Fandible Actual Play Podcast

Fandible Actual Play Podcast

An RPG actual play podcast, with geek and pop culture commentary

Numenera Short Story: The Rival

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The following short story takes place after Numenera Ep 58

“They already left!” Thorne yelled at the Celestial Wanderer, quickly standing up from his chair and slamming his hands on the wooden table. His pale, almost pure white, face turning blood red as his rage pushed him towards violence. His eyes looking at the dark skinned woman across the table with a accusatory stare. The nearby patrons of the oubliette, used to more sedate conversations, took a second to gaze disappointingly at the mouthy young man before returning to their drinks.

The Celestial Wanderer, Celeste to her friends, raised up an eyebrow. The look she gave the young assassin sending a clear message that he should watch his next words carefully.

Thorne paused. A new player in the assassin game, he had no urge to test the Celestial Wanderer, even if they were in the supposedly neutral ground of the oubliette. Safe harbor can only go so far. Besides, Thorne thought to himself, her time would come soon enough.

Slowly sitting down and taking a second to breath a few calming breaths, he let his anger cool. Returning his skin to its initial pale tone.

“Why didn’t you stop them?” he asked. His voice much calmer and controlled.

“Because I had no reason to. It wasn’t my contract,” she stated matter of factly, as if the answer were obvious.

“Like Tann Vida cares about that!”  Thorne yelled again. His skin returning to its blood red color. His posture, however, was much less confrontational. “You know how pissed he is at the Smiling Jackal. Word around the community is the Jackal has gotten soft and is protecting the sales. Tann might forgive a little poaching if it means saving his reputation as a go between.”

Celeste shook her head, the audacity of the newbie surprising her. “Taking other people’s contracts is considered extremely rude, Thorne. Being polite is a policy you should follow if you’re going to survive long in this business.”

Thorne laughed. Leaning back in his chair and placing a hand on the table. The blood red on his skin turning into a much more vibrant purple.

“I have nothing to fear in that regard Wanderer,” he replied. A faint smile on his lips. “Anyone I come across will gladly let me take their contracts. Otherwise, they’ll have to face me.”

“Oh?” Celeste inquired, her interest piqued despite the annoyance at Thorne’s arrogance. “Hard to back up such a fearsome reputation if you miss the sales you were trying to make, no?”

“Not if I know exactly where they’re going,” Throne gloated. “Peerless Dominus is waiting for them in Fasten. If I leave now, I can catch them before it does. I’ll be able to rush in there and snag them all nice and quick. Peerless too if he gets in my way.”

Thorne’s faint smirk soon turned into a full blown grin, his mouth showing a row of uneven, jagged teeth.

“Smiling Jackal I’ll take out quickly.” He continued. “He’s old but probably has a lot of tricks. Best not to take any chances. After that, it’s the just the sales and their buddies. Them, I’ll take my time. I’ll make such a mess anyone will think twice before messing with me.”

With a haughty wink at Celeste, the cocky young assassin stood up and walked out of the bar, his thoughts reveling in future kills to come.

Celeste sat unmoving for a full minute. Her mind in turmoil as her emotions and her professionalism clashed in a rather heated mental debate. Eventually, Celeste sighed, standing up and walking towards the exit.

If she hurried, she could catch Thorne before he headed out of town. Maybe convince him to go for another contract. Most likely though, she will have to permanently make sure Thorne didn’t become a problem. An idea which she wasn’t really happy about. Thorne’s attitude wasn’t just the arrogance of youth. There was something else about him that worried her. Her years of experience culminating in a uneasy feeling that gripped her body and wouldn’t let go.

Shaking her head and wondering why she ever thought it was ever a good idea to befriend another assassin, Celeste muttered under her breath, “You owe me one Jack”.

Numenera Short Story: The Tribunal

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The following short story takes place after Longshot: Numenera Ep 53

To many residents of the Ninth World, the datasphere is simply an information treasure trove. A repository of knowledge from an untold numbers of races and civilizations. However, those who foolishly pry into its depths with such a belief find themselves corrected in the most permanent way possible.

The datasphere is a world unto itself. An informational universe with its databanks in forgotten relics, dimensional datastores, and quantum entangled particles that make up the very fabric of the universe. Within it is the power to reshape worlds and alter destinies. And swimming in these digital oceans are beings who can easily use this power. Beings that can only be called gods.

In a deep part of this digital world, a tribunal is being held.

Atop several large podiums overlooking an empty floor float two gods. Shrouded in shadow, their very presence is impossible to decipher even by the most skilled Nano.

“Enter!” one shouts, its command reverberating over the digital landscape.

In less than a millisecond, a considerable delay which only irritated the gods, the digital entity known as the arbiter appeared. Its form is that of a pair of androgynous lips.

“I…” it started, its words already conciliatory and meek.

“You will not send a burst of apology!” one of the gods shouted. “You have failed and the project has reached a point of possible erasure. You shall be wiped and a new plan shall be enacted!”

“No please!” the arbiter pleaded. “Give me another chance. I have several ideas to recapture the project. I can make this right!”

The beings stood in silence. Spending an entire second to mull over their decision and increasing the dread the arbiter was most likely feeling.

“Very well,” one spoke. “You shall be given time to recapture the project. However, failure will result in your deletion.”

“Thank you my lords. I will…” The arbiter started.

With barely a thought, the arbiter was whisked away from the deeper waters of the datasphere. The gods no longer caring for its presence.

With the arbiter gone, the gods began to talk amongst themselves.

“You know it will fail correct? You have the same projections I do.”

“I am aware, but it will be amusing to see what it tries. I have been bored these last trillion cycles.”

“Nonetheless, we must plan a contingency. Can we simply replace the failed project?”

“Negative, this project must be the one. It has the required quantum signature. However, your suggestion of a replacement does give me a idea.”

An instant later, the gods were viewing a man screaming obscenities and striking the walls of his glass prison.

“Is that?” the first god said. Surprised.

“Indeed” the other god said smugly, “the last update before the project was cut off from us. Being a copy, it will not have the right signature, however another possibility presents itself.” The smug god stated, sending a data-burst toward his fellow.

“Ah, I see,” the surprised god said approvingly. “That may work. However, its current form is a bit… belligerent.”

“Yes, we will have to perform a wipe. It won’t be complete as we would risk damage, but it should be enough for our purposes. We will also increase its aggression and its more physical aspects. Making it more inclined to choose a more violent profession. Afterwards, we shall place it in a position to intercept the project.”

“Very well… um… may I…” The god stated, almost embarrassed.

The other god performed the digital equivalent of rolling its eyes and assented.

“Thank you so much. It’s been so long.”

With that, the thankful god turned its attention towards the being in the glass prison.

One microsecond later, the copy of the being known as Koen began to scream.

————————————————–

In a small town in the Ninth World lies a large jagged hole in the sky. The hole has existed for as long as anyone can remember and most considered it part of the local charm, paying no mind to it and thankful the glow seemed to keep the town safe from most predators. That was until a man fell from the hole and crashed into the town square.

Landing on a rather rocky portion of the street, he laid unmoving for some time, until a few of the town militia began to cautiously walk towards it.  Opening his eyes, he slowly rose up, his movements wobbly and uncertain.

“What are you boy?” one old man stated. His sword pointed at the strange being and his voice tinged with fear and curiosity.

Looking up, the strange muscular man with quills coming up out of his back smiled a predatory smile.

“I am…”, he growled as his muscles and flesh seemed to shift and grow, “Neok!”

Several days later, a traveling merchant was walking her usual route through the local country, expecting to find a town to sell some of her wares and a comfortable place to sleep for the night. What she found instead was death. The town’s inhabitants slaughtered by what she could only guess was some form of wild beast. She turned around and began to walk back the way she came, not foolish enough to explore the ghost town by herself. If she had looked a little deeper however, she would have seen the tracks of the murderous beast heading away from the town, its massive and heavy paw prints transforming into the much smaller, but somehow much more imposing, footprints of man.

Down In Smokes

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I know I’m dreaming.

The world outside the church’s windows is a tapestry of fire. The flames burn a sick yellow as creatures stare down from them. They’re not demons – I never believed in all that fire and brimstone talk my grandfather would spout. No, these aren’t demons staring down at me as I walk down the aisle of the church. These are the animals that Lucy and I would see when we stared into the flames of a burning house after we got everyone out.

I’m not alone in the church. I haven’t been yet in this dream. Much like in real life, people can’t help but show up for a superhero’s funeral – and a teenaged one at that. Everyone is seated, a sea of half-familiar faces, distant relatives, and the media personnel that had snuck in to get a first hand account of it all. Lucy and my friends took care of the last group when this was all a reality, but in this dream everyone ignores them. Everyone is just too busy staring blankly ahead at the coffin that rests at the very end of the aisle. It’s the same stare they gave on that day, but more pronounced. As I pass them, I hear them murmur behind me.

                                     “Such a shame.”

“Far too young.”

“What about the other twin’s powers?”

I ignore them. Like I did in real life. I just continue walking until I find my spot in the front row with my mother and father. Unlike real life, my mother is silent. Her mascara drips down from her neutral expression while dad’s hand pats in time to a clock that I can’t hear. Just a continuous pat of reassurance that loses more and more of its meaning each time their hands connect.

If I was poetic, I’m sure that would mean something to me. But I’m not, so it doesn’t. It’s just odd. Weird. Wrong? Just like this dream. Just like this entire situation.

A portly man that I barely remember from my first communion stands behind the coffin, speaking empty words about pearly gates and salvation. I don’t hear the words really. Hell, I don’t even know if he’s speaking English half way through, but my mind is taking cues from a memory, when I wish it would just let me have a dreamless sleep.

The priest doesn’t go on for that long. I’m grateful for that because the longer I stare at the coffin in front of me, the more I feel the loss of a twin. The sudden emptiness that I’m not sure normal siblings have for eachother.

I hear the howls from the windows, and I look up to see the flaming beasts clambering to get in. They melt through the windows, the glass peeling back in blackened revulsion, and the animals claw their way down the walls. Wherever they touch, fire is left. Fire that soon travels to the banners hanging nearby and to the wooden rafters above.

                                      “Such a shame.”

“Far too young.”

                                                                    “Can you imagine?”

The fire has now engulfed the roof, debris raining down on the church like the apocalyptic fury that the priest was now screaming about – I don’t even remember when he shifted topics. Heaven’s pearly gates no longer hold a candle to fire and brimstone.

People don’t run. People don’t cry. They just continue to blankly stare while my dad’s hand continues to pat-pat-pat away.

Sometimes in the dream, I just sit patiently while the world burns around me. Sometimes, this time, I stand as my family’s bench catches and move towards the coffin. The entire world around me is on fire and yet I still feel cold. I stop in front of the coffin and look inside as something heavy and smoldering falls behind me. The church is crumbling all around me, taking everyone with it, but I just don’t care. I’m busy.

My sister doesn’t belong inside oak. She doesn’t belong in that simple black dress with grandmother’s pearls around her neck. She’s a goddamn superhero – like me. She’s the second half of the Torchlight Twins. My wonder twin. Half of our power. Half of our brand.

The smoke blurs the dream. I can still breath but I don’t want her to fade away so I lean closer into the coffin, but it doesn’t matter. I continue to lean until I am pressing my forehead against my sister’s, and I’m hugging her close inside the coffin that I don’t remember climbing into. Flames lick around the edges of the coffin and we both just remain still, listening to the crack and splintering of the oak as it catches.

The dream plays out as it always does. Us together in the end, consumed by the fire that we both used to be able to control. Burned until nothing is left. Ashes to ashes. Dust to dust. Our only hope is that one of those animals we saw in the fire so many times will eventually become a phoenix to bring us back.

Hopefully together.

***

I wake up in a room that I haven’t slept in since Lucy and I left to make it big in Virtue City. My room is still pretty much how I left it as a sixteen year old, reminding me of how much my tastes have grown in three years. My eyes flicker around the room, the only light coming from the dawn outside my window, and I look around at all the posters on my wall of those I used to idolize. The Patrician is telling me to reach for the stars while Gamma Girl is flashing me an encouraging amount of cleavage as she battles a robotic assassin. I had waited in line as a kid to get them signed when my family went down to Virtue City, and I treasured them.

If only I knew that Patrician was sort of a primadonna and Gamma Girl fought more bouts of anorexia than robotic assassins, I would have aimed for better idols.

My alarm clock hasn’t gone off yet, but I know I’m not going back to sleep so I roll out of the bed and get dressed. I find the pair of jeans I’ve been wearing for the last week and snatch a flannel shirt from the closet that feels like a size too small. I’m dressed within a minute and out the door, plodding down the hallway of my parents’ house

In Virtue City, I had my own place. A small little studio that Lucy called ‘cutely grunge’ whenever she came over for Thursday night take out. My parents’ home isn’t small nor is it ‘cutely grunge’. It’s one of those ranch mansions with pine wood floors, pristine white walls, and the occasional hunting trophy displayed because my father is nothing if not cliche.

I take the stairs two at a time, and regardless of how early it is, I can hear someone in the kitchen. From the amount of smoke already in the air and the sound of cursing, I know it’s my dad.

I enter the kitchen just in time to hear the sizzle of bacon become a crackling inferno of grease, and I see Paul scrambling to detach the small fire extinguisher from the wall as fire dances in mom’s skillet. My hand is up before I can even register what I am doing, and I reach out for the core of the fire, the heat.

With Lucy, I could have made this grease fire tap dance to Mozart. Yet, Lucy isn’t here. She’ll never ‘be here’ again. And so when I reach out for the fire, I feel my control slipping immediately. I stiffen my fingers slowly, rolling my hand into a fist as the heat rebels against the constraint I’m trying to put on it. Like a child mid-tantrum, it fights me the entire time until my fist finally closes, and I put the flame to bed. The only thing that remains is the smoke that is clogging up the kitchen and the burned husk of meat that I’m assuming is going to the dog in a few.

I used to be able to control infernos. Now I can barely take the piss out of a little rebellious grease.

“Jesus tap dancing Christ!” Paul coughs between words as he tries to fan the smoke away from him with his cowboy hat. He stumbles a few steps towards the sink and reaches over it to push open the windows there. He spends a minute trying redirect the smoke, and I just remove the skillet from the stove. Paul eventually gives up, deposits the hat back into his head, and lets out a chuckle. “Grease nearly burned my keister.”

He smiles, but I’ve seen Paul in court before. It’s his ‘I’m just a simple Montana Lawyer’ smile that is supposed to make the jury forget that he charges seven hundred dollars an hour. I offer him a smirk before turning off the stove.

“Mom’s not getting out of bed today,” I say.  It’s not a question. I don’t need to ask it. It’s just me acknowledging what I already expected.

Paul’s smile sours, and he just nods his head. The toaster chimes, two blackened pieces of bread popping up. Paul busies himself with collecting them onto a plate and spreading a few globs of jam on top of them. Paul hates jam which is how I know he’s cooking for mom.

“It’s only been two weeks,” he says after a silent moment between us. “I remember when the Broncos got beat by the 49ers. I didn’t leave the house for damn near a month.”

I know that Paul isn’t trying to compare a loss of a football game to a loss of a daughter; he’s just trying to lighten the mood and avoid thinking about Lucy until Mom is out of bed and he’s alone in his woodworking shop with a bottle of scotch. So, I just offer a smile to him and begin cleaning up his mess. The bacon gets tossed to Pongo who had been hiding under the table this entire time. I’m rewarded with a wag of his tail before the golden retriever begins chewing noisily.

“You handled that grease fire pretty damn well,” Paul says as he pulls his hat from his head to adjust the brim. It’s another tactic of his – avoiding eye contact when he was trying to force a subject into a conversation.

“Phonomenal cosmic power.” I brush away the conversation as quickly as I do the rubbery eggs into the trashcan. As I busy myself cleaning Mom’s skillet, Paul clears his throat behind me.

He wasn’t giving up.

“Going to take time, Lucas. When you first began this whole hero thing, you didn’t have much control then. Just gotta focus -”

“Paul.” The word cuts through his sentence like how my fire blasts use to cut through a Mechron tank. Maybe there is more annoyance than I meant to give it, but I know what Paul is trying to do. He’s trying to give me hope. Like he’s always done. As a lawyer, Paul was always spinning silver lining for his clients; when he wasn’t in front of them, he’d try spinning it for us. Nothing was ever impossible. Nothing was ever beyond reach. My childhood was filled with these platitudes, and right now I couldn’t really stomach the thought of hearing one.

Paul’s silent behind me now as I turn off the facet and then focus on drying. I feel him watching me, and I feel that familiar sensation of my blood beginning to boil. Back in the day, I’d have to worry about my temper getting out of control and accidentally setting the dish rag on fire. Now, my anger is just… impotent.

“Looks like you have a visitor,” Paul says after a minute or two. I look over my shoulder to find him staring out the kitchen window and into the lawn.

“Media?” I ask. The media thrived on platitudes. Worse than Paul. Everyone wanted an interview with the ‘Surviving Twin’. Everyone wanted to know what my sister’s death meant for the Torchlight Twin’s ‘phenomenal cosmic powers’. They had hounded me before and after the funeral, and it was only my father’s promise to sue for harassment and his twelve gauge that kept most of the reporters off his property. Most.

“Not unless they fancy spandex and learned to fly.”

I sidle up to Paul and look out the window. And that boiling in my blood simmers away until my hands are left cold. The woman must have spotted Paul and I peering out, because she offers a one hundred watt smile and a wave. Her black hair is a mess – though I guess mach one would do that to anyone’s hair, and her toned body is covered from neck to toe in purple. Her skin is dark brown and just seeing her makes me mentally count the days since I’ve actually showered.

Starling has this effect on me.

“If you ain’t going to go out there to greet her, I might as well slap on some aftershave and give it a try.” Paul’s hand clasps my shoulder for a second before he grabs the breakfast tray and hoists it up. He offers me the same look he gave me when he allowed for ‘five more minutes’ when he walked in on Angela Craft and me  in high school, and then he’s moving towards his bedroom.

I just continue to stare out the window until I realize I probably look like I’m glaring. Starling’s smile doesn’t retreat, but she does reel it in a little before she begins looking around the back yard. She saunters over towards the tire swing Lucy and I use to wrestle over, spins it a bit, and then just takes a seat, waiting.  

A year ago, I would have dropped everything to speak with the ‘Fantastic Flier of Virtue City’. Lucy use to tease me about how my costume looked a little sharper whenever I knew we were going to meet up with Starling for a mission. But today isn’t a year ago. It isn’t the past, as much as my mind wishes for those days back. Today is today, and for today, I have dishes to focus on.

So that’s what I do.

Starling watches me through the window as I finish cleaning up my father’s mess. I’d occasionally glance out, and she’d just offer a friendly smile while she continued to sway in the swing, her feet crossed at the ankles. I rush through the tail end of the cleaning, opting to brush off the toast crumbs and gristle onto the floor for Pongo to finish up. And then I’m drying my hands and moving out the back door.


The thing about my family’s place that always gets me is how silent everything is. Fifteen acres of land with only four people and a dozen horses isn’t exactly competition for the thousands of people on every street in the city. No sirens or honking horns or people just shouting about whatever it is people want to shout about. Here? It’s just the wind and the occasional neigh from a stubborn stallion.

Starling sways on the swing, her head resting against the worn rope as I approach.

“Didn’t think you’d be so quick to go back to wearing flannel, Montana,” she says with a dimpled smile. A year ago, I’d have blushed. Today, I cross my arms and lean against the side of the old oak tree.

“When in Rome,” I offer. “Next week, you’ll see me open carrying a AR-10 upper’s.” “Oh, flannel and firearms. The two big Fs of Montana, huh?” She leans forward a bit, teasing. Her smile is just… fantastic.

I shove my hands into my jean pockets and look away. “Montana is actually known for the three Fs. Flannel, firearms, and fantastic meth.” I’m rewarded with a chuckle which is nice. And it’s nice to have nice again in my life. Yet, Starling isn’t here to just be nice. I know this, and I don’t want to delay the inevitable so I just lets out a breath before saying, “So, Patrician decided to send a pretty face, huh?”

I look back to her and find those amber eyes gazing back at me. Her smile softens until it looks a bit sad, and then she nods her head. “He wants to know about your powers. Most of the team told him to give you a few more weeks but Patrician is…” she trails off. Ever the good soldier, she isn’t going to say it.

So I say it for her.

“An asshole.” My eyes lock onto hers, and we share a knowing smile. I know she agrees, she knows I don’t care anymore. And we both know Patrician is right. “League always needs an active roster of the best, and he needs to know if I can still fight Doctor Mosiac or Human Error, huh?”

She hesitates before dropping her smile. She then nods. She doesn’t want to have this conversation. I don’t either. But being a superhero is awesome like this so I push on through.

“Nope.”

“Nope?” she asks with a cant of her head. “Lucas, Patrician just needs to know how your powers-”

“No, I know. I’m just telling you how it is with my powers. ‘Nope’ they aren’t as strong. ‘Nope’ I don’t think they’re ever going to be as strong as they were. ‘Nope’ I can’t stop a grease fire without breaking a sweat. ‘Nope,’ I understand I can’t stay in the big leagues with my handicap now. And ‘Nope,’ I don’t want to sign up for your newsletter.”

I almost get that all out sounding strong and good natured, but my voice cracks at the very end. Starling reaches out from the swing to take my shoulder, but I step away. I tense my jaw, blink away the tears stinging my eyes, and then reach into my shirt, taking hold of the dog tags there. I give a sharp yank and the chain snaps free. I pull the tags out – my communicator – and offer it to her without making eye contract.

“Lucas…” she begins as I drop the communicator into her palm, but she hesitates. She doesn’t want to see me go. I don’t want to see me go. But we both know how the League is. They couldn’t have a spare communicator out with a person who couldn’t protect it. Hell, this was safer for me even. They’d announce my retirement from the League and no villains would hunt me down in hopes to getting the League’s technology. This all made sense. It was logical.

But fuck me.

“You just need more time to deal with this,” Starling says as she stands up, trying to slip the device back into my hand without much success. I whip my hand away and she just moves closer until she’s pressed against my body and closer than we’ve probably been in a long time. Her eyes are on mine, and her attempts to return the communicator stop when her hand comes to rest on my shoulder. And now we just stare.

God, she’s beautiful.

And then we’re kissing. And part of me knows that some brave paparazzi could be snapping pictures from a distance and that this really wasn’t a good time for me mentally to be doing… this. But a larger part of me thinks ‘who gives a fuck’. Lucy gave all the fucks in the world and she is dead, killed not by some noble sacrifice but by a guy who didn’t watch a PSA on driving drunk. Lucy followed all the smart rules in life, made the right choices, and now she was dead. So at this point, I don’t care. So I don’t stop the kiss.

And neither does Starling.

Our lips meet, and I can taste a hint of spearmint. Her arms circle around my neck and my hands go on autodrive and wrap around her waist, keeping her close. A year ago, this would have ended with me skipping away and texting Lucy like an overly excited thirteen year old girl.

But today is today.

And it ends when I finally pull away, sharing her breath as my forehead rests against hers. I need to do the smart thing. Like Lucy would have. I need to do the right thing. So I drop my hands from her waist and reach out to take hold of her hand still gripping the communicator. I gently push the hand back to her chest before forcing a smile.

“I can’t be a superhero right now. I can’t be… anything to anyone right now.” I’m not sure if the words are right, but Starling understands them. She always does. She looks down towards the necklace in her hands, blinking the wetness from her eyes before she returns her gaze back to me.

“The League will make an announcement about your retirement then.” Her voice comes out a whisper but I don’t need her words. Just her gaze. For a little while longer. And she gives me that for another minute. We stare, saying a thousand things we never spoke and probably never will. And then I grab her shoulders and gently push her away from me.

She slips the communicator into her belt before offering me one last smile. I’m stoic – well, as stoic as I can be. I know I’m probably going to be a sobbing mess the moment she leaves, but for now, I just hold up a hand and wave. She returns the wave before launching herself into the air, her body growing smaller and smaller until all that was left was clouds.

I’m sure if I was poetic, I’d find a metaphor in that.

But I’m not.

So I just slide down the oak tree, grab my head in my hands, and try not to think about the loss.

Planescape Short Story: The Climb

by

planescapeYou barely remember the first grip of your hand on the rock wall. The hazy look up at infinity and a plateau you will never reach. The half-remembered words of your executioner echoing in your mind, “The punishment shall fit the crime.” You climb and time passes. The length in time becomes so large that you begin to lose track. Then, you protect yourself by losing your sanity.

Your madness protects you from the endless time and repetitive motions. It protects you from the feeling of thousands of epochs and an untold number of civilizations that have risen and fallen since you began. Eventually, even madness is not a defense. The impossible winds begin to scar your flesh as the sands of time scrub your mind.

Your mind blanks and you become a simple machine, repeating the same actions over and over again. Hand up. Strong grip. Leg up. Safe hold. Change is your enemy, for change brings awareness and madness once again.

Then, you stop. Or, maybe you finally notice you have stopped. How long has your hand been on a flat surface? Days? Years? Millennia? Your awareness slowly returns to you. Soon, the barest wisps of a broken mind return to some semblance of sanity. The ages have stripped away much.

As you slowly heave yourself up to the top, your eyes see a city. An impossible city that is as constant as stone yet as mutable as water. A memory flickers to the surface. A name. An eternal name. Sigil, City of Doors.

You stretch your arms and realize there is a weight upon your shoulders. A pack. It has been so long, you had forgotten. You open it and see a formless mass of metal about the size of your fist. You realize this was once your weapon and a heavy feeling strikes your chest. This weapon was tied to you. Part of you. As such, it has become as weakened as you. Not even the image of its previous form holds within your memory.

You sigh, whether because of the finished climb or the feeling of loss, you don’t know. Then, you begin to walk.

You walk for what seems like hours. Or maybe minutes. Or maybe seconds. It is hard to really tell. As if time is both stubbornly unyielding and playfully pliable at the same moment. Then, suddenly, you are within the city. You don’t remember opening a gate or climbing a wall. It is as if you were always within its twisted streets.

You eventually find yourself in the markets. You browse its offerings, looking for items you may need on your journey. A growl soon escapes you, not from your mouth but from your stomach. It is the beginning pangs of hunger. Although, it is not exactly the hunger you remember. A different hunger once consumed you, but now, only the base hunger for food now demands your attention.

As you walk to a stall selling what look like the remains of dead rats with ridiculously large skulls, you notice a change in the air. The various travelers around you begin to run and the merchants hide beneath their stalls, leaving their wares unattended. You turn around, curious about what could cause such a ruckus and see what could only be described as the avatar of authority.

Before you, floating a few inches from the ground, is a tall regal woman whose presence seems to make even nearby buildings almost kneel in fear. Enveloping her is a brown robe made of an eternal tide of folds that flow in and out of her billowing form. The only part of her not covered by the seemingly living fabric are her hands and her face.

Her hands look like they are made of woven brass and although they look delicate; you could feel they could crush a building with one flick of her finger. Or perhaps, she could simply point at it and order it to die.

Her face was as hard as stone. It was a visage of overwhelming power that would even make a god quake in fear. Surrounding it was a mane of blades that seemed to cut reality itself.

As you stand there, your shock overcoming your urge to flee, she slowly raises her hand and you are overcome by a flash of dark light. You know you are being taken. To where, you could not guess. But you know one thing for certain; you are in for a world of pain.

Treatise on the Night Raven Threat

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NightRaven_PostIntroduction              

The British began a series of experiments to counter the animate threat in their empire. One of these was the creation of super soldiers known as Thropes. Although these soldiers were claimed to be used to solely fight animates, it didn’t take a genius to realize the potential for military applications against other  foreign powers. Thus, through our own research as well as some choice espionage, the Night Raven Project was born.              

Using both Human and Raven (specifically Corvus Corax) DNA, the Prussian Science Academy created the Night Raven, a thin humanoid creature standing between 6 feet to 7 feet tall and covered in black greasy feathers. It has three fingered claws and upon its face is a dark yellow beak powerful enough to crack bone. The Night Raven is significantly weaker than their British counterpart, the Thrope, although slightly faster. Which is incidental, since their purpose is not combat, but infiltration.

The Night Raven, either through stalking its prey or an ambush, grabs a potential target and begins the process of transformation, a method that is less like the killing methods of a predator and more that of a ritual murderer. It jabs its beak into the victim’s eye and with it’s powerful jaws, splits the skull. It then consumes the brain of the victim. Its meal complete, it begins to transform into the victim, repeating the words “see, think,” in a combination of high pitched words and squawks. Where they learned this phrase is unknown, but it is assumed to signify taking the victim’s sight with its beak and consuming the victim’s brain. What is more curious is that it’s understood by those around the creature in their native language.  Even those Night Ravens raised without contact with other ravens repeat the same words without fail.

A Night Raven is not truly sentient, not even in its borrowed human form. It relies on instinct, its primary focus being the urge to mate, sleep, and protect its territory. When it transforms, it uses the memories of its host to create the impression of sentience, using rote skills, common phrases and learned behavior to mimic humanity for as long as necessary. It is as though they are looking for the right answer for a question from a encyclopedia of past phrases grabbed from the victim’s memories. Prolonged exposure to the Night Raven in its human guise will eventually result in those intimately familiar with the victim realizing something is amiss with their companion.

The process of training these creatures was just beginning before the event known as the Koinberg incident. Although the initial vector of infiltration is unknown, at some point, a number of Night Ravens took over a large portion of the staff and released their companions into the wastes over a period of a few days. By the time the escape was discovered, it was too late. Most of the captive Night Ravens were released, the rest taking many live before they were put down.

Now, the Night Ravens have become a threat to the Prussian Empire. They have already infiltrated many of our smaller communities in the empire. Within this document are guides, weapon specifications, and psychological tests to use against the Night Raven threat. You are the shield against a terror that may do what no other force has ever done. Destroy the greatest empire in existence. Good luck, Agent.  

Numenera Short Story: The Forgotten Soldier

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Numenera_HeaderMy last memory was of a blade entering my back.

The glowing weapon, common among the enemy, contained within it nano-machines that began inflicting terrible damage upon my body. My systems usually compensated, but hours of fighting had drained most of my stored energies. A fact my enemy most likely anticipated. As the poisonous techno-viruses did their work and literally set my nervous system aflame, my mind hoped that my next body would have fewer pain receptors.

A familiar light played upon my eyelids as the resurrection protocols of my pod came to life. Transferring the mind of the dead to a clone had been the staple of the empire for centuries. Creating an army of immortal soldiers guided by the eternal glory of…

My mind raced to finish the sentence, but I could not remember the name of the empress I served. Not only that, but my memory had become fragmented. Half remembered flashes of conquered races and battles pooling together without rhyme or reason.

My worry over lost memories was cut short as pain assaulted my arm, forcing me to fully awaken from my torpor. My eyes burst open then immediately closed in agony as the light hurt the newly grown organs. Forcing myself to look down through barely open slits, I saw a small creature barely larger than my hand. The six-legged green thing was digging into my flesh like it was trying to build a nest. It squawked in surprise as I grasped it, screaming further as I attempted to crack its neck. Either it was tougher than it looked or I was much weaker than I should be because I had difficulty crushing the tiny thing. A difficulty it exploited as it bit my hand, forcing me to let it go.

The creature scuttled off and any thoughts of pursuit were squashed when I finally looked again at my arm. The fact it was still bleeding was more shocking than any strange hostile creature. The exact systems escaped me, but I knew that my body was capable of self repair. Flesh should have instantly started knitting together as the energy reserves within my chest powered the bio-engines throughout my body. Instead, I bled like a pathetic pure-born.

Old half-glimpsed memories from before my ascendancy made me rip apart a cloth near the pod and tie it around my arm. Satisfied I would not die immediately, I looked around the room.

The room was originally small, only made smaller by the debris that took up most of it. Unfamiliar decrepit equipment and rocks coated the room and, on the ceiling, what can only be described as stalactites grew down, almost reaching the floor. My memories had difficulty identifying anything, but common sense made me realize none of this belonged in a proper resurrection lab.

A massive beast crashed through the wall next to me before I could explore more. A much larger version of the tiny scuttling creature, it roared at me with a large pyramid-shaped mouth. Each of its three lips were pulled back, exposing razor sharp teeth ideal for grasping prey whole and ripping it apart while inside. I was most likely slightly larger than its usual targets, but it didn’t make the potential encounter any less deadly.

I looked around, desperate to find a weapon I could use. My only options were several grey rocks of varying sizes. I chose the largest, a little bigger than a human head, and went to work, thankful that there was some of my former strength in this new body.

The fight was short but still fairly brutal. The creature lay dead, its teeth shattered and its head crushed. I stood bleeding from several cuts and gouges that perforated my body. Holes no amount of ripped cloth would cure.

I forced myself to limp from the room. Going through caverns that I could see use to be elegant hallways. Repeated on the walls was a faded symbol. Part of a bird of prey, or perhaps a lizard. It was once important to me, but I could not remember what it symbolized. My limp soon became a crawl as my body lost more and more blood, but still I continued. I would not die here, forgotten in some cave. I would at least see the sun, if this world had one.

For what felt like hours but may have been seconds for all my beleaguered mind could know, I pulled myself along the floor. My chest and legs scratched by pointed rocks and the random stinging insect.  Eventually, I could see it. An exit. A hole that looked like it was created recently, nearby stones still radiating residual heat from what might have been a blast. It was at this moment that my body gave out, perhaps realizing it had completed its mission. Blackness took me and no dreams followed.

The next thing I heard was the sound of a gravely voice speaking in a strange foreign tongue. As I became more aware, I could smell strange herbs and the blurry vision in front of me transformed into a small room. No, a hut, made of stone, wood, and perhaps some bits of scavenged metal.

Turning my head, I noticed an old man looking at me, stirring a bowl and speaking, perhaps having noticed my wakefulness. The words were gibberish at first but eventually became understandable. My language implants were, thankfully, still intact. When I was confident I understood enough of his words, I forced myself to speak, despite the pain in my throat.

“Where I am?” I rasped.

The old man looked shocked at first, whether because I understood his language or had the strength to speak, I did not know nor care.

“Glavis,” he said, continuing to stir the bowl and smiling like a fool.

“What world?” I clarified, the name of the town meaning nothing to me.

He stared at me strangely at first, an expression which slowly changed to understanding and leaned in close.

“It is the ninth world,” he said carefully, as if saying those words might break me.

And, perhaps it would? The words were unfamiliar but had a weight that seemed to crush everything that I was once was. I somehow felt in every part of my being that the world I once knew was gone and, for the first time in my life, I was lost.

Arrant Powers Short Story: Burnt Meat

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RottedCapes_postIt’s been months since I’ve felt it. That twinge. That mental call leading me to him. It flares for a bit, then ends just as quickly. Like a stopper on a lantern. Each time, I head in his general direction, hoping another pulse will suddenly flare. It’s happening much more often now. He must be under a lot of stress.

It gets harder when I try not to get noticed by the super powered fucks looking for fresh meat in the area. Meeting one of them would probably not go well for me. I’m no pushover, but I am nowhere near what I was in my heyday.

Then, I hear it. A yell, quickly stifled. Very close. I follow the sound slowly, crawling over rubble like a goddamn insect. Far from the bird I use to be. Still, it gave me results. Popping my head up above a pile of concrete, I see a woman and a little girl trying to hide in in some rubble staring at what, to them, would be a grey terror.

The Grey stood there and I wondered how that whiny little jackass survived the apocalypse.  Grey essentially looked like one of those 50’s aliens from Roswell. He tried to convince everyone that he was part of a vast alien empire and the conspiracy nuts ate it up. It was only later that the truth came out. He was simply a mutant who got unlucky. Grew up small, weak, and had a huge head with a normal human intelligence. Hell, he didn’t even have any genitals. Although his tabloid exploits tend to show he tried his best with what he had. Even becoming a zombie hadn’t made him any more menacing. He looked more like a broken grey ken doll.

He came at them slowly. Trying to look intimidating. Raising his arms almost comically and yelling and screaming like he was trying to look bigger than he was. The mother was having none of it. She grabbed a steel bar and got ready to use it. All 3 foot nothing of him tried to lunge and the bar met his skull. Rotted brain matter and silver blood flew to the floor and the now desiccated body almost floated to the ground.

The mother’s moment of triumph ended quickly when she heard me walking up behind her. Perhaps it was the high from beating down a powered zombie but she held up her weapon and began to inhale to scream at me. Which was what I was waiting for.

The fire from my palm scorched her face and she staggered back. The burnt flesh on her face wouldn’t kill her, but the fire going down into her body was a different matter. She coughed up blood as her throat and possibly her lungs were burnt to a crisp. The shock would get her down quickly, and she would take at least a minute to die. Keeping her fresh as I went for her…

BLAM

The shot went into my shoulder, and I was sure I heard the crack of bone. The last thing I needed was a injury that would hamper me. Undead or not, can’t do anything without functioning body parts. I looked behind me and saw the frightened girl, maybe 8 or 9, holding her gun and looking terrified. Trying to save her mother.

All I saw after that was red and fire.

I always lose my temper like this. And, like always, I’m suffering because of it. By the time I came to my senses, they were burnt to a crisp. There was hardly any good meat on their bones.

I salvaged what I could, working around the burnt flesh of a small hand, when I felt it. The twinge again. It’s been a while but it was definitely coming from the northeast and it felt much stronger. Good.

Brother, we will be together soon. It’s time for the Torchlight Twins to set the world on fire.

The Return of the Undertaker

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Undertaker_FeaturedWhen I was a little kid, I used to watch wrestling. Back  when it was still called the WWF, and Hulk Hogan, Randy Savage, and Bret Hart were kings of the ring. In the midst of these titanic gods who have mastered martial skill and soap opera dialogue, there was one being who stood out. A ancient spirit birthed from the depths of death’s realm and was followed by his pathetic undead servant. His name was The Undertaker, and he was the god of death.

Played by Mark William Calaway, he was brought in as an unstoppable force during the WWF’s (now the WWE) more… fantastical version of its universe. A world of fairly terrible stereotypes, almost fantasy level encounters, and rivalries that felt as if they would continue through generations. Within that world was The Undertaker. A being who always rose up, like a vampire from his ring side coffin. A force rarely beaten but always ready to return from his grave.

I will admit though, much of this narrative was a mixture of my adolescent imagination along with the rather overly dramatic dialogue spoken in the series. As I grew older, the various difficulties of teenage life slowly took my attention from the drama and I was forced to ignore it for a time. I popped my head in briefly for the odd episode to see what was going on and found various changes that never really excited me.

Not exactly fair I will admit, since I was then a impressionable child and now a cynical adult, but the various stories didn’t hit me as they once did. As a fan of the weird and the fantastical, the change of wrestling into the more “realistic” narrative no longer had my attention. What really indicated to me the transition of the WWF into this quasi-realism was the transformation of Undertaker from a death god to a simple member of the New World Order. Where once stood a mythical figure, there now was a man who looked like an extra in a biker movie.

Still, a part of me always imagined how the story of the Undertaker would end in my version of the WWE. Like the return of magic in the Game of Throne series, the return of the fantastical narrative in the WWE would be a force that would change the rules of wrestling for years to come. It is a change in narrative that begins in one terrifying night in the WWE.

It is a typical action night at the WWE. The usual drama between various organizations fighting over this or that. While the fight occurs upstairs, the Undertaker is by himself in the basement, his mind on other mundane things that his current life has given him. At least it was, till a familiar voice speaks behind him. “My lord?”.

Turning around, Undertaker sees a familiar sight. His former manager/servant Paul Bearer. Leaving long ago for reasons unknown, the sight of him is a true surprise. Where once was the familiar image of pale skin and fat flesh is now a near-skeletal corpse. A corpse that quickly falls into the Undertaker’s arms and screams “He Comes!” before finally giving in to true death.

In the ring, Kane battles with his allies in a grudge match. The other side has a long rivalry with his team and he wishes to end it the only way he knows how. As he is about to use a chair on an unsuspecting wrestler, he feels a familiar chill up his spine. A chill he thought he had long escaped.

“No…” he barely whispers.

Suddenly, darkness takes the stage and a banshee’s scream wails from the speakers. When the lights return, a new figure appears in the middle of the ring, dressed in a skull mask with a dark cloak covering his body. The announcers scream into the mics, wondering about the intrusion while the masked Kane stares, unmoving. His allies and enemies stare in disbelief before heading towards the figure. He is interrupting their match after all.

The first of them leaps to attack, and suffers for it. A thick white arm hits the upstart, knocking him unconscious. Now revealed beneath the cloak is a large and thickly built, barreled chested man dressed simply in  a black shirt, pants, and boots. His bare arms are covered in scars and white hairs, the arms of a man who has seen much and is more then ready to give more. The rest of the wrestlers attack and are quickly dispatched, their forms on the ring floor or thrown out into tables and chairs, leaving Kane, unmoved since the appearance.

The figure steps forwards and Kane visibly trembles.

“Where is he?” the figure booms, his voice that of age and authority.

Kane says nothing for a few seconds as his body slowly stops shaking. Then, he begins to speak, “He is not here, but he isn’t needed. I am stronger then him. I have even bested him many times. I am worthy. You must believe me!” The words are not spoken as the terrifying Kane, but the mewling of a child begging for attention.

The figure stands silently for a few seconds, when suddenly his hand wraps around Kane’s throat. Kane fights back, but to no avail and the figure speaks, his words  harsh truths. “You have never truly beaten your brother. His affection for you despite your rivalry has always been a weakness holding him back. A weakness he no longer needs now that the time has come.” Kane’s struggles intensifies, as if terror has given him new strength but still the hand stays unmoved. The crowd jeers and the announcers scream, but the figure stands immobile, as if savoring the moment, until finally, when the energy was at its highest, a loud snap fills the stadium. There is a  hush as Kane falls to the ground, lifeless.

The figure slowly steps to the middle of the ring and begins to speak, his words the personification of certainty, “For too long, the one you know as the Undertaker has played in your halls. For too long has he been part of your games and mortal rivalries. But no more! It’s time for the children’s games to end. He will do his duty, and I will destroy this very foundation to see it done.” With that, a new darkness hits the stadium and as the lights return, the figure disappears.

When the Undertaker finally arrives, he rushes to the ring and kneels next to his brother, but the body does not move. His brother is lost, and he was too slow to stop it. One of his allies runs into the ring, a look of confusion on his face.

“Undertaker,” his friend says, the confusion obvious in his tone. “Who was that? I’ve never seen that guy before.”

The Undertaker rests his brothers head back on the ring floor and slowly stands, as if lifting a great weight. His next words were slow and full of pain.

“If you’re lucky, you won’t until you are an old man lying on your bed. He is Death. Lord of the undead, King of all souls and… my Father” The Undertaker pauses, fully turning towards his friend, his face full of an emotion that his friend had never seen before: fear.

“He,” The Undertaker continued, his voice slowly dropping, “Has come to take me home.”