Aardvark

The mission was simple enough. Drop out of hyperspace just outside sensor range of the station, cruise past, deposit high explosive and jump out of there. Just one minor detail. Roughly half the Aerian Navy currently resided in the system. All of them with explicit instructions to not let anyone blow up the station. All of them with hundreds of thousands of credits worth of training behind them piloting hundreds of millions of credits worth of spaceship, many of whom have had combat experience in the various wars that the Aerian's started just to fight off stircraziness. But that station's destruction was an important step in knocking the Aerian's down a few notches. An all out assult would never work, for the afformentioned reasons pertaining to Aerians in high tech ships with big guns. The only way it could be done is by a pilot of reknowned skill in stealth and sabotage piloting the most advanced fighter with the latest in masking technology backed up with the best insider information money could buy. Why they gave the mission to me is anyone's guess.

The other day I recieved a longdistance call from my cousins telling me my father had attempted suicide and had been admitted to the psych wing of a private hospital a few days earlier and that I really should visit him I've gotta make a better attempt at keeping in contact with my family

A cousin of mine was born on the eighth of the fourth, too What in the name of the unholy Jesus Christ goes on nine months previously? Eighth of July? Is that any reason for mass procreation? Well, now that I'm 21 I feel.... no different to 20, 'cause I've been able to drink, drive, vote and all the other perks of being an adult for 3 or more years now Thankyou very much everyone, damn shame I didn't see this thread sooner, but 'til that case of writers block buggers off, I'll only be glancing at various forums

The human mind is a wonderful thing. We're capable of ultimate good and pure evil. Hell, we invented good and evil, calibrating the scale to ourselves, the finest and most despicable humans being the extremes, then going from there But we also adapt to any situation so easily. If anything happens regularly for long enough, it becomes the norm for that particular person. Their whole perspective on life, the universe and everything has just been warped a little more. In this case, a guy who was abused by his parents has accepted abuse as part of human interaction. His sister being beaten was no different from him. His mind was telling him she must've deserved it, else why would his mother be beating her. He's about to go out into the world? Well, on the grand scale of humanity, he'll be a relatively well adjusted individual, just prone to fits of rage if a critical arguement reaches an impass I'm forced to deal with worse on a daily basis. People like this are everywhere. Hell, I'm willing to bet they make up a sizeable chunk of the population. They are and always will be. There's no helping them. They're only human

A beer, woman, a beer Ahh, forget the beer. I've been sober too long anyway Make it a coke instead. To symbolise my commercial consumerism... and my caffeine addiction

OOOH!!! OOOOOOOOOOO!!! ME NEXT!!!! MEMEMEMEMEMEMEMEMEME!!!!! That mental image of me you've got in your mind right now? Add a few more flames. And put a stubbie in my hand.

So when'll we see that hundred bucks an hour your shrink isn't earning?

There's this girl I know, Lynne. Everyone was against her, people were out to get her, the world hated her. In her opinion, anyway. She never smiled, always looked down, quiet, shyed away from people, anti-social as hell. It showed in her appearance, too. Never wore makeup, had bags under her eyes, had long, brown hair that was more often than not, badly tangled, could've been overweight, but it was impossible to tell, because she wore dull, baggy clothes and only sexless business suits when occasions required it. Not a very good conversationalist, either. Just one on one it took effort to keep a conversation alive and in groups she went completely silent. Not that it mattered, as the only time anyone would casually converse with her would be during lunch or after work. But she was a brilliant listener. If you had something to get off your chest, she would patiently sit and take in every word. That's probably why I liked her so much. It'd taken me two years of careful conversational manoeuvring to finally get her to tell me her story. Unstable family life, father died at a young age, mother was an alcoholic, lived with her grandmother 'til she died when Lynne was 12, then back with her alcoholic mother, where she lived shut away in her room, to avoid her mother or stepdad's attentions. She did well enough at school, using academics as an escape, but never got on with other students, so had few friends. Forced out of home at 17, she moved into a sharehouse, got a few retail jobs to support her through uni until she graduated, then found her current job and moved into an apartment not too far from the city. Baggy clothing aside and when she'd gone to the trouble of brushing her hair, she wasn't all that unattractive. In the two years I'd known her, she'd had 3 men in her life. Two were gone within a week, one lasted a month. He'd come and gone 6 months before. For about a month after each, she would brood constantly. The first time, I tried for a month to get her over it, the rest I just accepted and waited 'til she seemed like she wanted company again. Then she met a mate of mine, Thomas. Big Tom, we'd call him, because he was a large man. Not fat, not tall, just well built. Solid, but not muscley. Excellent man to have in a fight or in a doubles game of pool. He'd come to our office to collect a bit of money I'd promised him and had run into Lynne while trying to navigate the maze of cubicles. He must've caught her in good light or something, because, as he told her minutes later, he'd never seen a girl that beautiful before. Either that or he'd been rejected by the high-strung bimbos who only go for guys with incredibly large wallets again and was after someone easier. He never told me why, but he used my name to start up a conversation with her and within minutes had her talking more to him than she'd ever talked to anyone in the office over the past two years. He dragged her out for dinner and a movie that Friday night. The evening before, I'd had a serious talk to him about Lynne, which consisted of "If you break her heart, I'll have no one to whinge to for a month, so you'll cop every single bad thing that happens to me for 30 days". He laughed at that and didn't reply. I didn't see either of them until the following Monday. For the first time ever, Lynne came into work a few minutes late. For the first time ever, her head was up, she was smiling brightly, her hair was finely combed and she was wearing a rather smart outfit none had ever seen before. Instantly, I saw what Tom had seen right away. Some smart alec demanded to know where Lynne was. This got a few chuckles from other people, until Lynne doubled over with laughter. It was the first time any of us had heard her laugh and it was infectious. Soon, the office was in stitches. Tom and Lynne were an item for several months after that, coming out together with the group to various clubs and events, sometimes disappearing for a couple of days by themselves. Even without Tom, Lynne had become more sociable, friendly and was at least attempting conversation. And she still listened patiently whenever I needed to bitch about... whatever. She was almost a changed woman. New clothes, craftily applied makeup and curly deep crimson hair. When she walked into the office with that do, my thoughts instantly went back to a centrefold Tom had up on his wall for three years straight. I chuckled, but kept the thought to myself. Things went beautifully for the two for several months. Then one evening, we were out on the town. Just the three of us. Twas a beautiful spring evening and we were on our way to a club. The plan was to meet up with the rest of the group there, stay a while, then get to a midnight drunken gathering nearby. The area was busy. People going home from work mingling with people coming in from the suburb to celebrate the end of another week. It was busy and noisy and to this day, I have no idea what Tom saw that no one else did. The media would later blame terrorists for the car bombing. At the time, I was still dazed. I'd been fortunate in that I'd been lagging, putting a car between me and the blast. Tom, on the otherhand... I had to roll him off Lynne. He was too heavy for her. He was also in no condition to move himself. He'd taken a large chunk of metal in the back and bits of glass could be seen in his arm. Lynne was shaken and bruised from the fall, but otherwise unharmed. Tom had knocked her to the ground moments before the explosion. When she came to her senses, she saw the blood everywhere, saw Tom's ashen face and immediately wept. "No, I can't lose you, too." I heard her saying over and over again. He reached a weakened hand up to her face and stroked her cheek with a clenched fist. He then pulled her down to him and whispered something to her. She held him until he was no more, then arose and asked me to take her home. I didn't ask her for his last words, but she volunteered them anyway. "Don't lose this life I gave you and you won't lose me." There's this girl I know, Lynne. Beautiful, intelligent, sharp wit, brilliant conversationalist, snappy dresser. I wish I'd gotten to know her better when I first met her.

"I often quote myself; it adds spice to my conversation" -George Bernard Shaw

Short soup, loaded with fresh chilli God, I miss that stuff

The rules of a duel are simple. #1 Winner takes all. No questions asked. As a duel is to the death, this would never be a problem. #2 Duels are to the death. Self explanatory. #3 The challengee can declare defence. This is called whenever the challengee is near someone or something he must defend at all costs, due to rule #4. #4 Once a duel begins, It continues until the end, regardless. Collateral damage of any kind is ignored. The two duelists matter, no more. Anything else destroyed, people included, don't matter. Law enforcement may try to pin a murder on a duelist, but they'll need a truckload of luck to and a sizeable army to succeed. #5 The unwritten rule. Regards rule 4#. If a challengee declared defence, he has to take 3 hits from the challenger. At any time, he may void his defence, then the duel continues as normal. If he takes the hits, the challenger must leave the scene and may not reissue a challenge for a period of 94 hours. This is due to tradition. These duels are part of a code so ancient, it is almost mythology. They still continue because tradition is one of the strongest forces in the world and because the Duelists themselves are almost godlike in sheer power. The remaining duelists number a mere 4. They control much of the known world. But this is also unknown by non-duelists. How they retain control without revealing their true nature is known only to themselves and a select few others. This secret is never to be revealed. This is rule 6#. One such duelist is known as South. He controls, for lack of a better description, the south. South was currently enjoying a night off from his hectic mundane job. The duel was never expected. They rarely are. But South, like the other three, was ready. Even in the state of partial inebriation he was currently residing. He could smell the rival duelist coming a mile off. He knew what was coming and he was scared. A fear all who know they are no match for what they face feel. Although he had time, he didn't have much of it. The alcohol in his system would help, but also hinder. His reactions would be slow, but pain tolerance through the roof. As he sipped his drink, he considered his options. Limited. He also had to think about the other attendees of this gathering. He was responsible for them. He made his decision. The rival, East, made his way into the building with little fanfare. Portals opened to him with little effort. The iron and wood of the structure recognised his power and bent to his will. He noted the various mundanes in various states of mental coherency and dismissed them. None would interfere. Tonight, the south would be his. South was somewhere, he could smell. But where. And what would he do. South would declare defence. The only option open to him. But he knew he couldn't take the full force of East in his current state. He knew East wouldn't use his full power, though. There was always the risk of a void, which would leave East weakened. So he would take the hits. He prayed to the ancient masters for the strength to hold him through this ordeal, for all knew he would need it East finally located South. The two duelists faced off over a sea of mundanes, who had no idea what would eventuate here tonight. East immediately sensed the call of defence. He'd been expecting it. But he still hadn't prepared for it. Of the four remaining, South was known to be the weakest, but only for his lack of duelling. None knew his true potential, so none could prepare properly for such an encounter. He marched up to South and stood a meter from him, staring into his eyes. South felt the gaze as a beam of pure hatred burning into his soul. He resisted, his will defending him from the psyche assault coming from his opponent. He'd used such a technique before, to varying success. His very defence he'd learned from a former opponent. A simple scan. Probe your enemy's mind, find his weakness and exploit. The ability to block such a simple technique was a weakness. One he did not possess. East cursed. The infidel knew the blocking technique. But it would serve him not. He concentrated his energy into his fist and let a single punch fly into his opponent's gut. The mundanes at the gathering heard the slap of flesh on flesh and all felt a strong blow to the head. The sheer force from such an attack pulsed out from the area. Many others even great distances away could feel the attack. They could not identify it, but they could feel it. They could feel the raw energy behind it. South cringed. The attack was less than he expected, but it was still powerful. His flesh muscles had flexed on reflex, trying to absorb the blow, but his psyche absorbed most of it. He knew this would be a relatively weak punch from his equal to the east. He also knew the next would be much, much stronger. East cursed again. That attack had taken a lot from him, but hadn't made a dent in the psyche of his opponent. He gathered up his strength and unleashed another blow, harder, to the chest. The force of this blow radiated outwards. Leaves were blown, drinks knocked over, car alarms set off. The various minor headaches each of the mundanes felt suddenly got so much worse. Dogs in the surrounding buildings who had begun barking after the first blow were silenced by the second. South staggered under the force of the blow. Pain burned through his flesh, but he could not give in. Three backwards paces it took to stabilise himself. His mind was burning. The strain from this ordeal was taking it's toll. But he couldn't give in. He sensed East's power waning. Would East risk all for victory? The same thought was bouncing between various neurons in East's mind, too. Was it worth the risk? He'd put a lot of his essence into the two blows. And he knew south was holding back. But East couldn't take defeat. He'd never been defeated before, he wouldn't let his young rival defeat him here. He reached inward with his mind and drew upon every last reserve of strength he had. South knew what was coming before it hit him. Still, with bare moments to prepare, there was nothing much he could do. Time crawled by as East's fist came ever closer to South's sternum. The bastard had gone for a weak point. Trying to use the South's fleshy housing against him. He steeled himself. The third blow struck. Minutes later, a few of the guests of the gathering finally came to. Broken glass was everywhere. The cacophony of screams, sirens and general hubbub was deafening. The altercation had taken mere moments, but the damage done had been tremendous. Of the two duelists, only one remained. Almost passed out on a couch, next to a rather large dent in the wall 10 feet from where he was previously standing, South wore a triumphant grin. East was nowhere to be seen.

So it's better to be silent and have no opinion

Being a Grand Vizier meant many things, as Achmed had learned over his long decades of service to the Sultan of Warumbi. He was the Sultan's eyes and ears. The vast intricate spynetworks that had existed for centuries all filtered down to the Sultan through him. He was also the Sultan's hands, for those dirty tasks such as tax collecting and urban renewal. The little things that needed to be done that the Sultan himself didn't want anything to do with. And he was also the Sultan's sixth sense. But in a detached sense. If he knew of an assassination plot, he still had himself to look out for. Like all Grand Viziers, Achmed looked out for himself before all others. If there was a way he could benefit from what he saw as a regular political upheaval, why shouldn't he? No need to worry the Sultan with such details as his own death. With all this duty, however, he needed an extra edge to watch his own back. He was indeed a powerful man. And he knew of others that lusted after the power of his position. Although not as grand as a Sultan, Grand Viziers tended to have a longer lifespan. And since they were practically running the place while the Sultan looked regal, it was strange that there were so many upstarts after the throne. But there were a few after his position. And they prided themselves on being the craftiest devils this side of the Seventh Circle. The only way to hold onto his title was to stay one step ahead of everything. But there was only so far one could go in this world. The hidden door swung closed behind him. Secret passages. Ones the Sultan had no idea about. That was all part of the Viz. He chuckled to himself. He made his way down the cold dark passage, counting paces. Every now and then, he skipped a pace, his frail body gliding a meter or so through the air. After a seemingly random number of paces, he stopped and twisted a torch in a wallbracket, then continued down the hall. Knowing secret passages wasn't enough. You had to know them so well that not being you in a secret passage results in painful death. 25 paces further, he jumped to the side, straight into a wall... ... Which flew open at his touch. When he hit the ground, he ran. He was in excellent shape for a man of his age. He needed to be. Most of it was from eating right and getting plenty of exercise, mainly in his secret passages of death and the dungeon gauntlet he devised himself. His reasoning behind removing all guards from the dungeons baffled the Sultan at first, until he saw first hand how difficult the gauntlet would be for anyone who didn't design and calibrate the thing themselves. Achmed was proud of his record. Only one escape, but only with his personal guidance and only to test a flaw he suspected in the system. The criminal in question, a rather nimble young thief, in perfect condition for a run of the gauntlet, enjoyed his freedom for a good 5 seconds before feeling a cold blade in his kidneys. Being a Grand Vizier also means being utterly ruthless. But he could, and frequently did, run his own gauntlet, usually just before recalibrating some deadly device designed to disembowel. Another wallpanel opened, but Achmed ignored it, choosing instead to run to the end of the corridor, then diving into a small chute at his feet, off to the side. Just as he entered, he heard a deafening clang of a thousand metal spikes hitting marble flooring. Everything was about timing. Timing, timing, timing. But there was only so far one could go in this world. So, like all good Grand Viziers, Achmed dabbled in the black arts. Dabbled. That was such an amateurish term. He was a master of the black arts. Any better, he'd have all the demons of Hell at his command. But he was careful not to go that far. Never draw too much attention to yourself. Better to look like a potential ally than a potential threat. But the black arts being black and all meant he had to keep this a secret. No real problem there, as most of his life was secret anyway. Out of the chute and down a spiral stone staircase, hopping down one, two, three at a time. Ever paranoid, Achmed was careful never to repeat the same sequence down, incase someone was watching from afar. Ever paranoid, he'd set the intricate mechanics of the passage to alter themselves with every step anyone took, to a pattern only he knew. It was a difficult enough pattern to remember, but being the Grand Vizier he was, it had become instinct. Being the Grand Vizier he was, whenever he changed the pattern, which he did frequently, it would take him one run for the new pattern to override the old. Being a Grand Vizier means being in control of your mind and body. He bounced off the last step, landing on a spot 2 meters away. Through this final passage, he hopped, skipped and jumped his way across various square tiles, taking care to always land with one foot on the gap between two. The final leg of his journey. His dark laboratory was just ahead. When he reached the end of the passage, he bounced 3 times on the one square, then grabbed a rope that had fallen from the ceiling. Climbing into his lab, he breathed a sigh of relief. Another day, another near life experience. "Clever... but not good enough for me this time." The words chilled Achmed almost as much as the knife blade as it slid between his ribs. His last conscious thought was, Damn, I knew I should've locked that back door.

Y'know what they say about assumptions, old man They're the brother of... no, the mother... well, some family member, I'm sure. There's your problems, right there. Bringing family into the situation. If the italians have taught me anything, it's don't mess-a with the family. Nasty bastards, the lot of 'em. Kill you as soon as look at you, they will. Lethal buggers with their shifty eyes and their razorsharp venomdripping claws and vampire teeth. Bloodsuckers, too, these genetically engineered monstrosities. Gotta watch out for 'em if you're ever takin' a strolll down by the abandoned genetic engineering lab. Some nutcase left the floodgates unlocked. So the adventuring party can get in, but various creations can get out. This is causing problems for the local villagers as their harvest is significantly reduced by these things, thus invoking the wrath of their lord. The wonders of the feudal system. Well, not the true feudal system, but the corrupt version, where the guy at the top takes all the money, does none of the work and doesn't care about the peasants, unless they stop paying. Then the only time he'll try to help them is if he finds them all dead. Or he'll just lock himself up in his stone keep and never come out, even if you knock loudly and throw rocks through his window Do you understand what I'm saying, old man?

I have illegible handwriting Good for cryptography, bad for writing

The Admiral stood aboard the bridge of his personal flagship, the Endless. An impressive vessel itself, the Endless paled in comparison to the immense size of the fleet. A thousand starships, well over a thousand, ranging from miniscule Runabouts, flitting between ships, transferring crews, supplies and fuel as needed, to the gargantuan Dreadnaughts, such as the Endless itself. An armada of biblical proportions and all at his command. The finest ships in the known universe sporting the most powerful weapons science had to offer piloted by the elite of the elite, men and women with space travel and combat quite literally coded into their genes, trained from birth to operate the various systems required. From the honest as dirt engineers to the cocky fighter pilots to the levelheaded Captains and Fleet Commanders, he trusted every single one of them with his life. Truly the most powerful array of military might in the galaxy, none could possibly stand before it Except for one ship. One single vessel. A single ship in orbit around a dead planet. It's existence would never have been noted if that system hadn't served as a shortcut for the armada. Even then it probably would've been ignored if the armada's proximity hadn't triggered ancient systems aboard the derelict vessel to fire up for the first time in millennia. Suddenly, the seemingly invincible armada was facing a challenge from an ancient battlecruiser. The Admiral would've laughed if he hadn't felt the hairs on the back of his neck stand at attention. Scans from various vessels had already been completed and all available data of the sector, the vessel and anything even remotely linking to what he was about to face had been collated and was coming up on the main console in a comprehensive report. Ahh, the wonders of AI, he thought. He scanned through the reports. noting down various details. Unknown hull substance blocking deeper scans, weapons powering up from source greater than anything on record, engine signatures also unknown... a whole lot of nothing. A quick look at the history report showed various footnotes of failed colonisation attempts in this system, but had all been put down to solar phenomena and pirate activity. What little could be told of the ship showed ancient markings that may or may not have to do with a long deceased civilisation of highly advanced spacefaring creatures who one day, for apparent reason, were completely wiped out. The scans also showed many imperfections along the hull. Tough substance, but not totally impervious. After a futile attempt at communication, the Admiral had no choice but to order the fleet to red alert. Personal made their way to their designated stations, engineering crews to critical points, fighterpilots to their fighters, gunners to their stations and all senior officers to the ready, incase all hell broke loose. The mysterious vessel was still over a hundred thousand kilometres away, but the Admiral hadn't raised to his rank by taking risks. All ships were powering their weapons, arming warheads and preparing for the worse. With every passing moment, that feeling of foreboding grew stronger and stronger. An explosion rocked the Endless. One of it's escort cruisers had been completely destroyed. Impossible! No weapon has that much power over that much range. This ship could out-range anything he had under his command. He had to close the gap and fast. He could unleash warheads, but that would give this enemy far too long to lock on with countermeasures. The computer reported another ship down, a battleship this time. The Admiral ordered his ships to close the distance and to deploy all fighters, drones and warheads as soon as humanly possible. The ship hadn't moved, but had already taken out two of his finest. Two more down. Another cruiser and a dreadnaught! The dreadnaught had merely been crippled. Rescue crews from nearby ships had already been deployed to save any surviving crew members. More ships reported destroyed. And he hadn't even fired a single shot in retaliation. The first ships to reach maximum warhead range were already releasing their payloads. Fighters, both manned and AI controlled, were already speeding towards their foe. More capital ships were falling prey to the primary weapon of the derelict. 50,000 ks. Finally in range for the fleet's various extreme range weapons. Superfocused lasers, phased particle projectors and reality distortion rays were aimed and unleashed upon the ship. Misses were already being reported, as would be expected from this range, but the ship hadn't seemed to move. This disturbed the Admiral, who immediately checked through the various scanner logs over the past few seconds. Nothing... nothing... wait... various reality distortions had been detected. From what he could gather, the ship had a device that made scanners believe it was in several places at once. More than that. For the briefest of instants, the ship WAS in several places at once. What better way to fool a machine than with the truth? The first warheads were closing in on the ship. Each with enough fuel left for several passes, incase of a miss, the Admiral would soon know how strong the armour really was. More capital ships had been lost, more beam weapons reported totally missing. The enemy ship still hadn't moved from it's initial position. Fighters were firing their own smaller missiles as they came into range and powering up their own primary weapons. Smaller beams from capital ships would soon have the enemy in range, too. Time would tell how long this ship could continue evading his forces. The first warheads came within 1 kilometre... and froze. Each one stopped dead. Scanners reported their existence, but they weren't responding to anything. As if they'd been drained of all energy, then of inertia itself. All at the thousand meter mark, though. The Admiral issued a warning to fighters not to approach within two thousand meters. He had no desire to see what that strange field would do to life. More and more beam weapons reporting misses, more and more capital ships falling. Almost half his force gone and he still hadn't done anything appreciable to this enemy. Not even a scratch. The fighters reached man weapons range... and met point defence fire. All over the ship were small guns, no larger than handguns, each capable of wiping out a fighter in a single shot. Still the valiant fighters continued on in face of overwhelming firepower, using every trick, tactic and manoeuvre their training and experience had provided to buy themselves enough time for that one last shot. But sensors indicated their efforts weren't in vain. For the first time, hits were being reported. The hull of this seemingly indomitable opponent was absorbing fire. Damage was negligible, but that didn't matter. The Admiral was struck with an idea. A risky one, but no more risky than flying towards an impossible to hit ship with immensely powerful weapons. Extreme short range warp jumps. With the gravity wells of the planets and the sun itself, this would be difficult at best, suicidal at worst. But the risk had to be taken. The order was issued to all remaining capital ships, numbering barely 400 now. Onboard AIs calculated the best trajectories and conditions for the jumps, but the outcome would be impossible to predict. Warped space being barely predictable itself and each individual faster than light drive having it's own array of nuances and flaws in their reality matrices, the outcome of this one would be tricky indeed. The Admiral ordered all ships to jump to positions dispersed around the enemy vessel, then gave the word. Instantly, his viewpoint changed. He was closer to the vessel, behind it. Other vessels had also made the jump successfully. He'd have to check the casualty reports later, as he was now in range for all weapons He ordered all remaining ships to unload everything they had into this enemy. The few remaining fighters had broken off as the jump took place, needing to be rearmed and refueled. The warheads were still in place, suspended around the ship. He took his seat on the bridge, then ordered fire control to be given to him. His order was never questioned. From his console, he scanned over the enemy ship. Well, it wasn't as impervious as he thought. One section of the hull must've taken a hit from a reality distortion cannon. The telltale buckling patterns could be seen clear as day. The engines had also taken a beating, as they were leaking various substances into space. The Admiral chose this as his target, directing the remaining ships to divide their fire between the engines, the extreme buckling and the one spot on the ship that all computers had agreed was the "command centre" of this enemy. From this short range, hits were certain. The weakness of the ultimate weapon of their enemy became obvious at this short range. It could only fire in one direction. But the point defence weapons were taking their toll, targeting carriers and crippling them in seconds. Rearmed fighters had taken wing once more, concentrating their fire on clusters of PD weapons. A large explosion ripped through the ship. It's main fuel stores must've been hit, the Admiral assumed. He continued to press the advantage he'd been given, in the face of heavy losses. He wouldn't let his comrades deaths go unavenged, nor would he let this menace remain to continue destroying ships for generations to come. Another explosion ripping through the badly buckled hull of the derelict. It had to be almost gone. The Admiral's forces barely numbered a hundred working vessels, continuing to pour fire onto the ship. More vessels were reportedly being crippled, but thankfully for him, the Endless hadn't been scratched. An alert captured his attention. The warheads that had stood silent this whole battle were powering up again. Their reactors were slowly escaping the grips of whatever had drained them and they were pushing forward, rapidly closing the last meters between them and the ship. The remaining PD weapons on the derelict tried to target the missiles, but there were too many, too close, traveling too quickly. As each warhead ripped into the hull of the enemy ship, cheers went up from the survivors of the armada. With each explosion, a few more of the powerful PD weapons shut down. Sensors showed radiation pouring out of the many breeches in the hull of the vessel. Reactors aboard it must be going critical. As the last of the warheads smashed into the derelict, the Admiral ordered the surviving ships back to minimum safe distance, but still belting the ship with everything they had. Suddenly, a bright flash erupted from the ship. The Endless was struck by a powerful energy wave. All hand braced as best they could, but it came without warning. The Admiral gripped his seat and waited for the wave to pass. All sensors had stopped working from the flash and he was getting impatient. Then all was silent. The Admiral ordered an immediate damage report and for repair crews to bring sensors back online as quickly as possible. Although he still had the taste of victory in his mouth, he had an unpleasant churning feeling in his gut. The main screen flickered and came to life. A gasp went up from the various crewmembers on the bridge. We're not in Kansas anymore, thought the Admiral. They weren't anywhere. Sensors finally came up, confirming his worst fears. The flash had torn the entire system from reality and deposited it somewhere in warped space. An island of real, surrounded by something not even complex singularity mathematics could predict. There was no trace of their opponent. Throughout the system, the remains of his once proud fleet could be seen. He pulled his eyes from the main screen to his command console. Final statistics. 91% of capital ships, 78% of fighters completely destroyed or badly crippled. 85% of personal gone. He'd miss them all. As he scanned through the wreckage, something caught his attention. One of the crippled Dreadnaughts. It hadn't fallen to weapon fire or warp jump inaccuracies. It had been torn apart, piece by piece. It's engine was gone, along with large chunks of it's hull and internal systems. There was no trace of them or of whatever had inflicted this. One more system devoid of all decent salvage. The captain shook his head. 41 unexplored systems, not a single thing worth phoning the towing crews about. It was a hard enough life in the salvage business, but once in a while, you find something good. Either the remains of an epic ancient battle or a piece of tech beyond what anyone else has. Or just a powerful weapon to sell to radicals and extremists. But for the most part, it was explore... find nothing... sell exploration report to whoever wanted it... usually merchants and prospectors. He was about ready to give up and become a farmer like the rest of his family. Then an alert from the computer caught his attention. A derelict. He zoomed in on the find. A large one, too. Or was it two? He couldn't tell for sure, but there were two distinctly different hulls fused together. One shiny and new, baring marks of an unknown faction... the other ancient and scarred from previous battles. But he didn't have time to ponder. There were no signs of life aboard and nothing in the area that had a better claim to it than him. Just as he sent out the alert to the collection team, an alarm went off. The captain looked at the main screen and went white. The derelict was powering up.

Unseen by the masses milling around him, the figure moved along through the crowd, occasionally reaching out and brushing the flesh of one of the creatures around it. They would turn around to see who touched them, but would see nothing. This was how it was meant to be, however. The figure was invisible to them through it's own means for it's own reasons. It continued through the crowded streets of the city, noting the various sites, sampling the various smells, occasionally reaching out and gently brushing the flesh of a passer by. It traveled through a less crowded street into an area designated the slave markets. It observed several of the creatures chained in pens, awaiting sale. It listened to a voice booming over the crowds, a salesman's pitch for the hardest workers around. The conclusion from this was a raid on a neighbouring village was more than successful. The figure quickly made it's way out. As it left, it passed a group of small children holding down and beating an even smaller child. There were elders around, but none made any move to break this up. The figure resisted the temptation to aid the smaller child and continued on it's way. It past an old temple. A relic of an age long past, it was currently being used as a brothel. The figure watched various customers enter through the once-grand arch, then shook it's head. As it continued on it's way, it noted several customers sneaking into a side entrance hidden down a dark alley. A few streets down, a riot had broken out. The cause was unknown, as all riots are, but the mercenary thugs hired to keep the peace were already on the scene, dealing out eternal peace. The bodies of civilians lay in the streets, some still thrashing around. Wounds from the cruel swords and axes carried could be identified, as could tooth and claw marks from the guards' reptilian mounts. The observer watched the few remaining civilians scattering, pursued by the guards, before leaving the area. Further down one of the streets, the reptilian mounts of the guards could be seen tied up outside a house. Shouting and screaming was coming from the house, but the observer didn't bother with it. It already knew what was going on. It's last stop was the capital building. A grand palace, the only structure in the city that received regular maintenance. Surrounded by an ancient moat that had recently been filled with sharp stakes, cruel chunks of jagged metal and other pointy objects. The only way across was the drawbridge. More mercenary guards were here, searching anyone who didn't look like they had a right to be here. Shielded from their vision, the observer silently moved past them, brushing one's arm as it went. Inside, there were slaves cleaning and polishing, being overseen by large men with larger whips. These were of no interest to the observer, who went straight to the council chamber. A long line of peasants who had brought their grievances guided it to the chamber. At the head of the queue, guards stood either side of an ornate portal. Once in a while, the doors would open and someone would leave, downcast more often than not. Then the guards would close the doors and wait for a bell, then send one more in. The observer waited patiently until such an opportunity occurred, then slipped inside. Inside, the dictator of this realm, a rather fat individual, surrounded by guards, seen to by various servants, sat on an ancient throne. Peasants would come, kneel before him, tell him of their problems, then be sent away when they fail to make a sufficiently large offering. This was the observer's final task. It moved behind the obese official and pulled out a small probe. Holding it over the fat man's head, it brought it down hard. All the man noticed was the slightest breeze over his scalp, not realising his entire brain had just been scanned and copied. With this done, the observer pulled a small device out of it's clothes, pressed a red button and disappeared in the blink of an eye. It's presence there was never even noted It reappeared inside a large laboratory and disabled it's invisibility device. A few other individuals were present in the lab, awaiting it's return. No words were passed between them, yet thoughts were shared. Telepathy had its advantages. The figures seemed to come to some form of consensus. An unheard signal went out and was received by another individual in a hanger, some distance away. It'd been waiting for this for some time. Finally, some action, it thought. It hopped into the cockpit of it's craft and jetted out of the hanger. The option of invisibility was open to it, but there was no point. On the ground, the inhabitants of the city were startled by a screaming noise from the heavens. No one could make out the shape as it approached, the sun to it's back, but it's intentions became clear soon enough, as bolts of energy were unleashed upon the city. Buildings were demolished, streets melted and people vapourised by the bolts as they smashed into the ground. The craft skimmed as low as it could, releasing more bolts into the masses. The pilot could take it's time with this task, there was nothing they could do and nowhere they could go. It banked sharply as it left the city, to avoid smashing into the large energy dome separating this area from the rest of the planet. On it's second run, it circle strafed around the city, unleashing another barrage of energy bolts, wiping out everything up to the moat surrounding the palace at the center of the city. Then it burned towards the palace. The dictator looked out his window at the destruction. For the first time in his life, he prayed to the gods who's temple he'd ordered desecrated. Then it dawned on him. The old tales. "We will watch over you always, as long as you do not stray. Pray you never have to see us." He gulped, then held his ears as the craft roared overhead. The pilot climbed sharply as it was over the palace. After climbing a hundred meters or so, it pressed a small button on one of the panels. A small round ball fell from the back of the craft, accelerating towards the ground. The pilot steered his craft through an opening in the energy dome above the city as the bomb struck. Below it, the ground was bathed in purple fire. Screams of the dying were drowned out by the roar of energy released from the device. Seconds later, it was over. No trace of the city remained. The entire area was nothing more than a burnt patch on the ground. The observers received thought from the pilot. The experiment had been terminated successfully. Sure, there were salvageable components, but there were other experiments. The samples taken during the final analysis would be archived along with the records of this one, incase a future team wished to further investigate the phenomena discovered in this one.

The death of an innocent, as many are aware, can result in that innocent's enraged soul returning to the world of the living in the form of a ghost, spectre, poltergeist, Doppelganger, banshee, whatever. The point is they come back with murderous intent. Mostly against the one who took their lives, but once in a while against life in general. No proper explanation for this phenomena has ever been produced, other than whoever created life put a few clauses, catches and a lot of fineprint in the grand contract. But none ever realised they weren't the only creatures with enraged souls... A pizza shop. That's where I work. I enjoy my work. Pay is hideous, but the conditions are good and I've got rank enough to boss all the goddamn midgets around, so I'm happy there. But I'm mostly roistered on during the day, when all good people are at work and the rest of the scum out there are still sleeping off their metho induced hangovers from the night before. Not a busy shift, infact sometimes quite boring. But there is, as always, work to be done. Dough must be made, toppings and sauce must be prepped and the occasional schoolkiddie skipping classes to serve. As I wander around the new oversized coolroom, large enough to comfortably store everything we need and house a 4 player game of poker, I notice something missing. Bacon. We're out of bacon. I sigh and head off in the direction of the freezer In the nether, a turmoil of screaming souls, trapped for eternity, a single sound is born. Plucked from the ethereal mind of a floating consciousness, it takes flight through the maelstrom. Centuries of hardship and injustice fuel it's flight, adding momentum. Other souls reach out and try to hold on, seeing their only escape from this hell, but they're repelled by forces unknown. As it builds up power, it breaks through the barrier between life and unlife with a barely audible "Oink". A cloud of frost engulfs me as I open the freezer. With a slight cough, I begin delving through the various products stored here. Sundried tomatoes... potato wedges...calamari... ahh, here we go. Buried in the bottom of the freezer was what I was after. One box, twelve kilograms (About 25 pounds for all the mutants, misfits and miscreants out there) of A grade bacon. I haul the box out and carry it into the cool room. The entity is free. It can sense life all around... life... It's memory fires up flashes from it's on life. Memories that stir a deep rage within. It wasn't just a single creature that had died and created the entity, it was an entire species, constantly adding to the thing's power. It had reached the point, that point that all creations reach eventually, of sentience. It was aware of itself, aware of how it'd been created, aware of the creatures who had cast it into that cacophonic hell. And it was angry. Ooooh, they would pay. It was being drawn to one of them now. This one would be the first. I dropped the box onto a bench in the coolroom and went to find the date gun. Handy little device for telling people when food is still edible and when it's only fit for throwing out. 7 days, that's all we give our meat before it goes in the bin. I set the date gun and prepare to refill the bacon tray. It was being drawn to the box. It could sense it's own remains... part of it's remains inside, calling to it. A beacon in the darkness. Pulling it closer... into the old, frozen flesh that once belonged to it. Opening a box was simple. They're taped shut with weak packing tape, so all you need to do is create a small gap, get your finger under and pull. It all comes off. 9 months, I'd been doing it this way. Place my thumb on the end of the box, just under the lid, press in, rip off, all done in under half a second. I could open a hundred boxes in... umm... 50 seconds. I place my thumb, breathe and press with far too much strength than is necessary. It felt the warmth of the murderer and hardened. Solid. CRACK. For an instant I froze. Then I screamed bloody murder. My thumb had been bent back at a painful angle. Really painful. I ran from the coolroom to the first aid kit. Opening the kit, I begin rifling through it, in search of an instant icepack. To my horror, I find none. Our brand new medkit isn't even properly stocked. I rush back into the coolroom to find something, fast. Prawns. A bag of frozen prawns. Freshly pulled out of the freezer, thawing for the evening. Onto my thumb they go. Instant relief. Then I begin to panic. What had I done? How bad was it? How much work would I miss because of it? How was I going to pay the medical bills? If it had a face, it would've smirked. Strike one for the swine of the world, living in captivity. This one would tell others and soon they would all know and live in fear of the undead swine avenger... hmmm... maybe not. PigGhost? nah.... it'd have to work on the name. But it had struck the first in a series of decisive blows against the oppressor. It would free it's captive brethren and lead them to a life that would avoid the hellpit that had spawned it. Here I lie, keyboard on lap, onehandedly typing this story. My left hand in a splint, keeping my thumb still while the ligaments heal up. Two weeks out of action, I'm told. Money shouldn't be a problem, as laws were passed to cover me in the event of stupidity at work. Even the work I miss won't hurt me, because of the same laws. But I still replay the event in my mind. What happened? Are my bones that weak? I freeze. What was that? In the background. Almost out of earshot... was that... an unearthly... Oink?

Not if I keep making stupid bets with large, well-dressed iralian men named Tony "I Break Thumbs In My Spare Time" Genovski

I could write a small novel going into detail, but two things stopping me. One, my dislocated thumb. I'm not belting out a hundred thousand words with one hand. Two, my attention span. If it can't be told in a thousand words, it's not worth the tellin' Although, give me a few years, I'll come back to these early stories for inspiration...

And what the hell do gods need with tribute, anyway? Can't they create anything they want? What's the point of demanding inferior goods from stinking miserable peasants when you can materialise perfection with the blink of an eye Unless... Gods can't create anything, they're really quite pathetic individuals who can just dish out vengence and live forever... Oooh, I'm onto somethng here. I'd better watch myself whenever I'm carrying objects that could be easily mistaken for a lightning rod

What are them... umm.. things.... you take a bunch of letters and string 'em to gether... urrr...damnit, tip of the tongue, lose my own head next....

A grand cathedral, one of the largest in the country, it was. It attracted hundreds of pilgrims from far and wide, daily. Quite busy, it was, and noisy, too. Almost too noisy for a house of gods. The bustle of people, coming and going, the clang of bells, the chants of the choirs, the shouts of merchants camped a respectable distance from the ancient building, but doing their best to get some of that holy dollar into their pockets. When an area is this busy, one tends not to notice little things. Little things like one of the incoming pilgrims, ducking around to the side, 'specially when he's using his heightened sense of awareness to ensure no one can see him. When there's this much distraction and the individual is of this level of skill, even such a thing as scratching a rune into a coin, then pushing the coin into the solid stone walls of the church, 8 feet off the ground, you could be excused for missing it. Such an insignificant event, really. Even pushing the coin into the stone doesn't rate that highly when you notice the cracks opening up in the structure. Life goes on in the city, the pilgrims come and go, no one ever sees the individual who left the coin. Years pass, life continues as normal. Except for the bloody schism resulting in the beheading of hundreds of the faithful and a little bit of business for a few artisans who were needed to patch up the faces of the idols within the building. Peace. but an uneasy one. As time passes, hostilities in the surrounding countryside increases. More and more outlanders come to the church, with tales of butchery and savagery, praying for some relief from the gods. For evil has come to the land. The masses continue to pour from over the countryside. Raiders are sweeping through the area, looting and pillaging as they go. The survivors come to the church to pray for the safe return of their loved ones who've been taken away to... who knows where? Doomsayers begin to turn up dressed in rags, beating loud drums and claiming the gods have abandoned the people to the darkness. These people rarely last a day before being moved on. Proclamations are pasted everywhere. The monarch needs. as always, brave souls to help free the land from the grips of evil. Adventurers, lured by the promise of gold, are sent out to help gauge the extent of the evil. Few return, but the ones that do tell of armies of undead massing in the west. New proclamations, asking for brave souls to fight the evil are posted everywhere. The grounds around the church become choked with tents and training grounds, as the monarch tries to train and equip his army before the evil decides to attack. Priests from the church stride through the ranks of soldiers, blessing weapons, armour and, of course, soldiers, assuring them they fight with the Gods by their sides. Engineers begin construction of countersiege weapons and anything else to tip the balance in favour of the light. Days later, the hordes begin their rampage through the territory. The barely prepared armies of this town stand firm, led by seasoned veterans, fighting with the knowledge that they're defending their homes and families. But secretly, they know they don't have a prayer. Even with the strength of the Gods and the magical aid of every Wyrdcrafter the monarch was able to find, there are just too many of them. Their ranks swelled with the undead. Each soldier knows that if he falls, he could very well wake up amongst them. That doesn't stop them fighting. Indeed, they fight with a ferocity unmatched. But they're vastly outnumbered. All too quickly, their ranks dwindle. The few that try to take flight are cut down by the advancing hordes. Soon, the walls of the city have fallen and the streets are filled with the vile forces of darkness. Goblins and orcs tearing through houses, searching for valuables, ghouls feeding on the corpses of those who gave their lives and sometimes on the flesh of those who were about to. The clergy stand at the gates of the church, chanting the word of the Gods, invoking their divine power, sending bolts of purity smashing into the oncoming undead. But soon, even they fall. The church is ransacked and torn down. Before too long, the hordes have passed through, leaving only ruin in their wake Years, decades, centuries pass. The occasional nomad or traveler passes the ruins, but they take care not to stray too close. The occasional adventurer or scavenger pass through the ruins, in search of anything of value, but the place has been picked clean. As time progresses. nature takes over. The thatch cottages rot into the earth, feeding the long grasses. Rain, wind and frost wear down the stones from the more permanent structures. Slowly, the buildup of sediment pulls the ruins into the earth. By this time, the site is all but forgotten by the world at large. Then, one day, the new breed of wise men happen upon the ruins. Men of science, who believe that all can be explained and patches in history can be filled with a little patience and observation. A team of them are spread over the site, digging it up, brushing the dirt away from the foundations of the buildings. Any artifacts at all are stored in plastic and shipped out to far away lands. The people work carefully, knowing that even the slightest sneeze could ruin hours work. Or could uncover more than you thought you'd find this day. Best not to think about it, just dig Until one minute, his nose got itchy. He tried to hold it, but it was too much. He sneezed... then was surprised at the power of his sneeze. He'd caused a large rock to crumble to dust. He searched through the dust, not expecting to find anything. But he was mistaken. After an hours work, he found it. Not worth the glory he was hoping for, but a find nonetheless. He put the coin in a plastic slip and pocketed it, just as the call for lunch was sounded. As he walked, he never noticed the scratch on the side of the coin. He never noticed it glow red, either. He also never noticed the coin grow legs and fangs, crawl out of his pocket and up to his neck. He did notice a spider suddenly bite him, but by that state it was too late. The poison coursed around his body in seconds, felling the scientist. His colleagues did rush him to hospital, but it was too late Meanwhile, in another time, a man wearing a dark cloak felt the rustle of a large sum of gold suddenly appear in his safety box. He leaves the bar, gets in his car and hits a button on the dash. The car suddenly dematerializes, leaving no trace. The chronoassassin has shifted again

Now, if he was a happy god instead of a vengeful one, he'd be able to demand tithes with relative ease. When will deities learn? /me salutes

"They couldn't hit an elephant from this dist-" "Bugger!" "Hey, that wasn't so bad" "Higher, daddy. Higer" "Here kitty kitty kitty" "Sorry, I forgot it was valentines day" 'They were out of beer, so I got stollis"