[insert witty title here]

Perhaps it was the burst of fire from his trusty rifle, flooring several Hellions as he listened to them writhe.
Perhaps it was the familiar smells of Up-and-Away Burger, Infront Steakhouse, or other restaurants.
Perhaps it was the sounds of the civilians going about their daily lives, confident that heroes would save the day.
Perhaps it was the sight of other heroes blazing back and forth as fast as possible, trying desperately to get to another scene of crime to stop it.

Either way, it was home.
An armor-clad figure leaned on his assault rifle, other hand resting firmly on his hips, as his helmet-adorned eyes scanned left and right across the scenery.
The bright blue sky, white of the City Hall, the grey of Atlas Statue, and the rainbow of multitudes of different costumes identifying individual heroes. Most of which were black, but that’s another subject for another day.
How long has it been? He mused to himself. Several months? Half a year? A year? More? Regardless of how long it was, he had spent all of this time wandering, in lands away from Paragon.
That, as he had eventually realized, was a mistake. This was his home. How could he have been so stupid as to leave it in the first place?

A shake of the head cleared the thoughts. None of that matters. What DID matter was that it was good to be back.
He reached down and hefted up his assault rifle, grabbing the shuck and pumping it back in a decisive “khr-CHAK”. The rifle glowed in approval, eagerly anticipating the justice it was going to dispense.
He roared out as he charged forward into the nearest group of startled Hellions, in his usual headstrong fashion. His rifle gave accent to his words, each syllable shouted in tandem with every bullet.

“Prepare thine asses tae feast upon PWNAGE, vile knaves!”

Sir Morgant had returned to Paragon City.

Now someone keep him away from the FPSes.

In the beginning, there was little.
The world was a vast, frozen wasteland, walls of ice replacing ocean and mountains of snow smothering the land. The wind was tumultuous and merciless in its fury, whipping around like rag dolls anyone foolhardy enough to dare resist it.
In this world, however, the call of adventure still thrived. And so there were vikings. Ancient raiders that knew no mercy, pity, or care. They defied the whims of the world, and dared not only to survive, but thrive in face of the furious elements. All of the blood they spilled in their conquests only fueled them further, and they could taste it coming back up again, dripping out of their mouth as they gritted their teeth.

Determination not only to survive others, but to survive the world, only to further their love of killing.

One day, however, a god smiled on them. Or perhaps it was the world itself, or simply fate. Whichever it was, the vikings would change themselves and the worlds forever.
They were few in number now. Five vikings, closely banded together by a bond deeper than loyalty, deeper than trust, deeper than blood. Daily they slashed themselves and brought their hands together, letting the red mingle as they swore they would survive.
Pirates, other vikings, ninjas, zombies, and foul demons threatened this oath, their only desire to break the bond between the five. But they conquered, and eventually made their way to yet another vast mount of stand, satisfied that they could survive for ten minutes longer.

The sky crackled.
The earth rumbled.
The winds roared.
And the ice shattered, waves rising up and crashing back down.
Animals screeched in horror, taking flight or feet away from the scene in terror. The vikings stood up and flung their capes to the side, gripping their axes and preparing for combat.

What happened, instead, shocked them. Lightning erupted down from the sky and slammed into the earth like a comet, snow erupting into the sky as if the mountain was a volcano, smothering the five vikings in feet of snow. The vikings, however, had battled far worse than this and effortlessly hacked their way back to the surface. And then what they saw on the mountaintop where the lightning had struck caused them to drop their jaws in awe.
A lead guitar. A rhythm guitar. A bass. A synthesizer. And a drum kit. Each of which crafted from the finest metals, tuned impeccably, and glowing with an awesome energy.

One viking’s eyes grew misty at the pure beauty that lay before him, and he stepped forward to grip at the handle of the lead guitar. A voice erupted into his ears, “Truly, I say to you. You have lead your men through bloodshed after bloodshed, and you will be justly rewarded. You will be blessed with leading your men even further, your face will be the most recognized and your work will be the most appreciated. Women will flock to you in droves, begging for your penetration. People will praise your name. For you are the lead guitarist.”
One viking gritted his teeth, still expecting trouble, and stepped forward to gaze upon the rhythm guitar. In an instant, the battle axe was flung out of his hands, replaced by a better axe, superior in every caliber. The same voice erupted into his ears as well. “Truly, I say to you. You have supported your leader, following his footsteps and adding your might to his. You have never questioned his orders, have never played with thoughts of abandonment, have never even considered that your method may be better. He will continue to need your support now, as you lay down the musical mat with which he will walk along in compositions. For you are the rhythm guitarist.“
The third viking grinned upon sight of what his comrades had been granted, and slung his axe into the ground to pick up the bass. The voice pounded out in his mind as well. “Truly, I say to you. You have taken care of your teammates, nursing their wounds and healing their hurts. You have stitched their cuts and bandaged their bruises, carefully putting every fallen organ back properly inside of their body. You have made sure your team has never permanently suffered ill, and they will need your help now more than ever before. You will keep time and tone for them, overlaying the background with guidelines as to what every member should follow. For you are the bassist.“
The fourth viking stroked his goatee as he stepped forward, brushing his fingers across of the synthesizer in front of him. The voice turned to him, as well, “Truly, I say to you. You have always been the wild child of the group. Formulating strategies, ideas, and plans, the best way to execute them, and effortlessly patching up any weaknesses and problems. In combat, you were always at the forefront, screaming in both agony and ecstasy as you cared little for the arrows in your body, caring far more for the axe you planted in skulls and ribcages. You will once again be at the forefront, making melodies and following them–though you will still be at the whims of your leader, following in his footsteps, you will be parallel in your own path. For you are the keyboardist.“
The fifth viking let out an unintelligible grunt as he stepped behind the drum kit, lifting up the sticks and twirling them around in his hands. The voice visited its final charge and stated, “Truly, I say to you. You were always the muscle of the group. There was no armor you couldn’t break, no mountain you couldn’t bring down, no castle you couldn’t shatter simply with your hands. Unfortunately, you are a blithering idiot and thus can do pretty much nothing else than that, and I’m not sure you can ever understand me. But you will enjoy this, as you get to hit animal skins with sticks repeatedly to express some Neanderthal concept of ‘beat’ and ‘time’. For you are the drummer.“

The five vikings offered up praise to this unknown voice. They bowed down their heads and got on their knees for all of three seconds before standing back up.
Fingers plucked, pressed, twitched, and gripped as they first got acquainted with their new instruments of might. Then, the first viking raised his hand up high. With the first and the last finger extended, the others hushed as they looked upon this symbol. This was an ancient sign of war declaring, which the vikings would always lift just before massacring towns and districts.

Blood was going to be spilled with these new instruments.

The first viking then swung his hands down and erupted out a mighty chord from his guitar. The chord echoed across the entire world as men screamed in agony with their faces melting and women squealed in pleasure. The viking erupted another chord, and the snow melted from the fire that spontaneously burst across the plains. The snow turned to water and cascaded down hills, rushing to get away from this menace that threatened its very existence, pounding into the layers of ice and shattering it all into more water. Oceans rose all across the world, and floods claimed the lives of many. The viking erupted another chord, and the world shook in terror, shuddering in fear as the power of this music claimed control of the globe. Earthquakes devastated continents, splitting towns and castles and devastating wildlife. The viking erupted another chord, and the other four followed in suit, stringing together notes and weaving melodies into what would change the world forever.

For together, these vikings had graced the world with Death Metal.

Mountain Lightning does not taste a thing like Mountain Dew.

That was the most prominent phrase that pulsed through my mind now, even through all that could be done today and was done yesterday. I suspect that perhaps some record in the deep recesses of my mind started skipping.

Seriously. It doesn’t.

I sighed as I reclined back in my leather chair, staring up at the white ceiling. The drink in question was in my hand, swirling around in a glass as a minor activity to try and keep myself occupied while the caffeine took its toll.

Waking up was difficult, sometimes. That’s why God granted us caffeine.

But why doesn’t the caffeine taste anything like Mountain Dew, if it’s named Mountain Lightning?

“Mmmph…” My mouth groaned as my opposite hand mercifully massaged at my sleepy eyes. There was so much to do today. So much that could be done. Applying for jobs was among them, as well as writing, updating a blog, working on a game project, furthering some articles, and generally being awesome.

The last requirement stood out as something that didn’t fit. Depression must be setting in. I normally take at face value how awesome I am.

You know what would be awesome? If Mountain Lightning actually tasted like Mountain Dew.

“Hey, c’mon. Waking-time.” The words carved through the haze in my mind, striking at a resemblance of coherency. Delivered straight from the mouth of a lady from my computer screen, blazing straight into my mind. I tilted my head over lazily to see one of my original characters leaning out from my computer monitor, one of her eyebrows arched and her mouth upturned in a smirk, arms leaning on the bottom of the monitor like a windowsill.
“Morning, Emi.” I mumbled with words as groggy as my mental state.
“Morning, Nick.” She chuckled as she shook her head at me. “Stayed up too late again?”
“Not so much that.” I groaned as I lifted my chair back up into sitting position, placing the glass of Mountain Lightning (which my mind was still going on about how it didn’t taste like Mountain Dew) next to the monitor as I scootched my char over in front of my computer. “I just shouldn’t have had that drink before bed.”
“Mmmm. Too much caffeine, couldn’t sleep?”
“Pretty much, yeah.”
“Regardless, you’re awake now. Up and at ‘em, sport.” She clapped her hands a few times, grinning as she sunk back into the computer monitor.

I shook my head with a chuckle. Imagination always fuels, even when the body lags.

Mountain Lightning fuels as much as Mountain Dew, but it doesn’t taste like it.