I’m just curious as to whether anyone has furthered their education and gotten an MSN(direct entry) or an MBA or MHA from a bachelors in med lab science or medical technology? If so did you have to end up taking a pay cut afterwards before being able to move up? I’m trying to decide which route I want to do because both sound like something I would enjoy. I love the lab but it is so short staffed, under appreciated, underpaid, and there isn’t enough recruiting from programs for me to see an end in sight.

I'm 28, been single all my life and I just can't find attraction in any man. Anywhere. The only ones I am attracted to or develop little mini-crushes on end up being secretly gay or taken, and even that is a rarity. But I have men reaching out and trying to pursue me on dating apps, and I'm abysmally unimpressed. Nobody can woo me or please me. I find myself not batting an eyelash at them because they all seem like cookie-cutters to me, all the same. Nobody has that style, that fire, confidence or charm that I WILL fall for. All I see is poor conversationalists with the same, stupid fade and combover hairstyles, disgusting unkept lumberjack beards that make me want to projectile vomit on sight and depthless, redundant pickup lines or stupid dad jokes that don't compensate for their ineptness at holding a fruitful conversation. They don't tell me about themselves, they type like 8th grade boys on AIM "what's up? nm u?" or they're WAY too forward, wanting to go out without giving me the chance to learn about them at all like I'm just going to fling myself at a stranger on a whim. Not smart. The ones who do express interest... make me cringe and inspire no interest, and the ones that do won't even look my way. I fear that I'm headed for a life of solitude, and that's not what I want but I can't find the kind of man that I want and I have a clear vision of what that is.
I'm not inherently shallow, but I do have some visual preferences that are deal breakers. As an autistic woman, I have some sensory issues and a man must be clean-shaven. I hate facial hair, don't want it, don't want to see it. I think men are a lot more attractive without it, removing facial hair can take a guy from a 0 to a solid 10 in my eyes and it makes a difference. I like guys with full and healthy HAIR on their head, none of that partially-shaved, slicked back "fade" nonsense or that weird shock of hair they have in the middle that sticks up but everything else is closely cropped. I can't stand that, it adds no personality. When I see a guy with nice, pretty and wavy hair, I won't be able to stop gazing at him because it frames his face and brings out his features nicely. It seems like too much to ask for a guy to take pride in the way he presents himself, or someone unique. I'm not looking for someone who tries too hard to look like a Kardashian era Instagram bro, or a millennial hipster. You know the kind I'm talking about. Plaid shirts, quirky coffee shop Lumineers-sounding bands, that stupid Duck Dynasty beard they're so hellbent on. Yeah, no. Miss me with that. I'm looking for a Billy Hargrove in a world of hipster clones. I'm even open to dating younger men, Gen Z men (if not more so) because they seem to practice better hygiene, but I don't know where to go to find them. I'm not in college anymore, and I live in a small town where there aren't really any clubs or organizations for young people. At this point, I'm BEGGING for a comeback of the "metrosexual" type who aren't so insecure about their masculinity that they lose their personality. There's a way to be rugged and attractive, but beards and buffalo flannels aren't it. Aesthetic matters.
Again, I know what I like and here comes the personality aspect. I want a guy who exudes confidence and charisma. That is extremely appealing to me, as I'm drawn to individuals with a strong presence and assertiveness. I like a slight rebellious nature and when I get crushes on fictional characters, they're the ones who often display a "bad boy" persona. I find this edginess and rebelliousness attractive. I LOVE a sense of confidence, self-assuredness and assertiveness. I go wild for that. Another thing I like is an adventurous nature and willingness to take risks. This type of free-spiritedness and thrill-seeking grabs my attention, I like someone who's fun and won't waste my time getting sloshed at some snoozy bar. I want someone as fiery and passionate as I am, and... I just can't find it. I want someone who is fiercely loyal to his friends and loved ones. His protective nature and willingness to go to great lengths for those he cares about appeals to me because I value loyalty and support in a partner and everyone around me seems to want "something casual". I'm NOT looking for a cheesy Hallmark rom-com by any means (god, no), but I want an intense, colorful emotional connection. I want the John B to my Sarah Cameron. Why do I feel so alienated? It seems like I want something that sadly doesn't exist.
Does anyone else feel this way and have this problem? Any pearls of wisdom for me?

So back in the day, I took courses to become a hypnotherapist. I never started a practice, but I've used the tools extensively. Here's the one that changed my life in a big way.
Basically, memories are encoded not just with the sights and sounds of the event, but with emotions.
Every time you re-experience a memory, your brain re-encodes it with updated emotions.
So if the memory comes up and you have a big emotional reaction to it, it will come with a bigger reaction next time.
The opposite is also true. If the memory comes up and you give a metaphorical shrug of your shoulders, the memory will lose the emotional attachment - effectively losing it's power.
Now here's the beautiful thing: what I'm going to describe can be done in the privacy of your mind. No one has to know you're even doing it. And it's very easy.
Here's how it's done:
Call up a memory that doesn't serve you.
Choose your perspective. You can experience it first-person, if you wish, or you can be like a fly on the wall. If the memory is too intense, you can literally back up - all the way into space if you need to.
Choose your approach. I have a pair of visualizations that I use to defuse memories.

1. If it's a childhood memory, which it is 90% of the time, I'll often show up as my adult self and support my childhood self. This could be in the form of a hug, positive words, whatever.
2. I then imagine a beam of light, shining down through the clouds, that heals me and my younger self, and bleaches everything else.

Just like that, I have re-encoded this memory. I can recall it the next day and the emotional pull is not nearly as big. I do this daily until the memory has no power or fades completely.
You can basically do whatever you want in those visualizations, but the point is to create comfort.
If you're hearing a lot of sound in your memory, have your current self show up with a beat-box, that you can turn down the volume.
If you're more of a touchy-feely person, have your current self provide the affection you craved in that moment.
As a visual person, draining the color from my memories is powerful.
​
Here's how I'm using this technique now:
IRL, I have a hard time socializing with women that I find even remotely attractive. Even on a totally social level, I feel like I'm beneath them and my inner world discombobulates.
So I started pulling the memory thread and found several childhood memories where I accidentally hurt girls on the playground/in gym class, and felt tremendous shame.
I've been following the technique I described above and sure enough, it's already starting to shift. I can hold eye contact longer, without a flood of emotions ruining the party.
​
The same techniques washed away the fears from a lifetime of bullying. I used to be intimidated by nearly all men, now I don't feel intimidated by anyone. It's quite thrilling.
​
So yea, there's a technique you can use to change your life, from the privacy of your own mind.

Hello .. gusto ko lang iunload tong nararamdaman ko about life in general. Sorry in advance for the long post.
So a little backstory, I am 26M now turning 27, this year, I started going to college 2013 pa then i stopped coz I have to work for my family, then after that I've been constantly trying to get back to school but it just seems life is not allowing me. First attempt ko to go back was 2014 but unfortunately may nangyareng problem sa family ko kaya i have to use the money I saved up na para sana sa tuition, then 2nd attempt ko 2015, i thought mag technical school muna ako dahil eto na din ung panahon na iniimplement k-12 so natakot ako bumalik ng highschool, pero di ko den siya natapos dahil commission basis lang job ko nun and my sales weren't that good, so wala nanaman ako money to support myself. This sunk me into depression until i found a new job, naregular, kaya naglakas loob ule ako mag-aral noong 2018, this time bachelors degree na tlga but different program. But nawalan ako ng gana, i know this sounds my fault but let me explain. Yung mga professor ko kase hindi pumapasok and ako nagbabayad ng tuition ko nun so I feel di na worth it ituloy dahil halos wala den ako natututunan. Iba ang feeling kapag ikaw na ang nagpapa-aral sa sarili mo, every cent counts kse pinagpaguran mo yun e. So i stopped again ng 2019, coz i also got promoted so i thought to focus on my career first. Then the pandemic hit, and andami nang nangyare sa buhay ko...pero nandun pa din ung desire na makapag aral.
Fast forward sa ngayon, natuklasan ko tong compressed learning program ng CHED para makagraduate ka pa din with Bachelors using your experience sa work, so siempre natuwa ako na may gantong program. I was planning to go back this year sa school na gusto ko, naready ko na lahat ng requirements and all, tapos nalaman ko on hold applications nila. Why are you doing this to me life!
Now my wife gave me an option to either wait until open na ule sila for application or just go back to the traditional schooling na would take me 3-4 yrs sguro dahil ung natapos ko sa college noon old curriculum pa, unlike sa inaantay ko na possible 1 year lang. I dont know if my body can handle the student life while working kaya sobrang unfortunate. Ok naman ako sa job ko ngayon but having a degree would still give me an edge in the future. Im open for advice kung anu magandang gawin, salamat sa sasagot.
Also, para sa mga youngsters na sinusuportahan pa ng magulang nila, learn to appreciate the value of education tlga, mag-aral hangga't bata because in our country education is more of a privilege than a right. Just my advice.

I have loved this song from the day it dropped. From a gentle beginning, it sets you up for a rush of punk-like energy that alternately pushes and pulls you along.
I’ve never had a problem with sights, sounds, and smells.
I see a lot of hate for this song in this sub, but to me it’s simple. It’s a great song (with a fun video) that showcases a side of the band I happen to love.
To each their own. For me, this one’s a keeper!

I'm 18 and this might be the end of the school year with exams coming in two weeks, but I'm so miserable right now. Like it's reached a point where I'm losing my libido while simultaneously feeling my brain craving for some pleasure.
I'm a high school senior and being in the closet all these years where you're supposed to be nothing but a teenager who commits dumb mistakes and falls in love is getting to my brain for real. All these school years, I didn't get to be myself. I didn't get to live my youth, get drunk at parties and make out with boys. I didn't get to exchange numbers with cute guys from school, or have sexual tension with any.
All these modern teen dramas like Euphoria show these teens in high school being super active sexually and independant, doing batshit crazy shit etc... and the straight popular kids at my school give off the same vibes. They party a lot, during school trips this year there were multiple stories of girls sneaking into the boys rooms to sleep with their boyfriends and things that left me crying in my own hotel room the same night with my only "friend" watching me and not knowing how to react
Everyone on social media is coming out in the recent years and it makes me feel like I'm late on things
I feel totally alienated from other boys my age and girls always end up trying to use me and make me the gay best friend who watches after their handbags while they're in the bathroom. I have this crush on a male friend who is straight and homophobic and it hurts so fucking much. Like I lust over his body, and hurt myself fantasizing about things that'll never happen.
I just need to meet one queer boy my age who can relate. Who knows how awful it feels. I'm not asking for hook ups or love at first sight. But just being seen as human by someone in my case too. Most gay boys who ARE out and can lead the stereotypical "lifestyle" (hookups, partying, substance usage, walking up to school wearing merch of their favourite pop divas) are privileged higher class pricks whose dads are either cops or very influential people. If I came out, my family would disown me. The same group of queer teens I'm talking about have bullied me throughout the years for approaching them.
I go to the gym and seeing any man who showcases any sign of femininty and possible queerness gives me hope. I know, it sounds hella cringe. For example there is this bodybuilder who always has his Nicki Minaj Pink Print Tour shirt or whatever, he also uses a rainbow towel. Sometimes I just wanna walk up to him and ask if he's gay but you don't just do that.
Seeing my older siblings have a drastic change in terms of lifestyle and romantic life after they start college gives me hope. I truly pray that I find boys in my situation who I can be myself with and who enjoy the same things as me

Chapter 1
The Villager’s Warning
In the North near the tempestuous mountains and the groves of the Relum trees, which grow relum, which are like sweet pears, was a prosperous village called “ Alestra”. Alestra is a medium-sized village known for its cloying relums and its soft and crumbly soil perfect for the trees and gardens. They lived a humble and healthy life supplying themselves with veggies and meat from the boars they hunted. The water from Rivenile was the source of their agricultural success and survival. The sound of little children having fun exploring the fields of grain while their family works diligently on the farms. Most of the children spend their time outside either helping with their family's farm or playing near the grains and on the trees playing fun games. All except one particular boy who will spend his days indoors writing stories and reading about the fascinating creatures he wishes to discover. His name was Aran Yearwood, a 12-year-old with red hair living with his parents who helped the village by transporting their food and veggies to nearby villages. Aran eagerly followed his father, perpetually saying “Father, can I hear the story about the Rift Creators of the Coliseum again please?”. The father replied, “ How about tonight when your mother is back for dinner, is that alright?”. “ Yes Father,” said Aran. Aran rushed to his room whose walls were covered with sheets of drawings and a portrait of his family right in the center of his room. His desk was piled with books and maps slightly torn and dirty. His bed was big enough for him, and a little chest lay at the end of the bed to store the items he cherished. Aran sat on his chair and picked up a book labeled “ Creatures of the Night” and he sat on his bed and read from where he began. Meanwhile, the Father went near his stable and put the ponderous goods on the wagon when he smelled a putrid stench of a rotting corpse. The father looked around to find the smell and discovered a Villager riding a horse carrying a wagon with numerous dead bodies disfigured and all missing body parts. “ What happened to them!?” stuttered the father in shock. “ To be honest I don’t know?” said the villager. “It might be a wolf or a bear,” said the villager. “That can’t be bears since it's winter,” said the father. “We might have to stop shipment to other villages,” said the villager. “Why, though, it's only a few animals we can take care of,” said the father. “Well, that depends if the mayor agrees,” the villager says. “Shouldn’t we mail this to animal control, maybe they can control these beasts,” the father said. “Already mailed it to them, should be arriving in a few weeks or so”. The villager rode his horse to the village square leaving the father worried. When it was nightfall the family was at the dinner table eating their food. They had a hot and warm meat pie filled with lamb and pork all mixed with gravy with a side of pan-fried spinach. After their dinner, Aran rushed towards his room with his father following him. “ Are you gonna tell me the story Father?” asked Aran. “ Alright, hold your patience,” said the father as he sat down on the bed. “ The story of the ..colosseum begins with the Greater wills, gods who judge the realms and serve as the way of evolution”. “When these gods see someone they love they give birth to the demigods. “ Each demigod ruled the realms and served as a ruler for their realms,” asked the Father. “ They had abilities like gravity, time, War, pestilence, and even death, while others had less powerful abilities like sand,” said the father. “ Each of the demigods is known to be the best and the most revered in their worlds.,” said the father in a Joyous mood. '' “All had everything they could need in their lives, but some wanted more”. The father looked outside the dark knight. “ Well it's getting late. The father replied with a tired tone “ Sleep well Aran”. “Can you finish the story tomorrow? " asked Aran, resting his head on the pillow. “Of course,” said the father. Aran closed his eyes and dreamed of himself in the stars, seeing the planets go by as he feels the
5 years later
Aran who was now 17 got off his bed with his room no longer having the drawings he used to have and the desk he still had an accumulation of books. He passed his parent's room and went into the kitchen to make his parents some breakfast. Aran's parents were always tired of the number of resources needed for other villages and Aran’s mother sprained her knee when running back to the village. Aran grabbed a few thick pork slices and chopped them to put on the ardent sizzling pan. Aran proceeded to crack a few eggs, mix them with scallions, and place them on the pan with the pork bits until they were cooked well. The sound of the sizzling food awoke the father as he peeked through the kitchen to see his son cook. The father asks” Son it's still dark outside why are you up this early”. “I wanted to give you something to eat while I’m gone with the delivery for the next town,” said Aran. “ Alone, you can’t be alone when Wendigos are out on the road”. “ Let me come and help you deliver the food..” but as the father said that he was cut off and the Aron said, “ It's alright I brought a knife with me and I’ll be cautious”. Aran exited the house and went near the stable to ride his horse carrying the fruits and vegetables on his side. Aran rode his horse down the road to the village square. The village square had big houses with markets surrounding the houses and farms surrounding the Relum trees growing ever so long behind the village. The villagers look depleted and worn out. Aran rode his horse to the other houses to ask for resources and food they offered them all saying “ Tell Newberry to stay strong”. After Aran was finished taking the villager's supplies for Newberry he went to the village chief to gather his resources. He knocked on the door of the Mayor's house and saw him with a pile of water buckets, a few bags of gold, and Packs of wood. “ Ah Aran, please put this on your cart and tell Newberry to stay safe and have hope”. “Of course chief,” said Aran. Aran rode his horse to the village gate next to the tower post. When Aran was next to the post a Knight went outside of the tower replying “ What is your business of leaving Alestra '' . “ I’m transporting my family’s food to the village of Newberry, “ said Aran. “ The village of Newberry isn't doing well since the Wendigos raided them, they're going to need those supplies” said the knight. Aran was permitted to leave Alestera and Aran continued his journey on the path. Aran passed through from a few corpses to an abundance of them until Aran saw the village. The village was burned and ravaged with dark smoke covering the sky and the stench of burning flesh still in the air. Aran rushed to the village to see if anybody survived but found none survived. When Aran was about to leave he saw smoke coming out of the forest, Aran rode his horse swiftly and came to the source of the fire. He saw a few villagers and a small number of children near the fire scared and tired from the raid. “ Are you the villagers of Newberry?” asked Aran. “ We used to be until the Wendigos attacked,” said an elderly lady. Aran with a shocked look on his face asked: “ What about the knights”. “ Most of them died fighting while some died running,” said the old man next to the lady. “ Some more knights tried to help but those insidious beasts forestalled ”. Aran was worried for the villagers of Newberry and shouted“ I have resources from the town of Alestra and we have come for your help!!!”. All the villagers looked at Aran as he continued to shout “ Please gather any resources you need and help yourself to the food you need to survive with!!!”. The Villagers filled with hope and joy rushed to the cart and gathered all the supplies. They were all eating and drinking and covering themselves with blankets making them feel just a little bit safer. “ We don’t know how to thank you, young sir,” said a man with his children next to him. “ Please sir you don’t have to do anything, but if you and the others need help we're just a few miles away south,” said Aran. Aran left with an empty cart and a feeling of beatitude when he saw the villagers of Newberry full of bliss and hope. Halfway through his trip back to his village the horse instantaneously stopped and nearly threw Aran off the horse. “ Stay here Becky,” said Aran smoothly. He jumped off the horse and looked all around to see if anything would jump out and attack him. Suddenly he heard a large screeching sound mixed with screeching. He heard rustling and sticks being broken. He heard the noise again except it was teeth chattering and the sound of a loud sharp horn was closer. “ We have to go, Becky,” said Aran urgently as he jumped on his horse and rode as fast as he could. Aran heard the sound come closer and faster towards him. Aran had the sudden urge to stop the horse midway. Aran stopped his horse and soon after a dark wendigo jumped out in front of him and crashed near some trees and was unconscious for a few seconds. Aran used that time to ride away while horrified by that chase. The wendigo screeched in anger as Aran was out of its sight. Aran returned to the village sweaty and scared and opened the doors only to be on his knees. The father rushed up to him with the mother following him slowly. “ Aran what happened to you?!” asked the father in a frightened manner. “I escaped from a wendigo,” said Aran panting. “ How in this world did you survive?!” asked the father. “ Raranold, let the Aran rest now,” said the mother. “ Aran is traumatized enough for today, we can ask when he is ready but for now let him sleep and rest”. The father took a deep breath and said to Aran “ You can go upstairs and we’ll cook something for you, is that okay ''. “That's okay,” Aran replied. Aran went upstairs to his room and went to his bed to sit. Aran heard voices from downstairs wanting to hear what his parents were talking about. Aran opened the door quietly, walked on the stairs sneakily, and peered through the kitchen to hear what they were saying. “ 7 people died on that road and were eaten, there is no way our son could survive one of their attacks,” said Raranold. “ I think it's time for us to leave the village”. “But where will we go, Raranold,” asked the mother. “ We could go to the city of Elistar and maybe there we can be safe,” said the father. “I don’t know what to do now Elizabeth”. “ We can leave tomorrow when we pack all our stuff and leave while we still have light, and maybe we can reach an inn,” said Elizabeth. “ But what about Aran, how will he handle this?” asked Raranold. “He might be upset about it but I’m sure he’ll love the big city and all its fancy buildings and all the new stuff he’ll like”. “ Plus we have a good amount of money to survive in the city”. “ Now then, we should be cooking dinner at Raranold”. “ Please pass me the mushrooms on your right, we're going to be making some skewers” Aran walked to his room quietly shocked by the fact that he will move from the village he grew up in. Aran looked out the window gazing at the village thinking about how he will never get used to the city. Aran suddenly saw something big and tall in the bushes. It was the same wendigo that was chasing him through the path. Aran quickly fell over in terror and when he got back up, the wendigo was suddenly gone in an instant. “ Oh lords,” said Aran. The wendigo rushed deep into the forests crossing through the dry trees and the murky puddles towards an abandoned camp. The abandoned camp was full of wendigos either resting or fighting each other for food. Near the big stump sat a tall wendigo with various skulls and aches full of bottles and ashes on his sides. The wendigo held a staff with a large skull. The wendigo went towards the large wendigo and shrieked “ Shouldn’t we attack the village now”. The tall Wendigo stood up and said “ We attack when the sun is dim”. They heard horses coming through the road with knights packed with weapons passing by them. The tall Wendigo screamed in the sky letting every Wendigo know that they would attack the village of Alestra.

Sleep was a respite only in the way it separated the past from the new. A fresh start each day meant something different. You had survived and were still providing, still waking up everyday, optical lens’ able to catch the light of whatever star you labored underneath.
Gareth knew something was being lost. A call from the chambers of his sleeping physical brain, the hidden gods and their infinite creativity caged behind a synthetic wash of sedatives, used to keep the outer realms of consciousness at bay.
He was thinking of lost dreams, trying to remember the night terrors he had as an adolescent, shrieking to the dark wind at something he now couldn’t picture.
“Are you hearing me? They want you to absorb thirty-five percent of losses, covering just the gloves alone. What the fuck were you thinking Gareth?” Eris tapped elegant mechanical hands folded upon the jet black steel table between them.
Gareth looked up, “I was thinking about the narrative. I was trying to find the time.”
“Oh bullshit,” Eris scoffed, “Triarch will be coming through those doors in twelve minutes and thirty-seven seconds, they left me unbriefed.”
Gareth’s glove was still as he sat and tried to ignore Eris. If they wanted him off the restoration sector, then fine. By all means. He would be happy to operate anywhere else. Even containment and corrections were beginning to look bright.
Silence descended between them as they waited for their superiors to arrive, worry twisting their stomachs. Eris was tapping a weathered spot on the back of his right hand, something he always did when he was nervous. Gareth had worked with him for over a century and it was a habit that had never changed. The sound resonated with some part of his stimulant addled brain.
“What was in it, anyways?” Eris finally asked.
Gareth shook his head, “I don’t know, it’s sitting in my laboratory. Mostly data from the airbase we’re passing over.”
Gareth wondered if the LIDAR scans had been completed. There was also the secured safe, which was sitting in his lab. Awaiting his dissection.
Eris shook his head and huffed, “so all this for pretty much–nothing? Fantastic.”
The entrance chimed and Eris stood to attention as a team of deadly looking security gloves guided a smaller administration official into the wide, low chamber.
The one called the Triarch.
The security team dispersed to the corners and entrances of the room and the affluent looking Triarch took his seat. The glove he wore was refined and set him apart from the others, just as it was intended to do. Hand pitted copper inlays and traces of gold glinted in the low lighting of the meeting chamber.
“Eris, please.” Triarch motioned towards the middle edge of the table, where a seat had already manifested from the floor.
“Of course, thank you.” Eris sat, the small nervous tapping of his hand just under the awareness of the rest.
Triarch’s optics focused on Gareth, “this isn’t the first time we’ve met.”
“It is not.” Gareth replied.
“I believe our last meeting was in regards to workplace safety. It feels as if we’re repeating ourselves. Eating our own tail.” Triarch placed both hands flat on top of the table.
“The added layer of chemical security was unexpected, the first time I’ve ever encountered such a modification. Tetrahyrdolytic-M88, a substance used in arc fusion reactors to keep the inside of the reactor free from molecular impurities. This is the first time I’ve seen it used outside of its intended application, if I’m to be honest.”
Triarch’s head twitched to the side, “this is something that would have been discovered, had the proper safety protocols been followed.”
Gareth had no reply. It was unambiguous, he was right as right could be. If they had tapped the outer seal, it would have registered and they could have proceeded in a different manner. Trigam’s way.
A safer way.
“You’ve been behaving as if our resources are infinite,” Triarch began, spreading his hands, “thirteen engineers, the cost of refacing and repairing the research bay, and the resignation of another one of your assistants. All for some comparable data. Where does it end?”
Gareth looked up, meeting Triarch’s opticals, “research requires sacrifice. The advances towards the narrative demand risks and I feel I’ve uncovered a relevant datagem from the airfield we are currently moving through.”
Triarch shook their head, “there are few datagems in our work worth the cost of the damage done today. The war here has already been lost, Yok Theron doesn’t care for the corpuscant he leaves behind. We are in a war, Gareth, that’s the reason we’re out here. To rebuild that which was lost, because we can’t afford to lose more. You’ve been through a lot of gloves, but younger inexperienced workers don’t have the same luxury. There’s a psychological impact, as well as monetary.”
Gareth conceded, “you’re right. I understand, my lack of discipline has been bothering me lately. Eris has given me direction and I will seek further counsel.”
The many lenses on Triarch’s face seemed to focus, “see that it’s done, archeotech. Your debt to the guard is beginning to cast a shadow.”
Triarch stood without warning and collapsed into the middle of his security, as they folded out of the dark door and were out of sight and mind. All meetings were like this, simple and as fast as possible.
“God almighty-,” Eris gasped.
Gareth sat, motionless.
Eris moved from the side of the table to the seat across, as he had been sitting before, “are you in this room? Did you hear what he just said?”
“I’m at the end of my rod, I heard him.”
Eris folded his hands, screeching metal sounding, “as your liaison, I need you to listen to me very carefully, Gareth. You need to focus, for fuck’s sake. Please, I beg of you.”
Gareth glanced down at the orange plastic covering his arms, sleek and dense. He could feel the anger flush through him, his actual skin rippling with heat and potential. So far away, but instant all the same.
“Leave me to my work, I’ll stay down. I promise.”
“Stay in your lab, at least for the next forty-eight hours. As soon as things calm, we can re-task and discuss where we’re at. Does that sound simple and doable, at all, to you?” Eris stood.
“Simple, totally doable.”
“Thank you-,” Eris moved to leave the meeting chamber, walking as if he were surrounded by broken glass, “I’ll catch back up with you in two days.”
Eris turned and exited the opposite door, a wave of air rushing out and away as it whooshed closed.
Gareth sat there for a while, unmoving. There was a small silver fleck of imperfection on the surface of the table and he was focused on it, his mind far away in a place where the pressures of life fell away like a cocoon, the blossom of worry and pain distant and stale.
“Sample D-1 seated and currently awaiting instruction.” Rube’s voice ripped him from the depths he was falling into.
“Initial analyses?” Gareth asked, standing and leaving the dim chamber.
“Grade composition of container: Pb, heavy lead shielding. Weight: 77kg-”.
“Please move the test article to hazard bay 443, I’ll be up shortly.”
Gareth walked through the massive inner structure of the Cube, making his way towards the MOL-44 printers. There would be a printer in the back left, just finishing a small ceramic urn full of ashes. He plucked the perfect white urn from the printing plate and left the upper sectors, making his way down to the bottom of the Cube.
It took two levicors and a small escalating platform, the journey to the usual outer seal he used was long and winding, taking him through the inner bays in a zig-zag pattern. The more random his habits, the more control he felt over his life. When everything was synchronized, unplanned deviation gave a sort of rush. A rush that washed away the sour taste of the meeting he had just sat through.
“Your debts are beginning to cast a shadow.”
Shadows were the result of light and he felt no brightness within. It was all darkness, no definition any longer to navigate.
Focus on the narrative, he thought to himself.
The pain he endured paled in comparison to what these people must have experienced in their final days or hours. The sky ablaze, nuclear death raining down, more bodies than flies. Oceans boiled, the atmosphere sheared off.
The echoes of his wails were nothing against the hurricane.
Gareth had finally reached the bottom level and could see the outer access door still a ways away, lit by a blue runner from above. He glanced down at the small ivory urn, making sure it was still intact. When he looked back up, there was someone standing in front of him, silhouetted in the dark.
Trigam’s voice called out through the cloud, “what do you do out there?”
He was a couple meters away, optics glinting in the low blue light.
Gareth stopped, his heart rate spiking, “what are you doing down here?”
Trigam spread his dark metallic hands and sauntered forward, “making sure you don’t wander off and have an accident. What else?”
Gareth tried to ping Rube, but his local gateway was blocked.
“What’s so important outside, that you would throw away a MK-V research glove? Like it’s scrap.”
Gareth started backing up and bumped into a solid plate of metal. He had walked past two gloves pressed against the walls like waiting vipers uncoiled, both wearing Atlas exoframes normally used in mining and heavy labor. They grabbed him by his arms and legs and raised him up, so that his feet were just off the floor. The sound of squealing and crunching metal and plastic echoed down the dark walkway.
“c15,000, c20,000? What is it? It’s more than MK-III engineers, I know that much.”
Gareth strained against the hold he was in, his small white urn shattering under the struggle. Ash and ceramic shards fell to the floor unnoticed.
“So what is it? Why do you walk out there?” Trigam asked, the angular build of his glove’s face inches away from Gareth’s.
Trigam didn’t allow him to answer, instead he rammed a charged copper spike into the side of Gareth’s neural controller, just inside his breastplate, sending waves of pressurized spasms through his glove and into his body, back in the seed tank billions of miles away. Gareth screamed, but his agony was scattered by the network jammer currently enveloping the small group.
“Everyone said you were brilliant, eccentric. Working with you was something like rediscovering yourself,” Trigam laughed, “I was your slave for eight months and now I’m considering joining Yok.”
Trigam depressed a small switch and the pain spike went dead.
Gareth gasped for air through the feeling of being unwinded, his head spinning and his rage turned ashen and to despair.
“We can’t afford our own debt and we won’t take on yours.”
A short silence fell between them, before Gareth’s legs and right arm were pulled and ripped away from his body. Sparks and caustic hydraulic fluid sprayed in a wide arc, covering the shifting metal of the interior walls.
“Loss is part of the process,” Gareth sighed, “but I wouldn’t expect you to understand that. You never were very good at understanding that.”
Trigam smeared the clear oil along Gareth’s cheek, “you would be the expert of loss as well. Your bitch died and now you try to follow her, but Aetherguard will never let you die. You’re too special to them.”
The Atlas exosuits chomped down into the floor as the two holding Gareth started forward and hauled him towards the access door.
“It’s ten hours until sunrise, I hope you enjoy the little bit of leisure time we’ve bought you.” Trigam said, the access door whooshing open next to him and revealing the pitch dark howling night.
Gareth was tossed, like a dead battery, out into the ivory sand, tumbling end over end as he fell thirteen meters to the ground. The impact jittered his sensor core and his optics began an automatic reset, showing him the massive shifting wall of the Cube upon coming back online. He would give anything to close his eyes, but the pitch black was as close as he would get.
Every actuating joint and stabilizing core was damaged in the assault and now his entire glove vibrated in a kind of mechanical desynchronization. He hoped it would shake itself to pieces before he had to wait the agonizing hours for the star to rise over Kine’s horizon and cook him. The sooner he could get back and report this to Eris, the better his rage would be soothed.
Or so he hoped.
He still had slight control of the right arm they had left him and so he used it to push himself onto his back, face up and exposed to the sky above. His infrared lens gave the cosmos an ethereal shade, so much more to witness when looking outside the normal range. The sight of it all turned his awe to bitterness and guilt at the reminder of the casting away of his physical flesh. Not so much a loss, but a disconnection, controlled and bound by the numbers sworn fealty to as a neophyte. The end result was a sight so magnificent and so replicated it morphed into remorse.
“Rube?”
No answer came, they had damaged his communication module as well it seemed. He was on his own in the desert. He could already see the small search drones, their thermals scanning the glowing sand, looking for an imperfection in a backdrop of white.
When he looked down, the sand tinkled and blazed with the same astigmatism as in the small desk art piece, in Eris’ office. He looked and realized the sand wasn’t crushed silicate, but tiny individual diatomaceous shells, heaped by the trillions. He magnified and marveled at the radiating mass grave of microscopic animals. There was something about this last rape in the environmental brief, but the fact seemed to have slipped away, lost in a trillion other details of calamity.
North was a ridgeline rising out of the dunes, he could try to climb that and then throw himself off when he reached a sufficient height. Perhaps he could cut a few hours off of the current timeline, get back to the Cube and wring necks. The plastics and soft materials of his glove had all already sloughed off, leaving him a mechanical shell crawling across the wasteland, one arm dragging himself along.
Perhaps this was what it felt like, a fraction of the narrative’s suffering.
His neural core was pulsing, the flash of agony on the back of his subconscious reminding him he could feel at all.
He knew it would only be a fraction of what Trigam and his thugs would endure.

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Chapter 3 - Dreams and Vows
Northern Facility, Vanstead Dukedom of Augustein, Year 989
“You’ve never heard of the Warped Forest?”
Amara looked over from where her gaze had drifted over to Lily and Tom in the corner. The two were playing some kind of hand game involving a series of intricate motions that she still couldn’t make sense of. It still felt odd to see the two of them older now. She’d gotten used to them being the “babies” of the cell, but they’d shot up in height and didn’t look all that different from the rest of them now.
Edith was watching her expectantly, and Amara shrugged.
“No.”
“How, though? Literally everyone in Vanstead knows about it!”
“Didn’t you say I was probably from Chaunton?”
The other girl sputtered, but quickly spoke again, never one to lose ground for long. “Well, we’re in Vanstead right now, you know? Once we get out of here, you’d better know about it!” She spoke the words confidently, like she spoke most things. Edith leaned forward. “My mo—I’ve heard tons of stories,” she corrected. Over the years, the girl had grown increasingly uncomfortable mentioning her family or anyone else she used to know.
Amara nodded, obligingly turning to face her and crossing her legs. “Tell me,” she said. Edith grinned triumphantly, and that alone was more than enough.
A few of the other kids paused and glanced over, including Lily and Tom, who stopped their game and scooted closer. Along with them came Susie and Ben, and eventually almost the entire cell was gathered around Edith, who sat up straighter. She began gesturing wildly with her arms as she always did when she told stories.
“Far up north in the Shifting Lands, where the air’s cold and there’s more trees than grasses, they say there’s a forest where the trees move.” She paused for dramatic effect.
“I thought they changed shapes,” Susie piped up.
“Shush, I was getting to that!” Edith huffed. “Up there, they say there’s no more form magic in the earth to keep them still, so they keep changing shapes. The branches’ll get longer and shorter, and the trunks twist around and bend as easily as water.” She mimicked the motion with her body. In her thin, malnourished state, her flailing arms brought back memories of James. Amara swallowed and kept listening.
“But the forest doesn’t just stay there,” Edith said dramatically. She leaned closer, and her audience obligingly leaned forward as well. “Every year it moves further and further south, and everywhere the trees go, that place also ends up, well, like that!” The girl fumbled for words, but pressed onward. “Not just that, but they say Aberrations live deep in the forest. They hide away in the trees, and whenever the forest gets close to a town, the Aberrations jump out!”
Edith swung her arms up like she was about to pounce, and a few of the kids gasped. Most of the ones who did so were the newer arrivals, people who hadn’t spent a year in the facility yet. After that point, their reactions usually dulled to some extent.
Edith looked around expectantly, and after a few seconds, they started clapping in awkward, erratic bursts, unused to the gesture. It seemed to be enough for the girl, who looked pleased with her story’s reception.
“Why’s it keep moving south?” one of the girls asked. She was one of the youngest in their cell. She didn’t speak much, but Amara often caught her singing to herself at night and after sessions. She always did it softly, mostly to herself, but Amara found herself wishing the girl would be louder. She had a pretty voice.
Edith frowned, and her eyes darted over to Amara for help. Amara just shrugged. She certainly didn’t know. Edith rolled her eyes and launched into an impressively convoluted string of explanations that grew increasingly more wild the longer she went on. Amara listened patiently, enjoying the tale despite its absurdity.
Later that night, while the rest of the kids slept, Edith sat down near Amara, who raised an eyebrow at her.
“So, the forest.”
Edith hit her good naturedly, making sure to focus the blow on Amara’s shoulder and not her increasingly scarred arms. “Shush. It’s cool, okay?”
Amara hummed. “It sounds scary.”
“Well, maybe a little, but I still want to see it.”
Amara nodded in understanding. “Yeah, I think I do too,” she said after a moment of thought. Through Edith’s tales, she’d learned about a string of different places, all of which sounded equal parts terrifying and beautiful. Just last week, Edith had spoken about the great storms of Aeramire, where excessive energy magic ore mining had resulted in extreme and unstable weather patterns. The way the other girl had described them had made them seem otherworldly and awe inspiring.
Sometimes, a small part of Amara resented Edith for telling these stories and filling her head with these images that she knew deep down she would never get to see. But then Edith would talk about the two of them traveling around the world together and going to see all those sights with such assuredness that she forgave her immediately.
Amara closed her eyes and allowed sleep to overtake her. She didn’t dream often, but that night, she dreamed of swirling branches and distorted trees, sharp figures against a vast, unending sky.
—
Susie died. Edith took it harder than Amara had expected, but the two of them had always been closer than Amara ever was with the girl. The next two nights, instead of sleeping near Amara like she usually did, she lay down on Susie’s old spot and stared up at the ceiling for hours. Amara didn’t know if she actually fell asleep those nights; she didn’t see her shut her eyes before her own weariness overtook her.
There hadn’t been a death in a long time, Amara realized. The last one was over a year ago. A part of her had assumed that those of them left in the cell were the “successes,” that they at least wouldn’t have to worry about losing another face among them, and she could tell that the others had thought the same, too. Amara absentmindedly squeezed her arm and stared at Susie’s old spot. She allowed numbness to overtake the simmering cold feeling in her gut.
She thought about the girl’s warm, bright hair. The cell was significantly more colorless without it.
—
“How long do you think they’ll keep us here?” Edith asked one day. Amara frowned at her, rolling over and bumping into the girl in the process. She tried to keep quiet, aware of the slumbering forms surrounding them.
“Go to sleep,” Amara whispered to her instead. She was about to shift and roll over again, but before she could, Edith’s hand shot out, stopping her.
“The Raymoths were overthrown.”
Edith’s eyes burned fiercely, their usual sparkle now so sharp they were almost painful to look at. Her hands shook slightly with rage. Amara swallowed. She’d never seen Edith look like that before. She sat up a little.
“…Are you sure?”
It was all she could think of to say. Her own mind reeled, trying to digest the information. For as long as she could remember, she’d always associated “Raymoths” with “the Sovereign” and “Sovereign” with those introductory words the magicians had said all those years ago: that the Sovereign had ordered for the experiments to occur. It was simply a fact of their existence that everyone in the cell knew of, but none had ever been able to do anything about it. Even Edith had, at most, speculated for a few days about the reason for the experiments before she, too, became tired of the subject and its lack of answers.
The Raymoths were overthrown? That meant there was a new Sovereign, which meant—
“I heard the guards talking about it.” Edith interrupted her thoughts, the other girl’s voice low. She clenched her fist. “The Sovereign’s been different for three years.”
Amara shook her head. “That can’t be. The experiments—”
“—are still going on.” Edith let out a frustrated breath. “The magicians must’ve kept doing them on their own.” She tugged at her hair, biting her lip so hard that Amara was worried it would start bleeding.
“Maybe the new Sovereign doesn’t know,” Amara said half-heartedly, both for Edith’s and her own sake. In her mind, all that rang out was, You’ll be here forever. The cold feeling boiled so intensely she was worried it would overflow. But she couldn’t let it, not here in the cell, surrounded by everyone else.
Even though she’d always told herself that she’d accepted her fate, a small part of her might have always hoped, she realized. But if the old Sovereign, the one who had ordered the experiments, was dead and they were still happening, then that was undeniable proof to her that nothing would ever stop them. They would die in the facility, and the rest of the world would probably never even know that they existed. The latter, Amara realized, was somehow an even more terrifying thought than the first.
Edith started to get up. “I’m gonna ask them,” she said, eyes hard. Amara jerked her head up in alarm.
“Are you crazy?” she hissed.
“I need answers,” Edith said. Amara reached up and grabbed her, preventing her from standing.
“Go back to sleep,” she said. She paused to take a second and glance around, worried that she’d woken the others, but if she had then they were good at pretending to be asleep. Amara turned back to Edith, pulling on her sleeve with more urgency. “What’s asking them gonna do? Even if they answer you, we’re still stuck here.” Edith flinched, but she quickly recovered, the flame in her eyes flaring.
“They can’t keep us here forever. We’re not just scared little kids anymore!”
“Yeah, which means they’ll get rid of us if they have to!”
The older they got, the more the magicians treated them with wariness. They were reaching an age where they were harder to control, and Amara was very aware that they weren’t the only “successes” in the facility. They weren’t valuable enough to risk keeping around if the magicians ever thought they were too much to handle.
Edith grit her teeth, swallowing, and Amara could see the girl shaking as she visibly tried to calm herself. She yanked her arm away and turned around, laying her head down with her back facing Amara and resolutely refusing to look at her.
Amara tried to tap her shoulder a few times over the night, calling out her name, but Edith continued to ignore her. Finally, Amara gave up and turned away as well, closing her eyes and waiting for sleep to take over. This was fine, she told herself, forcing her mind to that floaty place where everything was muted and there was no danger of that cold feeling rising. She’d rather Edith be mad at her than dead.
​
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Chapter Two
The Anointed learns upon us right [זכות, ZeKhOoTh] [verses 1-6]

1. My children [ילדי, YeLahDah-eeY], write I to you [את, ’ehTh] the words the these to sake you not sin, and if sins a man, we have to us an advocate [מליץ, MayhLeeYTs] before the father – YayShOo`ah [“Savior”, Jesus] the anointed, the righteous.

“…ethics in the N.T. [New Testament] is never finally a matter of a ‘works-righteousness’ or code. The Spirit interprets our duty to us in various situations.” (Wilder, 1955, TIB p. XII 227)

1. And he is atonement [כפרה, KahPahRaH] for our sins,

“`Ιλασμος [‘Ilasmos], the atoning sacrifice for our sins… כפור kippur… The word is used only here, and in chap. iv.10.” (Clarke, 1831, p. VI 862)
and not upon our sins only, rather [אלה, ’ehLah’] also upon sins of all the world.
“The apostle does not say that he died for any select part of the inhabitants of the earth, or for some out of every nation, tribe, or kindred, but for ALL MANKIND: and the attempt to limit this is a violent outrage against God and his word.” (Clarke, 1831, p. VI 862))

1. And in this know [נדע, NayDah`] that we recognize [שהכרנו, ShehHeeKahRNOo] him: if we guard his commandments.
   
2. The sayer, “I recognize him.”, and has not guarded [את, ’ehTh] his commandments, a worder of falsehood is he, and the truth has not in him.
   
3. But [אך, ’ahKh] the guarder [את, ’ehTh] His word, in same the man is completed [נשלמה, NeeShLeMaH], in truth, love of Gods; in this know that in him are we.
   
4. The sayer that he stands in YayShOoah, as [the] way that walked YayShOoah, yes also is upon him to walk.
   

……………………………………………………….
The new commandment [verses 7-17]

1. My beloved, not a commandment new write I to you, rather [כי אם, KeeY ’eeM] a commandment old, that was to you from [the] first. The commandment, the old, she is the word that you heard.
2. And in all that, a commandment new write I to you, a word that is established also in him and also in you, that see, the darkness passes and the light the true already shines [זורח, ZORay-ahH].
   
3. The sayer that [כי, KeeY] in light he is and with that hates [את, ’ehTh] his brethren, still is he [עודנו, `ODehNOo] in darkness.
   
4. The lover [את, ’ehTh] his brethren stands in light, and scandal [ומכשול, OoMeeKhShOL] has not in him.
   
5. But [אבל, ’ahBahL] the hater [את, ’ehTh] his brethren, in darkness is he; in darkness he walks, and he does not know to where he walks, for the darkness blinds [עור, `eeVayR] [את, ’ehTh] his eyes.
   
6. Write I to you, my children, So [מפני, MeePNaY] that will be pardoned to you your sins on behalf of his name.
   
7. Write I to you, fathers, so that you recognize [את, ’ehTh] him, that he was from [the] first. Write I to you, first-born, so that you conquer [שנצחתם, SheNeeTsahHThehM] [את, ’ehTh] the evil.
   
8. I wrote to you, children, so that you recognize [את, ’ehTh] the Father. I wrote to you, fathers, so that you recognize [את, ’ehTh] him, that he [was] from [the] first. I wrote to you, first-born, so that you strengthen, and word [of] Gods is realized in your midst, and you conquer [את, ’ehTh] the evil.
   
9. Do not love [את, ’ehTh] the world, nor [אף, ’ahPh] [את, ’ehTh] what that is in [the] world; man, if he loves [את, ’ehTh] the world, has not within him love of the father.
   

“… a love of the creature and the creation is disparaged over against the primal and everlasting ground of existence, the Father and his purpose….
Such an emphasis is indeed exposed to the modern reproach of a false otherworldliness, and this passage has often been used to fortify such a piety.” (Wilder, 1955, TIB pp. XII 238-239)

1. For all that is in the world - lust of [תאות, Thah’ahVahTh] fleshes, lusts of the eyes, and pride of [וגאות, VeGah’ahVahTh] the possessions [הנכסים, HahNeKhahÇeeYM] - not from the father is it, rather it is from the world.

“For the lust of the eyes a passage in the Testament of Reuben[10] (ch. 2) is illuminating. It speaks of the ‘seven spirits of deceit’ which are ‘appointed against man’ of which one is the ‘sense of sight from which ariseth desire’ (cf. also Ezek. [Ezekiel] 20:7-8). Jesus strictly warns against the eye as the occasion of temptation in the Sermon on the Mount (Matt. [Matthew] 5:27-29)” (Wilder, 1955, TIB p. XII 240)
[10] “The Testaments of the Twelve Patriarchs is a constituent of the apocryphal scriptures connected with the Torah. It is a pseudepigraphical work comprising the dying commands of the twelve sons of Jacob. It is part of the Oscan Armenian Orthodox Bible of 1666. Fragments of similar writings were found at Qumran, but opinions are divided if these are the same texts. It is considered Apocalyptic literature.
The Testaments were written in Greek, and reached their final form in the second century CE. In the 13th century that they were introduced into the West through the agency of Robert Grosseteste, Bishop of Lincoln, whose Latin translation of the work gained immediately became popular. He believed that it was a genuine work of the twelve sons of Jacob, and that the Christian interpolations were a genuine product of Jewish prophecy; he accused Jews of concealing the Testaments ‘on account of the prophecies of the Saviour contained in them.’
With the critical methods of the 16th century, Grosseteste’s view of the Testaments was rejected and the book was unjustly disparaged as a mere Christian forgery for nearly four centuries. Presently, scholarly opinions are still divided as to whether the Testaments of the Twelve Patriarchs are an originally Jewish document that has been retouched by Christians or are a Christian document written originally in Greek but based on some earlier Semitic material. The feasibility of the Jewish author hypothesis is increasingly difficult to defend, while the Christian nature of the book is a given. Scholarship, therefore, focuses on this book as a Christian work, whether or not it has Jewish original (Vorlage).
A copy of the testaments is published in The Lost Books of the Bible and the Forgotten Books of Eden.
The work is divided into twelve books, each purporting to be the last exhortations of one of the twelve titular patriarchs. In each, the patriarch first narrates his own life, focusing on his strengths, virtues, or his sins, using biographical material from both the Hebrew Bible and Jewish tradition. Next he exhorts his listeners to emulate the one and to avoid the other. Most of the books conclude with prophetic visions.
The Testament of Reuben is predominantly concerned with admonishing lust, and the sinfulness of Reuben in his having had sex with Bilhah, a concubine of his father. It is likely that the author wished to cover the topic of fornication anyway, and assigned it for Reuben to discuss due to Reuben's relationship with Bilhah being recounted in the canonical bible. http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Testaments_of_the_Twelve_Patriarchs
…
……………………………………………………….
Distressor [צורר, TsORehR] [of] the Anointed [verses 18-28]

1. My children, that is the hour, the last, and, like that you heard that [כי, KeeY] would come the distressor [of] the Anointed [αντιχρισος – antichrisos ~ antichrist], also now have risen distressors of Anointed multitudinous. From here know we that that is the hour, the last.

“The actual term antichrist appears only in I and II John in the N.T. but the same figure is in view in the ‘man of lawlessness’ of II Thess. [Thessalonians] 2:3-4, in the great agent of sacrilege in Mark 13:14 and its parallels, and elsewhere. In our epistle he is identified with the ‘spirit’ of heresy (4:3) or error (4:6) as already come. He has in mind disturbers of the life of the churches generally and pretenders to messiahship or divinity in various parts of the empire. Words assigned to Jesus in the Gospels bearing on these events were thought of by the evangelists as fulfilled in their day. … The church fathers, rightly or wrongly, supply the names of Dositheus[11], Simon Magus[12], Judas Gallaeus, and later, Montanus[13], as having made messianic claims.” (Wilder, 1955, TIB pp. XII 243-244)
[11] “The legendary background of the Pseudo-Clementine polemic informs us that the precursor of ‘Simon Magus’ was a certain Dositheus. He is mentioned in the lists of the earliest hæresiologists, in a Samaritan Chronicle, and in the Chronicle of Aboulfatah (fourteenth century); the notices, however, are all legendary, and nothing of a really reliable character can be asserted of the man. That however he was not an unimportant personage is evidenced by the persistence of the sect of the Dositheans to the sixth century; Aboulfatah says even to the fourteenth. Both Dositheus and ‘Simon Magus’ were, according to tradition, followers of John the Baptist; they were, however, said to be inimical to Jesus. Dositheus is said to have claimed to be the promised prophet, ‘like unto Moses,’ and ‘Simon’ to have made a still higher claim. In fact, like so many others in those days, both were claimants to the Messiaship. The Dositheans followed a mode of life closely resembling that of the Essenes; they had also their own secret volumes, and apparently a not inconsiderable literature.
Dositheus (Dousis, Dusis, or Dosthai) was apparently an Arab, and in Arabia, we have every reason to believe, there were many mystic communities allied to those of the Essenes and Therapeuts.” http://sacred-texts.com/gno/fff/fff20.htm
[12] “Simon Magus (Greek Σίμων ὁ μάγος), also known as Simon the Sorcerer and Simon of Gitta, was a Samaritan proto-Gnostic and traditional founder of the Simonians in the first century A.D. He appeared prominently in several apocryphal and heresiological accounts of early Christian writers, who regarded him as the source of all heresies.
Simon Magus has been portrayed as both student and teacher of Dositheus, with followers who revered him as the Great Power of God. There were accusations by Christians that he was a demon in human form, and he was specifically said to possess the ability to levitate and fly at will. The fantastic stories of Simon the Sorcerer persisted into the Middle Ages, becoming a possible inspiration for Goethe's Faust.” http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Simon_Magus
[13] “Montanism was an early Christian movement of the early 2nd century A.D., named after its founder Montanus. It originated at Hierapolis where Papias was bishop and flourished throughout the region of Phrygia, leading to the movement being referred to as Cataphrygian (meaning it was ‘from Phrygia’). It spread rapidly to other regions in the Roman Empire at a time before Christianity was generally tolerated or legal. Although orthodox Nicene Christianity prevailed against Montanism within a few generations, labeling it a heresy, the sect persisted in some isolated places into the 8th century. Some people have drawn parallels between Montanism and modern Pentecostalism (which some call Neo-Montanism). The most widely known Montanist was undoubtedly Tertullian, who was the foremost Latin church writer before he converted to Montanism. http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Montanism

1. And you have to you the anointing from [מאת, May’ayTh] the Holy [one], and all of you know.

“The word [anointing] is not used in the N.T. outside the present chapter.” (Wilder, 1955, TIB p. XII 245)
““The χρισμα, chrism, or ointment, here mentioned, is also an allusion to the holy anointing ointment prescribed by God himself, Exod. xxx. 23-25. which was composed of fine myrrh[14], sweet cinnamon, sweet calamus[15], cassia lignea[16], and olive oil.”
[14] “Myrrh is a reddish-brown resinous material, the dried sap of a number of trees, but primarily from Commiphora myrrha, native to Yemen, Somalia, the eastern parts of Ethiopia and Commiphora gileadensis, native to Jordan…. Myrrh was used as an embalming ointment and was used, up until about the 15th century, as a penitential incense in funerals and cremations. The "holy oil" traditionally used by the Eastern Orthodox Church for performing the sacraments of chrismation and unction is traditionally scented with myrrh…” http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Myrrh
[15] “Sweet Flag, also known as calamus and various rushes and sedges, (Acorus calamus) is a plant from the Acoraceae family, in the genus Acorus. It is a tall perennial wetland monocot with scented leaves and more strongly scented rhizomes, which have been used medicinally, for its odor, and as a psychotropic drug.” http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Sweet_Flag
[16] “The spice now known in pharmaceutical literature under the name of Cassia lignea has, from time immemorial, been an article of trade from South China. Flückiger and Hanbury are indeed of opinion that it was the cinnamon of the ancients, what now bears the name being peculiar to Ceylon and unnoticed as a product of the island till the thirteenth century. (‘Pharmacographia,’ pp. 520, 521.) Cinnamon and cassia are, however, enumerated amongst the products of the East from the earliest periods; and the former was known to the Arabians and Persians as Darchini (dar, wood or bark, and chini, Chinese). It seems in ancient times to have been carried by Chinese traders to the Malabar coast, where it passed into the commerce of the Red Sea. In this way the statements of Dioscorides, Ptolemy, and others, are accounted for, who speak of cinnamon as a product of Arabia and Eastern Africa, countries in which there is no reason to suppose it ever grew.” http://www.henriettesherbal.com/eclectic/journals/ajp1883/03-cassia-lign.html (Clarke, 1831, p. VI 866)
… 22. Who is he, worder false, if not with [בלתי, BeeLTheeY] the denier [הכופר, HahKOPhayR] in thus, that YayShOo`ah, he is the anointed? This is him, distressor [of] the anointed: the denier in father and in son.
“… not the Jewish refusal to recognize Jesus as the messiah; this denial would hardly be made by members of the church… it is the denial that ‘Jesus Christ has come in the flesh’. … The Doscetists made a separation between the earthly Jesus and the heavenly Christ. These verses sound very harsh and dogmatic to us (and cf. 5:10, 12). As a matter of fact, the impulse of the writer was not that of an inflexible orthodoxy: it was an appeal to the abiding dynamic witness of the Spirit, which quickens and leads into all truth. This Spirit was indeed related inseparably to the old oral confessions of the church (cf. Acts 8:37, RSV mg [margin]), but these evidently were already taking various forms, and the meaning of the term Christ, for example, had changed markedly.” (Wilder, 1955, TIB pp. XII 246-247)
“Some have supposed that an Ebionite denial of Jesus’ messiahship is all that is intended here (so Maurice Goguel). But the second part of the verse makes it likely that Docetic-Gnostic issues are involved.” (Wilder, 1955, TIB p. XII 271)
“There were certain persons who, while they acknowledged Jesus to be a Divine Teacher, denied him to be the Christ, i.e., the Messiah.
“He is antichrist that denieth the Father and the Son.] He is antichrist who denies the supernatural and miraculous birth of Jesus Christ; who denies Jesus to be the Son of God; and who denies God to be the Father of the Lord Jesus: - thus he denies the Father and the Son. The Jews in general, and the Gnostics in particular, denied the miraculous conception of Jesus: with both he was accounted no more than a common man, the son of Joseph and Mary. But the Gnostics held that a divine person, ᴁon or angelical being, dwelt in him; but all things else relative to his miraculous generation and divinity they rejected. These were antichrist, who denied Jesus to be the Christ.” (Clarke, 1831, p. VI 866)

cambridge weekly social meet
the 5th Saturday will take place at 1400 on 3rd jun 2023 on jesus green with the posibility that we may wonder off to the strawberry fair.
unfortunately our usual organiser is away this weekend so asked me to arrange it and after chatting with the regulars it seems everyone is in favour of meeting outdoors this time. Weather is supposed to be 19-21°c depending on who you ask so dont forget to wear sun block ^-^
The Cambridge Saturday Afternoon Meet is for: 1. All those Redditors that will ask and have asked how to make friends in Cambridge 2. All those Redditors that are facing down the barrel of another lonely weekend 3. All those Redditors that have nothing better to do on a saturday than to meet up with perfect redditor strangers (sounds a little dodgy i know, but its a friendly group) 4. anyone lacking social skills and/or a social group that want somewhere friendly to practice

Just one rule: be kind and respectful to others and dont be creepy.
We will be meeting just off park parade to hopefully avoid the spillover from the fair and ill update this post with how to find us

The whirring blades of my MD-902 throbbed against the warm evening air, and I smiled.
From 5,000 feet, the ground flew by in a carpet of dark forests and kelly-green fields. The sun hung low on the horizon in a picturesque array of dazzling orange and gold, and I could make out the narrow strip of the Ohio River to my left, glistening in the fading daylight. This time of year, the trees would be full of the sweet aroma of fresh blossoms, and the frequent rains kept small pockets of fluffy white mist hanging in the treetops. It was a beautiful view, one that reminded me of why being a helicopter pilot trumped flying in a jumbo jet far above the clouds every day of the week.
Fourteen more days, and I’m debt free.
That made me grin even more. I’d been working as a charter pilot ever since I obtained my license at age 19, and after years of keeping my nose to the grindstone, I was closing on the final payment for real-estate in western Pennsylvania. With no debt, a fixer-upper house on 30 rural acres all to myself, and a respectable wage for a 26-year-old pilot, I looked forward to the financial freedom I could now enjoy. Maybe I’d take a vacation, somewhere exotic like Venice Italy, or the Dominican Republic. Or perhaps I’d sock the money back for the day I started a family.
“Remember kleineun, a real man looks after his own.”
My elderly ouma’s voice came back from the depths of my memories, her proud, sun-tanned face rising from the darkness. She and my Rhodesian grandfather had emigrated to the US when they were newlyweds, as the violence against white Boer descendants in South Africa spiraled out of control. My mother and father both died in a car crash when I was six, and it had been my grandparents who raised me. Due to this, I’d grown up with a slight accent that many of my classmates found amusing, and I could speak both English, and Afrikaans, the Boer tongue of our former home.
I shifted in my seat, stretched my back muscles, and glanced at the picture taped to my console. Both my parents flanked a grinning, gap-toothed six-year-old me, at the last Christmas we’d spent together. My mother beamed, her dark hair and Italian features a sharp contrast to my father’s sandy blonde hair and blue eyes. Sometimes, I liked to imagine they were smiling at me with pride at how well I flew the old silver-colored bird my company had assigned to me, and that made the long, lonely flights easier to bear.
A flicker caught my eye, and I broke my gaze away from the photograph.
Perched in its small cradle above the controls, my little black Garmin fuzzed over for a few seconds, its screen shifting from brightly colored maps to a barrage of grey static.
Did the power chord come loose?
I checked, ensuring the power-cable for the unit’s battery was plugged into the port on the control panel. It was a brand-new GPS unit, and I’d used it a few times already, so I knew it wasn’t defective. Granted, I could fly and navigate without it, but the Garmin made my time as a pilot so much easier that the thought of going blind was dreadful.
My fuel gauge danced, clicked to empty, then to full, in a bizarre jolt.
More of the gauges began to stutter, the entire panel seeming to develop terrets all at once, and my pulse began to race. Something was wrong, very wrong, and the sludge inside my bowels churned with sour fear.
“Come on, come on.” I flicked switches, turned dials, punched buttons, but nothing seemed to fix the spasming electronics. Every gauge failed, and without warning, I found myself plunged into inky darkness.
Outside, the sun surrendered to the pull of night, the sky darker than usual. A distant rumble of thunder reverberated above the roar of my helicopter’s engine, and I thought I glimpsed a streak of yellowish lightning on the far horizon to my left.
Calm down Chris. We’re still flying, so it must just be a blown fuse. Stay in control and find a place to set her down.
My sweaty palm slid on the cyclic stick, and both feet weighed heavy on the yaw pedals. The collective stuck to my other hand with a nervous vibration, and I squinted against the abyss outside.
Beep.
I jumped despite myself, as the little Garmin on my panel flared back to life, the static pulling aside to reveal a twitching display. Each time the screen glitched, it showed the colorful map detailing my flight path over the ground below, but I noticed that some of the lines changed, the names shifting, as if the device couldn’t decide between two different versions of the world.
One name jutted out at me, slate gray like most of the major county names, appearing with ghostly flickers from between two neighboring ones.
Barron County.
I stared, confused. I’d flown over this section of southeastern Ohio plenty of times, and I knew the counties by heart. At this point, I should have been over the southern end of Noble County, and maybe dipping lower into Washington. There was no Barron County Ohio. I was sure of it.
And yet it shown back at me from the digital landscape, a strange, almost cigar-shaped chunk of terrain carved from the surrounding counties like a tumor, sometimes there, sometimes not, as my little Garmin struggled to find the correct map. Rain began to patter against my cockpit window, and the entire aircraft rattled from a strong gust of wind. Thick clouds closed over my field of vision like a sea of gray cotton.
The blood in my veins turned to ice, and I sucked in a nervous breath.
Land. I had to land. There was nothing else to do, my flight controls weren’t responding, and only my Garmin had managed to come back to life. Perhaps I’d been hit by lightning, and the electronics had been fried? Either way, it was too dark to tell, but a storm seemed to be brewing, and if I didn’t get my feet on the ground soon, I could be in real trouble.
“Better safe than sorry.” I pushed down on the collective to start my slow descent and clicked the talking button for my headset. “Any station, this is Douglass Three-One-Four-Foxtrot, over.”
Nothing.
“Any station, this is Douglass Three-One-Four-Foxtrot, requesting emergency assistance, over.”
Still nothing.
If the radio’s dead, I’m really up a creek.
With my hand shaking, I clicked on the mic one more time. “Any station, this is—”
Like a curtain pulling back, the fog cleared from around my window, and the words stuck in my throat.
Without my gauges, I couldn’t tell just how far I’d descended, but I was definitely very low. Thick trees poked up from the ground, and the hills rolled into high ridges with flat valley floors, fields and pastures pockmarking them. Rain fell all around in cold, silvery sheets, a normal feature for the mid spring in this part of Ohio.
What wasn’t normal, were the fires.
At first, I thought they were forest fires for the amount of smoke and flames that bellowed from each spot, but as I swooped lower, my eyes widened in horror.
They were houses.
Farms, cottages, little clusters that barely constituted villages, all of them belched orange flames and black pillars of sooty smoke. I couldn’t hear above the helicopter blades, but I could see the flashes on the ground, along the road, in between the trees, and even coming from the burning buildings, little jets of golden light that spat into the darkness with anger.
Gunfire. That’s rifle fire, a whole lot of it.
Tiny black figures darted through the shadows, barely discernable from where I sat, several hundred feet up. I couldn’t see much, but some were definitely running away, the streaks of yellow gunfire chasing them. A few dark gray vehicles rumbled down one of the gravel roads, and sprayed fire into the houses as it went. They were fighting, I realized, the people in the trucks and the locals. It was horrific, like something out of war-torn Afghanistan, but worse.
Then, I caught a glimpse of the others.
They didn’t move like the rest, who either fled from the dark vehicles, or fired back from behind cover. These skinny figures loped along with haphazard gaits, many running on all fours like animals, swarming from the trees by the dozens. They threw themselves into the gales of bullets without flinching, attacking anyone within range, and something about the way they moved, so fluid, so fearless, made my heart skip a beat.
What is that?
“Echo Four Actual to unknown caller, please respond, over.”
Choking back a cry of shock, I fumbled at the control panel with clumsy fingers, the man’s voice sharp and stern. I hadn’t realized that I’d let go of the talking button and clicked it down again. “Hello? Hello, this is Douglass Three-One-Four-Foxtrot out of Pittsburgh, over.”
An excruciating moment passed, and I continued to zoom over the trees, the fires falling away behind me as more silent forest took over.
“Roger that Douglass Three-One-Four-Foxtrot, we read you loud and clear. Please identify yourself and any passengers or cargo you might be carrying, over.”
Swallowing hard, I eyed the treetops, which looked much closer than they should have been. How far had I descended? “Echo Four Actual, my name is Christopher Dekker, and I am alone. I’m a charter flight from PA, carrying medical equipment for OSU in Columbus. My controls have been damaged, and I am unable to safely carry on due to the storm. Requesting permission to land, over.”
I watched the landscape slide by underneath me, once catching sight of what looked like a little white church surrounded by smaller huts, dozens of figures in the yard staring up at me as I flew over a towering ridgeline.
“Solid copy on that Douglass Three-One-Four-Foxtrot. Be advised, your transponder shows you to be inside a restricted zone. Please cease all radio traffic, reduce your speed, climb to 3,000 feet and proceed north. We’ll talk you in from there. How copy, over?”
My heart jumped, and I let out a sigh of relief. “Roger that Echo Four Actual, my altimeter is down, but I’ll do my best to eyeball the altitude, over.”
With that, I pulled the collective upward, and tried my best to gauge how far I was by eyesight in the gathering night, rain still coming down all around me. This had to be some kind of disaster or riot, I decided. After all, the voice over the radio sounded like military, and those vehicles seemed to have heavy weapons. Maybe there was some kind of unrest going on here that I hadn’t heard about yet?
Kind of weird for it to happen in rural areas though. Spoiled college kids I get, but never saw farmers get so worked up before. They usually love the military.
Something moved in the corner of my eye, and I turned out of reflex.
My mouth fell open, and I froze, unable to scream.
In the sky beside me, a huge shadow glided along, and its leathery wings effortlessly carved through the gloom, flapping only on occasion to keep it aloft. It was too dark for me to see what color it was, but from the way it moved, I knew it wasn’t another helicopter. No, this thing was alive, easily the size of a small plane, and more than twice the length of my little McDonald Douglass. A long tail trailed behind it, and bore a distinct arrow-shaped snout, with twig-like spines fanned out around the back of its head. Whatever legs it had were drawn up under it like a bird, yet its skin appeared rough and knobby, almost resembling tree bark. Without pause, the gigantic bat-winged entity flew along beside me, as if my presence was on par with an annoying fly buzzing about its head.
Gripping the microphone switch so tight, I thought I’d crack the plastic, I whispered into my headset, forgetting all radio protocol. “T-There’s something up here.”
Static crackled.
“Douglas Three-One-Four-Foxtrot, say again your last, you’re coming in weak and unreadable, over.”
“There’s something up here.” I snarled into the headset, still glued to the controls of the helicopter, afraid to deviate even an inch from my course in case the monstrosity decided to turn on me. “A freaking huge thing, right beside me. I swear, it looks like a bat or . . . I don’t know.”
“Calm down.” The man on the other end of the radio broke his rigorous discipline as well, his voice deep, but level. “It won’t attack if you don’t move too fast. Slowly ease away from it and follow that course until you’re out of sight.”
I didn’t have time to think about how wrong that sounded, how the man’s strict tone had changed to one of knowledge, how he hadn’t been the least surprised by what I’d said. Instead, I slowly turned the helicopter away from the huge menace and edged the speed higher in tiny increments.
As soon as I was roughly two football fields away, I let myself relax, and clicked the mic switch. “It’s not following.”
“You’re sure?”
Eyeing the huge flapping wings, I nodded, then remembered he couldn’t see me. “Yeah, I’m well clear.”
“Good. Thank you, Mr. Dekker.”
Then, the radio went dead.
Something in my chest dropped, a weight that made my stomach roil. This wasn’t right, none of it. Who was that man? Why did he know about the thing I’d just seen? What was I supposed to—
A flash of light exploded from the trees to my right and shot into the air with a long finger of smoke.
What the . . .
On instinct, I jerked the cyclic stick to one side, and the helicopter swung to avoid the rocket.
Boom.
My world shook, metal screeched, and a dozen alarms began to go off inside the cockpit in a cacophony of beeps and sirens. Orange and red flames lit up the night sky just behind me, and the horizon started to spin wildly outside. Heat gushed from the cockpit door, and I smelled the greasy stench of burning oil. The safety belts dug into my shoulders, and with a final slip, the radio headset ripped free from my scalp.
I’m hit.
Desperate, I yanked on the controls, fought the bird even as she spun toward the ground in a wreath of flames, the inky black trees hurtling up to meet me. The helicopter went into full auto-rotation, the sky blurring past outside, and the alarms blared in a screech of doom. Panic slammed through my temples, I screamed at the top of my lungs, and for one brief second, my eyes locked on the little black Garmin still perched atop my control panel.
Its screen stopped twitching and settled on a map of the mysterious Barron County, with a little red arrow at the center of the screen, a few words popping up underneath it.
You are here.
Trees stabbed up into the sky, the belts crushed at my torso, glass shattered all around me, and the world went dark.
Copper, thick, warm, and tangy.
It filled my mouth, stank metallic in my nose, clogged my throat, choking me. In the murkiness, I fought for a surface, for a way out, blind and numb in the dark.
This way, kleineun.
My ouma’s voice echoed from somewhere in the shadows.
This way.
Both eyes flew open, and I gagged, spitting out a stream of red.
Pain throbbed in my ribs, and a heavy pressure sent a tingling numbness through my shoulders. Blood roared inside my temples, and stars danced before my eyes with a dizzying array. Humid night air kissed my skin, and something sticky coated my face, neck, and arms that hung straight up toward the ceiling.
Wait. Not up. Down.
I blinked at the wrinkled, torn ceiling of the cockpit, the glass all gone, the gray aluminum shredded like tissue paper. Just outside the broken windows, thick Appalachian bluegrass and stemmy underbrush swished in a feeble breeze, backlit by flashes of lightning from the thunderstorm overhead. Green and brown leaves covered everything in a wet carpet of triangles, and somewhere nearby, a cricket chirped.
Turning my head from side to side, I realized that I hung upside down inside the ruined helicopter, the top half burrowed into the mud. I could hear the hissing and crackling of flames, the pattering of rain falling on the hot aluminum, and the smaller brush fires around the downed aircraft sizzling out in the damp long grass. Charred steel and burning oil tainted the air, almost as strong as the metallic, coppery stench in my aching nose.
They shot me down. That military dude shot me out of the sky.
It didn’t make sense. I’d followed their orders, done everything they’d said, and yet the instant I veered safely away from whatever that thing in the sky had been, they’d fired, not at it, but at me.
Looking down (or rather, up) at my chest, I sucked in a gasp, which was harder to do that before.
The navy-blue shirt stuck to my torso with several big splotches of dark, rusty red. Most were clean slashes, but two held bits of glass sticking out of them, one alarmingly bigger than the other. They dripped cherry red blood onto my upturned face, and a wave of nausea hit me.
I gotta get down.
I flexed my arms to try and work some feeling back into them, praying nothing was broken. Half-numb from hanging so long, I palmed along my aching body until I felt the buckled for the seat belts.
“Okay.” I hissed between gritted teeth, in an effort to stave off my panic. “You can do this. Just hold on tight. Nice and tight. Here we go . . .”
Click.
Everything seemed to lurch, and I slid off the seat to plummet towards the muck-filled hole in the cockpit ceiling. My fingers were slick with blood and slipped over the smooth faux-leather pilot’s seat with ease. The shoulder belt snagged on the bits of glass that lay just under the left lowest rib, and a flare of white-hot pain ripped through me.
Wham.
I screamed, my right knee caught the edge of the aluminum ceiling, and both hands dove into a mound of leaf-covered glass shards on the opposite side of the hole. My head swam, being right-side-up again enough to make shadows gnaw at the corner of my eyes.
Forcing myself to breath slowly, I fought the urge to faint and slid back to sit on the smooth ceiling. I turned my hands over to see half a dozen bits of clear glass burrowed into my skin like greedy parasites, red blood weeping around the new cuts.
“Screw you.” I spat at the rubbish with angry tears in my eyes. “Screw you, screw you, screw you.”
The shards came out easy enough, and the cuts weren’t that deep, but that wasn’t what worried me. On my chest, the single piece of cockpit glass that remined was almost as big as my palm, and it really hurt. Just touching it felt like self-inflicted torture, but I knew it had to come out sooner or later.
Please don’t nick a vein.
Wiping my hands dry on my jeans, I gripped the shard with both hands, and jerked.
Fire roared over my ribs, and hot blood tickled my already grimy pale skin. I clapped a hand over the wound, pressing down hard, and grunted out a string of hateful expletives that my ouma would have slapped me for.
Lying on my back, I stared around me at the messy cargo compartment of the MD-902. Most of the medical supplies had been in cardboard boxes strapped down with heavy nylon tow-straps, but several cases had ruptured with the force of the impact, spraying bandages, syringes, and pill bottles all over the cluttered interior. Orange flames chewed at the crate furthest to the rear, the tail section long gone, but the foremost part of the hold was intact. Easily a million-dollar mess, it would have made me faint on any other trip, but today it was a godsend.
Half-blind in the darkness, I crawled along with only the firelight and lightning bolts to guide me, my right knee aching. Like a crippled raccoon, I collected things as I went, conscious of the two pallets of intact supplies weighing right over my head. I’d taken several different first-aid courses with some hunting buddies of mine, and the mental reflexes kicked in to help soothe my frazzled mind.
Check for bleeds, stop the worst, then move on.
Aside from my battered chest and stomach, the rest of me remained mostly unharmed. I had nasty bruises from the seatbelts, my right knee swelled, my nose slightly crooked and crusted in blood, but otherwise I was intact. Dowsing every scratch and cut with a bottle of isopropyl alcohol I found, I used butterfly closures on the smaller lacerations that peppered my skin. I wrapped soft white gauze over my abused palms and probed at the big cut where the last shard had been, only stopping when I was sure there were no pieces of glass wedged inside my flesh.
“Not too bad.” I grunted to myself, trying to sound impassive like a doctor might. “Rib must have stopped it. Gonna need stitches though. That’ll be fun.”
Pawing through the broken cases, I couldn’t find any suture chord, but just as I was about to give up, I noticed a small box that read ‘medical skin stapler’.
Bingo.
I tore the small white plastic stapler free from its packaging and eyeballed the device. I’d never done this before, only seen it in movies, and even though the cut in my skin hurt, I wondered if this wouldn’t be worse.
You’ve gotta do it. That bleeding needs to stop. Besides, no one’s coming to rescue you, not with those rocket-launching psychos out there.
Taking a deep breath, I pinched the skin around the gash together, and pressed the mouth of the stapler to it.
Click.
A sharp sting, like that of a needle bit at the skin, but it didn’t hurt nearly as bad as the cut itself. I worked my way across the two-inch laceration and gave out a sigh of relief when it was done.
“Not going to bleed to death today.” I daubed ointment around the staples before winding more bandages over the wound.
Popping a few low-grade painkillers that tumbled from the cargo, I crawled wriggled through the nearest shattered window into the wet grass.
Raindrops kissed my face, clean and cool on my sweaty skin. Despite the thick cloud cover, there was enough constant lightning strikes within the storm to let me get glimpses of the world around me. My helicopter lay on its back, the blades snapped like pencils, with bits and pieces of it burning in chunks all around the small break in the trees. Chest-high scrub brush grew all around the low-lying ground, with pockets of standing water in places. My ears still rang from the impact of the crash, but I could start to pick up more crickets, frogs, and even some nocturnal birds singing into the darkness, like they didn’t notice the huge the hulk of flaming metal that had fallen from the sky. Overhead, the thunder rumbled onward, the feeble wind whistling, and there were other flashes on the horizon, orange and red ones, with crackles that didn’t sound quite like lightning.
The guns. They’re still fighting.
Instinctively, I pulled out my cellphone, and tapped the screen.
It fluttered to life, but no matter how I tried, I couldn’t get through to anyone, not even with the emergency function designed to work around having no service. The complicated wonder of our modern world was little better than a glorified paperweight.
Stunned, I sat down with my back to the helicopter and rested my head against the aluminum skin of the craft. How I’d gone from a regular medical supply run to being marooned in this hellish parody of rural America, I didn’t know, but one thig was certain; I needed a plan. Whoever fired the missile could have already contacted my charter company and made up some excuse to keep them from coming to look for me. No one else knew I was here, and even though I now had six staples holding the worst of my injuries shut, I knew I needed proper medical attention. If I wanted to live, I’d have to rescue myself.
My bag. I need to get my go-bag, grab some gear and then . . . head somewhere else.
It took me a while to gather my green canvas paratrooper bag from its place behind the pilot’s seat and fill it with whatever supplies I could scrounge. My knee didn’t seem to be broken, but man did it hurt, and I dreaded the thought of walking on it for miles on end. I focused instead on inventorying my gear and trying to come up with a halfway intelligent plan of action.
I had a stainless-steel canteen with one of those detachable cups on the bottom, a little fishing kit, some duct tape, a lighter, a black LED flashlight with three spare batteries, a few tattered road maps with a compass, a spare pair of socks, medical supplies from the cargo, and a simple forest green plastic rain poncho. I also managed to unearth a functioning digital camcorder my ouma had gotten me for Christmas a few years back, though I wasn’t sure I wanted to do any filming in such a miserable state. Lastly, since it was a private supply run from a warehouse area near Pittsburgh to a direct hospital pad in Ohio, I’d been able to bring my K-Bar, a sturdy, and brutally simple knife designed for the Marine Corps that I used every time I went camping. It was pitiful in comparison to the rifle I wished I had with me, but that didn’t matter now. I had what I had, and I doubted my trusty Armalite would have alleviated my sore knee anyway.
Clicking on my flashlight, I huddled with the poncho around my shoulders inside the wreck of the chopper and peered at the dusty roadmaps. A small part of me hoped that a solution would jump out from the faded paper, but none came. These were all maps of western PA and eastern Ohio. None of them had a Barron County on them anywhere.
The man on the radio said to head north, right before they shot me down. That means they must be camped out to the north of here. South had that convoy and those burning houses, so that’s a no-go. Maybe I can backtrack eastward the way I came.
As if on cue, a soft pop echoed from over the eastern horizon, and I craned to look out the helicopter window, spotting more man-made flashes over the tree tops.
“Great.” I hissed between clenched teeth, aware of how the temperature dipped to a chilly 60 degrees, and how despite the conditions, my stomach had begun to growl. “Not going that way, are we? Westward it is.”
Walking away from my poor 902 proved to be harder than I’d anticipated. Despite the glass, the fizzling fires, and the darkness, it still held a familiar, human essence to it. Sitting inside it made me feel secure, safe, even calm about the situation. In any other circumstance, I would have just stayed with the downed aircraft to wait for help, but I knew the men who shot me down would likely find my crash site, and I didn’t want to be around when they did.
Unlike much of central and western Ohio, southeastern Ohio is hilly, brushy, and clogged with thick forests. Thorns snagged at my thin poncho and sliced at my pant legs. My knee throbbed, every step a form of self-inflicted torture. The rain never stopped, a steady drizzle from above just cold enough to be problematic as time went on, making me shiver. Mud slid under my tennis shoes, and every tree looked ten times bigger in the flickering beam of my cheap flashlight. Icy fear prickled at the back of my neck at some of the sounds that greeted me through the gloom. I’d been camping loads of times, both in Pennsylvania and elsewhere, but these noises were something otherworldly to me.
Strange howls, screeches, and calls permeated the rain-soaked sky, some almost roars, while others bordered on human in their intonation. The more I walked, the softer the distant gunfire became, and the more prevalent the odd sounds, until the shadows seemed to fill with them. I didn’t dare turn off my flashlight, or I’d been completely blind in the dark, but a little voice in the back of my head screamed that I was too visible, crunching through the gloomy forest with my long beam of light stabbing into the abyss. It felt as though a million eyes were on me, studying me, hunting me from the surrounding brush, and I bitterly recalled how much I’d loved the old Survivor Man TV series as a kid.
Not so fun being out in the woods at night. Especially alone.
A twig snapped somewhere behind me, and I whirled on the spot, one trembling hand resting on the hilt of my K-Bar.
Nothing. Nothing but trees, bushes, and rain dripping down in the darkness.
“This is stupid.” I whispered to myself to keep my nerves in check as I slowly spun on the spot. “I should have went eastward anyway. God knows how long I’m going to have to—”
Creak.
A groan of metal-on-metal echoed from somewhere to my right, and I spun to face it, yanking the knife on my belt free from its scabbard. It felt so small and useless in my hand, and I choked down a wave of nauseas fear.
Ka-whump. Creak. K-whump. Creak.
Underbrush cracked and crunched, a few smaller saplings thrashed, and from deep within the gloom, two yellow orbs flared to life. They poked through the mist in the trees, forming into slender fingers of golden light that swept back and forth in the dark.
The soldiers . . . they must be looking for me.
I swallowed hard and turned to slink away.
Ice jammed through my blood, and I froze on the spot, biting my tongue to stop the scream.
It stood not yards away, a huge form that towered a good twelve feet tall in the swirling shadows. Unpolished chrome blended with flash-rusted spots in the faded red paint, and grime-smeared glass shone with dull hues in the flashes of lightning. Where the wheels should have been, the rounded steel axels curved like some enormous hand had bent them, and the tires lay face-down on the muddy ground like big round feet, their hubcaps buried in the dirt. Dents, scrapes, and chips covered the battered thing, and its crooked little radio antenna pointed straight up from the old metal fender like a mast. I could barely make out the mud-coated VW on the rounded hood, and my mind reeled in shock.
Is . . . is that a car?
Both yellow headlights bathed me in a circle of bright, blinding light, and neither I nor the strange vehicle moved.
Seconds ticked by, the screech-thumping in the background only growing closer. I realized that I couldn’t hear any engine noises and had yet to see any soldiers or guns pointed my way. This car looked old, really old, like one of those classic Volkswagen Beetles that collectors fought over at auctions. Try as I might, I couldn’t see a driver inside the murky, mold-smeared windows.
Because there wasn’t one.
Lightning arched across the sky overhead, and the car standing in front of me blinked.
Its headlights slid shut, as if little metal shades had crawled over the bulbs for a moment and flicked open again. Something about that movement was so primal, so real, so lifelike, that every ounce of self-control I had melted in an instant.
Cursing under my breath, I lunged into the shrubs, and the world erupted around me.
Under my shoes, the ground shook, and the car surged after me in a cacophony of ka-thumps that made my already racing heart skip several beats. A weather-beaten brown tow truck from the 50’s charged through the thorns to my left, it’s headlights ablaze, and a dilapidated yellow school bus rose from its hiding place in the weeds to stand tall on four down-turned axel-legs. They all flicked their headlights on like giants waking from their slumber, and as I dodged past them, they each blared their horn into the night in alarm.
My breaths came short and tight, my knee burned, and I crashed through thorns and briars without thought to how badly I was getting cut up.
The cheap poncho tore, and I ripped it away as it caught on a tree branch.
A purple 70’s Mustang shook off its blanket of creeping vines and bounded from a stand of trees just ahead, forcing me to swerve to avoid being run over, my adrenaline at all-time highs.
This can’t be happening, this can’t be happening, this can’t be happening.
Slipping and sliding, I pushed through a stand of multiflora rose, and stumbled out into a flat, dark expanse.
I almost skidded to a stop.
What had once been a rather large field stood no taller than my shoestrings, the grass charred, and burnt. The storm above illuminated huge pieces of wreckage that lay scattered over the nearly 40-acre plot, and I could just make out the fire-blackened hulk of a fuselage resting a hundred yards away. The plane had been brought down a while ago it seemed, as there weren’t any flames left burning, and I threw myself toward it in frenzied desperation.
Burned grass and greasy brown topsoil slushed underfoot, and I could hear the squelching of the cars pursing me. Rain soaked me to the bone, and my lungs ached from sucking down the damp night air. A painful stich crept into my side, and I cursed myself for not putting in more time for cardio at the gym.
Something caught my left shoelace, and I hurtled to the ground, tasting mud and blood in between my teeth.
They’ve got me now.
I clawed at the mud, rolled, and watched a tire slam down mere inches from where my head had been. The Mustang loomed over me and jostled for position with the red Volkswagen and brown tow truck, the school bus still a few yards behind them. They couldn’t seem to decide who would get the pleasure of stomping me to death, and like a herd of stampeding wildebeest, they locked bumpers in an epic shoving match.
On all fours, I scampered out from under the sparring brutes, and dashed for the crumpled airplane, a white-painted DC-3 that looked like it had been cut in half by a gargantuan knife blade. I passed a snapped wing section, the oily remains of a turbo-prop engine, and a mutilated wheel from the landing gear. Climbing over a heap of mud, I squeezed into the back of the ruined flight cabin and dropped down into the dark cargo hold.
Wham.
No sooner had my sneakers hit the cold metal floor, and the entire plane rocked from the impact of something heavy ramming it just outside. I tumbled to my knees, screaming in pain as, once again, I managed to bash the sore one off a bracket in the wall.
My hand smeared in something gooey, and I scrabbled for my flashlight.
It clicked on, a wavering ball of white light in the pitch darkness, and I fought the urge to gag. “Oh man . . .”
Three people, or what was left of them, lay strewn over the narrow cargo area. Claret red blood coated the walls, caked on the floor, and clotted under my mud-spattered shoes. Bits of flesh and viscera were stuck to everything, and tatters of cloth hung from exposed sections of broken bone. An eerie set of bloody handprints adorned the walls, and the only reason I could tell it had been three people were the shoes; all of them bore anklebones sticking out above blood-soaked socks. It smelled sickly sweet, a strange, nauseas odor that crept into my nose and settled on the back of my tongue like an alien parasite.
Something glinted in the beam of my flashlight, and my pulse quickened as I pried the object loose from the severed arm that still clung to it.
“Hail Mary full of Grace.” I would have grinned if it weren’t for the fact that the plane continued to buck and roll under the assault from the cars outside.
The pistol looked old, but well-maintained, aside from the light coating of dark blood that stained its round wooden handle. It felt heavy, but good in my hand, and I turned it over to read the words, Waffenfabrik Mauser stenciled into the frame, with a large red 9 carved into the grip. For some reason, it vaguely reminded me of the blasters from Star Wars.
I fumbled with a little switch that looked like a safety on the back of the gun and stumbled toward a gap in the plane’s dented fuselage to aim out at the surrounding headlights.
Bang.
The old gun bucked reliably in my hand, its long barrel spitting a little jet of flame into the night. I had no idea if I hit anything, but the attacking cars recoiled, their horns blaring in confusion.
They turned, and scuttled for the tree line as fast as their mechanical legs could go, the entire ordeal over as fast as it had begun.
Did I do that?
Perplexed, I stared down at the pistol in my hand.
Whoosh.
A large, inky black shadow glided down from the clouds, and the yellow school bus moved too slow to react in time.
With a crash, the kicking nightmarish vehicle was thrown onto its side, spraying glass and chrome trim across the muddy field. Its electro-synth horn blared with wails of mechanical agony, as two huge talon-like feet clamped down on it, and the enormous head of the flying creature lowered to rip open its engine compartment.
The horn cut out, and the enormous flying entity jerked its head back to gulp down a mass of what looked like sticky black vines from the interior of the shattered bus.
At this range, I could see now that the flying creature bore two legs and had its wings half-tucked like a vulture that had descended to feed on roadkill. Its head turned slightly, and in the glow of another lightning bolt, my jaw went slack at the realization of what it was.
A tree trunk. It’s a rotted tree trunk.
I couldn’t tell where the reptilian beast began, and where the organic tree components ended, the upper part of the head shaped like a log, while the lower jaw resembled something out of a dinosaur movie. Its skin looked identical to the outside of a shagbark hickory but flexed with a supple featheriness that denoted something closer to skin. Sharp branch-like spines ranged down its back, and out to the end of its tail, which bore a massive round club shaped like a diseased tree-knot. Crouched on both hind legs, it braced the hooked ends of its folded wings against the ground like a bat, towering higher than a semi-truck. Under the folds of its armored head, a bulging pair of chameleon-like eyes constantly spun in their sockets, probing the dark for threats while it ate.
One black pupil locked onto the window I peered through, and my heart stopped.
The beast regarded me for a moment, with a curious, sideways sniff.
With a proud, contemptful head-toss, the shadow from the sky parted rows of razor-sharp teeth to let out a roar that shook the earth beneath my feet. It was the triumphant war cry of a creature that sat at the very top of the food chain, one that felt no threat from the fragile two-legged beings that walked the earth all around it. It hunted whenever it wanted, ate whatever it wanted, and flew wherever it wanted. It didn’t need to rip the plane apart to devour me.
Like my hunter-gatherer ancestors from thousands of years ago, I wasn’t even worth the energy it would take to pounce.
I’m hiding in the remains of the cockpit now, which is half-buried under the mud of the field, enough to shield the light from my screen so that thing doesn’t see it. My service only now came back, and it’s been over an hour since the winged beast started in on the dead bus. I don’t know when, or how I’m going to get out of here. I don’t know when anyone will even see this post, or if it will upload at all. My phone battery is almost dead, and at this point, I’m probably going to have to sleep among the corpses until daylight comes.
A dead man sleeping amongst friends.
If you live in the Noble County area in southeastern Ohio, be careful where you drive, fly, and boat. I don’t know if it’s possible to stumble into this strange place by ground, but if so, then these things are definitely headed your way.
If that happens . . . pray that they don’t find you.

Like I'll explain how to do something on the computer to an SJ user that's pretty simple, like "click here on this blue box, type this, press enter, then click the 2nd link".
And instead of just being like "oh okay I'll do that", or "sounds good, let me just write that down", they will instead go off on long ass tangents like "usually I click this item over here in the bottom left hand corner, and then the orange icon comes up, and I wait a few seconds, but you're saying I need to click this blue box over at the top...hmm okay.... normally I would just type in XYZ and tap the screen 3 times. Are you sure that clicking the blue box is what I need to do? Because I'm used to it being a green box with orange polka dots. If I click the blue box, is that going to bring up the screen with the big words on top and then the pictures, because that's what usually happens when I click that green box I was telling you about..."
Like mf just click the fuckin blue shit, jesus christ lol.
Very simple instructions and explanations, why make it soooo much more tedious and complicated than it needs to be?
You asked me how to do the thing, I told you how, now let's move on to more interesting shit lol. Is it really that enjoyable to just endlessly dissect every irrelevant detail that may or not be tangentially related, but that ultimately doesn't move the conversation or process forward?
And if it is actually that enjoyable to you, fine, but why go into all of that out loud, like what are other people supposed to respond to that with?
"Oh yeah...green polka dot box, huh...you used to click that, huh? Wow.... that's soooo neat!" lol

First/Previous
Okay everyone. Chiyo began, as all members of the household settled down and sat cross legged in a circle in the living room. We're going to try out a guided meditation. It should help with stress and anxiety, and it's really relaxing! Start by gently breathing deeply through your nose, and then keep repeating this until the guide tells you what to do next…
It was getting late in the evening, and Jack had only returned about an hour ago, having very much lost track of time before he finally made his way back. He had a little trouble finding a path back through the districts despite being able to use a marker on his commlink to pinpoint the location of home. The hot tub, which was slightly larger than Jack had expected, had been mostly finished by the time he arrived. However, due to several employee absences the team leader apologised and promised to finish the last of the plumbing the following afternoon after the group got back from school, which Alora quickly planned out with them. Sephy had swept the area for any possible bugs or electronic tags an undercover enemy could plant, but had fortunately found nothing.
A few of them looked sceptical as Chiyo put on a guided meditation program with some relaxing music in the background, which to Jack sounded like the most bizarre series of timbres and pitches unlike anything he had heard. It had the peaceful, slow quality of meditative music from earth, but it still jarred him somewhat due to its unnatural nature.
Still, he tried to follow Chiyo’s instructions as the Ilithii floated back to the circle to sit next to Sephy, who already looked like she was having trouble concentrating, though she made the effort for Chiyo’s sake. Next to him, Nika was already controlling and slowing down her breathing along with him, both of them semi-used to the concept of meditation already, and it looked like Alora was doing something more akin to prayer. The twins and Vanya seemed to be able to cope enough as well, all having some kind of magical ability that required some basic kind of mental concentration.
“Now, bring your attention to your physical form…” The soothing voice of the instructor gently called out over the background music. “Feel your body pressing into the surface beneath you, and take note of any areas of tension or discomfort…”
“I’m well aware of my injuries you dumb bit-” Nika grumbled before Chiyo psychically reminded her to be quiet during the meditation.
“Do not try to change anything with these sensations, merely observe them…”
Relax Sephy… Chiyo quietly told the Skritta, who was slightly fidgeting. Try not to overthink it!
“Now return your attention to your breathing, noticing all the sensations as you inhale, then gently exhale…” The voice continued. They did so, though by the sounds some of them were making they were overdoing it.
“As you continue to breath, bring yourself mentally to your peaceful place. This could be any location that brings you a sense of tranquillity and relaxation. Now imagine yourself in this place, surrounded by the sights, sounds and smells that make it special to you…”
Jack’s mind brought forth an image of home. His mother, his father, his brothers, his sister, his grandparents all surrounding him. He was safe, he was with his family. He had his whole life ahead of him…
And it had all been taken away from him.
Jack squirmed involuntarily as his mind was dragged back to a dark place, his grief threatening to overwhelm him again…
“As you bask in this tranquil scene, allow yourself to let go of your worries and concerns that may be weighing on your mind. Imagine them fading away, leaving you at ease…”
All the faces of the people he would never see again stared at him coldly, judgingly. He had committed acts of horror he never thought he would ever have to commit. Even if there was a chance he could return to Earth, could his family even recognise the shell of a person he had become? What would they say?
“When you are ready, take a deep breath, and as you exhale, slowly open your eyes, and reorient yourself with your surroundings. Carry this sense of calm and relaxation with you into the rest of your day…”
As the guided meditation came to an end Jack quickly got to his feet to get a drink.
“Jack, is everything alright?” Alora asked him in alarm.
“All good.” He lied. “My legs are just a bit stiff, and the meditation was a bit hard.”
“Yeah I get what you mean.” Sephy used her wings to help her kick up. “I don’t really understand the whole ‘sit-and-do-nothing’ thing to be honest, it’s like I need to be actually doing something. But hell, I still gave it a go…”
Thanks for trying it anyway Sephy! Chiyo smiled.
“So what do we do now?” Nika asked everyone, as Jack returned with some canned drinks for all of them. “Still got a few hours before we probably need to go to bed."
“Nothing exhausting, please. Let’s just watch a movie?” Alora suggested after a few seconds of nobody contributing anything.
Perhaps some of our new housemates have a suggestion? Chiyo asked, looking to Vanya and the two Squa’Kaar, who hadn’t been confident enough to suggest anything as the newest additions to the household.
“I’m only a temporary housemate, I still have my own place.” Vanya smiled softly. But maybe WageMage?”
“That’s a good classic to start with!” Sephy grinned. “Have you seen it before Jack?”
“Can’t say I have, the Temple of Hope didn’t really have movie nights.” Jack reminded her with a smile. “What’s it about?”
“It’s basically a comedy film about an office worker that uses magic to get ahead and prank her bosses!” Vanya told him. “But you really need to watch it!”
“I’ll get some snacks.” Alora called, quickly grabbing a few bags of sweets out of one of the cupboards while the others tried to get comfortable on the sofa. It was large enough for all of them…just about.
“We should probably go furniture shopping at some point.” Sephy pointed out the obvious problem. “Especially if you’re gonna offer refuge for those that need it, Alora.”
“Damn, well, we are gonna hit a few of the rubbish heaps and scrapyards for materials we can use to fix up the shuttle, and anything else that we could use for home improvements.” Nika reasoned. “We even got this sofa from one of them though it was a bitch to drag all the way back here!”
At least we have more people that could help now. Maybe even more depending on who joins us. Chiyo added. Because I remember helping you spend half the day dragging that here, and I swore never to do manual labour ever again!
“Well, perhaps we can find a better way this time.” Alora concluded as she came back with the sweets while everyone sat down, and took a few blankets to warm themselves up with. Jack took one of the ends of the sofa so he wouldn’t be squished between two people this time, and Vanya was quick to sit next to him, even putting an arm around him, which he wasn’t opposed to. The thick, warm brown fur of the Chuna made him feel comfortable, and he subconsciously leaned in and relaxed.
“Ooof!” He grunted, as Sephy sat on his lap, pulling the blanket over them and cuddling up to him. Jack reflexively put his other arm around her to keep her in place, lamenting that he could no longer reach for the bag of sweets until Chiyo telepathically sent one his way.
“Hey Chiyo, could I have one as well?” Sephy cheekily asked the Ilithii.
Sure! Chiyo agreed, sending another sweet floating towards Sephy, before pinging it off her forehead,
“Ow!” Sephy grunted as they started the movie.
Jack appreciated the humour and plot of the movie, with the hapless office worker using magic to explode her boss’s tea, and accidently making her manager believe his wife was cheating on him, only to later discover that she actually was. He could see why this movie was a favourite with the girls, though he didn’t know if it would be well received on earth. Though this film was well written and amusing (despite him not understanding much of the humour), he could imagine it being received as too woke back on Earth. When the plot eventually evolved into the protagonist trying desperately to avoid the investigations of the alien equivalent of ‘HR’, it really ramped up the humour, which had even him chuckling on occasion.
However he was more subdued as the others laughed freely at the shenanigans, his mind going back to the horrible experiences he'd had, and his grief from being separated from his family. Yet all around him, like a beacon of hope was a home full of friends having a good time with him.
Could he get used to this?
Yeah. He thought he could.
*****
Svaartal snarled as his arms ever so slowly pushed the weighted bar up, feeling the burn in his chest and arms as he repeated the motion, over and over, his heart pounding as he pushed himself to lift more weight than he had ever lifted before with his natural strength. Forcing himself beyond his limits, he felt his muscles straining as his breaths became more and more laboured. He knew he was overdoing it, but he didn’t care. He was determined to become stronger, more focused, more powerful. He had Carrow watching over Svaarti, so this gave him the opportunity to really cut loose.
Devil’s Daughter would come for him and Svaarti again. He barely won their previous encounter and it took all he had to stand a chance against the raw power of her spells. Next time he would be better. He had heard the words she spoke to his sister, calling Svaarti a thief, though as far as he was concerned, if his mother looted the Golden Staff during the Demonfire War from the Stygians, it was hers by right of conquest. Not that the Devilspawn would care. If Devil’s Daughter was going to target him, Svaartal had no doubt she would attempt to do so through his sister, so he needed to be ready.
He had been pushing himself harder and harder ever since he first faced Frost to a standstill in that ambush, fully expecting to face him again soon, especially after the Drow of House Mal’Kar recruited him. He had been thoroughly changed by that experience, and he suspected the Outsider was changed by it too. From open hostility towards one another in their first week to caution in the next, it was a strange dance the two of them did.
But now?
Something about the Klown attack had changed him even more. For just a moment the two of them had fought side by side for a common cause, and though he did strongly consider it, he didn’t stick with the human. Despite that however, the words Frost told him certainly stuck with him.
Help me stop them.
And he did, didn’t he? He stopped to rescue several of the trapped partygoers and had cut them a path to safety, only to then decimate the Klown numbers with his most powerful spells. He had been considered a hero of the battle, alongside Frost himself and the dragon-bitch that officially kicked him out of the Red Legion. In a strange way, it felt…gratifying?
‘Though the greatest hero that night may not recover from her sacrifice…’ Svaartal thought to himself sadly. Why, Svaarti?’
He got up from the bench and slowly slunk over to the tension cable, cranking up the weight as high as he dared. Taking a deep breath he grabbed the handle with both hands and pulled, yanking the cable over his shoulder before releasing, then doing the same exercise over his other shoulder.
His memories of his fight with Devil’s Daughter came back to him, though he cursed not having a recording so he could better recall. Many of his actions had been instinctual, so much so that he could barely remember what he even did in several instants. He was fortunate that he kept a versatile array of spells prepared and ready for use in any situation, though it was his blade and quick thinking with his illusion and spacial magic that allowed him to slip through the Stygian’s defences.
But though he focused on the fight, her words still rang out in his mind.
‘Why the hell do you hate my people so much?!’
Dumb question. The Devilspawn killed his mother, and even after the Demonfire War many of their kind went rabid, committing horrific acts on innocent people, just the same as they did when Azazel, Lord of Torment was still alive.
But something about the sheer hurt in Devil’s Daughter’s expression tugged away at the back of his mind, like an itch that wouldn’t go away. Perhaps it was…
He was interrupted by the noise of someone approaching. Letting go of the handle, the cable he was pulling quickly snapped back to ping against the weights as he collapsed to the floor, his body dangerously overheated and his breath coming in ragged gasps. He quickly activated the enchantment of his Riverspray Ring, sending out a cloud of cooling mist that instantly made him feel slightly better.
“Good evening, Dextra.” Svaartal greeted the drow politely as he slinked over to where he had left a towel.
“Hey.” She replied, before something caught her eye and she pointed to his bare back. “What happened there?”
“What do you mean?” Svaartal stiffened at the sensitive question, having an idea what Dextra was referring to.
“By the gods…” She muttered. “Your scales are cracked and fucked up, and you’ve got a lot of scars, how?”
“I am aware that my scales need grooming.” Svaartal replied tersely, trying to be patient with the inquisitive drow despite the sensitive subject. “However I did not have anyone to teach me how to do it growing up. If it displeases you I will attempt to rectify the issue…”
“I’m not my sister, so you can shut up.” Dextra snorted. “You’ve got a fuckton of scars too, that can’t be good for you…”
“It is not.” Svaartal growled in anger before he quickly steadied himself, realising he was talking to a Drow Noble. “My apologies Lady Mal’Kar, what did you wish from me?”
Dextra snorted at the sudden formality, but she paid it no mind as she showed him her commlink. Displayed was a NetTube video from a channel by the name of ‘DevilLover69’.
“What is this?” Svaartal asked, confused.
“You might find this kinda funny!” She grinned, and played the video, the thumbnail of which displayed a medium sized, overweight looking being with pinkish-brown fur, a long cone-like trunk, huge grey bulbous eyes and thin, spindly arms.
“Ahem, attention everyone! Listen up, for I have a message for all of you! Recently, I have heard rumours that somebody out there has apparently defeated my beloved waifu, Devil’s Daughter, in combat! Let me tell you, that is something that will not go unpunished! I have spent countless hours defending her honour online, but now I have heard the call, and The Supreme Gentleman will step up and avenge her!”
“I’ve been training hard all this time, inspired by the queen herself! I’ve watched all of her fights, and I’ve practised martial arts on my Devil’s Daughter body pillow! So I hope the killer is watching, because I’m ready, and I’m coming for you! And I promise you, when I defeat you, you will wish you had never been born! I’ll see you on the streets, punk!”
“Pretty funny right?” Dextra asked, as Svaartal gave a slight grin.
“I really hope that’s not a troll!” he chuckled.
“Well if The Supreme Gentleman is legit and if he comes for you, it’ll give the others a good laugh.” Dextra giggled. “And…um…I could try and help you with the scales if you want? The datanet should have some videos and I could do your back if you want?”
Svaartal considered it for a moment, knowing where this would likely end up. He had not been requested by Izadora tonight, who seemed to be particularly busy with House Mal’Kar business, and they had never been anything more than casual so he had the freedom to do as he wished.
“I don’t see why not.” The Nirah shrugged, as he followed the bubbly drow to her chambers.
*****
“He’s her son.” Grandmaster Ilvella told her with a sad look on closing the door to his quarters. “I knew it the moment I saw him, though I couldn’t believe it.”
“What?” Nya exclaimed, having broken protocol and immediately followed her master to talk, with Rena trying to stop her. “Not a chance! There’s no way! They’re nothing alike! He’s evil, he can’t be!”
“I knew Svaarvali for a long time.” the Grandmaster sighed, drained from sharing his painful memory. “Even if he didn’t resemble her physically, there were subtle things I saw in just those few moments meeting him that could only have been from one of her line.”
“Are you certain he is not a different relation to the Saviour, Master?” Rena asked stoically.
“I am certain.” The Grandmaster nodded, closing his eyes. “But irrespective of how I may feel on the matter I will not sacrifice everything we have built for sentiment. Our plans do not change.”
“What are your orders, Master?” Nya tentatively asked.
“Do not engage this…Svaartal under any circumstances, unless in self-defence, and maintain your civilian cover.” He strictly told them both. “He will no doubt expect Devil’s Daughter to retaliate soon if she is able, so we will be patient and wait. I have not seen this Svaarti you are familiar with, but it seems like she may be more receptive than her brother if she is able to recover. If she does, continue to be her friend and get closer to her.”
His gaze then returned to the steely look Nya was used to from her master.
“However, Devil’s Daughter must be sighted soon, unharmed and doing something good to restore the people’s faith. A few days of inactivity will be expected before you must return, and with luck we can completely obscure the truth of your defeat as mere rumours.”
“I don’t think Head Whisperer Ratai has anything recent, save for the possible signs of the latest Killer Klown attack.” Nya reasoned. “And Scholar Volus is still deciphering what was discovered at the Pallid Pit, though Jack and his group have not relinquished the Gloom Cauldron they discovered as far as I am aware, which had ties to the ritual room, and which they’re theorising might have worked as some kind of beacon, though for what I have no idea.”
“I am sure we will find something.” Ilvella concluded. “Perhaps you and Rena can discover something in your civilian lives? The Outsider for one certainly seems to be a good source of trouble. Regardless, you two are dismissed. Heal up and rest early. You have school tomorrow.”
With that, Nya and Rena took their leave.
“This is…” Rena began.
“Impossible.” Nya snapped. “I refuse to believe it.”
“Nya…” Rena gently called to her, understanding the Stygian’s pain.
No, Rena.” Nya snarled, causing the usually stoic Vulsta to take a step back in shock. This wasn’t like her friend at all. “I should have killed him when I had the chance during our fight, and now I learn he’s related to the Saviour? Her son?!”
“You have another chance in the future.” Rena pointed out. “And you can lay the groundwork for that by preparing and training. Taking a loss like that is difficult, but it can be a blessing if you learn from it.”
Nya looked at her friend conflicted, and Rena was glad that the stone corridor of the monastery was deserted.
“Yes.” Nya sighed as she let go of her anger and returned to her normal self. “You’re right. I’ve taken losses before and I’ve come out stronger. I even faced the Killer Klown himself and sent him fleeing, so the problem isn’t necessarily my abilities, but my mind.”
Rena nodded calmly, seeing that Nya was pulling herself up. “And what is your next move?”
“The Grandmaster is right that I need to make a quick reappearance as Devil’s Daughter.” Nya began, sounding more like her usual self. “The Cult of the Destroyer would be an obvious target but the ones at the Pallid Pit were wiped out when my friends decided to go there for some reason, though at least we were able to kill the Stygian masquerading as me and tarnishing our people’s reputation."
“As a civilian I am already friends with Svaarti.” Nya then reasoned. “And unlike her brother, I can actually believe her being related to the Saviour. I can only hope that she wakes and recovers from her arcane backlash. I did talk to her in astral form, so I have faith.”
“So what will you do now?” Rena prompted. The coolly composed Vulsta still expected an answer to her previous question as Nya closed her eyes to think.
“The Whisperers might have something for me.” She decided. “Though there was clearly nothing worthy of Grandmaster Ilvella’s attention, maybe they have something smaller or less reliable I can use to at least been seen by the public.”
“That would be wise.” Rena agreed. “You still need to heal.”
The Chamber of Whispers was set on the ground floor of the monastery, hidden away and far from the entrance or anything else. Following the subtly different pattern of dim lights, the two quickly made their way to the hidden underground bunker that served as their resident spy headquarters.
“BWAH! I knew you’d be up and ready for more work in no time!” A jovial voice called out before they had a chance to knock on the doors. “Hello to you too, Rena!”
“My footsteps were silent…” Rena muttered as they entered the room.
Upon entering, the first thing that struck Nya’s attention was the sheer number of lights illuminating the chamber, bathing the entire room in powerful brightness, and allowing for no shadows to form in heavy contrast to the route they took to get here. Then she focused on the huge table in the middle, with a large map projection of Naganai City, complete with many extensive annotations on several notable districts, and with one of the Whisperers compiling a report on the Pallid Pit.
The walls of the room were lined with the blue glow of several monitors, either displaying popular all-day news outlets or with investigation boards on notable personages. In one of the side rooms Nya could see one of the monks at a console talking away on a headset, likely tapping into the community’s small network of contacts in the city from the safety of their remote system.
“Nya!” Head Whisperer Ratai grinned as the chubby Stygian waltzed over and gave her a gentle bear hug that still lifted her off her feet. “I’m glad you’re back! We’ve got news but it’s not urgent, so you should probably rest…”
Ratai gave her a knowing wink.
“What’s new Ratai?” Nya smiled, used to acting familiar around the man despite his high position.
“HAH!” The Stygian chuckled. “We mostly have reports of the post-klown cleanup, but a few players have already made their moves. Nothing too big but interestingly I’ve received a reliable rumour that our Outsider friend decided that massacring the klowns wasn’t enough for him and was involved in liberating a thinly populated swamp district."
“He’s claiming it as territory?” Rena asked, suddenly alert. “He may be more of a threat than I had initially warned…”
“No, no.” Ratai’s grin got wider. “Nobody seems to have claimed the land, but interestingly enough Clan Ashtail seems to have rehomed the vast majority of the population, and they seem to be sincere in allowing them to rebuild and recover in their newly annexed territory.”
“Do you consider Clan Ashtail a threat?” Nya asked.
“Of course!” Ratai snorted in amusement. “Vetch Ashtail was the one who all but hinted at the damnable rumour in his last correspondence to me, the smug bastard! His clan plays the game well, but there are many other more nefarious groups that will attempt to take advantage of the chaos. I'm particularly concerned about what Corvin Enterprises will try to do, but if they are planning on making a play, which I am almost positive that they are, then they are being very subtle about it.”
“Anything immediate?” Nya asked.
“That admirer of yours was quick to post a new video!” Ratai teased, causing Nya to bury her face in her hands in embarrassment.
“Don’t remind me.” She groaned. “That guy is pure cringe and you need to stop mentioning him to me!”
“Hah! Well I haven’t gotten much within the city itself, but we’ve found a series of accounts online about gangs trying to run protection rackets and establish themselves as local powers. Maybe you can crush a few of the weaker ones to make an appearance as you recover to full strength?”
“Nya will still need some time to recover.” Rena cautioned. “But if we approach this like any other mission and I act from the shadows, it will be fine.”
“Excellent, I shall begin my delving and let you know.” Ratai smiled. “In the meantime, you kids should go to bed!”
“I wish I didn’t have to.” Nya sighed.
“I didn’t exactly have much of a weekend.”
*****
First/Previous
And with that, the weekend is over for our....heroes?
If you're impatient for the next chapter, why not check out my previous series?
Some pictures have been added to The Galactic High Info Sheet! If you have any fanart or any pictures you think might fit one of the entries, please let us know on the discord!
Don't forget! You all have the ability to leave comments and notes to the entries, which I encourage you to do!
As always I love to see the comments on what you guys think!
Don't forget to join the discussion with us on Discord, and consider checking me out on Youtube if you haven't already! Until next week, it's goodbye for now!

How come having at least one outlet in closets isn't a thing? It wouldn't cost much to wire one from the already existing room outlets and it's convenient
Especially walk in closets.
Edit: security systems, LED lights, charging station, great out of sight place for things like roombas. Mini fridges for medications requiring refridigation (say you live with people or kids). Safes, not all use batteries. Surround sound system. Etc the possibilities are endless

John 1:1-14

1 In the beginning was the Word, and the Word was with God, and the Word was God.
2 The same was in the beginning with God.
3 All things were made by him; and without him was not any thing made that was made.
4 In him was life; and the life was the light of men.
5 And the light shineth in darkness; and the darkness comprehended it not.
6 There was a man sent from God, whose name was John.
7 The same came for a witness, to bear witness of the Light, that all men through him might believe.
8 He was not that Light, but was sent to bear witness of that Light.
9 That was the true Light, which lighteth every man that cometh into the world.
10 He was in the world, and the world was made by him, and the world knew him not.
11 He came unto his own, and his own received him not.
12 But as many as received him, to them gave he power to become the sons of God, even to them that believe on his name:
13 Which were born, not of blood, nor of the will of the flesh, nor of the will of man, but of God.
14 And the Word was made flesh, and dwelt among us, (and we beheld his glory, the glory as of the only begotten of the Father,) full of grace and truth.

​
Revelation 1:17-18

17 And when I saw him, I fell at his feet as dead. And he laid his right hand upon me, saying unto me, Fear not; I am the first and the last:
18 I am he that liveth, and was dead; and, behold, I am alive for evermore, Amen; and have the keys of hell and of death.

​
So the first and the last was dead and now he lives? Who else could it be? I don't remember the Father dying!! Only the Son of man!
Now refer to Isaiah 44:6 as this title ONLY belongs God. But it says the Lord King of Israel, and his redeemer the Lord of hosts. Is both the Father and Son claiming to be God simultaneously?

Thus saith the Lord the King of Israel, and his redeemer the Lord of hosts; I am the first, and I am the last; and beside me there is no God.

​
Zechariah talks about God's feet standing upon the mount of olives. Now look at Acts 1:9-12 and see the similarity to Zechariah 14:3-4.
Acts 1:9-12

9 And when he had spoken these things, while they beheld, he was taken up; and a cloud received him out of their sight.
10 And while they looked stedfastly toward heaven as he went up, behold, two men stood by them in white apparel;
11 Which also said, Ye men of Galilee, why stand ye gazing up into heaven? this same Jesus, which is taken up from you into heaven, shall so come in like manner as ye have seen him go into heaven. (Zechariah 14:4)
12 Then returned they unto Jerusalem from the mount called Olivet, which is from Jerusalem a sabbath day's journey.

Zechariah 14:3-4

3 Then shall the Lord go forth, and fight against those nations, as when he fought in the day of battle.
4 And his feet shall stand in that day upon the mount of Olives, which is before Jerusalem on the east, and the mount of Olives shall cleave in the midst thereof toward the east and toward the west, and there shall be a very great valley; and half of the mountain shall remove toward the north, and half of it toward the south.

Zechariah is talking about God standing on the mount of olives. Christ perfectly fits into this considering what the angels said in Acts.

“We done all we could Mr. Henreid.”
The condensation from the glass dripped and pooled to the surface beneath.
“We done all we could Mr. Henreid.”
How long has it been? Twenty years?
“We done all we could Mr. Henreid.”
Twenty years since the contents of the cup last touched his lips?
“We done all we could Mr. Henreid.”
A promise was made. A promise to a loved one.
“We done all we could Mr. Henreid.”
The love of his life. He made a promise.
“We done all we…”
He stared at the cup in front of him. The condensation from the glass dripping to the bars surface. He looked at the thick foam layering the golden liquid beneath.
“We done…”
He thought of his long ago promise. His promise to never touch it again. To never drink again.
He stared at the beer.
He -
“We done all we could Mr. Henreid.”
- looked at it and thought of the night he made the promise.
“I swear this time Frannie. I -.”
“I don’t want to hear swears. I don’t want promises. I just want it to be.”
“It will be Frannie, it -.”
“It better be.”
He looked at her. He saw the hurt in her eyes. He saw her pain. The pain he caused. The pain caused by his drinking. He thought of how much he loved her. He thought -
“We done all we could Mr. Henreid. I’m sorry. She’s gone.”
“She’s gone.”
“She’s gone.”
He looked at the beer in front of him.
“She’s gone.”
He looked at the cup that caused so much misery. He looked at the cup that caused pain. Caused Anguish. Caused heartache.
He looked at the condensation covering the frosted glass and thought.
Thought about his wife.
He stuck out his hand and touched the glass.
The coldness hurt his fingers. He winced as he lifted the glass from the surface of the bar.
He held the cup in his hands.
“She’s gone.”
“What do you mean?”
“I’m very sorry Mr. Henried. The injuries were too severe. We tried but there wasn’t anything we could do.”
He lifted the glass to his lips.
“It better be.”
He brought the glass back down, without taking a sip, and rested it on the bar.
“What’s your name?” He asked her.
She stared at him and giggled.
“She’s just shy. Don’t worry. Go on Frannie tell him your name… Oops guess I already did.” The woman on the right said and both her and Frannie giggled.
Lloyd smiled and introduced himself to the woman he would eventually marry. She smiled and touched his hand when he extended it.
It was a brief, soft, touch. It was the first touch of many.
It was warm.
He knew immediately.
He knew from the first touch that she was the one. She was the one he wanted to spend his life with. Her soft hand. The smell of her perfume. The style of her hair. He looked at her and saw her. Saw her how she would be. Saw the woman she would become. He saw all this from the first glance. The first touch. The first sounds of her voice. The sounds of her laugh. He saw the woman she would become.
He loved her at first sight.
“I’m sorry. She’s gone.”
He let out a deep sigh and slid the glass away from him.
He closed his eyes and listened to the soft sounds of the juke box playing in the corner. Sleep Away by Bob Acri played softly in the distance.
“So, Lloyd you say? Got a last name Lloyd?” The woman on the right asked.
“Baker.”
“Hmm, I like it. Fran Baker. Got a good sound to it.”
Frannie scoffed. “Marj!” she blushed and punched her friend on the shoulder. “Please excuse my friend. She jests.”
Lloyd smiled, blushing a little himself. “It’s quite alright.”
“I’ll leave you two alone.Think I see susie over there anyway. Nice to meet you Lloyd Henreid. I’m sure I’ll be seeing more of you.” Marjorie said with a wink. She looked at Frannie and smiled then walked away.
Frannie looked up at Lloyd.
He looked down at her.
Their eyes locked onto each other.
They both knew.
Knew it was love from the start.
Lloyd sat down next to her.
The record kicked over and Sleep Away was replaced by Turning Page.
“The beer alright?” The bartender asked from down the other end of the bar. “You haven’t even touched it.”
Lloyd, lost in his thoughts, didn’t hear him. He continued to stare blankly at the wall in front of him.

For a long time, I thought there was no greater feeling of dread than clocking into a job you hate. Three days a week after school and every other weekend, there I was, standing in front of the time clock at Sunset Grove. By the time I was sixteen, my parents told me that I had to find a job and start working. Unfortunately, there weren’t many options for a sixteen-year-old looking for work in Driftwood. It was either fast food, retail, or a retirement home. For whatever reason, I chose the retirement home.
It’s not that I had a problem with starting work at that age, it’s just that scrubbing pureed vegetables and mashed potatoes off fifty plates a night, with the cook yelling over my shoulder to pick up the pace, wasn’t exactly fulfilling work. The pocket money was nice, though. There’s nothing better than being a teenager with almost nothing but disposable income.
I watched the digital clock tick over from 3:59 to 4:00, begrudgingly typed in my employee ID, and made my way to the kitchen. As always, there was a stack of dishes left over from the shift before mine that would leave me playing catch-up for the rest of the night.
Becca, a thirty-something waitress with pale skin and a slim figure, swept through the doors as I was working through my stack. She was the only member of the wait staff I knew who could manage to keep a sunny disposition no matter how bad the day got.
Her shoulders seemed to relax a little when she saw me. “Hey, Arty, I need glasses.”
“Got it,” I replied.
“Thank you!” she said in a sing-song voice as she picked up a tub of silverware and rushed back out the doors. The wait staff was always in a rush this time of day. They only had about a half-hour to set the tables before some of the early-birds started showing up for dinner.
I loaded a tray with glasses and sent them through the commercial steam washer to my left, pulling the hood down with a heavy metal clunk. Once they were done, Becca came through and took the tray out to the dining room.
Before long, the cook began setting out room service trays. I never understood why it was the dishwasher’s job to deliver room service, but nevertheless, I began loading the trays into my cart. Most room service orders came from the same residents, which meant I’d long since worked out the most efficient way to load the cart. As I was loading, I noticed one of my regulars, room 2H, was missing. It could have been that she just decided to have dinner in the dining room today, but as long as I’d been working at Sunset Grove, I’d never known 2H to have dinner anywhere but her room.
As I walked down the hallway past 2H, I realized why. There on the door was a small laminated sign with a photo of the woman who’d lived in 2H.
Lilith Holmes 1928 - 2014
That was it. Just a name and a pair of dates. Not even a “Rest in Peace.” But it got the point across. I felt a tinge of guilt at the fact that I hadn’t known the woman’s name. I’d been working at Sunset Grove for a year, and I still referred to most of the residents by their room numbers.
This wasn’t the first of these types of signs I’d seen. There had been two or three deaths in the past year, each one memorialized with a cheap laminated sign that would be taken down after a week or two. It may sound callous, but I was never bothered by the deaths. They were simply a fact of life working in a place full of people entering the final phase of their lives. It helped that I didn’t make much effort to get close to the residents. I never wanted this place to bleed into what I considered to be my real life, so whenever I was at Sunset Grove, I was in “work mode.” I would put on a kind face, greet coworkers and residents with a smile, and otherwise speak only when spoken to. It was easier that way.
​
Room 2H stayed empty for a month. The sign, as they always do, disappeared after a while. I wondered if that meant they’d already cleaned out all of Mrs. Holmes’s belongings or if they were still entombed behind that locked door.
Eventually, the day came that I had a room service tray for room 2H again. It seemed so sudden. I hadn’t heard anything about a new resident moving in. I shrugged it off and loaded the tray onto my cart, thinking it must have happened on one of my days off. I hoped the new tenant wouldn’t be a handful. I may not have known Mrs. Holmes well, but she was always nice and courteous to me when I brought her her food. It’s more than I could say for some of the other residents.
I rode the elevator up to the second floor. Room 2H was my second stop from there. I knocked and pushed open the door into the dimly lit room. The blinds were all drawn, and there was only a single table lamp turned on in the corner across the room. I could see the new tenant sitting in a recliner on the opposite wall. It was a woman, with curled white hair that fell to her hunched shoulders. In the dark, I couldn’t make out her face, but her form was familiar. As I got closer, I realized it was Mrs. Holmes sitting in the chair.
I faltered. “I... have your dinner here for you, ma’am,” I stammered.
“Oh, good,” she said. “Set it on the table here, dear.” Her tone was jovial like always, though it felt strained. As if she were forcing it.
I set the tray down on the end table beside her. As she turned to look at it, her eyes seemed to catch the tiny amount of light in the room and glowed for a split second.
“Thank you,” she chimed.
“You’re welcome,” I said, turning on my heel and heading for the door.
I stopped by the second floor nurse’s station on my way down the hall and found Ted inside. He was a middle-aged man with salt-and-pepper hair, known around the facility for his eccentric taste in scrubs. Today’s were navy blue with a messy pattern of stars. Ted was the only nurse I knew by name, mostly because he gave me no other choice. It was common knowledge at Sunset Grove that if Ted wanted to chat you up, there was nothing you could do to stop it.
“Hey, Ted,” I said, poking my head around the door.
“Arthur!” he called, sitting back in his chair. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”
“I saw Mrs. Holmes is back,” I said. “What happened? Why was she gone?”
“Sorry, bud, I shouldn’t really be gossiping about that.”
“I understand. It’s just... there was that sign on her door a while ago. I thought she died.”
“Oh, that,” Ted laughed. “That was a little misunderstanding. But as you saw, she’s alive and well.”
“Right,” I said. “I should go. I’ve still got a cart full of meals to deliver.”
“Best not keep ‘em waiting!” Ted joked as I left the nurse’s station.
I couldn’t stop thinking about Mrs. Holmes for the remainder of my shift that night. How could the nurses make such a drastic mistake, confusing a resident for dead? And where exactly had Mrs. Holmes been for the past month? At the hospital? With family? The whole thing irked me more than it probably should have. I didn’t like thinking about this place during my time off, but thoughts of Mrs. Holmes stuck with me all week.
I delivered room service to her the rest of the week. Each time I entered 2H, the blinds were drawn, the room kept dark. As always, I set her tray down on the end table next to the recliner, she thanked me, and I moved on to the next room.
The next stop on my route was 2K, Ms. Ganz, whose name I only knew because she had a reputation around the building for being very outwardly spoken. There was rarely a week that went by where I wasn’t overhearing the nurses laughing about something Ms. Ganz had said that day.
Most days, Ms. Ganz left her door open. I knocked anyway and passed through the open frame. She was sitting on the edge of her bed, rubbing her temples before she looked up and saw me.
“Set it down right there,” she instructed, pointing to the rolling TV stand where she took her dinner every day.
I did as she said and set the food down on the stand, forcing a smile for good measure. She scooted off the bed and hobbled over to the chair to sit down. I pushed the stand closer to her and lowered it down so she could reach. She examined the tray, then picked up the pudding cup and handed it to me.
“You take that,” she said. “I don’t need it.”
“That’s alright,” I protested. “I don’t need it either.”
Ms. Ganz pawning her desserts off on me was beginning to become a habit. As I tried to set the pudding cup back on the tray, she pushed it back toward me. It clearly wasn’t a fight I was going to win, so I relented and accepted the pudding.
Ms. Ganz got to work preparing her coffee, which she had with every meal. I always loaded her tray with three creams and three sugars, but I’d learned in time to wait until she finished mixing before I left because, more often than not, she’d ask for more.
“Is this decaf?” she asked.
“That’s right,” I said.
She grumbled. “I need caffeine. People keeping me up all night. Knocking on my door.”
“Knocking on your door?”
“Middle of the night,” Ms. Ganz exclaimed. “They come, they knock, I open the door, and they’re gone. My family doesn’t pay $2000 a month for me to get pranked all night long.”
“Have you talked to the nurses about it?” I asked.
She snorted. “They’re probably the ones doing it.” Ms. Ganz winced and reached for her forehead. “Now, I’ve had this headache all day thanks to them.”
“Sorry about that. I hope you feel better,” I said as I made my way out of the room.
It became apparent very quickly Ms. Ganz wasn’t the only resident dealing with these problems. I overheard the nurses talking about multiple residents on the second floor complaining about someone knocking on their door at night. It only got worse throughout the week, with even more residents complaining. There were more complaints of headaches, too. Some residents even started exhibiting symptoms of fever.
When I came to serve Ms. Ganz her dinner a week later, her door was shut. I knocked and turned the handle. It wasn’t locked, so I went inside. Ms. Ganz was lying in bed, a fresh sheen of sweat shimmering in the light across her forehead. She hadn’t even touched her lunch. I quietly swapped the trays, trying not to disturb her and tip-toed out of the room, stopping by the nurses’ station before I got back to work. Ted was there again, wearing a loud, floral-patterned set of scrubs this time.
“Hey, Ted, is Ms. Ganz alright?” I asked.
“She’s just a little under the weather,” he said. “She’s not the only one. There’s some kind of bug going around.”
Ted scooted his chair across the room and pulled something out of a box. He tossed me a medical mask.
“You should probably wear one of these while you’re goin’ into rooms,” he said.
I nodded and put the mask on, leaving Ted to his work. There were four more residents laid up in bed on the second floor. Weirdly, no one on the first or third floor seemed to be affected.
Things only seemed to get worse as the days went on. More and more residents were laid up with fevers. Soon enough, no one on the second floor was healthy enough to go to the dining room, which meant my room service runs were getting longer by the day. Now that I had to deliver trays to every room on the second floor, there was no way I could get it done on my own, but even with Becca helping me with runs, I was still clocking out of work an hour late most nights.
As we rolled the cart up to room 2H, Becca hesitated.
“Do you mind getting this one?” she asked.
I raised an eyebrow. “Sure.”
I had no problem bringing Mrs. Holmes her food. What caught me off guard was the way Becca seemed to give the room a wide berth as we passed and the trepidation in her voice as she spoke.
“Thanks, Arty,” Becca said. “Something about her just creeps me out. Don’t you feel that?”
“It’s a little weird how she sits in the dark all the time,” I admitted, “but I wouldn’t call it creepy.”
“So brave,” Becca teased. “I’ll bring Ms. Ganz her tray and meet you down the hall.”
“Sounds good.”
I knocked on the door and went into 2H. As expected, Mrs. Holmes was seated in her recliner with the blinds drawn and the single lamp on in the corner. Sometimes I wondered if she ever even moved from that spot.
“How are you feeling, Mrs. Holmes?” I asked through the medical mask I was now required to wear at all times while on the second floor.
“Are you a nurse now?” She asked. Her tone seemed intended to be joking, but it came across more accusatory.
“No, it’s just that we can’t seem to get rid of this bug going around. I was just curious if you were still feeling alright.”
“I’m fine,” she said flatly.
Mrs. Holmes was the only resident on the second floor who wasn’t sick. The bug hadn’t spread to any of the staff members either. A thought occurred to me.
“Have you heard anyone knocking on your door at night?” I asked.
Mrs. Holmes’s eyes shot to mine, momentarily glowing in the light as they had once before. She stared at me with wide eyes that seemed to be studying me.
Finally, her tight lips peeled apart and she simply said, “I have not.”
Suddenly, I understood why Becca hadn’t wanted to come in here. I could feel the goose flesh spreading across my arm and a shiver run down my spine. I didn’t want to linger here any longer than I had to.
“Have a good night,” I said, mimicking my usual tone, before hustling out of the room.
I grabbed the cart and pushed it quickly down the hall toward Ms. Ganz’s room where I would find Becca, but as I rounded the corner, I saw a crowd of nurses surrounding the door. Becca was standing off to the side, a distraught look on her face.
“What happened?” I asked.
“I went in to give her her food,” Becca choked out. “Her eyes were open, so I thought she was awake. So, I asked her if she had enough cream and sugar for her coffee, but she didn’t respond.”
“Oh no,” I realized.
“That’s never happened to me before,” Becca said. “I’ve never seen one of them after... after they died. Sorry, Arty, I need to take five. Do you think you can finish this yourself today?”
“That’s fine. I’ve got it.”
Becca laid her hand on my shoulder as she walked away, her other hand combing through her hair.
Becca didn’t come in the next day. With the wait staff being short handed, I had to do the room service deliveries myself. I hesitated before going into 2H, but when I reached for the handle, I was relieved to find that it was locked. Some of the nurses must have been inside, so I left the tray by the door and went on my way.
As I passed by Ms. Ganz’s room, I saw the sign.
Mallory Ganz 1939 - 2014
She was about ten years younger in the photo, smiling next to her daughter. I felt a tug inside my gut and suddenly realized I wanted to know what was happening. Where was this sickness coming from? Why wasn’t it affecting the residents on the first or third floors or the staff? And why was Mrs. Holmes the only resident on the second floor who was still healthy?
I finished delivering trays and stashed the cart in the corner. I figured I had at least ten more minutes before my boss would start wondering where I was, so I found Ted in the nurse’s station.
“Hey, Ted, are you busy?” I asked.
“Never not busy, Arthur,” he grinned. “What can I do for you?”
“You’ve heard the residents complaining about someone knocking on their doors at night, right? Do you have any idea what that might be about?”
He sighed. “Yeah, I’ve heard all about it. Best I can figure, it’s someone screwin’ around on the night shift.”
“Well, there are cameras, right? Couldn’t we find out who’s doing it?”
Ted’s brow furled. “Why are you so interested?”
“I don’t know,” I lied. “I guess it’s just that, whoever it was, they were bothering Ms. Ganz. I thought maybe we could find them and get them to stop to, like, honor her in a way.”
Ted pushed an office chair toward me with his foot. “Sit down a minute. I’ll pull up the footage.”
“Thank you.”
I sat down and watched Ted scrub through last night’s security footage. It was strange seeing the hallway so empty. During the daytime hours, there were constantly nurses or housekeepers coming up and down the halls, but at night, they were dead.
Suddenly, there was a flash of movement on the screen. Ted let go of the mouse and let the footage play out in real-time. I felt my chest tighten as I recognized the figure on the screen. Mrs. Holmes. I watched her walk down the hall, moving with an unnatural weightlessness for her age. She stopped in front of Ms. Ganz’s room and knocked on the door. Then, all of a sudden, she just faded away.
I leaned in closer to the screen. Ted sat upright in his chair.
“Was that a glitch?” I asked.
“I don’t know,” he said. “The timecode looks normal, but it must’ve been. Either way, I guess we know who’s been causin’ trouble at night. I’ll have a word with Mrs. Holmes.”
“I don’t know if that’s a good idea,” I blurted out.
Ted looked at me quizzically. I didn’t know how to explain it, but I knew something was off about Mrs. Holmes. There was no telling what would happen if someone confronted her, but how was I supposed to convince Ted of that?
“Sorry,” I said. “Thanks for the help, Ted.”
I left the nurse’s station without saying another word. I could only hope that my initial warning would be enough to make Ted hesitate until I could figure out what to do next.
My heart dropped when I couldn’t find Ted the next day. He was always there. Every single weekday, he was there.
None of the other nurses had seen him either. Apparently, he hadn’t called out sick or anything. As far as anyone knew, he simply hadn’t shown up for work. But I knew better. I knew he’d gone and talked to Mrs. Holmes, and she’d done something to him. Could he still be there, inside room 2H? Was he still alive? Had he mentioned me?
I worked the first hour of my shift constantly looking over my shoulder. By 5:00, the cook started lining up room service trays. I was on my own again. Apparently, Becca was taking some time off after what she’d been through. I couldn’t blame her, but I found myself desperately wishing I didn’t have to be alone.
My heart thumped with dread every step I took toward room 2H. I prayed the door would be locked again, but no such luck. I pushed the door open slowly and let the light from the hall flood into the dim room. Mrs. Holmes was in her recliner, but as I got closer, I noticed her eyes were shut. She was asleep.
I set the tray down quietly and made for the door, but before I left, I felt curiosity tug me back. I wanted to know what happened to Ted. If there was any trace of him in the room, this might be my only chance to find it.
I inched heel-toe back through the entryway and into the bedroom. I found an antique lamp on the nightstand and flipped it on, bathing the room in a hazy yellow light. The room was pristine, not even a crease in the bedding. I didn’t know what I was looking for. Blood? A body? Just anything that would confirm the insane thoughts that were running through my mind.
I moved to the bathroom, but, like the bedroom, it was spotless. I checked every inch of it, even getting down on my hands and knees to inspect the bath mat for blood stains. I was starting to feel like a lunatic. Maybe everything that was happening was exactly what it seemed, and the rest of it was all just in my head.
Feeling a little ridiculous, I stepped out of the bathroom, gently closing the door behind me.
“What were you doing in there?” Mrs. Holmes’s voice was sharp and sent a jolt of fear through my body.
I turned and saw her standing in the corner by her recliner. She looked tall—her shoulders not slumped like usual, and her eyes were glowing in the light again.
I didn’t know what to say. “S-sorry,” I spat out, then hurried for the door. Mrs. Holmes stood motionless, watching me go.
Thanks to my little investigation, dinner was nearly over by the time I got back to the kitchen, and there was a mountain of dishes waiting for me by the sink. I shook off the unsettling thoughts plaguing my mind and got to work. It was going to be another late night, and it only got worse when the cook brought over a stack of burnt pans that would take ages of scrubbing to get clean.
It was nearly an hour past the end of my shift by the time I’d finally finished all the dishes. The wait staff had clocked out thirty minutes ago. That was fine. I was used to being the last one in the kitchen. It was the dishwasher’s job to clean the floors at the end of the night after everyone else had gone home. That night, though, I should have been scared, but the weight of being alone hadn’t hit me yet. My mind was too preoccupied with work.
I finished mopping the floor, meaning all that was left was to take the trash out to the dumpster. I gathered up all the bags and took them out into the hallway, then out the back door. I set the bags down and propped the door open with a pen. After 8:00, the building locked down, and I would need a keycard to get back in, something the facility didn’t grant to dishwashers.
I hoisted the garbage bags into the dumpster and turned back toward the building. Before I could even take a step back toward the door, though, I heard it clunk into place. I ran over and tugged on the handle. Locked. I’d have to walk all the way around the building and come in the front entrance, probably scaring the hell out of the secretary at the reception desk, who certainly wouldn’t be expecting anyone to come in at this hour.
Crickets chirped loudly in the fields around the parking lot as I rounded the building. There was no one at the reception desk when I walked in. The secretary was probably out having a cigarette somewhere. I walked through the dining room and back into the kitchen, letting the door swing freely behind me. I heard it brush across the frame once, twice, then suddenly stop. I didn’t think much of it until I heard a knock on the door.
My heart froze, fear tightening an ice-cold grip around my throat. I turned and, through the window, saw a pair of glowing eyes on the other side of the door. Ever so slowly, the door started to push inward as Mrs. Holmes crept inside. I felt like I should have screamed in that moment, but nothing came to me. It felt as though my lungs had completely deflated at the sight of her.
She stepped toward me. I stepped back until I felt my back press against the counter behind me. I wanted to run, but something told me I couldn’t outrun whatever was standing in front of me. My hands reached onto the counter and felt for anything I could use to defend myself. I felt the lukewarm touch of the porcelain plates and wrapped my fingers around the rim of one. I waited as Mrs. Holmes inched closer until, finally, I whipped my arm around and smashed the plate against her head.
She wailed and faltered a few steps, buying me enough time to run deeper into the kitchen, toward the knives. She was on me again before I could reach them. I felt a wet sting on my calf and looked down to see her there, latched on with her teeth sinking deep into my flesh.
I fell onto the concrete floor, my left shoulder taking the brunt of the impact. I tried to crawl away but couldn’t break free of her inhuman weight. With my free leg, I kicked at her head as hard as I could until she released me. Her bloodstained mouth hissed at me as I scrambled to my feet.
I ripped the largest knife I could find out of the block and spun around, ready to drive it into Mrs. Holmes’s chest, but she was gone. My eyes flicked frantically around the room, looking for any sign of her. Then I felt something drip onto my cheek. In the reflection of the knife blade, I could see the drop of blood rolling down my cheek. I looked up, and there she was.
She wasn't suspended from the ceiling; she was floating. As soon as I laid eyes on her, she dropped, falling right on top of me. I managed to raise the knife high enough and felt it pierce her gut as she landed on me. I think that was the only thing that saved me from her teeth sinking into my neck.
Mrs. Holmes reeled from the knife wound. She swung her arm out, and I felt the tremendous weight and strength behind it as it crashed into my side and threw me across the room. Pain shot through my back as I collided with the stainless steel of the dishwasher. I knew I couldn’t afford to waste time licking my wounds. I pulled myself up to my feet just as Mrs. Holmes ripped the knife free of her gut. Coagulated blood seeped out of the gaping wound like thick mud.
Mrs. Holmes hunched over like a predator waiting to pounce. My heart raced, waiting for the moment. Like a bolt of lighting, it came. She leapt across the room at me. My instincts kicked in, and I ducked to the right. I heard a loud metallic crash as Mrs. Holmes’s body slammed into the dishwasher. I looked up and saw her top half lodged in the machine. Without even thinking about it, I yanked the lever, sending the hood down just far enough over Mrs. Holmes’s thin body to activate the machine.
She howled and screeched as the steam inside the dishwasher boiled her skin. I didn’t wait around for the cycle to finish. I saddled the pain in my back and my leg and ran out of the kitchen before she had a chance to escape. I didn’t dare look back.
​
Sunset Grove closed down last year, three years after I left for good that night. I never found out what became of Mrs. Holmes, but I don’t think she ever left. The article detailing Sunset Grove’s closure cites financial difficulty after a spike in mortality rates, and there had been more than one story about staff members going missing over the years. Ted was the first of them. I would have been the second.
For a long time, Sunset Grove haunted me. I would dream about being back in room 2H, cowering under Mrs. Holmes’s impossibly tall form, her skin blistered and rubbery from the burns I gave her. In time, those dreams faded. It hadn’t seemed possible, but my life started to return to a sense of normalcy.
Reading the article on Sunset Grove brought those memories crashing back. I tried to tell myself that I was safe, but... I don’t think I am anymore. Not since I heard a knock on my door the other night. I wanted so badly to believe it was nothing, just neighborhood kids messing around, but my head has been pounding ever since I heard it, my stomach twisted in knots, my breath short. I can’t sleep through the night anymore. I find myself staring out the window, watching. Sometimes, among the twinkling fireflies at the edge of the woods, I could swear I see a pair of glowing eyes watching me in the dark.

Let me preface by saying I am by no means a Rell main, I've played her a handful of times, and although I personally found her to be weak, she was different enough to be interesting.
But oh my God, did I think it was possible to make her worse? Absolutely not, but Riot has pulled it out the bag. I can't fully remember how her old abilities felt, but I found a decent post describing her as clunky.
Rell looks cool, she's a big armored lass on a magnetic horse, sounds freaking awesome, fast and hard hitting - except she is neither, she is so slow that even I (who usually doesn't care one bit about fantasy) am pulled out by the fact the I am on a horse, 'full tilt' and my MS is >400. She also doesn't feel weighty, I just feel fat. I just played a game and I feel like her kit is intentionally very close quarters, because she should be able to run enemies down, but that's simply not the case. Most of my team move faster than me and have the same stun I have without a range that require me to sniff their arse, not to mention it actually does damage.
​
Rell feels awful, jesus.