6Hills - The Wolf’s Head

The Wolf’s Head
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A Tale Set in the Lost City of Six Hills

                The rain that fell in the forest descended like the vengeance of Nature herself.  As Malle ran beneath dripping branches, her clothes and skin already soaked, she thought of how she and her brother would use the trees for shelter from the rain when they played in these woods as children.  She remember leaning tightly against old oaks, the bark rough against her back, laughing breathlessly alongside her twin as they watched the summer showers fall between the cover of the trees, leaving endless circles of dry grass, each with a mighty tree bursting up from its centre.  Back then, it had seemed almost magical, the way they could stay perfectly dry under the protection of the trees, while just a few feet away the grass was drenched and the dry, parched soil turned to mud.  More lately, it was if Nature no longer cared for these little pink things that ran among her green children, and had forbidden the trees to offer them succour.

                Onward she ran, as the rain pelted her with its cold, wet sting.  Ahead, a small cave loomed out of the weather’s damp and grey shroud.  Really, it was little more than an outcrop of rock that jutted from the side of a small hillock, but in Malle’s eyes it was sanctuary from this vicious and unseasonably cold downpour.  Arms held ineffectually over her head to shield her, she darted out from the treeline into the little clearing that surrounded the outcrop’s opening and flattened herself against the cold stone at its back, turning to watch the world vanish behind the curtain of water that fell before her.  Panting for breather, Malle leaned forward to wring her hair out as best she could, before trying to do the same with her dress but there was a limit to the success she could achieve.  Still, despite the rain it was a warm enough evening and she wasn’t concerned about catching anything worse than a slight chill, so she stood, and she waited, looking at the forest through the grey blur of rain and hoping that the summer downpour would soon pass.  When such an event looked a long time in the waiting, Malle realised she might as well get comfortable, and sat down upon the bare soil that was sheltered by the outcrop, water from her clothes slowly seeping into the cracked earth.

                She leaned against a squat stone that sat beside her, and sighed.  It wasn’t just the weather that had lately grown surlier; the city’s alley cats, never the most sociable or affectionate of animals, now hissed at anyone who came near them, even those bearing scraps of food.  Her parents always seemed to be at one another’s throats, and the traders of Lower Flightfire’s market were more prone to arguing than bartering.  It seemed that everyone and everything in the City of Six Hills was growing more and more choleric.  Times like these, she missed having someone to talk to.  She missed her brother.  When he’d been around, it didn’t matter how bad things got, there was always a glimmer of hope that everything would turn out right.  But it was months since anyone had seen either hide or hair of him.  Sighing again, and now bored as well as damp and morose, Malle looked down at the rock she was leaning on; it was surprisingly comfortable for piece of stone.  Perhaps it was just her boredom talking, but it was actually quite an interesting rock to look at.  If she leaned back and regarded it from the right angle, it looked a little bit like the head of a wolf.  Or at least, like the head of a wolf might look like if it had been made out of stone and then left in a damp forest for a number of years.  It was weird, but the moss growing on the top and down one side of the stone gave it a look almost like a shaggy pelt, and a chunk of some impurity or other in the stone formed a small patch of red just where the eye should be.  It was probably just one of those things, like how if you looked at a certain cloud a certain way it would stop being a cloud and become a lion, or a bear, or the face of someone you know.  Certainly astrology showed that, if nothing else, people were superlative in the matter of seeing familiar patterns in nature.  Shrugging to herself, Malle again turned to regard the dreary rain beyond the shelter of her little cave and leaned upon the wolf-rock.  In time she grew tired and, making a pillow of her folder arm, lay her head down upon the rock and dozed.

* * *

                Malle looked around the forest.  It wasn’t raining anymore, though the ground was still damp and the air smelled of wet vegetation.  Her clothes were still wet, too, and cold where they clung to her body.  And her body… her body felt weird.  She was in the middle of a forest, she was cold, and she was soaked to the skin, but for some reason she felt excited.  Had she more experience of such matters, she’d realise it was blossoming arousal, but to Malle it just felt like a strange, almost tickling heat that built up from her loins and warmed her despite the chill of her wet dress.

                The cracking of twigs, some distance behind her, brought her out of her reverie and had her looking about the forest in a startled panic, but she could see nothing beyond the vegetation all around her.  Then another snap, and this time she turned in time to see the stems and leaves of a small bush twitching, as if someone had just brushed past them.  The third sound was a growl, a low and bestial growl that bypassed Malle’s ears and brain and reached deep into her spine.  Over the hundreds of thousands of years of their existence, human bodies had developed just one response to that kind of growl – RUN.  And Malle did, not even looking to see where it was coming from and concerning herself more with making sure she was going away from it as fast as her legs could carry her.

                Her bare feet pounded on the slimy surface of the wet top layer of soil, struggling for traction and only sheer terror keeping her upright as her body took over from her brain.  Behind her she could hear the crashing sound of the creature – a bear, a wolf, a cougar? – charging through the undergrowth and bearing down on her.  She leapt over a fallen tree trunk with agility that surprised her, and barely even slowed as she landed on the other side.  What was it her father had taught her, all those years ago?  Four legs are faster than two, and can run for longer, but two legs can turn quicker.  And so she skidded into a turn and darted off in a new direction through the trees, flailing at low hanging branches that whipped at her face, while her pursuer growled in outrage as it slid past where she’d turned and thumped into the side of a tree.  Within moments it was back in pursuit, though, and already making up the lost ground on its prey.  Malle’s heart pounded in her chest and she could feel wetness between her thighs, coupled with an ancient and powerful yearning that she had felt before but never so strong.  Tears in her eyes as she fled in panic, her feet sore and bleeding from a myriad of tiny cuts and punctures courtesy of the pine cones and twigs she ran across, Malle carried on through the forest, her legs and lungs burning with exertion.  She didn’t know how much longer she could stay on her feet for, but the growing fear in her chest told her that however long it was would not be long enough to out-pace the beast at her heels.  Ducking under a branch that would have left her flat on her back, Malle had to react quickly to hurdle a log on the other side.  Too quickly, in fact, and the foot of her trailing leg clipped the broken remnants of a branch that stabbed upwards from the obstacle, forcing her into an graceless landing, with her other foot finding little purchase in the slick mud.  She knew, in that moment, she was lost.  Time seemed to slow down for Malle as he senses drank in every last bit of information they could managed, desperately seeking something that would prolong her survival, but ultimately they came up with nothing that could combat the combined forces of inertia and momentum that bore Malle to the ground.  She landed hard, the wind driven out from her and a sharp, searing pain in her arm telling her she had in all likelihood broken something as she hit the ground.

                Gasping for air in great, wracking sobs, Malle rolled painfully onto her back to at last face the creature that had been pursuing her, and beheld the largest wolf she had ever seen.  The thing was huge, and seemed all the more massive as it strode towards her, looming over her prone body and standing above her.  Her eyes met those of the wolf and she saw nothing but hunger there – remorseless, pitiless hunger.  To the wolf, she was not some poor girl on the cusp of womanhood, she was not an innocent life about to be snuffed out, and she was not even a poor wounded creature.  No, she was nothing more than dinner.  She continued to stare into those intelligent, golden eyes as the creature stopped and looked down at her, its forepaws planted either side of her chest and its hindpaws between her ankles.  The wetness at her loins was such that she idly wondered if she’d emptied her bladder in fear, while her eyes drank in every detail of the wolf’s face, from the damp, slightly bumpy surface of its nose to each individual hair that covered the rest of him.  They remained that way for a moment, each gazing into the other’s soul, before there was a blur of motion from the wolf, a sudden and overwhelming burst of pain around her throat, a sickening crunch, and then nothing.

* * *

Malle looked around the forest.  It wasn’t raining anymore, the ground was dry and the air smelled of hot, baked earth and of flowers.  Her clothes too were dry and there was a pleasantly warm breeze drifting past her, stirring what little grass grew on the forest floor.  A voice spoke behind her and she turned to face a man, standing comfortably at ease despite being entirely naked.  He was tall, taller even than Gerald the smithy of Lower Flightfire, and as broad as he across the shoulder.  Though where Gerald’s arms and torso were rounded with bulk and his wife’s home-cooking, the man before her was lean and sinewy.  He looked as though home-cooking was not something he would even recognise, and there was not an ounce of fat upon him.  He spoke again but Malle wasn’t listening, she was too distracted by this specimen before her, her eyes roaming hungrily over his nude form, noticing the slight twitches of muscles under the skin as he shifted his weight from one foot to the other.  Noticing, too, the dark, thick hair that covered his body, especially noticeable on his forearms, across his chest, and on the widening trail that led from his navel to his groin.  There her eyes lingered till she felt her cheeks flush hot with blood.  She hadn’t seen very many penises in her seventeen years of life, but she could tell that this one was larger than most.  It was magnificent, to her.  Even if it had suffered the indignity of being hidden behind trousers its shape would still have been plain to see.  The man spoke again and Malle reluctantly dragged her gaze away from his loins and to his face.  He was tanned, with no lines or marks to suggest her ever wore any more clothes than he wore now, and his cheeks and jaw were thickly covered in a wild growth of beard.  His eyes were golden, and looked upon her with clear intelligence, but also with a hunger so pure, so burning and primal that she felt her heart tighten in fear.  He stepped forward, speaking softly as he reach up to cup her cheek.  His touch was gentle, almost kind, and though his fingers were stained with mud they felt soft and warm against her skin.  She leaned into his hand as he stepped close enough that she could smell the animalistic scent that rolled off of him.  The smell of his sweat, his breath, his hair, his skin, and his sex.  This close, it became intoxicating, and Malle felt her knees weaken as the man curled his other arm around her waist, pulling her in close to him and taking her weight.  She leaned against him, one hand on the thick hair of his chest and the other reaching up to hold onto his toned shoulder, and Malle gasped quietly as she felt his beard and lips brush softly over her neck.  He asked her a question, and she nodded her agreement, moaning quietly as he kissed first her ear, then her cheek.  Another query and Malle nodded again, her breath catching in her throat.  Once more, the man asked her the same question, this time with more urgency, and the slightest hint of a growl in his voice.

“Yes,” vocalised Malle, at last, and she felt his hands move lower over her body, smoothly running down her back to her rump, squeezing and lifting at the same time and pressing himself to her.  Her clothes were no longer so dry, though the weather could not be blamed this time.  His sweat began to soak into the fabric of her dress as her arms wrapped around him, while the softer linen of her underwear was so wet she may as well have just stood a lake.  He lifted her bodily and she wrapped her legs around his waist, her skirts bunching up between them and something rising from beneath to prod insistently at the damp union between her thighs.  “Yes,” Malle repeated to his unspoken question, as he pushed her up against a tree, one hand reaching down to tear at her underthings, ripping the flimsy and sodden material and casting it aside.  “Yes!” She cried, a third time, and all she felt was a slight pressure against her nethers before her world exploded.  Light became sound, sound became touch, and touch became everything at once.  The forest was gone, and the rest of existence with it, till it was just him before her, with her in his arms and his prick within her.  She hurt, she hurt so much, but that was nothing against the feelings that flowed through her.  Her veins felt as though they were on fire, and her muscles quivered with barely-contained energy.  He pushed deeper within her and the stars before her eyes gave way to inky blackness as she gave herself to his hunger.

* * *

Malle looked around the forest.  It wasn’t raining anymore, the ground was dry and the air smelled of distant smoke while small eddies of breeze sent dry leaves tumbling over her feet.  Her clothes were gone and though the air was cool enough to raise goose bumps from her bare skin she did not find it uncomfortable.  Malle looked ahead and beheld the largest wolf she had ever seen.  He was huge, and seemed all the more massive as he strode towards her, his golden eyes watching her carefully.  She knelt down as he approached, her arms spread to greet the great beast as he padded over.  She felt his teeth brush her cheek, biting with the slightest of pressure, just barely enough to dimple her flesh, and she threw her arms around his great neck.  Her fingers groomed through the wolf’s luxurious pelt as he sat on his haunches, and her breasts pressed against his chest, the hard rosy pink nubs of her nipples caressed by soft fur.  Smiling, Malle sat back on her heels and moved her hands to caress his face, stroking over his head and rubbing behind those huge, ever-alert ears.  He bumped his muzzle against her chin, before hunkering down to place his head between her thighs, there his broad tongue lapping out slowly to taste the dewy nectar that clung to the hair surrounding her sex.  Malle sighed peacefully and ran her fingers through the shaggy pelt of her lover’s back, cooing soft terms of endearment to him.  Suddenly, the wolf was alert and sitting bolt upright, ears pricked and his nose sniffing all around.  He stopped as abruptly as he had started, staring fixedly off into the distance and starting to quietly growl.  Malle turned to see what had got his attention, and spied a solitary doe, wondering serenely through the forest barely a hundred yards up-wind of them.

The wolf looked to her, a question in his eyes, and Malle nodded in response.  “Yes,” she said, and then the wolf was off, bounding across the forest floor with a quiet that belied its great size.  She was on her feet and following, surprising herself with her own fleetness as she caught up with the wolf, running alongside him as they bore down upon their quarry.  The doe heard them, but far too late, and was able only to look round and bleat in terror before several hundred pounds of wolf collided with it and knocked it to the ground.  Malle was barely a second behind, and arrived at the doe just as the wolf tore its throat out with one swift, merciless chomp of its great jaws.  Blood sprayed against his face, staining his grey fur crimson and reaching as far as Malle’s bare feet.  With the deer’s life’s juices dripping from his maw, he turned to Malle and growled a question.  “Yes,” she replied, nodding numbly as she stared at the doe’s ravaged throat.  Kneeling down as the dying animal’s limbs kicked and thrashed, Malle placed on hand gently upon the doe chin and tilted its head back before leaning in, her wolf companion mirroring her and watching her curiously.  Her loose hair dangled down into the doe’s raw wound as blood continued to spurt freely, though with rapidly less and less force as life fled from the stricken creature.  “Yes,” said Malle again, before lowering her head and sinking her teeth into the hot, wet flesh.  Her vision blurred, and everything else in the world went away save for her and her lover, and the food before them.  Her sharp teeth tore at the deer’s meat and Malle swallowed a bloody chunk, relishing every exquisite sensation it aroused as it slid down her throat and down into her belly, there to sate her hunger.

* * *

Malle looked around the forest.  She could not have slept long, as it was still raining, though not nearly as heavily as before.  Up above the shelter provided by the rocky outcrop, a crack in the grey clouds could be seen, with bright blue sky beyond.  Stretching, she yawned loudly before sleepily licking her lips and nose.  Then, golden eyes blinking as the early evening sunlight started to filter through the gaps in the rain clouds, Malle gave her hindquarters a shake and trotted off into the forest.

6Hills - The Wyrm's Bridge

The Wyrm’s Bridge

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A Tale of the City of Six Hills

                Up ahead lay her goal.  Or rather, the final path to her goal.  A narrow rope bridge that spanned a terrifyingly deep crevice between her side of the mountain and the cave built into the peak above.  After crossing the bridge, she would still have a winding and rock-strewn path up to the cave itself, but that wasn’t much of an obstacle to anyone with reasonably sure feet and some climbing gear.  No, the real obstacle was getting across the perilous bridge to the other side.  The bridge itself wasn’t a problem – good balance and a head for heights would see her through.  The problem with the bridge was that its owner was known for not being too keen on visitors.  Damaris knew without looking that the bottom of the ravine below the bridge was decorated with the broken bones of most of those who had come before her.  “Most” because a goodly proportion of them had decided that caution was the better part of valour and had rather sensibly turned around and gone home, preferring to face ridicule rather than a fall to their death.

                Damaris, however, had confidence that she would continue where they had faltered, and succeed where they had failed.  Still, it was something of a gambit.  Taking a deep breath to steady her jangling nerves, Damaris took a half-step forward and placed her foot on the base rope of the bridge, holding one of the mooring posts for support.  And there she waited; if there was one thing that all of the cowardly but sensible survivors had been clear about, it was that one did not rush ahead, here.  Actually, they’d also all agreed on the matter of the sheer breeches-shitting terror of what was to come, but that wasn’t helpful to think on right now.  So she put her weight forward onto the bridge, and then stepped back and waited.

                Minutes later, just as the chill of the thin mountain air was beginning to seep through her leather jerkin and the urge to start moving about again became almost irresistible, Damaris heard the signal that she had been waiting for.  High above her head, in the grey mists that encircle and hid the mountain’s summit, came a sound like somebody rhythmically hitting a heifer with a carpet-beater, only the heifer in question was the size of a building and they were being struck by a giant.  And then, amidst the swirling cloud, she saw a hint of movement and a shadow that rapidly grew larger before bursting out of the mist and into plain sight.  The creature was enormous, with its scaled body easily the size of the mayor’s office back in the city, it’s great tail half as long as the street she grew up on, and each bat-like wing the size of a half dozen mainsails stitched together.  With gradually softening wingbeats that were still loud enough to make Damaris wince, the dragon settled down across the gorge from her and regarded her with undeniably intelligent eyes.  Its horse-like head, on the end of a long and serpentine neck, moved through the air as it regarded her from a number of angles.  Quietly, patiently, and one small step away from abject terror, Damaris continued to wait.

                “Who are you, and what do you want?” Boomed the great voice of the beast, at last.  Damaris braced herself as the gale-force wind of its breath buffeted her.  Steeling herself, Damaris swallowed before speaking.

                “I am Damaris de Montfort, and I come seeking your most valuable treasure!” Her voice was raised, as she sought to hide her fear behind a bold face; the dragon seemed indifferent.

“Many have come seeking my treasure.  All have gone away empty-handed, or died here.  Why should you not join them?” Demanded the dragon.

“All that have come before me have underestimated you, oh great wyrm.  They have sought to wheedle you with flattery, or outmatch you with their wits.  The truly stupid have even tried to assault you, like birds pecking a mountain.” The dragon allowed a slight smirk to tug at the corner of his mouth.

“You, I take it, have another strategy in mind.  Will you appeal to my reason or my honour?  Will you seek to bribe me, or to convince me with moral arguments?” His tone was amused: he enjoyed it more when they tried to talk him out of his treasure.  Defeating an idiot in a suit of armour was no challenge at all, and while these dull little creatures were not difficult to outwit, it was at least a minor diversion and a moment’s entertainment.

“Nothing so banal, my lord dragon.  I wish to trade.” Damaris spread her arms, showing that she had not even brought any weaponry with her, besides the equipment required to make it this far up the mountain.

“Trade?  My, that is a new stratagem!  But what, dear fleshy little human, do you have to offer me that you think will be of comparable worth to my treasure?” Leaning his head out over the chasm that separated them, the dragon gave a wry grin.

“It is not your regular treasure that interests me, but you greatest treasure.  And I offer mine in exchange, that we might pool them together and both benefit greatly.”  With several minutes having gone by without any hint of being eaten or roasted alive, Damaris grew bolder.  She understood that she was still at the whim of this terrible creature but knew also that so long as she had his interest she was safe.  Dragons were nothing if not curious, after all.

“My greatest treasure? And what is that?  And what is your greatest treasure?” The great beast folded its forelimbs under itself and leaned forward further, its neck stretching halfway across the chasm.  Damaris smiled.

“Your seed, oh great dragon lord, and my womb.”  This was it, the moment of truth.  Either she had him now or she wasn’t going to need to worry what tomorrow held.  The dragon blinked, slowly, and reared its enormous head up, regarding Damaris with a puzzled look.

“My…?  Hm.”  The area fell into silence, save for the whispering of the wind as it wound its way around the canyon below.  Damaris shifted her weight from foot to foot, starting to grow impatient as the dragon considered her offer.  At last, the dragon spoke, “It is true that I have no offspring, and it is also true that am quite capable of mating with one of your people, perverse though the act might be.  However, the creature you would birth would be neither dragon nor human, but a half-breed.  He would possess some of my intellect and a fraction of my puissance, but he would not be able to fly and would be nearly as frail as you.  What use would I have of a bastard creature such as that?”

“Influence, my lord,” replied Damaris. “He would be able to pass as human, would he not?  And he would, as you said, be mightier and more cunning than any human.  Individually, there is no person in the City of Six Hills who could hope to stand against you, but the combined power of the city, its magisters, and its artillery, is such that even one as immense as yourself could not hope to prevail.” She hesitated; dragons were, as a breed, arrogant creatures and it was risky to remind him of his inability to conquer the lands at the foot of his mountain.  However, she clearly had his interest, as there was little more than a raised eye-ridge at her comment, and a flaming death failed to materialise.  “But if you had an ally, a creature of your blood who could infiltrate the city and bend it to your will, would this not be achieving with guile that which pure force could not deliver to you?”  The dragon stared at her, its reptilian eyes unblinking and its focus unwavering.  She felt her own eyes begin to water, just trying to hold the creature’s gaze.  And then it smiled; at least, she hoped that was a smile and not a snarl.

“You are insolent, but also bold and, dare I say it, wise.  You speak the truth, Damaris de Montfort.”  There was a shimmer in the air like that of a smithy’s forge, and the dragon seemed to become blurred, as though she was looking at him through eyes too tired to focus.  Then, where that just a moment ago sat many tonnes of dragon, there stood a handsome and very much human male, dressed in red silk fineries.  The thunderclap that accompanied the transformation nearly pulled Damaris off her feet as the air rushed in to fill the space so recently vacated by the dragon’s bulk.

“You may cross freely,” he said, his voice no longer so loud or so powerful as to make her ears ring.  The figure turned and rose, gracefully and effortlessly, through the air and up to the mouth of the cave at the mountain’s summit.  Still hesitant, wary of being tricked by a capricious dragon, Damaris started to follow, crossing the rope bridge with great care before making her way up the scree-covered path to the dragon’s home.

* * *

                

Deus Ex Machina - The Ministry

Deus Ex Machina

Chapter 1 – The Ministry

Winston couldn’t remember how he’d got there, but he knew where he was.  Information that was less reassuring than one might think.  They’d taken him in the night, that much he knew at least.  Quite apart from it being how they worked, his last memory before waking up here in this plain white tiled, excessively-lit, and extremely Spartan holding cell had been lying in bed, in his modest and slightly-cramped but nevertheless acceptably comfortable apartment, contemplating... well, he couldn’t remember exactly what he’d been contemplating but it probably wasn’t anything massively interesting or relevant.

And then here, in the Ministry, in one of their holding cells.  The Ministry of Inner Peace, to give it the full title.  The Ministry was one of several such facilities owned and controlled by the Clergy, and used by them to own and control the Clay – the ordinary people who lived and toiled in this imperfect world.  Like all the other such ministries, its name was true in a sense, but not in the sense you’d want it to be.  Unlike the rest, it was the only ministry to be known simply and ominously as “The Ministry”.  It concerned itself with spiritual matters.  Generally of a fairly final variety, after the less terminal but no-less sinister Ministry of the Soul had failed to suitably mould a member of the Clay to the Clergy’s liking, or after a moulded piece had cracked and decided to think for itself.

He had no idea how long he’d been here.  That was something of a speciality of the Ministry and one that they certainly excelled in – keeping you guessing.  The room that he’d awoken in – and now sat in the middle of – was ten tiles long, ten tiles wide, and ten tiles high, with each square, super-clean and shiny white tile being slightly less than half a metre across.  There was no obvious light-source, but the room shone with a level of light designed to be only just beyond what most people could comfortably tolerate.  And if they caught you not squinting, then they’d raise the luminance levels; or maybe lower them, to let your eyes settle back down, and then raise them back up again just as they stopped stinging.  There was a bench, in the wall, set at a height just too high for him to be able to sit comfortably on it, and the bench itself – a plain, dull grey steel affair – was far too thin to be able to fit his buttocks.  More of a shelf, really.  

To bring back to the point about guessing – there was, and this is important, no window or clock.  Nothing to tell the time of day by.  Within the cell, one would not have the least bit of inkling as to whether it was day or night outside.  And as the room’s temperature was carefully kept at just a shade too cold to be wearing the lightweight, paper-thin and paper-frail fatigues he was wearing, he couldn’t even rely on the warmth of the day to give him a clue.

He couldn’t even hazard a guess at where he was in the building.  The Ministry was a tall, elegant structure that looked slender only because of its enormous height, and the outside of the building would take a full twenty minutes to walk around, if it was possible to do so without being accosted by guards every fifty paces.  Below those dozens of storeys, there were rumoured to be dozens upon dozens of basement levels below-ground; but the only people who ever had the chance to wander around and find out were members of the Clergy – Clay like him could only go on hearsay and scattered reports from the very few and much-addled souls who survived being purified.  Normally, he’d be able to at least hazard a guess as to where he was relative to sea level, but the Ministry even had that one covered by keeping the entire building pressurised – every door to every room and every corridor formed an airtight seal and near-silent fans were at work behind the tiles to adjust the air pressure for every location to keep it constant.  He could hear them whirr to life to adjust the air pressure in the room, but the adjustments were too slight for him to tell if the pressure was increasing or decreasing, and the ventilation of the room was designed to make any breeze from the fans utterly diffuse.

Really, he’d like to think it was just the day after they’d taken him, but he knew from underground reports that he would have been drugged on a slow-release anaesthetic to keep him under for as long as they wanted, and he had awoken to discover himself clean-shaven, freshly-washed, and with his nails clipped short.  No doubt they would have taken care of his bodily needs while he was under, if necessary.  Really, it could have been an hour since he fell asleep at home, or a week.

With nothing else to do, and nothing at all to see, he remained sitting upon the cold floor, staring at the wall in front of him, and waiting to see what the Clergy’s next move was.

There were five hundred and ninety-one tiles in the room.  That didn’t make sense – there were ten along each side of the square that formed each wall, the floor, and the ceiling, meaning a hundred to the side of the cube he was in, and six sides to the cube that made the room.  Yet, five hundred and ninety-one tiles he’d counted.  He’d even checked to see if there were indeed ten tiles in every row and column, and he had found that there were, but whenever he tried to count them all, the answer came back time and time again as five hundred and ninety-one.

He’d not seen anyone yesterday.  Well, relative yesterday.  Eventually he’d fallen asleep on the floor, and when he’s woken up he was again clean shaven and freshly washed. He didn’t feel hungry or full, either, so they must also have fed him something while he was out. 

Later, he had dozed again, not long after waking up for the second time, and there was another person in the room, dressed identically to him.  An older man, with his head-scales greyed with age and who looked to be some way into his senior years.  The markings of his beak were faded, and his eyes were sunken and somehow aged far more than the rest of him.  The elder sat on the bench, perched awkwardly on that detestably straight and narrow platform, his rump not even slightly fitting.  In the silence of the room, Winston fancied he could hear the cartilage of the other man’s knees creak with the effort of keeping him seated.  He flounced his crest in greeting, and stood slowly and stiffly from the tiles floor – nine along each side, he noticed – to wander over to the other occupant of the room.  Right primary raised to greet the older man, he coloured his pleasure in seeing another person, whilst being careful to keep himself as non-threatening as possible.  It didn’t seem to matter, however; the elder just stared at him in wide-eyed horror for a moment, before looking away and seeming for all the world to shun his existence.

“Vessel C142/572/K845!” Screamed the electronic voice, coming from all the walls at once.  The elder on the bench flinched at the painfully loud noise and fell from the bench and onto his creaking knees, while Winston froze at the calling of his number, “You will not approach the other Vessel!  Return to the middle of the room and remain seated!”  Hurriedly, and bemused and confuddled, his ears still ringing from the noise, Winston moved to comply.  

When nothing further was said for a full five seconds, the older prisoner prostrated himself upon the floor of the cell, his arms aligned at ninety degrees to each other in the traditional prayer position, and hastily muttered out an earnest beseeching to the Great One in the old tongue.  He’d not managed a full verse before a door swung open in the wall opposite the cell’s bench and two black-clad, helmeted and visored guards, their beaks masked, stormed into the room and hauled the older male onto his  haunches as a third guard – presumably their commander for he wore no helmet or mask – strode in behind them.  Hoof-tipped toes thudded out a sharp, menacing rhythm as he strode across the cell, his crest vibrating with threat.  As the elder was held up, arms wide and pinned away from his body, the guard commander’s skin flushed a violent purple colour and his beak opened, hissing an oath before one heavy fore-foot swung back and was launched into the hapless prisoner’s breast like a wrecking-ball.  The elder screamed - a thin, hoarse sound of terror, regret and shame – as the fist-like foot slammed into his chest with a sickening thud; his crest flattened and his skin faded to the palest of blues but the surrender was lost upon the commander.

“Wretch!  Unworthy!  Your clay is weak and not fit to hold the splendour of our God’s love!”  The foot swung in again, and this time there was an audible crack from the elder’s chest as something gave way under the commander’s swinging foot.  He screamed, again, then sobbed and let his head droop.  “We will save you.  We will break your clay so that it might be made whole again with His grace and held true to His honour!  And at your end, you will give thanks to us that we allowed you to once again be pure in His Sight!” Again the old prayers were rushed out from his faded and worn beak, and again the commander delivered another venomous kick to the old man’s chest, knocking the speech out of him.  The guards released the old man’s arms and he fell to the ground without another utterance, rolling onto his side and slowly gathering all four arms around his wounded chest, drawing his legs up and just lying there, sobbing wretchedly as the guards and their leader left the room.

Winston sat there in silence throughout it all, his crest hugging his head and his skin so pale as to be almost white.  The elder had done nothing!  He had prayed for forgiveness, prayed that he might redeem his sins and be given the strength to live a good life!  Wasn’t that what the Clergy wanted?  Piety, faith, contrition?  He couldn’t help but feel that it was his fault, that the old man had been so savagely beaten because Winston, in his innocent stupidity, had sought to show him compassion and friendship.  They hadn’t hurt him because he had prayed, they had hurt him because Winston had tried to establish some sort of contact with him, and the Clergy did not like the Clay to be united in anything other than love for their god and hatred for their sinners.  And so Winston sat there still, hind-limb tucked under him and hugging his knees to his chest while he nervously tapped the claws of his fore-feet on the tiles of the floor.

He must have slept at some point, even though he didn’t recall feeling tired enough to do so.  Once again, he had been shaved, trimmed and cleaned, and so had the old man, who now lay there on the floor, exactly as before, his breath rasping and laboured but his frame otherwise completely still.  Winston counted the tiles – ten along a side, again, and six hundred and fourteen in total.  He sighed to himself, and looked again to the elder.  Winston wasn’t especially well-versed in medicine but he was reasonably sure that the old man was dying – his breathing was definitely not healthy and Winston had never see anyone’s skin go that pink before.  Every few seconds, the elder’s crest twitched and fluttered spasmodically.

“Please!  I think he’s dying!” There was no reply.  His eyes desperately looking around the room as Winston fervently searched for some sort of signal that he’d been heard. “It... It’s my fault!  I shouldn’t have tried to speak to him!  I’m sorry, I am so sorry!” He threw himself to the ground, hindquarters raised and his arms splayed in a cross.  “I was weak and unworthy!  Punish me but let him live!  Please, help him?”  Still, no reply.  The room was entirely silent save for the sound of his blood rushing in his ears, and the sputtering breaths of the elder by the bench.  Winston lay there for some minutes, trying to will a guard to open the door and send an apothecary in, but he failed.  Eventually, he pulled himself up onto his haunches and, with a pitying and sorrowful look to the old man, went back to hugging himself.

Winston woke again.  The old man was still there, exactly where he’d been the last time he’d seen him, and his condition hadn’t improved at all; quite the opposite.  Every breath sounded like it was taking all the elder’s strength to draw, though he remained unconscious.  Winston started to count the tiles to pass the time, but stopped before he’d got halfway along one wall; why bother?  Every time he woke it was different, so either he and the wounded elder were being moved to different rooms that were identical in everything except for the tile count, or the tiles were being changed while they slept.  Either way, it was a pointless and futile task that served him nothing.  Winston sighed.  He was actually hungry, this time.  Come to think of it, he’d been hungry the last time he’d woken up, but he’d been too concerned about the elder’s condition to pay much attention to his own.  But now, yes, he was definitely hungry.  He rubbed his chin with a secondary; stubble on his neck, so apparently they’d stopped shaving him as well as no longer feeding him.

At some point, the old man died.  Winston heard the elder’s breathing slow right down before entering a brief, panicked rasping, and then cease altogether.  A few moments later there’d been a horrible, rattling noise as the old prisoner’s chest sunk for the last time, and then Winston was alone.  Time passed, and still nothing.  No guards, no voice, not even a hint that they were imminent.  He sighed and looked over to the elder, saw his body cooling, already a few degrees lower than when he’d breathed his last.

-Winston?-

He blinked.  The voice was firm but gentle, and unmistakably female.  Winston looked around; was this another trick? 

-Winston Mount-Chappel?  Don’t say anything, keep looking blankly at the wall in front of you, and scratch your right knee if you can hear me. -

Winston hesitated.  If this was a trick, then he’d probably get in trouble for doing what the voice said.  He’d probably get in trouble if he didn’t do what it said, too.  The Clergy were like that.  Weighing up the options, he figured he’d rather get in trouble for obedience than rebellion, given the situation.  He scratched his right knee. 

-Okay, good.  Now, you’re probably thinking that this is a trick – Don’t look up!-

He ducked his head back down again, eyes wide; how had the voice, whoever she was, known what he was thinking? 

-You won’t like the answer to that one, Winston.  Now, we don’t have much time, because even though you think they’ve been ignoring you, in about three more minutes the door is going to open and some very unpleasant men are going to come in here, beat you till you black out, then drag you away to be interrogated, tortured at great length, redeemed, and eventually purified.-

Winston’s skin went pale blue and his crest hugged his head so tight it hurt.  He was also fairly sure that he’d just evacuated his bladder, a little bit.  

-I can’t explain everything now, and I can’t answer any of your questions, there just isn’t time.  I Can’t even tell you why you should trust me, just that it’s very important to both of us that you do.  Do you trust me?  Scratch your knee again if you do.-

Winston hesitated for a moment - as it was, he was almost going to die, after suffering torture at the hands of a group who had spent a lot of time and effort in getting the act down to a real science.  He couldn’t think of any way in which his situation could get worse.  He scratched his knee.  

-Good.  I want you to close your eyes, and picture a door.  It’s your door, to your home.  On the other side, knocking patiently, is me.  I’m an old friend, and you’ve invited me round for dinner.  I’m at the door, Winston.  I need you to open it for me and invite me in.  Can you do that for me?-

He scratched his knee again and concentrated.  The door to his home – slightly oval, painted a soft green on the inside, with a small glazed panel inset at head height.  He saw her there on the other side of the door, her scales bright with youth and energy, her skin flush with excitement at seeing a dear friend again, and her crest standing high, rustling slightly.  She was beautiful, she always had been, and Winston had loved her since the first day he met her, loved her as a true and honest friend, in a way that he’d never thought to be possible.  He opened the door.

Koto opened her eyes too wide and immediately regretted it.  Screwing them down to the narrowest of squints, she let the body do its thing while she got familiar with her surroundings.  Okay, so... Male, just barely an adult, little on the skinny side but in reasonable physical condition with no bone or tendon weaknesses, below average height.  Workable.  She estimated about forty seconds left; better get up to speed and fast.  Standing on wobbly legs, Koto took a step forward to get a feel for his range.  Another step, less hesitance and wobble.  She jumped in place, pulling her knees up high, then stretched her arms out wide and twisted her back from side to side.  Turning, she threw a punch at the wall – not hard, just enough to get a feel for the muscle capacity.

“Vessel C142/572/K845!” She knew that voice.  She was sick of it. “Cease your ungodly behaviour and return to the middle of the room to be seated!” Koto made on obscene gesture to the ceiling with two out of four arms, then kicked at the wall.  His joints were good, his muscles could be better but at least had plenty of fizz and twang in them.  Ten seconds. “Vessel C142/572/K845!  Desist your behaviour immediately!!”

“Fuck you.” Growled Winston’s body, in a tone of voice he didn’t even know he was capable of.  Right now, he’d be terrified, she thought.  You let someone into your body and they just go and get it set up to get horribly killed.  Typical, right?  Well, if he was scared now, he’d be metaphorically shitting his britches in about five more seconds.  The door slammed open with a bang that shook the room – whups, four seconds out – and two burly and uniformally black-clothed guards burst in, batons held high and ready to deliver some righteous smiting.  Her left primary shot out and grabbed the truncheon of the first guard before he could swing, and one solid kick from both fore-legs into the onrushing guard’s solar plexus sent him sprawling in the other direction, his weapon lost.  Stolen baton transferred to her right primary, Koto pirouetted on her hind-limb and caught the surprised second guard across the side of the beak with the length of rubber-coated metal, landing only a glancing blow but enough to put him off balance.  Both left fists drove into the guard’s mid-riff, driving the wind from his lungs, and then the baton came crashing down right upon the ridge of his beak and the guard’s agonised shriek drowned out the sound of cracking keratin and bone.  The stricken guard raised all four hands to his wounded face as thin greyish-yellow blood gushed out from his shattered maxilla, turning quickly to a dark blue as it was exposed to the air of the room.

Behind her, the first guard was just getting to his feet, his secondaries clutching the bruised muscles of his abdomen and his primaries holding onto the doorway for support.  Shaking his head to clear it, he was still too dazed from the kick to react much as the body of weak and feeble Winston Mount-Chappel launched itself at him and his own baton was smashed into his throat, crushing his windpipe before he could even start to make a noise, and he went down with a gurgle in his mouth and a look of confusion in his eyes.

Koto wasted no time in dragging the guard into the room and pushing the door to, wedging the baton to stop it from shutting.  She stripped Winston’s prison robes from him and could feel his psyche blush as he realised he was effectively naked in the presence of a strange female.  How adorably cute, she thought, in a life-or-death situation and he’s embarrassed that I might be able to see his genitals.  Koto smirked as she likewise stripped the skinnier of the two guards while his comrade rolled and twitched on the floor in an ever-growing indigo puddle, then donned his clothes for herself.  The trousers were a touch long but not so much that she could trip on them, and the shirt was slightly baggy around Winston’s chest but it would have to do.  Just a shame the interior guards didn’t wear any body armour, because she was sure as shit going to need it to get out of here.

-Winston, you still with me?-

He gibbered a nonsensical response in the back of her/his mind, terrified beyond his wits.

-Uh, okay... good.  Hang in there, Winston.  We’re going to get out of this.  And if we don’t... well, I promise you that I’ll make sure you get fatally shot or something; way preferable to the alternative.-

She grabbed the mask and helmet of the guard whose throat she’d collapsed, swiped his pass key and side-arm, then snatched up both batons as she went out the door, shutting it behind her.  A quick glance down the corridor showed that nobody had been alerted by the screaming – not surprising in this place, where screams were commonplace and the idea of a prisoner attacking a guard was beyond laughable and into the realms of crazy-talk.

Up ahead, the door to the connecting corridor – and another behind her; really, either was as good as the other until she could get her bearings.  She’d tried before to fine-tune a host’s senses enough to try and detect any sort of infinitesimal differential in the pressure or heat of the place and knew it to be a waste of time – the Clergy hadn’t just set this place to a uniformity beyond casual detection, they’d made it beyond the delicacies of her people’s sensory organs theoretical capabilities, and they’d not been slipshod about it.  She pressed the stolen card to the scanner and the door hissed and then popped as the lock disengaged.  Pushing through to the other side, she saw a guard at the far end of the corridor, a dozen paces away.  Keep calm, act natural, you’re supposed to be here.  Five paces away and still no challenge; two steps from the door and he noticed that something wasn’t quite right, but before he could finish raising an arm to block the door off, Koto’s baton was rammed hard into the soft patched at the back of his mandible and the guard crumpled to the floor with a gurgle.  Bending her fore-legs, she knelt to examine the guard’s clearance card – looked to be the same low-level access so no help there.  She grabbed his gun, stuffing it into the back of her belt, then snatched the spare clip from his webbing and thrust that into a pocket in her trousers before swiping her card against the scanner and continuing into the next corridor.

-What... What the hell was that?-

Gasped Winston, his voice high and shrill with fear.

-That was you kicking arse like you’d always wished you could.  That was your body getting to reach to its limits without the restraint of your conscious mind.  Hopelessly optimistic question but do you have any idea where we are?-

There was a lengthy paused before Winston answered.  If he was in control of his own body, he’d probably be leaning on the wall for support, head in his hands and mouth agape.

-I... no.  You mean to say that you don’t?-

-Not a clue.  I could only see so much from my vantage point, enough to know we’re in the Ministry of Inner Peace, that we’re somewhere above ground, and towards the western facing side of the building.  Which narrows it down to, what, about a cubic kilometre?-

She stared at the walls and doors, hoping against the odds to find some sort of subtle coding in the design that would tell her which floor they were on and where the nearest exit was.  Oh well, better just hope for stairs or, better yet, an elevator and head down.  A lateral direction would be handy, mind.

-Oh.  Well, I guess that’s still more than I knew.  Um.  Also... I don’t want to sound rude or ungrateful for you getting me out of certain death and into equally certain death, but who in the hells are you?- Koto laughed, both in the privacy of Winston’s mind and out-loud. -Did I say something funny?-

-Yes Winston, you really did.  And you were pretty spot on – my name’s Naoko-Tove and I have, in a very real and literal sense, been through Hell to get here.  You see, technically I’m dead.-  There was silence after that statement.  And then a lot more silence.  -If you’re about to ask me if I’m a demon, I shall be most upset.-

-No, I... I just wasn’t quite sure to respond to that.  I mean, “Oh, really?  That’s nice” just didn’t seem to cut it.-

Koto grinned and swiped the next door, into her third empty corridor in a row.  No guards was a good thing, but no stairs or corners or other features was bad.  As hellish as this place was for those incarcerated here, she couldn’t imagine it was pleasant for the guards, either.  Probably went some way to explaining why they were such vicious bastards. 

-So... you’re dead?  How’s uh... how’s that working out for you?-

-Honestly?  Kinda sucky.  Believe me when I say that Hell lives up to its reputation.  Though I should probably explain a little more before you become convinced you’re going mad.-

-Thought had crossed my mind.-

-Ha, well.  It’s not quite how you think.  Hell is a real place, sort of.-  Another door, another corridor free of guards. -Finally!  A corner!- 

Picking up the pace, she bounded down the corridor and swung out around the corner, running straight into the guard that had been walking the other way.  Reacting far quicker than the guard, and far quicker than Winston believed he was capable of, Koto elbowed the guard in the side of the head as he tried to get up, probably hurting herself – or, rather, Winston - more than the guard as bone met reinforced helmet, then brought her pistol out with a secondary and jabbed the barrel into the guard’s chest, leaning against him to muffle the sound as she pulled the trigger.  The guard jerked once and then was still, a wisp of smoke coiling out from the scorched entry round in the side of his angular torso.  Koto was quickly back up on her feet, gun held ready in case anyone came running at the sound of the report.  She held her place for five more seconds before carrying on into the widening corridor as it branched out.  Truly, she was blessed – for there sat two elevator doors, side by side.  Grinning with relief, she hurried over to swipe her card over the call button of the lifts.

-Sort of?-  Asked the still nervous voice in the back of her head, his tone laden with please-god-let-this-be-a-dream.

-Huh?  Oh, yeah.-  The elevator lights dinged and a symbol indicated that a car was coming up to her; still no indication of floor numbers, however.  -Yeah.  Hell’s not what you think it is.  Sure, it’s a place you go when you did to be tortured for eternity, but it’s not real.-

-I’m confused – you just said it was?-

Another ding and the elevator lights seemed to suggest that the car was close, but still without any quantitive way of gauging what that meant for her location.

-It's real in that it really exists, it's just not really real.  Look, are you familiar with the concept of a simulated reality?  A computer-run software simulation that’s immersive?-

-You mean like the ones at the underground bars that we’re not supposed to know exist?  Put on a bulky helmet, close your eyes and suddenly you’re in a world that’s a lot more fun?-

She nodded, pointlessly but out of sheer habit.  Ahead, the doors started to slide open as the car arrived, and Koto pulled both guns out with her secondaries, while her primaries wielded the batons, ready to batter anything she couldn’t gun down.

-Yeah, like that, but a whole lot more realistic and immersive to the extent you don’t realise it’s not real, and a lot less fun.-

The doors opened to reveal a guard captain, in full combat uniform and with a sub-machine gun hanging by its strap from his shoulder; she raised her guns and-

“KOTO!  Hell above, girl!  It’s me!” The captain spread his arms wide, his crest fluttering submissively.

“Drake?” The guns lowered, but not by a lot, and the captain didn’t move while they were still pointed at him.

“Who else?  Took me ages to figure out the maps they have here and find you, even after I’d pin-pointed your signal.  I’ve got good news and bad news.  Good news is, as you can see, I’ve found a suitably weak-willed officer to override, and I’ve also managed to requisition a jalopy without any questions being asked.  Bad news is you are ugly!”

-Hey!-

“Chill, Winston, this is Drake; he’s sort of a friend.  I say ‘sort of’, because he’s about as friendly and cuddly as a spring-loaded trap.  But the main thing is that he’s on our side.  And Drake, this ‘ugly’ host of mine is Winston, as you already know.” She lowered her guns fully, then slipped them back into her holster and belt, doing likewise with the two batons.  Before her, Drake’s host grinned broadly.

“My lady, my lord, your chariot awaits.” He stepped to one side, gesturing for Koto to join him in the lift car.  As soon as she was in, he scanned his access card and thumbed the button that would take them to the hangar where he’d wrangled a ride.

“Thanks.  And good timing, Drake.  Wouldn’t have had a clue which floor to opt for.  Doubt my card would have worked, either.”

“It wouldn’t,” confirmed the rebel in captain’s clothing, “and the shaft would have locked down and you’d have been arrested, tortured, and executed.” She could feel the sudden pall of fear from Winston at Drake’s casual exposition of the fate that would have been suffered.

“Easy Drake, you’re scaring him.  And while I’m riding his mind, him being scared makes me scared.”

-You didn’t seem scared earlier-  Observed Winston, recalling her earlier demolition of the guards in his cell.

“Yeah well, I hadn’t properly synched then – barely had enough time to get to grips with your muscle control without worrying about your glands.” Drake quirked a brow at his colleague’s apparently random explanation, “Don’t mind me, Drake; just talking to myself!” The captain shook his head and chuckled quietly as the elevator roared down the shaft at speed.

“I can tell you’ve been saving that joke up for a long time.”

k'Tacha - Pit Fighter

Opening one eye and blinking into the flickering yellow light of the torches that were positioned around the circular arena, the gazelle spat out a mouthful of sand, blood and what felt like one, maybe two, teeth.  Cuspids, her tongue confirmed to her as it prodded and probed the gap in her jaw.
- Ah well, I’ve got plenty spare; she thought to herself as she struggled to her hoofed feet, mind strangely calm but her vision still a little fuzzy after the impact.  The gazelle grunted slightly at the flashes of light and colour that flitted across her sight with every slight movement of her head; they were annoying but they’d pass soon enough.  She reached up to her closed eye and tenderly touched it with calloused fingertips, which came away bloody, then grunted again.  Unlike the sparks flashing in front of her other eye, this eye would not be so expedient in returning to normal.  A finger prodded again, more firmly, confirming that the eyeball was intact but that she had a severe fracture of the radial bones.
- Could be worse; at least I'm still breathing and moving.
Across the pit, her “triumphant” adversary had yet to register that his opponent wasn't quite as dead as that blow should have left her and had in fact got back to her feet, wounded and stunned but still capable of fighting.  She looked out over the blood-stained sand flooring of the arena and at the now-bloodied mace that had launched her across the pit with a vicious backhand blow from its owner.
- I won’t survive another hit like that… so don’t get hit, stupid.
With a groggy, shuffling half-step forward, the young gazelle femme crouched down to retrieve the hatchet that she had let go of as she hit the hard floor.  She hefted the small axe in her paw, testing the weight and her feel for it but ignoring the gradual end to the cheering of the crowd as they noticed that the match was not yet over.  Winnings and betting slips were hastily snatched back by their owners and the eyes and ears of the bloodthirsty audience quickly turned back to the action.
So too did the bloodshot orbs of her opponent.  With a snort of disbelief that such a puny creature could still be standing after being hit by the mighty and undefeated Thraan Headstomper, the bull turned and put his head down, charging head-first towards the much smaller gazelle, throwing all sense of tactics out of the window in his indignant rage.  The green-hoofed slip of a girl might have got lucky against his mace, it must have just clipped her, but she wouldn't be so fortunate when it came to his horns.
Her one good eye focussing on the colossal figure lumbering towards her, the Thompson’s gazelle raised her hatchet and tilted her head back to let out a scream so infused with rage as to silence even the baying of the mob that watched the spectacle.  The primal roar echoed across the pit and was heard reverberating through much of the district as the gazelle let her anger be known.  Not just at the bull trying his level best to kill her – he was every bit as much the puppet as she – but at the crowd who demanded this bloodlust, the owner who sent her to the pits knowing that she might die but not caring so long as he made money, the society that decided her place in the world because of what her tribe ate and at the empire that gave birth to all of those bastards.  Then, much to the further delight and surprise of the watching crowd, she set off at pace towards the charging bovine, frothed saliva on her lips and murder in her one still-functioning eye.  Her hooves churned up sand stained with old blood and, barely a dozen paces away from what looked to be a rather mismatched collision of horns and heads, the gazelle raised her axe-wielding paw and let fly, sending the small weapon sailing end-over-end towards the rapidly-closing juggernaut.
The hatchet barely out of her paw, she launched herself into the air, knees raised and paws clasped together in a double-fist above her head.  Her aim was true and a resounding crack raised a hushed gasp from the crowd as the flat blade of the hatchet smashed into the bull’s forehead, splitting the thick flesh of his knitted brow and whipping his head back.  Before the blood had even started its downward arc, the airborne gazelle’s knees connected solidly and audibly with her stunned opponent’s massive chest, halting the charge of the already off-balance bull, sending him tipping backwards and her fisted paws crashing down upon his upturned nose to crush that pink flesh and shatter the cartilage behind it to start another fountain of blood and send the champion heavily down onto his back in a cloud of sand, blood and spittle.
The Tommy didn't give the downed bull a chance to recover his wits or senses – the wound in his forehead was only superficial, his skull being tougher than an axe as small as hers, and even the broken nose wouldn't slow him down much if he got back on his feet.  Once up, and at these close quarters, the bull’s superior size, strength and weight would severely hamper the gazelle’s chances of seeing another sunrise and whilst that notion was not entirely without appeal to her she wasn't about to give up that easily.  She drove her knees into his shoulders to pin him down with her weight and rained blow after blow down upon the blood-covered face of her stricken foe, fists smashing savagely against his already-busted nose, his throat and his eyes.  The roaring, berserk antelope was a wet blur to Thraan and, with his own blood treacherously choking the breath in his throat, there was little that the still-dazed champion could do to even defend himself let alone attempt to fight back.  His paws flailed ineffectually at the gazelle atop him, trying to dislodge the enraged antelope but failing abysmally as she dug her knees hard against the nerve clusters of his shoulders and even his frantic bucking could not unbalance her or distract her from her purpose.  As the gazelle femme’s leathery fists continued to mercilessly pummel her opponent’s face and more and more blood soaked into the gritty sand of the pit floor, the bull’s eyes started to show more white as they rolled back in their damaged sockets and his massive paws went limp as consciousness started to desert.  Less than a minute had passed since the gazelle had responded to the other fighter’s charge but it was already over – his jaw was slack, his severed tongue tip lay on his chest after having been snipped off by his own teeth, many of which were now strewn about the sand by his head.
Sensing her opponent defeated, the gazelle femme stood up, her chest heaving as she sucked in the hot, foetid air of the pit in great gulps.  Blood dripped from her clenched fists to spatter onto the brown fur of the great beast below her and a raucous cry went up from the spectators at the unlikely but bloodlust-slaking victory – especially from those who had been brave, foolish or lucky enough to bet on the underdog.  Victory, however, was not enough for the baying crowd – the hitherto undefeated Thraan was still moving and breathing, albeit barely.  The people of k’Tacha did not want mercy, they wanted a kill and the gazelle knew this.  With a cold, dead look in her eye she raised one hoofed foot and brought it sharply back down again with only the barest of pauses and even less regret.  The wet, visceral sound of the bull’s passing was drowned out by the appreciative roar from the spectators.  She neither mourned nor celebrated his passing - she had never exchanged words with the bull and now she never would.  He was just one more poor, dumb bastard born as the wrong species but at least now he was free.

-

“You have done well, Jenna” observed the lion, grinning broadly as he slapped the victorious fighter on the back, leading her away from the pits and back home. “You shall be fed tonight!”  By the standards of his nation, such munificence with one’s slaves was considered to be bordering on wildly extravagant – he had clearly won a handsome sum by backing her in the fight – but that didn't stop the gazelle from wanting to rip the smug bastard’s throat out with her bare paws.  The only thing that stopped her was the belief that every day spent living was a day spent learning and one day she would return his generosity by showing him all that she’d learned.  Him and every other sadistic, whore-worshipping bastard in this land.

***

k'Tacha - Prelude to a Storm

Prelude to a Storm

Throughout time and the Planes there are legions of women, men, and Others who have changed the course of history.  Some have changed history only insofar as it pertains to themselves, yet others have changed the course of things for entire cities, nations and even existences.  Amongst those hordes of noteworthies, the number who meant to do what they did can be counted on the paw of an accident-prone leper.

For every brave, intelligent and noble soul there are countless more craven, stupid and low ones who will strive to bring them down, to trip them at every turn and make sure their course most certainly does not run smooth.  For every saint filled with good intentions and the betterment of their fellows at heart there is a horde of sinners who would spit in their eye.

Fortune does not favour the brave.  If anything, Fortune looks upon the Brave and sees them as a challenge; the harder the Brave strive, the more adversity they find in their path because as much as people like to see someone who succeeds, they far prefer to see plucky losers.  The almost-champions are what we judge our lives by.  We look at them and say to ourselves – “Look at them, look at how hard they tried, how close they came, how they never gave up!  And still they failed…”.  Hard-trying losers make us feel good about ourselves; after all, if they can’t do it, why should we even try?  Whereas those who actually succeed just make us feel bad about our own failures and our low, base meanness. 

Hence if you wish to bring out the best in people, you must first bring out the worst in them.  Only once a person has hit the absolute lowest point they can is there any kind of guarantee that they will try to better themselves.  And even then there will be a few who somehow manage to simply move sideways, who will gleefully kick the teeth of their fellows while they are down and then pick their pockets while they’re at it.

How then does one better an entire people, an entire nation, change and improve an entire way of life?  By turning everything on its head.  To those who have nothing, you give everything; and those who have everything you leave with nothing, not even their pride, especially not their pride.  For hubris is what convinces the downtrodden that what they have is good enough, and allows the wealthy to believe that anything and everything they do is right or at least acceptable.  Acceptable to whom, you may ask?  Why, to themselves, of course; who else matters?

Betterment of oneself is seen so often as a last resort except for those who are pure of heart, soul and mind.  But as discussed above, they have their own problems to worry about.  So if you want people to change themselves for the better, first you must remove every other option available to them, save those that remove them from the problem altogether.

You must do what needs to be done.  A phrase so glibly bandied about – “I did what needed to be done” so often boils down to “I took the only path that I liked the look of after discounting everything else as being too tiresome, unrewarding or morally difficult for me”.  Heroics are so often selfishness wrapped up in silk or, more often, blind luck.  Those who truly do what needs to be done so rarely get remembered well or at all.  The fortunate ones are forgotten, the rest vilified and remembered forever for the “evils” they committed, rather than the change they wrought.  At what point does the cost for a better future become too great?  When someone dies?  When scores die?  When everything is burned to ash?  Or when a perceived moral code is breached?  Morals are crutches for those too weak to know their own minds and to know what needs to be done and how to do it.  The clear of thought care not the cost of progress or how many bodies are strewn behind them because they know that what they do is... good?  No.  …Right?  According to whom?  Necessary?  Ah, now there is the rub of it.  Many would look upon this and assume them to be the words of a madman, a maniac, a tyrant or a mass-murderer, feebly trying to justify their actions and all the blood they spilled.  I say to you now that I need no justification.  I need nobody to look at what I have done and tell me that it was right.  I care not how history judges me for history is nothing but propaganda that steals away our memories and supplants them with what its writers want us to remember.  There is only what was and what will be.  One event, after another.  The glory will go to those who follow in my blood-stained footprints, who see the path that I have trodden for them and follow it without knowing, thinking only how tough the way is and not realising how before me it would have been utterly impassable.  History remembers only the people who make things happen and forgets those who make them possible in the first place.

Mother, I understand now why you did what you did and the “gift” that you gave to me, even if you did not understand it yourself.  You will be forever remembered for your penchant for conquest, your blood-thirstiness and the spiked, iron fist with which you ruled.  And I will be forever remembered for appearing weak in the face of rebellion and for allowing our nation to fall.  But if we never fall then we will never learn how to pick ourselves up and sometimes the only way to make someone appreciate what they have is to destroy it.

I regret not one drop of blood that was shed, not one life lost, not one tear that dampened the dry soils. Everything that happened did so for a reason – it needed to be done!

SLFA - The Appointment

Following on from the previous entry, here's another chapter from Talija's career.  The first one, in fact, which rather oddly is actually the end of her career (or is it?!?  Yes, yes it is.)  This chapter was inspired by watching a number of movies in which an assassin/killer of some description, who had been firmly established as being the very best in the business, would turn their back on their career, only for their clearly not very intelligent boss to then sic a load of considerably less competent assassins on their tail, with predictable results.  Anyone who works as a contract killer would, it stands to reason, need to be meticulous at planning ahead, and anyone who they worked for would no doubt be fully aware of their assassin's skill, so the whole plot of those kinda movies really irked me.  Anyway, enough rambling, this is the result.  As with other stories in the "So Long, Farewell, Adieu..." arc, it's a single-scene story.

So Long, Farewell, Adieu...

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A S/Sgt. Janer Tale

Chapter 1 – The Appointment

“So... what is it that you want to speak to me about?” He seemed every bit the perfect businessman – from his simple and tidy flat-top hair, a touch of grey at the temples, to his charcoal grey pinstripe morning suit and diamond studded cufflinks.  Konrad Herczeg was a man who looked more than capable of overseeing a hostile takeover in the morning, laying off five thousand employees in the afternoon, divorcing his terminally ill wife in the evening and then still sleeping peacefully that night.  Right now, however, he was more scared than he could ever recall being.  He’d faced men with guns, knives and lengths of two-by-four before now, run guns through Soviet-controlled lands and always felt less afraid than he did sitting behind his desk and talking to the pleasant-looking and relaxed young lady who was resting her gloved hands on the back of the chair across from him.  Not that he was showing it, of course.  No, to the outward observer he was calm, composed and fully in control of the situation.  Maybe the line of sweat trickling down past his left ear was the fault of the irksome air-conditioning in the building and perhaps the faint, barely noticeable throbbing at his temples and throat were due to a brisk jog up the several flights of stairs to his lushly furnished office.  Looking even more relaxed and apparently not bothered by any air-conditioning issues, the office’s other occupant smiled in a warm, pleasant and vaguely terrifying manner.  To Konrad it seemed too much like the last sight an unfortunate wanderer might see in the Indian jungles as three hundred pounds of orange and black striped death leapt towards them.

“My resignation and retirement, Mr. Herczeg.  After much deliberation and consideration I’ve decided to hand my notice in, with immediate effect.” Her teeth retreated behind her lips as the smile faded and the jeans, t-shirt and plain black leather jacket clad woman lightly placed a brushed aluminium attaché case on Herczeg’s vast and paperwork-free desk.  The suited businessman tried very hard not to flinch and nearly succeeded. “In here are my company expenses card, the keys to my Manhattan apartment and also my company car keys.  You’ll also find fifty thousand dollars in cash as compensation for early severance of my contract.  If the fee seems too small then I’m open to negotiation.  Lastly, there’s a signed statement by myself proclaiming that I am fully retiring from the profession and will not be taking on any contract work with competitors.”  Herczeg looked to the case, pale blues eyes slowly moving over its clasps and handle before returning to his ex-employee.  He’d have his assistant open it later.  Or rather, his new assistant, after he promoted one.

“I see.  You could have just made an appointment so see me, you know.  And why, pray tell, did you feel you had to kill two of my bodyguards and my secretary to tell me this, Ms. Janer?”  She looked back over her shoulder, half-turning to regard the three slowly cooling corpses that lay sprawled on the thick, expensive and now-ruined carpet of Herczeg’s office.  One guard appeared to be attempting to look at his own shoulder-blade; his neck at an angle that explained his transition from is to was.  The other guard and a smartly-dressed woman in her mid-forties lay nearby, each with a pair of very precisely placed bullet-holes puncturing their tops and their life’s essence leaking out onto the floor in a sluggishly spreading crimson puddle.  Their killer shrugged apologetically and spoke as if she’d stapled the wrong documents together or forgotten to refill the coffee pot.

“You normally have three bodyguards with you at all times and I didn’t have time to check if the bulge in her jacket was just a PDA.  The guards were a statement.” Her tone was almost reproachful, as if somehow the change in arrangements had made it Herczeg’s fault that he was now lacking a secretary and his ex-secretary was lacking a pulse.  An errant strand of dark brown hair was tucked back behind her ear as she resumed leaning on the 19^th century mahogany and mother-of-pearl inlaid chair in front of her, much to her host’s dissatisfaction.

“I... see.  And this statement, would it be along the lines of “Fuck with me and I’ll kill you”?” Enquired Herczeg, as he steepled his manicured fingers and leant forwards in his chair, composure still on a knife-edge.  Janer grinned broadly, again triggering the primitive lizard part of her former employer’s brain.

“I wouldn’t put it quite so crudely, Mr. Herczeg, but something along those lines, certainly.  I want to retire to somewhere warm and sunny with a private beach and I know what the firm’s usual view on retiring hitmen is.  We’re both aware of how many of my former colleagues I’ve helped with their ‘retirement’ plans, and we’re both aware of my impeccable record and finesse in the field.  So this is me, saying to you that if you leave me in peace then I will return the courtesy.  If, on the other hand, you take it into your head to send someone along with the intent of making my retirement rather more final, then I will kill them.  After that, I will kill you, your guards, your staff, your family, your friends and anyone else who suffers the misfortune of being there at the time.  You know how much care and thought I put into even the easiest of contracts.  Consider that my retirement plans are something I have spent the past few years preparing.  I don’t make threats but I do make promises and on this one you have my word.  Yes, Mr. Herczeg, fuck with me and I will kill you.  Oh, just so you know, I severed the phoneline at the exchange and the briefcase has an IR-emitter connected to half a pound of plastique, which should be activating about... now.” The Hungarian froze perfectly still, save for his eyes, which flicked down to look at the suddenly deadly briefcase before him.  “The timer will switch it off in a little less than fifteen minutes but if you move between now and then your office will get re-decorated.  With you.  There’s a twenty millimetre threshold on the receiver so do try not to cough, sneeze or breathe too heavily.  Goodbye, Konrad.  Be good and we’ll never meet again.” She flashed another grin before giving a jaunty wave to the stock-still Herczeg and turned to exit his office, stepping daintily around the puddles of blood on the carpet and the bodies that lay in them as she walked to the door and vanished from his life.  Well, if he had any sense, that is.

SLFA - There Ain't No Justice

What follows is one of a series of short stories (very short - they're basically single scene stories) revolving around v2.0 of my oldest RP/writing character, an assassin by the name of Talija.  As someone who's often RPed an assassin character, and who usually plays them in RPG video games, I get hacked off at the stereotypical and hackneyed way they're often portrayed in comics and movies.  The "So Long, Farewell, Adieu..." series is partly my attempt to scratch that frustrating itch and address some of the idiotic portrayals, and also just me having fun writing single-scene stories about Talija.  As the title suggests, there are at least four other entries detailing parts of her career, which I intend to publish here at some point.  Anyway, enjoy :3

So Long, Farewell, Adieu...

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A S/Sgt. Janer Tale

Chapter 5 – There Ain't No Justice

                "Mr Hernandez?  Mr Ernesto Javier Hernandez Ibarra?"

                "Wh-Who the fuck are you?!  What are you doing in my office?!  Where's my-" The somewhat short, balding, and overweight fellow bellowing the demands slapped a hand down on the intercom buzzer on his desk, "Janice!  Janice!  Where the hell is Miquel?"

                "Janice is peacefully asleep, Mr Hernandez, slumped over her desk and, for now, blissfully unaware that we are having this conversation.  She'll have a stinking headache when she wakes up but I rather think that's a lot better than the alternative options I had at my disposal.  Speaking of which, Miquel will not be joining us."  Her tone was even, her manner polite, her stance relaxed.  None of this served to help Mr Hernandez relax.  Maybe that she was sitting in his desk chair with a semi-automatic pistol laid on the desk before her had something to do with this.  But then, Ernesto looked like a guy who was pretty stressed and agitated at the best of times.

                 "You killed Miquel?" He stopped looking desperately around the room and focused entirely on the well-dressed woman seated in his expensive, genuine leather desk chair.  If she'd killed Miquel, then that probably meant she wasn't anything to do with that rat-fuck Jimmy.   Jimmy's goons never hurt Ernesto's employees, just Ernesto himself.  And Miquel knew that getting in the way of Jimmy's boys was a suicide move.  Ernesto didn't begrudge him his self-preservation - he hired the muscly dumb-fuck to look imposing and, primarily, to drive him places, not to take a bullet for him.

                "No, I rather think gravity and the concrete beneath your lobby's balcony window did that.  I just gave him the impetus.  But I'm not here to talk about the late Miquel, or about the sleeping beauty outside your office door.  I'm here, and talking to you, because my employer made it explicitly clear that you were to be fully aware of your impending death, and also of the reason for your death’s impendency." A chubby hand wiped over thinning hair and Ernesto gulped before taking several stuttering starts at speech.  Eventually, he garnered enough control over his vocal chords and quivering lips to get something coherent out.

                "What?  You're gonna kill me?  Why?  I ain't done nothing wrong!  I'm just a businessman!  Okay, so not a very successful one, but Jesus I ain't a bad guy!"  She sighed, a mixture of boredom and disappointment.  They always said it - the ones who got the chance, anyway.  Oh please, I'm not a bad guy!  I've done nothing wrong!  Don't kill me!  As if they seriously expected her to go Oh, you're right, you're entirely nice and innocent; sorry to have troubled you!  Sure, there were one or two who'd just nodded quietly and closed their eyes as they awaited that final, terminal moment, but most blubbered and begged.  It was so damned undignified.  Whatever they'd been in life, she always hoped that people could at least be graceful and noble in death.  Last chance, after all.  She glanced over at the corner of the desk to her left, just behind a stack of "Payment Due!" letters, then picked up the box of tissues she'd espied and threw it to him.  Startled, and nearly dropping it, Ernesto gave a tiny nod of automatic thanks and grabbed a couple of tissues to mop at the sweat on his jowly, moustachioed face.

                "You've cheated on all three of your wives and you never pay your alimony money; you've twice paid for your secretary, Janice, to have an abortion, against her wishes; you owe a lot of people a lot of money, and some of them aren't even crooked; you haven't spoken to your eldest son, Rafael, since the night he tearfully came out to you and you threw him out of the house; and when you were fourteen years old you masturbated over your sleeping younger sister and until just now you didn't think anyone ever found out."  He stood stock-still, tissue box hanging limply in one hand and the other frozen halfway to his face, clutching a wad of damp tissue.  He didn't say a word, but his expression said everything.  "You are definitely not a decent guy, and I would go so far as to say that you are, by and large, a dishonest and extremely unpleasant man who has dubious personal hygiene standards.  But that doesn't mean you deserve to die."  There was a look of relief on the man's face, as optimism and hope surfaced against all the odds.  "No, I'm going to kill you for something that, really, isn't even your fault," and back beneath the waves of despair sank that brief glimpse of hope, "and something that I cannot in all honesty blame you for.  Four years ago, you lost control of your car, a battered 1986 Buick LeSabre Coupé.  The car was in poor repair because you couldn't afford to go to a mechanic, the brakes failed on a rainy night, and your car didn't stop in time to prevent the death of a seven year-old boy called James Hannah.  The jury found you to be not guilty of dangerous driving, and ruled young James' death a tragic accident that nobody could be blamed for.  Frank Hannah, James' father, felt otherwise, and spent the following years saving up enough money to go to my employer and pay for my services."

                "But...!  You said it yourself!  It was an accident!" The tissue box fell to the floor, and so did the sweating and rightly terrified Mr Hernandez as he went down on both knees  before the suited young lady sitting where his butt had made itself comfy for a fairly significant portion of the past few years.

                "I did.  And if it were my call, I would not even be here this evening.  But it's not my call, so I am.  And, please, don't beg, or try to reason with me, or offer to double whatever I'm being paid.  I wouldn't be a very good assassin if I was so easily swayed, would I?  Now, before I end this, is there anything you'd like to say?"  His tanned, rounded, and fat-creased face looked up to her, pleading in his tear-wetted eyes.  "It won't make a difference to the outcome - at some point in the next couple of minutes you're going to be fatally shot.  But everyone's entitled to a last few words."  His shoulders sagged, his face fell, and Ernesto Hernandez looked at the worn, faded, and grimy carpet of his small, dingy office.

                "I..." He looked out of the window; the sun was starting to set over the bay - the view was the only thing that made this office worth the rent.  Someone, somewhere, was having their first cocktail of the evening.  Ernesto looked again to the person who would be his killer. "Tell Janice I'm sorry.  For everything.  Tell her I know she's been stealing small amounts from me; I never said anything because I... okay, I don't love her but I, y'know, I care for her.  A bit.  She's put up with a lot of shit for me.  From me.  I'd have been fucked without her.  Tell her that the rest of my money is hers.  She knows where I keep it.  Hell, she might as well have the car, too; not like I can leave it to Miquel.  An' tell Mr Hannah that I'm sorry about his son.  It was an accident, but it was still my fault.  Hey, if I could go back, I woulda walked home that day.  So just... just tell him I'm sorry, kay?"  She nodded once, politely, and continued to sit there, clearly not in a rush.

                "Is that everything?" A hand hinted towards the chunky grey/black gun on the desk and two slightly bloodshot brown eyes followed the movement.

                "Yeah.  Just don't shoot me in the face.  I'm an ugly sunnuva bitch, I know, but my mama would wanna see me one last time before she said goodbye. " Another nod, and then she stood slowly from the leather chair, brushed a crease out of the leg of her pinstripe suit trousers, and picked up the gun from the desk.

                "Understandable," she took a suppressor from an inside pocket of her tailored jacket and screwed it onto the end of the pistol's barrel, "This won't hurt, Mr Hernandez.  Close your eyes."  Ernesto closed his eyes, never to open them again, and two muffled whispers followed immediately after.  His body barely shook from the close-range impacts and, after a few moments, the late Ernesto Javier Hernandez Ibarra fell slowly sideways to land with a quiet, corpulent thud onto the floor of his office.  Were his eyes still open, and had there been life left to see through them, Ernesto would have watched the sun kiss the ocean one last time.

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                Janice Ridley (née Simmons; she'd kept her husband's name even after divorcing his drunken arse) opened her eyes and immediately regretted it as two cold bolts of pain shot through her temples.  Whimpering quietly and screwing her eyes to slits, and even then peering between the fingers of her left hand, she stumbled to her feet and staggered over to the window for her "office", yanking the blinds shut.  Leaning against the wall for support, she moved her hand to her mouth as a wave of nausea courses through her, and successfully fought back the urge to expel her supper onto the floor.  Jesus, what the fuck had happened?  Groggy as all hell, she made her way back to her desk and collapsed into her chair as she waited for the fog and dizziness to pass, or at least fade to something she could cope with.  Right now was like all her worst hangovers rolled into one, and without even the decency of having had fun earning them. 

                As her vision swam in and out of focus, she noticed an envelope on her desk, left open so that the lip acted as a stand, and with something written on the back.  It took a little effort and time, but she managed to decipher the blurry symbols enough to realise it was her name.  One hand clinging onto her chair's arm as if life depended on it, she reached unsteadily forward to take the envelope, and pull out its contents.  The very effort of focusing her eyes made them hurt even more, but she persevered, and slowly made sense out of the contents of the hand-written note.  Whoever had written it, they could have benefitted from some penmanship lessons, but the writing was intelligible and large enough for her to just about read, even in her state.

                She read it, at length, and then read it again.  It was from Ernie, but it wasn't his handwriting, and it wasn't his signature.  Heck, didn't look like anyone's signature, just a single letter - "T".  Janice set the letter down, puzzled, then looked over to the door to Ernie's office.

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                The scream was heard from across the narrow harbour, and the few people enjoying cocktails at the outside tables of the Tiki bar looked up from their drinks in surprise.  All except for one, who simply nodded, took a sip of her drink, and then tucked a twenty dollar bill underneath the glass before getting up and exiting the bar, straightening the jacket of her pinstripe suit as she went.