Their aims are admirable. Unfortunately, the aims of the Three have become twisted–the iron grip that they have on man have clenched tighter and
tighter over time, as each leader only continues to stifle humanity. They have gone from a necessary evil for the greater good to cruel tyrants crushing with power nobody else can wield, and not a single day goes by without laws twisted to ensure even more control over the populace.
When Korax invaded and conquered Cronos, it hardly seemed any worse. An agonizing death at the hands of his unholy minions was little different than a life spent under the hands of the Three.

Yet, there is one locale that stays far out of the reach of the Three.
The Legion controls human might and technology.
The Arcanum controls human knowledge and magic.
The Church controls human spirituality and philosophy.
All of these, however, deal with concepts begat from society and order that are strictly human. For a realm where societies no power and orders are ever-changing, the Three have no hold.
Thus enters the very inhuman realm of nature. Horrifying beasts, unexplored woods, terrifying waters, deadly caverns, nature has held the world in its thrall long before humans were etched into history. For those that wish freedom from the Three, the arms of nature spread wide in a welcome to all humans–provided they survive. Those that flee the towns of the Three will find that nature can be just as cruel, but those who tackle any challenge become warriors legendary in their abilities.
Such people are known as Rangers. Rangers become not unlike beasts themselves in human guise, with light movements in the shadows of the night and striking faster than fangs unsheathed from a gaping mouth. It is said that to know a Ranger is to know aeons of the wild, to have one as an ally is to have a loyal warrior who considers you his pack, and to have one as an enemy is to forever disbar the forests as a safe place to traverse.

One Ranger in particular is Terence. While hardly the one-man-army that other Rangers can boast of being, for Terence he has had life in both the wild and in society. Having been born in the city, raised in the wild, loved and married in a humble town, and then fled back to the forests after tragedy, he has suffered and prospered on both sides. So, now, as the communities of Cronos decline, the Three bolster their grip with the curse of unlife, and Korax continues to spread his evil influence, he decides to strike back.
The next night, the Ranger climbs down from the mountains, lowering himself to the front of the legendary Winnowing Hall. Among the first of the many places set upon by Korax’s minions, the chapels bell sounds out as a death knell for doom. Two-headed beasts, Ettins, patrol the courtyard, while gargoyles blackened from constantly-pulsing hellfire patrol the skies.
At the sight of this, a smirk crosses his face. His only response is to crack his knuckles, punctuated with one statement:
“Show me what you’ve got.”

Ironsheath:
Gunpowder is an interesting invention in a medieval world. Firing balls of lead at people through controlled explosions, rather than small blades launched through torque, has a lot of potential to change the face of the battlefield as we know it. The speed, the power, and the reliability of a firearm has many more advantages than what bows can do, not to mention many others simply consider them more stylish.
The Ironsheath Pistol is a unique design for flintlocks, boasting a second barrel built into the body of the gun underneath the first barrel. This second barrel acts as a “sheath” for additional rounds, and a simple cock of the hammer after each shot promptly pulls the next round into the barrel. This design allows the gun to fire multiple times in rapid succession without needing to reload right away, providing maximum lethality and speed for those capable of (or trained enough for) handling it. Also interesting about the Ironsheath is the bullets. While most flintlocks take a musketball load, the bullets for this handgun are all heavily modified. They are oblong in shape, with the front and back containing a small hole. The back is filled with gunpowder, so as to keep the prime of the loading mechanism when the next round is pulled in, while the front of the bullet seems to have rock salt drilled into it.

Scrapbox:
While elven villages are not known for their prejudice, it is rare to see humans among their homes. Yet, Allen Cantrell was welcomed with open arms, a blacksmith given all of the luxury that the elven host could provide. Allen provided a much-needed human perspective (and quality of work) on metallurgy, helping their industry to prosper. As time went on, he found immense amounts of success in the village.
Even masters have problems, though. During a mid-point of his life, Allen found himself with a severe head injury that hampered his work. Afterwards, all of the chainmail and blades he crafted would tend to break easily under duress. Not one to be set back by a little thing like brain damage, however, Allen decided to put the junk to use. He developed a small weapon that would take the broken scraps in its barrel, and with a pull of a trigger it would eject them all out in a spray of shredding power. Unfortunately, shortly after, the brain damage took its toll on him, and Allen regressed into a vegatative state until his final days. The blueprints to the weapon were found, and quietly passed around–partially as an interesting novelty, but also partially in honor of his…eccentric final creation.

The Scrapbox bears a resemblance to a bulky handgun, and in function it works much in the same way. Loaded with small boxes of scrap metal, chain, nails, jagged rocks, and other junk, cocking the gun pulls back a large piston from the back. Upon firing, there is no actual spark, but rather the piston slings forward and breaks the box, spraying the sharp shards of metal and waste out forward at rapid speeds. The design does not provide any form of accuracy whatsoever, with the junk spraying outwards in a dramatically inaccurate spread, but what it lacks in accuracy it makes up for with sheer power. Anyone who stands close to the resulting blast is guaranteed to be shredded, no matter how tough or powerful they are. While its short range renders it questionable to rely on as a sole weapon, combined with other weapons to make up for its shortcoming it becomes a staple weapon in any arsenal.

Godcannon:
The fabled engineer Lacerta Thunderheart was known primarily for two things–her genius and her arrogance. Having come from a rare union between a dragon and a elf, she had the intelligence of dragon and the wisdom of elves, but none of the humility. She frequently proclaimed herself to be the superior of all, and could easily demonstrate it. Her creations defied all attempts at study, with abilities far beyond their time and capable of easily doing what was thought impossible. Only until recently, centuries after her death, can modern science understand how she made her equipment work.
The Godcannon was perhaps Lacerta’s most infamous creation. While no stranger to controversy, due to her ego, the Church was perhaps her most prominent foe. When crafting the Godcannon, Lacerta made her goal very clear–a powerful siege cannon that was capable of tearing down even the gates of Heaven and making the gods above cry for mercy. The Church made several attempts to politely inform her of the price of such blasphemy, but she snidely deflected all attempts. A couple days later, she was found dead next to the completed pieces, killed by a poisoned assassin’s blade in the back of her throat. Even now, the Church denies any and all involvement, and historians wonder if the assassin did the world a favor or foul turn.

The Godcannon at first looks unassuming, like a large pack with two barrels sticking out of it, barely the size of two forearms. The genius of Lacerta is not to be underestimated, however, as true to her boast the Godcannon packs magnificent firepower. The weapon takes two modes, a “run” mode and a “gun” mode. The “run” mode is the default form, in which it simply takes the form of an easily-carried back. Upon being needed for combat, however, a mount sprouts out of the bottom and two handles out of the side for holding. Upon pulling the trigger, the two barrels alternate rapidly, spewing forth explosive firepower at a devastating rate, easily tearing apart anything in its line of path underneath the sheer weight of assault. Walls, armor, shields, magic, nothing can stand up to the assault. Perhaps the most amazing part of the design, however, is the fact that it doesn’t seem to run on any ammo at all–when the Godcannon starts to choke up, all it needs is a couple cranks to power it back up again and it once again can sling out destruction. Unfortunately, this amazing firepower comes with a hefty price–in “gun” mode, being mounted to the ground, it is unable to move at all. In a hectic situation where movement and agility is required, the Godcannon is useless. For anything else, however, the Godcannon is a god-slayer.

Devin is not a man that would call forth an image of the typical hardened space marine. He is physically unimposing, being a couple inches short, with freckles and untamed hair, and his body being fairly toned rather than a slab of mighty muscle. He is also a fairly reserved man with an optimistic view on life, shy but possessing a very dark sense of humor. Between both his average appearance and low-key personality, Devin doesn’t seem like a man that would thrive on the front lines of a battlefield. Yet, despite all appearances, the front lines of a battlefield is exactly where he flourishes.

In theory, the Geneva Convention is supposed to protect medics from the dangers of war and keep them safe. Unfortunately, medics are among the top targets that enemies go after for the simple fact that medics heal up their enemies–Devin has needed to not only fight for his own life but also the lives of patients. While certainly not a super-commando, he has gained enough experience in combat to rival a full-fledged soldier rather than simply a medic.
Nowadays? It’s not so much different. With the demon invasion and all the horrible monstrosities they brought, he finally has a real reason to use his skills. The enemies now wear flesh instead of armor, but that doesn’t mean his duties have changed in the least. For Devin, it’s just another day on the job. Head into the front lines and scout out the wounded, see if there are any that can be saved, and gun down whatever enemies try to stop him.
A remarkably bad day on the job.

====================================================================

[IntroStrings]
“So…about that Hippocratic Oath…”
“Uh. I’ll be sure to treat you all after this is over.”
“May the best man, woman, or creature from beyond win.”

[FragStrings]
“Primum non nocere. Heh.”
“You’ll be fine, walk it off.”
“Don’t worry, I’m a professional.”
“Administered patient air-conditioned 240 grain injection.”
“Patient assuming seasonal temperature. Prognosis unfavorable.”
“DWPA treatment delivered, transferring patient to the ECU.”
“Does it hurt when I do that?”
“You may feel a slight pinch.”

[KilledStrings]
“Gah…dying’s always an unpleasant feeling.”
“The sight of my blood doesn’t really shock me anymore…”
“Some painkillers, some bandages, and I’m back in action.”
“Nngggh. Right in the spleen. I liked that spleen.”
“Best way to beat death is in an arena. Weird, eh?”
“Oof. Right in the vitals. Nice and quick.”
“Physician, heal thyself!”

[RoamingStrings]
“And the thigh bone connected to the hip bone…”
“That he may fight no more, give him peace…”
“This is pretty fun. Nice change of pace from the lab work.”
“Things’re different once you get a gun in hand, eh?”
“Come out, come out, wherever you are.”
“Don’t hide. I’m not that scary. I’ll give you a lolly.”
“Hrm. Gonna need to pick up some supplies after this.”
“Sometimes it’s nice to relax…this is a strange way of relaxing.”
“All said and done, shooting each other is something else, eh?”
“This isn’t like most of my normal procedures.”
“This place has some pretty nice architecture, eh?”
“Hide-and-seek is over, guys. Olly olly oxen free.”

[RareRoamingStrings]
“Y’know. Why does the shotgun shoot seven pellets while the double-barrel shoots 20, eh?”
“Sometimes I just want to hand patients one of those medikits and say ‘Use this’.”
“That MD is really paying for itself now, eh?”
“This is going to be a real bloodbath. Who cleans all this up, anyway?”
“Not sure I brought enough body bags for all our leftover corpses.”
“I need to update my reading material for waiting patients. How’s Franken Fran sound?”
“It’s weird how sometimes people take this too seriously. I mean, we’re just murdering each other, eh?”

[LosingRoamingStrings]
“You can do this, Dev. Finger on the trigger.”

[DemoralizedStrings]
“Damn…am I really getting that rusty?”
“Maybe I should sit this one out, eh, let the pros take it from here.”
“Head to McGill U., they said. You could help so many people, they said.”
“I’m going to need a medic after this.”

[WinStrings]
“Now that we’re all done, if all of you would line up for me, please…”
“Heh. You’d think I’d be more pleased with this.”
“Hrm, I can’t say I expected this. Well, good going me, I guess.”
“All right. Good game, everyone. No hard feelings, eh?”

[LoseStrings]
“I don’t mind losing. Sometimes the fun is just in fighting, not in winning.”
“I’m a medic, not a fighter. I guess this was kind of expected.”
“Hey, $player_inlead\c-, how do you feel? Anything shaking or aching? Blurry vision?”
“Not bad, not bad. A good trigger finger means a long life.”

[FrustratedStrings]
“Okay…okay. Give me a bit. Give me a bit…”
“Calm down, Devin. Calm down. It’s just a game.”
“Ah, damn. Good shot. Very good shot.”
“Keep that up, and you won’t ever need to see me.”

[EnragedStrings]
“Maybe I should spend less time in the ER and more in the firing range.”
“Above all, do no harm. Above all, do no harm…”
“I don’t normally get irritated. I’m having second thoughts.”
“I know it’s just a friendly match, but that was kind of…upsetting.”

[PissedStrings]
“Patient seems to suffer from acute faecal encephalopathy. No cure known.”
“Patient appears to be severely dys-synaptogenic. Questionable prognosis.”
“Patient contains a high serum porcelain level. Not sure for treatment.”

There was an awkward silence.
“Don’t tell me Chell and Wheatley actually DO escape to City 17?!” I jumped back up from the chair.
Alice and T.J. looked sheepishly back and forth at each other. Awkward silence ensued.
My hand was already well-acquainted with my face, but tonight it got another re-introduction.

Alice took some steps towards me, hands clasped together. “Look, I’m really sorry. I really thought you’d beaten the game, I didn’t know that–”
“It’s fine. I’ll just…it’s still cool, I guess.” I said with a grunt. The taste of the toast lingered in my mouth; I lifted up a bottle of water to wash it away. “I was just really looking forward to it, you know? I liked the original, and I really wanted to enjoy the sequel…” I cut off the sentence, suckling on the mouth of the bottle. It was cool and refreshing, like all water tended to be. Delicious.
“Won’t you still?” T.J. said. “It’s still more of what you enjoyed. You liked the humor, you liked the jokes, you liked the puzzles, and you especially liked the storyline.”
“Yeah, I know. I just…I wanted to have everything be a surprise, you know? I wanted it all to be brand new…”

—————–

Just a couple hours later, I was staring at the Portal 2 icon on my desktop. It was a small icon, really, but it lead to a big game. A big, delicious, wonderful game. With cake and potatoes and all those other internet memes that had been shoved down everyone’s throat.
At the moment, though, I really just wasn’t sure what to think.
Chell was a vampire. A vampire! Of all things! The Half-Life universe was known for being vaguely-futuristic and scientific, to pull a mythological spot of characterization out of nowhere was…well, it was surprising, to say the least.
Wheatley and Chell escape to City 17. City 17! Of all places! There had been references to the Half-Life-verse before in Portal, both blatant and not-so-blatant, but this was a direct crossover. It was amazing, and the possibilities whirled through my head.
I sighed and drug my mouse over the icon.

I wasn’t sure what to think, now that I knew this stuff. This was plot-important points to reveal, and now I just…knew it. I didn’t have time to let the atmosphere build up, I wasn’t able to play through the levels leading up to it, I wasn’t able to enjoy Glados’ snarking beforehand…I just got the info dumped right in front of me.
I really wasn’t sure how to feel.
Part of me felt betrayed. I wasn’t sure why, but there was this…sense that I was supposed to experience the story one way, but now suddenly here I got the information through an entirely different manner–a manner that wasn’t at all what the game had so elaborately crafted for me. I wasn’t sure whether someone had betrayed me or whether I had betrayed the game. Could I ever look at my friends the same way? Would the game still accept me into its warm and comforting embrace and regale me with whatever food-based quirkiness the writers had deigned to make fun of?

T.J’s voice rang in my ear. Won’t you still? It’s still more of what you enjoyed.
It was, really. I just wasn’t sure whether it would be as enjoyable, now that the surprise was gone.
I bit my lower lip and double-clicked the icon. Maybe it wouldn’t be so bad; maybe there’s more to Chell being a vampire than just genetic wonkery, or maybe Chell and Wheatley escaped by riding a mechanical velociraptor or something.
Maybe it’d still be fun. I mean, there’s more to a game than just a couple moments of plot.

This weapon is a hand-made halberd, a razor-sharp blade resting atop a thick and powerful shaft, forged with love and care and designed with absolutely no magic assisting in its creation. There are no strange auras, no unique features, no telling arcane signatures that identify it as a weapon that should stand out in any way.

What DOES make it stand out, however, is the fact that it was forged not in fire…but in ice and water. Large slabs of metal were frozen and then broken into shape like brittle candy, finalized pieces were tempered in sub-zero water, and more intricate shapes were formed by simply pounding them into shape with raw strength alone.

While many smiths have argued over the effectiveness and ability of “cold forging” in comparison to more traditional techniques, the Valtameri is evidence that sometimes it can be done well. The result is a blade that not only works perfectly fine in frozen or aquatic environments, with the low temperatures being ingrained into the metal, but also leaves a deep chill on every wound it inflicts. A reliable, effective, and powerful weapon, it also serves as proof that sometimes weapons don’t need magics deep within the blade in order to cut down whoever dares to threaten its wielder.

—-

GIGANADES:

A colloquial term truncuating the proper name, “Gigawatt Energy Impact Grenades”, the Giganades are a revolutionary new weapon from Kaiser Future Enterprises, providing the damage and force of a typical frag grenade without the risk of friendly fire.
Any frequent utilizer of grenades can tell you that the power that can be held in these little things can’t be beat. The area of effect is massive, the destruction is absolutely amazing, and the ability to bounce them around corners or lob them over obstructions really help them get around. The problem, however, lies in their inherent unreliability.
Now, with proper precaution and practice, the risk of self-injury or friendly fire from a trained hand is reduced to only 23%. Kaiser Future Enterprises, in their infinite wisdom, have developed a grenade that reduces that number even further to a mere 5%.

What’s the secret? The secret lies twofold! First off, the grenades are containers for a new substance called “solid fire”, unstable energy that is kept chill in the grenade’s interiors. Once come into contact with an enemy or once proper time expires, however, the powder is ejected out–upon coming into contact with the warmth of the air, it denses and ignites the air instantly, slamming into enemies with the force and heat of an explosion. Second off, the armor used by K.F.E.’S Assault, Networking, and Tactics Division is specially tempered against this energy, allowing them to remain safe when detonations go off nearby. Solid fire hits their armor and coats them, harmlessly passing over them, leaving them without any damage and saving it all for the enemies.

—-

BARRACUDA:

For hunting, accuracy and range is the first and absolute paramount desire. Getting good prey means nothing if you can’t get them from a distance that both keeps you safe and keeps them unaware. For this reason, the carbine rifle has typically been the preferred weapon of a hunter. As the years went by, however, situations quickly arose in which hunters needed to use both hands–there were surprise attacks, or he needed to lug heavy equipment, or other such common scenarios.
For the group of people known as the Handgun Hunters, they had a solution to this–simply hunt with a handgun instead of a big and large rifle. To hunt with a handgun, however, required a lot of specialization–the gun needed to be customized to accept large ammo, the barrel needed to be extended, a good grip needed to be installed to hold the gun steady, a scope needed to be put on top…it was just too much of a hassle, compared to ready-to-go rifles.

That is where Kaiser Future Enterprises steps in with their Civilian Defense & Recreation line of firearms. Half trail gun, half hunting pistol, all accurate and mean, the Barracuda is a weapon designed specifically for striking down even the toughest meat at a great distance.
With a revolver grip and a lengthy and straight barrel capable of being rested on anything, a steady aim is almost guaranteed. The top rail slide is adjustable to accomodate any type of scope or sight that the user desires, and the built-in muzzle suppressors help to keep recoil reasonable. Chambering the massive .55FP rounds, any game struck by this gun is sure to collapse and have trouble getting back up again–and any prey sought out by a hunter wielding this weapon may as well head back to its family and inform it that it’s never coming back again.

Wilder K lifted up a thick soda bottle to his bronzed and chapped lips, taking a pause from panting for air to drink it down. It was always good to take advantage of a break in action to relax.
The sugary elixir trailed down his throat, his mouth wrapped tight around the glass container. It was sweet. Of course it was sweet, it was soda. But it had been a long time since he had something so sweet.
He pulled the bottle away and licked his lips, savoring the taste. He could already feel the caffeine surging through his body, giving him a second blast of energy.

He heard a squawk of protest next to him.

“Hold your horses, geeze. I’ll be with you in a minute.”

With half the drink gone, he went back to his previous thought.

One hundred million.

He had done a lot of thinking about that number over time.
One of the biggest thoughts that had stuck in his mind was about how damn high an amount it was. It was so high, in fact, that the human mind was physically incapable of processing an amount that size. It would simply see a gigantic swathe of it, a large pile rather than individual pieces one after the other. It was still an amount that would be reached one step at a time, though, one after the other, gaining in size and adding to the stack before it became a pile that the mind refused to register. It went from tens, to hundreds, to thousands, and anything after that was simply a blur. Maybe people with a better memory could keep track to the ten thousands or hundred thousands, but for the most part anything after that ceased being individual–it was simply an “amount”.
But it was still a number he was aiming for, one by one at a time.
One hundred million people saved. Innocent lives, rescued from peril and brought into safety once again.

He could still remember the conversation that spawned it all. Voices from years ago drifted into his ears as memories took control. He could still hear his daughter’s voice perfectly, as if she was right there next to him. Soft. Gentle. Beautiful. As beautiful as any sound that could ever have been heard, as if the sirens themselves had delivered their voice into a little girl.

“Daddy, you’re going to retire eventually, aren’t you?”
“Yeah, eventually. Every man and woman retires when it’s time to finish up their job, sweetie. Sometimes they’re just not capable of doing it anymore, or sometimes they want to spend more time with their family.”
“But there’ll still be people that need helping! You couldn’t help them while you’re retired…”
“I know, sweetie. I don’t plan to retire for a long, long time.”
“As long as there’s people that need helping?”
“Well, I don’t know if I have enough years in my life for that. Or in anyone’s life! But I plan on helping as many people as I can.”
“Daddy, you should set a number! A large number! The BIGGEST number!”
“The biggest number? What do you have in mind?”
“Ten people!”
“I’ve already saved ten people, pumpkin.”
“More, then! A lot more! Ten tens! A hundred tens! No, a hundred hundreds!”
“A hundred hundreds? That’s ten thousand.”
“More than ten thousand, then! A hundred of a hundred thousands!”
“One hundred million? That’s quite a lot.”
“How much is it, Daddy?”
“More than you and I will ever know. That’s enough people to fill entire countries. It’s even larger than our home.”
“Then that! Do that, Daddy! Promise me! You’ll save an entire country!”
“I promise, baby. Before I die, I promise. I’ll save one hundred million people.”

It was easy to pass it off as just the rantings of a little girl, proud of her Daddy and wanting more to be proud about. Of course she wouldn’t realize the magnitude of what she was asking him, not until she was older. It was easy to just forget about it as time passed.
It was more difficult to forget about it after she died.
A father should never have to bury his family. It was the natural law that the ancestors went before the descendants. And yet…

Another squawk of protest.

“Oh, fine, fine. Breaktime’s over.”
He lifted up the soda bottle and quickly finished it, then looked down. In his arms, held in a cybernetic-arm headlock, was a monster. A ‘Dimenian’, they called it. Looked like a nasty shark creature with scythe arms–black flesh, pulsing with unnatural forces, and glowing abdomens. Nobody knew what spawned the vile things, and simply being around them made a lot of people uncomfortable.
Wilder took his finished bottle and smashed it into the creature’s face, spraying shattered glass all along it. He was rewarded with a wail of agony. A quick twist of the neck and the screaming stopped, and he dropped the creature’s limp body to the ground.
He lifted up his hands to clutch the strap of the rocket launcher hanging off his backside, and he looked around the room. Charred corpses lay everywhere, flesh and blood spattered about as chunks of frag lay imbedded in their cadavers, while other beasts were struggling to lift themselves up off the ground. Wilder waited patiently as they lifted themselves up and then charged blindly at him in a single defiant act.

One creature was met in a clothesline, his forearm connecting with its face and emitting a disgusting crunch–the brain crushed and the skull splintered. It flopped over instantly on the ground, not even able to comprehend what happened before death.
Another creature met with a less-quick death, a rocket burying itself deep into its torso and detonating, sending shrapnel and flames all about its internals and externals. Its flesh smoked and its body blackened even further.
The third creature tried to come in from above. It found itself snatched forcefully out of the air and bent backwards, its head plowing into the ground in a pin-point suplex. Its spine snapped forward at the impact, jutting into the head and impaling the brain.
The fourth creature tried to take advantage of the mayhem to try and escape, pressing up against the walls and then trying to skulk away through the doorway. Three shots sounded out, and blood spurted out of the new holes in its side. It flopped over as well.

It had only taken half a minute. But that half a minute was all that was needed to finish the room.
Wilder K holstered his pistol and strapped his rocket launcher across his back again, heading out through the doorway and further into the ancient ruins.
There was a hostage in here somewhere, and he’d get to saving her–even if he had to go through entire waves of these monsters to do so.
And then, he could add one more notch to that one hundred million.

Every time I sit down,
I take my pen in hand.

I lift it up and ask it:
“How many worlds will you show me today?”
I ask it quietly,
calmly,
gently,
affably,
but with hope.

Sometimes it talks back.
“I will show you not just worlds,
but entire universes!
Open your frail eyes, and accept my sight!
Open your mind, and accept my wisdom!”
And then it blesses me with vision,
stories boundless,
like the falls
crashing into the world below.

Sometimes it talks back,
“You don’t use what I give you!
Go and leave me be;
Clench your firm hands, and be content with nothing!
Close your eyes, and suffer in blackness!”
And then it curses me with futility,
frustration endless,
like the dust
crashing into the world below.

Sometimes it doesn’t talk at all,
remaining silent in my hand.
“… … … … … …
… … … … … …
… … … …”
And yet, I find wisdom in its nothing;
Now my own thoughts flow boundless,
with infinite stories and worlds
and endless nothings and nonexistences,
like the skies
crashing into the dust below.

Now all I see are tears.

They say that time heals all wounds, but for us…it’s only festering.

We’ve been at war for so long. About half a century, I believe—there’s been fighting going on ever since I was a child. Only the elderly remember what life before the fighting was like, and they would entrance us with tales of peace and joy, of how we didn’t have to live in fear or duck into safe houses every time a plane swooped overhead.

The school I used to go to…where I grew up, where I made friends, where I fell in love with my first girlfriend, where I had my first kiss…it’s gone now. Destroyed in a bombing run, and all of my memories with it.

My friends have long since moved to a different continent, away from all of the conflict. My family and I still stay here, still clinging to our home. Or rather, what’s left of it before it gets torn away from us.

It’s strange, that we’d feel so much affection for a place getting ripped apart more and more daily. Each bit of life we’ve had here is steadily going away as they take it from us. All of our land is slowly slipping away from our grasp into their hands, but in those meager acres…are memories of where we grew up. Every single one of us cling to those memories, and none of us want to let go, and yet they still take it from us anyway.

We’ve been at war for so long, and not for a single day have we been on the upswing. We’ve been losing steadily ever since the beginning—we’re outgunned, outmanned, outsmarted, out-equipped, out-everything. There’s not a single advantage we have that we’ve been able to muster forth, and yet we still press on.

Our enemies call us fools, and I suppose they’re right. It’s fairly foolish to be fighting for something when you know you’re going to lose. I suppose it’s foolish to see superior enemy capabilities and yet go right ahead anyway. I suppose it’s foolish to continue on a vain hope that we’ve let down time and time again, with only a dream of what once was to guide us along.

And yet, we still press on. Fools on a fool’s quest.

It is now March 14^th, 1923. What foolishness will we birth today?

For one man sitting perched on the treetops, however, it was just another creature. He sat straddled on the branch in complete silence and stillness, his body perpetually frozen as he continued staring down at the creature below. The wooden mask offering a fake face provided no more emotion than the entire rest of his body. The numerous feathers that decorated his leather tunic swayed in the wind, and his hand clutched a sheathed blade wrapped in leather that hung off his hip. At the moment, he was quiet and stealthy, waiting for his next opportunity to strike—the complete antithesis of his name, Screaming Wind.

Screaming Wind knew the routine by heart now. He knew the creature by heart now, the…”Chunk” it was called. The beast’s massive height would work against it—in this forest, it would constantly be tripping and wrecking into the trees, and not have a lot of room to maneuver. Its scaled body would provide little armor with his blade jammed between the plates, and it would also provide handholds for him to climb up along. While its massive claws and fangs would prove to be detrimental, as long as he stayed along its back and sides he’d be in no trouble. Its horns would be worthless if he wasn’t being charged, and the frilled neck that acted as frontal armor would be equally worthless. It was a beast fearful if you were taken by surprise—but he was the one taking it by surprise.

There was a small chitter underneath him.

Speak of the devil. It was finally moving.

The chunk lifted its head up, done nosing through the grass and the dirt for…whatever interested it at hand. That was certainly different for a chunk; they were carnivores, the grass and plants usually held no interest for them. Was he stalking prey? Or was he looking for a new home? Or perhaps it was something else entirely?

Screaming Wind held on to the tree branch as he leaned over to the side, swinging down quietly and hanging upside-down. He held on to the branch with just his arms and legs, looking at the ground at the chunk. It moved laboriously, its mighty feet stomping down onto the dirt below, each footstep sending a mighty ripple across the trees. Screaming Wind held on as the trees swayed back and forth, his body leaning along with the motions.

Wait for it…

Wait for it…

There!

The chunk passed underneath him in its trawl. Screaming Wind quickly let go of the branch and twisted in mid-air. The wind blazed past him as he plummeted, and his hand grabs the hilt of his blade and pulled it free, and the metal’s single edge glinted in the light mottled by the forest as the oak heft wrapped in leather stayed solid in his grip. As he landed on the beast he proceeded to follow the actions he performed time and time again in slaying other chunks—it was a process he knew by heart now.

Step one. He quickly slid his blade between two of the scales deep into the chunk’s flesh as he slid. This gave him a firm handle to clutch on to as the creature moved, kept him from sliding off as the momentum from his fall, and it also inflicted a minor injury on it to start the battle.

The creature responded appropriately. It let out a sharp yelp of surprise, turning its head around to try and gaze at an assailant not located there. Screaming Wind used the blade to pull himself up with a grunt, getting a good footing on the scales and standing up along its massive backside. The chunk continued turning, entirely unaware that the blade came from him, and he took advantage of this to run up along its body onto its neck, pulling out numerous knives from his tunic. Upon reaching the neck, it was just a matter of quickly sliding the between the scales and then pushing them in.

The chunk certainly felt that. It lifted its head back, which only pushed the knives in further. A bit more flailing and squirming, and the knives only dug further through the scales, which sent it into a writhing and roaring fit. Screaming Wind ran back to his lodged sword, jumping over to it and holding on to it as it did its initial flailing of pain. He bucked and swung as the chunk went left and right, crashing into trees in its futile attempts to rid itself of the shards lodged in its neck digging deeper with each movement.

This was really the only difficult part. Chunks were mostly reliant on intimidation, hunting them was primarily a matter of overcoming fear and learning their weak points.

Screaming Wind had learned them a long time ago.

He fiddled through the pouch in his tunic, and then pulled out a couple wooden vials. Sliding them under his mask and holding on to them with his teeth, then pulling his sword out and re-sheathing it, he promptly grabs on to the creature’s scales and starts crawling along the body heading over to the chest.

The neck was the most sensitive area of the chunk—as long as it was in pain, it would freely ignore just about anything else. The chest was also the weakest area of the chunk, thanks to the armored frill on the head acting as protection; as their head and neck protected things more and more, their natural armor in areas it could protect diminished.

Screaming Wind slid both of the vials into the scales directly at the front of the chest and promptly hopped off the body. It was a pretty hefty drop, enough to cause him to feel a surge of pain in his legs. He tried to roll forward to reduce most of the impact, but it still winded him. He got up onto his feet and promptly started limping away, hoping that the creature would stretch his neck more and crush the vials soon.

Almost as if right on cue, a deafening roar sounded from the creature. The vials, crushed, mingled their ingredients together—a powder and a chemical, creating an explosion directly in the creature’s chest. Death would be instant. Crushing the chest, destroying the heart and lungs in one single go.

True to form, the chunk didn’t even have time to realize what went on before its knees buckled out from under it and sent it to the dirt. The last things that were on its mind were still the pains in the neck, and it never even knew what happened.

Quick. Clean.

But still a successful kill.

Screaming Wind took a bit of time to just stand there, exhaling out as he looked over his latest catch. It was fairly large, probably a full-grown adult male chunk. Ten feet tall, six feet wide, who knows how many pounds…there would be no way he would be able to carry this whole creature to the village by himself.

He scratched his mask and then sighed. Looked like his share of the meat and hide would be significantly less than half.

With a shrug, he pulled out a large knife with a larger hilt and promptly went to work on the beast. It would take the better part of the night, but it would be worth it.

They say there is a simple house on Steele Creek Road in Ohio, a house that hasn’t been occupied in decades. It’s certainly a nice enough house, atop a hill and overseeing the roads below…but it hadn’t been used, and that lack of use was taking its toll on it.
The entire area is out of the way and abandoned, and any driver that drives by is likely to miss the path that leads to it–not a terribly important area, with anything to truly make it a place demanding a visit.
And yet, even abandoned areas still have places important to someone. In this area is a house, an abode that someone had once called a home. A two-story house with an attic, charming yellow paint, overgrown scenery that stretches to climb up the sides, a collapsed roof over the front porch that has crumbled over one side, and surrounded by a chain link fence that had been torn, twisted, and mangled by time and vandals. It likely was incredibly beautiful in its better days, with others pointing and oooh-ing and aaah-ing at it, but now it was just another piece of forlorn estate. A house that someone had once called home, once used it as a sanctuary and once felt so safe in such an area.

Yet in that safety, in that innocuous exterior and that humble front, is what brought it down. Houses are supposed to be shelters, something to protect you from the outside troubles, keeping you from harm. And yet, this house was a prison for those that needed protection and couldn’t get it.
Out of the way, abandoned, and without attention, this served as a great hideout–a hideout for thieves, murderers, and rapists, each of which would either find it with no family within to endanger their hiding…or a family that quickly was removed out of the way. Though the bloodstains on the ground eventually were long since washed away, the evil was not. The innocent souls of those who felt their mayhem live there for all eternity, trapped and seeking an exit but never to find it.
Lone explorers and investigators have entered the house before, many attempting to either verify the supernatural presence or just get a thrill from entering such a place. Each time, however, they have all exited and never talked about what went within.

Whatever the purpose, the house still stands today, and the ghostly gallery of ghouls only continues to increase, never to decrease. Why should they? They were innocent, and the unforgiven sins of others are what chain them to this existence.
If only something could be done to right all the wrongs done to its unwilling occupants…

——

“I’m not dead. I’m not dead. I’m not dead. I’m not dead.”
Sachiko Nishimura repeated it over and over in a self-assuring chant as she went to work, her knife going to town on the chicken on the table. The young Japanese girl hunched over a cutting board, tears staining her anguished face. The kitchen around her was demolished, rubble everywhere and dust all over the place–just getting the table suitable for cutting food was in and of itself a chore. Her grimy clothes matched the ruined area: a tattered button-up shirt with a tie, a torn skirt, sneakers with curled socks…and blood all over. Blood stained her shirt and her skirt, great wounds from long ago that had since made their mark more than years ago. Perhaps stabs, or perhaps gunshots–but either way they were plentiful.
“This is what normal people do. Normal, not dead people. They get up. They cook. They eat breakfast. I’m not dead. I’ve never been dead. This is just a bad dream. I’m not dead. I’m not dead…”
A simple routine: Cut the chicken, put it on the stove, fry it, season it with garlic and onion, mix it with white rice. A simple recipe for stir fry rice. Delicious food, full of both starch and protein, not to mention loaded with flavor–an optional addition would be to add salsa while it was cooking along with crushed red pepper, providing the basis for dirty rice.
This was not, however, the only food available. On the table in the room next over was all sorts of foods she had tried to make. Tossed fruit salad, pancakes, meatloaf, lasagna, spaghetti, sushi…plates after plates of food born from her work.
All useless. She couldn’t eat a single one.
Yet, she still would try. The chicken was chopped now, and she promptly threw a pot on the stove with the chicken soon to follow.

She had a dream last night, about how she was alive. She had dreamed of one of her birthday parties, where she had asked for a large cookie instead of a cake–and got one on a platter as big as a tabletop.
She remembered how the warm chocolate melted in her mouth, oozing down her throat with every swallow and warming her stomach. It was sugary, sweet, and delicious…and then there were the memories. The memories of her family surrounding her, holding her close and talking about how proud they were of her. She had grown another year that day, and she was celebrating with delicious food of different kinds while in the company of friends and family. Their laughter mingled in her ear
That was so long ago. Years upon years upon years ago.
She had long since forgotten when her birthday actually was, along with her actual age and other such information. It had been so long…
…or perhaps she hadn’t forgotten. This was only sleepiness, from just waking up. She just needed to wake up. This was all just a bad dream.

“I’m not dead. I’m not dead…I’m not…please, please don’t…”
She poured out the rice and chicken into a bowl.
Time for the moment of truth.

——

A teenager just outside of the door to the house called up at the rooftop. “Hey, Jack, see anything over there?”
The other teenager, Jack, peered inside the window. His face was pressed up against the glass, trying to make out what was in the house. “Don’t see anything, Alex. Just lots of rubble and gunk and other such crap. It’s really kind of forlorn here.”
“Of course it’s forlorn, you idiot, it’s a haunted house. Do you really expect it to be cheery?” Alex rolled his eyes, leaning up against the wall against the door.
“Well, just once I’d like to see a haunted house that WAS cheery. You know, plush rugs, cheery wallpaper, functional lighting. A place that someone would like to live in, thus tricking them into going right into a ghost’s maws. Then, right when you were, like, going right to the bathroom. Suddenly, ghost fist right up your ass! Oh shit, I’m being anally raped by a ghost!”
A pause. Half a minute. A full minute.
“What the hell, man? Seriously, what the hell was that?” Alex leaned over from the porch and looked up at Jack.
Jack shrugged, then started fiddling with the window to try and lift it up. “First thing that came to mind. I just want to see a place that you’d seriously want to live that also just happens to be haunted.”
Alex rubbed at his eyes. “If you’d seriously want to live there, it wouldn’t BE haunted! Because people would live there, and then THEY’D have to deal with the ghosts!”
A groan. “Whatever, man, I’m just saying…” Jack went back to the window. After a short bit of working, it creaked and it went right up. “Oh, awesome! I got it open!”
Both of Alex’s hands went up in a cheer. “All right! Now head on in and unlock the door for me, okay?” He rubbed his hand in anticipation.
“Yeah, yeah, I know how it goes…” Jack grumbled and then crawled in through the window, shutting it behind him.
Alex grinned widely, continuing to rub his hands. There would be all sorts of things in this house, he could just feel it–all sorts of things he could show his friends, his girlfriend, or his family.

Half an hour later, he was having second thoughts.
Alex panted heavily, half-sobbing and half-gasping for air as he sprinted as fast as he could down the path.
“You…you mock me…you MOCK me…” He heard her voice in his ear, close enough that he could feel cold breath chill his spine. It was as if Sachiko was right behind him.
He looked left, and saw h    er strolling between the trees, somehow keeping up with his running pace.
Jack’s decapitated and faceless head was in her hands, held by his hair. Blood was smeared all over her clothes–fresh, this time, mingling with the stains.
“You MOCK me! YOU MOCK ME! You BREATHE in my presence, your heart pulses, blood flows through your veins, and you…you EAT! You EAT! The food I’ve made, the food I slaved over, you EAT IT! You DARE to eat it?!” She howled after him as he sprinted. “I hate you! I HATE YOU!”
Alex closed his eyes. His legs were threatening to give out from under him, and every breath gave a painful protest from his sore lungs. He hurt, a lot–but he had to keep running. She was right behind him.
Taking his eyes off the path, however, is what tripped him up. His feet collided with a root, and he stumbled. He let out a sharp cry as his arms shot out to try and grab at whatever ground there was to pull him along.
A foot stomped on his hand, cracking his wrist–he let out another sharp cry, his eyes closing in pain.
Sachiko snarled down at him, crouching down to be level with his face. “You…you want to eat. You want to eat?”
“I’m sorry, miss, I’m sorry, please, don’t hurt me…” Alex moaned out in between sobs.
“You can just take whatever you want to eat. You can just take WHATEVER! As for me? It would be so nice to eat. It would be so nice… I’m so very hungry…I’ve been so hungry for so long…” Her eyes flared as she reached forward and clutched his face.
“I wonder what humans taste like…”