AWKWARD ZOMBIE

Excerpt from Dr. Decou

Mickey stepped out of the elevator into a dark hallway. The sensors picked up his body heat and softly brought the lights up to a navigable brightness. Following Jake’s directions he walked down the hallway towards the first cluster server. The doorway on the right slid aside as he activated the contact.

Decou breathed sharply as he stepped into the chill air. The environmental controls were almost set to snowfall simulation. The doctor’s breath seemed to freeze in front of him rather than form vapor. One look at the server indicated why. It was eight clusters. Four on top of four; each cluster a block of pro-chips fused together around an aluminum metal frame. The chips were in a poor state. The crystalline surfaces were stained a murky brown color, a clear sign that the integrated heat conduction material was worn out. The climate controls were evidently a stopgap measure to cool the server.

The solution had evidently failed as an eighth, one whole cluster, of the server was a deep black color. Apparently the heat conduction had completely burned out and taken the processing with it. Imbedded dye indicators made the failure evident. There might be a few salvageable chips, but for now manually separating the burned out cluster would let the rest work. Decou pulled out the electric knife and got to work.

Five minutes of sure handed work left the burned out processors disconnected. Mickey hit the contact on the BIOS chip and watched as the server recognized its new seven cluster setup. Interrupting it, Decou set it to slowly reconfigure the connections. If it tried to run at full speed it would only manage to kill a few more clusters. Decou pocketed the knife and headed out the door, relishing the warm air outside the server room.

Figuring that the first server would take some time, Mickey walked down the corridor to the room at the end of the hall, the location of the second server. It was working according to Jake, but it might easily be on the verge of failure like the first and he did not relish returning to the building anytime soon. Decou stepped into darkness.

He made it a few feet into the room, allowing the door to close behind him, before he realized that the sensors were not being slow with the lights. They simply were not picking him up. The doctor had only started to turn towards the manual switch when he heard footsteps in front of him, soft even for foam carpet. The sensors picked up the sudden motion and finally brought the lights to full. Mickey got to hear the assailant before seeing him and got to see him before sensing him.

The darkly clothed figure moved in for the kill, throwing out an arm to strike at Mickey’s neck. Decou deftly blocked it only to wince at the impact. Another hand followed the first and gripped his neck like a vice; the attacker’s momentum carried Decou into the tool closet’s door behind him. He was pinned several feet above the floor, held by a hand that seemed more like a noose of steel cable. Fighting back, the doctor threw kicks at floating ribs and scratched at his enemy’s eyes, to no avail. Mickey’s left hand stayed occupied with his opponent’s chokehold. His right soon was occupied by a wrenching twist. The brute had tired of being attacked and seemed intent on ripping the arm out of his socket. All the while the villain leaned into the assault.

His vision swimming, Decou could not be sure if his neck would snap, throat close, or jugular fail first. Higher brain functions would soon follow. With seconds to act, the Psi-Kologist ignored the physical and started focusing on the turbulent roar he now realized was this monster’s mind. Despite the now successful connection, the psyche remained unreadable. The telepath now had two choices. Try to decipher the mind and pinpoint weakness, or just hit it.

The doctor turned fighter struck at every pain center in the human body while sending a nerve shock through the arms of the monstrosity. Barely able to see, Decou hit the floor as his attacker jumped backwards as if burned. Mickey allowed himself one long, painful breath and then reached into his coat pocket for the electric knife. He had it on before he could think about its effectiveness and lunged at the dark figure swimming in his vision. Swinging wildly he made contact. The knife would have difficulty killing anything, its design allowing it to cut metals well and tissue badly. Even so, Decou made sure that the knife landed again and again. A foul smell filled the air as some element of the enemy was burned by the electronic disruption.

With a start, Mickey realized he was on his back. The mystery assailant had pushed him away and ran out the door. Decou allowed himself some relief at the absence of the creature’s mental signature, but clamped down and struggled to his feet upon realizing that its psychic absence had been what allowed it to sneak up on him. Gripping his knife, he waited in the dimly lit room for a follow up.

After fifteen minutes of labored breathing, the bruised psychic allowed himself the luxury of walking out the door into the unknown. He stumbled to the lift and began picking up Jake’s signature. He was alright and had apparently not noticed a thing. Good. Decou walked down the hall, looking for a way to leave without Jake noticing. He did not need to be involved.

Decou hit the contact on his door and walked carefully into his office, maintaining a rigid posture. Bending hurt. Twisting hurt. Breathing hurt. That monstrosity had bruised everything it had gotten its hands on and that meant that everything connected to Mickey’s neck, i.e. everything, hurt. He sat down at his desk with a glass of the bubbly stuff and a bottle of pain pills. Non-narcotic by necessity. He had phone calls to make.

“Phone…General Tueliana.” daisies. Talking hurt. He would need to use the keyboard for a while. Provided that was a strain in his wrist and not a break. Maybe he should have stopped by a doctor’s office. The connection screen turned green and gave way to the General’s face.

“Holy Fuck, Mickey. What happened to you?” The General’s almost red skinned face glowed with genuine curiosity. Mickey was breathing, so concern went right out the window.

“Tell me, General,” croaked Decou, rubbing his bruised throat. “What’s human-sized, human-shaped, single-minded, and capable of getting past my senses?”

“I don’t know, what?”

“I’m not being cute.” Mickey could tire of this dance real quickly. “Which one of the military’s freaks hit me?”

“I don’t think of you as cute. My son thinks you’re cute. I’m being serious. I’m in the dark here, but I assume this is supposed to be my fault. You wouldn’t call me otherwise.” The General’s face showed the slightest hint of concern. His prominent white eyebrows were just slightly inclined. “Android?”

“No, it fuzzed up my powers passively. I managed to get him off me with some work.” Decou would have felt pride, save that he was now legitimately concerned that his throat was swelling shut. “He’s as strong as some droids I’ve encountered, but he’s human. Or at least biological. The beating he delivered may be coloring my assessment.”

“What makes you think I had anything to do with it?”

“Are you not still Division Chief of Genetic Butchery?”

“You’d think you’d piss me off less when you can’t read my mind, but there it is. That infamous charm.”

Decou shifted gears. The General clearly didn’t have a hand in this. It was unlikely from the start, but he could still be of some use. “Sorry. Rough day. You are the expert on abominations.” The General took well to praise, if it could be called that.

“You’re thinking Super Soldier? Give me the specs.” Tueliana was a scientist, and hence a nerd, at heart. He would trade is least favorite son for some data.

“Strength is definitely above human norms. Could have been a weightlifter, but he was remarkably small for someone who could probably bench half a ton. Skilled, too. I landed maybe half of what I threw at him. He used his advantage well. He went straight for my neck. His pulse was just about unreadable. Like a jackhammer. But he didn’t sweat or flush, like it wasn’t an exertion. Had a grip like a vice, I swear his bones are made of something stronger than what I’ve got. Skin like leather. I think my fingernails just filed themselves on his face. His mind was all over the place. He didn’t pick up till he was ten feet in front of me and I was looking at him. Couldn’t read his mind till after he had me against the wall and even then it was difficult, like he was protected by some Psitech, but no feedback like I’d expect. No white noise. What I got out of him was almost primal.” Decou stopped. He had more, but the general was fit to burst.

“I’ve got some theories, but the only one that would qualify is the V.E.M.” The General looked thoughtful. Thoughtful was good for Mickey.

“Why him and not one of the others? I know you have more than one way to make a human not so.”

“If you figure he’s not using tech and is still able to get out of your voodoo, then it’s biological shielding. As well as super human strength? Durability suggesting stronger than usual tissues? Only one rogue project involving such a wide number of tricks running around, unaccounted for. That’s V.E.M.”

Decou sighed, “Standing for…”

“Virus Enhanced Mutatant.”

“That as nasty as it sounds?”

“Evolution in a can. Brilliant in that they didn’t have to work terribly hard to make him as strong as he is. He’s been altered to be susceptible to radiation, chemicals, and household viruses. His genetic code was snipped in places to allow for molding.

“I follow so far, but he sounds like a walking tumor.”

The geneticist tapped the screen to make a point. “He would be, except for the virus.” The General looked almost proud. Maybe one of his after all, but then he always took pride in what his colleagues accomplished in his field. “Cancer targeting. Itself evolving. In constant combat with his own immune system.”

Revelation dawned on Decou. “Targeting any cells in his body which become hosts to unwanted genetic traits. And once you’ve removed all the unwanted mutations…”

“…only the good remains. Sharp as ever Mickey. He mutates. New abilities and diseases develop. Keep the uber and lose the crap. The virus is broad targeting, but goes after cancers and disruptive cells like nothing else. Inflicts change and harvests it.”

Decou took this new development into consideration. “You mean he’s going to get stronger?”

“Undoubtedly.”

Decou took a long drink of the soda water, sat, and breathed for a minute. Still ached. He took a look at the general, trying to wipe that shit-eating grin off his face by letting him see how hurt he was. “Is he yours?”

The general marshaled his facial expression, trying almost comically to emphasize how innocent he was. “No. The project was classified up through the highest levels. Obviously illegal. I was working on better algae blooms when that monster was built. They cleaned house with the new administration and the scientists working on him were arrested. Their handlers were executed as quietly as possible.”

Decou paused at the glaring anomaly before him. “You’re being remarkably open about this so-called classified project. Not looking for a promotion?”

“Please.” Tueliana snorted. “You’ll never be worth a pay raise. The project was declassified six months after it was reported missing. In the rush to clean up the mess and silence the handlers, the new administration lost any chance of finding where it was being kept. Declassification allows us to tell anyone about it at our discretion. They want it found before it does loud and obnoxious murder upon a large crowd in the middle of Times Square. We aren’t supposed to release its specs, just a description. Most people just get told it’s an AWOL soldier with an unspecified mental illness. You qualify as smart enough to be trusted.”

“What’s the price on his head?” Decou gritted his teeth through pain, real and present, as well as imaginary and forthcoming. This was going to be a real hassle, but he would make it pay off.

“I take it back. You’re not smart enough to be trusted. Leave it to someone else. You are not an officer of the military or the law. You are not armed. You are not trained. We will get it.” The general’s white mustache hid his mouth, but accentuated his frown.

Decou was not daunted. “I didn’t stumble onto the daisies thing. It came after me. Waited for me. Is it programmed to kill psychics?”

Tueliana sighed. “No.”

“Then it was sent. I might as well bring you back the head. I need more info so when it comes I’m ready. Does it have a mind anymore?”

“Yes. How modified it is remains to be seen. Your inability to affect it may be the result of it degrading into a primal, animal state or it may be an adaptation to resist telepaths specifically.” Decou stood up and began stretching. He needed to find out what was functioning and what was not. There was a good chance he would not make it to the doctor’s office before it attacked again.

“I don’t suppose asking you to stay home will work?” The general looked resigned.

“By all means, kill or catch it before I do. I just don’t trust your superiors to save me. The price?”

“Two and a half million alive and quiet. Two million alive and noisy. One million dead and quiet. Half a million if you kill it in front of a camera.” The general knew the numbers too well to not have resigned himself at the beginning of this call. “You don’t get paid if you’re dead.” Mickey nodded silently and ended the call. Pscyhics were not prophets, but he knew pain lay in the future.

Poem I wrote on the spot for English today; it's called "Rising Storm"



Yep.

ALRIGHT YOU GUYS, IT'S TIME FOR

THAT STORY I'VE BEEN WRITING AND TELLING YOU GUYS ABOUT

_____________________________________________________________________

My Baby


Teratomas are a bizarre form of tumor famous for having whole body structures grow inside them. Some have hair or parts of organs, while some have incredibly complicated parts such as hands, eyes and even developing fetuses. Some people think them disgusting and unnatural. But I like them, I like them a lot. So it was fortunate that I had one. I had my baby.

It was in my ovaries, as most teratomas in women are and thankfully (I suppose) benign. My life was fairly bland before my baby. I lived alone, had a boring job but a nice apartment I suppose. Well people told me it was a nice apartment, but what they meant was that the apartment was nice before I lived there. I'm a bit of a connoisseur for things in jars, and I consider it to be perfectly fine décor, though most seem to disagree with me.

I had a lot of questions for my doctor when they found it. “Will you have to remove it?” “Has it compromised my health at all?” “What's it made out of?” But my most persistent question was “What will it look like?” He told me that they didn't have to remove it, but that it would be better off for my health in the long run if it was cut out. He had no answer for my most important question other than “We can't tell until it's out.”

I was excited. I had this thing growing in me, something that I had studied for years but was finally happening to me. I was having my baby. Sure, not a human baby, but who wants those anyway? They just drain your resources until they grow up to be the kind of people who judge other people who have organisms in jars on their shelves. I wasn't having a baby. I was having my baby.

Several days before the operation I got to talk to my surgeon. He was nice enough but he asked too many questions. What kind of conditions I'd been living in, if I ever felt that maybe the teratoma (my baby) had caused some of my health problems, what kinds of food I ate. It was mostly because teratomas have never been studied in depth and that all cases are heavily questioned. After the interview I quietly slipped him one hundred dollars and asked him to put it in a jar once they removed it. He gave me an odd look, so I gave him another fifty and walked away. A few days later, after the surgery was over, he handed me a paper bag. It was heavy; I knew what was in there.

Dear god it was beauyifful. I'm honestly glad my doctor couldn't tell me what it'd look like, because it would've taken all the shock and awe away from when I first lifted the paper bag off of the jar to see it. To see my baby. It was the most amazing thing I have ever seen, and the most amazing thing that I ever will. It had (has) one eye that didn't (doesn't) quite look me straight on and a single row of 7 teeth, aligned ever so slightly crooked. A tiny hand poked (pokes) out of its side, almost wiggling enough to be waving hello. That's it. That's my baby.

I put it right on my bed stand. I wanted (want) to wake up every morning to see my baby; that's the way parents feel, right? Besides, I didn't (don't) want any prying eyes watching it. My baby deserves to be spared the judgement of the other things on my shelves, the disappointed little shakes of the head and the faces scrunched up in disgust. No one's come to the apartment since my baby came home, so it hasn't been a worry yet, but you can never know. The first couple of nights home with my baby I would just lay in bed for hours watching it before I fell asleep. It's interesting to have a baby who doesn't need to sleep. It shows how strong my baby is, but it makes me worry for it. It should really get to sleep some time.

It's a fast learner, my baby. It only took it two weeks to learn how to make noise. I know most babies know how to do that from the beginning, they even come out crying, but my baby is obviously at a bit of a disadvantage. I was woken up at 3 AM by it, but of course I was able to soothe it easily. I'm it's mother and it's my baby. Crying is not a thing needed to be done for long when Mommy's around. I cuddled it as close to me as I could, but the glass of the jar was still in between us. I called in to take maternity leave the next morning. They've left 7 messages on my phone, but I've never checked them. Maybe when my baby gets older. Parenting is hard work.

It only took it a month to start talking. My baby sure outdid (outdoes) other babies with that. It of course started with the simple things, like “Mommy”. It didn't need to learn it in the way that most babies do. Most babies need to learn it to call to their mothers when they're not near them and they need help. Not my baby. I'm always there for it, no matter what happens. I don't eat much, but I'm not really hungry all that often either. Taking care of my baby is a full time job that even my body understands takes priority over everything else. But even if it didn't, it wouldn't matter. I would still make sure it always came first.

The second word it learned was “out”, and for awhile it was all it could say. “Out, Mommy, out out out out, Mommy, out out out.” It took me awhile to understand, but eventually I did. It wanted out. Out of the jar. And who am I to deny my baby what it wants? I dumped the formaldehyde on the floor and my settled my baby into my arms. It was there now, my baby. There with me.

Next it learned “hungry”. This didn't take long at all to figure out; my baby hadn't eaten since I had taken it home and was hungry. I had no baby food, but I tried to make some. I mashed up some peas but it wouldn't eat them. I figured my baby is simply a baby and put it to my breast. It stopped saying “hungry”.

Two days ago it learned “sleep”. I don't know what it means, and that feels terrible. Not understanding what your own baby, what my own baby wants is the worst feeling in the world. It hasn't learned to walk yet, and that worries me. Babies are supposed to learn to walk before they can talk. Wait, no. We're talking about my baby. My baby's special, beauyifful, unique. It's saying it right now. “Sleep, Mommy, sleep. Sleep sleep sleep sleep sleep SLEEP SLEEP SLEEP SLEEP SLEEP SLEEP SLEEP SLEEP.” I don't think it's talking about me, I've slept a lot the past few days, more than I should even. I'm very thin, and not much milk is coming out of me for my baby anymore. Maybe this is like the “hungry”...oh.

Oh my baby. I'm so sorry, honey. Oh my baby I'm so sorry. I get it now. You never sleep anymore, you can't sleep anymore, ever since they cut you out of me. That's why you can't walk yet. Yes, my baby. Sleep. Come here. Yes that's right, don't worry. You can sleep now.

ew

Acghack..! Dusty this topic has become.
I'm currently putting together an article to submit to Cracked's workshop. It's list based and hate fueled, so it has a chance. Got a very rough draft started, but it's going to need a lot of organization. Part of the hate fueling means repetition can become an issue. I should probably refer to the readers as "fuckers" less than three times in the article. I have four things in my list, but I feel like I need a fifth. I could swear I had a fifth, but I'll be damned if I can remember what it is. I don't want to force it, but if I wander about the internet long enough I think the fifth thing will hit me in the back of the head. It's sort of what the whole article is about.

Lists are terrible.

It's sort of the format they pay for.

Cracked pay?

Huh. This thread gets revived as soon as I start thinking about starting on my minecraft adventure-horror/lore story again. Coincidences, etc. TEXTWALL INCOMING

Basically it's a story based on the forces of minecraft more than the game itself, especially the End and Nether. The story itself takes place in a kingdom (the server we played in to get a feel for it was based on medieval knights and such) that was recently wiped out and conquered by an opposing nation. Our protagonists, a knight of said kingdom (my friend) and a magus of the council (my character) narrowly evade one of the enemy nation's (haven't thought of a name yet) raiding parties by escaping through a mountain tunnel. It collapses behind them and they end up in an abandoned temple/monastery built into the mountain. The main attractions are the grand foyer, which branches off into the main place of worship and the monk's quarters, the Librarium, a labyrinth of bookshelves, and the Mage's Sanctum, a small alcove with an immovable obsidian table that radiates an.. impure energy (enchanting table), and seems to draw power from the books around it. After closer inspection, Maro (the mage/my character) falls into a lower chamber, drastically different from the temple above. It appeared to be a portal ritual site, but the archway of obsidian was broken, chipped in a place, with a quick note attached to it: "not worth it". The cauldrons were drained, and the brewing station was fractured slightly. Maro searched around, and would find an obsidian chip. Slipping it into the crack in the portal, it burst into material, a swirling purple vortex, and sucked Maro straight through. What he saw was the Nether. A hellish place full of damned and lost souls alike. The living who stayed too long in the Nether took the form of upright anthropomorphous pigs that looked half dead and carried swords. Those who were evil in life took the form of the various hostile creatures in the Nether. Those who were damned wrongly became the "Soul Sand", those who merely died became the "Netherrack". It takes only one glimpse of this nightmare zone for Maro to force himself back through the portal. He told Drine (the knight) about his experience, and they both explored the Nether as a group. When they returned, however, something was different about Drine. He seemed to be more driven, determined. As Maro went to bed, Drine returned to the Nether, searching for something. But what that was he didn't know. He returned, disappointed, as Maro was now tirelessly searching the Librarium for some clues as to the place. As luck would have it, he found nothing legible. What was interesting was that the runes used in the books were of the Olden language. Nearly every one was printed in these runes, and only a few were printed in the Newerth language. After a few days of searching, Maro concluded there was no way he could read them. Drine headed out to the nearby village, untouched by the war thanks to the mountain range surrounding it, and the jungle that lies just behind the mountains, to search for a book of translation. He figured the local church or chapel would have one, and he was right. On his way back, he met a ranger named Xelasi, who expressed interest in the monastery of the mountain as well. While Drine was gone, Maro was able to figure out that the magic binding the portal to the Nether was the same as the magic that gave the obsidian table its power. After receiving the translation book, Maro worked hard to find the source of this magic. Eventually he discovered a series of books about something known as "The Ender", the force that gives its power to the magic of the portal and table. Upon further reading, he discovers that the monastery was only an outer guise for the sinister workings going on behind the scenes. This was the home of an Ender Cult dedicated to ascending to the highest point and joining their lord and deity, who takes the form of a massive dragon, in the only dimension capable of supporting his immense power: the End. As Xelasi returns from her duties as a Ranger and goes to the quarters to rest, and as Maro plumbs the depths of the Librarium, Drine exits the Monastery and adventures out on his own. During the night, he encounters a tall, thin creature that is completely black except for purple glowing eyes, and radiates the same ominous energy that the obsidian table does. The creature attacks, and Drine slays it out of self-defense, retrieving a mysterious orb that also pulsates with Ender magic. He returns to the monastery slightly sick and dizzy, and leaves the orb with Maro to research. He soon discovers that the orb is a physical manifestation of pure Ender, and deduces that it can be used offensively. Furthermore, his research shows that the Ender is a latent force of teleportation and movement, as evidenced by the portal, the "Ender man"'s teleporting ability, and the previously discovered ability of the obsidian table to imbue items with new powers, with knowledge absorbed from the books in the Mage's Sanctum. After the encounter with the Enderman, Drine starts to spiral downwards out of his sanity, albeit slowly. His determination to find the source of the anguish and madness slowly overtaking him drives him to return to the Nether with the Ender Pearl. The pearl's magic leads him to instinctively find the Nether Keep and slay the monsters that dwell within; netting him the flaming powder that will fuse with the Ender Pearl to become an Eye of Ender. At this point, Drine is hopelessly lost to the Ender, but this is unbeknownst to Maro or Xelasi. He returns, triumphantly, and is noticeably darker (in aura, not in appearance) than usual. Maro notices the Eye of Ender and recognizes it as the guide to the Cult's ultimate goal of ascending to the End. Maro fights with Drine, but the physically stronger knight overpowers the weaker mage and would have killed him if not for a small glint of humanity left within him, shown through his refraining from slaying Maro. He leaves the monastery, and Xelasi tries to give chase, but Maro stops her, saying "It's too late for him". She doesn't care, and leaves to pursue him in hopes of bringing him back into the light. Maro is left alone at the monastery, and he does what he does best: research. He discovers a worn, dusy old journal not previously seen that describes the last moments of one of the cultists of the monastery. It details that upon discovery of the Nether, more than half of the cultists turned away from their cause, thinking that this was the End. Those who knew, however, stayed, while the rest were cast into the Nether to burn for their betrayal. These became the Zombie Pigmen after ages of torment in the unliving realm. The cultists who stayed, including the author of the journal, continued their work towards the ultimate ascension. However, there was a point where the author (noted only as "AN" (spoiler alert they stand for Arturius Nowell, who plays a big part in the sequel thing) began to doubt their cause as many of the other cultists started to go insane from prolonged exposure to the Ender magic. "AN" started staying out of the rituals, but was left alone for whatever reason; perhaps it was the fact he had already helped them so far along that now his participation doesn't matter. At any rate, the journal entries stop after "AN" describes the other cultists having attacked him, and left him to die as they continued on their journey to the ascension. After the journal entries stopped, Maro flipped the pages back, and at the end of the book he noticed writing on the backs of the pages. He flipped to them and noticed that Drine had been keeping records of his adventures. Determined to keep Drine's memory alive, Maro starts writing a memoir of their adventures here, also thinking it would serve as a decent warning to any who would try and pursue the Ender magic.

It would be told through Maro's perspective, but the narrative focuses more on Drine's experiences with the Ender magic. In a way, this would also be a lore book, explaining the forces behind the world of Minecraft. I think it would be the first ever lore book to be made for Minecraft, so it should be suitably unique. Ideas, thoughts, comments?

*Fun fact, I started writing this post at 2am, then went to sleep halfway through writing it.

Had a good idea for something to write, figured the best way to make sure I remembered it was to put it in public.

Six:

"Three for the raiders who made them slaves,"

Johnson could ignore this much. His daughter was fond of limericks and rhyming songs. She'd found a new one to sing, thats all. She didn't really know what she was singing about, after all. The war had ended before she was born.

"Two for the rich men that took her away,"

Johnson didn't know where this song came from, but its not hard to guess. Some old slave song, for sure. Probable she heard it from the black children in town and thought it sounded nice, not knowing it was about some slave having his wife sold.

"One for the Master who put him in his grave."

At this, Johnson got up and stomped down to her room. Anna was leaning against a wall, looking out her window and still humming the tune of that song. Johnson removed his hat and shook it at her.

"I won't have you singing about death in this house, miss, 'specially not where the neighbors can hear. I don't need you spooking any of our customers."

Abraham Johnson had moved into town after the end of the war. Ever since the slaves had been freed he hadn't been able to afford to tend his fields anymore. Some of his compatriots had taken up share-cropping, but Johnson's reputation had prevented him from capitalizing on that opportunity. None of the blacks wanted to be anywhere near him. So he'd taken his fortune and opened up a general store in Savannah. It took a bit more numbers work than the cotton trade had, but it paid well enough.

"Sorry Pa," his daughter mumbled back. He'd taught his children well enough to know they should never question him. A good belting took the fight right out of them.

"You can go find your mama's book of christmas carols if you want to sing something. It's almost that season anyway."

"I can't find it though, Pa."

Johnson sighed and rubbed his wrinkling forehead. He was getting too old do everything for his kids.

"I'll ask your mother."

Johnson left his daughters room, heading from the kitchen. He walked down the poorly wallpapered hallways, each hole in the beige print covered with a photograph or painting of an ancestor. An especially large hole was covered with the portrait of Johnson's father, staring ever-vigilantly to the left, towards the kitchen door. Johnson followed the eternal gaze of his father and found his wife still cleaning the dishes from dinner.

"Where are you keeping that old books of Christmas songs, girl? Anna's been singing some slave song again."

Johnson's wife put the plate she was working on down and sighed. Johnson got the feeling he was in for a story.

"Was it the one about the Six?"

Johnson went through the numbers in his head. Three for the raiders, two for the rich men, one for the master...that did make six after all.

"Yes it was," Johnson hummed. His wife shook her head.

"There were blacks singing that song all up and down the town today. Couldn't find a street corner that didn't have one of them chanting it."

"I should go to the sheriff about this, I swear, they've got to be up to something, those-"

He stopped. There were footsteps on his porch. He wasn't expecting any visitors. He waited for a knock on the door. None came. Johnson did hear a bit of fumbling. Like somebody was fiddling with the broom he kept on his porch. He swore under his breath and stormed towards the front door, ready to let whatever fool was stealing from him have it. He slammed the door open, hoping to catch the would-be thief in the act.

There was no thief. But somebody was using his broom, sweeping it back and forth in short strokes against the dusty boards of the porch. All Johnson could see was the strangers back. Brown overalls covered most of a tattered white shirt, with thick sleeves and a high collar. What the collar didn't obscure, a wide-brimmed hat did. Johnson grabbed his shotgun from it's perch by the door and pointed it at the stranger using his broom.

"What are you doing here, boy?"

"I work for you," the stranger mumbled. A low voice, but slow and ponderous with a thick accent. Had to be a black. Johnson raised his gun.

"I don't hire anybody," He said. "Now put my broom down and get off my porch before I shoot."

"That's what you said, though, Master," The stranger said. Then he turned around. Johnson's gun clattered to the ground.

"I work for you 'til Death pull me from this world, you say," the stranger shouted, his bared, ivory teeth clattering together loudly. "Death ain't pulled me quite yet!"

He had no face. Bleached bones reflected the waning light of the sun, making the deep shadows of his empty eye sockets seem even deeper. Above the abyss of his empty eyes there was a white forehead, marred by a round hole the size of a bullet, with a short, curving crack extending from the top, bending the bullet hole into a twisted "6" that came to and end just below creature's the black hat.

The skull man raised the broom in his hands, exposing the white joints of his skeletal knuckles, and pressed the wooden rod against Johnson's chest. With startling strength for a muscleless body, the skeleton pushed Johnson inside his house and against a wall. Now in the hallway, the skeleton man came into view of Johnson's wife. She let out a shrieking cry and fled the house through the back door. Johnson eyed the cross above his door and prayed to God for his own safety. The man with the six in his skull didn't care about any God.

With a twist of his bony arms, the skeleton slammed the broom handle into Johnson's jaw, knocking him to the ground. Johnson made a quick lunge for his shotgun but a swift kick from the skeleton's booted foot removed it from reach. Johnson managed to crawl to his kitchen, scrambling on his hands and knees away from the skeletal devil. The skull faced man strode after him. With a sweep of his white knuckles, he removed the portraits of Johnson's ancestors from the wall, exposing the holes in the wall. As the face of Johnson's father tore on a nail in the wall, the skeleton man caught up with Johnson.

"Ain't this a sight," The skeleton said. It's jaws barely moved as it spoke. Some witchcraft gave it the power to speak. "Guess it was just our skin after all."

Johnson huddled in the corner of his kitchen as the skeleton man crouched down to look more closely at him. Johnson tried to avert his face from the black gaze of the empty eyes, with little success. it was too macabre a sight to look away from.

"Take away the skin and you're the one cowering," The skeleton said. This close, Johnson could hear his teeth clicking together, see the texture of his porous bone. No matter how hard he tried to look away, he couldn't help but stare at the white bones of the dead man, especially the Six shaped bullet hole in his skull. It seemed even darker than the eyes of the skull.

"You remember this?" The skeleton man tapped a thin fingertip against the hole in his face, and traced out the shape of the six. He waited for a reaction from Johnson. Nothing but more cowering. He shrugged, rubbing his exposed shoulder blades against his white shirt.

"Guess I was just another slave to you," the skeleton man said. The exposed bones of his hand gravitated towards his hi, and removed a dirty Colt Navy Revolver. Almost two decades old, but still just as lethal.

"One for the Master who put me in the grave," the skeleton said in a whisper.

With a quick twist of his arm he planted the barrel of the gun just above Johnson's eyebrows, right where the six-shaped hole was in his own face, and pulled the trigger.

The help that Johnson's wife had gone looking for had arrived. Dozens of men with powerful shotguns held ready and revolvers at their waists lined up outside the door. The skeleton man walked right by them without a shot fired. They'd all come expecting a man in a mask, that a hysterical woman had seen as a real skull. When they looked at the bleached bones and the black eyes, the twisted six in his skull, any drunken bravado they had gained melted away. The skeleton man counted the five bullets left in his revolver and left the town.

The story spread like wildfire. Every railway car and written letter carried the news, and the lyrics to a song of Six.

(Basically, a six-part story featuring a resurrected former slave hunting down old tormentors. It needs some refinement.)

My best friend recently gave our baby to me to write while he pursues other projects but it's been years since I actually sat down and wrote anything that wasn't setting information or fairly spontaneous roleplay, so I pretty much started by just reworking one of our very first logs of the events in the story we planned to write together. Sharing time?

---------------------------------------------------

“Your house is so nice. Shit, is that a fountain? You have a fountain.”

“I like fountains.”

Rayal says nothing, watching the clear water tumble over itself with loosely crossed arms.

“I was sort of hoping,” Elmer continues, “that you might be delayed a few days. The monument I had wanted built in the courtyard isn’t quite finished. Most liches have one or two made eventually—it helps us remember our roots in old age.”

The human doesn’t answer right away. His foot taps awkwardly on the tile.

“I could come back another day.”

“You could, but you’re already here, aren’t you?”

The silence between them stretches on a few moments. “This house is huge.”

“I suppose it’s pretty big, yeah.”

“’Pretty big,’ bullshit, your foyer is bigger than my whole home. What are you going to do with all of this space? If it ends up anything like your old house, I’m going to stop by one day and find a labyrinth of junk instead of you.”

“That would be nice. A lot of folks are trying to bother me with petty legislation these days—things they know will never be passed by the council that they think personal visits will alter somehow.”

“People are trying to butter you up?” He sounds amused. “Shit, even I can’t do that if you don’t want to let me.”

The lich just nods.

“Listen, if you want to get lost in a maze of knick-knacks and trash, be my guest. It’s your obscenely huge house. If I absolutely have to find the most irritating person on the planet in a hurry I’ll just figure out some way to get through it. Maybe tack some notes around.”

“You could just let the guards up front know you want me. Everyone knows you here.”

“Are they going to be able to find you, either?”

“Eventually.”

“How eventually are we talking? If I want to go to dinner, am I planning a week in advance or should I just make sure to have a plate of sandwiches ready in fifty years?”

“Maybe I just won’t build a junk labyrinth.”

“No, you should go for it. I’d be the last person to stand in your way.” He’s only half-lying.

“To be honest, it would be redundant with the one I already have underneath the grounds; I’ll just install a trap door.”

“Holy shit. Exactly how big is this place?”

“I don’t remember exactly. Would you like me to find the deed?”

“No, I think my earlier estimate of “fucking huge” is good enough.”

“Ha, that sounds about right.”

“This isn’t even really big by lich standards, is it?”

Elmer chuckles, his cane tapping on the marbled floor as he moves away from the garden window. Rayal follows.

“It’s quite humorous, actually. This part of the city is meant to be divided up evenly between the liches and vampires, but they prefer to live in almost no space at all—compared to us, at least.”

“So, what, something the size of my house?” he asks, thinking of the rickety and half-wild structure perched in Holt’s backwoods, with its aging floorboards and maze of cramped rooms.

“Perhaps a bit bigger than that.”

“See, you say ‘perhaps a big bigger,’ and I don’t know if you remember how to gauge relative size now that you’re all rich and important.”

The lich shrugs, his left shoulder listing lower than the other. “Would you prefer it if I left my home more often?”

“Only if you want to.”

“I don’t.”

“So stay home. I’ll come to you if I want to see you.”

“Perhaps I will visit sometime.”

“I’ll do my best to make your stay pleasant and relatively goblin-free.”

“I could just have them exterminated for you, you know.”

“What? No.” A subtle but noticeable shift in his otherwise neutral expression betrays his momentary surprise, voice as mild as ever. “Why bother? They usually only take things I don’t want, anyway.”

“Usually.”

He shrugs. “Having to go get new stuff just keeps things interesting now when work gets slow.”

“I’ve readily had enough adventure for both of my lifetimes. Now it’s just politics and babysitting our affluent, blood-drinking cousins.” He doesn’t mention the other thing they’re both thinking about.

“Yeah. I haven’t, I guess. I’ve still got a ton of time left to kill, anyway. How’s all that going?”

“Aside from bickering in the council over Daelan’s foreign relations policies, and some new device the vampires imported from BIE that seems to be some kind of mechanical music amplifier, there haven’t been any developments,” he answers casually, trusting Rayal to get his real meaning.

“That sounds boring as fuck.” His reply is less encoded—he’s not a lich, or even undead, and rather depressingly finds his utility limited to reminding the man beside him that he’s not a world unto himself these days. “The music thing might be interesting, though.”

“Funny, given that would be the opposite of what I’d say. Rayal, why haven’t you done more for yourself? You have entitlements, you know.”

“Do I?” He makes himself busy examining a painting on the wall as they pause in the hallway.

“Heh. Yes, Rayal. Did you not get the letter I sent? I know you never mentioned your work with me in your tax forms.”

“Why, for a bunch of tax bullshit? No, the clerks would take one look at me and go, ‘no way, not this asshole,’ and then you’d have a paper trail to fuck around with. It just seemed like way too much work.”

“Perhaps I’m just conditioned to the politics behind everything now,” the lich concedes. “Just know that if you ever want to cut a few corners on life, your options never expire.”

“Not until I do, at least.” The man pulls a cinnamon stick from his pocket to fiddle with awkwardly before bringing it up to bite like a cigarette, sighing around the bark between his teeth. “… I guess I know I could probably get a new house or whatever if I wanted to, yeah.”

Elmer—Lich Fervus, now, to everyone but Rayal—regards him quietly, suddenly struck by the memory that his friend isn’t actually undead and surprised he had forgotten it. He forgets a lot of things lately. “I suppose if you want to see it as a guaranteed retirement arrangement, there’s always that. The rules are rather open-ended and flexible.”

“Are there really rules about that kind of shit? I didn’t actually do very much by the end, there.” It’s a blatant lie and they both know it. The scars prove that much.

“The rules are really just there to placate any opponents to the bill, should the vampires suddenly decide to start poking their nose around politics again anytime soon. The Council is generous in providing for its members and their constituents, which, you being mine…”

“Yeah, yeah. It’s not like I wouldn’t tell you if my house got knocked down or I was starving or some shit, though.”

“I’d know anyway.” Rayal stares at the smirk on the lich’s face for a second, his lips twitching into a smile.

“How many tabs are you keeping on me, exactly? Should I feel weird trying to sleep at night?”

“Enough to get by. Which reminds me, Vivian’s got it in her head that you have something of hers.”

“I know I’ve done a lot of shit in my life, but stealing from bats isn’t one of them. What’s she think I’ve got?”

“I believe it’s the novels, actually.”

“You’re fucking with me. She wants my piece-of-shit paperbacks?”

“We’ve gone through most of the library looking for her, but I don’t keep that particular… genre on hand. Have I shown you the library yet?”

“No. Show me?”

“Gladly. Either way, what good is it to be the friend in a high place if you never call on me for favors? I was almost expecting to have to throw you out on a weekly basis.”

“I’d do it just to fuck with the other people bothering you—you know I would. Stay over and come interrupt for some stupid crap in the middle of them bugging you, just to get them out of your hair.”

“Hah, now that I wouldn’t mind… if it wouldn’t also ruin my public image. They would think I’m crooked.”

“No. Who could ever think that? You? Less than perfect? Get the fuck out,” he replies dryly, but it’s a hefty part of why he doesn’t have a nicer house or a better job or a hundred other things at this point. He’s not dumb, and even if he doesn’t say so much, Elmer’s important to him.

“The media is just praying for something like that to happen right now; we’re not likely to see another lich rise for a century or two at least, and Archlich Piliates won’t go to rest for many more. I’m all they’ve got for the moment,” Elmer continues, plainly amused. “None of the other liches will put up with it anymore. I believe Strom set the last reporter to try visiting his home on fire.”

Rayal exhales a quiet laugh around his cinnamon stick. “So, what do you have in your library? It’s not all political history crap, is it?”

“Of course not, I don’t think there’s enough political history alone to fill the place. Not yet, at least. Ah, the library is here, just through these doors.”

“Why is it always double-doors with you guys?”

“We are to elegance as our cousins are to depravity.”

“Oh, fuck off. Some of these things are so wide it’s like you’re expecting the Gorgoranth to swing by for tea and cards later.” That said, though, the necromancer is already inside and gazing with uncharacteristic delight at the sprawling, tiered shelves of the lich’s library, a hand testing one of the sliding ladders in idle amusement while he waits for Elmer to catch up. “It’s gigantic.”

“Yes, it’s easy enough to get lost in here already. I was thinking about setting up a lounge to save time.”

“More like a makeshift bedroom—you might actually have to throw me out of here on occasion now.”

“My doors are always open to you, Rayal. You know that.”

Rayal pauses in the middle of tipping a book back from the shelf, two more already in arm, to look at him. “Yeah,” he says, smiling easily. “I know.”

The conversation is interesting, but I frequently had to go back and double check who was saying what. So if you want to mark who says what a little more often, I would have no complaints about anything in there.

Noted! I guess it'd probably be plain enough to me since I wrote it but I can see how someone might have trouble keeping track, especially since I usually only note it when it's not directly alternating-- like, when there's a break in the conversation and the last person to speak picks it up again-- and when someone is doing something or there's something notable going on for some reason. I'm probably going to end up rewriting it several times and I'll be sure to make future versions easier to read.

But yeah, that's the only negative thing I have to say. I really like the tone of the characters, and how you've already got hints at a functioning world.