot, failsafes kicked in and stopped her next shot. Some of the smoke cleared up, and Maw stood unsteadily in the vanishing cloud.

"Heh...heh...that all?" Maw croaked. His vocal chords finished regenerating halfway through, leaving an odd hollow sound to his taunt.

"Why can't you just die?"

The two stood there, tension tearing the air apart. Cal couldn't attack without her weapon exploding. Maw was too busy recovering to make a move.

Both problems resolved around the same time. Callahan shifted to sword form and ran forward, Maw going in for a grab.

It was then that an arrow flew between them, and it was like a wall had been erected in its wake.

All heads turned to the source. Down the avenue, glimmering in the streetlight, a tall and muscular figure stood with a composite bow in hand.

Gladius had showed.

"I do not know what this is about," he boomed. "However, it ends now."

Callahan thought about how to play this. She decided pragmatically. She swung at Maw's head, the latter barely managing to catch it with a steel hand, and the swordswoman advanced on the thrown-off regenerator.

"Old Man!" Maw yelled. "Your sis is trying to off my pal! Give me a hand or something!"

Maw regained his footing, and used his greater strength to start pushing Callahan back instead.

"Gladius!" Callahan shouted. "Control your pet, geeze! I'm trying to execute a rapist here!"
"He was on PCP! He didn't know what he was doing!"

"You each need to calm down!"
"No!" they shouted in unison.

Gladius froze up. Was this really a battle to the death he'd encountered? Who would he choose, had he to choose one? His sister, or his...?

Callahan kicked Maw in the shin, giving her a chance to break away. Using her boosters, she jumped up to a third story fire escape, then the top of the opposite building, before finally rocketing straight towards Maw, ready to bring her sword down on him.

A bolt of lightening tore through the sky, forming a curtain through which Callahan's path dragged her. She tumbled through the air, and Maw got in a good punch that sent her skidding off along the asphalt. Maw started forming his laser when he felt Gladius restrain him. "Don't kick someone while they're down."

Maw didn't want to let someone get away with trying to shoot his friends and certainly not with trying to impale him. Still, the Old Man had a point. Callahan was functioning, but didn't stand a chance in a two on one fight even if she wasn't so dinged up. Blackened by lightening, cracked from powerful strikes. Her mask had flown off in pieces. Her face looked about how Maw thought the Old Man's sister's would. Same patchwork of discolored rubber and latex, sewn together with battle scars. Made sense they both wore helmets.

Cal managed to stand up. Her brother siding with Maw over her wasn't exactly what she'd expected. And like Maw, she didn't think the odds in front of her were very fair.

"R-*czzt*. R-*krt*." Stuttering? How unprofessional. "Fine. If that's how it is is is."
The assassin kept an eye on each of her opponents, backing away slowly, and suddenly darted into an alleyway.

Gladius and Maw rushed to pursue her, but by the time they had reached the darkened corridor, Callahan had vanished into waning night.

The elder sighed. "Oh, Callahan..."

Maw took a half-step forward. "Old Man. I uh...I really didn't try and pick a fight. But she was going to kill Tornado."

Gladius didn't respond. He still stared down and ahead.

"I don't know if what she was saying really happened, but...I couldn't let her do it. I'm sorry."

Gladius turned around slowly and put a hand on Maw's shoulder. He pulled him into a hug. "I'm proud of you."
"...you're gonna have to explain that one to me, Old Man." Gladius ceased squeezing Maw. "I mean, I was trying to thrash your sister and I got into a fight when it showed up and, I don't know..."
"I know," said Gladius. "However, you did so to protect the life of a friend whom you believed deserved mercy. That is something to be proud of."

Maw stared up at the Old Man. "You're a funny guy, Old Man."

Gladius chuckled. "I have never attempted to be absolutely serious at all times. Come along. Let's go check on that friend of yours."

***

Torno's apartment was trashed. A few things were missing and one thing was left, a note.

It was faster for Gladius to read it. "He says he's leaving town. If someone wants him dead, he suspects that they will attempt this again."

Maw frowned. "Well, we gotta do something for him, don't we? We can't just trust they're not gonna find him."

"It may be best to keep him under watch for a time, yes," said Gladius. He looked between Maw and the note. "We may begin our search for him immediately. Once we find him, I think the two of you might benefit from a grammar lesson."
"You saying my English ain't good?"
"Your spelling might benefit from some improvement. It's a more useful life skill than strength in battle."
"Hey. Good spelling wouldn't have fought off Callahan while I was waiting for your slow ass to show up."
"You can have both, Maw."

***

 

 

Miscellaneous: These stories could be elaborated into extended universes, but I'm not entirely sure I want to do that. Consider them one-offs for now.

Spoiler

The Tatarans: I put it at the top because I heard it was good.

Spoiler

Sisyphus rolled his boulder to the top of the hill and waited for it to roll back down. It didn't.
 
He stared patiently as the rock idled. The ancient king of Corinth placed some smaller rocks around the boulder's base, just to make sure it didn't move. He backed away, looking all around him. No one was there. The boulder remained steadfast atop the hill. Nothing was stopping him from leaving.
 
So he walked down the opposite side of the mountain, soon coming to the gates of Tartarus. They lazily swung back and forth in a gentle breeze, unmanned and abandoned by all but him. Sisyphus crept through the unlocked grid of iron, stopping only to look back over his shoulder at his boulder. It was still at the top.
 
Well, that was that, he supposed. Sisyphus walked out of hell.
 
Crossing the rivers of the underworld, he found himself on an overcast beach. The cold wind whipped him. He shivered as he peered around and saw a lone figure approach, dressed in a frock coat and bowler hat. "Finally come out, eh, Sisyphus?"
"Who are you?"
The figure held out a gloved hand. "Ixion, former king of the Lapiths, and like you, a former inhabitant of Tartarus."
"Oh yes, about that. Where did everyone go?"
"Didn't you receive the memorandum?"
"The what?"
 
Ixion handed Sisyphus a note. We deeply apologize to all our faithful users, but financial constraints have made it too difficult to keep the Greek conceptions of supernatural realms in operation. As such, effective January 1st of 1883 AD, we will be shutting down all of our Greco-Roman locations. We thank you all for sticking with us through these thousands of years and hope you are able to find new homes elsewhere. A reasonable indemnification will be provided to help you all along the way.
"You didn't get one of these?"
"No, I—"
"Check your wallet."
"Wallet?"
"Check mine. Here."
Ixion handed his own wallet over.
"Open it."
Sisyphus did. His was inside.
"They made the call around 313 AD, which is about a thousand years after you died. Now is 1883, or one-thousand eight-hundred eighty three."
"What financial constraints-"
"The old gods died when they fell out of favor. Only new covenants now. Faith produces a certain capital needed to maintain inventions. When people stopped caring about Olympus and Tartarus, they started to be drains on the spiritual economy."
"Why wait so many centuries?"
"Between then and now a few eras happened, like the Medieval and Renaissance times. Our history provided their artists enough inspiration for them to still turn a small profit, but there's this new thing called existentialism, you see. People aren't quite as interested anymore."
 
Sisyphus pulled his note out and handed Ixion back his wallet. "...how much is this worth?"
"Enough for..." Ixion tried to remember a value Sisyphus would know. "...four oxen, or so?"
 
"...Is this the new hell?"
"No, that would be across the channel." Ixion pointed towards the sea. "In France. That's what they call Gallia these days."
 
Sisyphus looked out over the stormy sea, tireless churning its gray waves, a miserable sight compared to his dear Mediterranean. "Four oxen isn't much."
"Everything else has gotten cheaper. Do you remember Hephaestus's three legged self moving table?"
"I've heard of it."
"People have something like that now, except instead of moving tables it make baskets very quickly. A hundred baskets for the cost of making two, so naturally baskets are only half as expensive."
 
***
 
Sisyphus walked through smog covered streets, wrapped up in a cheap blanket Ixion had given him. With his small fortune he bought himself some good clothes, a small apartment on a London corner, a wooden chair to be his throne. Once he had moved in, the ancient king sat down and looked upon his two-room kingdom, deciding it was quite lacking in regal decoration. So he gathered up some of his remaining funds and made his way to a small shop in a more affluent part of town. He surveyed their glass vases, their fine china, their silver candlesticks, and enjoyed the appearance of some of them. However, he decided that what he most liked was a small but beautifully carved wooden tower which held a pendulum behind a glass door, a grandfather clock.
 
He paid for it on the spot and carried it back home himself. No one dared interrupt such a display of strength, no matter how nice the clock. Entering his little apartment, Sisyphus placed the clock in plain view of his throne, sat down, and beheld the increased majesty of his realm. Everything was quite a bit more like he wished it to be. He had his throne room back at last and not a care to bother him. There he sat, feeding himself an apple, and soon feeling terribly idle.
 
So he did a bit of scrivening, gained himself a bit more money, and decorated his home more nicely.
 
He moved into a nicer apartment with newfangled electric lights, sitting down with a new lamp, and felt an itch to move again.
 
So he took up exercising along side scrivening, hoping to stave off that sensation of idleness with some good, healthy maintenance and exertion.
 
***
 
It was nearly a century and a half later.
 
Sisyphus put on a suit, straightened out his tie, and waxed his loafers before putting them on.
 
He made himself a cup of hot tea, cooked an egg perfectly, and sat down for a short breakfast next to his apartment's street-side window. Looking down on the bustling streets of London, he saw the buses making their routes, watched as people went about their days. It was a rougher part of the city, he saw a man with a prostitute. It was just like Corinth, really.
 
The clock on his stove read 7:45. He glanced at his watch, which showed the same. The ancient king tidied up the kitchen and ventured out, locking the door as he left. He was to meet with Ixion today, to reclaim the grandfather clock he'd picked up before the war. It was quite a pain having to reclaim all his possessions each time he needed a new face, but he was quite alright with some occasional discomfort.
 
Strolling down the street, passing a few flower beds, Sisyphus saw some bees flying around in little loops. Fascinating little insects, short lived and yet so dedicated to their toil. Was it a mere instinct? Sisyphus wondered as he walked. Did they see some meaning in their work?
 
A little after eight, he reached the little antique store on the corner where Ixion worked. A little bell rang as he walked in, and with the bell's toll came a sigh as an olive skinned man, much like himself, lifted his head from the front desk.
 
"You know," said Ixion groggily, "the style of the time is to not actually do any work for the first hour of the day."
"I like to be a little more productive."
 
With a groan and a yawn, Ixion stood up. "The clock is in the back," he muttered, leading them into storage. The two Greeks stopped in front of an intricately carved 19th-century chronometer, and stared at it with an odd silence over them.
 
"Are you sure you still want it?" asked the Lapith of the Corinthian. "It's a good manufacturer, it would sell for a decent price, you could get some very nice stuff with a part of the proceeds."
"Maybe, but I like this clock."
"There's nothing wrong with updating."
"I'm fine with updating, I've got a computer. That doesn't mean I have to let go of things."
"Your computer runs Vista. You'll have to let it go soon enough."
 
Sisyphus squatted down to pick up the towering timepiece.
"Need any help carrying that to your apartment?"
"I'm quite alright," said Sisyphus, effortlessly standing with the clock in hand. "My hands are a bit full, though, so if you could maybe carry some of the china or my microwave-"
 
***
 
Sisyphus put his grandfather clock down and opened his door, letting Ixion struggle through with a box of porcelain plates in hand.
"Just put those down by the coffee table," said Sisyphus. "It's where it was last time."
 
With a grunt, Ixion knelt down and placed the cardboard container on fifty year old carpet.
 
"Care for any tea?" asked Sisyphus.
"No, I can't stay away from work too long."
"Very fair. Thank you for bringing that, it really helps to get the old place back to how it was.
 
Ixion looked around and chuckled. "It looks barely any different than the last time I saw it. Still no TV, I see."
"There's nothing good on TV anyway."
"You've never watched TV. You could watch the news-"
"The reports are on repeated events."
"What about a televised drama?"
"Derivations of us."
"You solve puzzles all day, who are you to complain about repetition?"
"I enjoy puzzles the first time and I enjoy that same experience the second time. I don't need people to change Euripides for me, I enjoyed his work as it was."
 
"Goodness. What do you even do what that computer of yours?"
"I check my email."
"I'm surprised you don't play mahjong."
"I tried it in the nineties, but it wasn't really to my taste."
 
"Hmph. Going back to the original dramas," said Ixion, "there's a reproduction of one they're doing tonight at the Stockwell Playhouse. I've got a couple of tickets from my boss, why don't you come along? I'm sure you'll enjoy seeing how different the derivation is."
"It sounds enjoyable, though I doubt it's that different."
"We'll see about that. The showing is at eight o'clock. Meet me there a bit before then, alright?"
"Quite alright."
"Good, don't get caught up on any rocks."
 
Ixion left without so much as tea, leaving Sisyphus to busy himself for the remaining eleven or so hours of the day.
 
Sisyphus booted up his 2006 Dell Computer and put it to its regular task, checking his hotmail account. After that he pulled a 1000-piece puzzle out from a chest, poured it onto his coffee table, and set about working on it. The small scene of a Tuscan villa was only mostly completed by the time he had to leave. He'd assembled the puzzle many times before, but familiarity with a task could only speed it up so much.
 
***
 
Sisyphus sat down for Antigone, and Ixion sat down next to him with a large soda and a box of Buncha Crunch. The Lapith had heard from the news sites that it was a brilliant reimagining of Sophocles's timeless classic, and he had prepared himself and his fellow to be disappointed.
 
It took about five minutes for Antigone to make plain allusion to events from many centuries after her death.
 
Sisyphus sat quietly and Ixion slumped to the side, watching as they went to great lengths to make the rebel Polynices a misled and sympathetic soul. It seemed afraid to imply Antigone might love her brother for kinship's bond alone, or that anyone actually wicked deserved any rites or respect.

***
 
Ixion, the adulterer. Ixion, the murderer. Ixion, the disgraceful to his host, most wicked of all. Ixion the unforgivable, tied to a burning wheel, forgotten on it. He had earned no better.
 
***
 
Ismene was made a headstrong woman, little different from the heroine she was meant to be a foil to. Antigone's motives were now far removed from piety and obligation. Rejecting all external guidance, the rebel hero obeyed only her whims and desires, empowered to act without principle.
 
***
 
There she was, lying next to him, so...invitingly. A violation of hospitable relations, his contract with his wife, and yet, inside himself was an uncontrollable urge, which he knew was wrong and yet felt was right.
 
***
 
Creon was comically unreasonable, an unsympathetic caricature.
 
Eurydice was a red blooded temptress, glorified for bitterness and honored for her attacks. Her final curse on Creon was not a part of his tragic fate, but a fractional component of a punishment he deserved. There would be no forgiveness for his sins. The reviews had said it was a subversion of catharsis. Ixion had thought that would be funnier.
 
***
 
No one on Earth would forgive him. Olympus offered to forgive his sins, but one sin more and that deal was off. Zeus had done to him what he did to Zeus, and Zeus tempted him further, but it was Ixion who was strapped to the wheel. Ixion would get no forgiveness for his sins.
 
***
 
The lights faded on the last scene. Ixion marched out to the sound of uproarious applause.
 
Sisyphus nervously followed him into and down the streets. Neither spoke for quite some time.
 
"I'm assuming it was what you expected?" Sisyphus asked.
"Much worse," Ixion grumbled. "An absolute bastardization!"
"I admit I wasn't particularly fond of it, but I wouldn't quite go that far."
 
Ixion ignored his companion. "You know, Sophocles wrote Antigone when national fervor dominated the city states. The man was a general of Athens, but when he wrote that play he made no references to Athens. He focused on messages with permanent value. An actually conscious artist, someone who wrote for all people, for all time. That excuse for Antigone is so obsessed with its own era- it will be absolutely useless in twenty years."
 
"Well, I didn't think it was that different..."
"The very moral was different."
"I just don't see why you should be so upset about it."
 
Ixion sighed, almost growling. "They make Creon purely wicked. They stripped him of all tragedy. God forbid that people be able to change- then we would have to actually improve, to allow others to improve. Who wants to bother with that?"
 
"Do people really change, though?"
"You and I are proof."
 
***
 
Sisyphus sat at his windowside table.
 
Perhaps, he thought, he would go back to Tartarus. Just for a quick visit, to see how his boulder was doing. If it hadn't just taken a little longer to start rolling down again. He was a little curious, now that he considered it. So he put on a bathing suit and took a small dip in the channel. It took him some time with Charon gone, but he eventually came ashore before a rusted gate. The red bars still swayed back and forth in a lazy and familiar way.
 
A small boy with a balloon pushed past Sisyphus, leading his mother through the half-opened entryway.
 
"...uh, excuse me," called Sisyphus, "who are you all? Actually, more importantly, why are you here?"
"We're here for the cave tour," the woman called back. "Aren't you?"
 
The child pulled her too far away to respond to, some seconds after Sisyphus had entered a shocked silence.
 
He shook his head. That was probably some joke, an anomaly, some residual illusion. He passed through the gate, only to find scattered crowds pointing in awe at inane stone formations. His mouth half open, Sisyphus jogged towards a familiar seeming hill. Certainly his boulder was right where it belonged, even with all these crowds. They were probably all there to see it, in fact, they'd want to hear all about his old rock.
 
There was no boulder. An Asian man stood at the top of the hill, and that was all that was there.
 
"Excuse me, who are you?"
"Name's Wu Gang."
"Why are you here?"
"Checking out this ancient cave. It's pretty neat, huh?"
"...is that a gift shop?"
"Yep."
 
The Corinthian walked into the store and was soon confronted by a spindly man with a thin mustache. "Puis-je vous intéresser dans un pog monsieur?
"I don't follow."
"Ah, an Englishman. Sir, may I interest you in a pog?"
"Aren't pogs a dead trend?"
"Oui oui! Pogs are very popular here!"
 
Sisyphus left through the gift shop of the cave with a small bag of collector's pogs and a novelty spicy lollipop.
 
***
 
Ixion pushed open to door to Sisyphus's apartment, a bag slung over his shoulder. Almost without a word, he plopped it down on his unwilling host's puzzle, unzipped it, and pulled out a laptop. "Sisyphus, consider this a Christmas gift."
"It's July."
"That's a thing."
"What is?"
"Christmas in July."
"Christmas is in December."
"Not when it's in July."
"But it's never in July."
"Christmas happens when it happens, okay? Merry Christmas Sisyphus. I got you a Windows 10 laptop."
 
The Corinthian looked at the little black brick before him.
"I think you should try working with spreadsheets." Ixion lifted the top and showed Sisyphus how to open up Excel.  "Computers seem like the sort of thing you'd enjoy working with." Then he showed him an online tutorial on how to use the program.
 
It was a bit tedious getting used to the software, though that didn't bother Sisyphus too much. He quite enjoyed the repetitive work once he got the hang of it. It was something nice and consistent in the ever changing world.

 

The Fireman: When asked to make a story inspired by a character's ending, I naturally chose to write about Volke. He was a man of mystery to the end.

Spoiler

Three armies stood united before the Tower of Guidance. This great tower was the stronghold of Ashera, and the end of many years of treachery and bloodshed. Inside, at that very moment, a battle being waged, one which would determine the fate of Tellius.

General Ike had taken the strongest fighters from each army to ascend to the top.

He also took some others.

Volke didn't quite understand why the green haired kid with the exposed midriff had to go in. At least twenty soldiers stronger than him had been passed over in his favor, Volke being one of them. It didn't bother him because he felt passed over- it bothered Volke because Ike took his knives for the kid to use in the tower.

He wasn't expecting to get them back.

Still, he lingered around the base of the monolithic spire. His contract wouldn't be up until this was all over, and the Fireman didn't violate his contracts. It wasn't like he was missing out on a lot of work anyway, with most of Tellius being petrified. Though, that did mean there were a lot of coffers with nothing but statues to guard them.
Volke curled a corner of his lip ever so faintly. Anyone who was lucky enough to not be turned to stone was very lucky indeed.

There was a sound. Footsteps. Casual. He looked over his shoulder and saw a brown haired woman approaching the tower.

He could tell his presence there was incidental to her. She didn't even speak to him for the first several minutes.

"The Apostle is in there," she finally said. Absently, to herself more than to him. So Volke didn't respond.

Tanith picked nervously at her nail. "They tell me she'll be okay. I know she will be. I trust her, and I trust General Ike. Still, I should be there for her. It is my duty as a member of the Holy Guard. I'm...I'm worried about her." She looked over to the masked figure staring up at the tower with her. "Do you have someone in there who you are worried about?"

Volke was an attentive man, and so he knew that Tanith was a very stern sort of person. This raw and sudden emotional display was unusual for her, something squeezed out by the crushing stress of their fantastic situation. Her voice was unsure and desperate. Here she was, standing helplessly on the sidelines, faced with the cruel reality that she couldn't be there for the person she was sworn to protect. It was a challenge to her very purpose in life, the source of her identity. There was a void in her chest, and her voice betrayed a swallowing need for affirmation, or even just someone to console her. A need so desperate that it would even reach out to Volke. So he responded in the most truthful and earnest way he could.

"No."

Tanith blinked a few times. "No one at all?"

"I have a contract with Ike, but that's as far as it goes. I don't really care what happens to any of them as long as they win."

Volke began walking off. This didn't seem like it would be a very productive conversation.

Tanith stopped him with a question. "Are you the one called the Fireman?"

The assassin turned back around to face her. She didn't seem too happy with him. "Yeah. What do you need?"

"Why would you assume that I need something from you?"

"That's usually the reason people talk to me."

"You must have a very lonely life."

"I like it well enough."

Tanith was immediately short on fondness for this strange man with a mask over his face. His breath probably smelled bad, she thought.

"Do you have anyone you care about?"

"Five hundred thousand." Volke said.

Tanith looked at him with a confused and disapproving glare.

"If you pay me five hundred thousand gold, I'll answer your question."

"What a horrible waste of money."

"Some people pay it."

"Five hundred thousand gold?"

"No, but I charge less for most questions."

"Ugh. You're the most immediately insufferable person I've ever met."

Volke stared back at her, unaffected.

"How do people tolerate your company?"

"I'm good at hurting people."

"By which you mean stabbing them while their backs are turned?"

"Among other methods. I'm versatile."

"Perhaps you are, but a thief like you is no match for a proper battalion."

"I'm also an assassin."

"You're also one man. The Holy Guard has a whole host of decent and devoted soldiers, who will afford you the luxury of conversation for free. I've seen you on the battlefield," Tanith remarked. "You're much stronger than I would have expected, but you're still far from the strongest."

"That was me on a battlefield. I'm an assassin."

Tanith humphed. "Subterfuge cannot overwhelm the might of the Begnion army."

"It doesn't have to."

"What do you mean by that?"

"Fifteen thousand."

"Bah! Your prices are insufferable nonsense! Where do you get off charging people for such basic decency as answering questions?"

"I don't do something for free if I can make money from it."

"Why do you answer any questions at all, then?"

"Free samples attract clients."

"Would you kill someone for free?"

"Not usually."

***

The battle was won. Ike and his party marched triumphantly back into the light of the sun, and for a moment it seemed as if all was well in the world.
Volke's contract was up. It was time for him to go.

He was on his way towards vanishing into the shadows when he heard a meek little voice.

"Mr. Volke? Where are you going?"

The assassin looked over his shoulder and saw Mist staring back at him. The poor, innocent thing.

"Four hundred," he answered.

Mist recoiled at his coldness. Still, four hundred was a fairly modest fee to have Volke answer a question- only half of a heal staff. After some thought and with some trepidation, she reached into her pocket and pulled out some coins. "A-alright, then. This should be enough..."

Volke stepped over and held out his hand, letting Mist drop her coins into his waiting palm. He hid them away in his coat without counting them. "Where am I going?"

Mist nodded.

"Away." Volke headed off in that direction.

Mist was speechless for the first four yards. "Are you kidding me?" she cried. "I paid four hundred gold for that?"

"Four hundred gold for an answer," Volke called back. "The lesson is free."

"What lesson?"

"Four thousand."

Mist decided not to pay. She just watched, confused and in no small part disgusted, as the Fireman walked off, never to be seen by her again.

***

Volke strolled down an obscure and lonely hall of Daein Keep. His company consisted of sounds- soft footsteps and gentle gusts of wind.

The Fireman stopped in place. This was the wrong sort of quiet.

"Whoever is hiding behind the columns," he began, "you better show yourself."

Volke wasn't sure someone else was really there, but he figured there was no harm in assuming there was. If he was right, then it would look very impressive to his stalker, and he'd be ready for their next move. If he was wrong, only he would ever know.

"You have until the count of five before I start hurtling sharp objects at you. One...two..." The assassin paused. No response. "Four..."

The green haired kid from the war stepped out from behind a column. Volke looked him up and down. A familiar knife was clutched in his hand. "Sothe, right?"

"What are you doing here?"

To the point. Very nice.

"Leaving," Volke replied.

"What were you doing?"

"Fifty thousand," he said, walking off.

Sothe narrowed his eyes. Vision locked on his target, he hurled the Peshkatz at Volke. He didn't have time to fully process what followed- a blur of brown fabric, the sound of clanging metal, a soft thud on the ground. Sothe had to blink a few times before he could finally make out where the scene now rested. On the ground was the Peshkatz, and in the hand of an unharmed Volke was a grand dagger, its large blade flanked on each edge by small wings.

"So, you've still got my knife," noted the Fireman. "That's fine. I got a better one."

There was a grunt of disbelief.

"You should stop while you're on your feet."

Ignoring this advice, Sothe drew a dagger from his hip and charged at Volke. The Daeinite reared back for a powerful stab, but as his arm swung forward, Volke vanished. Sothe felt a sudden sharp pain in the knee, collapsing as the cracking of bone reached his ears.

Sothe tried to pick himself back up, only to have his back stomped back into the ground. His hand barely held onto his dagger, and he felt his fingers being easily peeled away and relieved of their charge. Next to go was the weight of a boot on his spine. Sothe managed to hoist himself up on one arm and twist his neck just in time to see Volke reclaim the Peshkatz from the floor and walk away.

"Who sent you?" Sothe called.

"How much gold is in Daein's treasury?" Volke replied.

The Fireman didn't interrupt his steps to await a reply. There was no chance he'd be paid it- not that he could fit it all in his pockets anyway.

***

Bastian stood by a river on a cold fall night. Winter was fast approaching. A lamp was held out in front of him, the only light in the overcast darkness.

The count heard something behind him. Quickly he spun around and was met by the cold face of Volke. Bastian recoiled, nearly screaming. "Goodness me! Try better to not startle me like that, good friend."

"Don't get startled so easily."

Bastian chortled. "I suppose I could do that for both of our benefits. With that pleasantry out of the way though, let us move on to business. What have you found out about Begnion?"

"The capitol is on fire."

"Huh?"

"Imagine a campfire, except much larger. And instead of firewood being burned, it's Sienne. That's what's going on in Begnion."

"Goodness me! What caused such a tragedy?"

"Riots."

"Riots?"

"They're tearing apart wagons to get more wood for torches. A lot of people are very unhappy with the Empress."

"I assume you came here with more to tell me with that."

"There are laguz who want some of their own installed as dukes. Representation in the senate. There are beorc who don't care too much for that idea, but they feel like the Empress has failed them, with the whole being turned to stone thing. Then you've got some of the remaining senators. They're afraid the Empress will take their power for herself after the high ranking senators had their little conspiracy. None of them agree on much, but they all don't like the Empress right now."

"How have I not caught wind of this before now?"

"They started last night."

"And yet you already know so much about them?"

"Ten thousand."

"Ten thousand?"

"You get what you pay for."

Bastian huffed a hearty humph, reached into his robe, and tossed a small white crystal to Volke.

"I helped start it."

"What?!"

"I was hired to."

"By whom?"

"Unfortunately, I can't charge you for that. Client wanted to stay confidential."

"Can't you tell me at least what their stake in the affair was? For whom they play this dreadful game?"

"Ten thousand."

Volke caught another white crystal.

"A senator. Had the fears I talked about."

"Goodness. Positively dreadful..." Bastian clenched his now aching temple, solemnly shaking his head. "The senate I can believe, but it is unfathomable why anyone else in Begnion would take out their grief on poor Sanaki so. She has done nothing but her best for the laguz and the commoners alike. By all accounts, she is innocent of whatever might have frustrated them."

"You're right. Sanaki didn't do anything. That's not the point. She represents Begnion, and they have problems with Begnion. So the kid takes the fall for it."

The count groaned. "And here I had thought we might be done with such horrid displays of violence after that whole bloody affair with Ashnard and Ashera..."

The Fireman shrugged. "People themselves aren't any different. You can't just kill a god and expect that will solve all your problems."

Bastian stared to the sky and took a few deep breaths.

Oddly, it was Volke who broke the silence. "You know Bastian, I like you. You're a good client, and you pay on time. So I'm going to give you some advice, and I'm going to do it for free."

"Free?" Bastian was almost as shocked by this as the news about Sienne. "Goodness, you must quite favor me, then. I'll hear you out."

"A lot of Laguz see Crimea as friendly to their cause. Now would be a good time to solidify that image."

"How so?"

"I'm getting to that. Begnion isn't able to properly protect itself right now, and it will probably be a while before it can. You can take some of their land for your own- you can claim its for Laguz liberation and earn some favor with them. Also, the local senators would be glad to be welcomed into a new aristocracy."

"You would imply that they would hand over their territories to Crimea without resistance?"

"I didn't say that. They can't have very good prospects sticking with Begnion though. Even if Sanaki didn't intend to dismiss them all, they probably won't get away unscathed if the Empress survives the riots. It wouldn't take much to buy their cooperation."

Bastian gave a stressful chuckle. "How can we afford them when we put so much money towards your services?"

"They'll be cheap, and I'm giving you this for free. Crimea will have much bigger coffers if can annex that territory."

"I'm not entirely certain of that. We've had trouble keeping some of our own nobles under control."

"True. Also fixable. You've already put down Ludveck's rebellion, so the queen should have plenty of material to use to let the other nobles know who's in charge."

"Do you mean that we should make some example of him?"

"Maybe. Maybe not. Some people are won over when you show some mercy. Either way, capitalize on your circumstances. Let them know rebellions will fail, and have some consequence."

Bastian paused. He nodded slowly. "What else?"

Volke nodded once. "Ludveck wasn't in your pocket. These nobles would be. All the nobles should be, if you want to keep the monarchy stable. Try not to make a fuss about it, but don't let anyone get too much money, or land, or manpower. No one should be richer than the queen. That's when they'll start getting ideas."

"Preposterous! How could anyone become richer than the queen of the land in which they live?"

"It happened with the Begnion senate."

A sigh escaped Bastian. "I do suppose that there is some reason in what you've said...I shall...consider it. I shall take it under review and share it with Queen Elincia."

"Good. I think you'll find yourself with more money to pay me if you do."

"There are more important things than money when it comes to assessing the worth of a kingdom."

"Yes, but money is a good indicator of success."

Bastian looked out over the river for a second. "Dearest Volke, you've told me quite a bit this night. I do not think most men would like to have to carry such a great burden as you've spoken to me."

"It's not really your problem."

"None the less, it is difficult to process."

"Just don't think about it too much."

Bastian turned to the Fireman. "I'm afraid I cannot do that. Regardless though, there is another thing I must ask you. You seem to care so much about gold, but you never let others know why you so vehemently pursue it-"

"One hundred thousand."

"You rush to conclusions, my friend. I do not wish to pry into what you guard so closely. I merely want to know this, a sort of compromise question. Why do you so strongly wish to conceal your deepest motive?"

"Ten thousand."

"You're quite fond of that number." Despite his snark, Bastian paid it.

"Consistent prices are good for business." Volke tucked a third white gem in his coat. "I like to keep people guessing. Keep them afraid- people are afraid of what they don't know. It gives me the right kind of reputation for my line of work. That, and it keeps people from making too many conclusions."

Volke almost lost focus for a moment, coming very near his eyes wandering to the reflections on the river. He quickly caught himself. "If people knew what I really needed this money for, or even if they just thought they did, they'd start making judgments about me based on that. You can't say too much about someone who likes to be paid for their work. If you know they're after something else, they might start getting involved. Try to use that information. Probably try and use it against you. Maybe some would try to help you. It doesn't matter. It makes things complicated, and I don't like that. So I don't share what I don't have to."

"A man of mystery to the end," Bastian remarked.

"Exactly."

"Yet, you would give such advice about politics for free. Pray tell why you should afford me such a gift?"

"Ten thousand."

Bastian begrudgingly tossed another gem to his contractor.

"That's why." Volke took the diamond and left.

 

Newhill: Once interstellar travel becomes practical, we'll see a revival of people escaping their native society to form a new one more loyal to their convictions.

Spoiler

"Finally."

Cynthia looked around the valley, cool streams conforming to the gentle hills. Shrubs dotted the lush meadow, all shone upon by the bright pink sun.

"An new an untainted world, where we can live rightly in peace."

She scanned the alien horizon which was now home. The sky was a deep rose. The native plants had a pale shade to their leaves, the invasive grass was mahogany. Trees bore fuschia fruits from branches whose wood was a nearly black shade of reddish purple. The distant mountains bore the dull, steely pink of mountbatten.

The star which shone down on this world was ashen and delicate, but there was no doubt were the hue of the planet came from. The celestial torch was distinctly pink.

The whole place seemed perpetually to be in sunset.

It had cost 48 thousand credits, but Cynthia and about sixty others had managed to smuggle themselves beyond the hand of the Federation, and onto the sparsely inhabited surface of a remote and distance world. Mostly untamed, mostly unclaimed, its lands free to be received by whoever had grit enough to cultivate them.

The cultivators were conquerors, victors in the struggle to establish themselves and survive. To the conquerors went the right of governance.

There was no Federation to give or enforce its laws. It would be up to these sixty pilgrims to do so.

That was why they had come here. Pulled by a shared ideal, to shed the worldly rule of man, and return, as best they could, to God's laws, no matter how disagreeable the world found them.

Cynthia took a deep breath, looking from the soft sky to the river which cut a small hill from the larger one where she stood. It was here that this new and pious settlement would be built.

A new place of worship. A new city on a hill. A new Jerusalem. A new hill.

***

Newhill grew slowly over the next few years. Some children were born, and it managed to attract three plastic workers and a physician.

Now, the First Congregational Church of Newhill was, fittingly, congregational in nature. The town's whole character was marked by decentralization. Yet no amount congregationalism can inhibit the development of hierarchy. So, while Cynthia held no formal title, her reputation as Newhill's founder and most devout worker earned her the town's highest measure of authority.

Second to her was Ajax, the new physician and a very well educated man.

To possess influence in Newhill necessitated influence in its church, and both Ajax and Cynthia were seen as trustworthy authorities on the scriptures. Neither had attended seminary. However, the most excellent thing about seminary is that, for any of them which are conducted with right sense, there is truly only one textbook, and each had read it through many times.

It was a natural development, then, that the two should speak together on matters important to the community. From that, it was natural they would sometimes speak to themselves.

"It wasn't long after I converted that I began to feel...there was much about the culture and government of the Federation which I could not agree with. I suppose that is when the idea for Newhill formed," explained Cynthia to Ajax, each shaded from the rosy sun by the awning of a produce stand. "What about you? What inspired your retreat to this little hamlet?"

"Disagreements as well, I suppose," said Ajax timidly, placing some darkly colored greens into his basket. "My parents were very devout, you see, and very vocal as well. I picked up some of that from them, and so when the Temple Tax was first announced, I became a very open opponent of it." Ajax sighed. "I thought I noticed my internet speed getting worse and worse the more I spoke out, and then I received an email informing me that the Central Bank demanded my loans be paid immediately and in full. So I sold most of what I had, paid off what I owed, and smuggled off to here."

"Oh, I'm so sorry, Ajax," Cynthia cried, a grandmotherly consolation. "That's terrible. Though, it does make me glad that I headed out before all of that mess."
"It does seem like it was for the best."
"Indeed. You said your parents were quite devout?"
"Oh yes, very. Perhaps a bit...disagreeable to some people, but very convicted."
"I see. Why did they name you Ajax then? It seems like an odd choice for a Christian couple, to use a Greek mythological figure."
"It is a bit strange, but it was the name of the pastor at our church. Ajax McCarthy, he was a very nice man."
"Well, that's a reason, certainly," said Cynthia as she searched through some oblong fruits, and Ajax resumed shopping for smoothie ingredients.

"You know, Cynthia is a Greek name as well," the woman finally remarked.
"Is it?"
"Yes, it means 'from Mount Cynthus,' a mountain where Artemis was supposedly born." Cynthia rolled her eyes. "Dreadful! My parents were not nearly as devout as yours seem to have been, it really is just the sort of name they would pick," she chuckled. "Having said that, understand that what I'm about to say I mean with no disrespect to you. A great disservice is done to a child who is not given a good Hebrew name."

"You think so?" remarked Ajax. "I wouldn't be so sure. I don't think a Greek name inhibits us too much- many early church figures had Greek names."
"True, but many of them were not born to Christian parents," Cynthia remarked. "Nor does claiming to be a Christian and being a part of the tradition really make the former true."
"I wouldn't be too doubtful of them."

"I'm still telling you, Ajax. The Hebrews are God's chosen people, I don't see any reason why we shouldn't use their names. I would much rather be named after Ruth than Artemis." Cynthia smiled. "Many of them have such wonderful meanings, you know. Grace of God, Gift of God, Multitude- that's what Abraham means."
She looked down at her basket.
"I think it would be so nice to given a name by God, like Abraham was. He has chosen not to give me one, though, so I'll remain with the one I was given."

***

"Of course I'd like to divorce him. He's a complete layabout!"
A young woman brought complaint of her husband to Cynthia while she and Ajax talked around a lamp filled with greaseberry oil, and being a woman's grievance, it fell very naturally to Cynthia to address it.

"What if you had a child who was a complete layabout?" said Cynthia.
"I certainly won't with that man. Are you saying he shouldn't be helping around the house?"
"Of course he should. But our goodness towards others must not depend on their goodness towards us."

The young woman growled. "Slothfulness is one of the deadly sins, you know."
"We all struggle with sins," said Cynthia.
"I don't see why that means I have to struggle with him."

Ajax twiddled his thumbs at the table while the two spoke.

"Firstly," Cynthia began, "because God is gracious with us, and so we should be gracious with others. Secondly, because God decries divorce as a sin, except in the case of infidelity."
"Why can't we just allow for a divorce and have grace about that?"
"Grace may abound where sin abounds, but that's no license to sin."
The young woman huffed.

"Now dear," Cynthia began, "I understand that this is frustrating, but don't let that make you rush to a worldly and impious solution."
"What is the 'pious' solution, then?"
"I shall have some of the other men talk to him, and see if they cannot motivate him to be more dutiful. Most importantly, though, I would suggest you pray for him. Pray that God moves in his heart, and I will keep you both in my prayers as well, if it would please you. You can come and pray with me about it, or anything, whenever you need it."
"I have been praying about him," stressed the young woman. "He's not gotten any better!"
"Oh, I certainly understand how that can be frustrating," Cynthia declared. "Yet we should not rush God, instead of trusting that He knows the right thing and the right time to do it. He is certainly wiser than us, after all, and He would not want us to be impatient, either with Him or with men. We are called to be long suffering, and must not return sins against others due to their sins against us."

The young woman clutched her forehead, mumbled something with a tone between irritated defeat and begrudging acknowledgement, and walked out.

"I do hope things get better for the poor girl," said Cynthia to Ajax.
"Yes, that would be very nice," remarked the physician.
"It is a detestable thing, divorces. I should say that increases in divorce went hand in hand with an increase in shameless licentiousness in human culture."
"We would certainly not want any licentiousness taking root," said Ajax stiffly. "Though, Cynthia, if I might-"
"You may."
"Yes, well, what about...more extreme situations?"
"What do you mean?"
"Well, even a husband who does not commit adultery, wouldn't you say it would be more acceptable to, if he is, perhaps, abusive, wouldn't it be acceptable to divorce him?"

"If a man is being abusive to his wife," Cynthia began, "then him being an assaulter needs to be addressed before anyone starts thinking of divorce."

***

Cynthia was quickly brought to the site of the ruckus. A young man from a few miles away had been in Newhill for a few days now, and garnered a fast reputation as a drunkard. He was now making a scene at the general store, having broken merchandise, thrown up on himself, and refused to leave when asked.
Now, Cynthia was somewhat thin, but very tall, and had the sternness of one like her, so there was some expectation that she could convince the traveler to remove himself.

"Get out, you lout!" Cynthia slapped the man's cheek with a plastic ruler.
"Ow, now what kinda way is that to treat a customer?"
"We don't want any business from you while you're in this state, now get out or I'll leave three marks on each side of your face!"
"Now look, grandma-"

Smack!

"Your grandmother would be ashamed to see you like this."
"Alright, geeze, I'm leaving. I'm leaving!"

The young man turned away, nearly fell out the door, slapped his hand against a passing maiden's buttocks, and was promptly thrown onto the pinkish dust outside the town. "You may return when you sober up, clean up, and repent for your drunkenness," said Cynthia.
"I thought you Christian types were supposed to be gracious?"
"Get!" Cynthia brandished her ruler, "back to where you came from!"
And so the man left.

Now, it just so happened that Ajax was nearby when this final exchange occurred, and walked up to Cynthia as she watched the drunkard wonder off into the part of the magenta horizon he'd come from.
"That seemed rather dramatic," said Ajax.
"Unfortunately."

A bit of silence.

"Shouldn't we be gracious, though?" asked Ajax.
"Hm?"
"About what the traveler said. Shouldn't we, as Christians, be gracious to others?"
"It's not very gracious to leave people worse off than we can. It is better for him that we do not tolerate his wickedness, and therefore encourage it. It is certainly better for everyone else that we do not force them to endure it."
"I see."

***

"Cynthia," Ajax said one day, as most of the congregation walked out of the church following the benediction. "I don't mean to be contrary, but I feel like I need to talk to you about your word today."
"I can tell," remarked Cynthia. "You've got that very serious look you get when you don't like what I've said."
"No, no, it's not that I disliked it," assured Ajax. "The message behind it was very good. Don't you think it was perhaps a bit...extreme, though?"
"Extreme?" Cynthia chuckled. "Some people do see God as being 'extreme,' I suppose."

"Yes, well, please consider this," Ajax began. "When James and John asked Jesus if the disciples should call down hellfire like Elijah did, Jesus said no. He said that His purpose was to save lives, and not destroy them."
"Yes," Cynthia concurred, "and I'm not asking him to send down fire to destroy everyone unconditionally. My prayer for the wicked is that God would either save them, or kill them if they can not be saved. If some wicked one can't be saved, why should we want them to remain alive and hurt others?"
"Doesn't that seem a bit heartless?"

Cynthia was visibly upset by this. "Heartless? It's heartless to let the wicked pray on the innocent. I believe in grace, but I will not say that we should take that to mean we should be alright with pedophiles and murderers, and that Jesus would want us to just be so kind to them- no! Ridiculous! That would be letting people be destroyed, not saving them by taking away the thing that's destroying them."

"I understand what you're saying," Ajax said, "and I get it, I really do, it's the sort of thing my mother and father would agree with, but people tended to see them as somewhat...being zealots, and personally I don't feel very comfortable with prayers that, even conditionally, are asking for people to die. If they're wicked and they die, then that sends them to hell, and that's just..."

"Ajax," began Cynthia, "listen. We shouldn't just give up on what God says because it's a little uncomfortable. I'm sure you and I and most of the people in Newhill would say that we'd die for God, but what good is our saying that if we wouldn't even go through some discomfort or bear some disapproval for Him? Those aren't real convictions then."
"I'm concerned the impression it gives will drive people away from Christ."
"Let's not drive them away by selling them a false gospel."

Ajax looked to the floor for a second.

"I haven't always been happy with God in my life," said Cynthia, and a shocked Ajax turned his eyes back up. "Sometimes I wondered why He did certain things, or didn't do certain things, or why He was asking me to do something, or how many more years I would have to wait for His promises to manifest, and a lot of those times I was wondering to myself, what is God even thinking doing this? I understand, but what you'll have to learn is what I had to learn, and that's to trust God, even when it doesn't come naturally." Cynthia smiled warmly. "After all, who can better say what is good than God, who wove the universe and good into it?"

Feeling a bit hot, the young physician wiped his brown and took a deep breath. "I'm just concerned, Cynthia. I don't want Newhill to become some sort of Salem."
"Now Ajax, how do you even think that would happen here?"
"Well, people seemed to be quite alright with calling down fire from heaven to kill the wicked this morning. That's what happened in Salem, and innocent people were killed."
"We would be morally depraved not to take actions against those calling on the servants of Satan to harm children. The issue in Salem is that they saw witchcraft where it was not. As you said, innocent people were killed."
Ajax began to fast more regularly after that.

 

Ferrous's Night Out: This story lifts its main character from the aforementioned roleplaying campaign, but I don't think he'll appear in the reboot.

Spoiler

Ferrous lazily smirked at the few drops left in his shot glass. A warm little buzzing filled him. His eyes swung around the building. The bar seemed better lit and better smelling than when he'd walked in. Outside the window, white snow peppered the black of night;  inside, faces which seemed newly friendly surrounded him. It might have taken two shots, but it seemed like today might end up alright after all. To celebrate, Ferrous decided, he'd have another. "Ey you there!"

The barkeep appeared within a second, holding the desired bottle. "Another?"
"Yeah."

The barkeep poured another. "I don't think I've seen you around before."
"Maybya just forgot," Ferrous slurred, "but ya didn't," and he stretched out a hand. "Ferrous."

The hand went untouched, and Ferrous soon pulled it back to help him down his drink. "I don't know what you put in this stuff, but I really like it!"
"That's straight whiskey."
"I like it."
"I can tell," said the server, wiping out a separate glass. "Something got you down, son?"

Ferrous scoffed. "It's none of your business."
"Of course," nodded the barkeep. "Want to take off that jacket, son? You must be awful hot."
"Stop it!"
A few heads turned their way, briefly.

"My apologies," nodded the barkeep. "None of my business. Sorry for asking, s-"
"No, no, no!" Ferrous growled.

Heads lingered a little longer, but even the relative quiet of a Thursday was enough of a social amalgam to draw everyone back. Outbursts were never too terribly rare anyway, so this was fairly minor and easy to forget, all things considered. The barkeep silently filled another patron's glass, and was a bit surprised when Ferrous seemed to want to resume their conversation.

"Ask whatever you want, don't call me 'son', alright?" Ferrous muttered. "You're not my dad."
"I see. Something got you down, then, Fergus?"
"Ferrous."
"Right, my bad."
Ferrous chuckled. "Not a problem. Sorry for yelling. Very un-chivalrous," he said with a grin. "The old man wouldn't want me to forget my manners."
"Got a lot of respect for your father?"
"Thought the world of him. Can I get another shot?"

The barkeep silently complied, and with an equally quiet grace set about filling more cups and starting more tabs.

"You know," Ferrous said, halfway through swallowing his poison, "I like you, Mr. Barkeep. You seem like a nice guy."
"That's very kind. You seem like an alright lad."
"Heh. Thanks." Ferrous leaned over his shot glass. "Look, I'm really pissed off, you hear?"
He was met with a nod.
"I said: You hear?"
"Yes."
"You asked if something got me down, yeah?"
"Only if it's any of my business."

Ferrous swayed his head in circles. "Ya asked nicely, and ya gave me these drinks. You bought yourself some business having good graces in my book."
"...much appreciated."
"So now I'm gonna tell you what. Those bastards-" Ferrous thumped the counter. "Got the nerve to cut my pay. Cut it like my foreskin. I swear, they must think I just sit around all day with a USB up my urethra or something, 'cause it seems like they don't even want me to stick around. They must think I don't do nothin'."

The barkeep was curious to see what the young man was ranting about, and so decided to let him go on in the hopes that he'd eventually reveal it.

"I mean, maybe they're right," Ferrous said mockingly. "All I do is keep their damn home safe. They work there, they sleep there, think they'd appreciate what I do, right? Sounds important, but since nobody ever tries anything anyway, guess we're useless, huh? Expendable! No one appreciate deterrence," he spat. "Oh, but there's a recession," he said in his most mewling voice. "Economy's not doing too hot. Gotta cut costs to stay afloat. Bullshit. Got any more of that whiskey stuff?"

A brief hesitance, another glass, another swig, a refreshed exhale. "Thank you."
"You're welcome. Real sorry to hear about that."

Ferrous scoffed. "Ah, listen to me! I shouldn't complain."
"What I hear here is confidential," the barkeep assured. "Complain as much as you like."
"No, no, it's unbecoming. Unchivalrous."
"It can be healthy to vent every now and then," said the barkeep, trying not to sound too invested. "There you go, talking about chivalry again. What's up with you and that?"

"It was my dad's thing," Ferrous waved his hand around in the air. "Honesty and hard work and- being nice to women and shit like that. Thought it was just the coolest thing ever. Real admirable ideal. Not that it ended up doing him too many favors," he trailed off into a low, hollow laughter. "They couldn't just screw over me, they couldn't just screw over the rest of security, they gotta screw over my dad too!"

He placed his finger firmly on the counter before him. "He worked for them for over thirty years. Over three decades of cleaning their house. My dad worked his ass to death for them, an' whadda they do to return the favor?"
No answer was expected from anyone except himself.
"I go to them and say they oughta help cover his funeral expenses. They tell me his compensation policy doesn't cover it. The nerve of those-" Ferrous broke into a coughing fit. "The nerve of those bastards. If someone works for you for over half his life, comes in at your beck and call at every Lord-forsaken hour there is, works overtime all the time, does everything you ask him to- chivalry! Bah. Thought he was just doing his job acting like their little slave. And when he stresses himself into a stroke because he's been busting his ass for you since he was seventeen, you damn well better have more respect for him than you do a slave."

Ferrous slumped back, but his body thankfully realized there was no back to his stool, and threw itself back over the counter.

"Fuck you, man! Not you," Ferrous assured the barkeep. "You're a beautiful person, but I'm pissed as hell that they think they can throw money around like life's a damn strip club, with their fancy parties and fancy mansion with the fancy-ass furniture- but when they aren't raking in the cash for a new beach house, they try and squeeze it out of me. For decades my family works for them, and those bastards, they just kick us around and hole up in their little palace. Well, screw them! I'm not going in to work tomorrow. I'll take a day off if I want too! When I took the job, because I was a retarded eighteen year old who can't learn from the mistakes that have been staring me in the face every single day of my life, they promised me a decent wage, and if they aren't going to pay their end of it, I'm not gonna pay mine!"

The barkeep nodded. Ferrous hiccuped.

"Ugh...I must sound like a real little bitch, eh?"
"You sound like you've earned the right to have a moment."
"I sound like I've earned myself a day off."

***

Ferrous suddenly found himself aware of an excruciating thumping which filled his head. He groggily peeled his eyes open, and shut them at the morning light. He tried not to pay too much attention to the smell, mostly because it made his headache worse, but also because it was unfortunately familiar. He didn't need to open his eyes to tell he was still at the bar.

He groaned, trying to push himself to a sitting position, but the movement intensified the pounding which pulverized his brain, and so he settled on barely holding himself up off the ground. He could feel a hardwood floor under him, a sticky one at that.

"Good morning," came a vaguely familiar voice.
Ferrous mumbled something which couldn't quite be made out.
"Would you like some help getting up?"
He nodded very slowly.

The barkeep walked up, grabbed Ferrous by the arm, and with great care helped him up to his feet.
"Don't you sleep?" asked Ferrous, eyes still shut.
"During the day."
"...what time is it?"
"Eight thirty six. You've been out for around nine hours."
"Lord Almighty...got a pickled carrot?"
"A what?"
"Nothing. It's...supposed to help...with the head."

Ferrous tried opening his eyes again. Then again. After a few more tries, he was finally able to squint away from the window.

"Now, kid," said the barkeep, "I really do feel sorry for you. Enough to not throw you out into the snow. Still, I'd like to go home soon. Why don't you call someone to come pick you up?"

Ferrous waited for longer than previously to answer. The barkeep followed his half-open eyes to a screen mounted over the counter. He had turned it to the news to help pass the time, but the closed captions were probably a bit hard for the young patron to read through his hangover.

"Happened last night,"  the barkeep began. "Someone tried to sneak a bomb into the Pride mansion- you know how some people have been getting lately. They caught him before he reached his target, but, well, I suppose he didn't care too much to be captured."
"That's...that's terrible." Ferrous had opened his eyes very wide by then.
"Certainly. There's no official statement, but there's at least six injured. They're saying on the news that one of the house staff tried to tackle the guy before he could do anything. Didn't work out for him, I guess."
"...real noble of him to try," he absently replied. The pounding hangover was no longer the dominant feeling in his head.

"I...I need to go." Ferrous walked towards the door. The bright sun shining off white snow no longer seemed to bother him.
"Don't you you need someone to come get you? You don't have to leave now."
"No, I'm fine-" Ferrous stopped in the doorway. "I mean...I'm fine."

His heart raced. His feet hurried in a random direction. He couldn't even blink. "I should have been there," he muttered. He trudged through the winter streets, always looking ahead and down. He didn't bother crossing any streets, if he found himself in a place where he needed to, he just turned around. He needed to keep his legs busy, to keep something busy, to do anything to keep his mind off of it all, but it still caught up to him eventually. "I can't go back," he told himself. "Oh, no, no...no, I can't even show my face there again. You idiot, you dumbass- what the hell where you thinking? No, no, I can't go back..."

 

Ethical Issues of the Contemporary Emblem: Manaketes were a mistake.

Spoiler

There was a philosopher by the name of Cambyses who lived during the early Age of New Hopes. It was in this age that that continents discovered each other and rediscovered their lost secrets, leading to a technological revolution the likes of which none of them had seen before. With new advances in technology came new uses of magic- each enhanced the function of the other, and together the world's brilliant minds forged a new, safer, and more luxurious world.

Yet this new era was not without new challenges. It was Cambyses who foresaw many of them- Cambyses, who was regarded by the great minds of the Age of New Hopes as the greatest of them, unparalleled in wisdom, and yet who issued many warnings which were ignored.

In one of his more obscure works, To Be Human, Cambyses discussed at length what distinguished man from beast- and what separated man into human, manakete, and various other enchanted subspecies. Beyond those traits physically evident, he discussed at length how these differences forged distinct subcultures and societies, with each race forming rules and traditions suited to their unique aspects, and how these conflicting natures made divisions among them which could not be bridged over...

***

It was a small room. The walls were unpainted brick. It was dimly lit by a musty flame, floating in an old lantern which hung from the ceiling. Two folding chairs and folding table stood underneath. They were grey, plastic- cheap.

Two men sat across from each other. Closer to the door was Cromwell. Opposite was Laius.

"I haven't done anything illegal," said Laius, slumping smugly in his chair. "You'll have to release me."

"I know," Cromwell replied, upright and reservedly postured, but with a cold-blooded judgement beaming from his sunken eyes. "Illegal or not, I'm not letting you go without a few words about your conduct."

"Seems like an abuse of power to me," said Laius impatiently.
"The fact that you haven't been thrown into prison for life is an abuse of protections," Cromwell snapped. "Those rights are to protect decent people- not people like you."
"You can't even charge me with a crime-"
"There's more to decency than following the laws. What you did to Nai is wrong. More than that-"

"How can love be wrong?" Laius barked in a passion unnervingly earnest.

"You've made a pretty good demonstration," Cromwell answered disdainfully.

Laius furrowed his brow and shifted his weight from the chair to the table. "The bond between Nai and I is as legitimate as the love between any two humans or any two manaketes," he declared. "Certainly you've felt something like-"
"Don't compare me to your sick fantasy," Cromwell shot.
"Explain to me, then, what's so wrong about us?"
"I can't even believe you need to ask."
"So what, you can't?"

Cromwell narrowed his eyes. "Nai is just a girl. She's basically twelve. The two of you grew up in the same house- you're practically siblings. Do you not get what that means? How is this okay with you?"

"Ugh, these old arguments?" Laius scorned. "Manaketes age more slowly than humans. Nai is much older than me- older than the laws you're supposed to be upholding, and certainly old enough to consent to a relationship. Also, neither of us are related- we don't have any biological parents in common. We're not even cousins. Therefore-" Laius leaned back, smirking, "both your points are wrong."
"Cheap excuses."
"They're valid reasons.
"No they aren't."
"Nai and I are both old enough to give our consent- we're not hurting anyone."
"I don't think you can reasonably say you'd accept her 'consent,' but that you wouldn't accept the consent of someone who wasn't actually a manakete. I have no doubt in my mind that, because of whatever twisted thing exists in your head to make you think this is okay, you're hurting her, and it's only a matter of time before, directly or not, you hurt someone else."
Laius sat in appalled shock. "How...dare-"

"Listen," interrupted Cromwell. "I want to ask you a question and I want you to really think about your answer. Does it really matter to you if Nai is actually a thousand years old, or if she's not really related to you? I want you to tell me, right now, what difference it would make to you if it suddenly turned out she was just some pointy-eared human born twelve years ago. What difference would it make to you if it was discovered that your father had some affair those twelve years ago and that resulted in her. Would that deter you from your relationship at all?"

"Why would you even need to ask that?" Laius scoffed.
"Because I know the answer is no, and I want you to admit that," said Cromwell. "I want you to admit that you're making excuses and abusing technicalities to justify your depravity, which has gotten someone who isn't mentally prepared for it pregnant."

Constable and culprit locked hateful glares. "It'd make all the difference in the world-" Laius spat.
"How so?" Cromwell immediately pressed.

There was pause. Laius broke it.

"You know what? I've had enough. You let me go now, or I'll be filing a complaint with the magistrate."
"Hah," was Cromwell's wooden response. "Like he'll care about a creep like you."

***

Laius walked out of that police station with no charge. He returned home to Nai.

A very solemn Cromwell requested the station's staff specialist warp him to a diner a few blocks away- the New Nohr. There was a friend of his- a university man by the name of Richard, whom he promised to meet for lunch that day. It was the first time in some time the two had their schedules cleared at the same lunch-appropriate time on a Tuesday, and Richard was quite fond of that particular diner's Tuesday lunch special.

***

Richard leaned against the outside of the New Nohr, flipping through a book, when a dreary form appeared a meter away. "Ah, Cromwell!" The scholar stood straight, shut The Pheraen Occupation of Begnion, and turned gladly to his friend. "Uh...are you alright?"
"I'm fine," muttered Cromwell, walking past Richard towards the entrance. He stopped a few feet past. "Coming in?"
"Oh, of course," Richard nodded, and the two entered.

Richard found them a booth by the window, and wordless they sat down.
Cromwell looked out at the small crowds on the street, his eyes darted back and forth, and suddenly snapped towards the table.
The scholarly man pulled at his sagely robes, scanning the various nooks and crannies of the ceiling until the waitress arrived.

Richard ordered his special. Cromwell glanced over for less than a second, then tersely said he'd have nothing. Richard had expected to at least be excited by his upcoming meal, but even this eagerness was muted. A present and tangible disdain had followed Cromwell from the station and suppressed all pleasures around it.

"Well, she seemed nice, didn't she?" Richard asked.
"I suppose," Cromwell said to his lap.
"...oh, no, no, I didn't mean like- never mind."

Silence again fell over them, but soon became too overbearing for Richard. "You're not hungry?" 
"Not really," Cromwell answered. "I don't like Nohrian food that much anyway."
"Are you sure you're alright?"
"I'm fine."
"You seem like something's on your mind."
"It's nothing."
"Seems like a something to me."

Richard's sandwich arrived.

Cromwell pulled his elbows onto the table and shook his head. "Don't worry about it. You've wanted that sandwich for a month- enjoy it. Don't let it bother you."
"Come on, Cromwell," Richard pleaded, "I could have bought myself this sandwich a week ago. I came here today to talk to a friend. What's wrong?"

Cromwell sighed, then muttered something to an empty place mat.
"What?"
"Laius walked, Ricky," Cromwell explained in a low drum. "That disgusting freak did so much wrong and nothing illegal."

Richard nodded a very slow, understanding nod. "I'm sure that...must be hard for you."
"Very. People with those sorts of urges ought to be in a cage."

Richard poked at his sandwich with a fork. "Well," he began, "he certainly shouldn't act on those urges. But, I don't know if we should judge him for having them- urges aren't something you can help."
"I can't help that I want to put a knife through Laius's throat either." Cromwell raised his head. "Do you judge me for that?"
"Not unless you do it, no."
"Bullcrap."

Cromwell slumped back in his seat. Silence loomed over the two for a moment. Richard moved his fork to the potato salad- if he wasn't going to eat, he might as well remove the eggs from the potato salad. He despised eggs. "You know, Cambyses said that manaketes and humans shouldn't intermix because of the massive age gaps which would necessarily exist in any of their relationships."
"Smart man," said Cromwell.
"Indeed..." Richard scrapped a bit of egg off his fork. "If you'll allow me to play devil's advocate for a moment," he began, speaking very slowly, carefully watching to see how Cromwell might respond. The latter raised his head dully. "What about a relationship between a human and a manakete physically of the same age? Cambyses disagreed with it, but found it slightly more tolerable- there's a very interesting chapter in To Be Human about interspecies, er, escorts-"
"I don't know about that," Cromwell muttered to the side.
"Well, imagine, then, that I have a girlfriend who's a manakete, physically my age. Healthy physical deterrence wouldn't exist in this case- why wouldn't it be a preferable situation?"

"True, true," Cromwell replied, straightening up some- for him, that was relaxing. "It's still unhealthy though, mentally especially. That manakete will be thousands of years older than you- that age gap would have to present you two with some difficulty. I would say, in this case, that she'd be taking advantage of you. I can't imagine how the two of you would be able to relate with such a gigantic gap in personal experiences- you'd be like a child to her."
"But I'm not a child," Richard protested.
"Compared to her, though? Don't we look at old men with girlfriends in their twenties funny, because we know there's something wrong with that relationship?" Cromwell asked.
"True," Richard conceded.
"Now, it is preferable in terms of the physical attraction, but still wrong. What about when you're ninety and barely alive, and she looks the same?"
"I'd argue I'd be taking advantage of her in that case," Richard countered. "I'd be having a trophy that doesn't rust. It would be much like the old man with the young girlfriend. Only, instead of being widowed for dozens of years, she'd be widowed for thousands. Not to mention what that might do, psychologically, to any children we had."
"I suppose you're both exploiting each other, then," Cromwell conceded.
"Isn't that what relationships are all built on?" Richard joked.
"Bah- years of study haven't done you any good, Ricky, if that's the way you look at the world."

Richard shrugged, and finally feeling comfortable enough to do so, took a bite of his sandwich.

"Though now I'm thinking," Cromwell resumed, "that she'd still be the one taking advantage of you, because she's probably leave you for someone who was more on her level, not crippled and senile because of age. Honestly, who would blame her?"

Richard swallowed. "You almost sound like an apologist for Laius at this point," he chuckled. "In eighty years, at least."
"Goodness no-" Cromwell exclaimed, a little more warily. "Nai acts like a child, looks like a child- I don't think Laius is a victim in any capacity here. You can't not question what else he's willing to do if he's willing to do that."
"I won't argue with that. But, that necessarily means that a manakete can have a mental capacity which aligns with their physical body but not their true age," Richard began. "So, in certain rare circumstances, if even for a brief window in their lives, there would be a time where it would be acceptable for a human and a manakete to be romantically involved."

Cromwell rolled his eyes. "Rare and brief being the keywords here. If it's possible, then it's so rare and specific that it might as well not be. Really, Ricky-" Cromwell leaned over the table, glancing briefly at his friend's sandwich. "What's the point in being able to argue so acutely about ethics if you aren't reaching the conclusions we intuitively know are correct? There's got to be something wrong with your approach at that point."

Richard rolled his eyes in return. "Alright, first of all, order yourself something. I doubt you've eaten anything all day."
"I wouldn't want to bother the waitress."
"I'm ordering another special to take home before we leave. Order some food when I do."
"Fine."
"Good. Secondly, I don't think our intuitions are wrong- I just think we haven't reached that conclusion because we haven't fully explored the issue. The intermediate steps might seem uncomfortable, but I trust that the conclusions will be..." Richard searched ferociously for the right word, one precise and academic. "Good," he said finally. "Honestly, I think you're being a little defensive about the issue. I can't understand why, necessarily, which is to say that I can't sympathize, but I can logically understand why. I know you've been in a relationship like this."

Cromwell let out a heavy sigh. One hand gripped a stone in his pocket- an old keepsake of sorts. "Maybe you're right," he admitted. "Maybe I do have a bit of a personal attachment to the issue," he said, dragging a finger along his pointed ear. "I guess we've all made mistakes..."

***

***

I am of the firm opinion that art should promote good morality. So, in addition to feedback on things like prose and character development, I would love to hear what you all have to say about the morals of these stories.

Edited February 24, 2023 by AnonymousSpeed

[AnonymousSpeed]

Added "the Fireman," a story I wrote a couple of months ago for the writing contest, under "Miscellaneous." Cleaned up a few typos, so hopefully that counts as an improvement.