[Art/Writing] Jairus: Merry Christmas

[Cogidubnus]

Desiring revenge
you lose desired: in revenge,
you gain but success

You Haiku have inspired yet further Haiku! There should be an achievement for that, methinks.

[techmaster-glitch]

You Haiku have inspired yet further Haiku! There should be an achievement for that, methinks.

Achievement unlock'd?
You have earned a new medal?
You reach'd the high score!

[Jairus]

You Haiku have inspired yet further Haiku! There should be an achievement for that, methinks.

Achievement unlock'd?
You have earned a new medal?
You reach'd the high score!

The green box comes up.
Achievement unlocked. Oh great.
Now I'm dead. Gee, thanks.

[Jairus]

New topic, distinct from the last post.

"DMFA 984"
Family before
Business. But love before all
Oh, poor Lorenda.

Kria's evil here.
She was holding out on Dan,
For her daughter's word.

How many shocks and
Surprises has Dan gone through
Recently? Good grief.

How long will they hold
Up the charade? If they can,
Of course. Otherwise...

Lorenda is
Going to get in trouble.
How, I do not know.

[Jairus]

Falling behind! Let's see if I can be concise enough to do one haiku for each day I missed! That way, there's less annoyance to go around!

"985"
Aliph believed he
Could not despise Dan any
More. He was quite wrong.

"986"
Aliph has angered
His sister, by putting his
Hoof inside his mouth.

"987"
Sibling rivalries
Bring out the worst in people.
Heheheh, "buttface."

"988"
Remember, Kria
Says to heal inside out, and
Check for hidden wounds.

"Abel 2 49"
Apparently, D'
Doesn't have much of a sense
Of humor. Oh boy.


Also... a teaser of something I'm kinda working on... assume translation conventions at work here.

Ten years ago...
A town in Turkish Kurdistan...
   The town barely registered as a blip on the radar of politics. If it ever appeared on a map, it was to define the emptiness of the area around it. There were a hundred towns just like it all around Turkey, and if it were to disappear off the map tomorrow it might pass completely unnoticed...

   In the middle of the burning town, a small boy cried in fear.
   "Mama... papa... where are you?"
   Somewhere in the distance, someone screamed. And then went silent. He pulled his knees up close to his chin, trying to make himself smaller in the shadows of the alleyway between two half-collapsed buildings. And somewhere between his crying and the sound of destruction around him, he thought he could hear the sound of something breathing very close to him...

[Jairus]

Despite the somewhat cryptic title, this is really nothing of the sort. It's actually an assignment where we have to describe a character's bedroom to reveal elements about that character, all while trying to appeal to the five senses and building up to revealing an item that reveals a secret about that character. So I did. I'm basically posting this for two reasons. 1, it's a precious rare example of my writing. 2, I'd like to tighten it up and make it a lot sharper, so hopefully posting it here will give me some ideas to clean it up. Anyway, onto the assignment!

"Small Cabin"
   The room is a compact one, tucked into the airship's framework just aft of the bridge. The curved ceiling betrays the room's position inside the hull,  The metal floor is heated just enough to not be uncomfortable to bare feet, while the wall's plain gun-metal gray surface is broken up by recessed drawers and cabinet doors. Normally, the engine's quiet humming and the sound of wind rushing past the hull would be a constant companion, but now the engines were silent as the ships was carefully checked over for any signs of damage or fatigue. The smell of the maintenance bay, of grease and the sharp taste of welding torches, wafts through the cabin. What furniture there is is simple and rugged: a folding table on one wall, a banged-up lightweight metal chair in front of the table and attached to the floor with makeshift brackets, a bunk built into the other wall, and a bookshelf made of some dark wood pushed against the far wall and bolted there. Drawers and shelves are open and empty, their former contents piled on the floor for a bit of downtime sorting and organizing. The clothes have all been folded and put away, work pants and rugged clothes appropriate for maintaining an airship neatly organized and sorted, while a few nicer clothes have been hung in the small closet space. The remaining possessions are little knick-nacks and doodads, random treasures collected over a lifetime: a jewel here, a strange-shaped rock there, an old well-worn deck of "lucky" playing cards, a hand-carved wooden chess set, an amulet of no-doubt ancient and mystical power, a small fertility idol... everytime the ship spent more than a few days in port, the room's occupant would pull it all out with the ambition of sorting it all, only to shove it back in when it came time to leave.
   The bunk is tipped upwards in its little space, revealing the hidden space beneath it, and the collection of guns and ammunition and other weapons stored within, each one waiting for its turn to be cleaned and examined. The bookshelf is also stripped bare, the collection normally secured with leather straps stacked neatly on the floor: of particular note is a stack of about two-dozen nearly identical books, each of them bearing the legend "Captain Savage" and a picture of a piratical figure on the front. A matching book, titled "Captain Savage and the Sky Bridge of Atupai," lies open and weighed down with a pair of old flight goggles on the folding desk. A half-reassembled gun also sits on the desk, surrounded by the tools and parts necessary to replace a broken magazine. A quick-draw holster tailored for the gun is hung on a hook by the door, which also features a heavy coat suitable for bad weather or flapping dramatically in the wind. A few plates of discrete body armor lie beside the door, the vest they go into currently being given the once over to repair rips and tears before seeing action again.
   Hidden inside one of the drawers is an old framed photograph of a graying middle-aged man prompting the small boy in his arms to smile for the camera. The photo, a memory of long-past happy times with the boy's father, never leaves its hiding place. And yet he can never bring himself to finally get rid of it, of the last memory of the happy man his father once was, a final shard of the life he has long since abandoned for adventures in the skies.

PS: Oh, and I wrote this for Cogi as a part of the Covert Courtesy Commutation.
"Nature's Wanderers" for Cogidubnus
The woods are quiet: nature's sounds
Are all one hears from all around.
A silent hunter prowls through here,
The gray wolf prowls without a fear.

Not far from there, a swordsman stands,
Whose shoes have tread from distant lands.
All that he owns within his sack,
And a sheathed sword upon his back.

An autumn breaze knocks off a leaf,
And slowly sings a song of grief.
The whistling sound cuts through to bone,
And makes one feel so all alone.

The setting sun sets land ablaze,
The lands cools down o'er shorter days.
Soon winter's snow shall come again,
Jack Frost's white quill shall frost the glen.

But here, for now, the land burns red,
As if some great beast here had bled
Within the wake of some great fight,
Before it fades with the coming night.

The swordsman knows that night comes fast,
And knows to camp before the last
Rays of sunlight light up the sky.
He sets his pack with weary sigh.

And that is when their paths do cross,
Within this glen now green with moss.
The wolf and sword, two hunters' gaze
See eye to eye in failing rays.

They stand but for a moment there,
Their eyes locked in a frozen stare.
And then it ends, and they go on.
As equals met, not battle won.

[VSMIT]

My (likely misguided) thoughts on the passage.

"Small Cabin" is quite good.  For me it gets a little tedious during the first paragraph, but mostly because I'm not one for exposition.  You can easily tell that the occupant is a loner and possibly a drifter.  He obviously doesn't want many ties to this world, save the one he can't get rid of.  Maybe he keeps that photo as a sole reminder of what he can't live without.

I'm not one for poetry, so I'll leave that to the other, more poetic goers.

Man, I really need to follow this thread more.

[Jairus]

Okay, I've made a few edits and changes to "Small Cabin" which hopefully makes it easier to read and follow. We'll see.

"Small Cabin", revised
   The room is a compact one, tucked into the airship's framework just aft of the bridge. Normally, the engine's quiet hum and the sound of wind rushing past the curved hull would be a constant companion, but now the engines are silent as the ship is carefully checked over for any signs of damage or fatigue. The smell of grease and welding torches from the maintenance bay wafts through the cabin.
   A rug from some distant land covers the bare metal floor, while the walls' plain gun-metal gray surface is broken up by recessed drawers and cabinet doors. The furniture is simple and rugged: a folding table on one wall, a banged-up lightweight metal chair attached to the floor with brackets in front of the table, a bunk built into the other wall, and a bookshelf made of some dark wood pushed against the far wall and bolted there. The built-in drawers and shelves are open for a bit of down-time sorting. All of the clothes have already been folded and put away, most of them of the rugged type appropriate for maintaining an airship. One of the other drawers is open for a bit of sorting that will never happen: a handful of jewels, a strange-shaped rock, an old well-worn deck of "lucky" playing cards, a hand-carved wooden chess set, an amulet of no-doubt ancient and mystical power, a small fertility idol... there's no real rhyme or reason to what goes in which drawer. The bookshelves are also full, their contents strapped down with leather straps to keep them secure in flight. One entire shelf is taken up by a collection of nearly-identical paperbacks that proclaim in big bold letters that they are about someone named "Captain Savage."
   The bunk is tipped upwards in its little space, revealing a hidden space beneath it, and the collection of guns and ammunition and other weapons stored inside, each one waiting for its turn to be examined and cleaned. A matching book, titled "Captain Savage and the Sky Bridge of Atupai," lies open and weighed down with a pair of old flight goggles on the folding desk. A half-reassembled gun also sits on the desk, surrounded by the tools and parts necessary to replace a damaged magazine. A quick-draw holster tailored for the gun hangs on a hook by the door, next to a heavy coat suitable for bad weather or flapping dramatically in the wind. A few plates of discrete body armor lie beside the door, removed while the vest they go into is checked over for rips and tears.
   Hidden inside one of the drawers beneath the desk is an old framed photograph of a graying middle-aged man wearing a pair of old flight goggles and prompting the small boy in his arms to smile for the camera. The photo never leaves its hiding place. The cabin's owner can never bring himself to get rid of this last record of the happy man his father once was, and the last record of the life the boy had before giving it all up.

EDIT: Re-inserted a reference to the books being nearly identical.

[llearch n'n'daCorna]

Hrm.

I note you've removed the fact that the Captain Savage books are identical...
... and the evidence that the owner removes everything, but never puts it away.

While this might make the section fit the requirements better, I feel it's leaving something of flavour out of the mix, as it were.

Just my 2p.

[Jairus]

Hrm.

I note you've removed the fact that the Captain Savage books are identical...
... and the evidence that the owner removes everything, but never puts it away.

While this might make the section fit the requirements better, I feel it's leaving something of flavour out of the mix, as it were.

Just my 2p.

Hm... good points. On the other hand, I kinda realized that what he was basically doing was dumping a dozen drawers on the floor. I'm thinking instead what he does is take out a drawer at a time, and then not organize that one, which is why that draw is open. It'd be easier to put away in the even of an emergency, and it also lets him examine each artifact in more detail.

As for the identical Savage books, that can be stuck back in. In fact, I will do that right now.

In a bit of random news, last night my dreams were a combination of my classes and God of War-style puzzles, some of which seemed to have come from the webcast of Resident Evil 5 last night. It was weird.

[Cogidubnus]

Gave both versions a read in between classes. I'll put down some commentary when I get home tonight, but as for now, I shall digest and mull over them.

The second version I think I like the best, but I need to re-read the first one now that I've read the second, just to cement the differences in my head. Most of the things that stuck out to me are semantic - just a few things that I might put differently, and are more stylistic than anything else. But as I said, I shall have to mull over it.

[Jairus]

Well, while you're mulling, here's something I wrote today. The temporary title is "Tomorrow's Triple Set."

"Tomorrow's Triple Set"
   I have another round of injections tomorrow. My once a month triple set. Lot 70-11, biweekly. Lot 221-138B, monthly. A third one that I do not know because it is always a custom injection. A triple set means I spend the rest of the day reading or playing games or otherwise relaxing. Morvarian said he'd play a game with me, but sometimes they don't let him. He always lets me pick the game we're going to play.
   Injections are always at nine-fifteen, after breakfast and morning warmups. Usually, there is a five minute gap between each injection, with a two hour break after the set is completed. Those days were also slower than the others, mostly restricted to studying rather than physical or combat training.
   My reader is set to show off a reconstruction of the Battle of Thermopylae. I tap on the screen to zoom in on the sea battle, and focus on it. The path from my room to the testing room is right at the door, twenty-seven steps, left, thirty-three steps, right. After that, the recreation room is through the small side door. There are six other training rooms, not including the large gymnasium or the rooms designed for the base's personnel that my instructors comandeered on occasion. I end up seeing all of them over a seven day period. They try to mix the schedule up, but the pattern repeats every four weeks. Tomorrow was the beginning of a new "month," meaning I'd be in the martial arts room again the day after tomorrow. I move the map back over to the choke hold at Thermopylae in time to watch the allied forces hold off the Persian army.
   I pause the battle, and tap a few buttons to go over to a game of solitaire and start moving the cards around. The guards are well-trained, and they do not ask questions. The instructors and scientists are the ones in charge, though there seems to be no distinction between them. I finish the game and start a new one. This one I do not win, but I win the next one. Morvarian was the one who taught me solitair with a deck of cards from the rec room, and the one who programmed in a bunch of games into my reader to keep me amused when I had nothing else to do. My sparsely decorated room offers few distractions: the room is not designed to live in, only to sleep in. I have seen other rooms on rare occasions: they are well-decorated, or at least have a personal feel. I've already cleaned and tidied my room as a part of winding down for the evening. None of my instructors would find anything amiss with it.
   8:45. Lights out in 15 minutes. Morvarian comes in, smiling. I smile back. The reader isn't heavy enough to knock him out, and there's a guard outside my door. Hastur isn't so bad. He asks me how I'm feeling: he always asks. I have a light headache, and say so. It's not bad enough for medicine, and I say that too. He's still smiling as he talks to me about tomorrow and I get ready for bed. He tells me to sleep well as he turns off the lights and leaves me alone.
   The base isn't asleep: it never really sleeps. I can feel the air circulating from the air vents, the occasional hum from the distant generator. I cannot hear the voice of the guard outside: the walls are too well insulated for that. But they are there. And I cannot see them, but I know the cameras are watching me, waiting for me to fall asleep...
   It had taken a long time to eventually program the reader to override and loop the camera footage once I'd stopped moving for five minutes, giving me a whole night to work. My reader emits a beep from my desk, telling me the coast is clear. The multitool hidden just inside the air vent is easy to get to, and is all I could need to explore the base. Unlike most nights when I did this, I decide to actually get a full night's rest. Tomorrow is going to be a long day. Instead of exploring the base's ventilation system, I let my thoughts turn to the scientists who ran the project, and Morvarian in particular. Does he care, or is it an act? An old man opening up to one of his experiments, or another method of control? I want to believe he cares. I really want to. But I can't. I'm sorry, Morvarian. You just raised me too well.


Well, that was lovely and confusing. On that note, good night!

Red against Red, and
Blue against Blue. Dammit, this
Show is so funny.

[llearch n'n'daCorna]

That's a good start, there, Jubblies.

On a short story, that is - nothing more than novella sized. If you were to expand it out into a full story, you'd either need a lot more plot, or spread the bits out some more.

Having said that, it's well organised, and provides a LOT of information, but subtly. Things like: he's planned out precisely what goes on when. He has some way of telling what the time is. He can run both the battle and a game of solitaire. He's run the battle often enough to know precisely what happens when. Physical exercise is different to combat training. Etc etc etc.

lots of interesting details.

[Jairus]

I'm probably gonna end up rewriting this somewhat, but here we go anyway.

"Targets Eliminated" - Part 1

   The room had been dark for since morning. The air wasn't moving. The doors were all in quarantine lockdown. From their best reckoning, power hadn't been affected: the doors would unlock if all power was cut. But the central computers weren't responding, and the backups weren't answering hails either. Intercoms were down, radios were jammed. They were completely cut off, in every way possible. They might as well have been the last people in the base for all they could tell.
   There were five of them in there, scientists and guards trying to figure out some method of defeating the subject in question. The guards were armed, of course. A sealed locker had been opened and stripped of the automatic weapons they didn't normally carry. The scientists had taken up the guards' pistols, and were quickly and quietly explaining the capabilities of the subject: faster reaction time, slower to fatique, programmed reactions and reflexes... the whole range. They'd already figured out he was moving through the air vents: there were two such vents in the room, and each guard had a machine gun trained on a vent, waiting for a sign that the subject was coming.
   They didn't have to wait long. From the left vent one of the sharp-eared guards heard the sound of something moving in the ducts, something shuffling along. The three scientists went quiet, and carefully walked over to near the guard, training their guns on the vent. The shuffling gradually got louder and louder, until it was inside the room, just out of view of the room's occupants...
   "NOW!" Four guns fired into the vent, riddling the ceiling and the vent behind it with bulletholes. They only stopped firing when something red started dripping from the holes. The guard walked up to it, and put his fingers to it. He sniffed it, and came away with a puzzled expression.
   "Paint?"
   And at that moment, the five heard the sound of something rolling in the duct... from the other vent. Before they could fire, thick plumes of smoke poured out. "Gas!" one of them shouted as a warning. They all tried to cover their mouths, but it was too late. One by one, they succumbed to the nerve gas and collapsed paralyzed and unconscious. The thick clouds remained, the room now filled with smoke and illuminated by emergency lights that bathed it in a hellish red.
   A minute or two passed. The door opened, and a figure stepped into the room. The smoke started to clear, but the figure was already at work. It grabbed one of the pistols still held tight in the scientist's hand. She was about thirty, with brown hair and eyes. The figure fired one shot into her head, and then finished off the rest of the room's occupants.
   Another room down. Time to move on to the next one...

[Jairus]

Well, I've made a few edits (including length), and cleaned it up a lot. I think it flows better, but we'll see.

"Monthly Triple Set"

   I have another set of injections tomorrow, my monthly triple set. Lot 70-11, biweekly. Lot 221-138B, monthly. A third one that I do not know because it is always a custom injection. The injections are after morning warm-ups and breakfast, and then I will spend the rest of the day reading or playing games or otherwise relaxing. Morvarian said he'd play a game with me, but sometimes they don't let him. He always lets me pick the game we're going to play.
   My reader is set to show off a reconstruction of the Battle of Thermopylae. I tap on the screen to zoom in on the sea battle, and focus my attention on it. The testing room is two corridors over, next to the recreation room. There are six other training rooms, not including the large gymnasium or the rooms designed for the base's personnel that my instructors commandeered on occasion. I end up seeing all of them over a seven-day period, but they shuffle the schedule over a four week pattern. Tomorrow was the beginning of a new "month," meaning I would be in the gymnasium again the day after tomorrow. I move the map back over to the chokehold in time to watch the allied forces hold off the Persian army.
   I pause the battle, and tap a few buttons to go over to a game of solitaire and start moving the cards around. The guards are well trained, and they do not ask questions. The instructors and scientists are the ones in charge, though there seems to be no distinction between them. I finish the game and start a new one. I do not win this one, but I do win the next game. Morvarian taught me solitaire with a deck of cards, and he had programmed a handful of games into my reader to keep me amused when I had nothing else to do. My sparse room offers few distractions: it is designed to sleep in, not to live in. I have seen other rooms on rare occasions. I've already cleaned and tidied my room as a part of winding down for the evening. My instructors would find nothing amiss.
   20:45. Lights out in 15 minutes. Morvarian comes in, smiling. I smile back. The reader isn't heavy enough to knock him out, and there's a guard outside my door. He asks me how I'm feeling: he always asks. I have a light headache, and say so. It's not bad enough for medicine, and I say that too. He's still smiling as he talks to me about tomorrow and I get ready for bed. He tells me to sleep well as he turns off the lights and leaves me alone.
   The base never really sleeps. I can feel the cool air circulating from the vents, the occasional hum from the distant generators. The walls are too well insulated for me to hear the guards, but they are there. The cameras are watching me, waiting for me to fall asleep.
   I let my thoughts turn to the scientists, and Morvarian himself. Does he care, or is it an act? Is the old man opening up to one of his experiments, or is it just another method of control? I want to believe he cares. I really want to.
   But I can't.
   I'm sorry, Doctor. You raised me too well.


And Boxy, the idea behind this was to sort of get into my character's mind. But glad you liked it.

[Jairus]

Okay, time to post another short thing. This'll undoubtedly suffer editing shortly, but here it is. As for the title... I honestly do not know what I'm thinking. Probably one of those mid-war letters where a soldier's girlfriend tells him she's breaking up with him. Anyway...


"Dear John..."

   The sound of gunfire filled the air. A bomb exploded. Every now and then, someone screamed. Thick smoke filled the evening sky, the smell of ammunition and death a constant companion. Soldiers in suits of powered armor stomped through the streets, carrying guns no normal person could wield, turning them on their enemies and gradually pushing the opposing forces back. Every now and then, one of the rebels would get a lucky shot and bring one of the armored soldiers down, but the battle was not going well for the rebels. A lost cause battle was turning into a total rout.
   The fighting had moved away from this section of the war-torn city, and Corporal John Chambers allowed himself a moment's respite. The office building he chose was scorched and bomb-gutted, and parts of the upper floors had collapsed, but the bottom floor was still stable: a quick scan from his armor's network of sensors and scanners confirmed that. He located a quiet corner and crouched down, retracting his helmet's visor and viewscreen before turning his attention to a damaged servo on his armor's left leg. The servo didn't seem too bad, a minor inconvenience at most. He wasn't alone: a rebel lay next to him, lyring where John had shot him. He was dead, of course: his lightweight body armor hadn't been much help against John's machine gun. He had a small still working flashlight next to him, where he'd been trying to tune the radio that had been hit during John's burst of fire. There was probably a pocket group of rebels left somewhere on the block, and once he was done giving his armor the once over he'd hunt them down and call in the strike.
   His suit beeped an alarm: one lifesign detected, not far from there. John quietly sprang into action, lowering his visor and calling up the infrared scanner. It wasn't hard to find what he was looking for: a diffuse heat sign against the building's cool background. Not much of a signal, but there. And moving towards him.
   John's eyes followed whoever it was through the wall, their indistinct body heat moving slowly, like a soldier listening for the sound of his enemies. John's finger tightened on the trigger: the tiniest flex, and the gun would fire. They came closer... closer... almost there... he engaged his magnification function, zooming in on the target for the perfect shot just as they stepped around the corner...
   ... it was a kid, maybe twelve or thirteen years old, dressed in ragged dirty clothes. He was dirty, his eyes sunken in, and he shuffle listlessly as he walked, as if he couldn't even muster the energy to pick up his feet. A too-large beaten-up leather jacket was draped over his upper body, but a gunshot hole in the left sleeve showed off a bloody bandage where he'd been shot: he'd probably tied it himself, and the arm hung limp at his side. The boy saw the dead body first, and seemed to withdraw slightly. The screen's magnification picked up trails in the dirt on the boy's face where his tears had flowed when he'd been crying. And when he saw the soldier, the boy started shaking, his eyes filled with fear and pleading for mercy: he probably thought he was gonna get shot too.
   The soldier breathed a sigh of relief. Another refugee, probably orphaned during the rebel's terrorist attacks. Or, John thought with a twinge of guilt, maybe his parents were among the rebels, and he and his comrades had killed them. He lowered his rifle and lifted his free hand up to retract his helmet's visor. As his hand dropped he smiled at the kid and gestured at him.
   "Come on over here, kid, this place isn't safe. I'll get you out of here..."
   The boy relaxed a bit, and actually smiled... a tiny smile, but a smile nonetheless. He took a few cautious steps towards the soldier, as if he was unclear what would happen if he did. John gestured again, still smiling. Poor kid... look at him, shivering in fear...
   The boy shrugged, and the jacket slipped to the ground, revealing something metal in his left hand. John blinked, and found himself staring down the barrel of a pistol and deep into the eyes of a killer. The face was emotionless, flat... the warm little smile might never have existed.
   So fast... he hadn't even seen the arm move. And the eyes... he wouldn't have believed they were the same person.
   No time to raise his gun. No time to retract his visor. No time to react or do anything.
   A child soldier? It was his last thought.
   A bang of light and sound, and it ended.

[Ren Gaulen]

Another fine story, bro. I liked it. Makes me want to write something myself.

[Jairus]

Another fine story, bro. I liked it. Makes me want to write something myself.

Go for it, bro! I'll read it! Meanwhile, anything you notice that should be fixed?

[Jairus]

I was going to post part 3 of Targets Eliminated, but then realized I'd never posted part 2. So, here's the whole of Target Eliminated so far.


"Target Eliminated"
   The room had been dark for since morning. The air wasn't moving. The doors were all in quarantine lockdown. From their best reckoning, power hadn't been affected: the doors would unlock if all power was cut. But the central computers weren't responding, and the backups weren't answering hails either. Intercoms were down, radios were jammed. They were completely cut off, in every way possible. They might as well have been the last people in the base for all they could tell.
   There were five of them in there, scientists and guards trying to figure out some method of defeating Subject M37. The guards were armed, of course. A sealed locker had been opened and stripped of the automatic weapons they didn't normally carry. The scientists had taken up the guards' pistols, and were quickly and quietly explaining the capabilities of the subject: faster reaction time, slower to fatique, programmed reactions and reflexes... the whole range. They'd already figured out he was moving through the air vents: there were two such vents in the room, and each guard had a machine gun trained on a vent, waiting for a sign that the subject was coming.
   They didn't have to wait long. From the left vent one of the sharp-eared guards heard the sound of something moving in the ducts, something shuffling along. The three scientists went quiet, and carefully walked over to near the guard, training their guns on the vent. The shuffling gradually got louder and louder, until it was inside the room, just out of view of the room's occupants...
   "NOW!" Four guns fired into the vent, riddling the ceiling and the vent behind it with bulletholes. They only stopped firing when something red started dripping from the holes. The guard walked up to it, and put his fingers to it. He sniffed it, and came away with a puzzled expression.
   "Paint?"
   And at that moment, the five heard the sound of something rolling in the duct... from the other vent. Before they could fire, thick plumes of smoke poured out. "Gas!" one of them shouted as a warning. They all tried to cover their mouths, but it was too late. One by one, they succumbed to the nerve gas and collapsed paralyzed and unconscious. The thick clouds remained, the room now filled with smoke and illuminated by emergency lights that bathed it in a hellish red.
   A minute or two passed. The door opened, and a figure stepped into the room. The smoke started to clear, but the figure was already at work. It grabbed one of the pistols still held tight in the scientist's hand. She was about thirty, with brown hair and eyes. The figure fired one shot, and then finished off the rest of the room's occupants. Quick and accurate.
   Another room done. Time for the next one. These ones had learned fast: he'd have to attack the next room slightly differently...

...

   As it just so happened, slightly differently meant opening the next door down and spraying the inside with machine gun fire. He only hit one person, but he wasn't trying to kill them all... and inside, the room's occupants dove in different direction.
   He dove into the darkened room, armed only with a pistol and a combat knife. One of the guards was near him. The guards wore only light body armor: this one was no different. What would be carbon armor plating on a frontline soldier was lightweight bullet resistant material that offered no resistance to the knife's slash across the chest. The blade spun around in time to catch the guard across the throat as he doubles over in pain.
   The other guard almost had his gun trained on the target. The invader threw the knife at him: the knife wasn't designed to be thrown, and had little if any accuracy. The guard dodged it, and recovered in time to get shot three times in the chest, dropping him to the floor. The invader turned slightly to bring the researcher into sight, and fired three times. He dropped too.
   Next room...

...

   He didn't even bother with the shooting range. There were guards in there, trained too. No researchers, and a full arsenal of weapons. He used the same trick as he had for the earlier room, using duffel bags and foam sealant to seal off the air vents and setting one of his dwindling supply of nerve gas grenades to remote detonation. An hour of careful quiet work later, and the room's occupants were knocked out and vulnerable. Five minutes later, and it was on to the next room.

...

   The injection room. They'd been waiting for him there for his morning injections. Scott, McCallister, Yuy, Lester, Bern, and Indira would be there at the least: the others depended on which third injection he was getting this month, so there could be anywhere from seven to twelve people in the room beyond. Armed with at most two tranquilizer guns and two pistols from the small weapons locker in the corner. He had only three shots left in his pistol, but the room was loaded with lethal tools, and he could figure out how to use any of them...
   The door snapped open at his override command. His eyes took in the room at a glance. Scott, near the door, pistol. Indira, next to him, pistol also. Lester, by the injection table. McCallister, Bern, and Nogami by the computer terminal in the corner. Nogami was here: they were planning to give him Lot 3437 today. Yuy and Taylor to the side: their specialities were unsuited to fighting him, but they'd been given the tranquilizer guns. Eight of them. Red emergency lighting. Scattered trays of medical equipment.
   Two seconds had passed. They were reacting to his presence. Too late.
   One, two shots left him with only one bullet and left Scott and Indira dead on the floor. He was already in the room and heading towards Lester and the rack next to her. The third shot killed Yuy: unlike Taylor, he had had some training with firearms, and was the real threat of the two. The gun was empty, but not useless yet. His foot caught and kicked Scott's gun in the direction of the table in the middle of the room, never far ahead of him.
   He was next to Lester before Yuy hit the floor. His eyes caught a specific hypospray resting on the rack by the table: Lot 221-138B. He dodged Lester's arms and kicked at her knee from behind, toppling her to the ground. The butt of the gun slammed into her head, leaving her dazed. He grabbed the spray, turned around, and emptied it into her neck. At doses of 2 CCs or less, the drug acted as a steroid, enhancing muscle strength and efficiency. Anything more than 2 CCs was lethal. He had just injected five times the lethal dosage into the black-haired scientist. He spun back, grabbed the rack, and then tossed it hard at the trio in the corner as a method of distraction. After only a few seconds Lester was already spasming, rolling over to throw up something that just looked like a wet patch in the red light...
   Taylor fired a dart at him, but he was a terrible shot: the dart went past his head. The darts couldn't knock him out immediately, but they would slow him down. The subject brought his empty gun up in his hand, and threw it hard at Taylor as he grabbed the gun from the floor where he'd kicked it. Taylor ducked, and the subject shot him twice before he could recover. He then turned around, and fired repeatedly at the trio. When the gun clicked empty and the slide locked back, he lowered the weapon.
   He turned his attention back to Lester. Still spasming, and now with a horrible hacking cough. He walked over to Indira, picked up her gun, walked over to Lester, and fired once to put her out of her misery.
   He took a few moments to collect the spare cartridges and load his new pistol with a fresh magazine, and then stepped back out into the hall. He stared at the next door down: the recreation room. A few moments passed, and then he moved on. There were other rooms he could take care of before that one had to be dealt with...
   He seemed to walk slower now.


So, questions, comments, advice, help, pointers, notes... anything?

[llearch n'n'daCorna]

Just two.

"sebject M37" ?

And I do wonder if this is related to an earlier chunk about Monthly Triple Set...

[Pagan]

It is, Boxy. I'm just wondering why these armed guards are staying in rooms waiting to be picked off while there's a threat out in the halls that could be overwhelmed with numbers. But instead, he's got about an hour alone to mess with the A/C?

[Jairus]

Just two.

"sebject M37" ?

And I do wonder if this is related to an earlier chunk about Monthly Triple Set...

Bingo. And crud. Fixing.

It is, Boxy. I'm just wondering why these armed guards are staying in rooms waiting to be picked off while there's a threat out in the halls that could be overwhelmed with numbers. But instead, he's got about an hour alone to mess with the A/C?

Well, the ventilation system is shut down, the doors are all in quarantine lockdown, the central computer and backups aren't working, and the intercoms were all down. This was all kind of covered in the first paragraph, little bro. He's taken over the base, and is now wiping them all out.

[Ren Gaulen]

Wait, bro.. Did you write it last night?? Either way, it's quite impressive. Makes me want to see more of it.

[Jairus]

Wait, bro.. Did you write it last night?? Either way, it's quite impressive. Makes me want to see more of it.

I wrote "The injection room" through "He seemed to walk slower now" last night: the rest I've had for a few days, since I've kinda been working on this for a bit.

[Jairus]

Okay, part 4!

"Target Eliminated," part 4

   It had been early morning when he sealed the base, so the cafeteria would be filled with guards and scientists. He didn't even bother opening the door and trying anything fancy: the cafeteria's larger size meant that it took him two hours of careful work in the ducts to seal off the air vents from the rest of the base, and then set two of his last three gas grenades to go off by timer. The room's larger size meant that it was likely that a number of the people in there would manage to avoid inhaling the gas somehow. They were what the guns were for. And now he was standing outside one of the sets of doors into the cafeteria, wearing a gas mask and looking at the watch he'd stolen off of a guard earlier that day, waiting for the countdown to reach zero...
   As it was, he had a minute to go. Five minutes after it reached zero, he checked the seal on the mask, put the watch into his pocket, and hefted one of the guns. A tap from him, and the door opened into the smoky redness.
   Only a few people were still moving, improvised masks held over their faces, their eyes tearing up in the smoke. The difficult bit was making them out in the darkness and shifting smoke, but aside from that they went down fast.
   A bullet wizzed past his head, barely missing him. He ducked and rolled to the side, finding cover behind a table. It wasn't much cover, but he could see the guard's legs behind the table: he must have ducked down when the door opened. Too bad for him that the subject had a relatively clear shot on his legs across the bottoms of the tables. It took three shots, but he finally hit the soldier's right leg, sending him toppling and screaming. Another two shots, and he was dead.
   That one was good, the subject thought to himself.
   It took a few minutes, but eventually all of the room's occupants were dead.
   There weren't many rooms left, and the recreation room was starting to prey on his mind. He shook his head, and moved on.

Alright... questions, comments, advice, help, pointers, notes... anything?

[llearch n'n'daCorna]

I do have to wonder what's so bad about the rec room that he doesn't want to go there.

Other than that, I'm just waiting and seeing. ;-]

[Jairus]

And now to edit this and clean it up. Which is already under way, and shall be posted soon. In the meantime, here's the rest of it.

NOTE: Part of my editing and cleaning up of the previous sections was to give the subject a code-number: Mz-37.


"Target Eliminated", final part
   Hours passed. Rooms were cleared with surgical precision, their imprisoned occupants dead. He exhausted his supply of gas grenades long ago, restricting him to guns and knives and what resources were available to him. He was exhausted, his body suffering from hours of adrenaline rushes and fatigue and a dozen minor injuries he had acquired from his battles. He might have pulled a muscle in his right leg. At one point, a guard had actually managed to shoot him: the bulletproof vest he had stolen off of another guard had saved his life, but left him with a massive bruise on his upper chest, and possibly with a cracked rib, he wasn't sure. But it was over. Every room was cleared. Every base personnel accounted for. Except for one.
   And now, Mz-37 stood before the rec room again.
   It was almost over.
   His hand hesitated over the door control panel, and then tapped it. The door slid open. He stepped through into the rec room.
...
   The rec room, as it happened, had a number of battery powered lights, giving it a few patches of white light among the red emergency lighting. The lights didn't really help: there were only a handful of them. Familiar toys and amusements became shadowy nightmares in the dim light, dead terminal screens and readers glaring red from strange angles. The room's sole denizen sat on a stool at the table in the middle of the room, where most of the lights had been gathered. He was middle-aged, strands of gray hair multiplying on his head and heavy lines on his face from premature aging. He was halfway through a game of one-card Klondike solitaire, when he heard the sound of the door opening behind him.
   Mz-37 was behind him. He knew it without even looking. He kept flipping and stacking cards. The two waited in silence for a moment...
   "Doctor."
   "Zed."
   "Still calling me that?"
   "Mz-37 is so... impersonal. I guess everyone deserves a name, Zed." He changed the subject. "They're all dead." It wasn't a question.
   "Yes."
   Doctor Morvarian set his last card down and turned around on the stool to face Zed.
   Mz-37 was no older than eight. He was thin and wiry, short-cut black hair on his head and mismatched green and blue eyes that were barely distinguishable from each other in the light. He had a cut over his left eye, and his simple clothes were torn and damaged from fighting and coated in a layer of dust from the deeper parts of the ducts. His right hand firmly gripped a pistol, and the gun had a wet gleam on it, probably from someone's blood. Zed had been through hell. And today was no different.
   "You're here to kill me too, I suppose?"
   "Yes."
   The old man smiled, not much, but a little. Memories of games and playtime and Zed's occasional bouts of curiosity flowed through his mind, but so did the experiments and the training and everything that they - himself included - had done to him.
   He shook his head slowly.
   "For what it's worth, I'm sorry, Zed. We trained you too well."
   The gun came up, Zed's left hand wrapping around his right to give it stability. His face spoke of absolute certainty, but Morvarian could see the tears building up in Zed's eyes.
   "Close your eyes."
   Morvarian did.
   Zed's finger squeezed.
   A brief flash of light and sound filled the room.
   Morvarian slumped forward and fell off his stool. He hit the ground with the finality of a vase shattering.
   The gun's barrel jittered, shaking from his adrenaline rush. The gun fell from the boy's lifeless hands, clattering on the floor. It glared up at him in the red light, but a gun was a weapon, a tool, nothing more: it could do nothing to him. It could do nothing without him. Zed slumped forward and dropped to his knees in front of the old man. Morvarian's blood flowed around his fingers as his shoulders began to shake.
   Quietly, in the lonely red and darkness of a dead base, the little boy cried.


EDIT: Changed the wording of the last sentence slightly.

[llearch n'n'daCorna]

Nice.

I like the twist at the end - Subject 37 is younger than I expected. Much younger...

[Pagan]

Well, at least Test Subject MZ-37 is slightly human. He isn't fully dead inside.

[Jairus]

This is just something I wrote tonight.

"What Love Is..."

   I think I know what love is now.
   I didn't know before. I never really realized it. That's the thing. I don't think anyone does at first. We're told what love is, that we'll know it when we see it. And so we're told fairy tales of love at first sight, and shown movies where we know the two leads will be together by the end of the movie because that's just how love works. But ask someone what love is, and I think you'll get one of two answers. The first is some general answer about a deep soul connection or something like that, repeating back what we've been told love is. I think the ones who give this answer are the ones who haven't yet realized what love really is yet. And maybe they believe it, and maybe they're right. But there's still something missing...
   It's the second answer that's the most interesting. The second type of answer is when you get something personal, some tiny aspect of what the person thinks love is. This description is born from some little moment where a person finally "gets" love. Maybe it was waking up next to a friend after a long night of love. Maybe it was playing a round of Halo with someone. Maybe it was the moment they realize how empty their life would be if that one person would have never been there. I don't know. And maybe I'm wrong. Maybe we always know what love is, and it just takes some random moment for us to realize what we've always known.
   But I don't think love is a purely biological thing, a side-effect of evolution that helps ensure the continued procreation of the species. I don't think I ever really believed it. I mean, yeah, that's part of it. And I think the Greeks had the right idea, with their concept of five types of love, ranging from erotic to the feelings between friends, but all still a kind of love.
   But I'm getting off topic. The point is, I think I know what love is. But I can't put it into words. It's something like how no matter how annoying you find someone, you still love them. Which doesn't tell you much about love, I guess. And it's the strangest thing how I came to realize it. I'll try to explain.
   I've been having strange dreams for a week. I dreamed about a house slowly getting smaller every time I left and came back. I dreamed I was talking to Cthulhu, who was wearing a tweed jacket. I dreamed about a room with white walls that had "You can say Orca!" painted on the wall in blood-red paint. And in one of those dreams, my dog was dead.
   This is nothing new for me. He's an old greying Dachshund. He's slowing down. He's had a bad back for years. He's thrown it out three times, and every time it happens he manages to drag himself back up. It's amazing, really, that he's lasted so long. But still, one of these days it's gonna finish him off.
   He's a pain in the neck, he really is. Imagine an old guy yelling at kids to get off of his lawn, except he's a dachshund with an almost completely grey muzzle, and you've basically got his personality down pat. And when he's not barking at random people on the sidewalk or chasing squirrels and birds - well, trying to chase squirrels and birds - he's finding a comfortable place to lie down and take a nap. Again, he's a pain in the neck. It's just the way he is, like a car with a broken radio that doesn't bug you anymore because you've gotten used to it and now don't even listen to the radio when you're in a car where the radio works.
   But in that dream, he was gone. And it was hard. And it's hard thinking about it now. I know he's just a dog, but I've known him for almost twelve years now. I was in grade school when we first got him, and he was a puppy that you could easily hold in both hands. The first time I saw him, I thought a rat had gotten loose in the house. He used to sleep in my bed, curled up under my blankets to keep warm. And no matter how much he bugs me or aggravates me, seeing him curled up on a blanket makes it all just kinda fade away.
   And love's kinda like that, I think. Sure, your family bugs you, but you love them. And you bug them back, but they love you. And you and your friends all have these little foibles that annoy you all, but you're still friends. When it comes to love, it's the annoying little details that seem to mean the most, silly as that sounds. It's those annoying little details that are a part of who you are, and if someone can't love you because of those annoying little details, maybe they aren't worth it. That's love. And in a way, I've known that the whole time.
   Dammit, I love that stupid dog.